Hybrid

He exhaled deeply, eyes still on the screen. There was something dark in one corner of the picture.

He moved nearer the television set, trying to get a better view. He still couldn’t see.

He hit the pause button and tried to study the still frame more closely.

What was the dark shape? He tried to run his index finger around it. To trace the outline.

He re-wound the tape slightly. Moved it on frame by frame. One second an empty office, the next, the dark shape looming over his chair. Unformed. Somehow intangible.

He saw an oval shape at the top of it. Then it broadened. There was another thinner strand to one side.

Ward re-wound again. Watched again. And again.

The shape … Jesus Christ. It was a shadow. The oval shape was a head. The broader part the torso. The thinner strand an arm.

A shadow. His own?

The tape had run out after forty-odd minutes. He had blacked out around 1.55.

And … and what?

He’d blacked out. On the sofa. Inside the house. If that was the case then the shadow could not be his.

So what did he have before him? A benevolent and very creative burglar? A figure who crept into his office every night and wrote thirty pages for him?

He turned over the possibilities in his mind.

If the blackout, and others like it that he’d been experiencing, were manifesting themselves as some form of short-term memory loss then that might be an explanation. He passed out. Lost consciousness, or at least his grip on the consciousness that he knew and then he worked. Simple.

Ward shook his head. The writing had taken place between 2.00 and 5.00. It was physically impossible to complete thirty pages in less time than that. Wasn’t it?

He studied the shadow once more. It was that of a man. Wasn’t it? If not a man then what?

Ward ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was closer to insanity than he thought.

It was his own shadow. There was no other logical explanation for it.

He would try the camcorder again that night. The answer was there somewhere.

And he had to find it.

It had taken Doyle less time than he’d thought to persuade Mel and Hendry to join him. He had also encountered less opposition from Brian Cartwright than he’d expected. The head of Cartwright Security had agreed to release two of his most valued employees with a minimum of fuss.

As for William Duncan and his wife, they were no longer Doyle’s concern. As he sat in the back of the car watching the all-too-familiar Belfast landmarks passing him, his mind was focused on just one thing. Declan Leary.

Almost unconsciously the counter terrorist touched his thigh, remembering where Leary’s knife had penetrated. He massaged it through his faded jeans.

The leather of his jacket creaked as he moved.

Beside him Mel was also dressed in jeans.They were tucked into black suede boots that reached to her knees. Her short, black jacket was undone to reveal a tight, white T-shirt, and the strap of her shoulder holster was visible as she moved.

Hendry brought the car to a halt and prepared to get out but Doyle put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay here, Joe,’ he said. This won’t take long.’

‘What about me?’ Me! wanted to know.

‘Come in with me.’

Mel nodded and clambered out of the car behind him.

The two of them walked unchallenged through the police station, Doyle merely flipping his ID at whoever moved to stop them.

As he drew nearer the room he sought, a large figure emerged from an office nearby.

Chief Inspector Peter Robinson looked quizzically at Doyle for a moment then at Mel.

‘You got my call,’ Doyle said. ‘I want to see Leary.’

There’s no one with him,’ Robinson answered.‘Help yourself. Just hit the four-digit code on the key pad beside the door.’

Doyle nodded.

‘Do you need me in there with you?’ Mel asked.

‘If you want to come in that’s fine. Otherwise you can watch through there.’

He nodded in the direction of the open doorway to the office next to the interview room. There was a two-way mirror stretching the length of the wall.

Through it he could see Declan Leary.

‘Time to renew old acquaintances,’ said Doyle and jabbed the four digits into the key pad.

The interview-room door opened with a hydraulic hiss and Doyle stepped inside.

The room smelt of stale cigarettes and coffee, and contained a wooden table and two chairs.

Leary looked up as Doyle entered, his eyes narrowing.

Yeah, recognise me, do you, you bastard? I’m the one who killed your fucking mate and almost got you too.

‘Declan Leary,’ Doyle said, a faint smile on his lips.

‘Do I know you?’ the Irishman said, uninterestedly.

‘We’ve met. Briefly. How’s your sister?’

Leary looked puzzled.

‘Good-looking girl as I remember,’ Doyle persisted.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m your babysitter. I work for the CounterTerrorist Unit.’

Leary grunted dismissively. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ he muttered.

‘No. Just grateful. I’m supposed to keep you alive, you piece of shit. Save you from your own people.’

‘Which people would they be?’

The Provos.You know what I’m talking about. What’s the matter, lose your fucking bottle when they caught you? Couldn’t face the thought of doing a twenty stretch? Is that why you’re prepared to grass up your mates?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’

The graves, Leary. You’re going to tell us where they are and who’s in them.What’ll you get in return? New identity? A five stretch maybe? At least your brother had the balls to do his time. Before someone blew his fucking head off.’

‘Who are you?’ Leary snarled, getting to his feet.

‘Sit down,’ Doyle sneered.

Leary did as he was told.

‘Understand one thing,’ Doyle said slowly.‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck if the IRA kill you, if you end up getting arse-fucked in prison for the rest of your life or if you walk under a bus. But, for the time being, it’s my job to keep you alive and I intend to do that. When I say I’m going to do something I do it.’

‘You’re going to protect me, are you? How touching.’

‘Only until you’re not needed any more. Until you become irrelevant again.’

Doyle drew the Beretta 9mm from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Leary’s head. ‘And when that happens, we’ll talk. Just you and me.’

‘I remember you,’ Leary breathed, his gaze moving from the barrel of the automatic to Doyle and back again.

‘You should.’

‘How’s the leg?’ sneered the Irishman.

Doyle lashed out with the pistol and caught Leary across the face with it. The impact sent him toppling from his chair. He hit the ground hard, blood running from his split bottom lip.

‘You bastard,’ he spat, wiping the crimson fluid away with the back of his hand.

Doyle nodded. ‘Spot on. But you can call me Doyle.’

Mel guessed that the dirt track leading to the house was close to a hundred yards long. On either side of it towered high hedges. Beyond those lay fields.

The road at the bottom of the muddy thoroughfare was barely wide enough to allow the passage of two vehicles moving in opposite directions.

Positioned more than twenty-five miles from Belfast, the safe house was perfect. It was a white painted building with a slate roof, although many of the slates were missing. There was a small garden to the rear, again protected from the fields by tall hedges. To the front of the building was a rutted, mud-slicked area.

It was here that Joe Hendry had parked the car. He’d thought about leaving it in the garage but hadn’t been 100 per cent sure that the rickety construction wouldn’t come crashing down on the car. In the end he’d decided to leave the vehicle out in the open.

Mel could see it now, the rain bouncing on its chassis. She was standing in the sitting room of the sparsely furnished house looking out at the countryside.

Doyle was in the kitchen finishing his breakfast. Hendry was upstairs sleeping.

‘You never told me your name.’

The words came from behind her and she turned slowly to look at Declan Leary.

He was tied to a chair in one corner of the room.

‘Is it important?’ she wanted to know.

‘It might be. You never know how long we might be together here. I know his name.’ Leary jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. ‘But not yours.’

‘My name’s Blake.’

‘You got a first name or couldn’t your parents afford one?’

‘Mel.’

‘What’s that short for?”

‘Melissa.’

‘Very nice. What is it between you and Doyle? Is he fucking you?’ Leary grinned.

Mel took a step towards the Irishman. ‘What do you think?’ she said quietly.

‘I think if he is then he’s a lucky man. You’re a grand-looking woman.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

That’s how it was meant.’ Again he smiled.

‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up.’

Mel turned as she heard Doyle’s voice from the kitchen.The counter terrorist wandered into the room and glanced contemptuously at Leary.

‘He has a way about him, doesn’t he?’ said the Irishman, looking at Mel.‘You’re a real charmer, Doyle.’

‘And you talk too much.’

‘l was just making conversation with the lady. Sorry if you object to me talking to your girlfriend.’

Doyle smiled humourlessly. ‘You make the most of it,’ he murmured. ‘It might not be so easy to talk with

a gun barrel stuck down your throat.’

‘Is that what you’ve got planned for me?’

‘I didn’t mean me. I meant whoever the Provos send after you.Your little revelations aren’t going to go down too well with them.’

‘It must be a pain for you, Doyle. Having to protect a man who nearly killed you.’

Mel looked quizzically at Doyle.

‘It’s part of the job,’ the counter terrorist told his captive. That’s all you are, Leary. A job. Nothing more.’

He hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. There’s some breakfast if you want it, Mel,’ Doyle said. ‘I’ll watch this prick for a while.’

Mel nodded and wandered into the other room.

Doyle crossed to the window and looked out at the muddy yard and the track that stretched away from the house. In the sky, rain clouds were gathering menacingly. Doyie lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it.

‘Have you got one of those to spare?’ Leary asked.

Doyle looked at him for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t give you the steam off my shit.’ He took another drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke in Leary’s direction. ‘So, what made you bottle it, Leary? Why the deal? Was it just for a lighter sentence?’

‘What the fuck do you care?’

‘I don’t, I’m just curious.’

‘I haven’t got anything to be ashamed of.’

‘You’re selling out your own people.’

‘And they’re selling out their own country. Sinn Fein couldn’t give a fuck about what’s happening here. This is my country. I don’t want it run by Proddies and Brits.’

Things change.’

‘Not if I can help it. At least I can say I tried. I didn’t surrender my principles.’

‘Very philosophical. Is that what you’re going to say to the Provo hitmen who bag you?’

‘It’s your job to make sure they don’t’

Doyle nodded and blew out more smoke. Then you’d better hope I’m good at my job,’ he said.‘Or you’re going to end up in the same kind of grave as you’re supposed to show us.’

DEADLOCK

W:

ard couldn’t work. He had sat at his desk for over three hours staring at the screen, the keyboard and the plastic carriage clock.

Nothing came. No words flowed.

At 1.16 p.m. he gave up and retreated inside the house. There were two

messages on the answerphone but he didn’t bother to listen to them. Instead he made his way into the sitting room and poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich. Then another.

He wanted to get drunk. Wanted to fall asleep but it seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could not drink himself into the oblivion he sought so badly.

His mind was spinning. Events of the past few weeks. What was going on in his life?

He smiled wanly.‘Your life,’ he told himself,‘is collapsing around your fucking ears. And so is your sanity.’ He laughed humourlessly.

He didn’t want to be in the house surrounded by his thoughts. He knew he needed to escape, albeit fleetingly.

He wandered out into the hall and scooped his car keys out of the small dish beside the front door. It took him fifteen minutes to drive to the cinema. All the way

over, the cassette-player blasted loudly and Ward sang along occasionally, joining in the words that ripped from the speakers.

