Adrenaline

by Robert Young

  I walk a few hours, in as straight a line as I can manage until I spot a bus stop and hop on until it takes me to the nearest town and find myself in Rugby in the East Midlands. From there I follow signs to the train station and soon enough I am settled on a long Virgin Pendolino train speeding south to London.

  I spend money I don't need to on a first class ticket but it comes with free newspaper, hot drinks and Wifi, so I get comfy and refresh myself with a couple of teas and browse first the paper and then get the laptop hooked up to the internet.

  The paper is crammed with photos and reports of the scene at the London Eye. There is only speculation about the man and his motives and most conclude that he must be dead. There are police boats on the river still, having patrolled the stretch of water in front of County Hall and the Eye west to Lambeth Bridge, as far downstream as Southwark Bridge.

  Teams of divers were to be deployed at first light and more than a few Internet forums are rife with speculation that he is not dead or that it was in fact some kind of stunt by a pretender to the crown of illusionists like David Blaine and Dynamo. Some even claim that it was Dynamo himself though there is no credibility given to any of this - the pictures of the man were undeniably clear and could only have been the same man as was pictured killing men in Oxford Circus days beforehand.

  Equally clear from the TV cameras aboard news helicopters was the impact of the police rifleman's shot and the limp form of the falling body that smashed the surface of the water with such extraordinary force.

  There is not a single news outlet that has managed to identify the man from these two incidents which are being played out again and again on television screens from New York to New Zealand.

  But he is still at large, of that I am sure - I know how much it takes to bring an end to this. Somehow, even after what we all witnessed, he is still out there somewhere. It suits me that he retains his anonymity. I don't want anyone to find him before I do.

  At Euston Station I move through the crowds and onto the tube. I've only seen him twice in the flesh, both times South of the river, near to where I live - or lived. But the last place anyone saw him was in the Thames - and so it seems that this is where I will need to start if I want to find him.

  I get off at Embankment and cross over the road to the walled edge of the river. I stand and stare up at the incredible height of the London Eye - motionless today, closed to tourists - and I can see police milling about the base. There appears to be some sort of scaffold being erected there and attention is focused on one of the pods and the section of the wheel above it. This must be the one that he was attacking last night when he was shot - having rotated to the bottom, the pod is now below the main framework of the structure.

  It seems an impossibly high point to have fallen from and I recall again the image from the TV screen in the pub the night before of the shuddering impact of the rifle shot into his shoulder that slammed his body down like a hammer blow and then that agonisingly slow rocking motion, backward on the edge of the pod and then over and out into the open air beneath. He had seemed to take forever to fall, like whole minutes were passing as everyone in that crowded pub had gasped or squealed or held their breath.

  'Long way to fall.' The voice comes from my right and I have had enough experience with being blindsided by Frost and Stanford that my reaction startles the man as I spin and step away.

  'Sorry mate. Just figured you were thinking about that fella last night,' he says.

  'Pretty much.’

  'Ask me, they'll never find him. Fall that far, probably embedded twenty feet into the river bed. Deep mud down there. You can see it at the sides when the tide falls.'

  'Nasty,' I reply. He's not looking at me but at the police boat that is making a slow sweep past us on the water heading downstream. I watch as it crawls past, pushing waves out to either side to lap up against the wall that drops away beneath us.

  'I do hope that isn't true though.'

  When I look back at the man to ask what he means, he is already ten yards away, crossing the road toward the tube station and I frown for a moment. He had sounded far closer.

  Which is when I see them hove into focus just beyond him on the far pavement, and as jarring as the shock is to see Frost and Stanford again like this, there is something inevitable about it too.

  They are waiting for the lights to change, careful to ensure that the traffic stops before they begin to cross toward me. Neither is smiling this time, but they look relaxed, if determined. That voice-throwing trick has lost none of its unsettling quality.

  I look up and down the pavement, wondering whether I can outrun them in a footrace again but remember the way that they closed the gap on me last night and when I spot no black cabs with orange lights switched on I consider for a moment that my running is done and that I should yield to them.

  But then I see the entrance to the quayside and I don't even need to think about it. I bolt through the gate and hammer down the noisy metal gangplank, feeling it jump and bounce beneath my feet. The queue for the Thames Clipper boat service is short and I can see that one is swinging around to dock and as I hurriedly exchange cash for a ticket the little bridge of steps has been dropped over the side and the few afternoon passengers are filing on to the boat.

  I sprint the last twenty yards of zig-zagging gangplank until I am finally on the boarding deck and wave at the conductor who waves me aboard with a smile.

  I duck under the low door and pick may way through the cabin of the catamaran and find that on the far side toward the rear there are seats entirely concealed from the entrance. It seems irrational but putting as much as I can between me and them seems obvious. Not just distance, but obstacles of any kind.

  The boat's huge engines throb and rumble and we are away from the quayside and begin moving out into the main flow of the river. The engines fire some more and the speed picks up. I venture a look back into the cabin and see rows of seats; some empty, some occupied.

