The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Read online

  Ceri sniffed the hairbrush. She had little experience of men’s hair products, but she didn’t imagine Brylcream being one of the usual odours emanating from the boys’ changing room at school. She couldn’t detect any smell. She inspected the brush: dark hairs were clinging to the bristles and a fragment of Dai’s DNA might still be there. If it wasn’t his DNA ... well, that could prove unfortunate. At least there was the back-up of his much-chewed toothbrush.

  Ceri added the hairbrush to the ingredients in the cauldron. Dilys and Bronwen tipped the contents of colour-coded sachets on top of the photo – freezedried eye of newt included. Ceri’s final contribution was critical: a Christmas card Dai had sent to her mother shortly after he moved to London. He’d included a photo of the Park Estate tower block and drawn an arrow pointing to his flat on the top floor. Her mother used to say that Dai had never been blessed with brains. Ceri agreed; the addition of the picture was as good as using a laser-guided missile.

  Incanting a hex was straightforward as long as nothing got missed out. There seemed little chance of the hex going astray with all the extras added to the cauldron. It was really the equivalent of the failsafe computer systems on an aircraft. The three girls started reading aloud from the page Ceri had copied out of Granny Betty’s potions book. It had been taken from a section headed ‘DANGEROUS HEXES’ and the top of the page had a roughly drawn skull and crossbones as a warning. The hex was a divination spell with some added bells and whistles. The add-ons designed to get inside Dai’s head were what warranted the equivalent of a HAZMAT label.

  He is the one who went away

  He is the one who was led astray

  He is the one who must be made to pay

  He is the one whose mind we open up

  As they repeated the incantation, Ceri stirred the contents of the cauldron with a wooden spoon that looked as ancient as the pot itself. Although there was nothing liquid in the vessel, an opaque film spread over the photo until the only part visible was Dai’s face. And then the strangest thing happened: smoke erupted through his eyes and billowed up, filling the vessel. The three of them peered into the murky depths and glimpsed fragments of the photo: a spike of hair here, a glimmer of gold there, his eyes watching them all the time, his mouth taunting them with a sweetly innocent smile. It was as if Dai’s image was being disassembled while they stared. The cauldron had also started producing heat despite the absence of a flame. The clouds swirled around, but they were going anticlockwise, contradicting what they’d learned about the Coriolis effect in physics lessons.

  Ceri watched her friends’ faces. She could see the contents reflected in Dilys’s and Bronwen’s eyes. The girls’ mouths gaped open, their silver fillings glinting in the eerie light emanating from the cauldron. Ceri stopped stirring and the vapour swiftly swallowed the spoon until all that was left was the handle. She dropped that before her fingers disappeared too. The spiralling gas seemed to bear an intelligence – as well as an appetite for wood. “Thanks, wholesome young wench. I’ll have more of that, if you don’t mind,” she imagined it saying with a hearty, sulphurous belch. Except this was a B&Q decorated front parlour in 21st century Wales – not some filthy coven of hairy old hags covered in pustulent boils. Those cost a little bit more and Dilys said they squeezed out authentic looking pus. With her current blight of teenage acne, she’d become quite the expert on skin eruptions.

  Modern theories about witchery mentioned quantum mechanics. It was a bit over Ceri’s head – they’d only just started GCSE physics at school, after all, and Mr Ellis the teacher could barely tell a quark from a quack – but the gist was that, statistically, there was a bit of everything in everybody. Witchery just made the connections stronger. An incantation nudged mind-boggling things called fundamental particles into forming cutely-named quantum twins, which could really be anywhere the witch wanted. The simplest way of using them was for the equivalent of a long-distance call. But if they were at the beginning and the end of a divination hex, it was as good as a striker kicking a football into goal. And judging by the activity in the cauldron, a score was just about to happen.

  What had been a rotating wispiness like sticky candyfloss had coalesced into a shimmering golden orb about the size of a tennis ball, hovering at eye level. The colour came from specks of light within the orb, and as it spun faster, the flecks lost their individuality. It had also started to emit a breathy, moaning noise. Ceri was tone deaf, so she had no idea of the pitch, but it sounded like the organ in St Dyfrig’s Church that had an out-of-tune pipe. Then she recalled that her great grandmother used to play the harmonium, so perhaps that was the explanation for the wheeze.

