The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Read online

  “So, gentlemen,” DS Sampson said, after introducing herself and handing out the water, “I gather that you are police officers on vacation. Is that correct?”

  “Lieutenant Dale Franklin,” the older one said, leaning forwards to shake hands. He winced and glanced at the mobile phone on the table. “Shit, it’s run out of power again.” He raised his hands apologetically. “Sorry, Sergeant, that wasn’t the best of starts.”

  “You seem to be in some pain, Lieutenant,” DS Sampson said.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” he said, “but I guess I’m learning to live with it. It sorta comes and goes. The phone helps, though – when it’s got a charge.” His sheepish expression was something else to die for.

  “Sergeant Steve Abrams,” the one with all the hair said. His smile would have melted the hardest of hearts.

  “Was it your mobile phone that got stolen?” DS Sampson said, torn between wanting to bury her head in his luscious locks or drown in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was trying to take a photo of the crime scene and some guy grabbed the cell out of my hands. He’d disappeared into the crowds before I could do anything about it.”

  “Hmm, you were asking for trouble displaying a phone in public,” she said. She realised she’d tutted reflexively and felt like a schoolmistress. That was just the sort of thing her ex-husband used to tease her about. “They’re banned here, as you probably know,” she continued. “Still, you may be able to claim on your travel insurance. I’ll give you a crime reference number. Meanwhile, make sure you inform your network provider. Your phone could be on its way to just about anywhere in the world by now.” She turned to look at the lieutenant. He was still in some discomfort. “Are you okay to answer some questions, Lieutenant? I can come back later if that would help.”

  Lieutenant Franklin smiled wryly and looked her in the eye. “Yesterday, I spent all morning in a hospital with my nuts in a twist; today, I’ve been put in cuffs because of some T-shirt. It’s not exactly a great way to start a vacation. So, if you don’t mind, Sergeant Sampson, I’d just like to answer your questions and then get the hell out of here.”

  “Yay! Way to go!” his friend said, punching the air coltishly.

  Okay, DS Sampson thought. The lieutenant’s balls may be painful, and he’s at risk of getting on my tits, but he’s still got balls – and a sexy mid-west twang. She decided to disregard the sergeant’s lack of respect for the interview process.

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” DS Sampson said, swiftly locating her pocket book and pen. She leaned back and considered her interviewee. “So, what exactly happened this morning?”

  Lieutenant Franklin shifted his weight on the chair. He was definitely nursing something uncomfortable down below. She wondered whether they still had that rubber ring in the lost property cupboard. “We walked to Trafalgar Square,” he said. “Steve thought we should get there before the coachloads arrived. I got this urge to climb the plinth. It was something about the cell phones that did it. Next thing, there was this family with three kiddies in a stroller.” He paused and tears welled up. “Shit!” he bleated beneath his breath. His friend placed a hand on his shoulder. The lieutenant smiled wanly. “Sorry, these things get to you. The point is, I knew something was going to happen to them. I can’t tell you how, but I just knew it.” His voice was getting huskier by the second. “You’d better take over,” he said, turning to his friend and brushing away tears.

  “There was a case back home, Sergeant Sampson,” Sergeant Abrams said. “A multiple homicide-suicide witnessed by triplets of a similar age. Dale seemed spooked by seeing the family, so we went in search of a coffee.”

  “We found a Starbucks and I went to order,” Lieutenant Franklin continued. “I started walking back to our table and then – ” DS Sampson could see he was perspiring, “ – well, everything just went crazy. I heard a siren and a squad car went by. I started running. I knew something had happened. And that’s when I saw ...”

  DS Sampson didn’t need his description or Sergeant Abrams’s mobile phone to show her the bloodbath. The photos were on the wall in the incident room. Poor little mites. They simply had no chance against a 2 tonne vehicle in the hands of someone who’d blindly followed a street sign and thought money could buy immunity from prosecution.

  The lieutenant’s buddy was comforting him. Touching scenes like that weren’t exactly common in the machismo-driven Metropolitan Police Service.

