The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 10

  Dai came round feeling as if his head had just been pummelled by Joe Calzaghe when he was pissed off about something. He was the only Welsh boxer he could think of and he didn’t even have a Welsh-sounding name. While his frontal lobes attempted to remind themselves which was left and which was right, he tried to work out what the hell had gone wrong. If no one was doing anything to him, then they must be wanting him to do things to himself – like letting loose a ping so that it would bounce back. He’d been in a MRI scanner once and the hocus focus had caused mayhem with the delicate machinery. Perhaps he was in a lab where they were analysing every move in order to find his weak spot. But that puzzled him. It was common knowledge that EM radiation was his green kryptonite. He decided to up the ante.

  “Where are you? Where are you, you fuckers? Let’s be ’avin’ you! I’m not scared of you, you fuckers!” He’d elaborated that a bit. This was a life or death situation rather than a Norwich City football match.

  The response was immediate and not unexpected. Someone must have had their fingers on a switch labelled ‘Wi-Fi’. It was almost comforting to be reminded of the excruciating visceral discomfort that had been his world when EM radiation was still coursing through the English skies. His trainers wouldn’t have agreed with that sentiment, as the contents of his stomach had just landed on his feet. He imagined the vomit was pink with fragments of chips. The sickly odour of sour cream and onion simmered in 37.4 Centigrade gastric juices threatened to turn his stomach upside down all over again. And then there was the feeling of being assaulted from both ends. Someone certainly enjoyed turning up the agony. Then suddenly, it stopped.

  And started again.

  Then stopped.

  After that, Dai lost count. Hyperbolic paraboloids on an empty stomach had been a bad idea.

  Dale hadn’t factored in a chauffeur-driven trip to the Oxfordshire countryside on their travel agenda. It was a pleasant countryside, too, with patchwork fields of hay all bundled up for the winter, church steeples poking up with the desperation of the starving clamouring for food and the occasional farmer driving his cattle along the middle of the road with a blind indifference to traffic. But it wasn’t a patch on rural Kansas. It was a matter of scale. Rolling plains and the baking sun were more his kind of thing. The occasional twister helped, too; he appreciated some drama in his romantic idyll. His dad’s call of “Batten down the hatches!” had never failed to engage his thrall. He even used to enjoy his mom’s thrice-cooked pot roast in the rapidly growing darkness. But his dad did used to get as drunk as a Mephitis mephitica.

  Fact is, being driven anywhere was a rarity for him. Relinquishing control to someone else in the driving seat just wasn’t part of his make-up. Yeah, I’m such a mucho macho guy, he thought with a grimace. And that had been true. Ask any of his colleagues in KCPD and they’d have said, “Yeah, a right-on dude. A bit heavy on the vino, but a regular kinda guy.” That would’ve been followed by: “He just needs to find himself a nice little wife.” Ouch. Yup, that hurt. And now here he was all set to nab himself a nice little husband. Well, large rather than little, and very damn nice. He’d kicked the wine habit, too. Connubial bliss with Steve was healthy to a tee. It was all decaf this, hold-the-sugar that and jogging to work. French cheese was his new weakness, and a nice ripe brie in particular. It was curious how much his tastes had changed. And that had been in a scant six months. Jeez.

  So, everything considered, he’d been surprised to find himself drawn to the sleek outline of the back of Deborah Jenkins’s head. It bore a disconcerting resemblance to Darth Vader’s helmet. She had a sultry dark voice, too. Every now and again she turned to say something, giving him the benefit of her aquiline profile. He hoped Steve hadn’t noticed his momentary crossing back to the other side. Perhaps all the stimulation had done something to his testosterone levels. He discreetly felt his beard. Yup, definitely more growth than usual. He also realised that his nuts had stopped being all gnarly with him. Maybe it was some process of adaptation – or the limousine providing protection. He’d never been that into beards before, but he guessed it was a small price to pay for having a superpower bestowed on him. Now, if only his nuts would play the game.

