The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Read online

  Dale plunged his hands into his pockets, pulling out everything he could find: gum, candy, ticket stubs, receipts, more gum, more stubs – fuck, it had to be there – skitter-scattering on the floor and the table ... finally, the Golden Ticket was in his hand. He leaped out of the chair and streaked across the room. Hunting his target. Thank God he was fit. There was nothing like an old-fashioned chase on foot. Target acquired. Never had something attached to a length of wire looked so enticing.

  Steve had been watching Dale closely, trying to maintain clinically detached while feeling he should be doing something. Damn, Dale could be single-minded. It had to be some clinical syndrome: not exactly ‘The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat’, but more ‘The Man Who Wished His Wife Wasn’t a Goddamn Hat.’ And then there was that weird thing he did with his steak: tearing it apart and then staring wide-eyed as the bloody juices spread across the plate. An American Werewolf in London sprang to mind, in for the kill. Should I have intervened? Yeah, but what the fuck would I have done? Ask for a straitjacket? The UK probably didn’t even use those anymore! And now he’s on his way back. He sure looks exhausted. He’ll probably say he’s plum-tuckered out. So cute. Perhaps he’d been burying his head in a waiter’s neck. Preferable to a waiter’s groin. It’s been a helluva day. Okay, fingers crossed that it’s actually Awakenings, after all. PS: I still love him.

  Dai came to with Green Park greenery in his mouth and a tenacious tendril worming its way up a nostril. His outstretched fingertips were resting on a blanket of grass that was cool and comforting. Whoa! Haven’t I experienced this before? He turned over and pushed himself up into a sitting position. The sky looked exactly the same. The lights in Buckingham Palace still shone just as brightly. He checked his watch: 7:00 p.m. That’s weird. Had time stopped while I was being tortured at the hands of some fucking sadist? Oh, get real Dai! You’re not in a movie now! Okay, so there were two other options to consider: a) that he’d imagined the whole thing and had just had a micro-nap; or b) that he’d been up-up-and-awayed into the lab of a passing spaceship and returned in the twinkling of an alien’s lizard-like eye. He explored his teeth with his tongue for tell-tale holes where transmitters might have been implanted: nope, nothing. He examined his wrists and ankles for signs of physical restraint: nope, no marks or stickiness. Could something have been put inside him? That would need an X-ray. So, could I use the hocus focus on myself ? For Chrissakes, Dai, get a grip! A ping let loose in his brain would bounce around in an infinite feedback loop and cause him to start speaking Welsh. And liking rugby.

  Suddenly, the sky seemed to explode with light. There was a feeling of burning heat on his face and a loud whoosh-whooshing noise slammed at his eardrums. Oh Christ, they’re back to finish me off! There was only one thing for it: he’d use the hocus focus to ping their neural network just like Jeff Goldblum did when he uploaded a computer virus in Independence Day. It could go horribly wrong, and he might end up with his head chopped off by a laser, but, hell, he was a knight of the realm and he might as well go out with a bang. That’d teach those who still thought he was a brainless boyo from the Valleys.

  So, Dai stood up, raised his hands in the air, and focussed out ... clearing his mind ... whoosh-whoosh went the noise ... imagining a funnel ... it was hard to concentrate ... zeroing in with a precisely delivered ping right in the centre of the alien computer constructed from human brain tissue ... whoosh-whoosh-whoosh ... and now there are figures coming for him ... they’re skeletally thin, holding out pincer-grip appendages to crush the last ounce of his life force ...

  “It’s okay, sir, you’re safe now,” a male voice shouted. It was hard to make out the words against all the noise, but it was definitely English. Aliens were so fucking devious. They’d obviously learnt the language from YouTube broadcasts.

  “Cut the searchlight,” another voice yelled. “You’re blinding the man.”

  Green Park suddenly looked like Green Park again. Buckingham Palace hadn’t moved an inch and its windows were burning with light as usual. Her Majesty obviously wasn’t on dimmer duty tonight, Dai thought. Then he realised that someone or something was shaking his hand vigorously.

