The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Read online

Steve considered his options, one of which was to hide under the table. Correcting the guy’s English was another.

  “He wasn’t and isn’t ... mate,” Dale said, tempting providence with that unique touch of British, but brutal, informality.

  “Huh?” The raised eyebrow made the cute guy look lopsided.

  “In fact, he was rehearsing dance moves for our wedding,” Dale continued with impressive extemporisation.

  The guy raised both eyebrows. Deep furrows of confusion completed the simian look.

  “Oh, and by the way, you’d better hightail it back to your room if you want to prevent your bit of rough from running off with the contents of your wallet.”

  Mr Cute almost left his eyebrows behind on the ceiling. They could do with a trim, too. His departing “f ... u ... c ... k!” lingered in the air. Steve was lost for words, but a wetness in the corners of his eyes said it all.

  “I knew that, you know,” Dale said.

  Steve blinked.

  “I think I’m starting to understand how to control it. If I get angry, a thought breaks free and comes to the surface.” He glanced in the direction of the exit. “Like just then, for instance.”

  Steve reached across the table. “I guess that’s gotta be better than you going all green and turning into The Incredible Hulk.”

  Their hands grasped tightly for a brief moment. It was England, after all. Tongues might wag. The flat screen on the nearby wall chimed for attention. Where there’s breakfast, there has to be Breakfast, and the British Broadcasting Corporation did it better than most. Dale had moved on to buttering toast. Steve sat mesmerised until the news bulletin was over.

  “Christ! You knew he was back!” Steve hadn’t expected that bolt out of the blue. And a helicopter rescue, too. So, that’s why Dale needed his cell phone.

  Dale shrugged. “Yeah.” He was spreading strawberry jam out of a cute, silver-topped pot. The Queen probably did the same. It had to be her crest on the jar. Her Royal Highness sure got around.

  “But how?” Steve asked cautiously. Dale was back in his dormant state and Steve didn’t want to tempt providence.

  Dale chewed a bit. “It just came to me,” he said.

  “Came to you?”

  “Yeah. Well, it took some work. It was as if it didn’t want to be discovered.”

  “You mean, like someone was trying to cover up Dai’s disappearance?”

  Dale’s eyes lit up momentarily, but he went back to buttering another slice of toast. The guy needed sustenance after all the hard graft.

  So, Dai had been returned, 24 hours after he’d gone missing, but in the same spot, apparently unharmed and just a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. And Dale had known it all along and kept it secret. Amazing. Definitely one to tell their grandchildren.

  “Come on, let’s go to Number 10,” Dale called out, leaping out of his chair even before he’d had his customary coffee.

  Steve noticed the maître d’ making the sign of the cross as they left. He recalled something about Polish people believing that God used Satan for his unsavoury messages, so he could see her point. There was no sign of Mr Cute in reception. Steve wondered whether they’d be making a detour to 221b Baker Street for tea with Mrs Hudson. Or perhaps she’d do two medium skinny lattes, decaf-and-hold-the-sugar as a special favour for two fellow crime fighters on vacation.

  But there was no stop-off to meet some fictional landlady. Instead, it was a fast walk to Downing Street, dodging traffic and dawdling pedestrians. Steve checked around guiltily before taking a selfie of them in front of the famous street sign. It didn’t quite work, though; Dale insisted on looking away from the camera, as if he had more important things to do. At least they seemed to be the only tourists heading for the security gate. Two police officers stood near the metalwork, puffing warmth into their bare hands.

  Steve wondered how much the officers’ attire was to impress tourists. After all, Whitehall wasn’t exactly a den of thieves with drug dealers doing house calls. Their uniform was a far cry from the traditional UK bobby on the beat, and conspicuously included a stab vest stuffed with restraints, cuffs, stun gun and more, judging by the bulges. They were also carrying Heckler & Koch MP5 semi-automatic carbines. It was just like being back home. Steve had his fingers crossed Dale wasn’t about to say they were police officers and needed to be let through. Aw shit, he’s opened his big mouth ...

  “Good morning, Officers,” Dale said, extending his hand. “My name is Lieutenant Dale Franklin and this is – ” he gestured at Steve, “ – my partner, Sergeant Steve Abrams, and we’d like to gain access to Number 10 Downing Street.”

