The Disappearance of Katie Wren (31 page)

E
pilogue

Two weeks later

The various machines continue to beep as they keep Katie alive. She has wires and tubes running in and out of her body, but at least the bruise on her cheek is starting to go down. The huge wound on her belly, meanwhile, is almost completely healed. The doctors refuse to believe that I really saw her intestines fall out, and that she pushed them back inside. They say it's impossible, and that I was simply confused. I suppose they must be right.

“It's okay, sweetheart,” I tell her, reaching my hands between two of the tubes and gently stroking her hair. “I'm here, and I'll be here when you wake up too. No matter how long I have to wait. I just have to pop into the city for a few hours today, but I'll be back soon. I promise. I just have to attend a very important meeting.”

***

“I think we're all agreed, then,” Ms. Phillipson says, taking a small wooden hammer and checking her notes before turning to look out at the gathered attendants. “We'll reconvene the panel in one month's time, at which point it is my profound hope that we can finally determine who will chair the investigation into the events at Knott's Court.”

She moves to tap the hammer against the desk, but suddenly a hand shoots up from the front row.

“Yes, Toby?” Ms. Phillipson asks with a sigh. “What is it
this
time?”

“What's your response to accusations that the panel is deliberately dragging its heels? “ the man asks as he gets to his feet. “As I'm sure you know, several people online have suggested that the plan is to run down the clock and then move on without ever uncovering the truth.”

“That's absurd,” she replies, forcing a smile. “We're absolutely determined to get to the bottom of what happened at that house and -”

“Even if it means some uncomfortable questions for people in power?”

“Of course. But I'll remind everyone that it's only two weeks since the unfortunate incident at Knott's Court, and we're still in the very early stages. This investigation has to be conducted properly, and in great detail, which is why we can't afford to rush things. Uncovering the truth takes time, and I know patience isn't fashionable in the modern world. Nevertheless, everybody's patience
will
be rewarded and I'm certain we'll root out the truth.”

“And what do you have to say to the relatives of the victims?”

She hesitates, and she briefly glances toward me before turning and very deliberately looking out across the crowded room. “I simply promise that no stone will be left untouched.”

Another hand is raised.

“I really think it's time to end today's session,” Ms. Phillipson says, sighing again. “Everyone here has other committees to attend.”

“What about the Annabelle Churchill files?” a female journalist asks. “Have they been decrypted yet?”

“We have people working on that.”

“There are rumors that some of the files have been lost.”

“I can't comment at this stage, I'm afraid. But I'm sure the files of the late Annabelle Churchill will be of some use to us.”

“And will the investigation cover the arrest of Timothy Ashford-Clarke?” another journalist asks.

“There's nothing right now to suggest that we need such a wide remit,” Ms. Phillipson continues, and it's quite clear that she's losing patience with the whole farrago. “We need to streamline things, and it's evident to all of us that Mr. Ashford-Clarke was a tangential part of this whole mess. There's no doubt about his guilt.”

“But if -”

“And now we really must end today's session,” she adds, quickly tapping the hammer against the desk before getting to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for attending today. I look forward to seeing all of you at our next session, which will be held either next month or the month after. You'll all be informed of the date as soon as possible. Thank you very much. Good afternoon.”

As the meeting breaks up, I get to my feet. I suppose deep down I'd already expected that nothing much would get done, and so it proved. These people are very good at talking about the need for action, and they certainly make it sound as if they want to figure out what really happened at Knott's Court, but already the obfuscations and delays are creeping into the process. There might be plenty of journalists here today, but I'd wager there won't be quite so many next time, and gradually their numbers will dwindle until nobody really cares anymore. Even the police seem to not give a damn.

Feeling a buzz in my pocket, I slip my phone out and see that I've received a text message from an unlisted number.

“Did you hear all that bullshit?” the message asks. “I'm already way ahead of them, Winnie. I'll let you know when it's safe to meet up.”

I can't help smiling, and a moment later a second message arrives.

“I'm also looking into some of the more sordid details about the cult,” she explains. “I know the whole resurrection thing is garbage, but I just want to be sure. I thought I saw something that night. More soon.”

I wait, but there's no third message, and I'm sure that by now her latest burner phone has been tossed into a bin somewhere in the heart of London.

“Mrs. Wren?”

Turning, I find that one of the journalists has come over to me, as the rest of them file out of the room.

“It
is
you, isn't it?” he continues. “I'm sorry, I didn't want to interrupt, but I just thought I should ask about your daughter. How's Katie doing?”

“And why do you want to know?” I reply. “Genuine human compassion, or so you can put the juicy details in your next news bulletin?”

“People out there want to know,” he tells me. “A lot of our readers are curious about Katie Wren's condition. Has she at least woken up from her coma yet?”

I open my mouth to tell him I want to be left alone, but at the last moment I realize there's no point. Already, the past week has seen two journalists apprehended after they pretended to be doctors and tried to get into Katie's room, and I'm starting to think that it might be better if I simply give out a little information. That way, the jackals might actually leave her alone.

“Katie is resting,” I explain, “and she's still not conscious.”

“She hasn't woken up at all since the night at Knott's Court?”

“That is correct.”

“And she's at a hospital near Shropley?”

“I'm not going to tell you anything about her location.”

“And do the doctors think she -”

“I'm afraid that's Katie's private medical business,” I remind him, “and not a matter for public discussion. If your readers really care about her, which I somehow doubt, then this information should suffice.”

