Evil Genius

  For all his calculations, he was uncertain when the short would occur – if, indeed, it occurred at all. He wasn’t even sure what time it was. How long had it been, since Max’s visit? Two hours, perhaps? A little more? Time was irrelevant, here in his dungeon. It could be the middle of the night, for all he knew.

  Finally, he had to go to the toilet. He didn’t have a choice. The toilet flushed when he pulled the dangling string; almost immediately afterwards, Tommy stuck his head into the room.

  ‘You all right?’ he rasped, as Cadel fumbled desperately with the zipper on his fly. ‘You been sick?’

  ‘No, I –’ ‘Pissing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Cadel, because Tommy was shutting the door. ‘I’m thirsty! Can I have a drink? I’ve finished the first one.’

  In reply, another box of juice sailed into the room, hitting the floor at the same instant the locks clicked into place. Obviously, there was a pile of juice boxes right outside the door. A pile of crisp packets too, probably. Cadel wondered if they were intending to feed him nothing but chips and juice.

  Then he smelled it.

  He looked around before he could stop himself. Sure enough, the cord was turning brown. An oily drift of smoke was followed by a small, hot, orange flicker . . .

  Cadel dashed for his pillow. He plucked out a wad of polyester fluff, which he placed on the melting insulation. The fluff caught alight immediately. Cadel dropped it on the ground. He emptied the rest of the pillowcase, allowing the drifts of fluff to pile up and start burning. He added the contents of the duvet, slowly, so as not to smother any shooting flames. To his disappointment, the duvet stuffing didn’t burn as well as the pillow stuffing. (Could it have been treated with fire retardant?) When he added the chips, however, he got a better result. The pillowcase, too, was threadbare enough to burn well. But his socks were so sweaty, they didn’t have quite the effect that he’d expected.

  He began to tear up the duvet cover, coughing as the smoke tickled his throat and stung his eyes. The smell was awful. The fumes were probably dangerous. By the time he threw his shirt onto the fire, it was good and hot, though the fabric burned slowly, emitting a lot of smoke. Paint flakes helped, as did the chip packet, which was slick with oil. The mattress stuffing, however, was hard to tear up. Cadel struggled with it furiously, before finally peeling back the cover and pushing a corner of the foam into the flames. To his surprise, it went up like barbecue bricks. What sort of people manufactured a mattress stuffing that caught alight so quickly? The mattress cover, on the other hand, wouldn’t cooperate at all. When Cadel held it to the flames, it was barely singed. So he discarded it.

  ‘Help!’ he cried. He had to hurry – he didn’t have much fuel. He was just heading for the door, coughing furiously, when a sharp crack startled him. Turning, he saw an awe-inspiring sight.

  The heater was ablaze.

  Evidently, there must have been a faulty weld in the heater – an oil leak, in other words. Cadel was just beginning to calculate probabilities (would the machine actually explode?) when he heard the sound of a key in a lock.

  ‘What’s going on?’ a gruff voice demanded.

  Cadel collapsed to the floor, gasping and retching. The room was already full of the most vile-smelling smoke; behind him, the heater’s metal sheath was making alarming noises. Suddenly, the light went off.

  ‘What the hell –’ exclaimed Tommy, as he stepped into the room. By now, Cadel was lying face down on the floor. Tommy stooped down to touch him. ‘Are you all right?’ the big man coughed. ‘Oh, for Chrissake . . .’

  ‘What’s going on?’ a distant voice called, and Cadel’s heart skipped a beat. There was another one! Damn it!

  ‘Get the extinguisher!’ yelled Tommy, coughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get the extinguisher!’ As the fire crackled, fed by a draught from the open door, Tommy hauled Cadel out of the room and dropped him onto the floor outside. Cadel kept his eyes shut, and his mouth open. He heard feet thundering down the stairs beside him.

  ‘Here!’ someone panted.

  ‘Give it to me,’ snapped Tommy.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘How do you work this thing?’

  Cadel lifted his eyelid a fraction. Two pairs of legs were lined up in front of him. He saw one advance, disappearing back into the smoky dungeon. The other pair seemed to hesitate. It stopped in the doorway.

  ‘What are you – cough, cough – doing?’ the owner of these legs demanded.

  ‘It doesn’t work!’ his mate replied.

  ‘Pull the pin!’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘No, not like that, like this. Here . . .’

