The Night of the Mosquito (8 page)

Chapter 16

Avon Gorge. 9:52 a.m.

Wolfe climbed the wooded cliffs, drawn to the sound of bells ringing in the distance. Halfway up, he switched from the punishing direct ascent he’d taken to a less arduous one, after discovering a zigzag series of pathways that ran all the way to the top. Panting from exertion, he paused, bent over, hands resting on knees. Two thousand press-ups a day while incarcerated had done nothing for his leg muscles.
What’s with those bells? A wedding going on? Could be in line for a piece of bridal cake.
Staying close to the treeline, he resumed walking, focused on no other thing or destination.

He scanned the landscape. His eyes swept the sky, confused as much by the pink and green colouration he saw shimmering in the gaps between the clouds as he was the fact that no one appeared to be searching for him. No helicopters, no dogs. Apart from the rhythmic clanging, the world was strangely silent. He breathed deep; the intermittent rain had released a cocktail of earthy smells. A strange kind of energy pulsed in his brain. The climb had cleared the remnants of the drug he’d partially absorbed. Turning his head in the direction of the ringing, he saw the bell tower through a gap in the trees. He gauged the distance.
No more than two miles.
The thought of champagne amused him. Joining in the celebrations, he’d tell them a maniac was on the loose, to add an element of chaos to the proceedings.

The church appeared deserted, the high-low peals the only sign of life. He loved and hated the sound, and therein lay the attraction. The closer he got to divisions and boundaries, the more he liked it.

The building was medieval, stone-built, under a red clay-tile roof. At one end, louvres had been installed at the top of a three-story crumbling tower to keep birds and bats out. He wondered if the small door on the north elevation was unlocked. The devil’s door. He smiled, gripped the iron ring and turned. Open. He ducked inside and made his way to the tower, the peal of bells ringing in his ears.

Chapter 17

Hilltop Cottage. 9:54 a.m.

The pain in Anderson’s eyelid had transferred into his eyeball, making further reading intolerable. With some reluctance, he postponed finishing the chapter. He’d go for a lie-down until he felt better. Clinging to the balustrade, he trudged upstairs. In the bathroom, he peered at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, running a finger around the extent of the swollen bite. Far worse than any he’d had before. He scowled, and wetting a flannel with cold water, opened his medicine cabinet. He popped out two Nytol tablets from a half-empty sachet. They’d make him woozy, but he positively welcomed the idea of closing his eyes and waking in a couple of hours, the swelling down, the antihistamine having done its stuff.

He dry-swallowed the tablets and grimaced as one lodged in his throat.
When will I learn?
He turned on the tap, and bending towards it, scooped a palmful of water into his mouth and swallowed.
That’s better.

He made his way to the bedroom and lay down. With the cool flannel over his eyes, he contemplated what he’d read in
Problem Child
so far.

Anderson came to the conclusion that the clairvoyant girl was in many ways just like some of the other disturbed children he and Ryan had treated. Circumstances were one thing, learned behaviour another, but Ryan had become convinced there was a genetic blueprint at work, something programmed in at the start, behaviour patterns transferred through the DNA. A forgotten irritation elbowed itself into his thoughts, turning the sweet chemical taste on his palate sour. Ryan hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him
. He kept me out and I’d just accepted it like it was meant to be.
His eye throbbed as he struggled to recall details; he traced the swelling to determine if it had spread.

Thoughts from long ago crept into his mind.
What’s wrong with your eye?
It was a question he’d once asked Ryan, and not long after, the psychiatrist had gone blind in it.

A sense of dread fell upon him.

Words strung out like festoons emerging from the depths of his memories.
What you were, you will be again.
The words repeated over and over. Anderson wrestled with understanding, and on the cusp of victory, he remembered that Ryan had once hypnotised him without his consent.

Chapter 18

St Michael’s Church. 9:55 a.m.

Wolfe ascended the stairs to the first floor and watched unseen from the doorway into the rope room, amazed at the efforts of the ringers. A man and woman in their fifties, surprisingly agile for their age, managed a rope in each of their hands, pulling the padded length, snatching at and catching the looped ends secured to their wrists, ringing four bells between them.
Look at them,
he thought,
they look like a pair of chimpanzees wandering through the vines high up in the canopy, swinging without travelling.

Sweat poured from the man’s reddened face; the woman was pink, aglow with a light sheen of perspiration.

Wolfe licked his lips. He relished her saltiness.

Up, down, heaving the dirty grey ropes, blackened, almost polished at the ends. He noticed knots tied at intervals. Daylight, penetrating through two vertical cracks at the southeast corner, slashed the worn timber floor and formed a ragged T-shape, illuminating dust and falling detritus.

Wolfe looked up. The beams rocked and creaked an accompanying beat between each note.