He parked and sat motionless behind the wheel for a moment.

‘When you get home, your novel might be finished,’ he said to himself. He laughed loudly. A little too loudly. There was desperation in the sound, not joy.

A WELCOME DARKNESS

Ward stood looking at the electronic board that carried the titles and times of the films showing at the multiplex. The newest comedy from the Farrelly Brothers, an adaptation of a bestselling novel (there was always one of those), some mindless Steven Seagal action picture.

Not much choice and he’d seen most of them already.

Then he noticed with delight that there was a special one-day presentation of La Reine Margot. He’d seen it before, he owned it on video, but it was a welcome alternative to the other dross on display.

The girl behind the cash-desk window eyed him warily as she gave him his ticket.

‘You know where to go by now, don’t you?’ she said, attempting a joke.

Ward smiled and nodded.

There were few people at the cinema. One of the advantages of being able to attend in the afternoons.

He found the screen he wanted and selected his seat. Two other people came in before the picture began but, thankfully, they sat at the back of the auditorium.

The darkness closed around Ward as the film began. And he welcomed it.

PRODUCTIVITY

It had happened again. Ward didn’t count the pages. He didn’t know whether to feel gratitude or bewilderment at what had happened. He merely glanced at the desk and its contents.

It was almost 5.30 p.m.

Mel was the first to hear the noise. She assumed it was just the beams of the house settling. Expanding with the constant downpour of rain. Nevertheless she stood motionless on the landing of the safe house and looked up.

The white ceiling was discoloured in places, the paintwork peeling. Especially around the entrance to the attic. There was a single rusty ring in the hatch.

A small pole with a metal hook could be used to pull it open. Doyle had clambered up there when they’d first arrived, and according to him all that was up there was some battered furniture, cardboard boxes full of old magazines and Betamax video tapes and a water tank. All covered by a layer of dust.

Mel wondered if the water tank was responsible for the noise. She stood still a moment longer then walked slowly towards the window at the end of the narrow landing.

Cupping her eyes to her face she peered out into the night. She could barely see ten yards in the gloom. The rain that had been hammering down for most of the day and night did little to help visibility. She knew that Joe Hendry was

somewhere out there. Doubtless

complaining about the weather and wondering how long it would take him to dry off in front of the two-bar electric fire that provided most of the heat inside the house.

Doyle too was wandering around in the gloom. He’d already made two treks around the building, on one occasion walking as far as the end of the dirt track that connected to the road beyond. Mel had accompanied him, watching as he scrutinised every single inch of hedgerow, checking for anywhere that might provide cover.

The house possessed three security lights on its battered walls but none of them were switched on.

Mel heard the sound again.This time she was certain that it came from above her.

She slid a hand to the butt of her pistol and pulled it gently from the polished leather. Again she stood motionless, ears alert.

The noise was definitely coming from the attic.

Mice?

‘Mel.’

The sound of her name startled her but she didn’t move, merely held up a hand to silence the source of the voice.

She beckoned Doyle up the stairs then raised one index finger as a sign for him to remain quiet.

The counter terrorist moved swiftly to join her.

Mel tapped her ear then pointed at the peeling paintwork above them.

Doyle looked at her quizzically.

She mouthed the words, ‘Something moving.’

Doyle pulled the 9mm automatic from its shoulder holster and nodded, his own gaze now fixed on the ceiling.

‘Everything all right,’ he called, raising his voice slightly.

‘Fine,’ she answered, also increasing the volume of her response.

From above there was another creak. Louder this time. It was a foot or so in front of him.

He raised the Beretta, following the sound with the barrel.

Another creak.

Mel also raised her pistol and trained it at the noise.

A louder creak.

Doyle opened fire. Six shots drilled into the ceiling blasting pieces of plaster and timber in all directions. Empty shell cases spun from the Beretta and landed with a metallic clink on the wooden floor next to the counter terrorist.

He waited a moment, the thunderous retorts still ringing in his ears, the smell of cordite stinging his nose.

Blood began dripping slowly through two of the holes. It puddled on the landing.

Doyle reached for the hooked pole and tugged at the rusty ring in the attic hatch. The body fell with a loud thump and lay before him.

The counter terrorist lowered his pistol and trained it on the corpse. There was a Browning Hi-power gripped in one fist.

One of Doyle’s bullets had hit the man in the thigh. Another in the stomach. A third in the neck just below the left earlobe.

‘How the hell did he get in?’ Mel wanted to know.

Doyle didn’t answer.

‘How did he know we were here?’ Mel persisted. ‘The only people who knew our location were the RUC

Doyle knelt beside the body and rifled through the dead man’s pockets, finally pulling out a wallet which he flipped open.

‘Call Cl Robinson,’ he said, his face set in hard lines. ‘I want that bastard here now.’

Doyle stood beside the body, watching as Chief Inspector Peter Robinson took in the scene. ‘Daniel Kane,’ he said, tossing the wallet at the RUC man. ‘Name

ring a bell?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doyle,’ Robinson protested.‘What you should be asking yourself is how he managed to get inside this bloody house.

You were meant to protect Leary. How the hell did Kane get in here?’

‘Perhaps he had a helping hand.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Oh come on, Robinson, don’t bullshit me.’ Doyle took a menacing step towards the CI.‘The only people who knew where Leary was going to be held were me and my team and two or three of your boys. Now I know that no one connected with me opened their gob so that narrows it down, doesn’t it?’

‘What the hell are you trying to say?’

‘That someone grassed us up. Somebody in your organisation gave Kane the whereabouts of this fucking safe house so that he could get inside and kill Leary. You’ve got a rat in your cellar, Robinson. You’d better find them and quick.’

That’s absurd.’

‘Is it? Then how did Kane know where Leary was?’

There’s nothing to link Kane and Leary.’

‘Leary’s brother was killed by Kane. Leary himself had murdered a number of Daniel Kane’s men. I’d call that a link, wouldn’t you, Chief Inspector? He emphasised the last two words with disdain.‘I read the files.’

Robinson exhaled deeply. There’s no proof he was tipped off as to Leary’s whereabouts.’

‘Give me a break,’ Doyle snapped.‘How big’s the Six Counties? And out of all that space, all those places, on the first night Leary’s in a safe house a member of a rival terrorist organisation just happens to stumble on this place. Fuck off. Someone pointed him in this direction. They might as well have put the fucking gun in his hand. For all I know, they did. And if it’s happened once, it’ll happen again.’

‘What do you intend to do?’

That’s my business.’

‘He’s still my prisoner, Doyle.’

‘Not any more. Not as long as you’ve got an informer working with you. From now on, I’ll decide where Leary’s kept. I was hired to make sure the bastard stayed alive long enough to supply the relevant info and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

‘It’s not up to you. You have to report to me and—’

‘Bullshit. We’re moving out of here tonight. I’ll make sure Leary shows me the sites of the ten graves. When he has, I’ll phone through their locations. When all ten are revealed I’ll give you a time and place where you can pick him up.’

‘You can’t do that,’ protested Robinson.

Doyle took a step towards the policeman. ‘Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,’ he hissed. This is my fucking job and from now on I do it my way.’ The counter terrorist walked to the top of the stairs then paused and looked back at Robinson. ‘If it’s any consolation I want Leary dead as much as you.’

‘Why should /want him dead?’ Robinson asked,swallowing hard.

‘Four years ago your daughter was killed in a bomb blast. Responsibility for that bomb was claimed by the Real IRA. A cell known to contain Declan Leary.

You tipped off Kane, didn’t you?’

There was a long silence.

‘How did you know about my daughter?’ Robinson said finally, his voice cracking.

1 did some checking. It’s part of the job. Did you really think that Kane was going to get past me?’

Robinson didn’t answer.

‘Don’t try to find us until this is over,’ Doyle said. He hurried off down the stairs.

Robinson continued to gaze down at the bullet-riddled body of Daniel Kane. He was still staring at it when he heard the car engine roar into life outside

the house.

It was another fifteen minutes before he walked slowly downstairs, crossed to the phone and dialled.

Joe Hendry eased his foot off the accelerator of the Astra and flicked the headlights on to full beam.The twin rays of white light cut through the darkness and the fine mist of drizzle but illuminated only hedges, trees and fields.

‘Are you sure we’re in the right place, Doyle?’ he asked.

There’s a left coming up,’ the counter terrorist told him. ‘About fifty yards ahead. Take it.’

‘Maybe you’re lost,’ Declan Leary offered from his position in the back seat next to Doyle.

‘Shut it, Leary,’ Doyle snapped without looking at him.

Hendry slowed down, found the turn and guided the car on to a bumpy road that was pitted and holed. The Astra lurched alarmingly as the driver struggled to keep control.

‘It’s like driving over the bloody Somme,’ he remarked, using the back of his hand to wipe some condensation from the windscreen.

There, just up ahead,’ Doyle said, pointing in the direction they were travelling.

There was a high wire fence stretching away on both sides of a heavily reinforced gate. Razor wire had been laid in rolls across the top of the fence, some of the wickedly sharp blades now rusted. Beyond the gate there were a dozen or more buildings. Grey, monolithic structures with gently sloping roofs.

‘What is it?’ Mel wanted to know.

‘An old army base,’ Doyle informed her. ‘It overlooks Lough Egish. It’s perfect for us.’

Leary looked ahead then back at Doyle.

The counter terrorist patted Hendry on the shoulder and the driver brought the car to a halt. Doyle clambered out and walked up to the gate. He pulled and, to his delight, found it unlocked. He waved Hendry through, the strong wind whipping his long, brown hair around his face. Doyle pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and strode in behind the car. The vehicle had stopped in front of the nearest Nissen hut.

Doyle pulled open the rear door and dragged Leary out.

‘I was expecting more luxurious surroundings,’ the Irishman smirked.

Doyle shoved him hard in the back, pushing him towards the hut, watching as he struggled to stay on his feet. He was finding it hard to keep his balance with the handcuffs pinning his arms behind his back.

The hut was also unlocked.

There’s a generator in that building, Joe,’ Doyle told Hendry.‘See if you can get it started. We’ll at least have some light.’

Hendry nodded and moved off in the direction indicated.

‘Won’t that attract attention?’ Mel wondered.

‘You can’t see this place from the road,’ Doyle assured her.‘You could have a firework display on the drill square and no one would notice.’

Mel led the way into the hut, recoiling immediately from the cloud of dust that enveloped her. ‘How long has it been empty?’ she coughed.

‘Eighteen months,’ Doyle said.

As he spoke one of the bare bulbs in the ceiling flickered orange then died.

