Darker

  The snarl sounded as if it came from an animal. Then Rosemary leaped at Michael like a hell-cat, knocking him backwards across the table, fingers ripping at his eyes.

  Someone fired the shotgun.

  They fired it deliberately high: the buckshot rattled against the copper pans hung above the worktops. A glass jar full of pasta exploded on a shelf.

  Richard felt a gun barrel stab into his back. Reluctantly, he raised his hands.

  The man in the white coat lunged after Rosemary, twisted her long black hair around his fists and pulled her back as she swore and kicked.

  Michael sat up, blinking. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips. When he opened his mouth Richard saw his teeth stained red with more blood.

  ‘Nice one.’ Richard smiled at Rosemary. ‘I wish I’d got the guts to do the same.’

  Shock turned Michael’s face so white it looked as if it’d been dusted with flour.

  ‘My God, you’ve come out of your shell since I picked you off that roadside, Rosemary Snow.’ He spat blood.

  ‘Where’s Christine?’ Richard demanded.

  ‘Upstairs. She’s fine.’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘Playing in the dining room.’

  ‘She’s all right?’

  ‘Top of the world. You should see her.’

  Rosemary snarled, ‘We know what you’ve done. We’ve seen enough of that Codex Alexander to know how you’ve got the Beast back under control again.’

  ‘You’re using Amy to control it.’ Richard’s voice dropped. ‘You’ve got to get rid of this thing, whatever it is.’

  ‘Why on earth should I do that after all the trouble I’ve gone to to rein it back in again?’

  ‘Because it’ll kill Amy, then it’ll kill you.’

  ‘No, Richard. You’ll find we’ve learnt a lot since old Alexander of Macedonia’s day.’

  Rosemary spoke in a fast low voice. ‘You know nothing. That Beast you’re so fond of corrodes people from the inside out.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re the ignorant ones. The Byzantine Emperors lived to ripe old ages.’

  ‘Yeah, and you should’ve seen them. They were shrivelled and twisted up by the Beast,’ Rosemary said. ‘Crippled; driven mad by the pain of enduring it possessing their bodies.’

  ‘Possessing? You make it sound like some low-life demon, Rosemary Snow.’

  ‘Constantine the First was the first Byzantine Emperor. The Beast drove him so paranoid he had his wife and eldest son executed.’

  ‘In any case, Rosemary,’ he smiled, ‘it doesn’t possess my body, it possesses Mr Young’s daughter.’

  Richard wanted to punch that smug face. The smile. Those eyes that were so gentle; that said they cared for people in trouble. Like shit they did.

  Michael sat on the table, his fingers knitted together. Again he managed to give the impression that he was the one who’d been hurt. As if proffered kindness had been dashed back in his face.

  ‘The thing is, I admire you both. You’ve gone through hell and high water to reach here. But you understand the dilemma I face now. I can’t allow you to influence Amy.’ He smiled. ‘You see, to all intents and purposes, I’m her daddy now.’

  Richard felt the cold creeping over him. Soon something was going to erupt inside. ‘You think so?’

  Michael nodded. ‘She controls the power. I control Amy.’

  Deep down inside, although Richard didn’t know why, a tiny spark of hope flickered. ‘So, you control Amy. Good for you, Michael. You know something? She’s only four years old but I’ve never been able to say that.’ He smiled. ‘She’s got a will of her own.’

  He saw the smile on Michael’s face falter briefly. Then it came back and Richard realized that Michael had chosen to ignore him. ‘Nevertheless, Richard. Rosemary. If you were in my position, what would you do with two people who jeopardized your plans?’

  Richard felt the shotgun barrel dig harder into his back.

  Chapter 88

  Power

  Richard did the first thing that came into his head. He knew the man pushing the muzzle of the shotgun between his shoulder blades was going to pull the trigger on Michael’s nod.

  He spun round, aiming to knock the shotgun barrel up with his left hand while punching the guy with his right.

  He succeeded in pushing the barrel up at the ceiling, but his punch went wide. Although a scientist, the guy was fit. Richard didn’t even see the gun barrel coming down until it was too late.

