The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 4

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Could they have inhaled or swallowed something?”

  Along with an eye of newt, Mrs Edwards thought. “I suppose so. They were around a pot. There was smoke, but no fire that I could see.” She’d almost forgotten the golden object spinning above the cauldron and what had happened when she dowsed the orb with water. Did it really enter Ceri’s mouth? It had probably been a trick of the light. And it had been extremely small. Stomach acids would destroy it, probably.

  “Do you know whether they’re allergic to anything? Bees, wasps, peanuts, that sort of thing?”

  Mrs Edwards shook her head. “Ceri isn’t, but I couldn’t speak for Dilys and Bronwen. You’d have to ask their parents.” She looked in the direction of the resuscitation bay. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  The doctor followed her gaze. “It’s hard to say, Joan. We definitely can’t afford to wait until the toxicology results are back. It could be a severe allergic reaction, so we’ll give them adrenaline. Your daughter and her friend don’t seem too badly affected, but – ”

  The screech of a cardiac monitor’s alarm broke through the general commotion of the department. “I should go,” the consultant said, briefly touching Mrs Edwards’s arm before turning to leave. “You can reach me on my mobile.” He smiled wryly. “Sorry, old habits die hard. You’d better try my secretary’s landline instead.”

  Mrs Edwards returned to the hospital, bleary-eyed, first thing in the morning. The royal visit was scheduled for 11 o’clock. A benefactor had left the hospital millions and the Queen was due to open a new medical assessment unit. Ironically, Ceri and Dilys were among the first patients to occupy its pristine beds. They’d responded to treatment and had been liberated from their garish fancy dress. Bronwen was in the Intensive Treatment Unit and they were still wrestling with how to deflate her body without compromising her breathing. She was thought to have some sort of compartment syndrome and 80 per cent of her body had been affected. The unusual case had already been lined up for the back page of the British Medical Journal. The vicar at St Dyfrig’s Church had kindly offered prayers for her during the morning’s Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. The supermarket had been alerted to the danger of overweight schoolgirls stuffing themselves into the ‘Gold Witch’ costume.

  The Queen’s helicopter was due to land in the grounds of the nearby rugby club. The Chief Executive, the Lord Mayor and the Member of Parliament for Pontypridd were first in the line-up to greet her. Mrs Edwards had been given the task of breaking the bad news to those who’d been omitted from the welcoming committee. The name of the new unit was to remain a secret until Her Majesty unveiled the commemorative plaque. There’d been so many attempts at pulling strings – the publicity-grabbing mayor included – that Punch the bookie was accepting bets on who’d get pride of place on the wall. Mrs Edwards smiled to herself. She wondered whether she’d get an opportunity to speak with the Queen. She was a busy woman after all and probably had other engagements to go to after cutting the ribbon. They’d laid on a buffet lunch, but no one actually expected her to stay.

  A flurry of activity at the entrance signified Her Majesty’s arrival. Mrs Edwards thought the Queen looked amazing for her age. She didn’t show any outward signs of having had a stroke. After a quick speech, which included a dedication in a dialect of Welsh unique to the Royal Household, the Queen declared the medical assessment unit open and pulled at the cord. The curtain covering the plaque started opening and then got stuck halfway. The Queen chuckled and tugged it again, clearly at home with such occupational hazards. ‘THE BETTY WILLIAMS MEDICAL ASSESSMENT UNIT’ was revealed in all its bilingual glory. The Welsh slate glistened in the halogen lights. It had been a battle of wills persuading the hospital’s Executive Board to agree to ‘Betty’ rather than ‘Elizabeth’. A roar of applause echoed around the department. Mrs Edwards thought she’d prepared herself for this, but a lump was growing in her throat. She looked around and observed the mayor dabbing at tears – just as a photographer from the local press took his photo.

  The Queen and her entourage made their way onto the ward. One of the doors refused to budge, and the hospital carpenter was on his tea break, so it was a tight squeeze for the outsize mayor. The procession halted right by the beds occupied by Ceri and Dilys. Ceri was scowling and Dilys had her mouth open. The photographer was already snapping away. The Queen beamed in a grandmotherly fashion at the girls. Ceri continued to glower. Mrs Edwards waggled a finger at her to behave.