  After all those years of being told he knew nothing by teachers who knew even less, it was pretty damn weird to suddenly become a know-it-all. Well, not all, but definitely the potentially interesting bits. Gruesome stuff, too, as he’d discovered in the street near the coffee shop. Problem was, it was still all too random and nonspecific – rather like being a fly on the wall in a clearing house of thoughts, having to focus a thousand lenses on a million streams in multiple languages simultaneously. It had to be some sort of payback time for all those bible classes he’d had forced on him. A sort of transaction of knowledge in reverse, if you like: ‘to thee that had, thou shan’t; to thee that didn’t, thou has.’ It was a tad biblical, but the idea sure had validity.

  “We’re almost there, gentlemen,” Ms Jenkins said. Dale had already noticed that she’d been watching the GPS closely.

  The driver slowed the car until it was barely crawling along the narrow country lane. Dale looked at the hedgerow and tried to remember when he’d last been out of town back home. They’d planned to go to some line dancing festival the previous weekend, but work had intervened and they’d ended up doing the cowboy boogie at home instead. All of a sudden, a massive lion entered Dale’s field of vision.

  “Christ! What the fuck was that?” Dale said with his customary directness of expression.

  There was a stifled squeak of surprise from the other side of the limousine. Steve pointed at an identical stone sculpture. He’d shown a keen interest in artistically carved bodies back in West Hollywood, but these ones ended at the shoulders.

  “Welcome to The Manor,” Ms Jenkins said proprietorially. “Those fine specimens are our guardians, otherwise known as Patience and Fortitude. Watch carefully, gentlemen. You should find this interesting.”

  As they continued slowly, but inexorably, down the driveway, the immediate landscape seemed blurred, as if covered by a shifting haze. The colours were also constantly on the move, greens becoming blues turning into reds. If Dale concentrated on something that had appeared solid, it then vanished altogether. Anything in the distance stayed where it was and in focus. He rubbed his eyes and turned to Steve: “You know, sweets, I think I need to get my eyes checked when we get back home.”

  Ms Jenkins chortled. Dale thought it incredibly sexy. It reminded him of being back on the farm. His dad’s pigs used to do that when he tickled them behind the ears. “That’s our little party trick,” she said. “I know it’s childish, but it never fails to impress our visitors.”

  Dale and Steve looked at each other. They didn’t get the nature of the amusement. “Sorry,” Dale said, “but are we missing something?”

  “Everything, actually,” Ms Jenkins said with a twisted little grin. “As you’ll see now, if you care to look to your right.”

  The limousine came to an abrupt stop and they found themselves at the bottom of steps to a large and extremely grand house that looked straight out of Downton Abbey. But the bizarre thing was, they hadn’t seen it coming. It had literally appeared out of the blue.

  Ms Jenkins neatly anticipated Dale’s next question. “The answer is stealth technology, Lieutenant. A combination of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and a superfast quantum computer, which enables our defences to anticipate encroachment. You ought to try visiting us in a helicopter. It’s quite something.” She grinned seductively. Dale imagined her using the ‘come ride with me’ smile to lure customers at a defence exhibition. “Her Majesty the Queen is rather proud of her little baby,” she added surprisingly.

  As they exited the car, Dale wondered how many more bombshells MI5 had up its bountiful sleeve. He had a small surprise to give them, too. A small thought had arisen out of thin air as he imagined stroking the nape of Ms Jenkins’s neck, and it had progressed to one of monstrous proportions. He
was trying to decide how much of it was real and how much was wishful thinking – plus his raised testosterone level.

  The sign on the door had announced that it was the ‘Brain Lab’. Entering involved the high security combination of an iris scan and a fingerprint reader – but applied to all three of them. Dale couldn’t immediately recall where they’d had the scan done, but then he remembered the airport. Clever – and deviously illegal without informed consent, get-out clauses, Miranda rights, etcetera, etcetera. The lab was large and full of expensive-looking equipment. Dale noticed the huge display as soon as they’d entered the room. He’d seen it before, but close up it was even more impressive. But it wasn’t showing much activity. MI5 had to be having a slow news day.

  “Welcome to my lair,” a man in an oversized lab coat boomed abruptly. Dale wasn’t sure whether he was being greeted by the monster or the doctor. He couldn’t see signs of a bolt through his neck. The ID on his lapel read ‘Dr Petros Kyriakides’. It didn’t indicate his specialty, but he was definitely the guy who’d stunned everyone with his revelations of teenagers running amok at the MI5 conference call. In the flesh, the doctor was large and impressively bearded, going on 240 pounds and six feet two, but probably packing more muscle than fat. Dale thought he’d deliver quite a punch. He was the sort who would never do well should he switch to a life of crime: far too easy to pick out in a line-up – unless the other suspects were all Greek restaurant owners. The front pocket of his white coat was stuffed with pens, some of which had leaked. Dale thought that added a ring of poetic authenticity. Fact is, life was just plain goddamn messy and no cop could resist a leak.

