Cuckoo

  The game of cat and mouse began. Richard hoped he was an unobserved stalker, although this was likely not to remain the case for long. Traffic was light for London, consisting of other black cabs, buses, and the occasional late worker. He dared not allow more than one vehicle to get between his quarry and his own car. Any more than that and he would become terrified of getting confused and following the wrong one. He might only discover his mistake when it was too late to pick up the trail again. If the creature thought to look for him at such close proximity then he was easily found.

  Still, his choices were few, and at least it simplified the task. Forced to remain almost right behind the black hack, his chase became an almost casual affair and he allowed his mind to wander.

  Alex had not suffered the fit. Presumably he still remembered the coffee scald, it was part of what he was coming to think of as ‘The Summers Program’. So, he would have looked at the lobster, remembered the childhood experience and then…tucked into a fine meal from everything Richard had observed. No disturbing, vivid flashbacks. So the fits were…what? A defence against the programming? He remembered what the creature had implied. Looking at it from the wrong angle, and all the time he had been so close. Not protecting the integrity of Summers at all, for Summers was the alien factor. Rather the vivid memories and physical explosions were a way for the Jameson part of his mind to highlight pieces of the fraud. The coffee scald flashback was conducted by a subconscious that had been screaming look at this, this is all wrong! That was what had taken the creature by such surprise. No wonder it was interested in him.

  He smiled at the taxi in front of him. I know something you don’t, he thought.

  To his utter shock, Georgina was smiling right back at him. For an instant, they locked eyes. Stopped at a traffic light that was just changing from red back to amber, the creature had watched him for a fleeting second.

  Cats, mice, and traps. Was he pursuer or pursued? The need to know became an imperative as he saw the taxi pull up to the kerb in front an establishment proclaiming itself to be the Scoone Hotel. Knowing they were close to their destination, it had checked that he was still there.

  Driving past the parked taxi, he forced himself to look unconcerned. Not for the creature, it knew now that he was there, but for Alex. His friend’s life was about to become confusing enough without the worry of amateur watchers following him through the night. Pulling into a side street, he braked to a gentle halt.

  Well, he knew where Alex would be that night, at least. Now what was he going to do? Turning off the engine, he sat in darkness and thought. No match for the superior physical strength the creature displayed, he would be wise to avoid a physical confrontation. How then was he to prevent the tasting? It was important that the sexual activities of the night not be allowed to proceed, perhaps because it was a violation too personal, a final stripping of dignity. Richard had been raped that night in the Ramkin, and the fact that he had been made to enjoy it deepened the offence. It had happened again that very morning, more openly, more violently, but the evening at the hotel had been just as much a defilement of his body. The creature had taken everything from him. First went his life as Richard Jameson, then his life as Summers, then his hope, his love, and finally his self-worth.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the alleyway, he could just make out the steam of his breath clouding on the windscreen. Like smoke. It gave him an idea, and he smiled a malicious smile.

  Fifteen minutes. That was how long it took him to collect the materials he required. Was he too late? He could only hope not. The trip to the petrol station had lasted no longer than the time it would take for Alex to argue over the lost booking and move up to the new room. Hopefully, as had happened with himself, they might raid the mini-bar before sex.

  Time enough then. Parking the car back in the alley, he picked the newly purchased hold-all from the passenger seat and climbed out. He had a large amount of cash with him, having no desire for his actions to be traced back to his credit card. At that moment he was not precisely sure who was running the events in his head. Greg Summers would certainly never have considered such an overt move, but then he did not think Jameson was the criminal type either. Still, he thought, strange days were upon us.

  Entering the lobby of the hotel, the strap of the bag biting into his shoulder, he flashed an easy smile at the receptionist.

  “Hi there. Room for the night?”

  “Yes sir, we do. Single?”

  “Alas.” The receptionist laughed a little as he filled this into the register.

  “Cash or card?”

  “Cash. I promise I’ll leave the mini-bar and porn channels alone.”