  Steve had to admit, Dale knew how to look cool under pressure, although the frigid air must’ve helped. Dale’s outstretched hand remained frozen in motion between the two officers. Their mouths gaped like a pair of fishes out of water. Seconds passed like minutes. A blackbird on a neighbouring portico stopped by to watch the scene. A languorous, head-to-toe sizing up completed the officers’ initial evaluation. It was like being scanned through a Walmart checkout by a member of the walking dead. One of the officers flipped open his pocket book.

  “A lieutenant, you say,” the shorter, rotund policeman said.

  Dale withdrew his hand. “Detective Lieutenant, actually.” But he’d pronounced ‘actually’ with an accent that sounded way too English. Steve could see the officer’s hackles rising. “From the Kansas City Police Department,” Dale clarified helpfully. Steve definitely wouldn’t have added the second part. Mention Kansas City in the wrong company and you’ll have a plague of Dorothy lookalikes and Wizards of Oz on your hands.

  Unfortunately, the officers started laughing. It was clearly a little more than humorous to them. Their chuckles and thigh slaps sent the blackbird off into the crisply blue yonder. That was the red rag to a bull. Dale didn’t exactly start snorting and pounding his feet, but a storm cloud was definitely crossing his face. The unjolly green giant could be just around the corner.

  “Er, babycakes, don’t you think we should leave now?” Steve said limply, reaching for an arm. That endearment proved to be another mistake. The taller officer mimed an un-pc, faggoty wrist. Dale bent until he was almost crouching, his fingers apparently about to tie undone shoelaces. That’s strange, Steve thought. He’s not wearing lace-ups. Dale suddenly shot up, as if pneumatically powered, until his face was just inches away from the policeman.

  “I need to speak with the Prime Minister now,” Dale rasped, grimacing as he forced out the words.

  The rotund police officer tut-tutted, with a smirk on his face. “Aren’t we forgetting our manners ... babycakes?”

  Dale turned around slowly and seized the security gates with both hands. “I’m gonna ask you nicely, Officer. Goddamn let me through,” he growled, his eyes fixed on the entrance to Number 10. As if on cue, the front door opened and various dark-suited dignitaries emerged.

  “And why should we do that ... sir?” the taller policeman said, already fingering his gun.

  Dale sank to the ground, his hands still clasping the vertical bars of the gate. He looked defeated – and in agony, judging by his drawn face and gritted teeth. Thank Christ, Steve thought. Perhaps we can go get our coffees now.

  The taller officer dropped onto his haunches. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked, suddenly coming over all concerned. “Perhaps you should see a doctor?”

  Dale turned his head to look at the police officer. “Yeah, sure. I’ve already seen three of them in the last 24 hours. It’s not exactly curable,” he said grimly. He glanced back to the view of Number 10. “But I still need to get in there.” The suits had just got into a limousine.

  “So you said, sir,” the officer said, shaking his head in sympathy. “Perhaps you could explain why?”

  “Because there’s gonna be an attempt on your Prime Minister’s life,” Dale said calmly, continuing his steadfast gaze. The limousine was already heading towards the gate.

  For a brief moment,
you could have heard a pin drop. Then all hell broke loose. The officer who’d been speaking with Dale yelled at the oncoming vehicle, frantically waving his arms as the gate opened to allow the car’s passage out of the protected enclave: “Stop! Turn back!” The other officer had Dale spread-eagled on the ground within seconds. Steve stood back, feeling about as useful as a chocolate teapot. He sure wasn’t about to assist with the arrest of his boyfriend. Steve crouched next to Dale’s head. He wasn’t going to tempt fate by touching him.

  “Christ, Dale, why’d ya have to do that?” Steve said into the ear that wasn’t pressed against the ground.

  “I am what I am. And what I am – ”

  Steve sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But still ...”

  Just then, half-a-dozen police officers in tactical gear jumped out of a vehicle that had slammed to a halt only yards away. Their faces were set hard, with the look of grim determination the British did so well in war movies. And they weren’t chewing gum, either. Steve stood up and held out his hands placatingly. Why the fuck did I tell Dale we wouldn’t need our IDs? he thought despondently.