  “Er, there was something else, Sergeant Sampson,” Sergeant Abrams said tentatively. “When we were in Trafalgar Square, Dale guessed what I was gonna say and do. It was freaky. I joked he must be practising magic for the department’s Christmas show.”

  “If only,” Lieutenant Franklin said. He looked as if all the cares of the world had been dumped on him. Even his gelled hair had flattened. She readied herself for the jolt of disclosure. “I get these premonitions. It’s like being in front of a screen with all these aircraft up in the air and knowing they’re gonna crash and you’re powerless to do anything about it. Sometimes it’s more than just letters and numbers, as if it’s got a real identity and I think I can reach out to save it, but then it vanishes again – ” his voice tailed off, “ – or fucking crashes.” He thumped his hands on the table.

  DS Sampson wondered what to write. She’d been doodling as he spoke and the drawing looked uncannily like a plane with three small passengers. At least hers was still in the air. “You mentioned Dai Williams to my colleague,” she said to the lieutenant. “How do you know him?”

  The lieutenant looked up. Perhaps she was back on safer ground. Then he shrugged. Maybe not.

  “We worked on a case,” he said.

  “Loads of cases,” Sergeant Abrams added. “You might have heard of them. Collectively, they were called ‘the screaming’.”

  DS Sampson glanced from one police officer to the other. She’d seen them somewhere before. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” she said wearily. “So has my son – a first-hand experience, you might say.”

  It didn’t take much for the tears to well up. Her bastard of an ex-husband didn’t like that, either.

  DS Sampson left the lieutenant and his friend to consider her options. Fact is, it was all rather Captain Jack Harkness – with more than a hint of Batman and& Robin. There was the mobile phone business, but they were just tourists. And rushing to the scene of a crime, knowing what he’d find? Tricky. Was it premonition? Her nose left her feeling uncertain. There were some things she was still rubbish at sniffing out. It was the business card that the lieutenant showed her that finally decided her actions. Fast track to MI5 and The Manor. She reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The end-of-terrace clapboard house still took pride of place in the street, presiding over a municipal park donated by some benefactor who believed in the rejuvenating effect of fresh air. Glimpsed from the generous expanse of greenspace, the house must once have had the no-nonsense elegance of a family residence with well-to-do owners. The windows were shuttered, allowing the occupants to see out, but not for passers-by to see in. The front door was large and imposing, with stained glass panels, approached by halfa-dozen steps. Plenty of separation from the hoi polloi.

  Now was different. Decades of neglect gave the impression of a dowager long past her prime, lost in her memories and shrouded in gloom. The clapboards were filthy and falling away, the shutters hanging askew like broken teeth, the stained glass cracked. Children out with their parents would point and ask, “Who lives there, Mummy?” The answer would be along the lines of: “I don’t know, darling, but it looks rather sad, doesn’t it?” Mother and child would briefly wonder who did live in the house, but a few yards later, something more mundane – typically, dog poo or an antisocial skateboarder – would have diverted their attention.

  Inside, the house’s sole occupant was currently preoccupied with making space on a wall in the overstuffed back parlour. The aspidistra respired desperately beneath a thi
ck deposit of dust and cobwebs. Grubby, fraying antimacassars had reached the point of no return many years ago. Old family photographs had been dumped unceremoniously in a corner. Shards of glass glinted menacingly in the light squeezing through a chink in the curtains. Another smaller collection of photos had been afforded more respect and placed in a neat pile on a low table. The topmost picture showed a man in an outdoor scene with the surprised look of an animal caught in a spotlight. He was heavily bearded and held a rifle. It looked as if he’d been caught unaware by the camera, although the reality was that he’d probably had to stand unblinkingly still for many minutes. The room’s guardian of the past bent to touch the glass over the man’s face and sighed. A few taps of a hammer later, the photo was fixed to its place on the wall and the photographer’s subject appeared to gaze through the gloom.