  “And what name is that.”

  Richard showed his smile again. “Greg Summers.” He knew that Alex, though now performing the Summers persona with aplomb, would have booked under that clever alias of Johnson. If the creature was living under the name of Summers at Fontside Avenue it could well find itself facing unexpected legal difficulties in the morning.

  “Sign here please.” He did so, then counted the money for the room into a pile on the counter.

  “Here’s your room card, sir. Twenty-six. Enjoy your stay.”

  “I intend to, believe me. What floor am I?”

  “Second.”

  Richard strolled across to the elevator, smiling as he took in the tacky plastic ferns propped next to the doors. Pressing the button to summon the carriage, he cast a relaxed glance around the lobby. Inside him, the enormity of what he was doing hacksawed through his nervous system. Perhaps Richard was a better actor than Greg, for he felt he was remaining more outwardly calm than expected.

  As the doors of the elevator opened with a slight ring, he stepped in and selected the second floor button. Two metal sheets closed before him, and he sank against the wall. His shoulder was beginning to ache a little, and he allowed the bag to slip down. Apparently keen to join it, his stomach fell as the lift rose. With an alarming thump, it settled again as he arrived.

  Trying to repress the rush of nausea that centred in his wandering gut, he strode along the corridor. He need not have worried about maintaining appearances, for the passage was empty. What floor would they be on? Was he above or below them? It made no difference to his plan of action, it was enough that they shared the same building, but perhaps he was only metres from where they lay. It made him nervous that the thing might catch him.

  Fears crept up on him, making doubt his companion. As he found room twenty-six his shaking hands fumbled the keys, and they dropped to the floor. Bending to pick them up, he started as the door swung open to reveal a pair of female legs.

  Instinctively, he threw himself away from her, pedalling backwards until he hit the wall behind him. How had she found his room?

  “Are you all right? Sorry if I startled you.”

  It was not the creature. Of course it wasn’t. Looking from the tubby woman in the doorway to the numbers on the door itself, he realised he was at room twenty-eight.

  “Beg your pardon,” he babbled, “wrong room. I’m twenty-six.” He held out the key to show her.

  “Next door.” She closed the door behind her, and wobbled down the corridor.

  Richard cursed. What was wrong with him? He was beginning to see the enemy in every shadow, around every corner. Trying to pull himself together, he walked to the next room and let himself in. He could not afford to lose it now.

  Whatever happened, he had to keep it together for the next half-hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  INFERNO

  How long did he have? Looking around the hotel bedroom, dull shades of green and brown failing to distinguish it from a million others, his eyes rested on the bed as a terrible lethargy settled in him. No time, he told himself. I have no time. Lowering the bag to the floor, he kneeled and yanked back the zip. Sliding the two petrol canisters free, he placed them to one side then found the matches and stashed them in his back pocket.

  Mo
ving to the windows, he swung each open as far as it would go. He could not allow the fumes to overcome him.

  It was there that he paused. Feeling the cool, urban air wash over him, marvelling at the spotlit panorama of the city at night, he felt the crippling weight of his deed and was scared. What if somebody died? Perhaps the exits would get blocked and people hurt in the rush to escape. Best intentions aside, a hundred things could go wrong. He had no idea of what might happen.

  Enough stalling, it had to be done. Without another thought on the matter, half afraid that he would talk himself out of the act, he turned back to the canisters. Pulling the cap off the first, he recoiled from the pungent, acerbic aroma that surged into his nostrils. Wiping watering eyes with the back of his sleeve, he turned his head to the window in an attempt to cleanse his lungs.

  Then he stood, lifting deadly petroleum with him, and began to splash the liquid over the bed. At least he couldn’t be tempted to lie there any more. When he was satisfied that it was sufficiently drenched, he turned his attention to the walls. Dousing them vigorously, he was hyper-aware of the tiny drops that flew back at his own clothing. Biting his lip, he soaked the room until the canister was empty.

