The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Page 7

  “Dai Williams at your service, Officer: soothsayer and lifesaver to Her Majesty the Queen of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and last, but definitely least, Wales.” He’d said something similar before, but he couldn’t remember where. Such loquaciousness was usually the sign of an attack of radiation sickness. The policeman tut-tutted and shook his head.

  “You wouldn’t be taking the mickey, would you, sir?” the officer said as he unfolded the sheet. His index finger carefully traced the words on the page and then came to a halt, hovering with a quiver above the Royal Coat of Arms. “Jiw, jiw!”

  Dai shouldn’t have judged a book by its cover: the policeman was as Welsh as he was – and his jaw had just dropped a good few inches. He hoped he wasn’t about to burst into song with one of Bryn Terfel’s greatest hits.

  “Not quite God,” Dai said, touching his forehead gingerly. Despite a half-hearted attempt at some therapeutic self-pinging, it still throbbed like a front row forward’s cauliflower ear. Actually, it had made it worse, so he’d probably set up a feedback loop. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some aspirin on you, have you?”

  The bobby on the Green Park beat chuckled and reached into one of the multitude of pockets in his uniform. “A few too many is it, sir? I’ve heard Her Majesty is partial to a tipple.” He handed Dai something white and aspirin-like covered with blue fluff. Dai inspected it and put it into his mouth despite its unknown provenance. Curiously, it hadn’t crossed Dai’s mind that he’d had too much to drink. When the Queen is mixing the best cocktails in the land, it’s easy to lose track.

  “Er, yes, Officer. Dubonnet and gin,” Dai said ruefully.

  “Dubonnet and gin?” the officer said, rubbing his head in sympathy. “I’m not surprised, sir. Dangerous stuff.” He glanced towards the park exit. “I’d better be on my way, sir. Are you all right to get home? I could order a car, but ...”

  Dai guessed what he was going to say. It would be embarrassing for both sides. He could see the headline: ‘ROYALTY DRUNK KNIGHT ROLLICKING IN ROYAL PARK.’ It’d probably become known as the ‘Parkgate’ scandal. And Sandra would never forgive him for misusing the public purse – not to mention the Privy Purse, if he’d had that much to drink. Rumour had it that a bottle of Dubonnet was as expensive as the best champagne now that it was manufactured solely for the Royal Family.

  “No, that’s okay, Officer. I can find my way home,” Dai said, pulling himself to his feet. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my wallet lying somewhere, have you?”

  The policeman fished something out of another capacious pocket. “Well, I found this, but it can’t be yours. It belongs to someone with an MI5 ID. He looks a bit down at heel. Needs a haircut, too.”

  Dai put up his hand. “That’s me, Officer. Soothsayer, lifesaver and scruffy spook, although I’ve probably broken the Official Secrets Act telling you that.” He should get the photo replaced. It still showed him wearing the mesh to shield him from EM radiation.

  The police officer stood up and saluted, his wobbling belly barely contained by his uniform. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Sir David. Are you sure I can’t get you a car?” he asked solicitously.

  “No, Officer. I’ll be fine now,” Dai said, pulling his jacket around him against the chill in the evening air. “Noswaith dda.” He extended his hand for a parting handshake.

  “Noswaith dda, Syr Dafydd,” the policeman said, shaking hands rather too lingeringly. “Noswaith dda, Dai bach.”

  Now, that was puzzling. Why had an officer of the law I’d never met before call me ‘Dai bach’? Whoosh. Crash. Ouch, I’m prostrate again. Memo to self: never trust a total stranger who can’t decide whether he’s English or Welsh and gives you a white pill covered with pocket fluff.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sandra Evans’s first realisation on waking was that she was alone in bed. Her second thought, just a second or two later, was that she no longer felt nauseous. She placed both hands on her bump to reassure herself that she was still pregnant. Yes, all present and correct – and warm, well-nourished and growing surprisingly fast. The baby stirred and gave her two sharp kicks. She resisted the temptation to send a quick message of love and encouragement. And an apology for spewing her guts up throughout most of the previous day. That had been strange, occurring so out of the blue. And why in Dai’s old flat of all places? But with all the bizarre things happening recently, the notion of reverting spontaneously to how she was six months ago didn’t seem that farfetched. The reality of life with Dai was still far from ordinary, and even normal meant him being summoned by MI5 at any time of the day or night. She sighed, but it was with a wry smile on her face.

