by CJ Carver
‘Yeah,’ Bella sighed. ‘Normally I wouldn’t have gone, except it was a freebie, all expenses up to London paid for, a five-star hotel, cocktails, food, the lot.’
‘Who paid?’
‘The drug company.’
‘PepsBeevers?’
‘Yeah. They wanted us to take part in their symposium on the Saturday. None of us wanted to go. I mean who wants to be stared at because of their medical condition? But when they offered us all a free weekend in London . . . well, it was a no-brainer.’
‘Tell me about the symposium.’
‘They wanted us to talk to their reps and marketing guys, whoever, show them we could live normally thanks to the drug. They made an in-house video of us. We were interviewed about how we were before we took the drug, how we were afterwards, that sort of stuff. They were going to quote us in their company magazines and stuff. Endorsements.’
Which was why the symposium hadn’t been advertised. It had been for PepsBeevers personnel only.
‘Who else was with you?’
‘Jamie and Justin. Mary. Tim. Me . . .’ she frowned. ‘There was another guy, I can’t remember his name.’
‘Alan Densley?’ Lucy offered the name of one of the victims whose body had been repatriated from India.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Alan. He wasn’t a fan of At Risk but he said he’d do anything for a free weekend.’ She sighed. ‘Their photographer came with us to the concert but it all went wrong when we fled the arena, scared witless . . .’
‘You were all taking Zidazapine at the time?’
‘Yes. That was the point. To show us living normally thanks to the drug. Ha-ha. Talk about a major backfire with all of us convinced we were about to die, running outside as though our lives depended on it.’ Bella picked at her bedcover. ‘We all went home after that. We tried to forget about it, except for Jamie.’
‘Jamie?’
‘He was fit-looking, very cute, but boy he became a pain in the bum.’
Lucy’s attention sharpened. ‘How come?’
‘Because I was doing a Bachelor of Science course in Sport and Exercise, he thought I had an interest in medicine. Which I do, but he was way off the charts with his theories of what happened at the concert.’
‘What did he think happened?’
‘He was convinced an EMW had been used.’
Lucy blinked. ‘A what?’
‘Electromagnetic Weapon.’ Bella raised her eyes to the ceiling, letting Lucy know what she thought of that. ‘He said our freaking out was due to an EMW being used. What a load of bollocks.’
Lucy was frowning as her mind shone pink and yellow, fighting to understand. She said, ‘Tell me more about what Jamie thought.’
‘Well, to start with we all got headaches after the concert, which convinced him we’d been part of a massive experiment. He was one of those wackos, you know, certain that his headache was caused by microwaves. He’d spout stuff about secret projects and invisible murders and suicide and that “they” will be killing more people soon.’
‘Who are “they”?’
‘He called them the black government. He’d rattle on about the UK military using EMWs in the belief they’re non-lethal but Jamie said they kill you slowly by causing nerve damage, cancers, mental collapse . . . He was paranoid. He’d ring me at odd times, using public phone boxes and telling me about it. It was creepy. I thought of changing my number but it was such a hassle . . .’
‘He thought the At Risk concert was an experiment?’ Lucy backtracked. ‘Into what, exactly?’
‘Mass mind control. Brainwashing. Cybernetic warfare, mind invasion. You name it, he thought we were part of it. He believed that when the crowd fell silent, an EMW was used, and that when we bolted, another type of EMW was brought into play. Or something like that. Half the time I didn’t really listen. He wanted us to go to the police and report what had happened. Go public with his theories. He was convinced he was being followed, that we’d been spotted on CCTV at the concert and that “they” knew who we were. I don’t know what the others thought, but I wasn’t interested. He was sweet, a nice guy, but he was nuts. I’d hang up as soon as I could.’
Mind whirling, Lucy eventually wound up the interview and took a seat in the corridor, brought out her phone. Accessed the Internet and looked up EMWs. She scanned the first paragraph she came to and said, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What is it?’ Mac dropped into the seat next to her.