It flared again, more brightly this time then gradually swelled into a purer white luminescence.

‘Well done, Joe,’ Doyle murmured. He crossed to the bank of switches on one wall and flicked them all on. Then he looked around the room.

Apart from a couple of broken plastic chairs it was empty. A carpet of dust covered everything.

‘Looks like we’re sleeping on the floor,’ the counter terrorist said.

‘I don’t know how long that generator’s going to run,’ said Hendry, walking into the hut. There’s not much fuel left. The army must have taken everything

with them when they left.’

‘We can always get extra,’ Mel interjected.‘And food as well.’

‘Hopefully we won’t have to worry about that for too long,’ Doyle said, turning his gaze towards Leary. ‘We’re only here until shithead gives us the locations of those ten graves. After that he’s not our responsibility any more.’

‘I said I’d tell you where they were and I will,’ Leary protested. That was the deal.’

‘You didn’t make any fucking deals with me.’

‘I’ll tell you where the graves are. I said I would.’

‘No, fuck that,’ Doyle hissed. ‘We’re not running around like headless chickens on your fucking say so. You’re not going to tell us where they are, you’re going to show us. Every one of them. And when we get to the locations, you’re going to dig up the bodies. Got it? You show me ten corpses and your part of the deal is fulfilled. You try to piss me about and I’ll put you in the fucking ground myself.’

Leary eyed the counter terrorist angrily.

There’s a shovel in the boot of the car,’ Doyle said. ‘You start digging tomorrow. And you’d better hope you can remember where all those poor bastards are planted.’

The stench was appalling. Mel put a hand to her nose and stepped back from the edge of the shallow grave.

Doyle merely stood impassively, hands dug deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. There was a cigarette screwed into one corner of his mouth.

The grave was less than three feet deep and the counter terrorist could only guess at how long its contents had been there.

The skeleton still wore its clothes. A sweatshirt. A thick anorak. Jeans. All rotting, just as their owner had done.

There were bullet holes in the coat. In the skull. Pieces of jawbone had come loose.

Leary looked up from the grave and tossed the shovel to one side.

‘Right?’ he said, sucking in lungfuls of the rancid air.

‘One down, nine to go,’ said the counter terrorist. He reached for his mobile phone and jabbed a number. He wandered back and forth waiting for it to be answered. When it finally was he spoke immediately. ‘Robinson? It’s Doyle.’

The RUC man wanted to know where they were.

‘Just listen to me,’ Doyle said. ‘You wanted bodies? You’ve got them. First one’s in a field off the A31, about two miles south of Milford. There’s woods on either side of the road. Send your forensics boys about fifty yards in.

They’ll find it. I’ll call the others in as we find them.’

Robinson wanted to know if Leary was co-operating.

‘All the way to a nice cosy five stretch,’ Doyle said. He drew on his cigarette one final time then tossed the butt at Leary. ‘We’re moving on.’

He switched the phone off.

They found two more bodies that first day.

Doyle lit a cigarette, drew on it then passed it to Mel. She accepted it gratefully and sank lower in the passenger seat of the Astra.

‘So this was your world, Doyle,’ she said, staring out of the windscreen.

About fifty feet from where the car was parked, Declan Leary, his clothes spattered with mud, was digging again. Ten or twelve yards away, leaning against an old barn, Joe Hendry stood with his arms crossed. He gazed at the grey sky, at Leary working away with his shovel and at the hills that rose steeply all around. Most of them were heavily wooded and the trees seemed to be clinging to the precipitous slopes with difficulty.

The farm that Leary had brought them to had been abandoned over a year earlier.The farmhouse and most of the outbuildings lay over five hundred yards away at the perimeter of the field in which they now found themselves.

‘My world,’ Doyle muttered. ‘What do you mean?’

‘People like Leary. Jobs like this.’

‘It was all I knew. All I wanted. I was good at it. I still am.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘We’re not that different, Mel. It’s just the surroundings.’

I’d take a hotel in Mayfair over a field in Ulster.’

Doyle chuckled. ‘I might have to agree with you on that one,’ he smiled.

‘Why did you want to get back to it so badly?’

‘I told you. It’s all I know. What made you want to come with me?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ she confessed.

Again Doyle smiled.

‘And when it’s over?’ Mel asked.‘What then? Leary’s only got to show us two more graves and that’s it. Job done. What do you do then? What do any of us do?’

‘It’s up to you, what you do. I’m sure Cartwright would be more than happy to have you and Joe back working for him.’

‘What about you?’

‘I belong here, Mel.You asked me what I’ll do when it’s over. That’s simple.

It’s never over.’

‘You sound happy about that.’

‘What am I supposed to do? Retire? Sit around in a cardigan and slippers for the rest of my fucking life waiting for the day when I can’t take it any more and I decide to chew the barrel of a 9mm?’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Maybe somebody like Leary’ll catch me out. Perhaps I’ll be the one in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere. But I can’t give up. I don’t want to give up.’

‘Do you love it so much?’

‘Perhaps I’m just scared of what I’ll be without it.

I’ve had a taste of that and I didn’t like it.’

‘You were great in the security business, Doyle. Why not come back to it?’

He shook his head. ‘Like you said, Mel,’ he told her. ‘This is my world.’

‘And you’re happy here?’

‘I never said that. I just said it was where I belonged.’

‘Are you happy?’ She glanced at him.

All he could do was shrug. To be happy, you have to want something, don’t you?’ Doyle murmured.

‘And what do you want?’

‘I have absolutely no fucking idea. What about you?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘So think now. You’ve got the time. Husband? Kids? What would make you happy?’

‘I wanted a career in the police.That was taken from me. I found something else I could do and I enjoy it. But ask me where I want to be in ten years’

time and I couldn’t tell you.’

‘If I last another ten years it’ll be a fucking achievement,’ Doyle grunted.

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Why should it? If I don’t know what I’m living for then I’m hardly likely to be scared about the prospect of dying, am I? Besides, so many doctors have told me how lucky I am to be alive now. How I should thank God I can still walk. All that other bullshit. I’ve got scars on every part of my fucking body and I’m supposed to thank God that I’m lucky. I should have been dead long before now. Sometimes I think it might have saved some pain if I had been.’

So much pain.

‘Pain for who?’

‘Me. Others too. The only thing I’ve ever learned from this job is that you should never get close to anyone. They might not be around for too long.’

They locked stares for a moment then Mel returned to gazing out of the windscreen. ‘Do you know what frightens me about dying? That no one will come to my funeral. That the only one at the graveside would be the priest. I’ve got no family. No close friends. I don’t think anyone would miss me if I died tomorrow’

The counter terrorist sucked hard on his cigarette and tossed the butt out of the open window. ‘Join the fucking club,’ said Doyle, with an air of finality.

‘I told you we weren’t that different, Mel.’

‘Doyle.’ The shout came from Hendry.

Both the counter terrorist and Mel clambered out of the car and began walking towards their companion.

‘It’s another body,’ the driver called, gesturing into the grave.

‘Two more to go,’ Mel said.

Doyle nodded.

‘Then what?’ she persisted.

Doyle didn’t answer.

A LIGHT IN THE BLACK

Ward finished numbering the pages then sat back and scanned what had been printed. Again he felt that schizophrenic feeling of joy and bewilderment.

Where had the pages come from? Who had written them?

He took a deep breath and decided to return to the house. Perhaps he might be able to eat something. Perhaps.

He promised himself he would return an hour later.

When he did, he found more.

We’re just about finished with you,’ said Doyle, staring at Leary.

The Irishman was covered in mud. It was smeared on his cheeks. Even in his hair.

‘Last two locations,’ Doyle demanded.

‘I thought you wanted to see them,’ Leary protested.

‘We’re going to see them,’ Doyle assured him. ‘You and I will go to one.’ He turned to look at his companions. ‘Mel, you and Joe take the other one.’

‘Why split up now, Doyle?’ Mel wanted to know.

‘I’ve got business to discuss with this piece of shit. There’s no need for you two to be there when that happens.’

Mel held Doyle’s gaze for a moment then shook her head.

The counter terrorist turned back to face Leary. ‘Locations of the last two graves,’ he snapped.

‘One’s buried in some woods near Mountnorris,’ Leary said wearily. The other one’s in a church at Whitecross.’

‘Which church?’ Mel asked.

‘St Angela’s. It’s in a crypt under the nave.’

‘No bullshit?’ snapped Doyle, leaning closer to the Irishman.

‘Listen, I’m as anxious to get away from you as you are from me. Why would I lie now?’

‘Those locations aren’t more than ten miles apart,’ Doyle mused.‘Joe. Drop us at the one in Mountnorris. The woods will be nice and quiet for me and this prick to have a chat.’ He looked at Leary.‘You and Mel check out the one in Whitecross. If it’s kosher, let me know then come back and pick me up. I’ll ring both locations through then we’ll drop this fucker off somewhere the RUC

can pick him up.’

Hendry nodded.

The Astra sped on through the gathering dusk.

Doyle checked his watch. 6.04 p.m.

Mel and Hendry should be at the church in Whitecross soon. They’d left Doyle and his captive more than twenty minutes earlier. The counter terrorist had been following Leary through increasingly dense woods ever since. He walked five or six feet behind him, carrying the shovel like an oversized club. He prodded Leary in the back with it and the Irishman continued leading the way.

He was still handcuffed.

Birds returning to their nests were black arrowheads against the sky. Clouds were forming into menacing banks and Doyle thought he felt the first drops of rain in the air.

‘Who was he?’ Doyle wanted to know.

‘Who was who?’

‘This one? The poor bastard buried in here.’

‘Brit. Proddie.Tout. How the fuck do I know?’

They continued on through the trees, the gloom made more palpable by the canopy of branches above them.

‘What about the one in Whitecross?’ Doyle persisted.

Leary didn’t answer.

‘I’m talking to you, you cunt,’ Doyle snarled, pushing the Irishman hard in the back.

He fell forward, catching his head on a fallen branch hard enough to break the skin. He rolled over, looking up at Doyle. ‘There’s no body in the church,’ he hissed.

‘I told you not to fuck me around,’ Doyle said angrily.

There’s something there but it’s not a body.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘It’s an arms dump. The organisation hid weapons and explosives there. It’s booby-trapped.’

Doyle’s grey eyes blazed. He dropped the shovel and pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster, pointing it at Leary.

‘As soon as they open it, it’ll explode,’ the Irishman continued. ‘You’ll be able to bury them both in the same matchbox. I knew you’d prefer to get me alone in the woods in case we were interrupted in the church. Looks like you lose again, Doyle.’

Doyle lowered the Beretta slightly. He shot Leary once in the right kneecap.