With that, I turn and head toward the door.

“And what about the Cult of Hiirux?” he calls after me.

I stop in the doorway and look back at him.

“When she wakes up,” he continues, “is she still gonna be convinced she's the reincarnation of an ancient god? Do you think she'd like to come onto my podcast as a special guest?”

“I -”

“And what about their belief that Hiirux will rise and retake the world?”

“Where did you hear about all that nonsense?” I ask.

“I have my sources.”

“No doubt,” I mutter, figuring that he must have paid some low-level crony in the police department for a copy of the preliminary report. “Remind me,
which
newspaper do you work for again?”

“It's a website, actually,” he says with a smile. “We do things a little differently, you know? My buddy and I started it up as a side-project for a web-design work, but then it turned out news sells a load of ads, so we're trying to make a go of it. We're just getting our podcast up and running, and this story has been really giving us a lot of hits.”

“Take my advice,” I reply. “Leave the news business to the professionals. The ones who care more about the truth than about advertising revenue.”

“Can't I care about both?” he asks as I walk away. “Mrs. Wren? I think you're being kinda old-fashioned about this! I just want a photo of Katie in her hospital bed? Would you be willing to send me one on Twitter?”

Ignoring him, I head along the corridor.

“Mrs. Wren?” he calls after me. “Would be mind recording an ident for my show?”

When I get outside, I find that the morning's dull weather has rather cleared up. Parliament Square is bathed in sunshine, and the city looks busier than ever. For a moment, I look around and watch as people hurry past, and I realize that nobody is holding their breath and waiting for the truth about Knott's Court. There'll be a new scandal along soon, or another reality TV star will have an embarrassing slip-up, and Knott's Court will be quickly forgotten. Even the investigatory committee will most likely grind to a halt.

Hearing a cawing sound nearby, I turn and look up at the roof of a nearby building. A crow is hopping from one turret to the next, while keeping his beady eyes fixed on me.

***

The house is so quiet. Sitting alone at the kitchen table, I realize that darkness has fallen. I got back from London several hours ago and immediately went to the hospital, and then I came home to get some food and sleep. I've been here at the table for hours now, just thinking about all the madness, and now the room is quite dark.

Leaning over the back of the chair, I can just about reach the switch on the wall. The light flickers on above me, and I look at my laptop. While I ate dinner, I was doing some more research into the Cult of Hiirux, although to be honest it's a little hard to wrap my head around all the conflicting information. They certainly seem to have been a rather minor group, at least as far as historians are concerned, but there are definitely little patches of information that seem to align with what I learned at Knott's Court. It's hard to believe that they really persisted for so many years, hidden from the world, but Harry Plume and his friends clearly didn't conjure the whole ridiculous thing out of thin air.

There really was an ancient cult that worshiped a god named Hiirux, and they really did go into hiding two thousand years ago. That part is true enough. It's the rest that I find difficult to swallow.

Grabbing the half-empty wine bottle, I pour myself a glass and lean back in the chair. I take a sip and stare at the laptop screen, before realizing that perhaps I should go to bed. It's almost midnight and I have to be at the hospital early for another meeting with the doctor. After taking another sip from the glass, I get to my feet and head to the sink. It's a shame to waste good wine, but I'm just not in the mood.

Tipping the glass, I pour the wine away.

And then I stand completely still for a moment, listening to the silence of the house. One day I'll get Katie back. One day she'll -

Suddenly my laptop starts ringing, and I turn to see that someone's trying to call me. I step back over, convinced that it's just another jackal wanting information about Katie's condition, but I freeze as soon as I see that it's Katie's profile picture that's flashing on the screen.

I reach out to accept the call, but my hand is trembling and I hesitate for a moment.

It can't be her.

She's in a coma, there's no way she could have suddenly woken. Evidently somebody is simply playing a sick joke.

I pause for a few more seconds, before clicking to accept the call.

Immediately, I hear harsh, ragged breaths coming through my laptop's speakers, along with a great deal of static and digital noise. A moment later, I realize I can hear a set of soft, muffled groans. It almost sounds as if somebody is weeping.

“Hello?” I stammer. “This... Who is this?”

“Mum?” Katie's voice replies, sounding weak and terrified. “Mum, is that you? Mum! You have to help me! You have to -”

The static surges for a moment, filling the air with a deafening hiss. I take a step back, but the sound quickly fades again and I can once more hear my poor girl's sobbing voice.

“Get me out of here, Mum,” she whimpers. “Mum, I'm scared. It's dark but there's something here with me. I can hear it!”

“Where are you?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “Katie, has something happened at the hospital?”

I grab my cellphone and bring up the number for the ward. My hands are trembling as I tap to make the call.

“Mum, please,” Katie sobs. “I don't know where I am and I'm really scared! Mum, come and find me!”

Before I can reply, I hear someone answering the phone.

“This is Winifred Wren!” I stammer. “Where's my daughter?”

Katie is still weeping through the laptop's speakers.

“Mrs. Wren?” I recognize the nurse, she was on the main desk when I left a few hours ago. “There's been no change in Katie's condition.”

“She called me!” I hiss. “She called me on my computer!”

I wait, and after a moment I hear hurried footsteps over the cellphone.

“Mrs. Wren,” the nurse says a few seconds later, “I'm right here and I can promise you, I'm looking at Katie right now. There really is
no
change. All her numbers are the same.”