  “And why are you in hospital, my dear?” the Queen asked sweetly, cautiously approaching Ceri’s bedside.

  “Allergic reaction,” Ceri said unconvincingly, fulfilling everyone’s expectation of the sullen teen.

  “How interesting, my dear,” the Queen said, taking a quick step back in case it was catching.

  “We b-b-blew up like b-b-bouncing b-b-beach balls,” Dilys butted in, her mouth not quite up to speed with her brain.

  “Did you indeed,” the Queen said, looking distinctly uneasy.

  “It was all b-because of her and the ph-photo of D-Dai,” Dilys blurted, glaring at Ceri. “The c-c-cauldron was m-manky, too.”

  “Shush,” Ceri said menacingly.

  The Queen smiled enigmatically. “Goodbye,” she said with a delicate but precisely delivered wave.

  “If you would care to come this way, Your Majesty,” the Chief Executive said, bowing obsequiously while gesturing at a nearby door, “there’s a display of photographs that should be of interest to you.”

  The crowd made its way into a seminar room that had photos detailing the unit’s construction displayed along one wall. It was the sort of architect’s indulgence the Queen must have seen thousands of times during her reign. She nodded politely as she was led towards the present day. She stopped in front of a black and white photo. The female subject had a halo of grey hair, twinkling eyes and sat half-turned towards the camera. A black cat was spread out on her lap, its obsidian eyes regarding the viewer with glacial coldness.

  “Betty Williams?” the Queen asked.

  “Indeed,” the Chief Executive said. “She used to volunteer at this hospital, pushing a book trolley around the wards. The books were in Welsh, of course. I’m afraid The Old Man of Lochnagar didn’t stand a chance.” He chortled at his wit and turned to Mrs Edwards who’d been keeping a respectful distance. “Perhaps Your Majesty would care to meet her granddaughter, Mrs Joan Edwards?”

  “You must be so proud,” the Queen said. Mrs Edwards was treated to a warm smile with crinkles in all the right places. Her Majesty displayed wondrously white teeth for an 88-year-old.

  Mrs Edwards curtseyed and took the Queen’s proffered hand. It was so small and delicate looking in the pristine white glove that she was worried she might crush it.

  “Please don’t be concerned, Mrs Edwards, we are made of stronger stuff than that,” the Queen said, her eyes sparkling.

  Mrs Edwards realised with a start that she was still tethered to the Queen’s gloved fingers. “Sorry, Your Majesty,” she mumbled, relaxing her grip slowly, anxious that it might appear she was dropping the royal limb. She felt scores of eyes on her. Grandmother would have coped far better with the etiquette of interfacing with royalty. A flash of inspiration came to her. “My neighbour, Mrs Griffiths, breeds corgis, you know, Ma’am.”

  “How interesting,” the Queen said, with an eye on the buffet. “Actually, we are feeling quite peckish. Flying has that effect on one. Would you care to join us, Mrs Edwards?”

  The Chief Executive didn’t look at all pleased to be snubbed just seconds away from a lunch date with the Queen. He turned to the mayor who was already piling his plate high. For once, the hospital kitchen had done more than overcook frozen vegetables and add lumps to packet custard. The chefs had even included one of Her Majesty’s favourites, a circular jam sandwich known in royal circles as a ‘jammie’. In the meantime, Mrs Edwards was trying to remember what her neighbour had told her about br
eeding corgis. How did they keep their legs so stumpy, for instance?

  “Has David informed you, Mrs Edwards?” the Queen asked gently, in between nibbles on a Tayside salmon and cucumber slice.

  Mrs Edwards was hugely relieved she didn’t want to discuss dogs. But what did she think Dai might have said? A sudden thought came to her. “Do you mean about giving you first aid, Ma’am?”

  The Queen paused, a frond of dill hanging intriguingly from her lower lip. “Ah, not exactly, Mrs Edwards. We were thinking more of his, er, ability.”