  “So, you’re the joker’s boyfriend, are you?” the nearest officer sneered through a slash of a mouth. He had close-set eyes, too. His badge kept personal information to the minimum; ‘SMITH’ was a name that got lost in the crowd.

  Steve nodded. “Sorry, Officer. He’s not been himself today.” He glanced back at Dale. The officer restraining his arms with his knee in Dale’s back was beckoning the squad to assist getting him to his feet.

  “Is he mental, then?” The officer almost spat out the word.

  Steve was shocked. They’d never get away with that in the US. “Jeez, no!” he replied indignantly. “Dale’s got this condition. It’s called ‘Testiculus cognoscitiva’.” Steve was good at thinking on his feet. But it had been a bitch to pronounce. He had his fingers crossed that Officer Smith had skipped Latin class in school.

  Judging by the officer’s blank expression, he obviously had, but he still got the testicular part. He winced. “Sounds painful. But it doesn’t exactly give him a reason to go around saying provocative things, now does it?”

  Steve checked the officer’s feet. They were bigger than his. It was good to know where you stood in a one-to-one situation, particularly when words were his only ammunition. He shrugged in the face of inevitable defeat. “Sure, it’s unorthodox, but, the fact is, he knows.”

  Puzzlement crossed the officer’s pinkly porcine features. “He knows what?”

  “He knows things. Like that, for instance – ” Steve gestured in the direction of Number 10 and the deserted limousine, its doors left wide open like some Marie Celeste lost on the political sea, “ – and this.” He made bunny ears with his first and second fingers.

  Puzzlement became confusion. The officer scratched a whiskery chin.

  “Except he’s better at knowing simple things. More complicated stuff gets jumbled up, so he’s never quite sure when things’ll happen. But he hasn’t been wrong yet. It’s all due to entangled particles travelling back in time.” The technique was obfuscation. Befuddle the enemy with the bewildering and they’ll lie on their backs and wave their hairy little legs in the air. Well, it worked for the low life of Kansas City ...

  “I don’t care whether you’re a policeman or a dustman, sunshine,” the officer said with a particularly unfriendly glint in his eye. “I’m taking your mate in for questioning. If you want to come along for the ride, that’s your choice.”

  Steve groaned. Oh fuck, not again, he thought. He could have made a stand, but macho cops weren’t like psychology professors. And he didn’t have an audience on his side, either.

  Five minutes later, Steve found himself in the front seat of a paddy wagon, with Dale handcuffed opposite two armed officers in the back. Darting red spots danced the pas de deux from the Sugar Plum Fairy on Dale’s chest. Road bumps heralded an imminent Nutcracker suite. It was overkill, but the UK’s Security Service wasn’t exactly renowned for its subtlety where terrorist suspects were concerned. Steve wasn’t surprised Dale kept quiet. He’d been vaguely aware of his partner being read his rights, but they’d seemed conveniently abbreviated. The driver, named ‘BROWN’, was blue lighting to God knows where and evidently relishing every moment of his 15 minutes of fame.

  “Are we allowed to know where you’re taking us?” Steve asked, not expecting a reply.

  Officer Brown grunted in response and gunned the gas pedal through the next two sets of lights, brutally waking up a generous handful of London’s blissfully somnambulant commuters.

  Steve suddenly remembered the card that Dale had slipped into his pocket on the way out of the hotel. The sonofabitch, Steve thought. He’d known all along something might happen.

  “Er, Officer, you might wanna take a look at this,” Steve said, holding the card out between his thumb and index finger. He didn’t want to obscure the crest and MI5’s motto beneath it.

  Steve watched the officer’s eyes flick over the card once, twice and then, lingeringly, a third time. “Shit,” he said beneath his breath. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

  “The Manor,” Steve replied.

  Just then there was an abbreviated yell as the van clipped someone on a pedestrian crossing. Steve checked the window behind him. An umbrella lay in the middle of the road. The victim had probably been happily anticipating a date with his secretary.

  “The Manor?” Officer Brown asked hesitantly, his voice quivering with fear. His colleagues behind whispered the words like a ghostly echo. “You mean you were there and they let you go?” the officer said.

  “Yeah, yesterday. It was Ms Jenkins who gave us the card. She told us to use it if we ran into difficulties.”