‘No one’s coming,’ the man yelled, breathless. ‘I wish Timothy were here; he could jump in and share some duties, be less of a strain.’

‘Are you sure he still lives here?’ the woman shouted.

‘He still sleeps here, I know that much,’ he said. ‘I can’t keep this up much longer.’

‘But we must. How else can we draw attention to what’s happening?’

‘The place is falling down, that’s what’s happening,’ Wolfe shouted, brushing dust from each shoulder as he stepped from the shadows.

The woman, petite and just over five feet tall, watched him warily, but didn’t stop pulling. Wolfe grabbed her rope. The bell’s momentum yanked at his arm. Holding it firm, he stopped it from rising again.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ her companion said. ‘We must warn everyone.’

He grinned. ‘You knew I was coming?’

‘Not you,’ the man snorted. ‘The Antichrist. The world has been plunged into darkness. The work of modern man has ceased to function. Have you not seen the signs?’

‘I was in a dark place, set free to walk in the light.’

The man stopped hauling on the ropes. He stood open-mouthed, registering the gleeful visage framed by long dark hair, the rugged growth of beard and the sheer size of the man before him as if under a spell.

Wolfe sprang forwards and grabbed him by the throat with one hand, hoisting him high. Aware of the woman’s screams, he laughed. Pulling the rope down, he looped it around his victim’s neck twice and yanked towards the floor, simultaneously releasing his captive, who struggled frantically to remove the coils from the base of his skull. The bell rang out. An instant later, the rope’s upward travel snapped the ringer’s neck.

A trickle of urine stained the dead man’s trousers.

‘My God,’ the woman gasped. ‘You’ve killed him!’

Wolfe dragged his attention from the twitching legs of the corpse and turned towards her.

Terrified, she backed up towards the stairs. Wolfe leapt at her. Fear crumpled her legs. She dropped to her knees and prayed.

‘That’s right, pray to your Saviour. Ask him where he is in your hour of need.’

‘Jesus, save me,’ she implored, anguished tears streaking her face.

Wolfe clawed his hand into her fine silvery-blonde hair, twisting a hank of it around his fingers. He lifted her up. Tiny hands sought his, trying to relieve the pressure on her scalp. Holding her firm, his other hand slid down the front of her blouse, into the cup of her bra, pinching the nipple.

‘Don’t,’ she sobbed.

He forced her head back, and staring directly into her eyes, ran his hand down, over the curve of her belly, the buttons of her top popping under the strain. She pleaded, ‘No, please.’

His fingers slid under the waistband of her jeans, down into the front of her pants, over the sweat-moistened tuft of hair. Tears coursing, she whimpered as he probed, slipping his fingers between fleshy lips and plunging them into her dry warmth.

‘You see?’ he leered. ‘It’s not all bad.’

Less than a mile away, Anderson, hovering in the state between sleep and alertness, noticed the bells had stopped ringing.

‘Thank God,’ he muttered, and drifted into a world where dull pain ruled and a giant mosquito stalked the land.

Chapter 19

Priestley police station. 10:15 a.m.

Newly promoted Inspector Tom Emerson strode out of his office and along the corridor, taking the last door on the right into Reception. Sergeant Adams had his back to him, talking with two elderly women. ‘I’m sure the electricity board is working on it even as we speak, ladies. The best thing I can suggest is to keep calm. Go home and put your feet up. You live far from each other?’

‘We’re sisters,’ the tallest one said. ‘We live together.’

‘That’s all right then,’ Adams said. ‘At least you can keep each other company.’

‘We don’t want to miss the
EastEnders
omnibus; that’s what I’m worried about,’ the shorter sister said.

Emerson cleared his throat theatrically. ‘Any news on this power cut, Sergeant?’

‘Can’t even record it with no electricity,’ one of the women said as they shuffled away from the counter.

Adams watched them leave.

Emerson glowered at him, impatient for an answer. ‘Well?’

‘Not as yet, sir, but I’ll tell you something. If it carries on much longer, we’re going to have problems.’

‘I’ve already got problems.’ Emerson moaned. ‘I’ve only come in today to get a head start on tomorrow. I’ve done all I can that doesn’t involve technology and now I can’t do a thing. Where’s Williams?’

‘I assume he’s either been delayed or he can’t get in. Everyone else turned up before all this happened.’ A rapid series of car horn blasts sounded.

‘The trouble with drivers these days,’ Emerson said. ‘They’ve got no patience.’

‘Have you looked outside, lately, sir?’

Emerson stepped around Adams and peered through the window. ‘There shouldn’t be that many vehicles queuing on a Sunday. What’s with all the traffic?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve heard a hell of a lot of cars broke down earlier and they’re jamming the streets, preventing those that are still running from getting through.’

