Antman (54 page)

They sipped coffee in silence for a few minutes. Luis suddenly spoke.

'I do remember something odd about Thompsen. He used to talk about his childhood, how he used to experiment on crawlies. He called them experiments. I particularly remember that, as though it was a way of justifying what he did.'

Chris leaned forward. ‘What sort of crawlies?'

'Little things, insects. He was talking about his obsession with insects. He used to chop them up.'

‘
Why did he do that?'

'He talked about going round the garden with an oilcan from the tool shed looking for insects. He used to prefer beetles, especially ladybirds.'

'And then what?'

'He used to drop a small blob of oil on each. He used to watch them die. I don't know how it works. There isn't enough depth for them to drown.'

'Suffocation,' said Tom. 'The oil blocks the breathing tubes. They die quite quickly.'

'Later he got hold of an old pocket watch and used the second hand to calculate how long they took to go through the various stages.'

'How many times did he do this?' Chris asked.

'He said it made him cry,' said Luis.

'Had someone hit him?'

'He said one of his friends had been killed in an accident,' Luis said reflectively. After a long pause he started to speak again. 'He said it made him throw up. He used caterpillars as well as beetles. He talked about getting onto Mussolini's wavelength with the transistor radio in his bedroom, giving the dissidents the castor oil treatment.'

Chris was silent, brooding. ‘Were there any physical marks on him?'

'Such as a scar?'

'Could be. Did he – has he one then?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'Damn! I thought you might have remembered.'

An afterthought seemed to strike Luis. ‘Would a tattoo count?'

'It might. Where is it?'

'I don't know.'

'How come?'

'I don't actually know if he has one.'

‘
Why did you mention it?' She checked herself. 'I'm sorry, I've run out of patience.'

'He used to talk about them. There was a picture on the wall. He brought it from home. It was one of those men with tattoos completely covering their bodies.'

'So, did he go for any tattoos while he worked here?'

'I don't know.'

He glared and she hesitated.

'Let's go at it from the other direction. If he had planned to have a tattoo, what would he be likely to do?'

'You mean, love – hate, like prisoners. On his fingers. Or wet – dry on his nipples.'

'Not exactly those but yes, that sort of thing. But more appropriately, what? From what you know of him.'

‘
Well, I never really knew him. But in view of his job and his obsession with ants and so forth, what about, say, an ant's head – one of the soldier forms with big mandibles – on his chest?'

'How ghastly. Yes, sounds possible. The question then is how many tattoo shops are there in a square, say, between Hull, Doncaster, Hull and Scarborough.'

She turned to Tom. 'Which do you think?'

'I must confess to ignorance on this matter,' he said wryly.

'You know, I think it might be worth checking out,' said Chris. She picked up her mobile.

*  *  *

'Did you notice how your colleague Luis came to life when he was describing Thompsen's childhood memories?' said Chris later to Tom, as she drove him to the Station so he could pick up his car.

'I hadn't noticed.'

'Men,' she said. 'Women are so different.'

'I don't like being pigeon-holed as an insensitive male.'

'I don't think you're that. In fact –' She paused.

'You think I'm a sensitive insensitive male.'

'Not that either. In fact, I was going to ask if when you've picked up your car, you'd like to follow me and see my cottage tonight.'

*  *  *

It was late evening before they surfaced. Chris was surprised at how much passion was pressed into the space between them. They stood side by side on the patio to the rear of the isolated cottage, sipping a rich red wine from Bordeaux, listening to the tawny owls hooting as dusk faded to night.

'Rage, rage against the dying of the light
,' said Chris.

'Which one of your poets is this?'

'Dylan Thomas. He's not my poet. I understand his anger though. It's one of those we learnt at school. O level English Lit.'

'Sounds a bit heavy. Why did you say it?'

'Something triggered off by your anger about the direction in which the world is moving – the domination by commercialism, universities becoming profit centres, the vulnerability of academic freedom, the undervaluing of intellectual traditions, the undermining of the cultural life of the people.'

'Rather a conservative view, I reckon.'

'Thomas is on about not passively accepting ageing. But it seems to me to have a wider resonance.'

'Come here,' said Tom softly. He held out his arms. They embraced and he kissed her. They sat close together on two tiny, elegant cane chairs and put their glasses on the small circular table.

'It's been a long time since we had space together,' said Chris.

'I feel I'm letting you down,' said Tom.

