He picked up the external phone and punched the number stored in the machine’s memory. Nikky answered after the second ring.
‘I’m delayed. Jump in a cab; leave my ticket at the box office and I’ll see you inside.’ Without waiting for her reply he hung up and looked back at the video in front of him.
Speed. When you had a situation like this, speed was essential. There were two people who were real danger: Charles Rowley and Jake Seals. He had advised getting rid of Rowley a long time back, but the Board had decided Rowley knew too much about the company’s genetics work and didn’t want to risk him moving to a competitor – which he almost certainly would do if he left Bendix; any pharmaceutical company would snap him up. So, instead, Gunn had been charged with keeping him under close watch. Putting the new American, Conor Molloy, with him was a bad move, Gunn believed. If pressed, he couldn’t have explained why. It was just instinct; and his instincts were usually good.
His advice on getting rid of Seals had also been turned down for much the same reason – too much risk of Seals moving to a competitor. Now the ball game had changed.
Cyclops Syndrome.
Jesus.
He played the video again from the top, turning the audio up a little louder and listened to the first part of the conversation again:
‘I’ve never heard of Cyclops Syndrome. Three cases doesn’t sound much.’
Who had started this conversation? Seals or the Bannerman woman?
He replayed the earlier tape from the lab.
‘Last week you hinted there were things you wanted to tell me about Bendix Schere, and said we should have a talk some time, away from here? Are you free for lunch in the next few days?’ Montana Bannerman’s voice.
He sat in thought. He had put a twenty-four-hour surveillance order on Seals, but the stupid fools had missed one of the key moments: what the hell had happened between the Bannerman woman coming to see him in the lab and the start of the conversation in the pub? The goons on Seals’ tail had missed some vital bits at the start of the conversation. Had the Bannerman woman instigated it? Was it she who had expressed the interest in Cyclops Syndrome? Or was it Seals trying to poison her loyalty? That was a question to which quite a few people were going to want an answer, and Gunn didn’t have one to give them, not right now. But he would get one. In the meantime, urgent damage limitation was needed.
He picked up the internal secure phone, punched in his access code, then a number.
23
Barnet, North London. 1946
Daniel made an effort to be good on Saturday. A very special effort. It was Saturn’s day and he could not afford to miss the chance.
He had learned each of the days by heart. Luna was Monday. Mars, Tuesday. Mercury, Wednesday. Jupiter, Thursday. Venus, Friday. Sol, Sunday.
Saturn’s day. The book said he had to do it tonight. He could not risk having his hands strapped to the bed and having to wait another week; anyway, he didn’t think he could get away with hiding the things he had gathered and fashioned for another week, particularly as the rabbit had already eaten its way out of two boxes.
He had offered to help his mother in the kitchen, but she’d told him to go away, that he was already beyond redemption and only months of reading nothing but the Bible and constant prayer would give him any possible hope of salvation.
It was a perfect night. Clear with a waning moon; the waning moon was essential, the book said; a sabbat would have been even better, even more powerful, but the next sabbat was weeks away and he couldn’t hide the rabbit any longer.
He stood in his dressing gown and observed the moon through a gap in the curtains, watched it hang above the rooftops at the end of the garden, felt the cold glow of its light on his face like a draught, and tried to feel the energy the book said it would give him. Then he squinted at the big round clock on his mantelpiece, and could just make out the time: 11.10. Obeying the instructions in the book, he had bathed with a handful of salt added to the bath water; now he was clean, purified.
His parents had been in bed for an hour. He was desperate to urinate but had forced himself not to go. Silently he opened his door and peered out at their bedroom a few feet across the narrow landing, checking for a telltale band of light below the door, but there was none. Darkness. They were asleep.
He closed the door, shaking with nerves, and carefully laid his candlewick bedspread like a draught excluder along the bottom, pressing it tight so that no light would show through on the other side, then draped his dressing gown over the top of it. It was time to begin. Had to go ahead with this now. Was determined to do so. In spite of his terror of being caught.
He started by removing the candle from under the neat pile of his shirts in his dresser. It was a lumpy, uneven object he had fashioned himself from melting down a household candle in a tin over the stove when his mother was out, and mixing it with boot polish. It was not a perfect black, more a blotchy charcoal grey, but it was the best he could do.
He struck a match, glancing nervously towards the door as it flared and shadows jumped around the room, then lit the candle. He waited for the flame to take hold, then tipped the candle to allow some drips of wax to fall into a saucer, and stuck its base down firmly. There was a funny smell, sharp, like burning paint, which he assumed must be the polish, and he hoped it would not wake his parents.
From beneath his mattress he removed the large square of black cloth cut from a blackout curtain that had been inside a trunk in the attic, then a discarded brass poker he had come across on a bomb site and had polished up, followed by a mug of salt and a cup of water he had taken from the kitchen. He draped the cloth over the small table by the window and set the candle on top of it. Beside the candle he carefully placed his penknife with the large blade, sharpened to a razor’s edge, open; and then the poker, which was his ceremonial sword.