  It was impossible to breathe without taking great gulps of chemical vapour. Already he felt lightheaded and detached, and he hurried to remove the cap from the second container. With this he wet the carpet, stumbling backwards from the far side of the room to the door, careful to splash as little as possible on his feet.

  Half a can left. Just enough. Putting his eyes to the spy-hole in the door, he waited until he was sure the corridor outside was empty. When he felt safe enough, he turned the handle and poked his head out. Sucking in the comparatively clean air, he stepped into the vacant passage and trailed a thin line of petrol behind him. Once he was fully in the corridor he closed the door, hoping it might contain the blaze long enough for everyone to get out, then continued his arsonist’s trail for a few feet down the hallway. Not far enough to reach the next door along, but enough to put him a few feet from the imminent blaze.

  Taking the matches from his pocket, he got ready to toss the empty canister far enough from the potential fire so as to be in no danger of igniting. Taking a deep breath he hurled it backwards, away from the room he had left. It landed with a shocking clatter, rebounding tinnily from two walls before coming to rest. Now he really was up against the clock.

  Pulling free a match, hearing the sound of a door opening at the far end of the corridor, he scraped the red tip along the side of the box. It didn’t light.

  “What’s the fucking racket?” From the door he had heard open. The speaker was on the opposite side of the petrol trail, a hideously overweight man in boxer shorts and a vest.

  He tried another match. It snapped in two.

  Now the man was shuffling towards him. “It’s no smoking in the corridors fella, can’t you fucking read? And what’s that smell?” The bloated creature sniffed the air, and Richard watched in horror as he came ever closer to the potentially explosive doorway. Pulling free a third match, he watched the bloodshot eyes of the other man as the implications of the smell, the matches, and the discarded petrol can all registered at once. He was dangerously close to the trail now, if he came any further Richard would be unable to risk lighting it. Holding the match in his fingers, watching the waddling behemoth approach, he felt exposed and afraid. Time to decide.

  The third match ignited.

  Richard was so relived to see the tiny spark that he almost forgot to drop it. He let it go before his fingers burned. The fat man stood back in horror, his jowls as loose as his suddenly void bladder. With fascinated dislocation, Richard was aware of these events in slow motion. Guttering almost to nothing, the match tumbled towards the waiting damp of the floor, falling closer and closer, a tiny, beautiful star plunging through potent atmosphere. Then it struck carpet.

  With a hushed whoosh, the trail became gloriously luminescent. This was no slow ripple of fire moving inexorably towards the door. Rather the blaze made an ecstatic, frenzied rush to the bedroom, fully aware of the nourishment it would find there. A louder sound, the whump of burning air, was companion to a wave of heat. Richard stepped back, suddenly terrified of what he had unleashed. Now there were two monsters loose in the hotel. Afraid for the guests, he turned and ran towards the stairs, banging each door he came to and yelling at the top of his voice.

  “Fire! Fire! For Christ’s sake, get out! Fire!” Enough people were stirring for him to trust that he had turned their attentions to the threat, and he darted into the stairwell. Having instigated the fire he was ahead of the crowd. While they were still bumbling around, he was running to beat the creature outside.

  Taking the steps two at a time, he hurtled downwards. When he reached the first floor, the fire alarm finally chose to rend the air about him. Why had it not gone off earlier? There had been a smoke detector in his room, but he supposed it might have melted under the heat of the blaze. He had a feeling that he had overdone the petrol a little. That meant there had been a delay while the smoke reached the detector in the hallway.

  As he embarked on the last set of steps the sound of confused voices in the passage on the first floor made him turn his head, and in that moment he lost balance. Falling forwards, his knees were first to connect with a step, the leverage flipping his chest down hard against a lower one. With a convulsive gasp, the air fled his lungs and he slid the rest of the way to the ground floor. Winded, he heard approaching footsteps. It was the receptionist, and he was caught.