‘Can’t even call a breakdown service,’ Emerson observed drily. ‘Do we know why?’

Adams shrugged. ‘No, sir.’

‘But you think it’s related?’

‘How can it not be? We had that brilliance in the sky. Then it rained straight after. Now it looks like someone’s playing rainbow-coloured searchlights all over it.’

‘Christ,’ Emerson said. ‘How did I not notice that before?’

Because you’ve got your head up your arse?
Adams thought.

‘Do you think it’s to do with global warming?’

‘It isn’t a subject I know much about, sir,’ Adams said, turning his attention to the front door as it opened. ‘But I’ll bet this man coming in now does.’ He leant closer to the hatch. ‘Morning, Professor Young. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

The old man entered the circulation area in front of the station desk, nodded, returning the greeting, and held the door open for a younger man and a woman with a baby in her arms to follow him inside.

‘I’ve got it,’ the young man said, taking hold of the door.

Professor Young walked up, rested an elbow on the counter, and whispered through the glass, ‘There’s something out of the ordinary about this power failure, Mike.’

‘Let the Sergeant deal with the people behind you, professor, and then we can talk,’ Emerson said.

The street door opened again. Four Chinese tourists walked in laden with camera equipment. The leader, a woman in her late twenties, said, ‘You know when next bus for town centre coming?’

Emerson turned through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, to face away from the desk.
Shit!
he mouthed. The day before starting his new role at the station was turning into a disaster. He walked out of reception, turned right into the corridor, and opening the secure lobby door, invited Professor Young inside.

The professor sat across the desk from Emerson, in the inspector’s office. ‘I used to teach the Sergeant, you know.’

‘You don’t look old enough,’ Emerson remarked truthfully.

‘So you’re the new inspector. Tom, isn’t it? I’ve heard all about you.’

‘Really?’ Emerson replied, his irritation undisguised. ‘From Adams?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Not much love lost there, eh? My grandson is a reporter. Nick Summer. Works freelance.’

‘Well, that’s all very nice, but shall we get to the point? You seem to know something about this power cut. If you do, I’d like you to enlighten me.’

Professor Young inhaled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The Earth has been hit by a solar wind. I can’t tell, in the absence of communications, how widespread the problem is, but I think that given that we have daytime aurorae – that’s Northern Lights – on display here in Bristol, the chances are the whole of the country is affected. Maybe the entire Northern Hemisphere. In a nutshell, the problem isn’t going to disappear in a matter of hours, Tom. We should be making plans for the long haul. Far be it for me to say, but I have to tell you, you’re going to need to get some plans in place to manage the civil unrest that will surely come.’

‘Hang on. I know this station doesn’t have an emergency generator, but the bigger ones do. We’ll transfer from here to there.’

‘It isn’t as straightforward as that. Yes, if their backup power management doesn’t fail, they’ll have a supply of electricity for a few days, but communications have been knocked out with all that that entails, and that has nothing to do with power. I suspect the storm has damaged satellites. Within hours, people will realise that as well as having no power or telephone, they can’t withdraw money, can’t pay with plastic. Those lucky enough to have vehicles unaffected won’t be able to buy petrol even if they have cash because the pumps won’t be able to deliver. I’m sure I don’t have explain further.’

‘I hope you’re wrong,’ Emerson said.

‘I don’t want to be right.’ The professor watched Emerson’s face closely. He wondered how he would shape up in a crisis. ‘You saw the young woman with the child who followed me in. Why do you think she’s here?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I heard her talking as we came down the road. She needs to feed her child. I gave her enough cash to tide her over for today. She’s one of the lucky ones. But what about tomorrow? She’s in here because she’s scared.’ The professor paused, listening. ‘Can you hear that, Tom? It’s the sound of more and more people arriving with grievances. This is only the beginning.’

Adams appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve just had a street robbery victim come in to report she’d had her bicycle and handbag stolen.’

Emerson glanced at the professor. ‘I only came in to get a head start on my first day tomorrow.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the old man said, rising from the chair.

Constable Williams walked up the front entrance ramp to the station’s main entrance. A dozen members of the public gathered by the door pounced with a barrage of questions.

‘How much longer is this power cut going on?’

‘Why aren’t our phones working?’

‘Can you explain to me why so many cars have broken down all at once?’

Williams fielded the queries politely. ‘I don’t know any more than anyone else here does. All I can say is, keep calm, go back to your homes. I’m sure the power will be up and running soon. No, I don’t know why the telephones aren’t working, or why none of your cars will start.’

A soft baritone voice lilted over the general noise. ‘I’m Professor Young; I think most of you fromaround here know me. What we’ve been affected by is a solar flare of some description.’

