Antman (10 page)

Ciaow! 

R.

*  *  *

Tom crossed the road from the Station. He looked at his watch. Twelve o'clock. He was in good time as he headed for the homely atmosphere of the Beverley Arms where he was due to meet Mrs or Ms Wistow. He wondered which. He allowed himself the thought that she was an attractive young woman.

*  *  *

Sergeant Brill was venting his feelings. PC Paul Morrison was on the receiving end.

'You say it arrived through the post this morning? That's five bloody hours. I'm telling you, Constable, another delay like this and you'll be looking for another job. Is that clear?'

'Sorry, sir. I didn't think it was serious. Written by a nutter.'

'It's not your job to judge seriousness. It's your job to bring material to the attention of a more senior officer. Plenty of serious crimes are committed by so-called nutters. Now get lost doing something useful.'

'Sir.'

Brill took the close-written sheets of paper down the corridor and knocked on Detective Inspector Dave Berringham's half-open door:

'Don't knock, the door's open.'

'Sir, if you have a minute I think you'll find this interesting.'

After Berringham had conveyed to Sergeant Brill the unsatisfactory state of affairs which had led to the note taking several hours to reach his desk, he spent a good twenty minutes reading it. From time to time, he winced as the pains came more sharply, further down in his abdomen and more to his right side than before. He'd tried ignoring them and using anti-acid remedies from the local pharmacy. He was approaching the point where denial wouldn't work any longer.

"Killing is dead serious. If you get more than one chance and if you're a perfectionist, practice makes perfect. Close the door, take off the mask and allow space to breathe.

"How you get to the killing bit. It's like lots of things, one step at a time. I know this thought so well, it's become a part of me, rather than a suggestion coming from my brain, or from somewhere else, inside or outside of me. (The organs of my body are different regions of the colony, all linked by living streams of workers. So I won't be likely to dissolve into component limbs and organs. I have to keep control.)

"Here's another thought: Despite my meticulous memory, and the diary of course (which must never fall into their hands), I'm not entirely sure at which moment I became the conductor. It was probably when the urge to conduct the performances of other colonies apart from the colony I am, became realisable.

"I rehearsed some things in my head so many times that when they happened I hardly noticed the slide from thought to action. I went into the kitchen and sat on a stool from which I could reach the controls of the video recorder and the television. Then it was back to the hi-fi, CD player, record and cassette players, all precariously perched on that raffia-woven stool, the one auntie used to sit on when messing about with her calliper. (She had them too, but if I ever asked if it was in the family, with me having some leg trouble, mother would bad mouth and cuff me.) The music on its own couldn't work the magic for me this time. I was too tense – I can't tell you why, not this early in the game. I haven't primed you yet with any of the crucial details about what makes me tick, turns me on, as they say. But, cursing at the bad connections to the speakers balanced on cardboard boxes in the corridor linking the farmhouse to the old dairy, now the ground floor lab. Which would it be – the fourth movement of the Bruckner seventh symphony or the last passages of the Mahler fourth symphony? No, not the Mahler. Too much public exposure means too many stray memories and associations. (I'm very honest and open, so don't go pigeon-holing me as like the rest.) I'll go for the Bruckner tonight.

"I was feeling unsettled and I didn't know how to calm myself. I felt like watching the film I'd made of the experiment in the barn.

"I turned on the video. The camera was placed in the rear corner, below the spotlight. It was primitive but it worked for my purposes. The pig was jittery from the moment I pulled aside the bale of straw and shoved it across the sheet of chipboard I used as a bridge across the moat. The island was about six metres square. It had taken months to dig out the ditch round it and line it with butyl rubber, but I was quite pleased with the result.

"(I'm nearly there. Push me, push me and I'll do it.) I'd gone to such trouble to produce an imitation of a corner of the rain forest on the island, with reasonable accuracy. There were shortcomings in the tree department, but the undergrowth surrounding the small clearing, some at a much higher level over a rocky outcrop, was pretty convincing. The lean-to conservatory enclosing the whole was pitched up against one wall of the barn. It was of plain design with panels of double-glazing down to within a metre or so of floor level. It was the largest building project I'd ever undertaken and had taken some assembling. I had to do it on my own, though. I didn't want strangers prying.

"Below the surface of the soil, of course, was where the conditions had to be absolutely ideal. Here the detailed planning followed everything I'd learnt over years of keeping ant colonies in the laboratory. Not too cool, not too dry, not too moist. Above all, not too warm, or they race so fast in confined conditions they overheat and die. To achieve the right climatic conditions, I installed a mister which automatically sprayed very fine droplets of warm water in infrequent but regular bursts from a strip along the inside of the roof of the conservatory. The final two touches of which I was particularly proud were first, the connection between the activator for this and a humidity tester. Second, there was the little windscreen wiper I had taken from the front headlight of an upmarket car at the scrap-yard and installed at the front of the camera, after some early attempts at filming which only gave me a few seconds before the lens steamed up.

"Take deep breaths to regain control. (You see how candid I can be. With such insight and self-awareness, I can't be insane.) The pig stood still, not squealing any more, but panting slightly from the exertion of resisting his prodding towards the barn housing this contraption. It was the size of a large Labrador dog, not fully grown but by no means a piglet either. It weighed a good thirty kilos. I had to keep glancing back at the screen while leaning over to switch on the kettle at the other side of the kitchen worktop. I could just about reach the coffee jar and a mug without moving from my stool. There wouldn't be much happening for a while, I knew that. But then the action would move quickly, and I wanted to be ready. My stomach was wobbling, my head slightly woozy – sometimes the stuff helps. I can't say what, in case this record goes astray.