  The twin barrels came down like a club; with a shockingly loud crack they smacked into the side of his face. Richard went down hard. His head rang like a bell and the room pitched around him. Groggily, he pulled himself up on to one elbow.

  He saw that the white-coated man, holding Rosemary brutally by the hair, had forced her head over the sink. In his free hand he held a revolver which he pointed at the back of her head. The white-coated man looked away from her, his face screwed tight with tension. He didn’t want to see the mess he would make when he finally pulled the trigger.

  Richard shook his head, still dizzy; his face throbbed. Then he heard a rapid murmuring.

  It’s Rosemary, he thought, poor kid’s praying. She knows this is it.

  Then he heard the words: ‘… into the kitchen; Amy, come into the kitchen. Your daddy’s hurt. Amy, come into the kitchen. Amy …’

  Then he heard Michael’s voice. ‘Shut her up.’

  White-coat replied, ‘There still might be some residual telepathic link … you can’t stop her thinking.’

  Michael replied in a low voice, ‘Oh yes, you can.’

  White-coat tensed, holding Rosemary’s head at arm’s length over the sink. His gun hand trembled as his fingers tightened.

  ‘Now?’ he asked.

  Michael nodded. ‘Now, Dr Lane.’

  Richard waited for the crack! of the bullet leaving the barrel to smack into the sixteen-year-old’s skull.

  A wave of black engulfed him; he blinked; shook his head, groggy. I must have blacked out, he thought, I didn’t hear the shot.

  But here comes the blood. Rosemary Snow is dead …

  He couldn’t bear to look across the floor to where the body must lie.

  Instead, his eyes fixed on the trickle of deep red, as thick as syrup, rolling across the white tiles towards him.

  Poor kid. I should’ve left her at that service station. Now I’ve brought her here to die. Her brains blown out into a kitchen sink.

  The blood reached a drain set in the tiled floor and rolled over the chrome rim, then began to drip, drip, drip …

  … into the waste pipe.

  And now here comes mine, Richard thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. Shotgun blast to back. Then my blood runs with Rosemary’s down into that plug hole, mixing, mingling, then flowing to the river … then some distant sea …

  Already his mind had detached itself from the centre of his brain. The kitchen seemed unreal, as if he already floated away from the life he’d held down here on Earth for these last thirty-three years.

  The thick blood, red-black, almost purple, continued its drip, drip, drip into the drain.

  Bang.

  He blinked. It wasn’t a gunshot. It was the sensation of him suddenly being snapped back into the real word.

  Why hadn’t they fired? Why was it so quiet?

  His eyes followed the trail of blood.

  From the drain, across the white tiles. But not towards the sink where Rosemary had been held. The blood trail led into the gap between a line of refrigerators and long food preparation tables.

  His eyes focused on a pair of white trainers. They glistened red with blood. More drops of blood splashed into a small blood puddle beside the shoes.

  He allowed his gaze to track up the yellow trousers; up the sweatshirt.

  ‘Amy?’ he whispered, his mind clearing. ‘Amy.’

  Then he saw the carton in her hand hanging loosely by her side. Blackcurrant juice still trickled from th
e straw hole; it pattered on to the floor, swelling the trickle that fed the floor grate.

  ‘Amy …’

  She looked straight through him, her eyes glassy. She did this when she was sleepy; as if that tired four-year-old mind couldn’t quite synch itself with the real world. But there was something more. The eyes, although glassy and fixed, had changed. As if she’d seen something stupendous.

  Something shocking.

  ‘Amy, are you all right?’

  When she didn’t respond he glanced to his left. The guy in the white coat still held Rosemary over the sink. But she’d managed to lift her head to look at Amy. Michael himself moved very slowly as if not wishing to startle the four-year-old.

  ‘Amy, darling,’ Michael said in a low voice. ‘Take Puppy back into the dining room. I’ll bring you some supper. There’s a video we —’

  ‘Amy—’ Richard began but felt the stab of the shotgun muzzle in his back.

  Amy looked at the guns, her eyes still glassy, trance-like.

  ‘Don’t frighten Puppy.’

