Alchemist
At five to eleven she put on her double-breasted navy jacket and picked up her handbag. She still hadn’t got used to the luxury of an office of her own. It wasn’t big by any standard, but the only fault she could really find was not having an external window. The temperature was pleasant and the air did feel fresh, even vibrant, but she had the same slightly claustrophobic sensation she always experienced when inside enclosed places.
She walked past the male security guard seated at his console in front of the lifts. But these lifts went no further than the forty-eighth floor, and only a Director with a smart-card could summon the express lift which went beyond. She had been instructed to ask the guard to call it, which he did.
God, the Directors are paranoid! she thought. What are they frightened of? Industrial espionage? Terrorists? Animal Rights? Cranks?
As she waited she thought fleetingly of the American who had travelled up in the lift with her that morning, and smiled privately to herself, remembering the expression on his face when she had caught him preening himself.
He was a good-looking guy, but no doubt typical of the men whom she had met here so far. There seemed to be an abundance of rather precious types who took themselves far too seriously, as if working for Bendix Schere had elevated them quite beyond the status of ordinary mortals.
A sharp ping announced the arrival of the lift and she stepped in. Moments later, the bronze doors opened and she was back in the same anteroom, with its weird abstracts, where she had come with her father for their first meeting with Rorke and Crowe.
A door opened as she waited in the reception area and Rorke’s private secretary, a draconian-looking woman with flame-red hair, informed Monty that Sir Neil was ready to see her.
Rorke came to the door of his office himself, hand outstretched, and a smile which instantly made her feel he was genuinely glad to see her.
She shook the fleshy hand warily, remembering from past experience the steely hardness of his grip. ‘Good morning, Sir Neil – I appreciate you taking the time to see me.’
‘Always time for you, my dear.’ He gestured her to sit in one of the comfortable chairs grouped casually around a coffee table well away from his desk, making her feel a little thrown by the informality. It had been several months since she had last seen him, but he was unchanged, his face just as rubicund, his black hair as flamboyantly long as before, and he was dressed in one of the loud chalk-striped suits and kipper ties that seemed to be his trademark.
‘So tell me,’ he said. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘Well,’ she said hesitantly, not wanting to start off by launching straight into her proposed attack, ‘it’s been going extremely well. Although the whole process of the move is taking much longer than we thought.’
He brought his hands together and interlocked his fingers. ‘I understand from Dr Crowe that everyone’s very happy this end.’ He paused and smiled wryly. ‘Your father certainly knows how to spend our money.’
‘It’s all necessary equipment.’
‘Of course! I’m not complaining – we’re delighted by his enthusiasm.’
Monty smiled back politely, preparing her next words. Then her eyes fell on the large gold frog on the onyx plinth on Rorke’s desk, and she shuddered slightly. Today, the frog seemed to be gazing, with a hostile glare, straight back at her.
She took a breath. ‘There is something specific, Sir Neil,’ she said, opening her handbag and removing the letter. ‘This came yesterday, addressed to my father. It’s from our Chief Lab Technician, a man called Walter Hoggin, who’s been with Daddy ever since he started. In it he says that he’s received a letter from Bendix Schere’s Director of Human Resources, informing him that due to his age he has been made redundant, that he is not to come to the company premises again and that all personal belongings will be delivered to his home.’ She stared challengingly and noted, with some satisfaction, the look of concern on the Chairman’s face.
Rorke leaned forward thoughtfully. ‘Due to his age? How old is he?’
‘Sixty-six,’ she said.
He leaned back. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I would imagine that’s the answer. That’s a year past retirement.’
‘We’ve never forced people to retire at any age,’ she said testily.
Rorke’s expression hardened a fraction; the change was barely perceptible, but it was enough for Monty to see a glimpse of the Chairman’s tough side. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Bannerman, we do have rigid rules about retirement age.’
She kept her calm, in spite of her rising anger. ‘I understand that, Sir Neil, but, as you know, the safeguarding of our staff’s jobs was one of my father’s biggest concerns – and mine. At that very first meeting we had with yourself and Dr Crowe, you both gave your assurances on that score. It was one of the basic conditions on which we entered into the agreement with you.’
He nodded. ‘Well, we certainly don’t want to break an agreement, that’s not the way we do business. I’ll have a word with Dr Crowe and see what we can do about this.’
‘I’d appreciate that very much,’ she said. ‘As a matter of urgency. Walter is extremely distressed. It’s just not the way we treat people.’
He watched her carefully. ‘I’m sure we can make an exception – perhaps find something for him at our Slough campus.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Thank you.’ She replaced the letter in her handbag, feeling relieved.
‘We’re a large company, and we have a very big heart too.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ she said.
‘I value you and your father very highly. I certainly don’t want anything to sour our relationship, or your views about Bendix Schere. If there’s anything else on your mind, you will please tell me, won’t you? My door is always open.’
‘Thank you, Sir Neil.’
He walked her back to the lift himself. As she stepped in, he said: ‘Miss Bannerman, I do mean it. We may be a global organization, but I run a tight ship. If you or your father are unhappy about anything at all, you must come directly to me. Promise me that?’
