Read The Night of the Mosquito Online
Authors: Max China
The Night of the Mosquito
First published by skinnybirdproductions: September 2015
The right of Max China to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
This work is entirely a product of the author’s imagination, and is therefore a work of fiction.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Copyright © 2015 Max China
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9571312-5-5 Paperback
Also available in e-book/Kindle format
Cover by Akiragraphicz
DEDICATION
In memory of my late father, Stefan.
In time, Dad, we’ll meet again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank everyone involved in the creation of this book, but most especially the talented author of The Trilogy of Noor, Chloe McDonald for her much-valued advice and continuing encouragement. I’m extremely grateful.
Contents
Prologue
Churchend, Bristol. Monday, August 10, 1987. 7:57 a.m.
Dragged over uneven ground between the gravestones of the churchyard next to St. Michael’s Orphanage, five-year-old Timothy Salter stumbled, almost falling. ‘Stop it. You’re hurting my hand,’ he squealed.
Ahead of him, the girl’s blonde pigtails swished from side to side as she ran. She didn’t turn round. ‘Quiet, Timmy,’ she said, in low tones. ‘Do you want us to get caught?’
He pulled against her, digging in with his heels.
Six years older and twice his size, his sister had little trouble jerking him back into a slow trot.
‘Sarah, where are we going?’ the little boy asked.
‘We can’t stay. We have to get as far away from here as we can.’
‘But why?’ He tried snatching his hand from her grasp.
Sarah tightened her grip. ‘Stop that,’ she said, her voice harsh, yet barely above a whisper.
Tears brimmed in Timothy’s eyes. His lips trembled. ‘But why?’
Sarah’s face crumpled.
Oh, Mum. Dad. Wherever you are. How can I tell him?
Her mother spoke softly, as if she were right next to her, and not just in her mind.
He’s too young to understand.
‘When you’re older, Timmy,’ Sarah said, ‘I’ll explain.’
‘I’m scared,’ he sobbed.
‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Now, come on.’
A hundred yards further, where the churchyard met the lane, they reached a low stone wall and stopped, both of them panting. Sarah released him, placed both hands, palms down, on top of the smooth coping, and swinging her leg up, she straddled it. ‘Give me your hand, Timmy.’
He held it out. She took it. Bracing herself, she hauled him up next to her. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she said, jumping to the ground. Reaching up, she helped him down.
The caretaker stood in the boiler house doorway and watched the children clear the wall. A simple man, he’d done what he thought best. He knew the men who came to the home in the dead of night were powerful, untouchable. He’d seen what had happened to the new girl the night before, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before they went into the little boy’s wing. If he blew the whistle, they’d destroy him. The magistrate would have him put away in prison.
He would give the children a few more minutes, and then report that he’d mislaid his keys.
In the dry and dusty country lane, tall trees leaned over the fleeing children. Up ahead by the crossroads, alert to their approach, a crow hopped, reluctant to leave the remains of his meal behind. Sarah stared at the carrion with disgust as they ran past. The head was flattened against the road; she recognised what the dead animal was by its ears.
‘Yuck,’ the little boy said. ‘What is it?’
‘A rabbit, I think. Come on, Timmy, you’ll have to run faster than this,’ she urged. ‘We have to hurry. Any minute now, they’ll find out we’re gone and come after us.’
Sarah stopped at the crossroads. The little boy fell in behind her. ‘Oh, God, Timothy. Which way do we go?’
‘That way,’ he said without hesitation, pointing to a lane that ran downhill. With barely enough room for a car to pass between its high tree-lined banks, it seemed the safest option. Overhead, the canopy of leaves gave the appearance of a long, dark tunnel. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. I don’t think they’d expect us to go down there.’
Sarah hadn’t a clue where they were. They’d passed only one house in the last five minutes. She’d almost knocked for help, but the cottage being so close to the orphanage worried her. She needed to get them to a police station. Running downhill gave them a brief respite. At the bottom of the lane, there was a level crossing. The barriers were down. ‘There’s a telephone box, Timmy,’ she said, excited. Then she remembered they had no money. You don’t need to pay for a 999 call, she recalled her mum had once told her. ‘Timmy, over here.’