  ‘We won’t, darling,’ Michael soothed. ‘We’re just … playing.’

  ‘Puppy doesn’t like guns.’

  ‘Go back into the dining room, Amy.’

  Richard sensed a sudden unease among the three members of the research team. Their eyes flicked anxiously from Amy to Michael, then back again.

  Amy, glassy-eyed, still stared at the bare kitchen wall as if her eyes were focused on something beyond it.

  ‘Don’t like guns,’ she said in a faint voice. ‘People with guns should …’ She cocked her head to one side as if listening to an inner voice. ‘People with guns should run away.’

  Richard heard the men behind him gasp.

  He looked up, almost recoiling from the look of shock and the fear, the absolute fear in their faces.

  ‘People with guns should run away.’

  They gasped again; a deep, throaty sound which Richard imagined a human would make if a heavy boulder had been lowered on to their stomach.

  Michael began to speak. ‘No, Amy. That’s naughty. Don’t tell the men to —’

  ‘Run, run, run away.’ Amy’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Richard flinched at the sudden commotion behind him.

  ‘No, Amy!’ Michael shouted. ‘Stop it!’

  Richard climbed to his feet, expecting to be clubbed by the shotgun again.

  But the three men had got something else on their minds.

  They’d got somewhere important to go.

  They didn’t know where …

  … but wherever it was, they were going to hurry there and they wouldn’t pause until they reached their destination. All three nodded, as if eagerly obeying orders; their eyes blazed.

  ‘No, Amy …’

  Her eyes were glassy. She still stared at the wall.

  Richard watched White-coat drop Rosemary. Then he followed his two colleagues, through the door, through the hallway decorated with the hanging men – bang – through the main entrance doors and away through the night.

  Richard’s head snapped back to look at his daughter. He realized the significance of her power now … the Beast’s power that she wielded. The absolute power over men. The power to command them to die for you. And for them to go willingly to their death, joyously crying out your name with their final breath.

  Immediately he knew why the gunmen had hanged themselves.

  And he knew that White-coat and his two colleagues would gladly – would passionately – run until an artery ruptured under the pressure.

  Michael moved quickly. He picked up the dropped shotgun, then the sub-machine-gun, slipping its strap over his shoulder. Then he pointed the shotgun’s twin barrels at Richard and said, ‘The buck stops here, Young. I’m finishing the job.’

  Rosemary pulled herself to her feet by the sink. ‘Amy … Amy. Stop Michael hurting your daddy …’

  Still staring, still glassy-eyed, Amy said, ‘Stop it, Michael. Stop it.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Go into the dining room, Amy. Go there, now.’

  Amy murmured, ‘Men with guns should run away.’

  Richard looked at Michael expectantly.

  ‘Don’t raise your hopes, Richard.’ Michael smiled. ‘It won’t happen to me. Remember, I’ve lived years with the Beast in Turkey. I’m immune.’

  ‘Michael!’ Amy’s face turned red; her eyes snapped wide. ‘Don’t hurt my Daddy, don’t hurt my Daddy, don’t —’

  ‘Amy!’ Michael shouted. ‘Amy, out of here. Now!’

  A sound started in Amy’s throat. Like a motor starting. A low growl rising, louder, louder, morphing into a scream; her body shook as if bolts of electricity cracked through it.

  ‘Amy …’ Rosemary ran to her as the four-year-old shut her eyes and dropped backwards, hitting the tiles with a soft thumping sound.

  Richard’s stomach lurched. ‘Is she OK? Rosemary …’

  Rosemary picked her up and held the little girl like a baby, head on her shoulder.

  ‘She’s breathing … she’s OK.’ Rosemary’s voice tremored.

  Michael pointed the shotgun at Richard. ‘Rosemary. Take Amy into the dining room. Do as —’

  He stopped speaking as the brass pans jingled together. A white towel, hanging from a wall hook, moved as if blown by a light draught.

  Michael shook his head as if dismissing the draught as unimportant, then looked back at Richard. All pretence of the calm confidence had gone. The smile vanished. His downturned eyes were hard. Not taking those eyes off Richard, he said again, ‘Rosemary. Take Amy into the dining room. Through that door, first on your right.’

