Saxon (27 page)

‘Yeah…now you mention it – somethin’ about some of his patients needed shit…you know, cannabis for muscle problems. I think it was Muscular Sclur…Sclera…fuck it, I don’t know how you say the bleedin’ word.’

Saxon said nothing.
I don’t think I’ll be pursuing that one then
.

‘What about Gertraud Bishop – ever heard of her?’

‘Nah.’

‘Christopher Janson?’

‘Yeah, I heard ’er talk about ’im.’

‘In what context?’

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘In what way did she talk about Christopher Janson?’

‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place? She just said that he told ’er that he was hoardin’ the drugs she sold him so that if he got cancer or somethin’ like that, he was going to top ’imself with it.’

‘Did your sister’s friend Poppy have any idea what was going on?’

‘Not a fuckin’ clue – shit for brains that one, I can tell you. You see, most of the drugs never got to Babs’ house – we transferred it all to one of my vans in a lane somewhere in Sussex. Daft bitch didn’t know what planet she was on half the time. Couldn’t stand the cow.’

Saxon stopped him. ‘I’m not interested in your personal opinion of her. Is there anything you would like to say before we end this interview?’

‘No, except my fuckin’ ’ead ’urts somethin’ rotten – I must ’ave a mental disease and I feel a bit dizzy,’ said Jenner slyly, thinking that he really had convinced them that he was suffering from some kind of mental disorder.

Parker ended the recording. He and Saxon sat while Jenner was taken back to his cell. Haines packed up his papers and left without a word.

Parker slumped down next to Saxon and offered him a cigarette.

‘Thanks, I must buy some, I seem to always be smoking yours,’ said Saxon as he drew in the smoke.

Sergeant Dowling entered the room looking pleased. ‘Good news, sir, Mr Varnham is going to be okay – hospital just called. They’re going to keep him in overnight and tomorrow morning and probably take him home during the afternoon.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant, so we have a confession and a witness. Things are improving. All we need now is a something to go on regarding our shape-shifting friend. The rate he’s been bumping off his victims, we should hear something very soon.’

Chapter 14

Sunday, June 16, 8.00PM

Saxon sat alone in his apartment. Again. He hadn’t heard from Emma for some time and, although this upset him, he didn’t feel the pain of the separation in the same way anymore. In the beginning, particularly during the first month after she left, he would pace around, listening to sad music, almost swamped by his misery, occasionally drinking too much wine, and certainly regretting it the following morning.

Sometimes the despair he felt would be so all-encompassing that he almost cried with pain. However, as usual with him, the safety switch in his head would kick in and push the pain away.

The weather was still freaky. There were reports in the news of water shortages, and of the ground drying up so much that the foundations of some rural buildings were becoming unstable. It made him think of his childhood – were the summers really hotter? Or was it the fact that children overheat faster than adults, and that memory, more often than not, plays tricks?

He didn’t have the answers. Just memories. Some of which he preferred to store in one of the deeper recesses of his mind. But like a nagging pain; they would always surface just when you don’t want them. One of these unwelcome memories was of his father – the father he had hardly known – the father he had been deprived of. Saxon was so young at the time of his death that the majority of his memories comprised of Saxon senior telling him a few stories of the war, combined with glimpses of days in the country, growing up in idyllic surroundings and living in a Tudor cottage in Sussex.

Richard Saxon was an enigma. He was a quiet man with great inner strength and had led an eventful life. During WWII, he was a squadron leader, flying Spitfires, Hurricanes and occasionally Lancasters, on bombing raids deep into Germany. Once, he was
shot down near Berlin but, remaining calm, he managed to walk out of Germany, into France and eventually, after meeting up with the French Resistance, was smuggled back into England. Only to be given another aircraft – a brand new Spitfire – in which he was shot out of the skies by an anti-aircraft battery on the south coast of England. Apparently, one of the ladies who were plane-spotting on that day thought his aircraft sounded like a Fokker. Not exactly the word he used, but close enough.

Saxon loved to hear his father describing his fighting escapades. He thought that it was really what every little boy wants – the memories of his father from a child’s point of reference, without seeing the imperfections that all children start to see as they get older and realise that their poor father was not Superman after all.

The slightly inebriated reminiscing was abruptly halted by a knock on his door. He didn’t bother to look through the spy hole; after all, he was a big tough policeman, so why bother.

Francesca stood looking nervously at him. She handed him a bottle of red wine. ‘You seemed to like this wine the last time we had it, I thought maybe you’d like to try it again.’ This comment was followed by one of her warm smiles, which Saxon had to concede, was extremely endearing.

