The Night of the Mosquito (17 page)

White noise roared over the channel. She shouted, ‘Not here they haven’t. But I’m pleased for you. Get something to eat, Michael, will you do that for me?’

‘Not sure I’ve got the stomach for it—’

‘The power’s back on here as well!’ she exclaimed.

His heart lifted. Things were going to be all right.

‘Damn, it’s gone off again,’ she said. ‘What’s that beeping, is it your end?’

‘I think we’re about to be cut—’

The radio failed.

Eleanor Rigby. He wanted to tell her he had it now.
It’s a song by the Beatles.
The lights flared and then went off. He sat in the dark, thinking about all she said, wondering if he’d speak with her again. Music wormed its way out of his subconscious. The song’s chorus began playing in his head.
All the lonely people . . .

He wondered if he’d ever get to meet her.

Chapter 39

Bristol Harbourside. 7:10 p.m.

‘Mick? Come on, good buddy, answer me.’ Eleanor stared at her radio’s display. The problem wasn’t her end. The beeping. They’d spoken for over an hour.
He’s run out of battery, that’s all it is.
A mantle of disappointment settled on her. In her head, she tracked the conversation back. He’d started off sounding desperate, and then miraculously seemed to recover. But he hadn’t. She heard again his gasp of pain. His initial denials when she’d asked if he was all right, the eventual admission, the intensity of the headache. Blinding. No appetite. Why the reluctance to open up to her fully?

Deep concern took over her thoughts. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her newfound friend was in trouble. Sitting alone, she turned the radio off to conserve what power might be left in the battery. In that moment, she made a decision. Go to him.

She set off on her bicycle, the full moon gilding her skin a mix of green and silver as she negotiated the lanes beyond the outskirts of town. On her way out of the city, she’d witnessed scenes of unrest, angry mobs, shop windows smashed, a motorcyclist torn from his bike, his vehicle stolen, cyclists pursued for their machines. Fires burned in the streets, but nobody bothered her. She had some antihistamine cream, aspirin and a tin of chicken soup with her. If necessary, she’d build a fire to heat it up. She’d make sure he ate something.

In a lifetime of cycling, Eleanor had never ridden on urban roads after dark before. The light of the full moon combined with the polarized energy traversing the sky, shape-shifting and ghost-like, the sea-green of clear shallow waters in warm climes, bathing the world below in a washed-out radioactive glow. She smiled at the hue. Green-silver. If an alien spaceship had arrived, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

As a former schoolteacher, memorizing the route after years of class planning presented no problems, so she’d tucked the map into the rucksack before she’d hooked it over her shoulders. It bounced and chafed against the small of her back at every bump in the road. She passed an old church tower, the wash of colour rendering it majestic, the old louvres staring in silence like shuttered eyes following her progress. The sight of the graveyard sent a shiver through her. The crooked headstones seemed to lurch alongside, racing to keep up. She pedalled faster, not daring to look behind.

Chapter 40

Hilltop Cottage. 7:15 p.m.

Heavy-hearted, Anderson trudged up the stairs, gripping the balustrade. The candle carried in his right hand held the shadows that threatened to engulf him at bay. Who had he just met? Eleanor. No more than a disembodied voice from across the ether, and yet, she’d sparked a hope of something he thought he’d never hope for again.

He paused at the top step, his hand resting on a newel post. His mouth was dry. She’d suggested he eat, but he couldn’t contemplate anything solid. The short climb had left him breathless. A moment passed. He frowned, confused at his lethargy, and then continued towards the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of his face, the swelling monstrous in the flickering light.
God, Michael, you look like you’ve just stepped out of a Stephen King novel.
He opened the cabinet and took four Nytol tablets from the pack. One by one, he pushed them between his lips and onto his tongue. Wincing at the sweet, sour taste, he turned the tap on and scooped a handful of water into his mouth. He swallowed the pills. He’d sleep through the pain. The lights had been on, albeit briefly, but it meant that the authorities were working on the problem. In the morning, the power would be up and running. He’d make his phone calls. Doctor, mechanic, electrician. In that order. He thought about Eleanor. Was there enough juice left in the car battery to reconnect, to try to get her back?

Anderson retraced his footsteps. The descent downstairs convinced him he wouldn’t make it back up to his room to sleep. The shotgun. I must have it with me. He took the weapon from its secure cabinet, along with a pair of shells. About to load them, a vision of himself seated, gun between his legs, barrel pointing under his chin, flashed into his mind. He put the shells into his pocket. Then he shuffled along the corridor, through the lounge and into the back of the house.

