The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 6

  “Well, Lieutenant, the one thing I’ve learnt in the last year is never to discount the impossible,” the urologist said. “Believe it or not, there’ve been rumours of strange happenings at Buckingham Palace, including telepathy and the like. My wife is one of the physicians to the Royal Household. She’s signed the Official Secrets Act, but she passes on a few snippets from time to time. They’re pretty mean at paying for her services, so you can’t blame her.” He sighed. “So, returning to your question, Lieutenant, a) I don’t know, and b) I suppose it could be.”

  Steve didn’t look convinced by Mr Featherstonehaugh’s answer. “But if the UK has stopped Wi-Fi and cell networks, surely that means there should be less EM radiation in the air.”

  “Go on,” Mr Featherstonehaugh said. He pulled up a stained and generally much abused plastic chair.

  “Well ...” Steve took a breath, “back home, there’s EM radiation everywhere and Dale never had aching balls. Here, you’ve cut EM radiation and he gets an ache as soon as he steps off the plane.” He shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

  Dale agreed. Whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t adding up. There was also the minor niggle of thinking something bad was lying in wait for him round the corner. He didn’t believe in hauntings, but his nerves were being jangled by something lurking in the vicinity. He was sure he could hear a child screaming in the distance. He was starting to think he should never have followed through the 911 call to the Marshall household that fateful spring morning.

  “Well ...” Mr Featherstonehaugh’s patience was clearly being tested. “Look, chaps, I’m just a humble surgeon. There are limits to what we get taught in medical school. All I’m sure about is that it isn’t torsion of the testis. As to radiation ... well, I’m afraid I can’t say.” He paused and fumbled in a jacket pocket. “I just remembered this card. It’s someone my wife had dealings with. He’s an eccentric, but he’s a good doctor by all accounts. My wife says he’s on the lookout for subjects with problems that are unusual. His name is

  – ” he squinted at the card, “ – Dr Petros Kyriakides. He’s in private practice, so you should find his rooms somewhere on Harley Street.”

  Dale took the card. He’d forgotten about the wild, bearded Greek doctor until then. Dr Kyriakides had stunned his audience at an early morning conference call by displaying the teenage homicide-suicide cases from around the world on a Minority Report type display. Spelling out that the combination of Wi-Fi, 3G, fast food and copper had shrunk teenagers’ brains had taken guts – and been a helluva bitter pill to swallow.

  Perhaps he should give the doctor a call. On the other hand, the ache wasn’t that bad and there was a lot of sightseeing Steve wanted to do. And they thought they’d try tracking down Dai Williams, assuming His Sirness could find time in his hectic schedule to see a couple of lowly US cops.

  Dai left Sandra behind nursing her nausea. The journey to Green Park took longer than he’d anticipated as some idiot kid insisted on jamming his foot in the Tube train’s closing doors at every stop. Dai gave in to his better judgement and unleashed a disabling ping, courtesy of the hocus focus, as well as a telepathic “Fuck off!”, which left the kid stunned and drooling at the mouth. His fellow passengers wouldn’t have been aware of his intervention, but they’d burst into spontaneous applause once he’d been immobilised. Yet another one destined for the funny farm, Dai thought.

  The light was fading when Dai emerged out of the Underground station. He looked for a friendly bobby, but the only one in sight was busy removing wads of gum from the soles of his boots. “Bugger ... shit ... fuck,” he whinged in an angry mantra, hopping on alternate feet and poking at the offending substance with a stubby, police-issue biro. The air was turning colder and bluer by the second. Passers-by tutted about the declining standards of law enforcement.

  Dai strolled across Green Park. By the time he reached Buckingham Palace it was well and truly dark. The Queen was clearly one to keep the home fires burning, as all the windows glowed from the inner radiance of old-fashioned light bulbs. Dai imagined it was all about keeping up appearances. He waved cheerily in case Her Majesty was taking a sneaky peek at the outside world while going from room to room to adjust the dimmers.