‘An EMW is a radiation weapon,’ Lucy said, reading from Wikipedia. ‘A type of directed energy that delivers heat, mechanical or electrical energy to a target to cause various, sometimes very subtle, effects. They can be used against humans, electronic equipment and military targets generally, depending on the technology.’
She continued to read out loud. Her skin began to crawl.
‘When used against humans, electromagnetic weapons can have dramatic effects, such as an intense burning sensation or more subtle effects such as the creation – at a distance – of a sense of anxiety or dread or confusion in an individual or a group of people . . .’
She trailed off, reliving her overwhelming feeling of fear at the concert. What if she hadn’t had a breakdown after all? What if an EMW really had been used? Her fingers began to tingle. She forced herself to keep reading.
‘Military advantages of such weapons are that the individual or group of people won’t know that they are being targeted. That with specialised antennas the effects can be focused on either an individual or a large area such as a city or country.’
Or focused to freeze 85,000 people in a stadium.
Lucy was gazing at the screen, her mind a churning tunnel of orange. She didn’t know what the orange meant. Shock? Disbelief?
Words tumbled across her vision. Influence an enemy force or population to flee rather than stand and fight by imposing on them a sense of impending disaster . . . an ability to impose a feeling of overwhelming drowsiness on an already weary enemy force . . . capability to persuade, indirectly, the close comrades of an enemy soldier that the soldier is mentally unsound . . .
‘Did you also run from the concert?’ Mac asked.
‘No,’ she lied smoothly. ‘I saw a group of people bolt outside and went to investigate.’
Mac gave a nod. Looked at her phone. ‘Anything else?’
‘It’s suggested that law enforcement officials could covertly influence protestors to disband without the demonstrators being aware they were being coerced.’
‘Let’s order one tomorrow.’ Mac yawned. She looked at him properly for the first time to see the dark circles under his eyes, his hair standing on end, his clothes rumpled. He was working every hour he could to solve this case, and it showed.
She said, ‘I want to talk to PepsBeevers.’
‘Well, yes,’ he said, frowning, ‘but you can’t seriously think a weapon was used at the concert?’
She felt a rush of energy.
‘Only one way to find out.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Sunday 2 December, 10.35 p.m.
Bella was fast asleep. She’d drunk some hot chocolate after the police artist had gone and although she’d been ‘asleep’ for days she felt shattered. Barely able to keep her eyes open. Her parents had let her doze but the second they left to go home, she’d curled onto her side and fallen into a deep sleep, comforted immeasurably by the uniformed policeman they’d posted outside her door.
She wasn’t sure why she woke up. She could hear a distant siren and the hum of the air-conditioning system. She didn’t move. She closed her eyes again.
And then he was there.
A gloved hand over her mouth.
A sharp prick on her thigh.
She screamed but it was muffled. She kicked out with all her might, twisting around and reaching to scratch his face, dig her fingers into his eyes. She fought with every ounce of her strength but to her horror it started to ebb. A floating sensation began
to drift like a cloud across her mind.
No! she shouted. Please!
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was gentle. ‘You weren’t meant to feel anything. You weren’t meant to know what was happening. I didn’t give you enough ketamine. I’m sorry you suffered. Truly I am.’
She continued to fight, using her hands, her feet.
She would not give in.
The cloud thickened.
A sense of detachment set in. The space behind her eyes began to change. It became deeper and darker then became split by a single red twisting band that folded in on itself, then it pulsed with light and exploded. She was thrown outside of herself and into another level of reality.
She was a child again. It was Christmas and she was filled with simple joy. Then she was kissing her first boyfriend at the arcade. Finishing her GCSEs. Going to her grandmother’s funeral. Sadness, excitement, anxiety. Each scene was filled with intense emotion.
‘There,’ he murmured. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’
Bella marvelled at the beauty of her life, the dozens of personalities and experiences spinning through her consciousness.
She was extraordinary.
Life was incredible.