  Firm hands dragged him upright, and he was finally able to draw a sharp breath. “This way sir, as calmly as possible.” He was led to the emergency exit at the bottom of the stairwell, and almost laughed. Why would he be suspected of arson? Only the behemoth upstairs knew his crime. As far as the young man helping him was concerned, Richard was just a panicking victim desperate to flee the burning building.

  Cold air brought him from his triumphant reverie, and he tried to reassure his unknowing accomplice. “I’m fine. Help the others.” The young man nodded and went back inside.

  As soon as he was gone, Richard made his way down the alley the exit opened on to, back to the street. He pushed his way past a few of the onlookers who always seemed present for a disaster, sparing a thought to wonder if it was always these same people. When he was clear of the growing crowd he broke into a painful, shambling run. Battered from the fall, each step drew a pained wince from him. Success kept him moving. He had finally won a round, and the tasting was prevented.

  More than anything, he wanted the creature to feel the threat. It already knew he had started the fire, frustrated its plans. He had been underestimated and it would be feeling the wound of that miscalculation. Richard wanted to see if the Georgina-mask had a pout ready for such a disaster.

  Checking for potential observers, he entered the side street and climbed into his car. Twisting the key in the ignition, he brought the engine to life and reversed onto the road. Instead of turning from the hotel though, he pulled the vehicle to the right, heading back to the scene of the crime. There was already a short queue of gawking taxi cabs and companion vultures, all diverting their gazes upwards to the blazing window of the second floor.

  As he heard the sound of sirens disjoint the passive night air, Richard looked for the faces he knew he would find. Of all the people milling about the pavement, only one had not turned to look at the flames. Georgina stared right at him, and her mouth was pout-free. Instead it shaped a hard and terrible line, firm, unyielding and devoid of emotion. Richard shivered beneath the intensity of her eyes. It could do nothing now, not daring to reveal itself among so many casual onlookers, but he knew he had been marked. There would be no more games, it would come for him now.

  Unable to rip his eyes away, it was a relief when the traffic moved aside for the emergency services. With his path now clear, he drove into the night, trying to keep one fragile image in his head. Alex, standing right next to
that thing. He had been staring up with the rest of the crowd, thanking God for the life he wrongly thought was his. Gregory Summers was born anew. A cerebral cuckoo, he had lain an egg in Alex Carlisle’s mind, pushing the original inhabitant over the edge and into freefall.

  He did not return home that evening. Tired beyond imagining, he had driven only ten minutes before stopping at a bed and breakfast. It was not of the quality he suspected Jameson was accustomed to, but it was adequate for a night of simple rest, and it was anonymous.

  That cold, hard line, so unlike the pout he associated with Georgina’s mouth, draped over his memory and haunted him.

  Lying on the too hard bed, he flicked aimlessly through the pages of a paperback he had found in the lobby. A celebrity biography, it was exactly the sort of trash the Summers personality might stay up to read. He tossed it on the bedside table.

  Turning off the small reading lamp, he tried to make sleep come. Though tired, he had pushed himself past the point of actual sleep, into the waking land of frustrated insomnia. Though tempted to distract himself with the small, boxy television in the corner of the room, he was afraid of what it might tell him. Had anyone been hurt at the hotel? Would there be reports of the incident on the news? It was doubtful, but paranoia ensured the little antique remained untouched. What if he had been wrong? He had justified his extremism to himself, for it was a high stakes game he played now. The creature had already proven itself an expert in the subterfuge and destruction it wreaked, and if he were unwilling to take equal risks he would have no chance of survival.

  Guilt over his actions aside, a bigger problem now faced him. Having disrupted the pattern he himself had followed, he had no idea what might happen next. Alex, as Greg, would most likely have called an end to the evening, for maintaining his licentious urges would be difficult after a life-threatening experience. So had he gone ‘home’ to Fontside Avenue? If so the creature would have to advance the schedule. What would have happened if Richard had not exploded with blood on returning to the artificial homestead? In his case he had been whisked to hospital, but what would the fully healthy Alex be subjected to? How would his torment proceed?