  Stunned silence descended on the van’s icy interior. The divine Deborah’s reputation clearly extended beyond the countryside. Officer Brown reached for the radio. “Delta Whiskey, this is Tango Charlie. Cancel Paddington Green. We’re taking the sus ... er, officers, to Thames House ... Yeah, Thames House, Millbank. I’ll explain later. Tango Charlie out.”

  There’d been no mention of the hit-and-run incident, of course.

  As the van pulled up outside MI5’s Thames-side headquarters, Dale realised that his mind had been swimming through molasses since he’d been forced to the ground. He remembered making a quip to Steve, but that was about it. Perhaps it was an adaptive mechanism to avoid data smog. He should have gone ape shit, but he didn’t. Fact is, he’d been bombarded by so much crap masquerading as knowledge during the brief journey from Downing Street that he’d needed to preserve his sanity. The officers staring at him had holes in their morals that were dug deeper than Hades, and their trigger fingers could have literally blown his lid at the slightest provocation. It had been like some ancient arcade game where it was words that were being batted. Ping: he’s screwing his next-door neighbour; pong: he’s defrauding the departmental account. And they were both about to be found out: court martial for one of them and grievous bodily harm (viz. attempted penile amputation) for the other.

  Jeez, it’s all so goddamn irrelevant! Why me, for Chrissakes! Dale cursed the whole fucking world beneath his breath.

  Important stuff like when or how the Prime Minister might be assassinated was inconveniently hidden away inside Ma Bell’s filing cabinet, and Dale didn’t have the remotest idea where he was gonna find a key. Going ballistic might help, but he was never quite sure of the direction his anger might take. There was always the risk he’d plunge a steak knife into something other than dead meat. He wondered whether the locks would have eventually tumbled open during interrogation at Paddington Green police station. Rumour had it that the secure custody suite had air-conditioning and access to movies, so they probably went in for the kill after some softening up. Hell, they might even have had a Westinghouse washer waiting for him, with its door gaping open, its womb-like interior so inviting for someone desperate to crawl back to where they started ...

  And who
should be waiting for them at MI5’s visitors’ entrance but Deborah Jenkins herself. She looked glowingly self-satisfied despite the cold air. Dale guessed last night’s assignation had gone according to plan. She shook her glossy head as he was helped out of the van, his hands cuffed behind his back. Images of Darth Vader still wouldn’t let up. Steve had mentioned something about phallic symbolism. Dale’s weakness was silver and metallic rather than big and black. The doors of his DeLorean opened like wings, so perhaps he had a thing for angels. And Steve was pretty angelic, all things considered. Thank God his angel had remembered the business card.

  “What’s Lieutenant Franklin doing in cuffs?” Ms Jenkins demanded, glaring like a latter-day Medusa at the officers either side of him. Their weapons drooped under her withering gaze, their machismo sucked dry in an instant. A few indignant mutterings later, Dale had been freed from the restraints.

  “Follow me,” Ms Jenkins said over her shoulder, already heading for the entrance. There was a portcullis above that looked primed to descend in an instant to decapitate offenders.

  Dale glanced back at his former captors. At least he didn’t have the consequences of their indiscretions to look forward to. He fleetingly thought of warning them, but that would take a whole lot more explanation. Fate’s curved arrow would strike sooner or later anyway. He wished them a happy onward journey. That was the least he could do under the dismal circumstances of his godforsaken ability. He held no real grudges for being treated like a second-class citizen. But next time he’d bring his ID.

  “No dawdling, please, gentlemen,” Ms Jenkins said. “You’re required inside. Immediately.” She made that sound like a threat.

  Dale glanced around anxiously as they entered the building. The gawpers outside were already being cleared from the scene. The security equipment in the reception area was surprisingly, and reassuringly, low-tech. MI5 didn’t go in for 3D body scanners that trapped the unwary. He wondered how spies entered the building. The entrance seemed too public. MI5’s agents probably dropped in on harnesses via the rooftop or through camouflaged subterranean entrances, stripping off their wetsuits as they ordered a martini, shaken but not stirred. He’d never been a cloak-and-dagger sort of cop; up front and out in the open was more his kind of thing. But he could see Steve was lapping it up and busily conversing with Ms Jenkins.