She promised.
13
Barnet, North London. 1946
Daniel Judd lay on his back in the darkness for the fourth night running with his arms pulled down each side of his bed and strapped tight to the legs with leather belts. The hard edge of the metal frame dug into the same raw weals made on his wrists last night and the night before.
His bottom and back were bleeding from the separate thrashings he had received from his parents: from his mother for refusing to say his prayers before he got into bed last night, and from his father because he had not said grace properly before supper.
His nose was blocked and he wanted to blow it, but could not do so without his hands. He also needed to urinate badly but was too afraid to call out for his parents, and yet he was frightened of the punishment if he wet his bed.
So he lay snuffling and helpless, eyes stinging with tears, his distended bladder shooting sharp pains up the left side of his stomach; he could only watch the darkness of the room with open-eyed fear.
They had tails and stings like scorpions, and in their tails they had power to torment people for five months.
Scorpions!
Scorpions got you if you did not have the seal of God on your forehead.
He had never seen a live scorpion, only pictures in an encyclopaedia, and a dead one in a cabinet in a museum; it was smaller than he had thought, the size of a large beetle. Black and hard. He imagined the floor covered in them now, marching their way over to the bed, reaching the bottom of the legs. Then swarming up, gripping the vertical sides of the mattress with their black claws. Gathering at the end of the eiderdown.
And he did not have the seal of God on his forehead to protect him.
His parents had told him of the seal, but they said that he was a sinner and that was why he hadn’t got one. Even so, he had gone to the bathroom mirror to check himself, and to his dismay had realized they were right.
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He could not see the seal on either his mother or his father’s forehead either, but they said that once you had it, it became invisible. And you would know when you had it.
His mother had read a passage about scorpions tonight.
… when he opened the Abyss, smoke rose from it like the smoke from a gigantic furnace. The sun and sky were darkened by the smoke from the Abyss. And out of the smoke locusts came down upon the earth and were given power like that of scorpions. They were told not to harm the grass of the earth or any plant or tree, but only those people who did not have the seal of God on their foreheads.
They were not given power to kill them, but only to torture them for five months. And the agony suffered was like that of the sting of a scorpion when it strikes a man. During those days men will seek death, but will not find it; they will long to die but death will elude them.
His mother had told him the scorpions would get him if he had impure thoughts in the night. If he thought about touching himself. If he thought about touching his dirty thing.
And yes, he had thought about touching it, was thinking about touching it now, about holding it and letting the urine flow, letting it gush out and getting rid of that terrible pain in his tummy.
And that meant the scorpions were going to get him. For sure. He listened hard, listened for the sound of claws on the carpet, tiny scrapings, clackings, making their way up the bedclothes any moment.
He listened in clenched silence. He could hear them! His bed felt alive, teeming with insects; he held his breath in the darkness, trying to sense movement beyond the coursing of his own blood. The movement of insects. He bit his lip. Something. There was something crawling up the counterpane. Now.
Scratch. Scratch-scratch. Scratch. Pause. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch.
His mouth was dry with fear.
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
Closer.
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
He stifled the first cry, swallowed it, choked it back. Could hear the sound of the claws scraping against the shiny cotton, slithering as if they were on ice. Then gripping! Scratch-scratch-scratch.
Something touched his arm.
Something pressed against his pyjama sleeve; a tiny indent then another, then another. He could feel the pricks of the claws through the thin material. Moving up his sleeve, past his elbow. Could imagine the small black thing, tail held high, curled forward over its spine. He swallowed. It was OK if you stayed still, that’s what you had to do, stay still, not let it know you were frightened.
It reached his shoulder. Then something touched his neck, something cold, hard, quivering; next he felt the first claw dig in, sharp as a needle; his body was shimmying with terror. Felt the legs digging harder in, making their purchase on his skin; traversing his neck and over his Adam’s apple, each step a needle prick. Up the base of his chin, touching his lower lip. Over his mouth; he could smell it now, a vile rancid smell. It moved past his nostrils then began ascending his cheek, climbing towards his eye.
It was going to sting him through the eye …
‘Mother! Mama! Daddy!’ he screamed, thrashing in terror, breathing short hard bursts, spinning his head wildly from side to side. ‘Mother, Father, oh help me oh help me oh help me!’
The light came on, momentarily blinding him. As he blinked, something blocked his right eye; something hard pressed against the ball. A shadow swept down; he sensed the flick of a finger; something moved on the carpet to his right; a creature on its back, wriggling its legs in the air; dark brown, about an inch long.
Then his father crushed it on the bare floorboard with his slippered foot.
‘Scorpion,’ Daniel whispered, barely able to breathe now.
‘What a fuss to make, you stupid little boy,’ his mother said.
‘Scorpion?’
‘It’s not a scorpion, it’s a cockroach.’ His father picked it up between his fingers and held it over his son’s face. Two of its legs flexed and slowly released; orange gunge was oozing from its split belly; an antenna quivered.