  Mrs Edwards wondered whether she should draw the Queen’s attention to the errant greenery. She decided not. She was also at a loss to think of any particular talent. Dai had resisted all of Grandmother’s attempts to get him to join St Dyfrig’s Church choir. With his dislike of traditional ingredients, he’d never make it onto the Welsh edition of MasterChef, either. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of science fiction and popular culture, but that never got him anywhere – particularly when he started wittering on about radiation and the like. He was also evidently attractive to impressionable young teenagers like her daughter, but that was surely of no interest to someone as important as the Queen.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I can’t think of anything. Dai’s a nice boy all right, but – ” she pointed at her head, “ – he’s not blessed with brains. To be honest, I think he watches too much TV for his own good.”

  “I see.” The Queen looked thoughtful and nibbled another centimetre of the chef’s savoury delight. “And your daughter ... Ceri, is it?”

  Mrs Edwards felt herself blushing. She should have intervened earlier – or refused to buy those ridiculous costumes. Why didn’t Ceri just phone Dai like normal people do when they want to make contact? “I’m sorry about her rudeness, Ma’am. You know what children are like ...”

  The Queen sighed. “Indeed, Mrs Edwards. Such an endless source of concern for us. We give them so much and all they bestow on us in return is heartache. And then there are one’s grandchildren ...” Her eyes were misting over and Mrs Edwards was all set to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She must miss her granddaughter something rotten, Mrs Edwards thought. The Queen seemed to anticipate the imminent gesture and swiftly cleared her throat. She looked intently at Mrs Edwards. Her teeth were more pointed than was apparent in photos. “Tell me, my dear, have you heard of Siandi Da’aan?”

  It was Mrs Edwards’s turn to display her tonsils for royal inspection. She hastily considered what the Cymry Wiccae Association would make of the question. It was probably harmless. Perhaps the Queen had been doing some bedtime reading. “Er, yes, Ma’am, she was a – ” she checked to make sure no one was eavesdropping, “ – a witch.” Except that what emerged was more like ‘wheesh’. Mrs Edwards counted herself lucky to have got off so lightly uttering the word in public.

  The Queen leaned forward, their plates of food almost touching. “She was an adept of the Dynion Mwyn tradition, we believe,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Did you know that Queen Victoria used to burn an effigy of her every Halloween at Balmoral? Her ghillie John Brown was behind that. He saw himself as something of a witch-finder. Not a pleasant man.” The Queen abruptly put some distance between their plates. “Now, returning to your daughter ...”

  “Yes, Ma’am?” Mrs Edwards was all ears. Maybe she’d offer Ceri a job as her private secretary if she passed all her GCSEs. She could always add ‘Royal Studies’ if Religious Studies wasn’t sufficient.

  The Queen deposited her half-eaten plate of food. “Perhaps you might rein her in, Mrs Edwards. David is important to us and we would not want him to be deflected by some silly little spell.”

  Mrs Edwards was dumbstruck. Both she and her sandwiches were curling up at the edges after the Queen’s unexpected admonishment of Ceri’s antics. How did she know? “Of c-course, Your M-Majesty,” she stuttered.

  And with that precisely delivered Parthian shot, the Queen and her retinue departed. The jammies remained untouched. The mayor surreptitiously appropriated half-a-dozen chocolate brownies on his exit. He possessed impressively capacious pockets.

  Everyone trooped out of the main entrance and waved as Her Majesty set off in a limousine for the brief journey back to the temporary helipad. A short time later her maroon helicopter took off, heading back in the direction of London. A tiny, white hand waved to the crowd from the window but Mrs Edwards didn’t return the gesture. There was a whirling sensation inside her skull and it wasn’t due to the noise overhead. How dare she speak to her like that! She’d referred to Dai as ‘David’. Grandmother used to do the same. And to cap it all, the Queen was informed about Ceri’s ritual. Mrs Edwards felt aggrieved and puzzled. There was someone she needed to phone urgently. “Houston, we have a problem,” would be one way of putting it.

  Dale Franklin took his first steps on English soil – and immediately regretted it. He should have suspected something would go pear-shaped when Chief Scanlon agreed so readily to his request for a week’s leave. Not that they hadn’t deserved it. They’d been working their nuts off for the last few months.

