Alchemist (83 page)

‘No – I – don't have anything, not here.' Then suddenly she corrected herself. ‘I – what about – the tape-recorder? That's his, he carries it round with him all the time.'

Conor handed it to his mother. She cradled it in the palm of one hand, passing the other lightly over it. The door moved a fraction and one of the cats pushed its way into the room, followed by the other, and they joined the trio.

Closing her eyes, Tabitha had begun to concentrate.

‘Want to dowse on your pendulum, Mom?' Conor asked.

‘I don't need to do that,' she replied without opening her eyes. ‘I can feel him very strongly, I know where he is, I can
visualize him. He's a fine-looking man; he has very little hair on top, but it's long and silvery-grey over his ears and at the back.'

Monty stiffened in amazement. Then she realized that her father's picture was frequently in the international press and it was quite possible Conor's mother had seen him and remembered his appearance. Except that she did not look like a woman who needed to lie. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘That sounds right.'

Still with her eyes shut, Tabitha Donoghue continued. ‘He's alive, but he's kind of not alive. I don't quite understand.' Monty watched her anxiously. ‘He's lying down, there's something in his mouth, like a breathing tube; but he's not unconscious, and his brain is alert.'

‘Is he paralysed?' Monty said.

‘He's in a small room, electronic machinery around him.'

‘What kind of a room?' Monty asked.

‘It has no windows.'

‘Christ,' Conor said. ‘How many storeys high is the building?'

‘About eight.'

‘Eight?' he said. ‘You sure it's not higher? It sounds like the Bendix Building.'

‘Eight,' she said firmly.

‘The Bendix Hammersmith,' Monty said. ‘The Clinic. That's eight storeys high! Oh God, why is he there? He must be injured.'

‘I don't know what's going on, but I don't feel any injuries. I feel this man's body is intact.'

‘Please, Conor, we have to do something,' Monty pleaded.

‘Tomorrow, hon, tomorrow,' Conor said. ‘I know this much. They want your dad alive, they need his knowledge. And I know exactly what we have to do; you're just going to have to trust me. OK?'

She gave a single nod, her face a mask of fear, and squeezed his hand weakly for comfort.

London. Thursday 8 December, 1994

‘It's her, isn't it?' Nikky said. She lay naked on the floor, slouched against the side of the bed, chewing an olive. She took a slug of her dry Martini and washed the olive down with it, then took another from the bowl and popped it in her mouth. With her free hand she poked around with her pubic hairs, pulling them straight, one after the other.

‘Who?' Gunn said, lying back on the bed, his laptop on his thighs.

She peered down between her legs. ‘Do you think my pubes are too long? Should I have them trimmed next time I have my hair done?'

‘Your pubes are fine,' he said, distractedly.

‘At least they're red, like my hair. How many girls have you been with whose pubes are the same colour as their hair?'

Gunn grunted noncommittally, trying hard to keep his eyes open. It was one in the morning and he had been home less than an hour. He looked at the phone, waiting for it to ring. Waiting for that cretin McLusky in Washington to phone him with confirmation that Molloy and the Bannerman woman were both dead. Things were getting back on to an even keel, finally, but there were still a lot of loose ends to tie up. At least the goods were delivered and with luck he had Crowe off his back for a while.

‘What did you say?' she asked.

‘No, I never met anyone who had the same colour pubes.'

‘You're not just saying that?'

‘No, I'm not just saying that. Niks, I have to work, give me a break, I need ten minutes of quiet.'

‘“Niks, I have to work, give me a break, I need ten minutes of quiet,'” she mimicked and shoved another olive in her mouth. ‘Do you think it's decadent to drink Martinis at one in the morning?'

Gunn did not respond. He was studying the checklist of names, deep in thought.
Zandra Wollerton. Hubert Wentworth
.
Charles Rowley. Conor Molloy. Montana Bannerman. Dr Richard Bannerman
.

Dr Bannerman
. He was still an unresolved problem. He drank some of his Martini and stared at Nikky's mane of dark red hair. She was a problem, also. Ever since she'd looked at the names on his computer. She was a problem that was going to have to be dealt with.

