The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 13

  Moussaka was a lot to swallow at the best of times and Dale couldn’t match the doctor’s appetite for the strange world of particle physics. A deep rumble from Dr Kyriakides’s stomach, conveyed at sub-light speed, hinted that a lunch break was next on the agenda. Dale suddenly realised that the last sit-down meal he’d had was courtesy of Delta Airlines two days ago. At least their action-packed schedule was helping him retain the lean and hungry look that Steve appreciated so much. He hoped that MI5’s cafeteria was superior to KCPD’s and that projectile vomiting wasn’t an involuntary sauce on the side.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As the four of them walked down The Manor’s grand staircase, Dale’s attention was caught by the paintings lining the wall. Most of them must have been centuries old, but that didn’t diminish the piercing intelligence of the subjects’ faces. A few of the pictures included scientific instruments that looked like they were straight out of an alchemist’s laboratory – or they could have been distilling hooch on the side. Perhaps the idea of stuff going backwards in time would have seemed a tad less heretical in those days.

  A few steps from the bottom of the stairs, he was intrigued to see a painting of a woman in a folk costume wearing a tall hat and with a large black cat on her lap. She looked out of place alongside her sternlysuited male colleagues. The sitter and her companion seemed intent on outstaring the viewer, and no matter which way Dale turned his head, the four eyes followed him. He wondered what insight they’d have had into the comings and goings inside MI5’s secret research establishment. The old woman might even have had an entangled particle or two hidden under her hat, itching to tell a story.

  “Dale, whatya doing?” Steve called out impatiently from 20 feet away. “I’m hungry.” He mimed putting a fork to his mouth, his perfect teeth flashing in the gloom of the hall.

  Dale floundered momentarily. He was caught between examining the painting further and assuaging his hunger. “Coming,” he said. The picture’s occupants wouldn’t be going anywhere, after all. He descended the remaining stairs, glancing over his shoulder. The old lady was still watching him and he could have sworn the cat licked its lips.

  “Is that gorgeous chick a distant relative?” Steve asked Dale, grinning broadly. “I heard the Franklin menfolk have a reputation for spilling their seed far and wide.”

  Dale punched Steve’s shoulder playfully. “Do you still wanna go to that Madame’s place? I’m thinking it’d be good to go straight back to the hotel. I’m feeling kinda churned up inside, if you know what I mean,” he said, making a circular motion with his head.

  Steve pondered that for a moment in mock seriousness. “Okay, agreed. Who cares about a load of old haircuts, anyway?” He slipped his fingertips behind Dale’s belt. “I’ve been getting rather horny watching all your intimate exams.”

  “Come on, please, gentlemen,” Ms Jenkins called out from the nearby corridor. “The cafeteria isn’t open all day.”

  “I guess we’d better put our entanglement on hold until later,” Steve quipped teasingly, disengaging his fingers after a quick tug on the belt. They followed Deborah’s crisply black silhouette to a door that was already open.

  “Jeez!” Dale said, as they entered the canteen. “This sure beats KCPD.” He reckoned the spacious room had been the formal dining hall before MI5 took charge of the building. In contrast to KCPD’s sweaty cafeteria, with its buzzing fluorescent tubes, The Manor’s restaurant had calmly twinkling chandeliers. Three sides of the room were panelled with wood up to the ceiling and there were yet more gilt-framed paintings. Clouds of steam and tempting odours emanated from dishes of food under bright lights along most of the fourth side. Only a handful of tables were occupied, and the atmosphere was of calm enjoyment rather than wolfing food to sustain an afternoon of squad car chases and interrogations.

  “The food is free, by the way,” Ms Jenkins said, “or at least, the government pays for it.”

  Dale piled his plate high, oblivious to the admonishing looks Steve gave him. Hell, he deserved it! Predictably, Steve had taken the salad option. So, too, had Ms Jenkins and Dr Kyriakides. Dale paused midmouthful, cocking his head with an inquiring look at their plates.

  “I’m training later,” the doctor said. “Better not to overload with carbs.”

  “I’m watching my figure,” Ms Jenkins said. Dale couldn’t understand why; it looked perfect to him. He shrugged and continued shovelling food as if he was clearing snow from his parents’ driveway. It certainly tasted a damn sight better – and healthier, too – than anything on offer back in the KCPD cafeteria.

