The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 5

  “You won’t get anywhere with that, mate,” the driver said. “If you’re not careful, they’ll confiscate it, too. Government’s orders, you know.” He nodded sagely.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Dale said, resting the useless phone on his lap.

  “If you ask me, kids have had it coming to them,” the driver continued. “I mean, all those selfies and watching pornography. And what about that Kardashian bird with the huge bum?” He shook his head. “It’s just not my cup of tea. Rots the brain, too.”

  Dale wasn’t sure whether the driver was referring to the selfies, the porn or the pneumatic posterior, but he nodded anyway. It was then he noticed that the ball ache had stopped. Instead, his cell had taken over the throbbing. He inspected it. Vibrate was switched off. So, why was his phone pulsating? He powered it down and the throbbing stopped, but the gnawing at his nuts restarted. Back on, the ball ache stopped. Christ, this is seriously weird! He tapped Steve on the thigh.

  “Er, sweets, there’s something weird with this cell. Have a feel of it ...”

  Steve took hold of the phone and almost dropped it. “What the hell? It’s sorta throbbing and warm. You must have the vibrate on.”

  Dale shook his head. “It’s off.”

  “Man, that’s creepy,” Steve snickered. “It’s just like your morning wood.”

  Dale swiped at Steve’s ear.

  “Perhaps your nuts are trying to tell you something,” Steve said. “You know, like you’re all bitter and twisted. You need to let it all hang out, dude.”

  The swipe made contact the second time.

  Dale and Steve arrived at the hospital 45 minutes later, which the driver assured them was a world record for the trip from Heathrow to Central London. He clearly expected a generous tip. With his wallet depleted of rather too many Great British pounds, Dale stared at the sign that read, ‘ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY’. The hospital had a parking area at the front and a janitor was busy sweeping up greasy takeout containers. The UK government had clearly been no more successful than the US administration in curbing the nation’s addiction to trans fats.

  Dale stepped out of the taxi and promptly crumpled to the ground, experiencing a sudden compulsion to expel Delta Airline’s unpalatable breakfast. His nuts were well and truly back in the grinder. He wished he hadn’t thought of takeouts and promptly barfed over his shoes. He heard Steve yell for help, but the janitor continued his pre-programmed path like some robotic vacuum cleaner. Their arrival must have been observed on CCTV, as a nurse and porter rushed to his aid with a wheelchair.

  “Let’s get you inside, love,” the nurse said, seemingly unfazed by his pathetic condition. “We don’t want you catching your death of cold, do we?”

  Unlike fast food, that example of the English vernacular was definitely not shared across the pond. Dale smiled wanly and allowed himself to be hoisted onto the chair. He wondered what happened about payment. In the US, they’d be asking for a tourist’s MasterCard in the next breath.

  Dale was fast-tracked into a cubicle while Steve completed the paperwork. It transpired that emergencies were free on the National Health Service. He climbed uncomfortably onto a trolley, holding on to his genitals as if his life depended on them. Which it did, of course. Living without peeing would be damn tough.

  “A bit of bother down there, is it?” the nurse inquired sympathetically. “We’ll have you right as rain before you know it, love.” She placed a blanket over his lower half and adjusted the trolley so that he was comfortably propped-up. The nurse turned her attention to Dale’s jacket, which he’d let drop onto a chair. His cell phone fell to the floor with a plasticky thud. “Well, you won’t be needing this nasty thing,” she said disapprovingly, picking it up and holding it like dog poop she’d just scooped into a bag. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll take this away for disposal. A doctor will be here to see you shortly.”

  Steve popped his tousled head round the curtain just as the nurse was departing. “Ah, you’ve got Dale’s iPhone,” he said, observing what she was holding at arm’s length. “I gave it to him for his 30th. It’s an iPhone 6.” Steve took the phone from her before she could object. “He’ll be needing this for medical reasons.” The nurse looked on disbelievingly. Steve tossed the cell phone to Dale who placed it over his groin.

  “Phew, that’s better,” Dale said, relief crossing his features like the calm after a storm.