  In the other direction the door leads out onto the open rear deck of the boat where there are a number of other seats. I cannot resist heading out there, to see if they are standing quayside watching after me, escaping them once more

  They are not. They are there waiting for me on the rear deck, seated.

  For a moment nobody moves or says a word. There are only the three of us there and in the cold of the afternoon, the other passengers have opted to stay inside and catch the view from there. That or they find themselves repulsed and unnerved by the two men sitting there and have headed back in again

  I stare at them and they stare back and then Stanford reaches out a hand and he pats the plastic seat beside him

  It is no use.

  I take a seat and await my fate. Frost shifts forward in his seat to look at me past Stanford who is looking directly ahead of him.

  'Mr Laing, you have proved yourself tenacious, resourceful and unpredictable,' Stanford says and then turns his head to face me. 'I didn't think you had it in you.'

  'Stanford has been convinced since the beginning that you would fold and quickly, but I felt otherwise,' Frost said sounding pleased with himself.

  'Indeed, you have both been quite a pleasant surprise,' began Stanford as he shifted a little to address me. 'Often we do this and it plays entirely according to type. The good guys rarely cope and those with a propensity for violence find little problem with the transition.'

  'That's right. You get a few exceptions but often the ones that aren't already halfway there are rarely able to take the first life and fewer still can take it much further than that,' Frost takes over.

  'Nice to know I'm the good guy. Presumably old London Eye climber there, he's the bad guy?' I say hooking a thumb over my shoulder.

  'Mr Frost proposed an experiment because we've seen it a few times before but never in direct comparison you see. So we found two candidates to fit the bill and just set things in motion. The other chap, Roth his name, he took to it like
a mosquito, just buzzing around and feeding without a thought. Your own reaction was more typical with the denial and the refusal to accept it even once you knew. Although your days in the wilderness and the isolation were novel. Just cutting yourself off from everyone like that.'

  For a moment I am relieved to consider that in resisting the urge to seek out the comfort and help of friends and loved ones has spared them more than just the anguish of seeing me in this state, but kept them from harm’s way as well. How easily I could have led these two appalling parasites to those I cared most about.

  'It's you we want,' said Frost with a smile.

  I looked between the two of them for a moment, not sure what it was they meant. I had figured that they were seeking either revenge or simply to eliminate me. The way that they had talked about my inability to adapt suggested that they seemed to see me as a failure and as such a risk to their secret and their cover. But Frost had a different look in his eye. Not vengeance, not anger.

  Did they want me to join them? They talked of their little experiment, this allusion to making a 'good guy' like me into one of them at the same time as someone of Roth's ilk. They talked of my tenacity and resourcefulness. Were they keen to have me join their ranks? Embark on some new life of foulness and debauchery?

  Something in the way that Stanford was smiling told me that I was wrong about this too.

  'You remember all those things we told you about replenishing? About cruelty and the need to get adrenaline? That really is the thing you need. It gives you everything and it makes you everything,' explains Frost.

  Stanford gets to his feet and looks down at me. 'Killing a person is one thing. Exquisite and enriching. You know precisely what I mean. You have the flush in your cheeks of a recent kill. Probably only last night?'

  I nod.

  'Hard to stop once you have started isn't it?'

  'He was a piece of shit. A fucking scumbag rapist.'

  'Of course. You will indeed tell yourself whatever it is you need to tell yourself to make it ok. They all deserve it one way or another when you want it enough Mr Laing. You'll be amazed how much you can make it their fault.'

  'Oh, do fuck off. You're going to lecture me on morals and ethics are you? Really?'

  Stanford turns to smile at Frost as he hears him chuckle.

  'No, I'm not going to do that,' he says as he turns back to me. 'Because as incredible as taking a person is, it is as nothing compared to feeding on one of our own.'

  And there it is. This twisted experiment, this test to observe the strain on the moral fibre of a good person and the ease with which a violent criminal adapts to this change is nothing but a diverting backdrop.

  They are farming. They have created me and they have created Roth for a single purpose.

  To reap what they have sown.

  'The effect is unimaginable. The concentration. The absolute purity of it…' Frost trails off, his eyes glazed.

  'And I assure you, your counterpart, Mr Roth, when we find him, will be incredible. All that feeding, all that rage. He's been an exceptional success with his verve and his enthusiasm and his recent disintegration.' Stanford's hands are clasped in front of his face, almost a prayer.

  I scramble from my seat and the bag that is still slung across my shoulders snags the seat back. I hear Stanford laugh.

  In desperation I twist away and out of the strap and the bag drops to the floor behind me. Stanford watches as I sprawl backward and away and he looks bemused, a slight frown creases his brow and I notice the thin film of sweat there. He is excited at the prospect of what is to come. He has earned this and will savour it.

  Frost steps forward behind him and away from the seats but does not see my bag and stumbles slightly, then kicks it in his frustration and it slides across to me and I snatch it.

  'Mr Laing. Truly it has been a pleasure to have made your acquaintance. But I'm afraid that I shall enjoy ending it immeasurably more,' smiles Stanford as he moves closer. He sees that I have cornered myself by choosing to flee from them onto this boat. In following, they have me trapped.