  Ceri exchanged a quick look with Dilys and Bronwen and they redoubled their efforts at chanting the hex: “He is the one, he is the one ...” They’d collapsed in giggles when they first practised the incantation in the kitchen. Dilys had added ‘om ... om ... om ...’ Daft bugger, she was. But now it was deadly serious. A tingle of excitement shimmered up Ceri’s spine. Sweat had started to bead on their foreheads. Somehow, the orb had gained energy and spun ever faster, firing darts of light in every direction. Bronwen’s and Dilys’s eyes were out on stalks. Quantum level connections were being made. It was the point when so much could go wrong. Ceri imagined the skull and crossbones cackling and rattling at her. She didn’t think her mother’s household insurance would cover witchery-related damage.

  The flashes of photons were meant to seek out the appropriate quantum twin wherever it buzzed around. Once connections were made, every subsequent contact should have had a higher chance of success – and then the hex could start its business. Except it wasn’t quite happening on this occasion. The energy seemed to have hit an invisible wall and bounced back into the orb. The orb continued to send out yet more sparks. Ceri glanced anxiously at Dilys and Bronwen, but they seemed lost to the fairies. They probably thought the orb looked like the Snitch from a game of Quidditch. Theirs clearly had no need for wings. The orb was getting whinier.

  Ceri didn’t register much of what happened during the next few minutes. The sparks found their targets, although not quite as intended. There must have been something particularly attractive about the ‘Gold Witch’ costumes. And polyester – even cheap polyester massproduced in a Far East factory – has the capacity to stretch ... and stretch ...

  Joan Edwards was surprised at how excited the girls had been to see Dai on the six o’clock news, standing in the Buckingham Palace quadrangle alongside his girlfriend. Ceri had even taken a photo of the TV screen. Mrs Edwards couldn’t recall any other occasion when her daughter had shown the slightest interest in her cousin. Although he wasn’t exactly the black sheep of the family, no one really understood him. Leaving Pontypridd for London was one thing, but choosing to live on the 20th floor of a tower block just seemed strange. So, too, was how he’d somehow ended up at Balmoral Castle and saved the Queen’s life. Perhaps he’d acquired resuscitation skills at some evening class – and been in the right place at the right time. But a knighthood? Incredible. Still, he’d turned out a tidy boyo and Grandmother would have been pleased as Punch the bookie on Grand National day.

  Mrs Edwards had been going over the details of the Queen’s visit to the Royal Glamorgan Hospital. It amazed her how much protocol had to be followed, even down to the brand of toilet paper in the loo. She’d never considered before that such a thing might be awarded a royal warrant. She suddenly became aware of a strange whining sound emanating from the living room. The music the girls had been playing on the hi-fi – a Welsh pop group with a name more stupid than usual – was also strange and whining, but this new sound had a droning quality that jarred.

  Up until then, Mrs Edwards had done her best to avoid prying, as Grandmother had always insisted young’uns should find their own witching way – even when celebrating Halloween using the back pages of her potions book. Ceri’s mother wasn’t blessed with magickal abilities herself, but she’d picked up the basics over the years. She’d b
een waiting for Ceri to show an interest and her daughter had finally passed the first hurdle of separating the cauldron from its guardians. It had been so helpful of her history teacher to take a special interest in her studies. Still, it was a hazardous business for those without a real calling, so Mrs Edwards thought it best to check that nothing was untoward.

  Mrs Edwards slowly opened the door a crack ... and stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape. She’d never expected in a month of Sundays to see Ceri and her friends transforming into golden beach balls. They were making pig-like oinking noises and it definitely wasn’t through the pleasure of eating from a trough. A golden orb span ominously above the cauldron, reaching out to them with ghostly, sparkling tentacles. The air in the room was charged with electricity and Mrs Edwards felt her hair lifting from her scalp. There was a pungent, chlorine-like smell that reminded her of the aftermath of a heavy thunderstorm. She also detected the unmistakeable acrid odour of fear.

  “Help us, Mam,” Ceri gasped, “we’re choking!”