  Sandra wasn’t exactly run-of-the-mill herself: a survivor of abuse who ended up held captive by MI5, in some mysterious country house, just because she became speechless and then telepathic. Okay, she had sabotaged the brakes on her father’s car. And her mother died as well. Big mistake. Then, to complicate things, she couldn’t even mutter ‘no comment’ when interviewed by the police. Some crazy lady. ‘Psychogenic aphonia’ was the final diagnosis. Her emerging paranormal ability wasn’t even mentioned, although it was experienced by a few who came too close. Major Chisholm had been adept at hiding indiscretions and making people pay their keep. What would have happened if she hadn’t met a reluctantly Welsh Welshman named Dai Williams? She’d probably still be in The Manor and going round the bend. She certainly had enough to be bitter and twisted about.

  Sandra thought of her parents. She’d give anything to turn the clock back and see the look on her father’s face when he learned of her new title: ‘Sandra, Lady Williams’ – once they’d tied the knot, of course. So many years of belittling her and telling her she’d never do anything significant with her life. It was ironic that his end had become her new beginning – or at least, a new chapter in a pretty weird book.

  Like Dai, she’d had her head probed electronically in the Brain Lab. Dr Kyriakides had told her they were on the same wavelength. Such a cliché. And then it turned out that there were many more people like them, all freed to communicate telepathically when Wi-Fi and mobile networks got banned by the government. The initial flurry of flirtation with freedom didn’t last long, though. The restaurant they started, called ‘Ψ’, didn’t have a chance in hell amid the paranoia following ‘the screaming’. Telepathic ordering of food was always going to be a fad.

  Dai had been part of ‘the screaming’ – or, more precisely, he’d helped to identify what lay behind teenagers going berserk and then killing their parents and siblings. And he’d saved the Queen’s life – with her assistance, mind you, as it was with her telepathic ability that he’d been able to call for help and get Her Majesty transferred to hospital. So, all things considered, Sandra thought she was rather deserving of the title of ‘Lady Williams’. And they’d be getting married soon, once the royal diary had been consulted and the right church found.

  Sandra looked at the bedside clock: it was just after 6:00 a.m. So where exactly was her fiancé? His invitation had been just for drinks, not drinks, dinner and a prolonged drinking session with Prince Philip. He might have a habit of slipping out of bed in the middle of the night, but he’d always leave a note or send her a thought as he closed the front door. She pushed herself up and swung her legs out from under the duvet. Pausing to catch her breath, she sat on the edge of the bed and glanced around. It was just as it had been when Dai left for the Palace in his suit. He definitely hadn’t been back. She pulled on a dressing gown and padded heavily into the living room, one hand on her swollen belly. Her eyes darted around, looking for one of Dai’s trademark messages. Nothing caught her eye. He hadn’t written on the mirror with one of her lipsticks, either. That used to annoy her, but even ‘Dai woz ere’ in pillar box red would have been better than nothing.

  “David, are you nearby?” she communicated as forcibly as she could. She was shouting the thought. If Dai was close by, he’d come running into the flat with both hands cla
mped to his head. And he’d be angry.

  Nothing came back. The front door didn’t open. There was no darkly attractive Welshman with spiky hair shouting at her. Okay, girl, get your thoughts together, where else might he have left a message? She gave a little whoop of glee when she remembered the jokey birthday gift of alphabet fridge magnets. They had a running contest to see who could write the longest sentence with the twenty-six letters. Neither were particularly good at it and it usually read, ‘LETS FUCK’. Sandra half-ran, halfwobbled into the galley kitchen. The message hadn’t changed. She rearranged them to read ‘TUCK SELF’, which seemed more appropriate given her condition. She’d replace it with ‘LUCK FEST’ when Dai returned. Then she noticed that the kettle was cold. Dai always had a coffee before he went out.