  There is nowhere to run. So I don't run.

  As I stand Frost looks momentarily impatient and as though this final delay at the end of the hunt is inconsiderate, inconvenient.

  The expression turns to confusion as I hop up onto the edge of the boat and swing my bag back across my shoulders and chest. And finally, as I let myself be drawn slowly backward by gravity toward the rushing water, the both of them look horrified and genuinely shocked. They still haven't learnt not to underestimate me.

  I hear a scream from inside the boat just as I hit the water and am dragged beneath the churn and the turmoil of the powerful engines' wake and the shock of the cold sucks the air from my lungs.

  Chapter 46

  The car is black but so highly polished that it seems to reflect every colour from the sky above to the buildings all around. Its windows are dark and the elaborately-spoked alloy wheels are designed as much to signal status as they are for performance or comfort.

  Roth watches the driver step out of the vehicle and close the door. He has sunglasses on though the day is cool and overcast and he holds his mobile phone in his hand, rather than pocket it. He thumbs the key fob and the indicators flash twice and an electronic pip-pip sound accompanies it.

  The man has a swagger about him that is only partly affected and it comes not just from the money dripping from him in designer labels and up to the minute technology, but because he knows that here in this estate and streets for several miles around, most people know his name and that his name means something.

  Roth does not know his name but he has seen him around enough to know what he is and that the money that paid for the clothes and the 4x4 has not been conventionally earned, payslips and tax deducted. He has been selling drugs around here for many years and Roth knows that his reputation is well earned. It is a reputation that tells of a man who likes to get people well and truly on the hook before he squeezes them. Someone who likes the violence that the job necessitates and who extracts payments of more than just cash from those desperate enough for his wares to accept his terms.

  Roth has not followed him here but in picking his way through quieter streets and alleyways on his way back to the derelict building he has based himself in, he has crossed this man's path.

  Assailed by another ferocious cramp and a pain that races through his whole body, Roth knows that he is strung out and in need of replenishment.

  He cannot say what it was that stayed his hand in the tunnel when the opportunity was ripe, but that rare act of kindness, the man's attempts to help and to console had thrown Roth. He had been knocked off his stride a little. And if that man had somehow won himself a lucky reprieve from a confused and off-guard Roth, then the drug dealer picking his way up the dark stairwell of the mid-rise block of flats was on the other side of that coin.

  He lets the wave of searing, wrenching pain ride out for a moment and as it dissipates he steps into the stairwell and makes a swift, bounding ascent into the shadows.

  Chapter 47

  There are several police boats out on the water searching for clues to what might have happened to Roth. The alarm is raised so soon after I hit water that two of those boats begin heading for me at full speed and I am in the murky waters of the Thames for barely five minutes before being hauled out.

  The shock of the cold and the churning, roiling water that dragged me under as the powerful engines of the Thames Clipper roared away downstream have put me on the edge of consciousness and as I am rolled onto the deck of the boat that rescues me, I am scarcely aware of my surroundings.

  I hear voices calling frantically and then I feel fingers press against the inside of my wrist.

  'He's freezing,' someone shouts and the hand moves to my throat and one is slipped inside my shirt and pressed against my chest.

  'Jesus. No pulse,' a calmer voice pronounces and I remember.

  Oh yes
. That.

  As the minutes slide by and my composure returns I realise where I am and what is happening but equally I can tell that the discovery that I have no pulse to speak of is a problem. At least, to my experience thus far, that tends only to happen immediately after I replenish. Does my heart only beat when I feed?

  How do I explain that to a boat load of policemen who are themselves already engaged in a search for one highly unusual individual?

  So for a moment I lie there and I do not move or respond to their shouts for me to wake up, to come on, stay with them.

  I try to focus on something else for a moment in order to minimise the chances of unconsciously giving myself away and I think first of Frost and Stanford and their incredulous faces as I dropped away from them into the river and then my mind wanders to the thought that my bag is still attached to me but that the clothes inside will be soaked now and that the brand new laptop will be ruined and I cannot recall if this is something that the warranty might cover.

  It is at this point that they grab my attention again, as I hear the conversation taking place about the first aid kit and whether they have a defib pack aboard.

  They do not but that sets my thoughts running to a possible way out of this and so for now I opt to keep up the act.

  I am given CPR and some foul-breathed copper exhales forcefully into my mouth until the boat gets me to the shore and I am assured that the paramedics are already on their way.

  When they arrive they go to work right there on the river bank. They slice my clothes open and after a few cursory attempts at CPR and the reassurance of the policeman who has already been doing it for a few minutes they fetch the defibrillator from the ambulance.

  I have cornered myself a little. But I reason that to 'wake up' now would look odd once they attempted again to monitor vital signs which would soon have my plan backfire on me.

  'Clear!' comes the call and anyone that wasn't already clear moves back. I'm on my own for this part.

  A thumping, bursting concentration of intense pain explodes from my chest and spreads quickly out across my whole body, contorting my limbs and raising me involuntarily off the ground for a second.