  Two bare feet continued to pad around, sending ancient dust particles to join the motes drifting lazily through the air. “Fuck!” The owner of the expletive extracted a piece of glass from an incautious big toe. A pearl of blood oozed. It was surprising how much a small cut could sting. The figure dabbed at the blood with a finger-tip and then licked it. The bitter ferrous taste was strangely comforting.

  Sometimes, there was nothing better than a blank canvas. A fertile imagination usually filled the void. This time, that wasn’t the case. The moment had come to settle the feud. After so many years of losing the battle with technology, the airwaves had suddenly become opened up. Amazingly, their powers seemed greater than before. But it was still a jigsaw that required the right pieces in place. That stupid girl and her friends had almost ruined months of planning.

  The figure turned to the table in the centre of the room. It had been fashioned for strength and stability, and, allegedly, dated back to the reign of George III. It was even rumoured that the mad king once used it to divine his future with Tarot cards. The floorboards had been strengthened to support the table, although it would never be groaning under the weight of a banquet fit for royalty. It all came down to ensuring that the table wouldn’t budge even a nanometre when it was under stress. Pride of place went to the receptacle in the centre. Its present day keeper leaned forward to inhale the intoxicating aroma derived from centuries devoted to fulfilling its tradition. The cauldron needed feeding.

  Dai didn’t care for the dark and he’d woken up in a place that was like looking up at a night sky with all the stars gone out. In space no one can hear you scream. Thanks for the reassuring thought. He’d never been down a mine, but the coalface had to be just as unremittingly black. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and counted to three, a light would come on when he opened them. One ... two ... three ... Nope, if anything it seemed darker. Wherever he was, it was deadly quiet and the only thing he could hear was his breathing. There wasn’t even the hum of electrical equipment. He was sure he was on his own – unless someone was holding their breath in an attempt to spook him. He couldn’t smell anything, either. A canary in a cage would have been a welcome companion. What would he call it, though? A bird that worked for its food in a pitch-black hellhole deserved a name. And, please, please, don’t let it be fucking Tweetie Pie.

  His father had died in a mining accident and he could imagine what went through his mind when the tunnelling stopped and he realised the rescue attempt had been abandoned. Perhaps he’d have sensed vibrations from the church bells tolling away for the men trapped underground. Did his father’s canary die before him? Imagine hearing the bird sing its last song and knowing that your turn is next. Shit. His dad had a fine voice, although that was usually when he’d too much to drink. Maybe he sang a duet with the bird. His mother went to pieces following the body-less funeral. They’d put bricks in his coffin. Dai shivered even though he wasn’t remotely cold.

  “Help! Is there anyone out there?”

  Dai’s voice didn’t exactly echo around the room, but he was sure he heard reflections. He tried moving his limbs, but whatever was tying them to the chair wasn’t about to give. The chair didn’t move, either. His heart beat faster. Stay calm and carry on, Dai bach.

  So, what was that police officer’s part in his abduction? The white pill didn’t taste remotely strange, after all. Perhaps it was some top-secret knock-out drug that looked like pocket fluff. Surely it had to be someone playing a joke on him. Didn’t it? He inhaled, exhaled ... inhaled, exhaled ...

  At least nothing was hurting. They must be using duct tape – as found in every Hollywood movie kidnapper’s kitbag. He’d almost bought a reel of it from Treforest hardware store when he was living at Granny Betty’s. He had some whim of wanting to know how it would feel to be helpless. It was probably the sound of church bells that had triggered it.

  Fava beans and a nice Chianti. It’s bloody inconvenient when one’s worst nightmares come back to haunt you and there’s fuck-all you can do about it. Did Hannibal Lecter use duct tape? He’d call it something pretentious in Italian. He imagined the bad doctor’s sensitive fingers applying it over his mouth ... precisely ... More likely, he’d cut out his tongue with a scalpel and then sauté it with garlic. Perhaps that was coming next. If someone wanted him to feel fear, it was working. His bladder felt near to bursting.