‘A solar flare?’ a young woman gasped. ‘Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen at the end of the world?’ Concerned voices rose. Words took flight. Omen. Prophecy. Antichrist.

‘Never mind all that bollocks,’ the professor countered. ‘I don’t know about any of that, but the aftereffects we’re seeing are consistent with such an event.’

‘What would you know about it, old man?’ wheezed an elderly woman gripping a Zimmer-frame. Professor Young spread his hands as if indicating the size of a fish he’d caught, and shrugged.

‘Let the professor speak,’ Williams said. ‘If anyone knows anything about what could have happened, it’s him.’

‘You say it’s something to do with the sun, but that’s ninety bloody million miles away,’ a man with an Italian accent said. ‘So how’s that knocked out our electricity supplies?’

‘Yeah, and why won’t our cars start?’ a youth shouted.

‘One at a time,’ the professor said, his voice projecting without apparent effort. ‘Older cars and motorcycles will almost certainly be able to keep running. We’ve just experienced something which last occurred on a similar scale in Quebec in 1989. That one shut down the entire supply grid. Communications, everything. A solar flare is one thing, but it’s the geomagnetic storm that follows that does the damage. Put simply, a massive surge of power trips out circuit breakers all the way back to generator stations and everywhere else in between.’ He stared directly at the youth. ‘To answer your question, young man, sensitive circuit boards in cars, alarm systems and so on are particularly vulnerable. Not good news, but replacing the boards should sort the problem out.’

A rumble thundered in the distance, growing louder. A classic Enfield motorcycle roared up onto the pavement outside. ‘Look at that beauty,’ someone shouted above the noise.

‘That’s your theory up the wall, prof,’ the young man sneered.

‘Not at all,’ the old man said, peering through the open door. ‘Older cars and motorcycles with traditional distributors and carburettors will almost certainly still run. The more modern the vehicle, the more dependence on circuit boards, the more chance of problems.’

A uniformed officer stepped back from the pillion, removed the helmet he wore and handed it to the black-clad rider with a curt nod of thanks. The motorcyclist strapped it to the rear seat with bungee clips and rode away, keeping to the footpath.

The officer dusted himself down and strode purposefully through the gathering who parted unbidden, allowing him unhindered access to the entrance.

‘You,’ he said, pointing to Williams. ‘I need to speak to the officer in charge. It’s urgent.’

In the absence of an emergency plan, or anyone to consult with, Emerson sat in his office considering his options. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he cradled his head in his hands. At the sound of raised voices, he sat up straight. He heard someone asking for the inspector. He sat up, knowing whoever it was outside would be directed in to him at any moment.

The door opened. Emerson looked up. ‘About time, Williams. Where have you been?’

‘The roads are chaos. I couldn’t get anywhere. It’s gridlocked. So many broken-down vehicles. I just walked back from the approach road to Clifton Bridge.’

‘Who’s that with you?’

‘This is a prison officer. He wants to talk to the person in charge. I know you don’t start until tomorrow . . .’

‘Who are you and what’s this about?’ Emerson said. ‘Seeing as you’re here, Williams, take notes for me.’

The escort confirmed his name as Jordan. Wet and dishevelled, he appeared to be in a state of shock. Glassy-eyed, chewing on his lower lip, he explained what had happened.

‘How long ago was this?’

Jordan glanced up at the clock. ‘About an hour and three-quarters ago.’

‘Ten of you.’ The inspector pushed himself back in his chair away from the desk. ‘And only four survived?’

‘The car in front was crushed. We were in the car behind. How none of us were injured, I’ll never know.’ Noting the inspector’s raised eyebrows, he said, ‘I left the others at the scene, doing what they can.’

‘Let’s be clear on this. You saw the bus explode at the bottom of the ravine?’

‘That’s what I saw.’

‘Christ. Imagine how many would be dead if it had landed on the other side of the water, where the road runs below? Stupid question, but have you been in contact with your drop-off? Where were you taking the prisoner, by the way?’

‘That information is need-to-know only.’

‘I need to know,’ Emerson growled.

‘We didn’t know ourselves. Officers from the final destination were meeting us and we were under instructions to hand him over and then they were taking him the rest of the way in another vehicle.’

The inspector shook his head, incredulous. ‘All very secretive. Where were you meeting?’

‘I don’t know. We were just following the guys in front.’

‘And you’re not sure, but you think the prisoner’s name was Wolfe. Since when did it become usual practice, transferring prisoners in transit?’

‘There’s a purpose-built secure compound near Bristol Airport. Some of my colleagues have done transfers there before, so it isn’t that unusual.’

‘Interesting,’ said Williams. ‘Near the airport, you say? I can’t think where that would be.’

‘Someone’s missing a human cargo.’ Emerson said. ‘It won’t be long before they’re drawn out of the woodwork.’