  Dilys and Bronwen couldn’t even manage a feeble “Help!” between them. Bronwen’s lips had turned a shade of blue that Mrs Edwards had just learnt about in a first aid class. She reached instinctively for her mobile phone to dial 999 and then swore as she realised the futility of the gesture. There was no alternative: she’d have to release the effects of the incantation with a pair of scissors. She made the sign of the cross. It was a pity damage from an undelivered hex hadn’t been covered on the first aid course; Grandmother used to say that dealing with an errant hex was like applying sticking plaster to a severed carotid artery Mrs Edwards prayed to the first patron saint she could think of and hoped she could dodge the streams of energy coming from the orb.

  Bronwen’s oink had become a pathetic wheeze. Mrs Edwards dived in with the scissors at the neck line, somehow avoiding the sparks. The dress fragmented following the first cut and the pieces of fabric were sucked into the cauldron with a sudden whoosh. That was followed by the pot expelling a cloud of paper fragments with a regurgitant burp. Bronwen clawed at her throat with both hands, as if trying to pull air into her body. “Fuck,” she screeched, in between drawing deep, wrenching breaths. She didn’t seem aware that she was naked and getting bigger by the second. Grimly, Mrs Edwards realised her error: the dress had been containing Bronwen’s expanding body. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a roll of cling film. Returning to the living room, she wrapped the plastic around Bronwen’s torso, hoping it would hold up until she got help. The girl’s eyes were wide with terror.

  “Just hold on, Bronwen bach,” Mrs Edwards said. “Help will be coming soon.” She glanced at Ceri and Dilys. They’d wrapped their arms around their chests, which seemed to have helped their breathing. “See what Ceri and Dilys are doing,” she said, pointing at Bronwen’s friends. “Try to slow down your breaths so you don’t get lightheaded.”

  Something on the carpet caught Mrs Edwards’s eye: it was the photo Ceri had taken of Dai from the TV screen. Somehow, the pieces of paper had been reassembled. It was only too clear what her daughter and friends had been up to.

  And then there was the orb, still hovering and spewing energy in all directions. It would set fire to the house if she didn’t do something. She didn’t have time to look through the potions book. Where’s the knowledge when one needs it? And then she remembered Grandmother’s bedtime tales about the gods and goddesses of the four elements. She’d thought it unfair at the time that water always won. She ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the nearest saucepan. Would tap water work against whatever the orb was made of ? she wondered. She tutted to herself. This was no time for indecision. Holding the full pan in both hands, trying not to spill a precious drop, she imagined herself as Addanc, the fresh water faery of Wales, up against the wickedly fiery Brigid, and heaved the contents at the orb. The water went everywhere, including over the three girls. Their look of surprise was nothing in comparison to Mrs Edwards’s abject astonishment when the orb fizzled, shrank to a pinprick and then promptly vanished down the nearest throat.

  Lieutenant Dale Franklin, a dead ringer for Harrison Ford in his hunky Star Wars days, surveyed his penthouse apartment from the super king-size bed – a bed he currently shared with Sergeant Steve Abrams, partner in love and crime fighting. He threaded sleepy fingers through his mussed-up hair and examined the pillow for strands that had abandoned ship overnight. Steve’s wavy locks cast a dark halo on the neighbouring pillow and seemed destined to remain attached come what may. As usual, follicular envy loomed large in their relationship.

  “Cool haircut,” Dale said, screwing-up his eyes to examine the 20-something man who’d just appeared on the flat screen at the end of the bed. He was smiling and holding up something that glinted on the screen. A girl stood next to him, but she didn’t look too pleased to be there. “Nice suit, too.”

  “You don’t mean the Hoxton fin?” Steve snorted disdainfully from his recumbent position under the 800 thread count Egyptian sheets. “Nah, dude, that’s so yesterday. His girlfriend must’ve made him get it. She’s so stuck in the past.” He stared forensically at the screen. “The suit’s way too shiny.” He looked some more. “And she’s pregnant.”

  “Why’s it called a ‘Hoxton fin’, then, Mr Smartass?” Dale hated him for all that hair.

  “Dunno, dude. I must’ve read it somewhere,” Steve said, defeated. Even Steve wasn’t that smart at six in the morning. He seemed to brighten at the thought of something and levered himself up. “But when we go on vacation to London, perhaps we can find out. There’s probably some museum for ancient haircuts – you know, footballer’s perm, Beatles’ mop-top, Beckham’s fauxhawk ...”