  “I’m Major Struthers, Sir David,” the humanoid said. “It’s good to have you back.”

  Dai tried to say something, but it came out sounding like ‘howzat’, and it was the wrong time of the year to be thinking about cricket. But at least he was back on Earth. His nose registered the curiously reassuring odour of freshly deposited horse droppings nearby.

  “That’s okay, sir,” the human said. “You’re bound to be a bit disorientated. Thank God someone told us where to find you. You could have died from hypothermia, you know. Now, be a good chap and put this blanket over your shoulders.”

  Dai decided it was rather pleasant being looked after. It took him right back to Granny Betty’s kitchen, where she’d feed him a slice of bara brith and pour out sweet, milky tea as soon as he got home from school. Sometimes there’d be a metal pot on the table. It was a huge great thing and he liked staring into it and imagining he could see the future. The major was right, though: it was cold in the park and his teeth were chattering. He allowed himself to be led towards the welcoming glow of the helicopter’s interior. Someone put a flask of steaming coffee into his hands.

  “Buckle up, Sir David, and we’ll be on our way,” the major said. “We’ve got orders to take you in for a quick check-up and debriefing. I expect you’ll be wanting to get home to your girlfriend. She must’ve been going frantic with worry.”

  Dai didn’t register much of the short flight to the hospital in the East End. He tried drinking the coffee, but it just didn’t taste right. Still, the flask warmed his hands. It must have been official MI5 issue, as ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ was written on the side beneath a crown. He was starting to appreciate the dangers of working for the Queen. It was all a bit too James Bond for comfort. Dinner with Delia Smith would have been an awful lot safer. He might even have tried leeks again. But not sautéed in butter.

  The helicopter soon landed on a rooftop helipad and he was escorted down a flight of stairs. The décor was swish, with corporate-style art lining the walls, so he guessed it was a private wing in the hospital that MI5 had a contract with. The room they entered was nothing like his grandmother’s cosy parlour, but at least he recognised the welcoming face. Emma Jones was a medic he’d first encountered at The Manor. She’d been instrumental in introducing him to his fiancée, so she’d become a friend as well as a colleague.

  “My goodness, David, you’ve had us concerned!” Dr Jones said cheerily, swiftly popping a stethoscope into her ears. Dai smiled weakly, stripped to his underpants and let her get on with her job. There was something reassuring about the way a doctor went about their business, methodically examining parts of the body. She was taking photos, too, so at least there’d be evidence to show for his ordeal. By the end of the examination, Dr Jones was frowning and Dai expected the worst.

  “Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been lying on the grass for the last 24 hours. I’m surprised no one found you before. For the life of me, I can’t find anything wrong. And there are no marks on you, either.”

  Dai examined his wrists and then bent forwards to look at his ankles. He shook his head. There had to be a sign of something. If not, why couldn’t he get the idea of duct tape out of his head? He glanced at the floor. Even his shoes looked squeaky clean, as if someone had deliberately wiped them. But everything was still so hazy. He scratched his head. “So, are you telling me I imagined it all?”

  “It?” Dr Jones said, a question mark hanging portentously on her breath.

  Dai felt himself blushing under her interrogation. He looked at his feet. Are my toenails really that long? “Well, I did have some weirdly pervasive ideas about being abducted by a UFO.”

  Dr Jones raised an eyebrow, highlighting her strangely mismatched green and blue irises. “And?”

  Dai explored his teeth
with his tongue. “Well, they’re rumoured to drill holes in teeth to implant their devilish devices.”

  Dr Jones sighed. “Okay, I’d better take a look.”

  Dai leaned forward and submitted himself to the doctor’s careful probing. Why is my mind so blank, for God’s sake? he wondered. It was as if someone had zapped it clean. But that was more like what the Men in Black got up to. Oh fuck, perhaps it was an inside job!

  Dr Jones sat back and considered her findings. “Clean as a whistle, David, although you’ve got some fillings that need attention.”