'I can't accuse you of that. You're determined to stay the way you are, a stubborn old thing.'

'Hey, less of the old. You're certainly no pushover yourself.'

'You mean –'

'I would never dream of mentioning age.'

The empty Wolds lay before them, invisible in the darkness. There were faint rustlings in the shrubs at the boundary of her little garden.

'Sighs ache at nightfall falling into summer sleep,' said Tom.

‘
What's that?'

'I don't know. It just occurred to me. When we were kids, we used to walk around the village in our bare feet on nights like this. I was remembering the feel of sun-warmed paving stones under my toes.'

She giggled and looked down at the toes of her bare feet, wriggling as though they had lives of their own. 'You take things the wrong way. I didn't mean the poetry, but the rustling in the bushes.' She paused. ‘Where did you say the quotation came from?'

'I didn't, but it's a line from a poem.'

‘
Who wrote it?'

'I did.'

'You?'

'You're surprised. Yes, scientists do have a life. I've known many a scientist who doubles as artist, musician, writer. There is a creative side to science, you know.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply. Some men in science do tend to develop along rationalist lines though. I met a few at university.' She felt the heat of his questioning sideways glance and nervousness prompted her to continue. 'I was remembering the midsummer night when as students we took everything off and danced round the maypole.'

'Ah, the fecklessness of youth. Back to your friend Dylan Thomas,' said Tom. 'You young ones, passionate, fiery, impulsive and unresolved.'

'Dylan Thomas was never my kind of friend. Too feckless and alcoholic. I like my men to be sober. Anyway, he's long dead.'

'No, I mean it as a compliment. He goes on about wanting a life, not going quietly at the end.'

'Perhaps he's a Sagittarian.'

Tom pulled a face. 'I have no idea, but yes of course, that's the other possible explanation.'

'Big of you to admit it.'

Chris swung her chair back on two legs and next moment almost tipped backwards altogether. Tom leaned over quickly and supported her shoulder, preventing disaster.

'Now,' she said. 'It's good sometimes to have you to hang onto.'

'Academics do have their uses.'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'I know you didn't,' Tom said gently and was aware suddenly that his words were heavy with more meaning than he'd intended.

She put her hand on his knee.

'You make me feel good,' she said. 'Thank you.'

'Glad to be of service in so many ways,' he replied.

'Sorry. I'm not intending to put you down.'

'I know. No offence taken.'

*  *  *

It was well after nine in the morning and the post was waiting for Chris in the office when she walked in with Tom. She flicked through the pile of envelopes. She quickly pulled out one letter, tore it open and scanned the single page of writing.

'Read this,' she said, handing it to Tom with a stony face. Tom read the following:

Dear colleagues,

When my son goes on campaign, he becomes strong. My view is that this is the prime of his life. Years and years of being treated as a nobody. Now at last he is in the seat of control. We have never understood how important the ants are to him. Control has always been at the heart of his dealings with the ants. He is able to link controlling the ants to his desire to exercise total control over other human beings – people he selects.

When our John wears the mask it helps him to take on his powerful identity. Fashioned from plastic and flesh coloured latex, it transforms his head into a monstrous ant form. Complete with mandibles and antennae, it is designed to induce terror and paralysis in victims of the ants. He may have told you about his list. Here's a thought for you: he may have to abandon the alphabet as his guide and fall back on the more fundamental principle of who most easily arouses his insatiable anger.

Yours,

G

‘
What do you make of it?'

‘
Who's it from?'

'Our killer.'

'But the name.'

'The signature? It's indecipherable. It's meant to be his mother, or his father. That's another of his games.'

'Or a symptom of this multiple personality disease Mary Threadgold is on about.'

'If it exists. I have my doubts.'

*  *  *

Tom swept up the rest of the post in one hand as he raced out of the house, slamming the door without looking behind him. What was in that formal looking envelope? At the open car door he tore it open. A very brief letter inside conveyed its stark meaning with the minimalist intensity of a laser. He slammed his fist down on the car roof.

Chris leaned across from the passenger seat: ‘What is it?'

'They're withdrawing the special funding from my Centre at the University.'

'Which means precisely nothing to me.'

'It means that unless some more grants can be found from somewhere the unit will close.'

'Does that mean your work will be stopped?'

'Not future tense, but present,' said Tom. 'Like as from tomorrow, or even today, business starts to wind down.'