Bella died as she was telling her brother Patrick not to let down her tyres again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Monday 3 December, 8.40 a.m.
As Dan drove, he listened to the recording Bernard had given him. A meeting between Bernard and Besnik’s wife, Nicola. Dan didn’t know where they’d met, or whether Nicola had known she was being taped by the Security Service, but from the tone of the conversation, he guessed she knew the score.
The thing is, she said quietly, calmly, that I want my life back.
Her accent was pure English, educated, upper-class. Not what he’d expected.
Besnik and I, we’re divorced, right? But you wouldn’t know it. He won’t let me change my name. He won’t let me return to Norfolk. He won’t let me change my car, my TV, my deodorant without his permission. He decides where the kids go to school and where they spend their holidays. We live in separate houses, have lived apart for over three years, but he still controls my every move.
Emigrate. Bernard’s voice.
You think I haven’t thought of that? She gave a bitter laugh.
Long silence.
Dan heard her take a breath. I want him out of my life.
How?
If I tell you, how do I know you won’t tell Besnik?
It had taken Bernard a long time to reassure her that her secret was safe with him and him alone. And now it was Dan’s secret too.
As he neared Isleworth, aircraft roared overhead, coming to land at Heathrow. The roads were busy with trucks hauling freight to and from the airport, delivering mail, transporting consumer goods. Nicola had told Bernard that although Besnik owned a multi-million pound mansion in Kensington and another in the south of France, he preferred to spend most of his time in his office.
It shows who he really is, she’d said. Where he comes from. If I’d seen the place before we got married, I would have probably changed my mind.
He slowed as he approached Besnik’s. A high wire-mesh fence enclosed a fly-tipped sprawl of rubble, tyres, broken bicycles, mattresses, electricals and furniture. Where the soil showed through, it was black with oil. He took in the signs on the gate. Goods for export to be in working order prior to storage. No waste on the premises. Another said: Vehicle disposal and recycling with integrity. A third stated: We take your rubbish for nothing. It looked as though you could dispose of anything you wanted at Besnik’s junkyard.
Dan’s pulse echoed in his head, an ache building behind his eyes.
Beyond the meshed gate, metal shipping containers were arranged in a haphazard row. A mountain of wrecked cars rose from a sea of rusted appliances. Two muscular Rottweilers stood behind the gate. Massive shoulders and meaty jaws. They wore no collars. They stood with their muzzles pushed through the bars, watching him drive past.
He hadn’t appeared to have been followed, but he still scouted the area. He didn’t see anything to worry him. He didn’t like the fact that Savannah and Ellis knew he was visiting Besnik. It smacked of collusion. Being set up. The sooner he got in and out of here, the better.
Dan drove to a Portakabin. Another sign: Site Office.
There was a large paved area with a truck parked next to a loading dock. He drove past then did a U-turn and parked opposite. Switched off the ignition. Breathed in and tried to centre himself. The man who killed his son might be here, which meant the answers he’d been searching for might also be here.
He climbed outside and into the still, cold air. He could feel the webbed knife holster scratching against his ankle, the combat knife sheath inflexible at his waist. The covert Kevlar vest felt bulky beneath his shirt, but to his critical eye in the army surplus store that morning, it hadn’t appeared particularly obvious. Sadly the store hadn’t had anything that resembled a gun, or he’d have bought that as well. Even a replica weapon or a kids’ toy could gain him a couple of precious seconds. If they took the weapons from him, he had a concealed double-edged spear-point knife on his silver keychain. Useful in a tight pinch, but not if they had guns.
He walked across the street and to the site office door. Knocked.
‘Yeah,’ said a voice on the other side. ‘Who is it?’
‘A friend of Besnik’s.’
‘Name?’
‘Dan Forrester.’
Silence.
Dan could hear the man’s voice. It sounded as though he was on the phone. Seconds later, he returned.
‘What do you want?’
‘Tell him I want to talk about his status as a British citizen, which is currently in jeopardy.’