Too weak to attempt resurrecting the CB, he lit sufficient candles to continue reading in the comfort of his conservatory, and lay on the sofa. Yellow flames licked the edges from the gloom as he continued with Ryan’s book.

Fifteen minutes later, Anderson rubbed his eyes and realised he hadn’t been reading at all; he had merely lounged while the book in his hands transported him to forgotten times. His head dipped. He drifted.

Once more, he was with Ryan, seated opposite him. The psychiatrist fixed him with his beady eye. ‘Do you remember that boy, the one who watched from the sidelines while his friends drowned?’

Anderson nodded. ‘How could I forget him? He refused to allow himself to be hypnotised. I told you it couldn’t be done.’

Ryan’s silver propelling pencil gleamed, the instrument held at an angle in such a way that the light shone into Anderson’s eyes. He stared at Ryan’s thumb, click, click, clicking the button at the top of it. The lead crept out notch by notch, over and over again. Twelve times before the doctor pushed the exposed graphite back in. Click, click, click . . . 
What you were, you will be again
. Anderson tried to analyse this latest thought-dream. It meant something. He knew it.
You’ve been here before. Is this a genuine recollection? Yes, I’ve had this thought before. It definitely means something.
More of Ryan’s words assembled in his head.

You know that eventually we’ll part company because of the narrow-minded approach you have to things you don’t understand. I hypnotised you without your knowledge on several occasions, Michael, and I did it to show you what it is you refuse to see. Margot died that you should live. Time to unlock yourself.

Velvet claws sank into Anderson’s skin. Drowsiness dragged him down. Echoes of distant laughter reached his ears. A smile graced his lips. He’d been happy once.
What you were, you will be again.

Anderson had never known Margot happier than she had been that first morning in Sorrento, Italy. They’d breakfasted overlooking the Bay of Naples, where Vesuvius squatted under a cape of snowy ermine beneath a crown of fluffy cloud. Chatty and lively, she’d rung around almost everyone she could think of, much to his irritation, to share the views. ‘Did you know they believe the volcano was once as high as ten thousand metres?’ She crinkled her nose and blew a kiss to Anderson. ‘Yes, of course that’s high. Over thirty thousand feet. Well, it’s only three thousand metres now.’ Margot paused, listening. ‘What do you mean, what happened to the rest of it? Don’t you know your history? It blew up all over Pompeii. Look, we’re going there tomorrow. I’ll send you some photographs. Yes, I will. Bye.’ She double-checked the phone had disconnected. ‘Can you believe that, Michael?’ she giggled. ‘Where did it go?’

The mirth on her face infected him and they burst into spontaneous laughter. When he’d gathered himself together sufficiently to speak, he said, ‘Have you finished with the calls?’

‘No, I’ve got a couple more to make,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, that’s it then. I won’t make another call for the rest of the holiday.’

Anderson raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Look, I’m going up to the room. I’ll see you in a minute.’

Later, he would look back and wonder. Did she somehow know? A part of her alerting her to what was to come, compelling her to ring round and say her last goodbyes? And worse, had he had an inkling, too? To examine it afterwards in the sharpened focus of hindsight was to bring in small things that seemed so insignificant at the time. Could he even rely on the accuracy of his recollections? Had he tailored some evidence to fit, to justify his unawareness, his inaction?

If Ryan had planted this particular seed, why had it only begun to grow now? Was it because there wasn’t anything anyone could have done?
She died that you should live.
The thought still nagged him.
Why am I thinking about all this now?

They’d walked out of the hotel and strolled arm in arm down the cobbled side streets leading onto the teeming main square. Cars, taxis and scooters all vied for supremacy; men driving carts steered their horses around the periphery with seeming impunity. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t persuade me to drive,’ he told Margot.

‘But we’d have been in air-conditioned comfort,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘Let’s hope the bus doesn’t get too crowded.’

Ten o’clock in the morning and already unbearable, the heat made Anderson irritable. ‘Yes, all right. No need to rub it in.’ He spied a stall selling ice cream. He jerked his thumb at it. ‘You want one of those?’

‘Michael Anderson,’ she scolded, ‘you’ve only just had breakfast.’

‘Okay,’ he said, shuffling his feet. He nodded. ‘You’re right.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘We’re on holiday. If you want one, have one.’

A small voice inside him joined the debate.
Leave it, Michael.
‘Only if you have one,’ he heard himself say.

‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him by the arm. ‘I’m on a diet, but you can buy me a bottle of water.’ She guided him over the busy road.