Next he took the piece of white chalk which he had stolen from school, tied a two-foot length of string securely around it, and with a thumbtack he pinned the other end of the string to the centre of the floor. Keeping the string stretched tight, he drew a circle four feet in diameter. It should have been nine feet, according to the books, but the room was not big enough to allow it. Less scientifically he drew a pentagram inside the circle.
Taking the mug of salt, he carefully poured a small amount all the way round the circumference of the circle, leaving no gaps. When he had finished, he put several pinches of salt into the cup of water, closed his eyes and blessed it with the end of the Lord’s Prayer, then sprinkled the water across the floor, the walls and the curtains, covering every section of the room.
Finally he took off his pyjamas, stepped naked into the centre of the circle, closed his eyes and began to sway rhythmically, arms held out above him, ignoring the goose pimples that broke out on his cold skin, and quietly began to repeat his name, counting mentally each time.
Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd …
He stopped, as the book had instructed him, at exactly ninety-nine and opened his eyes. The flame of the candle guttered in the draught from the window. He was giddy and a little disoriented, but he could sense the power rising in him. He went to the bed and removed the black book from beneath it; he read once more, for reassurance, the title that was written in strange script: The Master Grimoire of Magickal Rites and Ceremonies.
He opened it at the place he had already marked and began reading aloud, in a sharp whisper:
‘I curse thee once, I curse thee twice,
Three, four, five, six; I curse thee seven times,
And then again seven times seven times.
Be damned! Be damned!
My power is cursing you,
My power is hexing you,
You are completely under my spell.
Be damned! Be damned!’
Then he stood on a chair and from the top of his wardrobe lifted down a shoebox and put it on the floor. From inside it he removed his mother’s stocking a
nd her photograph and laid them both on the black cloth in front of the candle. He turned to another section of the book he had marked with a paper tag, raised the candle, and, whispering the words of the curse again, with a trail of molten wax he copied as best he could the inverted cross symbol on the page: first on to the stocking, then across his mother’s forehead on the photograph.
He should ring a bell now three times, the book said. But he had to ignore this instruction, hoping the rite would work without it. Back on the chair, he lowered the cake tin with the perforations he had skewered in the lid. The scrabbling sounds inside became frantic as he set it down on the floor.
Cautiously, he raised the lid a few inches and peered in. ‘Hello, little friend,’ he whispered. ‘How are you? OK? You’re a gorgeous fellow, aren’t you?’
Two frightened eyes glinted back. It had already bitten him once, but he bore no malice. ‘Gently now, don’t be frightened, just going to take you out. I love you, yes I do!’ He pushed his hand into a thick woollen sock, then raised the lid again, reached inside and firmly seized the rabbit.
It wriggled wildly and he nearly dropped it. ‘Relax, little fellow, we’re going to be good friends, you and I, we are!’
Must not kill it! It must be alive, he thought as he stroked the back of its head, trying to calm it. He carried it across to the window and held it over his mother’s stocking on the black cloth, and whispered the crucial words again, concentrating as hard as he could on the photograph of his mother.
‘Be damned! Be damned!
My power is cursing you,
My power is hexing you,
You are completely under my spell.
Be damned! Be damned!’
Then, with his free hand he held his penis and squirted a small amount of urine first on to the stocking, then across the photograph. The rabbit wriggled again, hard. He gripped it tighter, holding it a foot above the stocking, and whispered: ‘It’s OK, you gorgeous fellow, it’s OK, calm down, I love you so much!’
Then he picked up his penknife, located the base of the rabbit’s neck with the point of the blade, then sharply rammed it in, being careful not to push too far and lance his own hand. He twisted the blade hard, then cut sharply down into the creature’s heart.
Tiny droplets of bright red blood sprayed on to his mother’s stocking. The rabbit jerked, then the wriggling faded and the droplets increased into a steady, thin stream accompanied by black droppings as its bowels evacuated.
He drew a ring on the stocking with the blood, then an inverted cross over his mother’s forehead, and he hissed the curse loudly and more venomously than before. Then he stepped back into the middle of the circle, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Concentrated on the image of his mother’s face; of her head.
Some moments later he heard a sound that he thought at first was one of the air-raid sirens he remembered throughout the war. A low, deep moan that rose slowly into a high-pitched banshee howl. It lasted for a minute, maybe more, and sent shivers racing through him. It was followed by another. Then another. Then a curdling scream of pain.
‘My head! My head! My head!’
His mother’s voice.
‘Owwww! Owwww! Owwww! Oh my God, do something! Oh please help me, someone help me, pleeeeassssse! Help! Help! Help!’
The scream worsened. ‘Ohpleasehelpme oh Godddddd!’ Then another scream, so terrible it sounded as if it would rip the very darkness from the night.
Daniel stood rooted to his spot, his mouth wide open in shock and disbelief.
24
London, Tuesday 8 November, 1994
Zandra Wollerton’s face was gentle and cheerful, in contrast to her voice on the phone yesterday. Hubert Wentworth was right in his assessment, Monty thought; she would make a successful journalist. Strength of character, determination and professionalism showed in the way she conducted herself, as they faced each other across the small white table, her shorthand pad, thick file and mobile phone laid neatly beside her teacup.