  “You can’t have had much of a holiday so far,” Ms Jenkins said benignly, glancing up from her plate at Steve. “Most of London is one big tourist trap. Places like Madame Tussauds and Harrods are the pits. And Number 10 is so boring now one can’t go up to the front door.” She carefully forked a cherry tomato to avoid being splattered with juice. “What are your plans, then, Sergeant?”

  “Oh, we thought we’d try Madame Tussauds and Harrods, followed by Number 10,” Steve said, not missing a beat.

  “Oh,” Ms Jenkins replied, choosing a less risky morsel for her next mouthful. “Why Tussauds, anyway? There’s always a mile-long queue to get in, particularly when the weather is bad.”

  “Steve has this thing about haircuts,” Dale explained. “He wanted to go to a museum of hairstyles. Madame T’s seemed the next best thing.”

  “Hairstyles?” Ms Jenkins pondered. “That’s interesting. I’d never have thought of Tussauds as a place to see haircuts, but I suppose it is ...” She reached out to touch Steve’s glistening locks. “What conditioner do you use? I’d kill for that hair.”

  Dale had no doubt she would, given half the chance. All the talk about hair had made him feel queasy and he eyed his half-emptied plate uneasily. Or perhaps his nuts were trying to tell him something. And then, wham bam, thank you, ma’am, they did: a snippet of knowledge had just plonked its goddamn irritating self in his frontal cortex. It couldn’t have been more unambiguous. He could try shaking it off, but he knew it was there for the duration and would keep on niggling away like his fucking cojones. Oh shit, Dale thought. They’re not gonna like this. He put his fork on the table and stared into the distance.

  “Are you all right, Lieutenant? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Ms Jenkins said, her eyes glinting with amusement. She glanced around the room and leaned forward. “You should try coming here in the middle of the night. It gives me the shivers.”

  Dale was shivering himself. Steve put a hand on his shoulder. “Is it happening again, sweets?” he whispered.

  Dale nodded. He felt like he was back in bible class, with everyone wallowing in his ignorance and unremitting psychological abuse, all dressed up as the fucking lamb of God. Amen.

  “Er, Ms Jenkins,” Dale said timidly. “I’ve had another thought.”

  Ms Jenkins inclined her head. A delicate pea shoot had just passed her lips en route to the transitory bliss of her gastrointestinal tract. If only it was so damn simple. There was no easy way to put it. “Dai Williams has been taken prisoner,” Dale said bluntly.

  “How the hell did you know?” Ms Jenkins said, her face turning ashen. “We only learned he’d gone missing this morning. We certainly hadn’t reported anything to the press about him being abducted ... Oh my God!” She put a hand to her mouth. “You really know that he’s been taken, don’t you?”

  Dale bowed his head. He wished he could dive under the table and stay there for good. Please, dear God, don’t let them put me back in that fucking scanner!

  Ms Jenkins stared at him with her deep, dark eyes. “So, where is he, Lieutenant? Who’s taken him? You must know, for Chrissakes!”

  Being shouted at in the middle of a cafeteria was one thing, but having nothing useful to say made him feel like such a fucking dipshit. He could well imagine Chief Scanlon’s dismissive sneer if all he could report was that some VIP had gone walkabout. He’d be bellowing his head off with
the accompaniment of flying doughnut fragments. His dumbass ability certainly gave a new slant on prick-teasing. Jeez, it was like ordering a T-bone steak and then having it taken away before he could attack it with a fork! He stared back reluctantly into Ms Jenkins’s eyes. Damn, she was frightened. “I just wish I knew,” he said pathetically. He felt like tearing out his remaining hair. “But I don’t. I’ve no idea who took him or where he’s gone.”

  Ms Jenkins seemed to be lost in a world of indecision. She got up and wandered around the dining room, going up to the paintings to stare at them and touching things at random. The other diners were staring at her. Dr Kyriakides was just watching and stroking his beard. Dale half-expected security to enter and lead her away. Even the best of MI5’s battle scared had to fall apart every now and again. Eventually, Ms Jenkins returned to the table. She’d been crying and black rivulets of mascara had run down her cheeks.