  “Please, whoever you are, I need to go to the toilet!”

  Silence.

  Okay, take a deep breath, Dai ... there’s a way out of this. Remember you’re a superbeing. You might think so, but I couldn’t possibly comment. Very funny. All right, you’re a boy from the Valleys with an extremely weird ability and green kryptonite for an Achilles heel. Good one – and I’m sitting here waiting for something to happen, with my bladder about to explode. Focus out and zero in, boyo! It’s all very well for you to say that. What would I zero in on, anyway? Walls don’t have much to say in my limited experience. Try a bit of telepathy, then. Long distance stuff never works that well. What about Balmoral? Okay, but Sandra was there to receive my thoughts, and it was only a mile or so to the castle. Dai, you’re being a loser. Think of MI5. Think of Sandra. Think of your unborn child.

  That was a bit below the belt, but nothing Granny Betty hadn’t tried on him before. Her favourite was: “What would your mother have said if she was still alive?” She wouldn’t, of course; boo to a Welsh goose was as far as it went. So, what about the Queen’s motives? Maybe she’d decided that a knight who drinks one too many Dubonnet and gins belongs in the Tower of London, after all. On the other hand, it couldn’t be the Tower because there was no echo, it didn’t smell dank and musty, and no princely ghosts had come to haunt him, their severed heads tucked under their arms. What about Diana, though? He shivered all over again.

  “Please, is there anyone out there?”

  Still nothing but silence – and his thumping heartbeat. And the pressure in his bladder. It was funny how his voice sounded more Welsh when he tried to make himself heard.

  Okay, I’ll try a ping.

  Mastering the hocus focus had taken some doing. Mrs Pigeon would have attested to that if she hadn’t worn herself out, pursuing her prodigious reproductive need. So, too, would Tania Goldman, Lady Leandra Windsor and the unfortunately, but appropriately, named Randy, except they were no longer alive, either. They’d all been pawns in a sick game and now he was just as trapped as they’d ever been.

  The doctor in the Brain Lab at MI5’s country pile had explained his superpower in terms of high frequency waves emanating from the pineal gland. He’d discovered that by wiring him up to an electroencephalograph. Then there was something called ‘wave particle duality’ for the trip back to his brain, which was all to do with quantum mechanics and had to be explained in a robotic voice, with reverential deference to the Large Hadron Collider.

  Just as with a pigeon, a ping from the pineal needed to come home to roost. It was somewhere between a cuckoo taking over another bird’s nest and a snake biting its tail. His brain worked like an FM radio, with the cranium acting as a waveguide, but it was able to receive at the same time. Which was all rather mindboggling. L
ike the policeman of dubious provenance in Green Park, his grandmother would have said, “Jiw, jiw!” And then she’d have made a nice pot of tea. With bara brith as an accompaniment.

  ‘Focusing out’ and ‘zeroing in’ was the way Dai put it when asked to describe what he did – to someone like the Queen, for instance. With a reasonably evolved central nervous system, the ping from the hocus focus made the neurons release what had been stored in memory. The problem was, recollections could be anything, so it wasn’t the most reliable way of extracting information. MI5 seemed happy enough, even if pornographic images were only occasionally what they were after.

  So, faced with a pitch-black room of unknown dimensions, and only the vaguest echo, Dai felt unsure where to start and was back at the drawing board. His grandmother used to tell him to gird his loins when someone bullied him at school. It always sounded vaguely erotic. That was well before realising he had a weapon of mass destruction at his disposal. Being taped to a chair made girding anything rather impractical, but he imagined doing it anyway, ready to do battle with his adversary.

  Okay, I’m focusing out ... imagining a tunnel ... zeroing in ... engaging the hocus focus ... letting loose with a gentle ping ... Ouch! Shit, fuck! That was painful! I can see stars ... and light ... and floating things ... and Granny Betty smiling at me ... and showing me her teeth ... and they’re pointed ... very pointed ...