  Dale could see Steve was right at home. His eyes swivelled like the turrets of a chameleon as he checked out the hi-tech joint. He’d graduated summa cum laude in psychology, which meant he had awesome observational skills. More to the point, Steve seemed on the cusp of asking a question Dale hoped would resolve why his testicles had turned informant and become harbingers of doom. Puzzlement had crossed his fine features and he’d opened his mouth to speak.

  “Er, Doctor, why is it that Mr Fanshaw calls himself a ‘Mr’ when he’s a doctor, and ‘Fanshaw’ when his name is Featherstonehaugh?”

  Ms Jenkins and the doctor shared a look with simultaneously raised eyebrows. “The first bit is easy, Sergeant,” Dr Kyriakides said. “In past times, barbers used to be surgeons, so surgeons hang on to the title of Mr. It’s logically illogical, but that’s medicine for you. As for the name, well you’d have to ask Deborah about that. I don’t understand it, either. You might say it’s all Greek to me.” He convulsed with laughter. Dale hoped the foundations would hold up.

  Ms Jenkins raised her finely contoured eyebrows some more – and then followed through with a prosaic shrug. “Don’t ask me. English customs confuse the hell out of me as well.”

  Dr Kyriakides looked delighted not to have been found wanting. Dale’s nuts took that opportunity to request an introduction. “Ouch,” he winced. The vehicular protection had to be wearing off. He fumbled for his cell phone and positioned it discreetly. True to form, it started throbbing. Dale decided to check the doc’s credentials before submitting himself to a repeat set of indignities. There was only so much palpation a man could endure. The bearded guy could be a veterinarian with aspirations above his station – plus a penchant for sticking his hand in dark places.

  “Most interesting,” the doctor said, observing his patient and stroking his beard in the manner of a certain coke-addicted quack.

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Dale said, “but what exactly are your qualifications?”

  “MB BS, that’s a medical degree from Athens and London; MAs in psychology, physics and nuclear physics, all from Cambridge University; then a PhD in theology from Cardiff; oh, and I speak half-a-dozen languages fluently,” he finished with a flourish.

  Steve was shaking his head, his IQ reduced in a flash to lower case proportions, like a bug meeting its end as a splat on a windshield. Dale had nothing to be belittled. Okay, he had done a tech course in car mechanics, but he doubted that counted in the grand scheme of things. But where did religion fit into MI5’s activities? It was news to him that British spies had morals, but hey, at least someone was looking down on them.

  “Ask him about the diploma in chocolate,” Steve whispered teasingly in his ear. Dale glanced at him quizzically. Er, whatever, dude, Dale thought.

  “Didn’t you forget your diploma in chocolate, Doctor?” Dale asked naively.

  Even his beard and olive complexion couldn’t disguise the change in colour.

  “What was that about?” Dale hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s just something that Dai told me when you were in the restroom at the Burn Center,” Steve said not nearly so innocently. “Apparently, he likes having chocolate licked off his – ”

  “Gentlemen!” Ms Jenkins said. “We need to proceed. Over to you, Dr Kyriakides.”

  Dale thought that sounded ominous. He’d already taken note of the large drum-like machine at the back of the lab. One of his weaknesses that Steve didn’t know about was his fear of being trapped in small spaces – particularly ones involving whirring machinery. His DeLorean was the exception: it purred rather than whirred. Even now, the odour of certain washing powders put him into a cold sweat. It hadn’t been his fault that the inside of his mom’s giant Westinghouse washer had looked so enticing. He needed closure on the past, but the thought of putting a lid on anything was enough to send him back to the goddamn vino de la casa.

  Okay, in for a dime, in for a dozen. Dale started peeling off his pants. The zipper got stuck half way. Steve was grinning. Deborah was smirking. The doctor’s hands looked XXL large. And he wasn’t wearing gloves. Oh Christ!