  It felt strange walking into the Palace forecourt unaccompanied. He wondered whether he was being monitored on CCTV. If he hadn’t worn his suit, he’d probably have been suspected of planning to climb into the Queen’s bedchamber. The footmen greeted him as Sir David, although he didn’t feel remotely like a knight. He should have commandeered a police horse and ascended the red-carpeted steps on a white charger in full regalia. Sorry, wrong millennium. And he’d never mastered riding a horse. Knowing his luck, the beast would probably use the opportunity to shit on the carpet – and he’d find himself stuck to the saddle by chewing gum. The red carpet had been replaced, so an equine accident could have already happened. Or the Queen might have been cantering along the grand corridor to demonstrate her miraculous recovery from the stroke. It had certainly been something of an annus mirabilis so far. And the year wasn’t over yet ...

  “Enter!” came the curt response to the footman’s tap on the door. It sounded so formal, and not at all as Dai remembered from his first visit to Her Majesty’s inner sanctum. Perhaps she’d been catching up on her paperwork, concentrating hard, drink in hand, and had forgotten their assignation. He needed to watch protocols this time – no pinging of the royal brain as well as no touching of her personage.

  The Queen was standing by her desk when Dai entered her private study. He smiled, bowed and took her extended hand. She had on an elegant powder blue dress with a string of pearls and wore a silver broach on her left shoulder. She studied him closely. He blushed and felt overdressed. Jeans and a hooded top would have been much better for a drink with a mate. Except she wasn’t a mate, she was the Queen. And he’d forgot to bring her some flowers. He reddened again. Her Majesty sat and smoothed her dress. She gestured him to take a pew.

  “Do you always let your mind wander so much, David?” the Queen asked with a glint of amusement Dai hadn’t expected so early in the evening. But she was right – using Sandra’s thought boxes to keep his musings private from fellow telepaths didn’t come easy to him. He lacked discipline. Perhaps MI5 would knock him into shape with a boot camp or two. He glanced at the table between them: it was totally bare. So, where were the drinks? A knock broke his reverie.

  “Come in!” the Queen said, still looking pointedly in his direction. “Well, David?”

  A footman entered bearing a tray laden with bottles and glasses – and, if Dai wasn’t right royally mistaken, a bowl of Pringles. They were always produced on special occasions in his grandmother’s house. “Sorry, Ma’am, I have been a bit distracted – ” she must have been prying inside his head although he couldn’t blame her, “ – and I guess I haven’t quite mastered Sandra’s thought boxes.” The footman retreated and the Queen mixed their drinks: two parts of Dubonnet to one part of gin, with a slice of lemon and some ice, served in a cut glass tumbler. Dai sipped warily. It was strong stuff. Rather medicinal, too. He felt sure he was being softened up for something important.

  “How is it?” the Queen asked.

  “Hmm, interesting,” Dai said, hoping he was sloshing the pink liquid appropriately without appearing a total prat. “Unusual, too. There’s something in it that I recognise but can’t put a name to.”

  “Quinine,” the Queen said triumphantly.

  “You mean the stuff for malaria?”

  “Indeed. We always take a few cases of Dubonnet with us when we’re travelling to – ”

  “Bongo-bongo land?”

  The Queen smiled. “You might say that, but we couldn’t possibly comment.”

  “Touché, Ma’am.”

  They sipped their drinks. A trio of corgis appeared from somewhere and sat obediently at the Queen’s feet, their ears pricked forwards and noses sniffing at the air. There probably wasn’t an organism on the pl
anet that didn’t drool at the smell of the hyperbolic paraboloid called the Pringle. Dai was slavering, too.

  “We visited Wales today, you know,” the Queen said abruptly. Her eyes were all aglint again.

  Dai inclined his head. “Oh?” He see-sawed in the opposite direction to prevent a drop of pinkish spittle landing on the magnificent Axminster carpet.

  “We went by helicopter. So useful for a round trip and being back in time for tea.”

  They continued to sip their drinks. There was definitely an agenda afoot. The dogs were waiting with bated breath.

  “We opened a new unit at the Royal Glamorgan Hospital,” the Queen continued.

  Dai’s jaw dropped. This was getting too close to what he used to regard as home.

