The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) (20 page)

24

“
Dad!
” Owen cried out, scrambling off the bed, ignoring the pain that this sudden movement caused. He dropped to his knees by his father, who was lying on his back, his eyes staring up blankly. He glared at the man holding the pistol. “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed my dad!”

“Do calm down, boy,” the man said curtly, “your father is quite alive.”

Owen felt his father’s wrist and detected a weak pulse. He let out a sigh of relief. “What have you done to him?”

“I have done nothi
ng to him. Well, to be fair I may have given him a rather large dose of this most potent of poisons, but it was you, young Owen, who forced my hand.

“There is, however, an antidote that I would be more than willing to provide
, if properly motivated to do so.”

Owen star
ed at his father through tears. “What do you want me to do?”

The ma
n smiled and clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit!” he said jovially, “but time is of the essence. We only have twenty minutes until the paralysing effects of the poison spread to the respiratory system. After that no antidote will be able to save your father. Shall we hop to it then?”

Owen stood up, thinking that it wa
s him that was being addressed. But the man seemed to be expecting a response from behind him, and turned around to see why no one had replied.

“Where is that blasted technician?” he asked himself angrily
, clearly oblivious to the man’s recent departure. “No matter, I’m sure that you are wise enough not to behave in an unruly manner, young Owen. And just in case you do get any funny ideas, you should know that I do not have the antidote on my person. We will collect it once you have successfully carried out my little request.”

“How do I know you’ll keep to your word?” Owen asked, managing to stand.

“You don’t!” the man laughed. “But presented with the choice of watching my own father die and assisting someone with the most trivial of tasks, I know which one I would rather choose.”

Owen looked
down at his father and sighed. “Okay,” he agreed.

“Good choice,” the man said.
He fiddled with the pistol that had fired the barb and pointed it at Owen. “Just in case you decide to act the hero,” tapping the top of the weapon to highlight his meaning. He walked to the door and held out his other arm in the direction of the corridor beyond. “After you, my dear boy.”

Owen’s anger at what the man had done to his father
was being amplified by the over-familiar and creepily avuncular manner that he was adopting. Reluctantly he made his way to the door, gritting his teeth against the pain that each step caused him.

His left side seemed to be in the worst shape, with
every step sending a jolt of agony from his buttock down to his calf. His arms seemed okay, save for a large abrasion on the underside of his forearm that was now an unpleasant combination of raw skin and grit. The wound to his head that he had sustained from the fall off of the leisure centre roof seemed to have reopened, as blood was dripping down the side of his forehead into his right eye.

Owen wiped the blood from
his eye and passed by the man who smiled. Owen countered his smile with a scowl, which had the unwanted effect of making the man chuckle.

“You’re spirited,
I’ll give you that!” he said. “Off to the right, please.”

He glanced back at his father’s inert body,
whose glazed eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling. The thought of losing him added to Owen’s resolve, and he made a mental effort to dismiss the pain that was telling him that his body had been damaged.

Owen turned right out of the room, into a long corridor that continued
for at least fifty metres in front of him and a further twenty behind.  Based on his aerial views of the house, he presumed that he was either underground or within the hill behind the manor house.

“Where are we?” Owen asked
, hoping for confirmation.

“That’s not important,” the man answered
unhelpfully. “Keep walking, please.” Owen did as he was asked, finding that the movement was easing the pain in his body slightly.

They continued down the corridor
, on either side of which were more of the metal cable trunks that were in the room they had just left. These were much wider and thicker, and every so often bundles of cables emerged upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. The ceiling itself had a continuous strip of bright light down the centre, with large air vents on either side every two metres or so.

Aside from the room that Owen’s father now lay unconscious within, they were only two other do
ors that led from the corridor. One was at the far end of the corridor in the opposite direction that they were heading, and was double the width of the one they had exited.

The other
door they were just passing by and was closed, beside which was a large frosted window. The room behind was brightly lit, and Owen could see someone moving around inside. As they passed he heard the door open, and Owen turned around to see if someone was leaving. He briefly saw a blonde man’s face look back at him before it retreated back inside, his features looking slightly familiar. He supposed that it must have been a technician like the one that had entered with the old man earlier, but Owen had the nagging feeling that he had met or seen him somewhere before.

They reached the end of the corridor
and followed it to the left for a short way before it merged with a flight of metal stairs.

“Down we go,” the man said che
erfully.

Owen started walking down the steps
, which led to a landing and then turned down further. Peering through a gap between the bannisters, Owen saw that they went down for what would work out to be around five floors, had there been any landings or doorways present.

They silently
descended the steps until they reached another corridor that continued in the same direction as the one above. This continued for ten metres or so and then ended, a double door standing in the wall to the right.

A flat black panel with a
red light above was on the adjacent wall. The man rolled up his jacket and shirt sleeves and placed his wrist against it. There was a loud clang followed by the sound of air escaping. The doors slid apart and they entered a small room that measured about three metres square with a further set of doors and a black panel on the opposite wall.

The man
repeated the gesture with his wrist and the doors behind closed shut. There was another loud
hiss
of air and the doors that stood in front of them opened to reveal a large black expanse.