Curly black hair cropped short. A sensible navy two-piece smart enough to wear into court, and a pair of specs; a freckled face with a snub nose, and cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. The lurid green varnish on her fingernails was the only residual hint of adolescence. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one, if that, Monty thought, finding herself envying that little wild streak as she stirred the milk into her own tea, feeling distinctly middle-aged in spite of having tried to dress youthfully today in a man’s denim shirt over a white t-shirt, narrow black trousers and Chelsea boots.
Zandra opened her file, removed a sheaf of papers clipped together and handed them across to Monty. ‘Medical records of Sarah Johnson.’ As before, her voice was tough and to the point.
The first page Monty glanced at was a photocopy of a row of index cards, each with tiny, scrawly handwriting. A doctor’s patient record notes, she realized after deciphering only a few lines.
She looked up, feeling guilty at prying into someone’s personal history, and glanced furtively around the almost deserted coffee shop, afraid that someone might be watching them. A bored-looking waitress stood checking receipts by the till and another was straightening out chairs. Two Arab businessmen occupying a table three away from them were deep in discussion, and a woman in a cashmere jumper was absorbed in a conversation on her mobile phone. The place was inadequately lit and had a gloomy, inert feel; the walls were painted with a childlike frieze depicting scenes from the wool-manufacturing industry and ‘Island in the Sun’ was playing, barely audibly, on the Muzak system.
Monty looked back down at the records. ‘How did you get these?’ she said to the reporter.
‘I never answer questions like that,’ Zandra Wollerton replied in a way that made Monty feel slightly foolish for having asked.
‘So much for medical confidentiality.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Would it have made any difference?’ Monty retorted testily.
The reporter looked evasive for an instant, then shrugged. ‘I have to do a lot of things that aren’t very nice, Ms Bannerman. It goes with the territory. I’m looking for the truth and that’s often not very nice either.’
These words made her seem much older, suddenly, Monty thought as she listened.
‘Three women die in labour suffering from an unidentified virus that looks like a cross between shingles, measles and psoriasis, and each gives birth to a Cyclops Syndrome baby.’ The reporter paused to drink some of her tea. ‘In their medical records, the only thing connecting them is that they were each treated for infertility problems with a drug manufactured by Bendix Schere, called Maternox.’ Then she cocked her head sideways and raised her eyebrows.
‘They didn’t take anything else?’
‘No other drugs at all – at least, nothing prescribed by their family doctors and nothing was given to them by their obstetricians, I’ve checked that.’
Monty thought for a moment. ‘There’s been quite a bit in the papers recently about a spate of infant deformities being blamed on polluted sea water. It’s possible, I suppose, they might all have been to the same holiday resort. Could they have picked something up there?’
The reporter shook her head. ‘None of the women left their home area during the course of their pregnancies. I’ve checked.’
‘You’ve been very thorough,’ Monty said admiringly.
The reporter ignored the compliment. ‘There’s something else that might or might not be significant: all three women got their Maternox from Price Saver DrugSmart stores.’
‘So what?’ Monty asked.
‘Bendix Schere owns them.’
‘You’re kidding? I didn’t know that!’
‘Not many people do – they like to keep the fact well hidden – that way they get to push their own products and make it seem like endorsement from the stores; a smart marketing concept.’
Monty looked reflective. ‘I don’t quite see why it’s significant that the Maternox capsules were purchased a
t DrugSmart as opposed to anywhere else,’ she said.
Zandra Wollerton shrugged. ‘May not be, but it’s another link.’
Monty stirred her tea. ‘Have you talked to any of the dead women’s doctors?’
‘I’ve tried; no dice – but that’s hardly surprising – the Hippocratic oath and all that.’
Monty stared back at her, wondering how she had managed to get the records. Had she broken into the surgeries? Had the seemingly mild newspaperman, Hubert Wentworth, hired someone to see to it? ‘Doctors are supposed to file reports on any side-effects from the drugs they prescribe, aren’t they?’
‘They’re supposed to, sure, but many of them don’t bother. They’re meant to fill in a form which goes to the Committee on Safety of Medicines and the Committee on Dental and Surgical Materials, and they should inform the Medical Information Department at the company – but it’s a lot of paperwork. There’s also an official government Confidential Enquiry into Maternal Deaths monitored by regional assessors – but it’s controlled by the Department of Health Central Office and information takes two to three years to filter through.’
‘You’ve had no joy?’
‘I’m still working on it.’
‘What about the Medical Information Department at Bendix Schere – surely they’d be interested?’
The reporter laughed, cynically. ‘The first time I tried I got a smooth Sloane in the PR department who gave me the brushoff, so I went straight to the Head of Department, an ice bitch called Linda Farmer. She said they’d received no reports from any doctors and gave me the party line about Maternox –all the crap about forty million women worldwide having taken it and never a single side-effect reported.’