  What should she do? Logically, her best option would be to ring MI5. Shortly after they moved to London, Dai had given her a piece of paper with an emergency phone number. It was useless given her handicap, but she was certain it was still in a kitchen drawer. Perhaps someone could ring it for her. She yanked at all the handles in sight, desperate to find her prize. She didn’t give a shit about the contents tumbling to the floor. Oh God, did I throw it out the previous week? A wave of panic threatened to engulf her and then she remembered that she’d put out the rubbish too late for the council truck. Perhaps it’s in the wheelie bin after all!

  It took scarcely a minute for Sandra to deposit the contents of the bin onto the pavement, tear open the black bags like a ravenous fox and then locate the allimportant digits. The slip even had MI5’s crest and the motto ‘Regnum Defende’ at the top. Thank-fucking-God, she thought, holding it up as if it was a lottery win awaiting the attention of some perma-tanned twat on primetime TV.

  ‘ “Well, really,” an elderly passer-by groused in disgust, not realising that the wild-haired bin scavenger hadn’t even opened her mouth.

  What next? Sandra thought, as it dawned on her that the 11 numbers were only the start of her Sisyphean task to locate her fiancé. Perhaps one of her neighbours would help. She pressed all the entryphone buttons to the flats in the house, but it was like trying to raise the dead. Sandra’s heart leaped when she noticed a young man walking on the other side of the road. Disregarding the green cross code inculcated in her formative years, she waddled across and accosted him with the grimy piece of paper. “Sorry, missus, the fuckin’ government’s got my phone, innit,” he said with the terminally despondent tone of the permanently out of luck.

  Safely back on the rubbish-strewn pavement outside their flat, the well-being of her fiancé dug away in Sandra’s mind like a score of JCB diggers. A flash of inspiration came to her when she saw a black cab turn into the road: I’ll go and see that nice Sergeant Slocombe at Battersea Police Station! Dai’s always saying how helpful he’d been in his time of need. She’d completely forgotten that she was barefoot, still wearing her dressing gown and had no money. And that the front door had closed behind her.

  Sandra’s journey to Battersea Police Station took less time than she’d anticipated. She used the driver’s biro to scribble where she wanted to go on the slip of paper, and had to jab at it several times to dissuade him from taking her to the nearest maternity unit. “Okay, you know best, love. Hang on to your horses and I’ll get you there in a trice,” he’d said with a wink. Even at her destination, he’d accepted her less than convincing mime of being penniless. “That’s all right, ducks, you just take care of yourself and the little ’un.” Sandra’s faith in humanity had been fully restored when she walked up to the police station entrance at shortly after 8:00 a.m. That proved to be short-lived, as she was almost knocked to the ground by some inebriate lurching through the doors in search of his first bottle in a bag of the day. And he didn’t even say sorry.

  “Bill, there’s someone who wants to see you,” the desk sergeant called through to the back office.

  Sergeant Bill Slocombe groaned wearily. He’d just come off desk duty after a night of drunks and the mentally-challenged, and he was enjoying his tea in the souvenir Arsenal mug that he intended to see him through to retirement unchipped. He lived for the day that Jack Wilshire came through the door with complimentary season tickets. “Who is it?” he called out with the reluctance of the near dead to consider their epitaph.

  “Well, she’s not able to say, although she has written it down,” the sergeant said. “You’d better take a look for yourself.”

  Bill Slocombe’s first glance at his uninvited guest suggested the worst. The woman was wild-eyed and her head appeared to be sprouting snakes. She was barefoot and dressed more for the boudoir than the local nick. His hackles were all set to rise when he noticed something significant: the crest on the slip of paper she held up for inspection. The fact that she was pregnant had lodged itself in the folds of his brain for subsequent processing.

  One of the sergeant’s hobbies was collecting crests and the more ornate the better. What he detested were those made up by some Towie upstart living in an overextended bungalow who thought he could inveigle his way into the House of Lords by waving a coat of arms. The future King of England was almost as bad, and Bill Slocombe’s ire had been exceptionally irked when he caught sight of the Cymry Originals logo: giant leeks and harps, for goodness sake!

  But as soon as Sergeant Slocombe saw the MI5 crest, with the motto ‘Regnum Defende’ beneath it, he couldn’t help going all gooey inside. It took a lot of willpower for him not to genuflect spontaneously in the waiting room. This was a crest with class, a crest above all others, la crème de les crests ... Above all, it was about defending the ruling monarch and he’d fight to the death with anyone who thought differently.