  “It was modern. Charles would have hated it. He’d have the patients in long, cold dormitories, with nurses running around in starched uniforms handing out laxatives and bedpans. Still, we met some interesting people – ” she paused for a drawn-out swallow, “ – what was I saying?”

  This was psychological torture. “You met some interesting people, Ma’am,” Dai said impatiently.

  “Yes, indeed we did.” She held out the bowl of crisps. “Would you care for a Pringle or two? The sour cream and onion variety are our favourite. Most deserving of the royal warrant, we believe.”

  Dai took a handful. This was exactly the sort of delaying tactic Granny Betty used. He crunched three chips in quick succession. The corgis had their beady eyes on him. The penny dropped. “This is to do with my grandmother, isn’t it, Ma’am?”

  The Queen deposited her glass on a side table. “Of course, Dai. They named the new unit after her.”

  “Really?” he said incredulously. His eyes had turned strangely watery. “I don’t understand, Ma’am. She was only a folk healer, after all.”

  The Queen’s expression was inscrutable. She would have made an excellent sitter for a certain Venetian artist circa 1503.

  “Wasn’t she?” Dai said, wondering whether his mind was about to be blown wide open yet again.

  “Under the radar I think, Dai,” he heard inside his head. Her Majesty was learning the tricks of the trade fast. She was able to switch into telepathic mode in the blink of an eye. Perhaps the walls had ears. He glanced around the room. Where to start? Listening devices in lamps were old hat. He tried to recall his MI5 training: something about Occam’s razor and going for the bleedin’ obvious. Three of the obvious were staring him in the face – and panting heavily. Christ, she believed that the dogs were bugged!

  “Indeed they are,” the Queen retorted telepathically. “If you look inside their ears, you’ll see for yourself.”

  Dai bent down and inspected an ear of the nearest corgi. There were things like tiny peas attached to the soft fleshy lining. One of them moved. The other ear had even more of them. Ear mites, he thought. Having five dogs in the same household must be a recipe for all manner of canine infestations. But he wasn’t about to argue with Cruft’s chief patron. And he hoped he’d kept that thought to himself. He looked up at the Queen. “I see what you mean, Ma’am. They look Chinese to me. Probably powered by body heat.”

  The Queen gave a little grunt of approval. “Does the name Siandi Da’aan mean anything to you, David?”

  Dai shook his head. It sounded like something served in a pub.

  “She was a witch. In fact, a very famous witch. And she came from Pontypridd.”

  Dai mouthed, “Granny Betty.”

  “Yes, David. Your grandmother, Elizabeth Williams, was a direct descendant and even more powerful than Siandi Da’aan.”

  “Gosh, I had no idea.” He really didn’t. His grandmother had been tight-lipped to a fault and she’d kept her credos to herself. There’d been occasions when things happened that she couldn’t explain, but she’d smile and then look serious and say, “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Dai.” And with no response to that, he’d return to his bedroom without questioning the wisdom of an elder. But that left a nagging question no amount of pinging of brains could answer: if Granny Betty really had been a witch – assuming witchery worked – was that an explanation for the hocus focus? And was that the only thing she’d bequeathed him, hidden away until the time was right?

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering,” the Queen said, sneaking herself back inside his head. “And I don’t believe I’m the only one who wants to know.”

  Dai almost choked on his drink. It was all making sense. Something weird had happened back in the Park Estate flat, and Sandra had got the brunt of it. Witchery was definitely an explanation for her sudden bout of morning sickness. Could the mesh have protected him from some spell? But that would mean witchery involved EM radiation, which was 100 years out of Granny Betty’s comfort zone. He’d better book an appointment with Dr Kyriakides to get checked out. But that still left the nagging question of who was behind it.

  Her Majesty smiled ruefully. “We have an idea.” She blinked an eye. “Would you care for another drink, Sir David?”

  Green Park on a chilly autumn night was rather forbidding for those of a nervous disposition. The Victorian street lamps cast ominous shadows of the gnarled black poplars, their spindly branches ready to snag the unwary, including those who’d consumed one too many Dubonnet and gins. Dai was vaguely aware of the trees’ resemblance to witches with or without broomsticks, but his mind was also on the lookout for chewing gum, dog poo and other watch-where-youput-your-feet inconveniences. The Queen had offered to call for a cab, but he needed to clear his head before he faced Sandra’s interrogation.