  “Well, I never,” the nurse said, cocking a well-plucked eyebrow. “What you boys get up to!” she added archly.

  Dale wasn’t sure what he was being accused of, but he appreciated the respite from agony. Just then, a female doctor appeared. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, accentuating her narrow face. Her glasses reminded him of a certain Ms Virginia Ironside at Staley High School. A bright slash of lipstick and a quick flash of unusually white teeth gave the impression she was ready to draw blood. Dale prepared himself for the worst.

  “How do you do? My name is Dr Amelia Strutt. And you must be – ” she consulted her clipboard, “ – Mr Dale Franklin, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Dale switched the iPhone into his other hand and extended the hand that had been holding the cell. Dr Strutt looked at it uncertainly and shook it fleetingly and limply. “So, what seems to be the problem, Mr Franklin?” Her gimlet eyes were fixed on his groin – and the phone he held against it. He’d decided to keep the explanation to the point. There was no point in wasting the National Health Service’s time. The phone was helping, after all. That’s when it started again ...

  “Fuck!” Dale leaned back hard against the trolley, trying to catch his breath. He glanced through the fog of pain and noticed that the iPhone’s battery had died. “Can I borrow yours, sweets?” he implored Steve, holding his hand out shakily, like some junkie desperate to source his next fix.

  Steve shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, babycakes, mine’s dead, too. Look, give me yours and I’ll go find somewhere to charge it.” He rummaged in his bag for the charger. “And make sure you tell the doctor everything,” he said as he exited the cubicle.

  Dale sighed. This was gonna sound screwy Louie, as his dad used to put it. When he was in a good mood. He took a deep breath ...

  CHAPTER THREE

  An hour later, Lieutenant Dale Franklin had been poked and prodded, bled within a few millilitres of his life, tested for infections he’d never even heard of and subjected to an interrogation of his sexual history, past, present and possible future. Dr Strutt had also listened unblinkingly to his description of an intimate attachment to his iPhone. She’d paused her pen only when Dale joked that Steve Jobs might have cured his pancreatic cancer with a laying on of his own technology. The doctor didn’t cope well with a cop’s sense of irony. Dr Strutt’s lips had quivered when he mentioned the feeling of impending doom and he could see her mentally dialling for the psych consult. But she’d definitely been convinced by the repeated spasms of pain. In fact, her upper lip had rippled like some exotic caterpillar as he cupped his testicles for the umpteenth time that morning.

  Dale soon learned that torsion of the testis was top of her differential, testicular tumour a bit further down and something hideously psychogenic might be lying in the basement to snare the unwary. Torsion of the testis clearly satisfied her need to nip masculinity in the bud. Her bedside manner left a lot to be desired, but at least she’d forgone the bite. Dale couldn’t stop imagining her chomping on some part of her boyfriend’s anatomy later on.

  The next stop on Dale’s whistle-stop tour of the UK’s flagship healthcare was an ultrasound scan of his testicles. Steve found Dale just as he was going into the exam room and – oh, joy of joys – he had the iPhone with him. Dale watched the screen intently as the technician glided her shiny instrument over his lubricated nuts. A spasm of pain reminded them both why he was there.

  “Strange,” the technician said with a frown, “they both look normal to me.”

  Her puzzled expression went into overdrive when Steve han
ded him the iPhone and he held it over his groin. The throbbing must have been audible around the block.

  Dale’s final destination that morning was what Steve called ‘the pecker checker’, generally known, in more discreet circles, as a urological surgeon, and, on this occasion, a certain Mr Featherstonehaugh. The formidable clinic receptionist made certain they were aware that he was a ‘Mr’ rather than a ‘Dr’, and that his name was pronounced ‘Fanshaw’. Both seemed as weird as the British obsession with football.

  Somehow, Dale’s testicles had settled into a state of grateful submission and the ache was more like his anatomy reminding him of their presence than the excruciating digging in of someone’s heel. His iPhone was another matter, though, as the pulsating technology had taken on a life of its own and was drumming away like a woodpecker determined to drill its way through an entire tree trunk.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the urologist said breezily, as he entered the cubicle. “So, what – ”

  Mr Featherstonehaugh was good looking in a gentlemen’s club sort of way, all salt and pepper hair and Saville Row suit, and he wore one of those strange affectations called a bow tie. There’d been a preacher at Dale’s church who wore a similar item of clothing, complete with flashing LEDs to illuminate his less than luminary sermons. The present bearer of such sartorial extravagance seemed temporarily lost for words. Dale had to admit, the phone was making quite a racket.