She heaved on the door and squeezed through the gap as quick as she could before the door closed on her. She stared in disbelief. The handset was missing. Pushing her way out backwards, she took Timothy’s hand and approached the railway track. She looked both ways and saw nothing. She listened intently. A car! Coming down the lane. She shot round the end of the barrier, pulling her brother alongside. ‘Come on, Timmy, we have to go!’ Beside her, the rails hummed. She looked down the track. A train approached in the distance. The car’s engine grew louder as the driver changed down through the gears.
‘Let’s go,’ she cried. ‘We’ve got enough time to make it!’ She ran forward. Timothy pulled back. Dragging him forward, she tripped. Her foot wedged behind the rail. She tugged at it to free herself, screaming, ‘Go, Timmy! Go! I’ll follow.’ Metal screeching against metal, sparks flew from the beneath the wheels. Through the glass of the cab, Sarah could see the driver’s face, his mouth open and his eyes wide, full of horror.
It isn’t going to stop!
Her little brother’s feet skidded, scrabbling for purchase as he held onto her hand, desperately trying to pull her clear. The train sped towards them. Sarah screamed and let go of his hand. Timothy fell backwards out of the path of the train.
He would never speak again.
Ashmore Top Security Hospital. August 10, 2014. 8:07 a.m.
Blood. Warm. Sweet. Saline. The man named Wolfe acknowledged the contradiction. Salt has a sweetness all of its own. A sweet taboo. He sighed. The taste of his own blood could not compare. Hunger consumed him. Forbidden fruit. Fresh meat.
Salivating, becoming erect, he touched himself, cursing the devil.
You promised me the Earth for my soul and delivered nothing.
Biting down hard on his lower lip, he closed his eyes and then swallowed. The flavour, vile, tainted by hospital diet, revolted him.
They were moving him. On a bloody Sunday. Somewhere, he’d been told, better equipped to deal with him. From the angle of the sun, he knew it was almost time.
Will I go quietly?
He grinned. A trickle of bloody saliva escaped the corner of his mouth. Wiping it on the back of his hand, he examined it before licking it clean.
Lull them into a false sense of security. That’s what I’ll do.
The tramp of heavy boots announced the approach of a squad of guards. They paused while steel doors were opened and banged shut.
More men than before. After the last time, it was to be expected. He’d got a taste of meat before they’d overpowered him, before tenderizing his six-foot-ten-inch frame to a bloody pulp.
The footsteps resumed and then came to a halt outside his cell. He jack-knifed from the bed and crossed the room, ready.
Guard Chisolm peered through the observation panel in the steel door. From the other side, Wolfe glowered at him.
‘Stand away from the door,’ Chisolm said.
‘You coming in?’
‘Step back, Wolfe.’
Instinct dictated he should stay where he was, defiant. And then he changed his mind.
Lull them into a false sense
of security . . .
Wolfe took a backward step.
The outer skin of the medication hatch grated as it slid open. At just a couple of inches short of Wolfe’s great height, Chisolm stooped with some discomfort and put the plastic cup he carried on the flat surface. ‘Drink this,’ he growled, and slamming the steel plate shut, peered through the viewer to watch the giant patient’s approach.
‘Got anything good in it?’
‘Something to help you relax. That’s all.’
Wolfe shrugged, took a step forward, and collected the cup.
‘You know how this works,’ Chisolm said. ‘Easy or hard. Now, let me see you drink it.’
The patient swallowed it like a fine whisky.
‘Best get on the bunk, Wolfman. That little cocktail’s going to hit you hard. We don’t want any accidents, do we? And you know what they say, the bigger you are, the harder—’
‘You’d know better than me about taking a fall, Chisolm,’ Wolfe sneered.
‘Is that right?’ the guard said. ‘Now get on the bed.’