  The pans jingled again; the white towel fluttered.

  Frowning, Michael glanced at where the draught had seemed to come from.

  And then the draught came again. Only this time it wasn’t a draught. It was a hurricane. The pans clanged together like bell clappers; the towel ripped from the hook and flapped above Richard’s head. Rosemary’s hair blew out behind her in rippling waves.

  Richard scrambled to his feet. He saw Michael gesture to him with the shotgun to keep back.

  ‘What’s wrong, Michael? Did you expect this?’

  He didn’t reply; the tension turned his face ugly now, as if it revealed what had always lain under that smiling mask.

  ‘It’s Amy,’ Rosemary shouted above the blast of air, ‘she’s dreaming …’

  ‘It’ll soon stop.’ Panic cracked through Michael’s voice. ‘Wake her.’

  ‘I can’t. I think it’s some kind of fit.’

  ‘Come here,’ Michael yelled. ‘I’ll wake her.’

  The wind howled round and around the kitchen like a tornado, ripping sheets of paper from a notice board. Cutlery flew like shrapnel. The pans crashed against the refrigerator doors.

  The kitchen door opened. Briefly, Richard saw more of Michael’s people beyond it, carrying guns. A man in glasses started through the door.

  Then the door closed with thunderous slam —

  – opened a split second later. The man was rocking back on his heels, his glasses smashed into his face. Another tried to come through the doorway, a revolver held high in his hand. The door slammed shut, trapping his arm between the door and the frame. Then, in impossibly quick succession, it slammed open-shut, open-shut, open-shut, smashing the man’s forearm. Richard heard distant howls of pain. Then the door crashed shut.

  And stayed shut.

  Richard sensed that tremendous strength in the room. The door forced shut, as if a bull elephant pushed against it.

  This was the power of the Beast he’d seen earlier; the same power that had killed the policemen, wrecked cars; brought down York’s thousand-year-old cathedral.

  It was in here with them.

  But this time it was controlled by his four-year-old daughter’s dreaming mind.

  He found himself remembering the dreams she’d told him about. The scary dreams, faces at windows, gurgling monsters in the toil
et, the Boys pulling her, crying, out of bed …

  The Beast was interacting with those dreams now.

  He sensed that power pushing at the walls, at the floor, at him; a leaping electric power, sending flashes of blue light cracking and sizzling along the metal work surfaces to spark from cooker to dish washer to sink and back again.

  ‘You must make her stop.’ Michael sounded as if he was pleading. The fluorescent lights flickered, went out.

  But there was no darkness now.

  The kitchen wall that Amy had stared at with those glassy entranced eyes glowed milky white. It filled the kitchen with its cold glow. He saw Michael looking about the kitchen, frightened now. Rosemary stood and stared at the glowing wall, her hair still flapping about her, Amy still held tight in her arms.

  Michael pointed the shotgun at Rosemary. And for the first time Richard realized he might fire at Amy if he thought his own life was threatened.

  Taking a deep breath, Richard thought grimly. ‘Here goes.’ Then he lunged forward at Michael.

  Chapter 89

  Where Shadows Stalk Darker

  Michael’s concentration was so fixed on Amy in Rosemary’s arms that he didn’t see Richard spring at him. Until it was too late.

  Richard saw those downturned eyes snap from Amy to him as he closed the gap across the kitchen floor. Before Michael could react, he swung his fist as hard as he could into the middle of Michael’s face.

  Christ, Richard never expected it to feel that good. There was something both savage and sweetly satisfying at feeling his fist hit the bastard.

  With a grunt Michael fell back on to the floor. Blood bubbled from his nose.

  Then the winds hit with explosive force. Torrents of cabbages, potatoes, apples streamed over Michael as he lay flat out on his back on the tiled floor.

  Richard heard a yell as the force of the gale threatened to hurl Rosemary against the wall that now glowed weirdly; flickers of rainbow colours raced across it.

  Richard dragged himself back through the maelstrom, caught Rosemary in his arms and pulled her and Amy back, away from the shimmering wall.