  As soon as the second pair of legs followed the first, Cadel lurched to his feet. He flew up the stairs, desperately gulping down tainted air, and reached the top to find himself in an enormous room. A vast, cavernous space. In the split second available to him, Cadel caught a glimpse of windows high up near a lofty ceiling . . . a gigantic piece of machinery, bolted to the floor . . . double doors, with an ‘exit’ sign over them . . . a switchbox . . . a fire alarm . . . a hard hat . . . a pair of plastic chairs . . . a table with playing cards on it . . . a steel thermos and two mugs . . .

  But someone had heard his fleeing footsteps.

  ‘Hey!’

  A large weight was pounding up the stairs. Cadel hardly had time to think. He dashed to the table, grabbed the thermos and bolted across the room to the fire alarm. Then he smashed the glass with the thermos and slapped at the alarm button.

  A high-pitched siren began to sound. It was deafening.

  ‘Little shit!’ screamed Tommy’s mate, charging Cadel like a rabid rhinoceros. Cadel ducked, and dodged the man’s flailing fist. Screaming ‘Help! Help!’ he ran towards the exit, slipped, recovered, and threw himself onto the double doors. As he yanked at the handle, someone grabbed his hair from behind, and pulled.

  He shrieked.

  ‘It’s locked, ya moron!’ Tommy’s mate roared, stamping hard on Cadel’s bare foot.

  The pain was excruciating. Cadel sank to his knees, writhing in agony.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tommy demanded, from nearby – Cadel wasn’t sure where. ‘Don’t hurt him, are you crazy?’

  ‘I was just –’

  ‘Shut off that goddamn alarm!’

  Even now, Cadel could smell smoke. He was lying on the floor, groaning and holding his foot, his ears ringing. He wore nothing but a pair of brown cords.

  Someone grabbed his arm, and hoisted him upright.

  ‘It’s your own stupid fault, kid,’ said Tommy grimly. ‘Con, will you shut off that alarm?’

  ‘I’m trying to!’ came the frantic reply, pitched loud over the siren’s wail. ‘Tell me how!’

  ‘Oh, for Chrissake . . .’

  ‘We gotta get out of here!’

  Tommy turned to Cadel, giving him a shake.

  ‘Can you turn this off?’ he growled. Through tear-filled eyes, Cadel saw that Tommy’s own eyes were bloodshot. His nose and cheeks were purple. His scars stood out vividly on his flushed, bald head.

  He looked terrifying.

  ‘Tommy, we gotta go!’ Con insisted. ‘Now.’

  ‘You’ll pay for this, you little shit,’ said Tommy. His hand moved from Cadel’s arm, and grabbed a handful of curly dark hair. ‘You better keep quiet,’ he warned, thrusting his face into Cadel’s, ‘or I’ll cut out your tongue.’

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  It was the sound of a knock on the big, double doors.

  Tommy froze, still clutching Cadel’s hair.

  ‘Hello!’ said a woman’s muffled voice. ‘Is anybody there?’

  Tommy gestured to Con. Then he pointed at something else – the opposite wall. Now that the pain in his foot was subsiding, Cadel could see that he was in some sort of factory or warehouse. An abandoned printshop, perhaps? And there was another exit. A back way out.

&nbs
p; Tommy was pointing at the back way.

  ‘Oh my God,’ cried the woman’s voice. ‘Smell it. Can you smell it?’

  ‘Smoke,’ said another voice – the trembling voice of an elderly man.

  ‘There is a fire. You’d better phone the fire brigade.’

  They must have been standing right outside the double doors, because someone began to jiggle the handle. But these particular doors were locked. Tommy started to move away, dragging Cadel with him. As he did so, Cadel realised why the woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  It belonged to Wilfreda. He was sure of it.

  ‘It’s locked,’ she yelled, straining to be heard over the keening alarm. Con unlocked the rear exit door and pushed it open cautiously. He had drawn a gun from somewhere beneath his jacket.

  Tommy tucked Cadel under his arm, as if he was carrying a bunch of spinach or a stuffed toy. Cadel was too frightened and confused to put up any kind of fight. He could hardly even see, through his tears. He was aware of passing over a threshold into the night air; of Con, up ahead, fumbling with the lock of a dark-coloured car, its shiny finish reflecting the golden glow of a streetlight; of Tommy stopping suddenly, with a jerk.