  “Sorry,” Dale said. “It’s been getting louder and louder all morning. Steve’s put his on charge, too, in case mine runs out.”

  “You’re holding a mobile phone against your genitals?” the urologist said. He made it sound like headline news.

  “Yeah,” Dale said. “I don’t know how, but it seems to stop the pain.” Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. All the waiting around had given him time to mull things over and he reckoned he had some sort of explanation. But there was still the sense of something scary looming over him, and the image of the screaming triplets in the Marshall kitchen had flashed through his mind yet again.

  “Really?” Mr Featherstonehaugh said, in a tone of voice that oozed disbelief. “So, when did the pain in your testicles start, Mr – ” he glanced at the notes in his hands, “ – er, Lieutenant Franklin?”

  Dale glanced at Steve for support. His boyfriend seemed busy admiring the cut of the doctor’s suit. Some things never change, he thought. “Just as soon as we stepped off the airplane, Doctor. It was like someone had my balls in a vice.” Dale made a squashing motion with his free hand. “You know what I mean, Doctor?”

  Mr Featherstonehaugh picked up the rubber end of a reflex hammer and grasped it tightly. “Like that, you mean?”

  “Yeah,” Dale said flinching, “just like that.”

  “And what happened next?” the urologist asked, clearly on tenterhooks to discover more about Dale’s grievous goolie grabbing.

  “He bent forward until he was almost touching the ground,” Steve said. “I made a joke about the Pope kissing the tarmac. I didn’t realise he was in so much pain.” He followed that with his oh-so-cute dumbass smile that could melt an iceberg. Not that icebergs could be bothered to venture as far south as Central Missouri, of course – even for a beer with the wizard.

  Dale had to admit, this guy sure knew his way around a man’s genitals. This was a palpating and probing that spoke of years of study and thousands of patients who’d lain back, closed their eyes and thought of England, hoping that he had the solution to their intimately excruciating problem. But Dale was sure Mr Featherstonehaugh had never come across ball ache accompanied by thoughts of impending doom. His exam was also mercifully quick, unlike the redoubtable Dr Strutt who’d approached his groin with all the slow, fumbling confidence of a teen at her first prom date without the benefit of liquor. Her dilated pupils and blush response had been such a giveaway. She’d obviously never fantasised about being caught in the sights of Blade Runner’s Rick Deckard. Admittedly, in Dale’s case, that had been with them both sporting helluva boners under the table.

  Speaking of which, Dale was rather hoping he’d get a clean bill of health so he could enjoy a bit of R&R with his fiancé. Remarkably, everything had remained quiescent throughout the morning’s incursions into the most private region of his body, but something would have to give sooner or later.

  “Well ...” Mr Featherstonehaugh said pregnantly, shedding his latex gloves. He’d replaced the sheet over Dale’s pelvic region not a moment too soon. Dale glanced at Steve who had a hand over his snickering mouth. The gloves were dropped into a yellow biohazard container. Dale didn’t immediately see why and then it hit him between the eyes. Dale prepared himself for the thunderbolt to end all thunderbolts. No quality time with Steve. Instead, he’d be locked away in a decontamination unit with a Geiger counter for a bed buddy. Time to fess up to Mr Featherstonehaugh. He took a deep breath.

  “... I don’t believe this is torsion of the testis,” the urologist said. “It’s true that your condition shares some of the characteristics of torsion, but the sudden onset, in the absence of trauma or any previous history, makes it extremely unlikely. If you were younger and a rugby player, then it could well be torsion and I’d want to admit you for observation, with a low threshold for surgery.” He turned to make his exit. “However, if the pain doesn’t resolve or gets worse, then I would advise you to come back to A&E.”