The man disappeared briefly. Then Dan heard a bolt being slammed back, and the door opened to reveal a thick-necked young man, no more than twenty, with a buzz cut and pink-rimmed piggy eyes the colour of water.
Dan stepped inside. Stood waiting while Piggy Eyes re-bolted the door. Another man appeared. Around the same age as Dan, he wore black jeans, a black shirt open at the neck and a sharply tailored jacket. ‘Hey, man,’ he said, looking wary. ‘How’s it going?’ His Albanian accent was soft, indicating he’d been in the UK for a while. He kept his distance, looking at Dan as though faced with a wild animal that might respond unpredictably, maybe suddenly cross the room and bite him.
Dan said, ‘Hi.’
The man stared. His jaw softened. ‘You’re fucking kidding me. You don’t remember me?’
Dan took the sensible option, and remained silent.
‘Holy shit.’ The man’s eyes bulged. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? You don’t fucking remember.’
Dan shrugged.
‘Shit, man.’ The man came over and studied him as though he was an interesting species of insect. ‘I heard you got some sort of treatment that wiped your memory but I didn’t think it was true. Jesus Christ.’ He was shaking his head. ‘Fucking with your head, that sucks, man.’
‘Yes,’ Dan agreed. ‘It sucks.’
The man studied him some more. ‘I’m Jacks.’
‘Hi, Jacks.’
‘So what the fuck are you doing here?’ He looked around. ‘I mean, I know you can’t remember, but hell . . .’ He stared at him, incredulous.
‘I want to see Besnik,’ Dan said.
‘So he said.’ Jacks glanced away, looking uneasy. ‘Don’t take offence, but I’ve got to check you.’
He came over to frisk Dan. The second he put his hands below Dan’s jacket he said, ‘No vest, man. Take it off.’
Dan did as he said. Handed it over.
‘This is unreal.’ Jacks was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You fucked us over and you don’t even fucking remember?’
Dan wanted to say you fucked me over too but held his tongue.
Jacks finished frisking him quickly and professionally. He found both knives but not the concealed knife in his keychain.
Not that professional after all.
‘I’ll give them back when you come out,’ he said, and vanished.
Piggy Eyes jerked a fleshy thumb over his shoulder and at another door that led directly into the yard. ‘The boss is out the back.’
Dan looked through the window to see a two-storey brick building. It was difficult to tell if it had been built before the rubbish arrived, or if the rubbish had simply been dumped around it.
Dan said, ‘What about the dogs?’
‘You’ve been here before, you don’t have to worry. They’ve memories like elephants.’
‘Clever dogs.’ Dan forced a chuckle. ‘What if they don’t know you?’
The piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Whaddya mean?’
‘I haven’t been here in a while. Are you sure they’ll remember me?’
‘You nervous of them?’ He gave a surprisingly high-pitched laugh.
‘Just cautious.’
Piggy Eyes shrugged carelessly as though to say Your lookout, and went and sat down at a cheap Formica table. Pushed aside a couple of dirty coffee mugs and picked up a car magazine. Flicked it open.
Dan took the hint.
Muscles tense, he moved into the yard. Casually, he put his hand in his pocket. Unscrewed the cap on his keychain and extracted the knife. Started walking. He looked straight ahead at the building. The two steps leading to the door. He had to remain calm. Pretend he’d been here a hundred times before. He stepped over a puddle shimmering with oil. Passed a crushed motorcycle and a stack of broken skateboards. A battered mobility scooter. Several split water butts. He’d only gone a handful of paces when he heard a low growl.
He didn’t look around. Kept walking.
Paws pattered behind him, splashing through puddles.
The growl increased.
Dan crushed the urge to run. Kept walking.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw both dogs keeping pace with him. One held its head low, its lips curled back, showing rows of strong white teeth. The other was snuffling the air, trying to identify his scent.
Dan didn’t look at the dogs. He showed no interest in them. Continued walking.