  A shot rang out. Con spun away from the dark car’s open door and crumpled to the pavement. Then Cadel hit the ground too – dropped like a stone.

  ‘Ooof!’ he said.

  But someone swung him up again almost before he knew what had happened. Struggling feebly, he was half-carried, half dragged towards another car. When he protested, he was told to calm down.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said a strange voice.’You’re safe now.’

  Next thing, he was climbing onto leather-upholstered seats. Someone was offering him a sweatshirt, and saying: ‘Here. You must be cold.’ Clutching the sweatshirt dazedly, he peered into the night. There were three cars, all told, and twice as many people – shadowy figures Cadel didn’t recognise. Beyond them he could just make out a narrow alley between high brick walls. The asphalt looked slick and sticky. Everyone was talking in muted accents, though the alarm was still wailing. Cadel heard a car door slam before a large form suddenly heaved itself into the driver’s seat in front of him.

  It was Wilfreda.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, looking back. Her face was in shadow, so he couldn’t make out her expression. Whump! went her door.

  He gaped at her, unable to speak.

  ‘It’s all right now,’ she informed him, turning her ignition key. ‘No need to worry any more.’

  Around them, the other cars were also starting their engines. One began to move, gathering speed quickly.

  But Wilfreda seemed to be waiting for something – or someone.

  Cadel found out who, when Thaddeus Roth slid into the back seat next to him.

  ‘All right, Wilfreda,’ the psychologist said calmly. ‘Let’s go.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Cadel’s guts seemed to dissolve. He experienced an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude, even though, at the same time, a warning bell was sounding in his brain. As their car split away from the convoy, purring off down a side-street, Cadel stared up at the familiar beaky nose and hollow cheeks. The gleam of the streetlights, as they whizzed past, wove a flickering pattern on one side of the psychologist’s face.

  ‘Th–Thaddeus,’ he stammered.

  ‘Put that top on, Cadel,’ Thaddeus replied quietly. ‘You don’t want to get cold.’

  Obediently, Cadel pulled the sweatshirt down over his head. It was far too big for him. Thaddeus began to roll the sleeves up, with neat, practised movements.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ asked Cadel, faintly.

  ‘Give me a little credit, dear boy.’

  ‘They jumped me at the house –’

  ‘Yes. Gazo told me.’

  ‘Gazo told you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to that fellow, Cadel, but he’s positively smitten.’ Thaddeus sounded amused. ‘Apparently, after he dropped you off at the Piggotts’, he had second thoughts. Went back to check on you, he said. Found the remains of the housekeeper. Came tearing out to Yarramundi to raise the alarm. Knew I was there, for some reason.’ A ghost of a chuckle. ‘Not a tool that I would have chosen, but he’s proven to be of some use.’

  ‘It was Max,’ said Cadel, rambling a bit. ‘He was scared.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘What happened? I thought I was being followed . . .’

  ‘Grunts will be Grunts,’ said Thaddeus, in chillingly flat tones. ‘It comes of sending a moron to do a man’s work. They parked outside your house and watched you go in. When Max arrived to pick you up, they let him walk right up to their car, the idiots. Didn’t think he was any kind of threat. Naturally, they got a couple of shots between the eyes as a result.’ Thaddeus placed a gentle hand on Cadel’s curls before declaring, without expression: ‘At least they got what they deserved.’

  Cadel wasn’t shocked. He didn’t have the energy. Instead he began to shiver; he couldn’t seem to stop. He felt the weight of Thaddeus’s hand leave his head, and an arm tighten around his shoulders.

  ‘You’re all right,’ said Thaddeus.

  ‘I’m c-c-cold.’

  ‘It’s the shock.’ Thaddeus struggled out of his jacket, which he draped around Cadel’s hunched form. ‘Here. Is that better?’

  ‘I used my shirt for the fire,’ Cadel went on, his words and thoughts both strangely sluggish. ‘I lit a fire . . .’

  ‘But of course you did. I’d have expected nothing less.’

  After that, Cadel subsided. He even dozed off. When he woke up, he found himself draped across the psychologist’s lap. The car was still moving.

  ‘Where are we?’ he mumbled, struggling upright.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Thaddeus.

  ‘Nearly where?’

  ‘Nearly at my house.’

  Something clenched inside Cadel’s stomach. He squinted out of the window, but saw only darkness. Then all at once the car swerved. It left the smooth asphalt and bounced onto something rough. Cadel could hear gravel crackling under the tyres.