Moving at a speed in excess of twelve hundred feet a second, the heavy-grain slug shattered the patella as if it were porcelain. It tore through the leg, ripping away cruciate ligaments and muscle.

Leary screamed in agony.

‘How do they disarm it?’ Doyle said, kneeling beside the wounded Irishman. He pressed the barrel of the automatic against the younger man’s chin. ‘How?’

They can’t,’ Leary said through gritted teeth.

Doyle fired again.The second shot pulverised Leary’s left kneecap.

His screams echoed through the woods, mingling with the thunderous retort of the pistol.

The counter terrorist thrust a hand in his jacket, reaching for his mobile. He stabbed in Mel’s number and waited.

Leary was still screaming. Doyle spun round and kicked him hard in the face.

It shut him up for long enough.

‘Hello.’

‘Mel, listen to me,’ Doyle said breathlessly.‘Don’t go inside that fucking church.’

‘Doyle… can’t hear… breaking up,’ Mel said, her voice fading.

‘Don’t go inside the fucking church,’ Doyle bellowed into the mouthpiece.

‘Still… hear … saying …’

The counter terrorist looked around him.

The trees. There are too many trees. That’s what was fucking up the signal.

Get back to the road.

He looked down at Leary who lay motionless on the mossy floor of the forest.

The road was two hundred yards away.

You’ll never make it

Doyle turned and ran as he’d never run in his life.

As he ran, Doyle ducked to avoid low branches, crashed through bushes, ignored twigs that scratched at his face. And, all the time, the road seemed to be miles away from him.

The breath seared in his lungs.

You’re not going to make it.

He was fifty yards from the road now.

‘Stay out of the church,’ he shouted into the phone as he ran. There was still a deafening hiss of static.

‘Mel,’ he roared.

Thirty yards. ‘Mel, can you hear me?’

‘Breaking up … to go in now …’

Twenty yards. ‘Don’t go inside the church,’ Doyle bellowed frantically.

‘Off now … call you back … Leary was talking about …’

Ten yards. He crashed through the hedge, almost sprawled on to the road.

‘Mel, keep away from the church,’ he shouted.

There was no sound at the other end.

Doyle switched off. Dialled again. Waited.

‘Come on. Come on.’

No answer. He tried Hendry’s phone. It rang twice.

‘Answer it,’ Doyle snarled, his eyes bulging madly.

‘Yeah.’

‘Joe, get out of there now. It’s a set-up.’

‘What?’ Hendry said, his voice echoing.

They must be inside the church.

‘Leary’s fucked us over. The crypt is booby-trapped. Don’t open it,’ Doyle gasped.

He heard Mel’s voice in the background. Something unintelligible.

There was a creak. A sound that almost split his eardrum.

Then silence.

Doyle dropped the mobile back into his pocket and turned back towards the woods. He moved slowly, retracing his steps, his face set in hard lines.The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw was pulsing angrily.

It took him fifteen minutes to reach the place where he’d left Leary. The Irishman was still lying face down, both his legs shattered. It looked as if he’d been dipped in red paint from the knees down.

He walked up to Leary and kicked him hard in the ribs. Hard enough to roll him over on to his back.

Doyle took out his mobile again and dialled a number.

He recognised the voice on the other end. ‘Robinson. It’s Doyle,’ he said quietly.

‘Doyle … can hardly hear you … breaking up,’ the Cl told him.

‘Listen carefully.’

‘What … hell is going on?’ the RUC man wanted to know.‘Been an explosion … church in Whitecross. All hell’s… loose.’

‘I know about the explosion. You’ll find two bodies in the church. My back-up team. Leary double-crossed us.’

‘Where is he?1

‘Here, with me.’

Thank God for that.’

‘I need to ask you something. What was your daughter’s name?’

‘What?’

‘Your daughter? The one who was killed in that bomb blast. What was her name?’

‘Angela. Why?’

‘Next time you go to visit her grave tell her everything’s all right.’

‘Doyle, what … talking about? You’re not making any sense and I can hardly hear you …’

‘I shouldn’t have killed Kane.’

‘Doyle … say again …’

‘I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.’

The counter terrorist switched off the phone. He looked down at Leary impassively.

The Irishman tried to hold his gaze but was forced to close his eyes due to the unbearable pain.

Doyle shot him five times.

He stood there for a moment longer then turned and trudged back towards the road.

LONDON; TWO DAYS LATER:

Sean Doyle held the crystal tumbler in his hand and studied the amber liquid in it before taking a mouthful. The brandy burned its way to his stomach.

‘Perhaps we should have had a toast first,’ said Sir Anthony Pressman, raising his own glass.‘I’ll be the first to admit that your methods are somewhat irregular, Doyle, but they seem to get results.’

Jonathan Parker glanced at Pressman then at Doyle as he sipped his drink.

Sunshine was streaming through the windows of Parker’s office at the CTU’s Hill Street headquarters. Motes of dust turned lazily in the air.

‘Sinn Fein seemed fairly happy with the way you handled Leary,’ said Pressman.

‘I’m glad they approve,’ Doyle said disdainfully.‘l saved them the job of killing him. What did they have to say about the graves he showed us?’

That’s a matter that will have to be discussed in the future,’ Pressman said.

‘Yeah, I bet it fucking will,’ grunted Doyle getting to his feet.

‘Most of those responsible for the murders are no longer associated with that organisation or the Provisional IRA,’ Pressman continued. The recovery of the bodies was a cosmetic exercise anyway. Designed to help the families of the victims as much as anything else. It’s just rather unfortunate about your colleagues.’

‘Shit happens,’ Doyle said flatly, moving towards the door.

Pressman rose too.

‘There’s a message you can give to Sinn Fein when you see them,’ the counter terrorist said. The same one I want to give to you.’

Pressman smiled efficiently.

Doyle caught him with a perfect right hook. The powerful blow knocked the politician off his feet and sent him crashing backwards into the sofa, his nose broken, blood spilling down his perfectly laundered shirt and tie.

‘Get out,’ Parker said quietly.

‘I was on my way,’ Doyle told him.

And he was gone.

THE END

PARTING OF THE WAYS

The end. Ward looked at the two words. To him they may as well have been glowing in neon.

The end.

Who had decided this was the end? When had he completed this novel? This novel he could remember barely a third of.

He swallowed hard and laid the last of the pages on the pile.

It was over.

The book was finished.

As he sat at his desk, he found that his hands were shaking.

AN ALL-SEEING EYE

As before, Ward peered through the viewfinder of the camcorder and trained it on his desk.

The night was humid and more than once he had to wipe the lens with the corner of his handkerchief. Perspiration was running down his back. He could feel it like a clammy sheath on the nape of his neck.

He glanced at his watch. 11.36 p.m.

He took one more look, then satisfied he had done everything he could, he pressed the red record button.

The small cassette began to turn its spools. Ward watched it for a moment then made his way down the stairs. He locked the office door and wandered slowly back towards the house.

The sudden breeze that sprang up was a welcome cooling touch on his hot skin and he stood for a moment, enjoying the temporary respite from the cloying humidity.

It was a second or two before he noticed the smell. A rank, pungent odour that made him cough.

Ward put a hand to his nose and stared in the direction from which the odour was coming.

Carried on the breeze, it seemed to be wafting up from one of the darker parts of the garden.

At opposite corners there were two large and very old oak trees. He had guessed, when he bought the place, around three hundred years old. One was close to his office, the other about a hundred yards away towards the wooden fence that formed one boundary of his property.

It was from there that the stench was coming.

Ward took a step towards it, trying to hold his breath.

There were only two lights on inside the house so very little illumination spilled into the garden. It was almost impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.

Ward stood still once more, trying not to gag.

He heard sounds of movement in the high blackberry-and-laurel hedges at the bottom of the garden. Cats sometimes prowled there and he’d seen hedgehogs and even squirrels in the past. But none of them smelt like this.

He knew the stench. Knew it but …

Rotten meat. The realisation hit him as palpably as the vile odour itself.

This was what was filling his nostrils with so noxious a scent.

During his days as a student he’d had a summer job on a farm in Normandy and two of the cows had been attacked and killed by gypsies’ dogs. Their carcasses hadn’t been discovered for two days. Left to putrefy in the blistering sun, they had swelled and bloated like corpulent balloons.

Ward could remember finding them in one of the fields. Smelling their rankness.The foul stench had never left him and he knew that was what he was sampling now.

The smell seemed to grow stronger. He expected to hear the sound of buzzing flies.

There was more rustling from the hedge. Ward wasn’t sure whether to move towards it or head back into the house. There was a torch in one of the drawers near the back door and he wondered about fetching it. Shining it in the direction of the smell and noises.

For brief moments he wondered if it could be a fox. If it was, best not to get too close. They spread rabies.

A badger? He shook his head. His house wasn’t that close to the countryside.

And, even if the nocturnal visitor proved to be any of these creatures, that didn’t account for the rancid stench.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully then wandered towards the back door. The smell was making his head spin.

He’d just put his hand on the door handle when he heard more movement. Louder.

Closer.

Ward pulled open the door and fumbled quickly for the torch. He stepped back into the garden and flicked it on, allowing the cold, white light to cut through the blackness.

‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Ward, the torch quivering in his grasp.

For fleeting seconds the beam caught and held the source of the sounds.

Ward took a step back. He blinked hard. The shape in the cold light was still there.

Squat, low to the ground. Carrying all its weight on its front legs. Legs that were bowed but extremely powerful. Like an ape.

It seemed to have hair on most of the upper part of its body. Glistening black in the torchlight.

Then it moved. Moved like lightning.

Ward swung the beam back and forth. There were others. He counted three.

All, it seemed, anxious to escape the probing glare of the torch.

They scattered in all directions. And when they ran they made a sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A sound that resembled a deep retching noise. As if they were vomiting something up from their seething bellies.

Ward hurried back inside and slammed the door, his breath coming in gasps. His head was spinning.

He crossed to the light switch and hit it hard. Security lights illuminated the garden. He scanned the area for any signs of movement. Nothing.

Ward stood there for what seemed like an eternity then he switched off the lights and ensured the back door was firmly locked and bolted. Once those tasks had been completed, he padded into the sitting room.

He poured himself a drink and sat down, breathing heavily.

It was barely five minutes before he heard a knock on the front door.

IN DARKNESS

For a moment Ward wondered if this was another product of his disintegrating mind.

Smells that didn’t exist. Sights that could only be the product of a furtive, drink-fuelled and troubled imagination. Visions that could not be explained.

His senses seemed to be conspiring against him. Could his hearing have joined the alliance?