  Dai had also been thinking about his first encounter with Tania Goldman. He remembered as clearly as yesterday going out onto his 20th floor balcony with the feeling that something was about to happen. If he hadn’t put on his metallized fabric protection and ventured downstairs into the murky shadows of Battersea Park, he’d never have seen the teenager hunched over her laptop with sizzling sounds leaking from her earbuds. That wouldn’t have stopped her EM radiation-frazzled brain from hatching the plan to murder her parents, but at least he wouldn’t have been part of it. Then he’d have been left with Mrs Pigeon and her brood for company. No saving of the Queen’s life. No knighthood. No fiancée or baby. No Dubonnet and gin. Back to his mindnumbingly tedious existence of dodging EM radiation.

  So, who was really pulling the strings? His actions still felt predestined and doomed to repeating themselves over and over, at the whim of some omniscient puppet master who got his kicks from watching people squirm. Gosh, did I think that? I’ve got Q on the mind again. And not the cuddly MI6 sort with a soft touch to cover up the gruesome reality of killing people.

  But how did his family fit into all of this? Had Ceri been put up to it by someone? And what the hell had she been trying to do to him? If he hadn’t conveniently returned to the Park Estate, would he have turned into a golden beach ball? And why was the Queen so interested in witches? He’d never heard of Siandi Da’aan, but it sounded as if she belonged in the footnotes of some scholarly tome rather than someone with a connection to his grandmother. And Granny Betty a witch? It was getting way too complicated for a boy who didn’t have much of a brain. “Sorry, Ma’am, I had to ping to find out what that cow said about me.” Actually, he’d put that in the draft thought box to send later.

  Dai crouched to tie a shoelace just as an illuminated flying disk soared past where his head had been. He stood up, wondering who’d thrown it. It could have been a miniature UFO. Christ, I feel strange! Woozy. Light-headed About to keel ... feel ... peel ... over. Oh fuck, my brain’s affected, too! Or is it those bloody witches? And there’s something strange happening at foot level: the grass has turned translucent and I can see down into the earth. My God, it’s full of stars!

  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. It reminded him of a park in Pontypr
idd where he used to lie flat on his back and look up into the sky, hoping that a friendly spaceship would beam him up, up and away from the land of leeks and laver bread. A bright light had just appeared to his left. Perhaps the time had finally come for his departure. He hoped they wouldn’t require his passport.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  It was a friendly male voice. English born and bred. Educated up to GCSEs, Dai decided. A hint of authority, but also a bit out of breath. Dai turned his head. The owner of the pleasant voice crouched by his side and his torch illuminated his face. He was still panting. And he wore a helmet. With a spiky thing on it.

  “I saw you fall, sir, so I came running. I was just about to go off duty, or otherwise I wouldn’t have seen you. You were lucky.”

  On the basis of how he currently felt, which was like having the grey matter immediately behind his left eyebrow pulsed sadistically in a blender, Dai wasn’t so sure about that epithet. He also wondered why so many policemen were overweight if they were required to run across England’s green and pleasant land to rescue those afflicted with a sudden compulsion to hug the earth. Except his wasn’t some common or garden, backto-grass-roots lurgy. Two options crossed his troubled mind, and they weren’t mutually exclusive: firstly, that the government had bowed to the might of the telecommunications industry and switched Wi-Fi and mobile networks back on; and secondly, that someone was flexing their witchy muscles again.

  “I’m all right I think, Officer.” That didn’t come out quite as he intended. It sounded more like: “I’m all righ’ I thin’, Offisher.” Dai sensed wheels of logical deduction at work even without using the hocus focus.

  The policeman harrumphed. “Er, sir, do you have any identification on you?”

  Dai reached for the back pocket of his trousers. His wallet wasn’t there. Shit! I’ve been attacked by a flying disk of unknown origin and then mugged by a Good Samaritan! Then he remembered the invitation. He pushed himself up – Christ, my head hurts – and rummaged inside his jacket. The thickness of the paper was strangely reassuring. He handed it to the police officer.