  Dai wasn’t surprised. Wales hadn’t gotten around to fluoridation. No one would have dared add anything artificial to drinking water when his grandmother was alive.

  “So, David, what do you actually remember?” Dr Jones seemed to be having a tough time hiding her exasperation.

  Dai furrowed his brow. “I remember leaving the Palace. The Queen offered to organise a car, but I said I preferred to walk. She looked doubtful, but she didn’t try and stop me.”

  Dr Jones nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s had too much to drink at the Palace. Some celebrities have even taken drugs there.” She tut-tutted disapprovingly. “And then?”

  “I was walking through the park – near the lake, I think – and I almost got hit by one of those flying disk things. It had lights around it, so it could have been a UFO with tiny aliens.” Dr Jones raised an eyebrow. “It sailed past me, though. I’d probably ducked just in time – or perhaps the navigator was having a bad day. The next thing I remember is someone shining a torch in my face.”

  “Constable Pritchard, you mean?”

  Dai felt his jaw drop. “He was a real policeman, then?”

  “Oh yes, and he remembers the encounter. He’s one of the few people around who still believes in the Royal Family. He’s made sure Green Park remains his patch.”

  “So, he didn’t give me a pill to knock me out?”

  Dr Jones seemed taken aback. “What pill?”

  “I asked if he had some aspirin and he offered me a white pill out of a pocket. It was after that that everything went blank.”

  “And you swallowed it?”

  “Er, yes,” Dai said shamefacedly. “I did have a headache, after all.”

  Dr Jones groaned. “Christ almighty! No matter what I say, agents just won’t read the bloody health and safety manual. And to think of the hours I’ve spent updating the poisons section. If it was up to me, I’d dock their salary until they did.”

  Dai hung his head. “Sorry, Dr Jones.”

  “Anyway, the damage is done now.” A look crossed Dr Jones’s face. Her green eye blinked, followed a split second later by the blue one. “The constable said that when he looked back, you’d gone. So, the question is, where did you go, and if you were taken, why were you put back where you started?”

  “Well, I’d still say it was aliens,” Dai muttered.

  “Yes, well ...” Dr Jones took a deep breath. “Look, David ... er, how would you feel about going in a scanner?” she asked hesitantly. “It might just help us to know whether you’ve been affected internally.”

  Dai’s grimace must have said it all. The hocus focus had an unfortunate habit of causing mechanical mayhem whenever he was exposed to EM radiation. And the private sector would charge a hefty mark-up on the repair bill.

  Dr Jones heaved a sigh of resignation. “Very well, I’ll take blood for some tests. You never know, David, you might have swallowed something that disagreed with you.”

  Specimen tube followed specimen tube. Do I have eight pints in me?

  “So, how are the plans going for the wedding?” Dr Jones asked to pass the bloodletting time.

  “We’re still waiting on the Queen’s diary,” Dai said, trying to stop himself adding up the many millilitres of blood accumulating on the stainless steel trolley in front of him. “Will you be coming?”

  Dr Jones shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not easy juggling being a mother, working in the NHS and the demands of MI5.”

  Dai nodded sympathetically. “So, how is your daughter these days?”

  Dr Jones rolled her eyes. “Up to her usual tricks, I’m afraid. She’s been trying to outstare her classmates, so there’ve been plenty of nosebleeds. I do wish she’d stick to dogs. They can just yelp off into the undergrowth. Still, she has to learn the ropes somehow.”

  Dai pondered on her words. It couldn’t be easy caring for a child that was a chip off the old block. And in his and Sandra’s case, their daughter would have a double helping of strangeness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the drama of the previous day, Steve was at a loss to understand Dale’s insistence on paying Number 10 Downing Street a visit before they caught their afternoon flight back home. TripAdvisor ranked the Prime Minister’s official residence a dismal 757 out of 1,272 things to do in London. As far as Steve was concerned, one set of security gates was like any other. Even if tourists had been permitted to venture along the street to gawp at the 300-year-old house, all they’d see was a black-painted door with a police officer on duty 24/7 – plus Larry the Cat, Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office, sitting on his haunches, if they were lucky. Just like the occasional White House faux pas, repeat instances of the marginally interesting ‘Plebgate’ scandal had been sanitised out of reality.