  They were on a curved driveway. Cadel saw it spotlit by their headlights, which also swept across low bushes, flicked past tree trunks and finally came to rest on a large, two-storeyed house with a lot of shining windows. The engine died. Thaddeus opened the door beside him.

  ‘You can get out now, Cadel,’ he said.

  Clumsily, Cadel struggled out of the car after Thaddeus. As soon as his bare feet touched the gravel, he became aware of a salty smell, and a rhythmic hissing noise.

  ‘What’s that sound?’ he gasped.

  ‘The sea,’ said Thaddeus.

  Cadel froze. The sea! Why were they at the sea? He looked around in sudden fear, unable to penetrate the darkness encroaching on all sides. Were they at the edge of a cliff?

  He took a step backwards.

  ‘Cadel, Cadel.’ Thaddeus leaned towards him, placing one long, thin hand against his cheek. ‘What’s wrong? You’re not afraid of me, are you?’ And he laughed a soft laugh that made Cadel’s skin crawl.

  ‘I – I want to go home,’ Cadel whimpered.

  ‘Home?’ Thaddeus straightened; his hand dropped. ‘What home? Oh, you mean that silly-looking house where James Guisnal and Sue Croft live? I’m afraid that’s out of bounds for the moment, Cadel. Until we clean up the mess. Mrs Ang was there, you see. When Max’s men paid their little visit.’

  Mrs Ang? James Guisnal? Cadel couldn’t cope any more. He began to shake again. How did Thaddeus know that he knew about James Guisnal?

  ‘Let’s go in now.’ Thaddeus closed his long fingers around Cadel’s arm. ‘We need to warm you up. And you could do with a bath as well, I think.’

  Nudged forward, Cadel limped towards the house. Thaddeus, however, noticed his uneven gait at once.

  ‘What is it?’ the psychologist said sharply. ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘It’s my foot . . .’


  ‘Vadi!’ Thaddeus called, and the front door opened. Silhouetted against the dazzle of a chandelier was a slim, broad-shouldered figure in a tailcoat. It moved towards them down several flights of steps, which appeared to be chiselled into solid bedrock.

  ‘Vadi, this is Cadel,’ Thaddeus said, as the mysterious figure stopped in front of them. ‘I want you to carry him inside. Wilfreda! Where are you?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said a voice in the shadows.

  ‘Get a room ready, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cadel was scooped up by the man in the tailcoat, who turned out to be young and stony-faced, with dusky skin and long, dark eyes that struck Cadel as being slightly peculiar. Cadel got a good look at him as soon as they entered the house, which was lit up like a Christmas tree; he saw that the peculiarity lay, not so much in the man’s eyes, but in his eyelids. It was something about the way he blinked.

  The blinks were so rapid, however, that Cadel couldn’t put his finger on why they disturbed him.

  ‘In here,’ said Thaddeus, gesturing. ‘Put him on the couch.’

  Vadi obeyed. As he was carried along, Cadel had a confused impression of large spaces, vivid tapestries and gleaming marble floors. He was finally deposited in a downstairs room that contained a fur rug, a stone wall with a fireplace embedded in it, and hectares of floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the windows lay nothing but darkness. Cadel could see himself reflected in one of the huge expanses of glass, along with the bronze sculptures and wing chairs and bright paintings that surrounded him.

  ‘Go and run a bath, will you, Vadi?’ said Thaddeus.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll just take a look at this foot.’

  While Cadel fell back into the well-stuffed cushions of a massive built-in sofa, Thaddeus knelt beside him and took his swollen foot carefully in one bony hand.

  ‘Can you move it?’ asked Thaddeus.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wiggle your toes.’

  Cadel obeyed. Then Thaddeus pressed his thumbs against ankle and instep until Cadel yelped.

  ‘You’ve got a bruised bone,’ said the psychologist. ‘Or maybe even a hairline fracture. But there’s nothing much you can do about that, except take it easy.’ He dropped the foot. ‘Ice won’t help much at this late stage, though a painkiller might. You can take one after your bath.’ He smiled as he regarded Cadel, a glint in his eye. ‘I don’t know what clothes I’m going to put you in. Do you know, Cadel, I never cease to get a little shock every time I see you? It’s because you’re so small. How can someone so small wreak such havoc? I find it endlessly surprising.’