  “So, Lieutenant, what do you suggest I do?” she said in a tone of utter exasperation. “Go home for a birthday meal I’m not meant to know about, and make love with a purpose in mind my boyfriend has no knowledge of, or join in the search for Dai?”

  Dale shrugged. “I’m only the messenger, Ms Jenkins.”

  “Well, it would help greatly if a whisper of information arrived in your brain that we could actually make use of,” she said archly. She sniffed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but you know ...” A look of desperation flittered over her finely-boned features. She reached to grasp his hands. “Please – just tell me, Lieutenant.”

  Dale smiled ruefully. “You want my advice?”

  Ms Jenkins nodded.

  “And as someone who’s always been lousy at sorting out priorities?”

  She bobbed her head again.

  “Best to have sex first, so that you can enjoy the meal.” He was still crap at making decisions for other people. And if he was gonna get into personal divination services, he’d better be prepared for plenty of laying on of hands from Missouri’s womenfolk.

  “Christ almighty!” Ms Jenkins said beneath her breath. “Will someone just tell me what the fuck to do!”

  Dr Kyriakides put his hand up. “Let me try. It’s an interesting conundrum, Deborah. If the lieutenant had a device that could take him forward in time, and he found evidence that you gave birth to a son approximately nine months from now, who just happened to meet all the requirements to become our next Prime Minister, then doing anything that might jeopardise this evening’s dinner could have repercussions extending far into the future. But, in fact, all he’s describing is an event that he believes will happen today, rather than anything beyond that. I don’t think it’s too dissimilar to the quantum computer predicting I’ll cook moussaka and me deciding at the last minute to order pizza. The other way of looking at it is that time has a way of correcting small deviations along the way, so the grand plan remains unaffected.”

  Ms Jenkins sighed. “Okay, so do I go with head – ” she looked at Dr Kyriakides, “ – or heart? Hell, I don’t know.” She turned to Steve. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

  Steve looked to Dale for inspiration. Dale shrugged. He had to admit, it was a helluva conflict of interest for Ms Jenkins. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth, they’d probably already be on the way back to their hotel. Dale wondered what Steve would pull out of his hat to sway the discussion this time.

  “There was a psychology professor at school who was always disagreeing with me about everything,” Steve said, fixing Ms Jenkins with his puppy-dog eyes. “One day, we were arguing about nature versus nurture. We were getting nowhere. I’d cited all the research I could think of. In the end, I just said, ‘I am what I am. And what I am needs no excuses.’ The class applauded and I walked out feeling great. He’d never heard of Gloria Gaynor.”

  Dale would also have applauded if it wasn’t for the snippets of information clambering for attention inside his head. It was definitely peaking. He readied himself for the next lacerating insight. Suddenly, it went quiet again. Maybe someone up there had decided he’d done his bit as a latter-day saint.

  At least Ms Jenkins seemed relieved by Steve’s intervention. She was nodding and looked at peace with her conscience. “Okay, that’s decided. You’re invited to the christening. But first, I need to get you – ” she looked piercingly at Dale, “ – back to London so that you can let MI5 know if you receive an update from Petros’s entangled particles.”

  What the fuck? Dale thought. She’s bought the doctor’s explanation hook, line and sinker, but where does that leave me? Am I doomed to be left dangling for the rest of my goddamn life?

  Dale turned to Dr Kyriakides just before they left the cafeteria. Physically, he felt as if he’d been dragged feet first by horses along a rocky path. Mentally, the day had been like a prolonged session of waterboarding. His brain needed oxygen and time to think without interruptions.

  “So, Doc, what will happen when I return to the US? Will I still have these thoughts dropping into my head like Beelzebub’s idea of fortune cookies?”

  The doctor shrugged. “It’s hard to know, Lieutenant. You’ll just have to see. It could be something that’s been unlocked in your brain like Dai’s ability to peer inside peoples’ minds. There’ve been plenty of soothsayers or savants over the ages. You know, The Oracles of Delphi, Nostradamus, Old Moore’s Almanac ...”

  “Not to mention, our esteemed Chief Scanlon,” Steve said. “He knows all the baseball scores.”

  “Really, Doctor?” Dale said, glaring at Steve. “I thought all that was a load of hooey.”

  “Well, I think you’re proof it isn’t, Lieutenant, so welcome to the club,” Dr Kyriakides said, patting him firmly on the back.