  “No! No!” Dr Kyriakides said, waving his hands manically. Dale concluded that he’d never do well in court exhibiting that level of emotional arousal. “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. Mr Featherstonehaugh has provided all the details I require. The results of your examination are over there.”

  Dale followed his pointing appendage and saw an A4 manila folder with his name at the top in large letters. MI5’s surreptitious data collection seemed disturbingly similar to that of the FBI. Dale swiftly restored his dignity, took a deep breath and waited for the next bombshell to drop.

  “So, what exactly is the nature of your problem, Lieutenant?” the doctor asked in a kindly tone.

  The divine Deborah was still smirking. She’d obviously read the report. Dale decided to cut to the chase.

  “It’s a matter of knowing,” he said meekly.

  “Knowing?” Dr Kyriakides said.

  “Yeah. Knowing this, knowing that, but without the when, how, where or fucking what.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Steve chipped in sweetly. “After all, you knew the accident was gonna occur and also what I was gonna say.”

  “You mean, the triplets in the pushchair?” Ms Jenkins said.

  “Yeah, the stroller,” Dale said. As if he could forget ...

  “So, what was Steve going to say?” she asked.

  “‘Eh, what’s up, Doc?’” Dale said.

  Ms Jenkins and the doctor looked puzzled.

  “As in Bugs Bunny,” Steve said, making rabbit ears to illustrate the point.

  “I knew he was gonna do that, too,” Dale said smugly.

  “Any other examples of this, er, precognition?” Dr Kyriakides said, looking less than convinced by Dale’s superpower.

  Dale considered his timing. He didn’t have anything else that was immediately tangible, but it was rather letting the cat out of the bag and risking a helluva scratching. Knowing his luck, Ms Jenkins could be armed with a light sabre. Still, what the hell, she’d know about it soon enough. He cleared this throat and looked at his prospective precognitee. “Tonight, Deborah, your boyfriend will cook you a delicious birthday meal, you will make love and you will become pregnant.” That sounded straight out of Live Your Dream. He’d ev
en gotten the intonation right.

  Ms Jenkins’s facial transitioning should have been videoed for posterity. Pink became puce became ashen. Her lower lip seemed to be trembling. “H-How did you know?” she eventually squeaked out of her shrinking, but still highly desirable, frame.

  Dale shrugged. “That’s the point. I just knew. A bit like a parcel all wrapped up in ribbons, ready for lil’ ol’ me to do whatever I choose to do with it. But it came to me. And I opened it. And it will happen.”

  Dr Kyriakides looked equally stunned. “Is that true, Deborah?”

  Ms Jenkins shifted uneasily. She was sitting on her hands. “That was the plan. The dinner was meant to be a surprise, but I found a list of ingredients in his forward planner. You know, champagne, oysters, steaks, pommes frites, chocolate nemesis – ” judging by the change in his skin colour, Dr Kyriakides’s undoing seemed stuck on repeat, “ – all the usual things for a romantic dinner. And it is the right time of the month ...”

  Dale started humming. He had no idea why. The song had just popped into his head. And as Steve would agree, he usually whistled rather tunelessly.

  Dr Kyriakides looked horrified. “You’re humming ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’ by Abba”.

  “Am I?” Dale said. He’d honestly never heard of the song or the group. Country and Western was more his cup of tea, as the British would say. “I guess I just knew it was a song you liked.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” the doctor said, pulling his considerable self together with a seismic heave out of the long-suffering plastic chair, “it’s time for some tests ...”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “We need to talk, cariad,” Ceri heard her mother saying through the dense musical fog emanating from her earbuds. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone after her visit to the hospital to check on Bronwen’s progress. Her life seemed to have been sucked out of her and she’d stared at Ceri uncomprehendingly. A psychiatrist had been to assess her because the doctors thought she was in a state of shock. She’d said nothing to him, either. The nurse had mentioned about transferring her somewhere for rehabilitation, although Ceri doubted it would make much difference. The footnote in her great grandmother’s potions book had made it clear what could happen if a hex failed to find its target: ‘Warning about the Divination Hex: this will transmute into a Lifedrain Hex if misdirected.’ One thing was for sure: Bronwen wouldn’t need to go on any more cabbage water diets.