He waited. The knock came again. Louder and more insistent.

He put down his glass and wandered out into the hall, peering through the spy-hole in the door. The motion-triggered security light in the porch illuminated a figure standing before him.

He swallowed hard then slid the chain back and unlocked the door.

‘Hi, Chris,’ said Jenny. Five-foot-two Jenny wearing the long black coat.

Jenny with the streaked brown hair. Jenny the prostitute.

He stepped back and ushered her inside.

‘I wasn’t expecting an appointment so late,’ she told him, slipping off her coat. She was wearing a pair of knee-length boots, denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

‘Is it a problem?’ he wanted to know.

‘No. Some customers …’ she coughed and corrected herself, ‘I mean, clients, call at any time of the day or night.’

He stood looking at her.

‘Do you want me to go upstairs?’ she said, almost apologetically.

In that moment she reminded Ward of a naughty child waiting to be sent to her room.

He shook his head and nodded in the direction of the sitting room. ‘Go through,’ he told her.

She hesitated a moment then did as he instructed. ‘It’s a beautiful room,’ she said, looking round.

‘Drink?’ he said, ignoring her observation. He handed her a brandy and coke.

‘You remembered my favourite.’

‘Listen, I need to ask you a few things.’

‘You just want to talk this time?’ She sat down next to him and put one hand on his thigh. ‘If you just want me to talk then that’s fine,’ Jenny continued.

‘Whatever you want, Chris.’ She slid her hand higher, towards his groin.

‘Listen to me, will you?’ he snapped. He got to his feet and refilled his glass.

‘You said I rang you the other day. A couple of days ago. I can’t remember exactly when. Something to do with you and another girl. What the fuck was that all about?’

‘Me and Claire. You rang and asked if I could bring another girl with me when I came.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ she chuckled.

‘What did I say?’ he snapped.

Her smile faded. ‘You asked me if I could arrange to bring another girl to your house. You wanted to watch us while we did each other. You said you might join in. You might just watch.’

‘And that was all I said?’

She looked puzzled.

‘How did I sound?’

‘Chris, I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Did I sound the same? The way I always sound. My voice.’ He sucked in a deep breath.‘This is fucking useless.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she protested. ‘I’m trying to help but—’

‘Could it have been someone pretending to be me? Someone imitating my voice?’

She shook her head. ‘Why would they want to do that?‘Jenny enquired.

‘That’s what I want to know.’

‘You rang me. You said you wanted me to come here and you said you wanted me to arrange to bring another girl too. You said you’d pay whatever it cost.

That’s what you said.’

Ward poured himself another drink and began pacing the sitting room slowly.

‘What about tonight?’ said Jenny finally. Her voice was hesitant, as if she was reluctant to break the oppressive silence.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you want me tonight?’

He stopped pacing and looked at her with something approaching contempt.

‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you?’ he muttered.

She finished her drink then made her way upstairs.

Ward followed a moment later.

UNEXPECTED VISIONS

There was blood everywhere. Ward woke up in it. He smelt it in his nostrils.

That acrid, coppery stench.

When he opened his eyes he saw it all over the walls. It had soaked into the duvet like ink into blotting paper. It was splashed on the carpet. There was even some on the ceiling.

He sat up on the bed and realised he was naked. His body was covered with the sticky, crimson fluid. Some had congealed. Some had the tacky texture of drying paint. His hair was matted with it. Barely an inch of his flesh was untouched by the red splatters.

Ward felt his stomach contract. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself from vomiting.

He ran his hands over his body, his eyes scanning the flesh. There were no cuts. This was not his blood.

He dragged himself off the bed, gazing at his reflection in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. He ran a hand over his face and smeared more of the crimson fluid over his cheeks.

Ward turned towards the bathroom, blundered in and turned the shower on to full power. He didn’t even wait for the jets to become warm but dived straight beneath them, anxious to wash away this foul coating that covered him like a second skin. The cold water hit his skin like pinpricks and he looked down to see the blood swirling away down the plughole.

All the time he stood beneath the spray he forced himself to think what might have happened. He could remember nothing. Nothing from the previous night.

Nothing that might have caused this carnage.

He washed the last of the blood from his body then reached for a towel and wrapped it around himself.

Again he tried to think. As he stepped back into the bedroom he saw something lying beside the bed. It was a piece of material. Like everything else in the room, it was soaked in blood.

Ward turned it between his shaking hands and realised that it was lace. Once it had been white. Now it bore the indelible colour of life fluid. But whose?

He rubbed the material between thumb and forefinger. The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. He was holding a pair of knickers.

He touched the smooth gusset. Pulled gently on the elastic around the waist area. The clothing looked like a bandage that had been pressed to an arterial wound. A cloth plug attempting to staunch an unstoppable flow of blood.

He shook his head. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, still holding the knickers.

Beneath the stained counterpane he spotted something else. It was a knee-length boot.

Ward reached under the bed and pulled it out. The leather was new. He smelt it. Held it close to him as a child might grip a comforter.

There was a sock inside it. That too was also covered in blood.

There was something familiar about this boot. Something …

A vision drifted into his mind. Of a girl with streaked brown hair. A girl in knee-length leather boots, denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

Jenny.

The boot was hers. So were the knickers. By implication, so was the blood.

Ward swallowed hard. What the fuck had happened in here last night? Where was Jenny?

Questions raced through his mind. He knew he had no answer to any of them. He sat naked beside the bed, surrounded by the blood and he tried to think. He remembered answering the door to her. Remembered giving her a drink. Then, after that, nothing. Just empty blackness where his memory should be.

Ward got to his feet and hurried out of the room, heading for his bedroom. He snatched up the phone and dialled Jenny’s number. It rang three times.

He knew she shared a flat with another girl. If she was there she might know where Jenny was.

The phone still rang.

‘Come on,’ Ward gasped.

Finally it was answered.

‘Hello,’ said Ward quickly.

‘Hello,’ said the voice at the other end.

‘I want to speak to Jenny’

‘Who is this?’

‘Just let me speak to her, will you? I want to arrange an appointment to see her.’

‘She’s not here at the moment.’

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know. She was out all last night and—’

‘When will she be back?’

‘Well, she said she’d be back this morning but—’

‘What’s her mobile number?’

‘I can make the appointment for you if you like.’

‘No, just give me the number.’

‘Hang on a minute.’

He heard rustling, papers being shifted.

‘I’ve got the number. Have you got a pen?’

‘Just give it to me,’ he snapped.

The girl had barely finished speaking when Ward slammed the phone down. He lifted the receiver again then dialled Jenny’s mobile number. And waited. And …

There was a high-pitched ringing inside the room. Ward dropped the phone and ducked down on to the blood-spattered carpet. The ringing was coming from beneath the bed. He reached under and pulled out Jenny’s mobile.

She had been here. No doubt. But where the hell was she now?

Ward dropped the phone and sat motionless on the floor.

SEARCH

It took him over five hours to clean the bedroom. Wearing just a pair of shorts, he slaved inside what had become a charnel house, washing and scraping away the crimson fluid. He carried the duvet downstairs and shoved it into the washing machine.

The initial clean-up was followed by more detailed ablutions and Ward removed the worst of the bloodstains from the carpet, curtains and furniture.

The scraps of clothing and the boot he saved.

It was approaching five in the afternoon when he finally collapsed, exhausted, on to his bed. His body was sheathed in sweat and he had a raging headache.

He needed to go downstairs and take a couple of Nurofen but he just lay staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning.

It was another hour before he finally hauled himself upright.

Thirty minutes more before he remembered the camcorder inside the office.

NO WORDS OF WISDOM

W

ard unlocked the office door and trudged

slowly up the stairs. Four pieces of paper had spewed from the printer. He approached them and picked each up in turn.

THE

DESERVED

CUNT

TO die

there was no other way

A REVELATION

Ward stared at the four pages for what seemed like an eternity then he laid them carefully with the rest of the manuscript on his desk.

He crossed to the camcorder and took it from its tripod.

The cassette had been used up. All ninety minutes of it. He had to see what the machine had caught on film. Before he left the office, he switched off both the monitor and the printer.

FILM SHOW

Ward poured himself another glass of Jack Daniel’s while he waited for the tape to rewind. Once it was ready, he changed the necessary cables and leads that connected the camcorder to the television then pressed the play button.

He sat back in his seat and exhaled deeply.

There was a second or two of blank leader, then a startling flash of black and white across the screen.

Ward swallowed what was left in his glass.

The picture on his television screen came into focus.

He sat forward in his seat.

What he saw before him wasn’t his office. It was the spare bedroom of his house.

He swallowed hard and studied the images before him.

Jenny was tied to a wooden chair. She was naked. The bonds that held her securely in place were strips of sheet. One around each ankle and one around each wrist. She was wearing a blindfold. Also made of sheeting.

The camera panned slowly from her perfectly pedicured feet, up the smooth curve of her calves to her slim thighs. It paused at the neatly trimmed triangle of her

pubic hair then continued to rise until it came to her breasts. The nipples were already hard and prominent.

Further it moved. Up the hollow of her neck then to her face. She was smiling.

Ward moved closer to the screen, his hands shaking.

He could see her lips moving but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He reached for the TV remote and increased the sound. She had stopped speaking now.

He saw her clothes scattered around the bedroom. Some on the bed. Others on the floor.

‘Are you ready?’ The voice he heard on the tape was his own.

It came from off-camera.

The gaze of the camcorder was still riveted on Jenny.

His own image stepped into shot. Naked.

He knelt between her spread thighs and rubbed his hands over the smooth flesh before pushing two fingers into her vagina.

Jenny moaned expertly.

Then he withdrew the digits and concentrated on her breasts, massaging them, turning the nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

Again she moaned with practised accomplishment.

Ward watched himself stand up. Saw his throbbing erection as he paused before her. Then he stepped out of shot again.

‘Don’t tease,’ Jenny said, still smiling.

When he stepped back into shot he was holding a knife. It was at least a foot long. Serrated and wickedly pointed.

Ward shook his head as he watched the video, transfixed by what he saw.

The image on the screen moved towards Jenny and again stood between her open legs.

‘Take this blindfold off, Chris,’ Jenny said. ‘I like to see what you’re doing.’

On screen he moved the blade to within inches of her throat.

‘Chris,’ she persisted, her voice soft and coaxing. ‘Let me see you.’

Ward tried to swallow but his throat was chalk dry.

On screen, the knife was practically touching the flesh of her neck now.

‘Open your mouth,’ the on-screen Ward told her.

Jenny did as he instructed. She licked her lips exaggeratedly.

He touched the blade to her tongue.

Her smile faded. ‘What’s that?’ she said.