  Dale almost smiled. He didn’t mind the exclusivity of the establishment, but there seemed to be a high price to be a member. Ma Bell was mighty busy and she spoke with forked tongues. The bizarre thing was, sometimes his ability felt so fan-fucking-tastic that he wanted to shout it out to the world; the rest of the time, he wanted to crawl away like a cur that’d been banished for good. Insanity had to be lurking just round the corner.

  Fortunately, madness had decided to take a rain check for the time being. Instead, a couple of hours later Dale and Steve found themselves back in the hotel. It didn’t exactly feel sane being in some interior designer’s idea of rural Sweden transported to urban London, but at least Dale felt in control of his faculties. Not much else, though. He was still being bombarded by what passed as wisdom, 19 to the dozen. In their room. In bed. An early dinner seemed a better option than trying to push water uphill. Mutually decided, of course.

  At least the menu wasn’t Scandinavian. And the dining room was a welcome oasis of calm after being cocooned in the scanner. Dale wondered whether the magnetic field had rubbed off on him, but no, the cutlery had resolutely stayed put. Steak and salad seemed the best option after the excesses of The Manor’s cafeteria. Together with a bottle of vino de la casa. The waiter served the food with a smile. A knowing smile. Or was it leering? Either way, it didn’t seem Scandinavian.

  Scandinavian was clean and unadulterated – apart from way too much pine. Pine reminded Dale of air fresheners: something to cover up the shit and the bad stuff that was going on beneath the surface. And Christ, there was so much of that! Whichever way he bent his lil’ ol’ internal ears, it wouldn’t stop. Perhaps if he just concentrated on chewing ... He could see the blood oozing from the beef ... red, amber, green ... red, amber, green ...

  “That’s it, darling, eat slowly for Mommy, so you’ll get all healthy and strong.” She was hovering over him, too close, that sickly smell of cheap fragrance.

  “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, chewing like a girly?” His dad had a bottle of bourbon in his hands, as usual. He stank of sweat and piss and God knows what else.

  But he wasn’t in Missouri now; he was in London, UK (Northern Hemisphere), 51.5 degrees latitude, -0.14 degrees longitude, to be precise, just as he’d say in a court of
law. He’d always appreciated the sense of order he’d gotten from the geography class. Battle lines were best drawn on the battlefield rather than across the kitchen table. He’d always been lousy as a peacekeeper.

  “You’re thinking too much,” Steve said with calm concern, looking up from his plate of food. “You should eat.”

  Eat, piss, shit, fuck, all those things and more. Their eyes connected briefly. Dale glanced at his steak. His knife had slashed it open and the oozing juices were sickly red. And then it came to him, like a fist slammed into the solar plexus. He reeled back into his seat, gasping for breath.

  “Christ, Dale! What the fuck is it?” Steve looked scared.

  “Gimme your cell!” He could be oh-so commanding when it was needed; leading an army of mutants might be fun.

  Steve reached into his pockets for his phone. The screen remained grimly dark under the brutally insistent restaurant lights. Scandinavia must be a helluva dark place in the winter. Steve glanced up, looking apologetic. “Sorry, sweets, it isn’t charged up. Is it your nuts again?” His cuteness wasn’t going to sway him this time.

  “I need a phone. Now.” Dale checked around the dining room and gesticulated wildly at a nearby waiter.

  “Sir, I need to borrow your cell phone,” he said, grabbing the waiter’s arm.

  The waiter backed off. Surprise skittered across his face like an ice skater with two left feet. He pointed to the signs on the wall: ‘Free Wi-Fi spot’ had a slash through it. ‘No mobile phones’ was displayed alongside it.

  “Fuck!” Dale moaned beneath his breath. His hands juddered against the table, clattering cutlery against porcelain. It was as if his ‘knowing’ needed a feed. His eyes flicked around for a potential source. What was that flat screen doing in a hotel dining room? They should have gone three star, for Chrissakes! Some guy was going on about freak storms back in the US. The video showed green plains lashed by torrential rain and twisters, the trees uprooted from the spot. It had to be connected with EM radiation, or so the weather anchor thought. He was a good looker, good talker and came from some place called the ‘Met Office’. Where they used maps. Dale’s thoughts clicked into place like a combination of ‘I’ll be back’ and ‘Here’s Johnny!’