Loose ends. You could never leave loose ends. Like chickens, they always came home to roost.

‘It is her, isn't it?' she said again.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Christmas trees.'

‘What?'

She looked round the bedsitting room. ‘Not many days left to Christmas, soldier. What are you doing about decorations in this palatial dump?'

‘Niks,
please
.' He tried again to focus his mind.

‘“Niks, please,'” she mimicked again, and ate another olive. ‘
Her
. Your friend. The one on the Christmas list.'

He drained his glass. ‘Any chance of not talking in riddles?' He glanced up at the television which was switched on, with the sound mute. Mariella Frostrup was speaking and there was a twinkle in her eye; he tried to lip-read, but she was no more intelligible than Nikky. Mariella Frostrup disappeared and was replaced by a slimy, bug-eyed monster; it was holding what looked like a dismembered arm in its claws. ‘Hey, Niks, look at that! Your twin sister's on the box.'

‘Looks more like your ex, soldier.' Without glancing round, she passed the
Evening Standard
over her shoulder. ‘
Her
,' she said. ‘The front-page splash. Your friend.'

He reached forward and took the paper. The headline read:
LONDON CAR BOMB HORROR KILLS TWO.

He stared at the photograph of the mangled MG, then he scanned the article. ‘
Police are still trying to ascertain the identity of the two victims … may have been the bombers … believe the bomb may have been planted by Animal Rights terrorists … intended target was Montana Bannerman … daughter of Nobel Prize-winning scientist Dr Richard Bannerman, who is on life support in hospital after suffering a massive stroke … trying to
contact Miss Bannerman who is believed to be overseas on business
…'

‘Montana Bannerman,' Nikky said. ‘She was on your list with the Christmas trees. The same list that had your colleague Charley boy on it, the one who drowned in Hawaii. You seem to be awfully careless with your employees, soldier. Don't think I'd like to work for you. Bit risky.'

Washington. Thursday 8 December, 1994

Monty was awoken by a sound in the room, a faint, slippery thud; she stared into the darkness, startled.

Two eyes stared back.

Bulging, iridescent eyes, watching her with mild curiosity, from a few feet away. Moments later they were joined by another pair, then another. More began appearing every moment, filling the air with the sour smell of their reptilian skin. They were silent at first, then a solitary croak echoed through the chamber.

‘Rrribbbettt.'

Silence.

Then out of the silence, a response. ‘Rrribbbettt.'

Trembling with fear, Monty tried – very quietly – to edge back, but she was already flat against the unyielding wall. The door was on the far side of the bitumen blackness that was alive with blinking eyes and the growing chorus of croaks. As she took the first tentative step towards it, her foot squelched deep into a slimy, wriggling carpet.

She jerked back in horror. Something thudded into her chest; then something wet and streamlined struck her cheek. The creatures were leaping on to her out of the darkness now, their webbed feet dabbing at her hair, her chest, striking her shoulders, her stomach; then they covered her face, blinding her, pushing their legs into her eyes.

‘Noooooo! Uurrgggghh!' She clawed desperately at them,
hurling them away; even more flung themselves out of the darkness at her, their legs flexing, coiling. ‘Uurrgggghh!! Oh God, help meeeeeee!' They were falling out of the ceiling on to her in droves, going to knock her over with their sheer collective weight. ‘Help me! Please, someone help meeeee –'

‘MONTY!'

The voice came from somewhere else; another planet.

‘Monty! Darling! Hon!'

It was Conor's voice, calm, soft, whispering. ‘Monty, darling, it's OK, wake up; come on, wake up!'

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the sudden brightness of the bedside light, confused, checking out the room carefully, looking at Conor's anxious face. They were in a hotel room. In – in –? She could not remember where. Not Conor's apartment in London? No, America? Yes, Washington. But then all the relief she felt as the dream receded was ripped away as the memory of last night returned.

Washington
.

Conor's mother's house.