He had trouble hiding his joy at seeing her and invited her in. She walked through the hallway into the sitting room while Saxon wandered around trying to remember exactly where he had left the corkscrew.
I hope it’s not in the sink
.

He found it, at last, and he opened the bottle of wine, relieved that the cork came out smoothly. They climbed the stairs to sit on the roof. They sat together in companionable silence, looking out towards the sea.

Saxon was rehearsing a number of things to say, but not finding the right one, when Francesca turned to him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is very pleasant, isn’t it, sitting here like an old married couple.’ She smiled at him and they both laughed. He opened his
mouth to reply but she turned back to look at the sea and went on speaking. ‘Paul, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but here goes – why don’t you go and see Emma and just ask her what she’s playing at. Surely, she must know that going off like she has and not contacting you for weeks on end is hardly fair to you.’

She paused and turned back to face him. ‘There, I’ve said it. Now I suppose you’re pissed off with me?’ Saxon remained silent. She closed her eyes and let her head fall backwards. ‘It’s none of my business, is it?’ she said.

Francesca waited for the ticking bomb to explode. Saxon waited for the light to stop reflecting off her hair as it fell back with the movement of her head.

There was no explosion. Saxon looked at her and smiled, but it was a sad smile.

When he spoke, it was slowly. ‘Fran, you have every right to ask. To tell you the truth, I’ve all but given up on her. I came to the conclusion that no matter how much I felt sorry for myself, and moped around being depressed…’ He shrugged. ‘Well, what good was it doing me?’

She was looking at him now. ‘The answer is none,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t doing anyone any good, but particularly not me.’ He shook his head.

Francesca reached her hand across the six inches that separated them and touched his fingers briefly. He looked up and nodded in acknowledgement of her touch. She took her hand back and sipped the wine.

‘You know something, Fran?’ It was clearly a rhetorical question. He was smiling now. ‘I was happy before I knew her, so I can be happy now that she’s gone.’ He sighed with evident exaggeration.

Francesca laughed. ‘Good for you,’ she enthused. ‘Let’s go out and have dinner somewhere – on me,’ she added, smiling broadly.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, why on earth should you pay?’

‘Oh, I suppose because I’m a woman, you think you have to pay for everything.’ She emptied her glass. ‘Well I’ve got news for you, Mr Tough Big Macho Cop.’ She stood up, straightening her skirt slightly as she did so. ‘I’m not a dependant little woman. I’ve got money, and I’m going to buy you dinner – so just this once you just stop being a commander and do as you’re told and follow me.’ She walked towards the stairs. Then she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I mean it,’ she said, with a mock severity. She climbed carefully down the spiral staircase, taking the glasses and bottle with her. He followed, feeling quite pleased with himself and life and the universe in general.

As they left his apartment, Francesca suggested they use the lift rather than the stairs. The lift was small, with barely enough room for two people. They neither of them commented on the fact, although they were both intensely aware of it. His hand brushed hers as he followed her into the lift and turned at her side to face the door.

The journey down took less than thirty seconds but they were a long, slow thirty seconds. He was aware of the faint perfume she’d put behind her ears. It was subtle, but already responding to the warmth of her skin. He inhaled it but not too obviously. It was lovely. It wasn’t one he knew, but it smelt vaguely old-fashioned to him. Emma had once observed to him that the new perfumes tended to be too brash for her taste, too in your face, literally in your nostrils. He shared her preference for the softer, gentler fragrances.

Now here he was, reflecting on Fran’s choice of perfume. And it didn’t seem at all odd. But his heart was thudding against his chest. How strange to be in such a state of anticipation over a simple dinner. He held back to let her leave in front of him, and then closed the lift door.

Francesca smiled and waited for him. Something in the way she was standing, with her hand at her side, just made it very
easy for him to link his fingers with hers. She leaned into him slightly and squeezed his hand very gently. Then she started walking towards the door. He hoped desperately that his hand wasn’t clammy. His heart rate had increased.

‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you in the mood for?’ She had one of those wonderful voices that sounded like laughter, even when the speaker is only smiling. He loved her voice.

‘In the mood for?’ he answered. The question was unexpected. Never normally at a loss for words, he was suddenly off-balance.

‘Food-wise. What are you in the mood for food-wise?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you fancy, Italian, Indian? We’re going out to dinner, aren’t we? That implies an element of choice. We have to decide what we want to eat. Just because I’m treating you doesn’t mean that you’ve surrendered all control. I wouldn’t want you to think that.’ She held his gaze momentarily; her head tilted very slightly on one side, and then she set off down through the square to the sea front.

He pulled gently on her hand to slow her down so that they were walking side by side. ‘I surrender all control,’ he laughed. ‘Until further notice, that is.’