They were the last two words she uttered.

SNUFF MOVIE

Ward watched as the images on the screen suddenly became more animated.

The knife was driven forward with incredible power. He saw it slice through Jenny’s tongue. Saw most of that appendage severed. Saw the blood erupt into the air.

She tried to scream but the blood gushing back into her throat made the noise little more than a liquid gurgle.

The knife sped back and forth with incredible speed and ferocity.

Through her cheek. It was torn free, ripping the flesh.

Into her neck. More blood bursting from the wound.

Then into her chest. Once, twice. One breast was practically severed.

Four, five times. Every cut was deep.

Blood spurted madly into the air but the hacking and slashing continued.

The blade was driven into her belly and pulled upwards. A slippery, seething mass of intestines spilled from the eviscerated body. He saw the green of bile as the gall bladder was hacked in half by another frenzied cut.

A nipple was severed and fell to the floor.

The blade was drawn across the throat from side to side. Ear to ear. The throat opened and yawned like a blood-filled mouth.

And still the stabbing went on.

Several deep wounds were inflicted on the thighs. One severed a femoral artery and blood sprayed several feet into the air.

Another buried the blade, handle deep, into Jenny’s vagina like some lethal, metallic penis.

She made no sound after the first five or six cuts. The only noises audible on the tape were the liquid sounds of blood spurting or flesh being hacked and then the soft hiss as her sphincter muscle collapsed. Faeces and urine mingled with the blood that was already soaking into the carpet.

Ward watched with his eyes bulging.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty more devastating incisions. Unnecessary. Life had long since left her body along with most of the blood it had contained.

Finally he removed the blindfold and, almost carefully, plunged the knife into first one eye then the other.

Left it stuck in the right socket.

Glistening.

Christopher Ward turned away from the screen, his stomach contracting. For long moments he was sure he was going to vomit but the feeling gradually passed.

It was another five minutes before he could bring himself to look at the screen again.

AFTERMATH

Ward reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured himself a full glass and drank it in two massive gulps.

He drank until he passed out.

OBLIVION

Ward didn’t wake until after one that morning. He stared at the now-blank television screen, rolled on to his back and blacked out once again.

Life sometimes seems so pointless. What is the reason for it? What is the reason for our being? Scholars throughout the ages have laboured over the question and none have come to a satisfactory conclusion. I myself have often wondered what the true nature of life and being is but they are fleeting thoughts in a world too preoccupied with relevances more tangible than anything so ethereal. Why would any man want to devote his life to discovery

of the object of being? Of being on this planet and in this life. How incredibly supercilious of man to imagine, for one moment, that he is the only inhabitant of this world. There are many worlds about which mankind has no understanding. The world inside a man’s mind is the most uncharted territory ever. No one fully understands, nor will they ever, the workings of the human mind. What some desire others find abhorrent. What some find beauteous, others may barely countenance. So many contradictions within the mind of man and none will ever be truly and irrevocably solved.

Take the question of morality. Who is to say “what is moral? By whose criteria are we to judge this question? That of God?

The morality embodied within those commandments that the Bible speaks so proudly of? Those ten rules designed for destruction. Rules that man is incapable of keeping. God issued those rules knowing that those he had created were unable to uphold them. God is a trickster. God wishes his children to fall by the wayside because if they do then they call on him with even greater volume. Their prayers grow more desperate and they rely upon their deities to an even greater extent. A vengeful God. A caring God. The God of cancer and war. The Lord of child abuse and illness. The Holy Spirit of madness and destruction. The Trinity of suffering.

In every man there is the capacity for evil and yet has anyone ever truly defined the meaning of that word? Is it evil to kill? Is it evil to steal? No.

I feel it is not. If a man has the strength to commit any act, no matter how depraved then he should be applauded for his honesty. There is a purity in the act of anyone who knows he is answerable to no one but himself. The law is unimportant. Man must live by the law he creates for himself. He must live by a code of honour that he himself invents, not that handed down to him by the church, society or the masses. Man’s biggest crime is to lose his identity.

Without it he is nothing and that identity is defined by a man’s actions. Not as they are perceived by the world at large but by himself. Once that code of behaviour has been established, one that is peculiar to each individual, then its rules and parameters must not be broken for the retribution that accompanies such a transgression is limitless.

STRANGE WORDS

Christopher Ward read the words but they made no sense to him. He sat at his desk and scanned the two sheets endlessly.

The only thing he knew was that the handwriting was not his.

DILEMMA

Christopher Ward sat staring at the blank monitor before him then, as if a switch had been thrown somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he typed: 1. Where is the girl?

2. Did I kill her?

3. Who wrote the words I found today?

4. Hallucinations?

He underlined the last one three times.

5. If I killed the girl, where did I hide the body?

6. What would have made me kill her in the first place?

Ward sighed almost painfully and looked at what he’d typed. He picked up the two handwritten pages he’d found in the office that morning and re-read them.

When he’d finished, he placed them gently on the desk to his right, next to the box of printer paper he kept there.

He got to his feet and crossed to one of his bookshelves. He selected a Dictionary of Psychology and flicked through the pages.

‘Amnesia,’ he murmured to himself as he found the entry. He read it quickly then replaced the book on the shelf. There was nothing worthwhile there.

Nothing that helped him.

He switched the monitor off and made his way down the stairs, locking the office door behind him.

Inside the house it was cool, almost chilly, and he shivered as he wandered through into the study. He switched on the computer there and waited. No point in checking e-mails. No one ever sent them any more. He went straight to the

Internet and tapped in: Short-Term Memory Loss.

The computer buzzed and whirred. Ward got to his feet and padded back into the sitting room where he retrieved a bottle of Glenfiddich and a clean glass. He carried these back into the study and sat down at the computer once again.

A series of different coloured images appeared before him. He placed his hand on the mouse and waited.

Search Results: 11 matches found

2 in symptoms and conditions 1 in special topics 3 in medical abstracts 5 in drugs

1. Memory loss

2. Stress in childhood

3. Post-cardiac defibrillation

4. Zopiclone (systemic)

5. Temozolomide (systemic)

6. Zaleplon (systemic)

7. Zolpidem (systemic)

8. Dronabinol (systemic)

9. The nature of early memory

10. Memories lost and found — part II

11. Acute traumatic brain injury in amateur boxing Ward scanned what was before him then clicked on ‘The nature of early memory’.

He read quickly then took a gulp of his whisky and shook his head.

He clicked on ‘Memories lost and found’. He read that more slowly, occasionally reading aloud.

‘There are different kinds of memory,’ he read. ‘Declarative or explicit memory includes learning of facts … culture of victimisation … may cause patients to deny responsibility for their problems … memories can contain varying elements of truth and distortion.’

He sat back in his seat and drank more whisky. In less than an hour, he’d finished the whole bottle.

It eventually becomes impossible to separate what constitutes reality and fantasy. One passes over into another with such ease that to discern their individuality is almost futile. The fine line which is trodden between the world of the imagination and the everyday world becomes indistinct. Sometimes this is a desirable state of affairs but, more often than not, it signals the refusal of the mind to accept reality. It chooses instead to retreat into fantasy. It is a world more comfortably inhabited. In such a state, what was recognised previously as catharsis becomes prophetic. The mingling of worlds is amplified to such a degree that it may be possible to influence the outcome of that which had previously been subject to the whims of fate. And with that comes responsibility. One that does not always sit easily with those who possess it.

I seek a knowledge that others have sought but failed to find. I seek with a ferocity some find disturbing. With a single-mindedness which produces confrontation, but then, what is life but a series of conflicts? Without conflict, life is worthless. Without confrontation, man is nothing. Only from confrontation can true knowledge come. The battle is fought inside the mind to begin with but then it evolves into a more tangible fight. With the passing of time, one learns to thrive on conflict, to seek it. To welcome it.

How tedious to pass the days in silent subservience. How much better to confront. To challenge. To triumph. For without the pleasure of triumph there is no sense in entering into a conflict. One should only do so with the express purpose of leaving it as the victor. Defeat is something to be despised. To be ridiculed. Those who accept it are to be similarly loathed and treated with the contempt one would reserve for lesser beings.

But victory can be viewed in many different ways and from many different aspects. The true nature of triumph is again a personal matter. Man measures his victories against others. Only a man who values victory above all things is worthy to retain his place in the natural order. There are no aspects of defeat that are tolerable or worthwhile. The single overriding factor in the

mind of any man should be to stand unchallenged atop the mountain of ambition he has seen fit to climb. To fall short of that summit is to fail. To fail is to show weakness and weakness is the most vile and contemptuous attribute that any man can be cursed with.

are

There

SALVATION

Ward placed the five pages to one side and slumped forward on his desk. He was drifting off to sleep when he heard a loud noise away to his left. It took him a few seconds to realise that the noise was a car horn. A little more time to work out that the sound was coming from the driveway of his own house.

He got to his feet and crossed to one of the velux windows of his office. By standing on a chair he could just make out the bonnet of a car pointing towards the house. Another moment and he saw a figure walk around the vehicle, lean through the open driver’s door and hit the hooter three more times.

Ward blinked hard. He was sure he recognised the figure.

Martin Connelly walked towards the front door of the house, disappearing from Ward’s view.

Ward moved away from the window and stumbled towards the stairs. He gripped the banister to prevent himself falling then finally blundered out into the garden and headed for the tall, wooden gate that led out into the drive.

‘Martin,’ he called.

Connelly heard him and hurried over, slowing his pace as he drew nearer.

‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured the agent, his eyes widening. ‘What the hell’s happened here?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ward wanted to know. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’ve left God knows how many messages on your answering machine. You haven’t returned any of the calls.’

‘So what else is new?’

‘The last time we spoke was over ten days ago, Chris. What have you been doing? Why didn’t you answer the calls?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Ward said and he laughed.

The sound raised the hairs on the back of Connelly’s neck.

‘You look terrible,’ he said.

‘Thanks. You drove from London to tell me that?’

‘Can I come in?’ Connelly asked. ‘I need to speak to you, Chris.’

‘Actually, there’s something I need to show you,‘Ward confessed. ‘Come into the office.’

Connelly followed the author up the stairs, recoiling from the smell of body odour that hung in the air.

There were several flies buzzing around inside the office, one of them occasionally landing on a pile of rotting tea bags by the sink.

‘The book,’ said Ward, indicating the manuscript. ‘The book no fucker wants.’

He laughed again. A humourless, empty sound. ‘And this.’ He passed the handwritten pages to Connelly.

The agent took them and sat down on the chair near the window. He read them quickly, a frown creasing his forehead.‘I don’t get it,’ he said finally, offering the pages back to Ward.