‘It’s a sign,’ his mother pronounced. He stared up at her, wrapped in her woollen dressing gown, face stark white and clammy with cream, her eyes hard with anger. ‘It’s a sign from God of your impure thoughts.’ She slapped him hard across the face. Were you thinking filth?’
He shook his head in fear. She slapped him again. ‘You’re lying! God sent you a cockroach first; a scorpion will be next. You must repent, boy; every time you do not repent the anger of our Lord increases.’
Daniel began to sob. ‘Why is God so horrible to me?’ he said.
His mother slapped him again, harder. ‘Our most merciful Father who art in Heaven you call horrible? How dare you?’
‘I hate God,’ he sobbed. ‘I hate Him! I want to kill Him!’
His mother screamed at him, yanked his hair, spat in his face, then slapped him repeatedly on both cheeks. She went out of the room, came back with a bar of soap and tried to ram it into his mouth. ‘Wash your mouth of your blasphemy! You will go to Hell for ever!’
His father dropped the cockroach into the wastebin. ‘Repent, son,’ he said. ‘Before it is too late.’
Daniel said nothing.
His father picked up the Bible from the bedside table and began to read aloud.
‘The heads of the horses resembled the heads of lions, and out of their mouths came fire, smoke and sulphur.
‘A third of mankind was killed by these three plagues of fire, smoke and sulphur … The power of the horses was in their mouths and in their tails, for their tails were like snakes …
‘The rest of mankind, that were not killed by these plagues, still did not repent of the work of their hands, they did not stop worshipping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood – idols that cannot see or hear or walk.
‘Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts.’
Then his parents went out of the room, closing the door. ‘You’ll sleep with the light on so God can see you more clearly; so you can understand it makes no difference whether it is dark or light. He sees everything.’
Daniel lay still, staring up at the bare light bulb, at the spidery brown stain on the ceiling where water had once leaked; at the black night through the curtainless window; at the crucifix on the wall to the right of it. Hatred burned inside him. Hatred for God. Hatred for Jesus on the Cross.
He concentrated on the crucifix. God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
He looked at the naked man with the outstretched arms, the bent legs and sagging head. Then he thought about himself, lying here, with his arms outstretched. They were the same as each other!
God had allowed his son to be crucified. God had killed his only son. To save mankind. God had not treated Jesus any better than he was being treated now by his own parents. The anger inside him increased, roared like a furnace. He felt himself becoming hot. He began to sense a strange energy coming into his body. A sense of strength and power that began in the pit of his stomach and radiated outward through his chest, his arms, his legs. His eyes stayed locked on the crucifix, he could see it so clearly, as if it were not twelve feet away across the room, but inches from his face.
He could see the agony there. The twisted muscles, the fingers curled and dying like the legs of the cockroach. The crucifix began to tremble. Just a few tiny vibrations at first, then more. Daniel willed it to vibrate harder; harder still.
Suddenly, with no warning, it dropped straight to the floor with a loud report, like a gunshot.
Daniel saw the two small holes in the walls where the nails had fallen out; and the flesh-coloured shadow in the shape of a cross that lay etched in the grimy ochre paint of the wall.
Then he grinned.
He had made it do that. He had made the crucifix fall from the wall just by thinking about it! His e
yes flicked to the Bible on the table beside him. He concentrated his stare on it. Burst into flames, he thought. Go on, bum!
He focused hard, locked everything else from his mind, brought the strength and power back to a peak. Concentrated. Concentrated. Bum, damn you, ghastly horrid book.
BURN!!!
There was a tremendous bang, then the tinkling of falling glass. The window! It had turned to a mass of cracks and was imploding before his eyes; a few small shards at first, then the whole pane buckled and fell in glass daggers on to the floor.
His door hurled open and his parents came storming in. ‘What in the –?’ his mother began, her voice drying mid-sentence as she was confronted by the broken window; then the crucifix on the floor.
His father stared, bewildered, then tested the straps that held his arms pinioned. His parents glanced at each other; his mother tested the straps as well.
‘Daniel,’ his father pronounced, ‘if you do not have the seal of God on your forehead, then you have the mark of the Beast.’
‘He is an evil child and he must be saved,’ his mother said.
‘Do you understand what it means, Daniel?’ his father said. ‘If anyone worships the Beast and His image and receives His mark on the forehead or on the hand, he will drink of the wine of God’s fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of His wrath. He will be tormented with burning sulphur in the presence of the holy angels and of the Lamb. And the smoke of their torment rises for ever and ever. There is no rest day or night for those who worship the Beast and His image, or for anyone who receives the mark of His name.’
‘Is that what you want, boy?’ his mother screamed. ‘You want the mark of the Beast?’
Daniel looked up at his mother and said nothing.
14
London. Wednesday 2 November, 1994
You are one ugly bastard! Conor Molloy thought, staring at the poor black and white photograph inset into a research paper. ‘Gastric Brooding Frog’, said the caption beneath. ‘Rheobatrachus silus.’