  Dale rolled his eyes. This was way too much hair talk. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. And like Chief Scanlon’s gonna pay for flights after our all-expenses-paid trip to LA. No way, Jose. He’s still blaming us for his addiction to oxynuts.”

  “Well, at least his cardiologist must be happy. And Sam’s business is taking off. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

  “Try asking the chief’s wife. She’s having to get in Genovese pesto and beetroot chutney from the deli. And that doesn’t come cheap at Sam’s hiked-up prices.”

  Steve’s tousled head disappeared back under the sheets. Dale’s claws retracted. Steve’s ex’s oxymoronic healthy doughnuts had become a legend in their brief lifetime and an army of bakers were churning out the low-calorie, low-fat pastries with exotic, but wholesome, fillings. But Dale couldn’t avoid letting loose darts of jealousy whenever Sam’s name got mentioned. And it wasn’t because of his taste in leather pants or the ease with which he pummelled dough into submission.

  Dale glanced back at the flat screen. The Queen had quite an assembly line churning out knights and dames of the realm. He recalled his first sight of Dai Williams in the Burn Center at LAC Medical Center. It was sure hard to imagine him as a ‘Sir’ back then. Hell, he was just so weird looking. The pantyhose thing covering his head was something else. He’d said it was for his protection. Dale chuckled to himself. They’d certainly come a long way in a few short months. But so had the whole damn world. The only people applauding that were the anti-technology new agers – and his mom and dad had just signed up. Fucking wimps! “Wash your mouth out with ...” Sorry, Mom, Dad. I’ll try to behave. Promise.

  But at least they could still use cell phones in the US. He wondered what would happen to the tens of thousands of scrambled-brain teens who remained in detention units on executive orders. The healthcare budget had been blown apart. He sighed. Oh Jeez. He might be losing his hair but that was a whole lot better than life as a teenager. Their attorneys must be having a field day.

  But, hey, something was stirring below. Dale closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. There was still a half hour before they needed to shower. Yeah, I’ve sure come a long way thanks to young Steve ...

  “Er, sweets,” Steve said with exquisite mistiming, deep from beneath the sheets, “is it okay if I go see th
at guy Joseph on the psych ward? He sorta got to me that day in the ER and I owe it to him to check on how he’s doing.”

  “Yeah, whatever dude,” Dale mumbled, his mind on far more pleasant things than some kid with a scrambled brain and a penchant for exposing himself.

  The Two Rivers psych facility was situated a couple of miles south of Arrowhead Stadium, the home of Kansas City Chiefs. Steve had been to a couple of rock concerts there but never a game. Somehow he’d managed to resist American football being engrained in his adolescent psyche. But baseball was okay – so long as it didn’t involve duplicitous pitchers and being made the laughing stock of his year.

  The Metro bus crawled its way in the muggy heat of early fall. Steve sat at the rear, just as he used to in high school. He’d usually pass the time fantasising about his latest crush – making out on the back seat included. He shifted to the least stained patch of upholstery and glanced around. ‘No Cell’ signs were prominent, but half the passengers had phones clamped to their ears. He thought of his friend Dr Cathy Svenstrom at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention who’d worked with them on the Marshall case. It wasn’t every day that a high school jock killed his parents and himself and left triplets as witnesses. Uncovering the cause had been a team effort, of course, but the real star had been the Kenyan math whizzkid who’d alerted Cathy – by SMS from a $10 Nokia cell phone, ironically – to what EM radiation was doing to kids’ brains. Cathy would have the bus driver as judge and jury, stamping the shit out of the cell phone and the wrongdoer. People had become so damn complacent. Perhaps the British government had the right idea all along of switching off the networks. The mealy-mouthed US administration sided with business rather than public health, and the likes of Joseph Gardiner were paying the consequences. From straight-A student to banged-up on a psych ward – with no passing go and no collecting $200. Sometimes, he wished he had Dale’s capacity to distance himself from the refuse laid daily at their feet, but KCPD hadn’t extinguished the inquisitive psychologist in him quite yet.