  ‘ “Would you like to come with me, miss?” Sergeant Slocombe called to the woman. “There’s an interview room over here.”

  The two of them sat down on cheap plastic chairs that’d had their fair share of being hoisted aloft as weapons. He prayed that a mental health assessment wasn’t on the cards, as his stomach was rumbling in anticipation of his wife’s full English. He harrumphed and took a closer look at his interviewee. She was good looking, although her hair could do with a brush. After half-a-lifetime on the force, he thought he’d become reasonably adept at sussing people out. On this occasion, he saw concern, not madness. He took out his pocket book and pen.

  The woman grasped his hand before he could even start writing. His eyes drifted to the red panic button – he tried to recall when it had last been tested – and back. She seemed to be making a ‘no’ sign with her fingers. Then she grabbed the pen. Sergeant Slocombe bent across the table to see what she was writing, all the time keeping a watchful eye on the biro should it head in the direction of his face. Christ almighty, she’d just written ‘Dai Williams’!

  Bill Slocombe’s bizarre encounters with the man from the Park Estate came flooding back. Dai’s unusual insight into how a football reacted to being kicked meant that he hadn’t looked at a football in quite the same way since. Dai called it using his hocus focus. Bill’s wife had called him a silly old fool when he recounted the story, but he’d been there and knew what happened. Thanks to Dai, he’d finally come to accept the improbable, even if it was a bit late in the day to actually make him a better copper.

  So he’d been as chuffed as a ... well, a chuffing choo-choo when he saw Dai collect his knighthood from the Queen on TV. He cleared his throat again and extracted a tissue from a pocket to wipe away a tear. And then it dawned on him where he’d seen the woman before.

  “Christ, you’re Dai’s wife! I saw you on TV!”

  Sandra smiled shyly and shook her head. She was mouthing something. He’d always been rubbish at lip reading, despite the compulsory, equal opportunities, twice-a-year training.

  “Sorry, I meant girlfriend,” he said, wishing that the blooming obvious was more obvious to blooming him.

  And so it came tumbling out ... well, slower than tumbling and actually rather laboured, but, putting two and two together, he discovered that
Dai had gone for drinks with the Queen; that his girlfriend had developed morning sickness at a stage of pregnancy when such a thing was unheard of; and that Dai hadn’t returned, or in other words, had gone missing. Meaning that an MI5 agent had gone AWOL, which was big business for Battersea nick.

  After making Sandra some tea and promising her he’d do his best, Sergeant Slocombe found an unencumbered and relatively hygienic phone in the back office and proceeded to dial the numbers on the paper. Most police work was boringly tedious, so the opportunity to ring the Thames House HQ came as manna from heaven, even if he should have gone off duty 45 minutes ago to enjoy a lesser food from the gods. Maybe his wife could make brunch instead. The phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Good morning, is that MI5? ... Oh good. Sergeant Slocombe here from Battersea Police Station ... Slocombe ... no, not Soaken, Slocombe ... As in blue rinse and pussy? ... Yes, that’s it ... Now, look, I have a young woman here in the station with your telephone number on a piece of paper ... How did she get it, we’re ex-directory, you’re saying? ... Well, she was given it ... Yes, I know about the bloody Official Secrets Act ... You’re taping the conversation to be used as evidence in a possible prosecution? ... Oh, for goodness sake! It’s Sandra Evans and she’s just reported that her boyfriend Dai Williams has gone missing! ... Yes, Sir David Williams ...

  Steve read aloud from the pocket guide to London: “Trafalgar Square is home to Nelson’s Column, iconic stone lions, the famous fourth plinth and a lot of pigeons.” On initial inspection of the landmark, Dale wouldn’t disagree with any of that. In fact, the pigeon population seemed to exceed the number of tourists by several fold. Back home, they’d have exterminated the lot of them. By 9:00 a.m., he guessed the public space would be invaded by coachloads of fellow Americans, and the square’s inhabitants would be swooping down on high calorie carryouts, leaving gloopy white poopouts in generous exchange. Still, at least it was a traffic-free zone.