He’d only intended to purchase a small cone, but the vendor had piled three scoops on before he could stop him, making it difficult to take a bite without dislodging the ice cream. Margot carried her water, and engrossed in nibbling, he followed her blindly back over the street towards the bus stop. What happened next took place in a blur. From out of nowhere, a car screeched around the corner, its engine screaming. People to the left and right of him dashed to safety. About to take a bite of the ice cream, Anderson looked up too late. Margot shrieked a warning and shouldered him hard. He flailed instinctively at the falling scoop as he lurched forward, the speeding car clipping the back of his heel. BANG. For one crazy second, all he thought about was his ice cream. The car roared off. Someone screamed.

Ryan couldn’t have known about Margot; he died well before she did. Yet he’d spoken of her death in the past tense.
Margot died that you should live.
And he couldn’t have known the circumstances of her death.

It was a prediction.

The medium! Maybe she was for real after all. But why was she predicting for me, and why did Ryan pass the message on?
It
had
to mean something.

Shit! What other messages had Ryan planted? Slack-jawed, Anderson’s head bobbed, halting his slide into unconsciousness.
Got to fight this.
Unable to get up, he lolled over the arm of his seat and clumsily forced his fingers down his throat. The gag reflex almost pitched him to the floor, but he did not vomit. Fingers again. The reaction no less violent, he dropped to his knees and spread his hands onto the ground in front of him. String-like mucous trailed from his lips; rapid salivation followed. His shoulders bunched a split second before his stomach muscles contracted, painfully ejecting a gush of viscous liquid, which pooled, growing wider with each spasm.

Satisfied he’d finished, he rolled onto his back. The coolness of the ceramic tiles against his damp clothes refreshed him. He gazed out through the glass ceiling. The moon was full, silvery green. Bigger than he’d ever seen it before.

Anderson’s eyes dropped away from the sky to follow the line where the white timbers of the conservatory roof, converging on a hipped corner, joined with the wooden mullioned windows just above the dwarf supporting wall opposite him, to settle on the twin blue-black gleam he realised had drawn him into looking there in the first place. His shotgun.

Oh, Margot. You deserved to live so much more than I.

Chapter 41

Churchend woods. 7:30 p.m.

A day spent down by the railway tracks. Every year, Timothy did the same thing, hoping to catch something of his sister’s spirit. He wandered either side of the rails, calling to her by blowing through a selection of little green blades. Never one to give up hope, he rationalised he just hadn’t found the right note. The stranger he’d seen along the tracks earlier had frightened him; he’d never seen such a big man before. He thought he was going to chase him. The years of trial and error had sharpened his memory, but the moment of fear had wiped his place in the mental catalogue of the sounds he’d already tried. He’d had to begin all over again.

In a couple of hours, he knew, in spite of the strange glow in the sky, darkness would fall.

Timothy thought about the lights. He’d learned most of what he knew of history from the pages of daily tear-off calendars. Megan, the woman who’d taken him in as a child, used to read them to him. There was a connection, he felt sure. Timothy raked back through the years as he strolled.

‘What you get, Timo, when you study these,’ she said, flicking through the stack, ‘is words of wisdom at the bottom and a small bite of history at the top. Look at this one. August 10, 1519, Fer-din-and Mag-ell-an sets sail to cir-cum-navigate the world.’
That was it.
What had bothered him ever since he’d torn off this morning’s date?
August 10, 1990, Magellan space probe reached Venus
. It was no coincidence that the probe had been named after him, but to arrive on the anniversary of the day Magellan had set off? They couldn’t have planned it, could they? This day. The sky. The stranger. A sense of foreboding crept over him.

Coming out of the woods, he walked along the road. He crossed at the churchyard, taking his usual shortcut over the wall, and approached the dilapidated set of buildings he called home.

Timothy let himself in and immediately knew something was wrong. The door leading to the tower staircase was open. He listened to the low, mournful notes the pigeons cooed, and the incessant ship’s-deck creaking coming from the bell loft.

He’d heard the bells earlier. He knew it could only have been the Fallows. He didn’t bother to investigate. On this day of all days, he wanted to avoid them. A sense of guilt tugged at his conscience. He hadn’t seen them in a long time. He should have come back. Then a thought occurred to him. Why hadn’t they closed the door when they left? A feeling of uneasiness edged into him. Something was definitely wrong.

Timothy began to ascend the stairs. He gazed up. The birds were perched on the joists as usual, but had crowded together at one end. They queried each other like old women gossiping over a fence. Through the years, he’d become familiar with their behaviour, their language. Something had disturbed them. Step by squeaking step he climbed, turning around the winding stair, completely unprepared for the horror he was about to encounter.