The man gently pushed Owen forward and they entered
the room. There was the sound of repeated metallic
clangs
above as innumerable lights flickered to life. Their brightness dazzled Owen at first, but as he squinted at the room before him his eyes adjusted and he started to appreciate the enormous size of it.

Above t
here was a short space between the lights and the ceiling which itself was at least fifty metres high, and supported the roof of the building without the need for any pillars. Owen’s best guess had the distance to the far wall to be at a minimum of ten lengths of his local swimming pool, making it five hundred metres long, and about one hundred metres wide.

The floor was
composed of highly polished black tiles, each about half a metre square in size. The walls were covered in smaller white tiles, which also had a glossy sheen to them. On the left wall was a large set of doors that had the appearance and size of ones that large trucks use for loading.

The room was completely empty save for Owen and the man, and an object that stood on the ground towards the
rear wall. It was too far away to determine what it was exactly, but from its size and colour it resembled a camera tripod.

“Onwards,” the man said, his voice echoing around the room.

“What is this room used for?” Owen enquired.

“You’ll see,” the man said.

Their footsteps reverberated throughout the room, emphasising its scale.

“Where is the antidote?” Owen asked, conscious of how long had passed since his father had fallen.

“In the adjacent room to where Christopher is napping,” he replied lightly.

Owen increased his pace, desperate to help his father
as quickly as possible. The object on the floor was much more discernible now, and had the same insectoid features as the barb that had struck his father. Of its three legs, the front one was straight, whilst the two rear two bent back slightly. They were joined in the middle to a spiked ball from which two antennae-like spines pointed upwards and slightly apart. Overall it had the nightmarish appearance of a giant black praying mantis.

Once Owen was a few footsteps away from the trip
od, the man asked him to stop. “Stand there,” the man said, pointing at a small black cross on the ground in front of it. From one of the arms of the cross there was an arrow that pointed towards the wall ahead.

“Now what?”
Owen asked.

“Tou
ch the device,” the man said. “Feel its strength and its texture.” The man was talking about it like it was his lover. Looking at the spikes, Owen sincerely hoped that it wasn’t.

Owen did as he was told. E
xpecting it to be cold, he was surprised at how warm it felt. It was by no means hot to touch, but was a similar temperature to another person’s skin. It reminded him of how Myrtle’s horns had felt, and wondered whether the object was in fact alive. The surface seemed to be composed of small scales like those on a snake, as when Owen rubbed it in one direction it was smooth, whereas it was slightly rough the other way.

“Exquisite isn’t it?” the man gushed.

Owen didn’t offer his own assessment, but considered it to be the most unpleasant thing that he had ever held. He let go and wiped his hand on his trousers, as a symbolic gesture rather than to remove any residue (of which there was none).

“Okay,” Owen said, awaiting his next task.

“Now you perform your magic. I want you to stand exactly where you are but face in the direction of the arrow. Now feel for something unseen with both hands, for objects that have an identical texture to the tether you just studied. There should be two such objects. Once you have grasped them both: bring them back here.”

Owen
looked at the man searchingly. “Why?”

“Tick-
tock,” the man replied, tapping his watch. The implication was clear: time was running out for his father.

Owen moved so that he was facing in the direction of the arrow, closed his eyes and
reached out. He moved his hands through the air, the tingling sensation more intense than ever before. He might have described the feeling in his hands as being painful, but wasn’t sure if this was as a consequence of his fall.

He slowly moved his hands thro
ugh the space in front of him. In his left hand he felt something firm, but realised it was made of flaky rock and not the same scaly material as the tripod so he released it. He withdrew his left hand and reached out once more.

This happened on three more instances, each time Owen
grasped something firm, only to realise again that it wasn’t composed of the same material as the object behind him.

“What are you waiting for?” the man
asked testily, his genial manner vanishing.

Owen whipped his han
ds back and glared at the man. “I’m trying my best!”

“Your
best
is making your father slip further from my help.”

Owen resisted the temptation to punch the man, aware that the small pistol was still aimed at his chest.

Resuming his position Owen exhaled slowly, closed his eyes and reached out once more. He visualised the surface of the tripod in his mind, and concentrated on how it felt. Instantly his right hand closed around a similar structure, although this one was less rigid. Stopping himself from letting go in surprise, he held on and felt for something similar with his left hand.

Almost immediately
he grasped an identical feeling structure and with his eyes still closed he declared that he had found them.

“Exce
ptional!” he heard the man say. “Bring them back!”

Owen drew his hands back towards
him, opening his eyes slowly. In his hands was what resembled two thick black ropes, with the same scaly surface as the tripod. At the ends of the ropes nearest him were two loops; the apertures of both appeared to be the same diameter as the spines atop the tripod.

The other ends of the rope were suspended i
n thin air at shoulder height. As Owen pulled, more of the ropes’ lengths appeared, but the ends where they were emerging were flickering almost unperceivably, a faint white glow about them.

By now the man was becoming agitated, moving
impatiently around the tripod. “Hook them on, hook them on!” he commanded, dancing on the spot and pointing at the spines.