She had tried to strangle herself.

Her neck was hurting; she gingerly touched her flesh; it hurt even more under the lightest pressure. Dr Crowe! Dr Crowe had tried to make her kill herself.

She looked up at Conor's eyes, inches above her own, blurry, concerned. His hair was tousled; such warmth in that face; such kindness. ‘Don't leave me,' she whispered. ‘Please don't leave me.'

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Don't worry, I'm right here. What were you dreaming?'

She hesitated, as if scared that by mentioning it she would bring the dream back, or somehow make it real. ‘Frogs. I dreamed the room was full of the damn things and – they – they were attacking me.'

‘You have a thing about frogs, don't you? I remember that one that got in your kitchen and really freaked you.'

She swallowed. ‘Ever since childhood. It's stupid and I'm sorry I woke you, but –'

‘You told me. It's not stupid. Everyone has something they're afraid of.'

‘What really happened to me yesterday, Conor?'

‘You were psychically attacked. Dr Crowe somehow got to you – he hyptnotized you into hanging yourself.'

‘How is that possible?'

‘My mother's the expert – she's been involved with this kind of stuff all her life. There are some people who are able to focus their minds, to harness energies, to project. It's kind of like the same power some shamans have, or the power of voodoo. And it's very real.'

‘And Dr Crowe has that power?'

‘It would seem, yes.' He hesitated, wondering whether to tell her about his narrow escape in the taxi. He decided against.

She touched his cheek with her hand, to reassure herself that he was real. ‘Is this how it's going to be from now on, Conor? Are we going to be in constant fear?'

He said nothing.

‘God, I thought Bendix Schere was a dream come true. I thought it would solve all our problems and give me the chance to lead a normal life.' She laughed bitterly.

‘Did you ever live a
normal
life?' he asked quietly. ‘Does anyone?'

She sighed before replying. ‘I did once, when I was a child, when my mother was alive,' she said wistfully. ‘It felt good in those days. I did the same things as other kids, we did the same things as other families. That's what I mean. How about you? When you were a boy?'

‘That was all a long time ago. That was then and this is now.'

‘You always say that.'

‘It's a universal truth; nothing stays the same. And the way we measure things changes, also. The yardstick I had for normality when I was a kid of seven is different from the one I have now.'

Monty contemplated and knew, in one way, that he was right. She snuggled closer to him, saying, ‘Whatever happens, I hope we have some time together. I hope that more than anything in the world.'

‘So do I.' He kissed her. ‘Want to go back to sleep?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm wide awake.'

‘Our time clocks. We're on UK time.'

Restlessly she looked around the plush, rather bland room. ‘Is this the house you grew up in?'

‘It was a lot smaller. About a quarter this size. Mom keeps adding bits on.'

‘She makes her money dowsing for the oil industry?'

‘She makes a fortune.'

‘Did she ever remarry?'

‘No. She's a pretty strong character – not too many men are able to stand up to someone like that.'

She watched his face. ‘Why do you and your mother have a different last name?'

‘I figured Bendix Schere would remember my pa's surname and it might start ringing bells when I joined the company; so I reinvented myself; that's all.'

‘Makes sense,' she said, relieved by his answer.

Conor lit a cigarette and gave Monty a drag; it made her cough, and her thoughts returned to the present. ‘What am I going to do about this dinner at the White House, and Daddy's talk tomorrow?'

‘Don't even think about them. Unless you want to announce that the speaker's been kidnapped.'

‘Hey, you know!' she said. ‘That's not such a dumb idea. I could do that – we have the tape, right? That would cause all hell to –'

‘No,' he said calmly. ‘That's too dangerous.'

‘Why?'

‘Because Bendix Schere are very, very smart. And because you want to get your father back, not get him killed.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Just believe me.'

‘Organizer's Office, how can I help you?'

‘Is that the World Genetics Symposium?' Monty asked.

‘Yes, it is.'

‘It's Montana Bannerman speaking. I'm calling regarding my father, Dr Bannerman, who's meant to be talking tomorrow, and –'