  Steve was nodding in agreement – and completely missing the point. Dale’s gonads were still aching, which put their vacation in jeopardy as well as their sex life. He sure didn’t fancy firing on one cylinder for the rest of his life. And what if they wanted to have kids at some point? No, man, this was serious. He had to put the question, come what may. He took another deep breath. “Er, Doctor, could it be due to radiation?”

  “Radiation?” the urologist said with an arched left eyebrow straight out of a James Bond script. “What makes you think that, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, it’s just that I’ve got this DeLorean DMC-12 and I bought a replica flux capacitor for it on eBay. I mounted it in the console and plugged it into the lighter socket. It didn’t take anything like 1.2 gigawatts. The light tubes were just like those in the movie. The box had a radiation symbol on it. I thought that was a joke ... but it was made in China ... and I’m just wondering ...” Steve was rolling his eyes and Dale knew he was digging himself into an ever deeper hole. Mr Featherstonehaugh shuffled uneasily on his feet.

  “Interesting ...” The urologist looked serious. Dale flinched in anticipation of the blow. “Well, if you’d suggested Wi-Fi and Bluetooth – ” Mr Featherstonehaugh gestured at the iPhone still in Dale’s hand, “ – you wouldn’t be too far off the mark, Lieutenant. We’ve been aware for 10 years that mobile phones can affect sperm production. Not surprisingly, manufacturers have tried to block the research. Tight jeans and alcohol can also affect fertility in young men, but I believe phones are the main culprit. With the government’s kibosh on telecom networks, perhaps that will improve, but vulnerable young bodies may have already been damaged in ways we don’t even know about.”

  Dale and Steve shared a ‘well, I never’ look. That was some soapbox he’d just climbed onto.

  “Sorry about that,” Mr Featherstonehaugh said. “It’s become a bit of hobbyhorse for me. I’m afraid my son is detained under the Mental Health Act because of ...” He turned away from them to clear his throat.

  “Unilateral cerebral atrophy?” Steve said unexpectedly.

  “‘The screaming’?” Dale said almost simultaneously.

  The urologist was staring at them open-mouthed. “Good Lord. How come you’re so well informed?

  Dale looked at Steve who nodded for him to continue. “Well, you could say we broke the case,” Dale said.

  Mr Featherstonehaugh frowned. He wasn’t getting it.

  “March 2014, Kansas City and a 17-year-old named Brandon P. Marshall who shot his parents and then himself,” Dale said.

  “In front of their thr
ee kiddies at the breakfast table,” Steve said.

  “And triggered by hearing the sound of a child screaming,” Dale said.

  “In other words, the index case,” Steve said.

  “Of course!” the urologist said. “I must have seen you on the news. Well, well ...” He leaned forward, looking at them intently. “You know, Officers, I thought the current situation with children mainly affected the UK.”

  “That’s because of what your government wants you to think and what our administration chooses to believe,” Dale said with a perspicacity that seemed to have arrived right out of the blue.

  “So, the problem is just as widespread in the States?” Mr Featherstonehaugh said.

  “Probably worse,” Dale said. “We lock affected kids up and it’s not entirely lawful – ”

  “They call it an ‘executive order’,” Steve said.

  “Meaning there’s no get out clause,” Dale continued, “and there are still no limitations on networks or Wi-Fi. Which means that the CDC’s perfect storm hasn’t moved on and neither has our beloved president.”

  “So, how the hell are you keeping a lid on it?” The urologist looked puzzled.

  “Mass brain scanning, curfews, whistle blowers, ‘no cell’ signs and all that sort of thing,” Dale said. “It’s like Prohibition all over again.”

  “Plus a low threshold for depriving kids of their liberty, of course,” Steve said.

  “Christ,” Mr Featherstonehaugh said, rubbing his eyes, “perhaps we’re better off here, after all.”

  “Returning to my problem, Doctor,” Dale said, repositioning his cell phone for maximum therapeutic effect, “is this a radiation thing or not? After all, proximity to metal seems to ease the pain and some metals can block radiation.”

  Dale’s iPhone took that opportunity to spur on the discussion with a healthy thrumming noise.