‘Neither do I,’ Ward told him.

Again Connelly shook his head.

‘I didn’t write it,’ Ward said flatly.

EMPTY WORDS

Inside the house Martin Connelly watched as Ward poured two large measures of whisky into tumblers. The agent was holding the handwritten pases in one hand, his gaze drifting between them and Ward. He accepted the drink and sipped at it.

‘None of this makes any sense, Chris,’ he said quietly.

‘I know,’ Ward agreed. ‘I’ve read it over and over again and—’

‘Not just that. What’s happening with you makes no sense.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Look, I know things aren’t going too well at the moment but—’

Ward cut him short. ‘Not going too well,’ he snarled. ‘A masterpiece of understatement, Martin. My career’s in ruins, my life’s falling to bits around my fucking ears. Jesus, not going too well. That’s a bit like saying the Jews had a rough time in Dachau. No shit.’

‘You’re not helping yourself.’

‘What do you mean? It’s the publishers who aren’t helping. Publishers who won’t publish what I write. What am I supposed to do? What do you think I can do to help myself, Martin? Beg them to publish me?’

‘This stuff doesn’t help,’ said Connelly, raising the glass. ‘How much are you drinking these days?’

‘If you drove all the way from London to lecture me about my drinking then get in your flash car and fuck off now.’ Ward downed a sizeable gulp of the fiery liquid.

‘You’ve always had a problem with it, Chris, you know that.’

‘Drink is the least of my problems at the moment. Now tell me, why are you here?’

‘I was worried.’

‘Ah, the agent caring about one of his clients, how touching. I’m hardly the meal ticket I used to be, am I, Martin? I’d have thought you could have found more deserving causes. What was the name of that publicity girl at Headline you were shagging? She seemed like a more worthwhile object for your attentions.’

‘Do you want me here or not?’

‘I don’t know what I want. Because I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.’

Ward slumped into the chair opposite his agent. ‘Things … have been happening,’ he said, realising that what he was about to say was going to sound ridiculous.

‘What kind of things?’

‘Things I can’t explain. Stupid things. Weird things.’

‘Like what?’

Ward sucked in a breath, held it a moment then exhaled slowly. ‘I’ve been having … blackouts. I don’t know what else to call them,’ he said evenly.

‘I’ll fall asleep and when I wake up, there’s part of the book completed.

Stuff that I know I must have written but that I can’t remember. More than a hundred pages of

that novel out in the office, I can’t remember ‘writing.’

Connelly listened intently. ‘Some kind of short-term memory loss?’ he offered.

‘I thought that but there’ve been other things too. I’ve seen things. At night.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Apparitions,’ he smiled humourlessly.‘There, I’ve said it now. I don’t know what else to call them.’

‘But you can remember them?’

‘Because I’m awake when I see them.’

‘Hqw can you be sure? Couldn’t it be a dream? I mean, if there’s something wrong with your mind then—’

‘You mean if I’m going fucking insane?’

‘Do you think you are?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Then get help. Let me help you.’

‘Take me to a doctor? Get me pumped full of happy pills? Job done. No.

Besides, it’s gone too far for that.’

‘Chris, if you get help now—’

Ward got to his feet. ‘Come through to the other room,’ he said, refilling his glass. ‘There’s something I want you to see.’

A TROUBLE SHARED

The camcorder was already set up in the study. The television in the smaller room was on. Ward indicated the small sofa and Connelly sat down, still

holding the five handwritten pages.

‘You think you can help me?’ said Ward, looking at his agent. ‘Tell me again after you’ve watched this.’

As Connelly sat forward on the seat, Ward pressed the play button.

Images began to fill the screen.

SHOCK TACTICS

For long moments Connelly looked as if he was going to be sick. Even after the images on the screen had vanished. He clutched his belly and blew out his cheeks.

‘I told you it had gone too far,’ said Ward, gazing at his agent.

‘You killed that girl,’ Connelly murmured.

‘I did warn you,’ he said. ‘So, what do you want to do, Martin? Ring the police now?’

Connelly put a hand to his mouth. ‘God,’ he whispered, still clutching his stomach. ‘Who was she?’

‘Her name was Jenny. That’s all I know.’

‘What was she doing here?’

‘We’d done business before. I called her.’

Connelly nodded. Understood. ‘Where’s the body?’ he wanted to know.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more, Martin.’

The two men regarded each other silently for what seemed like an eternity.

‘Chris, you’ve got to go to the police,’ Connelly said finally. ‘Tell them what’s happening to you.’

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me. And what if I do go? What are they going to say? “All right then, Mr Ward, as you’ve been having trouble remembering things we’ll just let this matter of the murder go.

Don’t worry about it. People who are losing their minds always cut up prostitutes and film it. Off you go.” Give me a fucking break, Martin.’

Connelly regarded him warily.

‘You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?’ Ward said quietly.

Connelly didn’t answer.

‘Well, perhaps that’s understandable after what you’ve seen,’ Ward murmured.

‘I appreciate that you may want to go.’

‘I didn’t say that. But try and see it from my point of view, Chris. I just watched you murder someone. How the hell am I supposed to feel?’

‘Do you think there’s a book in it?’

Ward laughed and, once more, Connelly felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

‘And this?’ Connelly said, holding up the handwritten pages.

‘I told you, I didn’t write it.’

‘Then who did?’

Ward could only shake his head.

‘You must have done it,’ Connelly insisted. ‘You said you thought you’d written other parts of your book without remembering. While you were blacked out.’

‘That’s different,‘Ward said, pointing at the pages.‘The words are different.

The structure’s different. The cadence. Everything about it. I did not write that, Martin.’

Again the two men looked silently at each other.

‘Now, are you going to help me or not?’ Ward said.

‘Help you do what? Murder someone else?’

‘Very funny. Give me twenty-four hours. Stay here. In the house. Watch what happens. Watch me.’ Ward swallowed hard. ‘Things happen at night mainly. Stay here and see.’

‘Twenty-four hours,’ Connelly murmured.

‘That’s all I’m asking.’

Connelly nodded slowly.

WATCHFUL EYES

1.06 p.m. Connelly found some tins of spaghetti in one ofWard’s kitchen cupboards and heated them. Ward made some toast then the two men sat at the

kitchen table and ate.

‘When was the last time you went out?’ Connelly wanted to know.

Ward could only shrug. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem, Martin. There isn’t much I can remember these days.’

‘You said things happened at night. You mean these blackouts?’

‘Not just that. They seem to happen at any time of the day or night,’ he murmured. ‘No. I’ve been seeing things too. Hallucinating. At least 1 think I’m hallucinating. If I’m not then things are weirder than even I thought.’

‘What have you seen?’

‘Things,’ Ward said vaguely. ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’d call them.

Apparitions.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

Ward swallowed hard. ‘Figures,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s hard to describe them. It sounds even more fucking stupid sitting here in the middle of the day. In the light.’ He ran a hand over his unshaven cheeks.

‘They look like apes. I know it sounds ridiculous.’

‘Where have you seen them?’

‘In the garden. Around the office. But always at night.’

‘Have you ever found any physical evidence?’

‘Like what? Footprints? That kind of thing?’

Connelly nodded.

‘No,’ said Ward. ‘Never.’ He sat back in his chair and laughed. ‘And you wonder why I drink?’ he said bitterly.

Connelly regarded him indifferently. ‘How much do you know about this house?’

he asked.

Ward looked vague.

‘Its history,’ Connelly continued. ‘Who lived here before you?’

‘Oh, come on.The fucking house is new. It had been standing empty for two years before I bought it. It’s not built on some fucking Indian burial ground or a cemetery or any of that kind of Hollywood bullshit. Its a new house. I was the first tenant. Nothing happened here before I moved in, Martin. The house is not haunted.’

There was another long silence finally broken by Connelly.‘And these …

apparitions?’ he said.‘You think they’ll come again tonight?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could they be linked with what’s happening though?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ward said a little more loudly.

The two men locked stares.

‘This is like something you used to write,’ said Connelly.

Ward didn’t answer. He merely got to his feet and dropped the dirty plates into the sink. ‘Want a drink while we wait?’ he said. ‘Wait for what?’

Connelly asked. ‘For the night to come,’ Ward said.

TIME TO SPARE

4.29 p.m.

‘What do you think this means?’ Connelly held up the sheets of handwritten paper.

‘I told you, I don’t know,’ Ward rasped, sipping his drink.

‘Perhaps the answer is in here somewhere. The answer to all of this. It can’t hurt to go through it.’

Ward shrugged. He watched as Connelly spread the sheets of paper out on the coffee table, gazing at each one in turn.

‘“Reality and fantasy become inseparable”,’ Connelly read.

‘It’s a pity they don’t. I’d write a novel about an author who wins the fucking lottery,’ sneered Ward.

‘Is that what you think this means? That what is written eventually becomes fact?’

‘Who knows? The point is not what it means but how it got in my office in the first place. We need to know who wrote it, not what they’re trying to say:

Connelly read more. ‘It talks about confrontation,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘How conflict is good. How power is good and weakness is bad.’

‘Perhaps my office is haunted by Nietzsche,’ chuckled Ward.

‘I’m glad you find it funny, Chris. I wonder if the police will be laughing when they see that video.’

‘Are you threatening me, Martin?’

‘Why? What if I was? Are you going to do to me the same as you did to her?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I’m trying to help. You asked me to help. That’s what I’m trying to do.’

Ward regarded him balefully for a second then refilled his glass. ‘All right, go on,’ he murmured.

‘It’s this last bit. “There are others.” I wonder if it means others like you.’

‘Murderers, you mean?’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘I told you. I don’t know and I don’t fucking care. All that bothers me is how it got into my office.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t write it?’ Connelly was growing agitated.

‘How many more times? I told you—’

‘Are you sure?’ shouted Connelly.

‘It’s not my writing. It’s not the way I write. I’m sure!

Connelly got to his feet and wandered over to the French windows that looked out on to Ward’s back garden. In the sky, clouds were building steadily like gathering formations of troops preparing for a final onslaught.

‘It looks like there’s another storm coming,’ murmured Connelly.

Ward didn’t answer.

THE COMING STORM

6.42 p.m. Rain hammered down unrelentingly, falling from the seething banks of black clouds in torrents.

Ward gazed out of the French windows and watched the droplets pounding against the concrete outside. Part of the garden near one of the oak trees was already under half an inch of water. Elsewhere on the grass, other puddles were growing larger as the downpour showed no sign of abating.

The first distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like artillery fire.

When Ward turned his head, he saw that Connelly was also looking out of the window. The agent looked a little apprehensive.