Rottingdean, Sunday, June 16, 11.00PM

He sat in the middle of the room. The lights were off – he had no need for light. Everything he needed to see happened behind his eyelids – if he opened his mind sufficiently to allow the images to be projected in the right place. Controlling his breathing, slowing it down to six breaths per minute, it would take five minutes before the voice would come – would decide to come, if he was considered worthy of a visit.

Sometimes the voice refused to be heard. Sometimes, when it had not been forthcoming, he fell to his knees, pleading to know – to be told, that he was completing his tasks satisfactorily. If approval was withheld, then so was sleep as questions spread
wildly through his mind. Had he done something wrong? Maybe the wrong person had been cleansed. Should he have searched harder and longer for more of them to send to the master? Would the master become tired of him if he made mistakes? If so, then what would he do?

But now, his mind was open, searching, probing for the right frequency. When the voice came, ecstasy flooded his body causing him to convulse. And now, he became tense as the first wave hit him in the chest and surged up through his shoulders. Then, as it shot up through his neck, he felt it explode to every part of his being.

He found himself looking around a laboratory, brilliant white, so bright he could barely stand the pain. Such was the pain to his eyes; he was unable to focus fully. Around him he could just make out desks – he was aware that there were people sitting at the desks, but everything was so out of focus they appeared to have no features. He wanted to blink. But there could be no escape from the pain to his eyes as they were already closed. If the master had chosen this to be the image he had to see, then who was he to object.

The voice came at last, so soft and reassuring, with the words he had wanted so much to hear. He was doing well, it told him. He was doing far better than the others. They didn’t have the same background as him, so how could they be expected to perform with the same degree of expertise. The master knew he had chosen well.

However, more work was demanded. More filthy souls were to be sent to the master. His hunger was great. He was told that the meddlers who tried to stop him, were as bad as the rest of them. They must be persuaded, using all methods at his disposal, from their incessant meddling.

The voice faded away, but he was still in the white laboratory. The light faded sufficiently for him to pull his eyes into focus. Gradually everything sharpened up, and he realised that people
in white coats occupied all of the desks, but their heads were skulls. Traces of skin and hair hung off all of them, at least the ones he could see. The room had grown to massive proportions, disappearing into the distance in all directions. Each desk was covered with test tubes and various-shaped glass containers. All were overflowing with blood.

He stood transfixed as the skulls first turned to gaze at him. Then, as though all were commanded, they turned to look in the direction of a lone figure in the distance, which appeared to be walking in his direction. Unsure at first, because of the distorted perspective – but eventually, at a distance that he couldn’t begin to guess, he realised that it was a woman, a small woman.

His eyes stung and watered. He wanted to rub them hard, but the voice gently told him to wait. Suddenly his vision seemed to telescope to the face of the approaching woman.

He tried to run forwards as her emaciated face filled out to regain the beautiful features he had known when she was his wife. His legs refused to respond. He called out her name and she smiled, lifting her arm in the air over her head. She began to wave to him, but the flesh on her arm started to decay and drop onto her face. She looked up, surprised and frightened. Her face contorted, as in the split second that precedes a scream.

The scream came as she put her hands to her face. It was a scream that no one could ever forget. As she removed her hands, her face came with them. Her skull looked down at the dripping mass of rotten flesh.

He turned to run away but his legs were not his to use. Turning back to his wife, he almost gagged as the remainder of her flesh slipped to the floor. The cadavers at the desks turned to face him as the blood in their test tubes overflowed onto the floor. Like a vast red carpet, it travelled from the furthest reaches of his vision to the grotesque skeletal figure that was once his wife. As the first drops touched her feet, she slowly regenerated, causing him to experience an overwhelming feeling of elation.

He attempted to move toward her again, but she raised her hands to stop him. Her mouth made the movements of speech, but the voice that he heard was that of the master. ‘This is why I must have the blood and the souls.’

Suddenly, there was nothing. He found himself on the floor beside his chair. He shook violently. Feeling the nausea welling up inside him, he staggered to his bathroom, falling over a coffee table on the way, and emptied the contents of his stomach down the toilet.

His understanding of why he was chosen for the quest now made more sense than ever before. The master had never shown him anything like that before. Surely his reward would be the return of his wife. Apart from removing the disease from the world, the energy from the souls along with their blood would save the innocent ones who had contracted the filthy disease through no fault of their own.

He knew there would never be a cure for AIDS – all that was required was a cull. He reasoned that diseases like that don’t just happen. They are sent.
If something or someone sends these things to decimate humankind, then there must be a power that can destroy them
.