  Steve felt sure Dale had some other motive for venturing out, but he wasn’t letting on this crisp November morning. Steve accepted that he needed a little head space to resolve a few issues. There was also the possibility that he didn’t want to spook him, given his manic attack on the meat. There was only so much running amok someone could endure – hotel staff included. When they’d arrived in the breakfast room, the waiters had grouped in a pack for safety. And the maître d’ had almost jumped out of her skin when Dale asked for a table. To cap all, Dale hadn’t even divulged what the episode had been about. In fact, he’d been dead to the world as soon as his head touched the pillow. Great end to their vacation.

  The fact is, when Dale spoke his mind it got them into trouble, and Steve wouldn’t willingly tolerate spending hours in another Metropolitan Police custody suite on this vacation. Yes, he’d go along with The Mighty Thor aspiration, and he’d even jump into the DeLorean DMC-12 as his obedient Robin, but his partner and boyfriend sure as hell needed some fine-tuning. Coarsetuning, actually. In fact, he could do with an injection of some major mojo to get him back firing on all cylinders.

  And that was only part of it. Dale had become moody, too. That morning, he’d ordered ‘the full English’ and mumbled darkly about needing to prepare himself for the day. It was the sort of cardiotoxic disaster Chief Scanlon would order and then tell his specialist he was scrupulously following the diet. Except the chief wouldn’t have used the word ‘scrupulously’. Hell, he wouldn’t have been able to spell it. Perhaps it was a testosterone thing – and Dale seemed just as afflicted as the chief. Steve had noticed Dale mentally undressing Ms Jenkins. Flipping back had always been somewhere on the agenda, but his timing sucked. Okay, I’ll blame it on the EM radiation, Steve thought rather generously, given how much it had pissed him off.

  “That guy was checking you out,” Dale said, staring gloomily at the plate, drawing his fork through the luridly orange yolk. He’d ordered easy over, but that had got lost in translation by the short order chef.

  Steve was impressed by Dale’s unexpected shrewdness so early in the day. He’d enjoyed the attention. “So what?” he said, daring him with his eyes.

  “You took way too long choosing your granola,” Dale said testily. “And you were doing that jiggy-jiggy thing with your hips. You were practically inviting him to bed, for Chrissakes!”

  Wow, that was below the belt. But I’m not gonna rise to the bait, Steve decided.

  “Well, it’s not easy choosing between pecan with cranberries and country crisp chunky nuts.” Steve said. He paused dramatically. “And I think you mean ‘jiggling’. ‘Jiggy-jiggy’ is having sex.
And, anyway, I wasn’t jiggling my hips. I was contemplating our wedding.”

  Dale looked up, wide-eyed, putting on hold his doodling in the pool of tepid deutoplasm. He hadn’t even drawn a smiley face. “Are you serious?”

  Steve smiled sweetly. “Sure, babycakes. I mean, do we do lunch, dinner or just forget it ever happened?” That was a tad bitchy, but it had to be said. He didn’t mean it, of course.

  Dale seemed ready to buckle. “Oh Christ, sweets, I’m sorry. I’m being such a klutz.”

  Steve agreed. “So you don’t fancy Ms Jenkins, then?”

  The change in Dale’s facial colouration betrayed him. “Er ...” was as far as he got before crumpling over, narrowly missing smearing his face with yolk. It could have been worse; he could have retorted, “I knew you were gonna say that.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. I swear,” Dale said as soon as he was back in an upright position. He looked uncomfortable. The phantom testicle grabber had evidently struck again.

  The cute guy at the cereal bar chose that inauspicious moment to pass by their table. He wasn’t smiling. He was smirking. And he had crumbs of granola in the corners of his mouth.

  “I know your sort,” the cute guy said. “You come on all available, shaking your tush, and then run back to your boyfriend, pretending nothing happened. You’re a fucking prick tease, that’s what.”