‘If this keeps up it’ll be dark in an hour,’ said Ward.

‘And then?’

Ward shrugged. He sat still a moment longer then got to his feet.

‘I’m going out to the office,’ he said. ‘Just to shut the computer down. Turn off the monitor. I’ll lock it up for the night.’

‘Do you want some company?’ Connelly asked, also rising.

‘No. I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Pour us some more drinks.’

The agent nodded.

Ward stepped out of the room.

Outside, a brilliant white shaft of lightning tore through the clouds and illuminated the sky.

Think hard and consider the situation in which you now find yourself.

Contemplate the possibilities and mull them over in your mind for there is but one outcome. When first our union was sublimated there was no questioning.

There were no doubts or remonstrations. The terms were accepted. The price was set. A valuation put upon that which is ordinarily thought to be above remuneration. Consider this and also contemplate what has been given and accepted without question. For all deeds and acts there is a manifest set of circumstances. An outcome. Irrevocable and irretrievable in its finality.

Terms were set. Accepted. Acted upon. Now is the time for payment.

Many others have walked the same path. Many more will do so. There are others.

Others who seek what you have sought. Who will attain what you have attained and who will pay as you must pay. With the passing of the years has come no remembrance. No recollection of what was desired and what was offered in

return. Something offered more priceless than the treasures of the ages.

Consider the following and prepare to settle that which must be accounted tor: 12 12 84 the choice was made. Now must come the reckoning.

COMMUNICATION

Martin Connelly heard a sound from inside the study. He approached the door slowly.

‘Chris,’ he called.

No answer. Just that insistent noise he’d heard a moment earlier. Like …

Like what?

Like the mechanical and electronic sound made by a printer as it transfers the images from a computer screen on to paper.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside the room.

The computer was indeed on. The monitor was active. Connelly could see words spreading across it. He crossed to the machine and stood staring at the screen.

Names. Hundreds of them.

And the printer dutifully transferring them on to paper.

Connelly read them:

Dante Alighieri Ludwig van Beethoven Adolf Hitler Napoleon Bonaparte Bram Stoker Hieronymus Bosch Christopher Marlowe And still they continued.

He was still gazing at the screen when Ward walked in, his hair and clothes dripping. A single sheet of paper gripped in his fist.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ Ward said, looking at the names dancing across the screen.

Connelly could only shake his head.‘It just started,’ he said, indicating the computer.

Ward stared at the names.

Edgar Allan Poe Caravaggio Frank Sinatra John Dillinger Stalin He was still staring half an hour later.

The rapidity and profusion with which the names continued to appear showed no signs of stopping.

‘What do we do?’ Connelly asked.

Ward could only shake his head. He held out the piece of handwritten paper he’d found in his office.

Connelly took it and read it.

‘It was there when I got to the computer,’ Ward told him.

‘Any idea what it means?’ said Connelly.

Ward shook his head.

The computer continued to rattle off an increasingly long list of names. And it showed no signs of stopping.

AN INVENTORY

9.34 p.m.

‘Seventy-six pages,’ said Ward.

The names on the sheaf of paper he held were in non-alphabetical, random order. Many he recognised, many more he didn’t.

Connelly was also flicking through some of the printed sheets.

‘These names don’t have anything in common,’ Ward said.‘Not as a whole. There are groups of them that you can match up. Musicians. Writers. Artists. Even some sportsmen. Some are old, some are new.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Christ knows. What the fuck do Edgar Allan Poe and Madonna have in common? Or Christopher Marlowe and Lenny Bruce for that matter? Joseph Goebbels and Bill Gates?’ He shook his head. ‘There are hundreds of names on here that I don’t recognise either. They’re not well-known people.’

‘Perhaps if we looked them up,’ Connelly offered.

‘Where, Martin?’

Connelly merely shrugged.

Ward continued looking at the names. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

‘What is it?’

‘These names sound familiar,’ said the writer. ‘Declan Leary. Melissa Blake.

Joe Hendry.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘They were all characters in that book I’ve just finished. They all died.’

Connelly stared at the list. ‘What was that about imagination becoming reality?’ he said quietly. ‘In one of those handwritten sheets.’

Ward nodded. ‘But I created those characters. Why are they on this list?’ he asked. ‘They weren’t real.’

‘Somewhere they might be. Somewhere in this world there are probably people with the names Declan Leary, Melissa Blake and Joe Hendry. The names aren’t that uncommon, Chris.’

‘We’ll see,’ Ward snapped and hurried out to the hall. He returned with a copy of the phone book and flipped it open, running his index finger down the list of names. ‘There’s an M Blake,’ he said. ‘A J Hendry and a D Leary.’

‘I said they weren’t uncommon.’

Ward scribbled down the numbers.

‘What are you doing?’ Connelly wanted to know.

‘I want to speak to them.’

‘Chris, what for?’

Ward was already heading for the hallway. He snatched up the phone and dialled the first number. And waited.

No answer.

He tried the number for J Hendry. It rang.

And rang.

Then was finally answered. ‘Hello.’ The voice at the other end was that of a woman. Subdued, barely audible.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr J Hendry, please,’ said Ward.

Silence.

‘Hello, I said I’d like to speak to—’

‘Yes, I heard you,’ the woman said softly. ‘I’m sorry. Joe died two days ago.’

Ward put down the phone. He tried the number for Leary.

A young man told him that Declan Leary had been killed in an accident two weeks earlier.

Ward exhaled and wandered back into the sitting room. ‘Two of them are dead,’

he said.

‘It must be a coincidence,’ Connelly told him.

‘What if these other names are names of characters I’ve created in the past?

Characters I’ve killed off.’

Connelly shook his head. ‘Art mirrors life?’ he said. ‘Not that literally.

Anyway, you didn’t create all the names on this list. Also a lot of them are still alive.’

Ward ran a hand through his hair. ‘Perhaps there’s an answer in this,’ he said, holding up the piece of handwritten paper. ‘Like this date. Twelve, twelve, eighty-four. Twelfth of December, 1984.’

‘Does that date have any significance for you?’ asked Connelly.

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘What about some of the other things mentioned?’

‘“The terms were accepted,’” Ward murmured. ‘Terms of what? “Now is the time for payment”.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘“Many others have walked the same path.” Which path?’

‘You work it out.’

‘Twelve, twelve, eighty-four,’ Ward whispered. ‘Jesus Christ. If those numbers are a date, then I recognise

them and so should you. It was the date I signed to your agency. The day you became my agent.’

‘Can you remember what you said when you signed? You said you wanted to be so rich it was obscene. You said you wanted everything. The world.’

‘I was rich. But not any more.’

‘Terms were set,’ Connelly said quietly. ‘Nothing lasts for ever, Chris.’

‘That still doesn’t explain the names on this list.’

‘Run through them again. Just the first three or four.’

‘Napoleon Bonaparte. Beethoven. Christopher Marlowe.’

‘A general who became an emperor. A composer who wanted immortality,’ Connelly began.

‘And a writer who wrote about a man who made a pact with the Devil,’ Ward added.

‘I had to let you work it out, Chris.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘What was Marlowe’s most famous work?’

‘Doctor Faustus!

‘Remember the story?’

‘A man who wanted wealth and fame sold his soul to the Devil in return for it.

He had to face a reckoning. So did Marlowe himself. He was murdered in a pub in London.’

‘He was paying his debt.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Marlowe wrote about a man who sold his soul to the Devil. A man like himself.

Like all the others on that list. How do you think they got what they wanted?

Everything’s got a price, Chris. Anything can be attained if you’ve got the right goods to barter. All those people

had. Some wanted fame. Some wanted power or money. Some wanted entire nations, the world. They all signed. And when the time came, they all paid. But it doesn’t have to be as grand as fame and power. Some of those on that list just wanted little things. “Can you let my sick child live?” “Can the results of the biopsy I had be benign?” Just little things, Chris. Because not everyone prays to God. And even those who do get fed up with him never answering them.

So they look for alternatives. And I don’t ask a lot in return for what I give.’

‘Who the flick are you?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious by now.’

Ward was suddenly aware of a smell in the room. A cloying acrid stench that made him cough. It was the noxious odour of hydrogen sulphide. Bad eggs.

Sulphur.

Connelly got slowly to his feet and walked towards the rear of the room, to the French windows which looked on to the garden. Slowly he pulled the curtains open so that Ward could see out into the rain-drenched darkness.

‘What are you doing?’ the writer asked. ‘What’s going on?’

‘A reckoning, Chris.’

There was movement close to the windows and Ward saw several familiar shapes there. One was scratching at the glass with its ape-like hand.

For the first time he saw them up close. Three of them. Bent low to the ground. Their weight resting on their front legs. They looked like the bastard offspring of a dog and a baboon.

‘Not apparitions, Chris. Messengers,’ said Connelly.

‘And all those names on that list, the hundreds you recognise and the thousands you don’t, they all saw them or will see them when their time comes.’

Ward’s heart was hammering against his ribs. Was this another hallucination?

The three creatures threw themselves at the glass.

‘The line does blur between fantasy and reality,’ said Connelly. ‘Every name you’ve ever used in one of your books has been a real name and the possessor of that name has died within weeks of you using it. That’s been part of the agreement. You just never knew it. But it was all part of the bargain. It was just necessary that you were the one to discover that, Chris. I don’t like loose ends.’

Connelly unlocked the French windows, allowing them to open slightly.

‘You’ve known from the beginning what’s been going on,’ Ward stammered.

‘Everything.’

‘I’m just glad you finished the book. It’ll be a monument. And sales always get a boost when the author dies.’

Ward took a step towards the sitting-room door.

‘Don’t try to run, Chris,’ Connelly admonished. ‘At least face it with a little dignity. After all, it is only the repayment of a debt. Nothing much.

Just think what you’ve had. I don’t ask for much in return.’

Connelly fully opened the windows.

The creatures bounded in. Screams, howls and maniacal growls rose in one deafening cacophony.

Outside the rain continued to fall.

SOUTH BUCKS EXAMINER

August 18th

Police are still investigating the disappearance of writer Christopher Ward who vanished from his Buckinghamshire home almost two weeks ago.

Ward was the author of a number of bestselling novels in the horror/thriller genre.

Film rights to three of his newest books had recently been purchased and Ward was expected to write the scripts for at least two of them.

His disappearance was discovered after his agent, Mr Martin Connelly, visited the writer’s home and found it in what was described as a ‘derelict’ state.

Ward was single and lived alone.

The police do not suspect foul play and the search continues.

Nothing’s all right, nothing is fine. I’m running and I’m crying …

Papa Roach