  Dale bent over double and grabbed at Steve for support. It was a throbbing pain of the ‘Jeez that hurts!’ variety. The nearest equivalent he could think of was having his testicles gripped by an ex-girlfriend who had the unshakeable belief that guys enjoyed it. Okay, he had squeezed her breasts a few times, but that was almost a rite of passage for teenage girls back then.

  “What’s up, sweets?” Steve said, concern etching his handsome, KCPD poster-boy face. “You’re not gonna kiss the ground like His Holiness the Pope, are you?”

  Dale pulled himself up cautiously, wincing.

  “Are you okay, sir?” someone called from behind. “Can I get you a wheelchair?”

  Dale saw Steve turn. It was a member of the ground staff in a hi-vis vest. “No thanks, sir. My friend tripped. He’s good now.”

  “No I’m fucking not,” Dale moaned. “It’s like someone twisting my nuts.”

  Steve looked down, grinning. “Well, it looks like a normal, all American package to me. Perhaps it’s a horny Heathrow ghost wanting to make your acquaintance.”

  Dale grimaced some more. “Thanks for the support, dude.”

  They continued walking towards the terminal building. Dale couldn’t help walking with a strange pigeon-toed gait and he sneaked a glance at his crotch every so often. Something was getting up way too close and personal for first thing in the morning. Another twinge almost had him doubled up again. Christ almighty! Perhaps his nuts were twisted. He ought to get checked out in an ER. There were other thoughts spinning around in his head, too: vague impressions of things happening and being out of his control – almost a sense of impending doom. Fuck, I’m having a panic attack! He looked back, almost longingly, at the Delta Airlines aircraft, and considered flying straight back home. Jeez, what am I thinking of. Be a man, for Chrissakes! Well, that’s what his dad would have said. Mom, on the other hand, would have rushed over with lotions and ointments and insist on applying them herself. He cringed at the thought.

  “Or it could be due to the change in air pressure,” Steve added, always keen to demonstrate his superior knowledge of human physiology, and looking annoyingly bright-eyed with the excitement of being a tourist in London.

  “Yeah, like I don’t know my ears from my nuts? Jesus H. Christ,” Dale said ruefully.

  Dale and Steve found a black cab just outside arrivals. Curiously, Dale’s discomfort had dissipated while they were queuing to get through border control. They’d been distracted by seeing hapless tourists have their cell phones confiscated as soon as they tried switching them on to get a signal.

  “You sure we can afford it?” Steve asked after the driver quoted an exorbitant price to take them to their hotel.

  Dale didn’t even want to consider the alternative of the Victorian Tube train system in his delicate condition. “It’s okay, sweets, I can always sell the DeLorean if we get that hard up.”

>   Steve raised both eyebrows ponderously slowly.

  “Just kidding. I’ll put you on the streets to hustle first.”

  Steve mock pouted.

  The phantom testicle grabber took that opportunity to strike again. Dale slumped, white-faced, against the cab. “Christ, that was the worst ever,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Okay, driver, change of destination,” Steve said authoritatively. “Make it the hospital nearest to the hotel. I need to get my partner checked over.”

  The cab driver’s expression morphed from one of greedy disdain to solicitous concern. He levered his bulk out of his seat and opened the passenger door, supporting Dale’s elbow with his other hand. “Don’t you worry, guv, I’ll get you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Dale and Steve exchanged a ‘what the fuck?’ look. “I hope that’s better than two tugs of a dead donkey’s dick,” Steve grumbled.

  “Yeah, it damn well better be,” Dale said grimly, lowering himself gingerly onto the back seat, as if in the throes of a third-degree haemorrhoid attack.

  The driver proved true to his colloquial expression. Dale sat back with his eyes closed, trying not to register the jolts and bumps as the vehicle cocked a snook at the insolent potholes out to impede their progress. He’d been hoping for the smooth ride of an eight-lane freeway. He cupped his balls supportively and did his best to remain oblivious to the weird looks he was getting from the driver. The grinding pain had become a more manageable dull ache. He glanced at Steve who was happily feeding the driver’s insatiable curiosity about their vacation plans. The driver was a mountain of expensive information, accompanied by business cards that covered every touristic opportunity. Dale released his hands cautiously, and at least the pain didn’t get any worse. He reached for his cell phone in his jacket inner pocket. It came to life but it wasn’t making a connection.