"Can't keep this up. Body won't take it. Got to though. Deep breaths now, so as not to be sick at the crucial moment. (You won't believe this, but watching anything die excites me, but cuts me up rotten. I feel so physically sick I could die myself.) There was a rustling in the thick carpeting of leaves on the island. My pulse quickened. I knew where to watch. It was the shadowy patch half hidden from view by a large-leafed pitcher plant growing over a rotting log. I rubbed my hands together unconsciously and then gripped them tightly together at a flicker of movement from the shadow. It was a tiny flickering body, no larger than a blow-fly or large earwig, scuttling so fast from the shadows that he lost sight of it immediately under some leaves. Then another and another, till half a dozen of the darting insects had emerged. One or two stopped, clearly sensing the slight movements made by the pig. The animal scuffed up leaves as it moved nervously. The tiny insects were too small though, to make any impression on it. They couldn't even climb up its shiny hooves to gain a purchase on the coarse hairs of its slender legs.

"Despite this apparent stand-off between beast and insects, the effect on the small number of wandering ants was surprisingly uniform. Three or four of them immediately became very excited, running round in circles, waving their heads and exercising their considerable mandibles as though willing to bite any object within range. Several times it looked as though they were about to bite each other. Then they made off at great speed towards the prone tree trunk, continually criss-crossing each other's path.

"I leaned forward in anticipation. I knew that the shadow where they had disappeared was really an elliptically shaped object like a giant rugby ball which hung from the underside of the tree trunk. It was made up of hundreds of thousands of army ants clinging to each other's legs to form a protective ball around the young ants, brood and queen within. This was their bivouac whilst on the march. The few ants which had emerged were foragers with particular sensitivity to possible sites of food, acting as scouts on behalf of the main body of ants in their temporary nest.

"I took a deep breath as the ball of ants literally began to drip onto the earth, each drip hissing as it landed, like hot, black pitch. This is the only way I can describe the combined effect of the clattering of myriads of tiny legs and mandibles. It reminds me of when I once dreamt of the sound a giant made when he shook up a handful of bones. Great clumps of insects fell off the nest as the excitement of the scouts spread rapidly through to its interior. Within minutes, a thick living lava of ants flowed across the forest floor. One stream took a path up onto a rocky outcrop from which bushes and creepers were arranged so that they overhung the clearing beneath. The pig, still unaware of the coming catastrophe, still stood hesitantly, facing the other way. By the time the ants were piling up against its hooves so that those on top had easy access to run up its legs, those on the overhang were already falling in thousands onto its neck and back. Ten thousand simultaneous bites threw the animal into a squealing convulsion from which it landed on its back and in its terror, never succeeded in rising to its feet again. (Red. Red on black. Can't bear it. Can't stop this shaking.) It was steadily reduced over the next ten minutes to a suppurating mass of wounds, the blood from which was never allowed to congeal but was sucked up eagerly by crowds of workers, each replaced by another as soon as one was replete. By this time the animal was so weakened by shock and loss of blood that it was unable to resist the macabre carving up of its living flesh which accelerated. After thirty minutes it was at its last gasp and three hours later most of the flesh had been removed by its remorseless and utterly tireless assailants.

"It's over. Head shaking and retching. I sat and watched with tears (If you don't believe me, you can get lost now) running down my cheeks, cupping my mug of cocoa in both hands.

"There is a further step. The thinking part takes over the rest of the body. This is found out through killing the pig first, before the next stage. One step at a time.

"The hypothesis to test now is whether the equipment will significantly speed up the interaction between the excitement centre ants and the rest, thereby hastening communication and hence the death of the victim. Thinking about it, I will wind the tape back and press PLAY to watch my little drama all over again. This time I will have the bucket and towel ready. I hate the smell of stale vomit, especially my own.  G"

'
Killing the pig before the next stage
,' quoted Berringham out loud when he'd read this document twice through. 'Jesus, we're going to need some help with this one.'

He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Detective Superintendent Bradshaw, who happened to be the last person in the world with whom he wanted to share any information, speculation, thoughts or feelings. But he was Berringham's immediate boss while he was working at Wawne Road and as such was his first point of reference. As he waited for him to reply, Berringham was trying to suppress his intuition that like a geyser, the situation was about to blow sky high and scalding hot, right in their faces.

It was while Berringham was in Bradshaw's office, waiting for his reaction to the document, that the pain stabbed him in waves whose intensity increased alarmingly beyond what he'd thought was possible. The pain catapulted him out of the seat, leaving him grey-faced and sweating profusely, in a doubled up contortion on the floor. He couldn't speak. He thought he could see Bradshaw dialling. By the time the ambulance came, he'd rather have been dead.

After they'd shipped Berringham off to the Infirmary and Brill had done the necessary with his family, Bradshaw was in touch with Assistant Chief Constable Jack Deerbolt.

'I must have a replacement – I don't know. The paramedics wouldn't make a diagnosis – but they agree with me he's not coming back in a few days. Reading between the lines, it could be a duodenal but appendicitis is more likely. I've rung the Infirmary. They've done an ECG or whatever and ruled out a heart attack.'

Ten minutes later, the ACC rang back: