Alchemist (20 page)

Finally he took off his pyjamas, stepped naked into the centre of the circle, closed his eyes and began to sway rhythmically, arms held out above him, ignoring the goose pimples that broke out on his cold skin, and quietly began to repeat his name, counting mentally each time.

Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd Daniel Judd …

He stopped, as the book had instructed him, at exactly ninety-nine and opened his eyes. The flame of the candle guttered in the draught from the window. He was giddy and a little disoriented, but he could sense the power rising in him. He went to the bed and removed the black book from beneath it; he read once more, for reassurance, the title that was written in strange script:
The Master Grimoire of Magickal Rites and Ceremonies
.

He opened it at the place he had already marked and began reading aloud, in a sharp whisper:

‘I curse thee once, I curse thee twice,
Three, four, five, six; I curse thee seven times,
And then again seven times seven times.
Be damned! Be damned!
My power is cursing you,
My power is hexing you,
You are completely under my spell.
Be damned! Be damned!'

Then he stood on a chair and from the top of his wardrobe lifted down a shoebox and put it on the floor. From inside it he removed his mother's stocking and her photograph and laid them both on the black cloth in front of the candle. He turned to another section of the book he had marked with a paper tag, raised the candle, and, whispering the words of the curse again, with a trail of molten wax he copied as best he could the
inverted cross symbol on the page: first on to the stocking, then across his mother's forehead on the photograph.

He should ring a bell now three times, the book said. But he had to ignore this instruction, hoping the rite would work without it. Back on the chair, he lowered the cake tin with the perforations he had skewered in the lid. The scrabbling sounds inside became frantic as he set it down on the floor.

Cautiously, he raised the lid a few inches and peered in. ‘Hello, little friend,' he whispered. ‘How are you? OK? You're a gorgeous fellow, aren't you?'

Two frightened eyes glinted back. It had already bitten him once, but he bore no malice. ‘Gently now, don't be frightened, just going to take you out. I love you, yes I do!' He pushed his hand into a thick woollen sock, then raised the lid again, reached inside and firmly seized the rabbit.

It wriggled wildly and he nearly dropped it. ‘Relax, little fellow, we're going to be good friends, you and I, we are!'

Must not kill it! It must be alive, he thought as he stroked the back of its head, trying to calm it. He carried it across to the window and held it over his mother's stocking on the black cloth, and whispered the crucial words again, concentrating as hard as he could on the photograph of his mother.

‘Be damned! Be damned!
My power is cursing you,
My power is hexing you,
You are completely under my spell.
Be damned! Be damned!'

Then, with his free hand he held his penis and squirted a small amount of urine first on to the stocking, then across the photograph. The rabbit wriggled again, hard. He gripped it tighter, holding it a foot above the stocking, and whispered: ‘It's OK, you gorgeous fellow, it's OK, calm down, I love you so much!'

Then he picked up his penknife, located the base of the rabbit's neck with the point of the blade, then sharply rammed it in, being careful not to push too far and lance his own hand. He twisted the blade hard, then cut sharply down into the creature's heart.

Tiny droplets of bright red blood sprayed on to his mother's stocking. The rabbit jerked, then the wriggling faded and the droplets increased into a steady, thin stream accompanied by black droppings as its bowels evacuated.

He drew a ring on the stocking with the blood, then an inverted cross over his mother's forehead, and he hissed the curse loudly and more venomously than before. Then he stepped back into the middle of the circle, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Concentrated on the image of his mother's face; of her head.

Some moments later he heard a sound that he thought at first was one of the air-raid sirens he remembered throughout the war. A low, deep moan that rose slowly into a high-pitched banshee howl. It lasted for a minute, maybe more, and sent shivers racing through him. It was followed by another. Then another. Then a curdling scream of pain.

‘My head! My head! My head!'

His mother's voice.

‘Owwww! Owwww! Owwww! Oh my God, do something! Oh please help me, someone help me, pleeeeassssse! Help! Help! Help!'

The scream worsened. ‘Ohpleasehelpme oh Godddddd!' Then another scream, so terrible it sounded as if it would rip the very darkness from the night.

Daniel stood rooted to his spot, his mouth wide open in shock and disbelief.

London, Tuesday 8 November, 1994

Zandra Wollerton's face was gentle and cheerful, in contrast to her voice on the phone yesterday. Hubert Wentworth was right in his assessment, Monty thought; she would make a successful journalist. Strength of character, determination and professionalism showed in the way she conducted herself, as
they faced each other across the small white table, her shorthand pad, thick file and mobile phone laid neatly beside her teacup.

Curly black hair cropped short. A sensible navy two-piece smart enough to wear into court, and a pair of specs; a freckled face with a snub nose, and cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. The lurid green varnish on her fingernails was the only residual hint of adolescence. She couldn't be more than twenty-one, if that, Monty thought, finding herself envying that little wild streak as she stirred the milk into her own tea, feeling distinctly middle-aged in spite of having tried to dress youthfully today in a man's denim shirt over a white t-shirt, narrow black trousers and Chelsea boots.

Zandra opened her file, removed a sheaf of papers clipped together and handed them across to Monty. ‘Medical records of Sarah Johnson.' As before, her voice was tough and to the point.

The first page Monty glanced at was a photocopy of a row of index cards, each with tiny, scrawly handwriting. A doctor's patient record notes, she realized after deciphering only a few lines.

She looked up, feeling guilty at prying into someone's personal history, and glanced furtively around the almost deserted coffee shop, afraid that someone might be watching them. A bored-looking waitress stood checking receipts by the till and another was straightening out chairs. Two Arab businessmen occupying a table three away from them were deep in discussion, and a woman in a cashmere jumper was absorbed in a conversation on her mobile phone. The place was inadequately lit and had a gloomy, inert feel; the walls were painted with a childlike frieze depicting scenes from the wool-manufacturing industry and ‘Island in the Sun' was playing, barely audibly, on the Muzak system.

Monty looked back down at the records. ‘How did you get these?' she said to the reporter.

‘I never answer questions like that,' Zandra Wollerton replied in a way that made Monty feel slightly foolish for having asked.

‘So much for medical confidentiality.'

‘She's dead.'

‘Would it have made any difference?' Monty retorted testily.

The reporter looked evasive for an instant, then shrugged. ‘I have to do a lot of things that aren't very nice, Ms Bannerman. It goes with the territory. I'm looking for the truth and that's often not very nice either.'

These words made her seem much older, suddenly, Monty thought as she listened.

‘Three women die in labour suffering from an unidentified virus that looks like a cross between shingles, measles and psoriasis, and each gives birth to a Cyclops Syndrome baby.' The reporter paused to drink some of her tea. ‘In their medical records, the only thing connecting them is that they were each treated for infertility problems with a drug manufactured by Bendix Schere, called Maternox.' Then she cocked her head sideways and raised her eyebrows.

‘They didn't take anything else?'

‘No other drugs at all – at least, nothing prescribed by their family doctors and nothing was given to them by their obstetricians, I've checked that.'

Monty thought for a moment. ‘There's been quite a bit in the papers recently about a spate of infant deformities being blamed on polluted sea water. It's possible, I suppose, they might all have been to the same holiday resort. Could they have picked something up there?'

The reporter shook her head. ‘None of the women left their home area during the course of their pregnancies. I've checked.'

‘You've been very thorough,' Monty said admiringly.

The reporter ignored the compliment. ‘There's something else that might or might not be significant: all three women got their Maternox from Price Saver DrugSmart stores.'

‘So what?' Monty asked.

‘Bendix Schere owns them.'

‘You're kidding? I didn't know that!'

‘Not many people do – they like to keep the fact well hidden – that way they get to push their own products and make it
seem like endorsement from the stores; a smart marketing concept.'

Monty looked reflective. ‘I don't quite see why it's significant that the Maternox capsules were purchased at DrugSmart as opposed to anywhere else,' she said.

Zandra Wollerton shrugged. ‘May not be, but it's another link.'

Monty stirred her tea. ‘Have you talked to any of the dead women's doctors?'

‘I've tried; no dice – but that's hardly surprising – the Hippocratic oath and all that.'

Monty stared back at her, wondering how she had managed to get the records. Had she broken into the surgeries? Had the seemingly mild newspaperman, Hubert Wentworth, hired someone to see to it? ‘Doctors are supposed to file reports on any side-effects from the drugs they prescribe, aren't they?'

‘They're
supposed
to, sure, but many of them don't bother. They're
meant
to fill in a form which goes to the Committee on Safety of Medicines and the Committee on Dental and Surgical Materials, and they
should
inform the Medical Information Department at the company – but it's a lot of paperwork. There's also an official government Confidential Enquiry into Maternal Deaths monitored by regional assessors – but it's controlled by the Department of Health Central Office and information takes two to three years to filter through.'

‘You've had no joy?'

‘I'm still working on it.'

‘What about the Medical Information Department at Bendix Schere – surely they'd be interested?'

The reporter laughed, cynically. ‘The first time I tried I got a smooth Sloane in the PR department who gave me the brushoff, so I went straight to the Head of Department, an ice bitch called Linda Farmer. She said they'd received no reports from any doctors and gave me the party line about Maternox –all the crap about forty million women worldwide having taken it and never a single side-effect reported.'

Monty picked at a damaged thumbnail. ‘How did you make
the connection originally – you know – find out about the three cases?'

‘By making about a thousand phone calls to hospitals and coroners' offices.'

‘But what made you do it in the first place?'

‘It was a brief from Hubert. He asked me to find out how many cases a year would be normal.'

Monty felt her way. ‘Do you think he's a bit obsessed about Bendix Schere?'

‘He has a thing about them, definitely – I think to call it an obsession may be a bit strong. I guess if you lose a daughter you're going to want to move hell and high water to find out why.'

‘So is that it? Just a distraught man trying to make some sense of his daughter's death?'

The reporter shook her head. ‘There's more.'

‘What makes you say that?'

She hesitated, then leaned forward and peered into her tea as if she was looking for something she had dropped in it. ‘It stinks,' she said.

‘You really think that?'

‘Yup. Just my instincts and maybe I'm totally wrong – but I wouldn't be surprised if it was someone from Bendix who rolled over my flat. I don't have enough to go to press on –
yet
. I'm waiting for one more pregnant woman to die in labour from a virus and give birth to a Cyclops Syndrome baby, then I'm going to sit on her family doctor's tail round the clock for a week until he bloody well talks to me.'

Monty continued to worry her nail. ‘Nothing was taken from your flat, Mr Wentworth said. That right?'

Zandra Wollerton shook her head, then stared back at Monty with a faintly bemused expression. ‘Well – there was one thing. Maybe the bastard who broke in is a closet pervert. There's a pair of cotton panties I thought I had in the wash box – can't find them anywhere.'

‘Panties?' Monty said, surprised.

‘Uh huh. Had flowers on them.'

‘Seems very weird,' Monty said.

‘There are some very weird people in the world,' the young reporter told her.

‘So what do you think?'

‘It's the bizz.' Charley Rowley stared approvingly around the living room, walked to the wide front window and looked out down the quiet tree-lined avenue one floor below. He freed the catch and raised the heavy sash a few inches. Then he listened for a moment to the faint hubbub of the Fulham Road traffic two hundred yards away. It was not intrusive, you could barely hear it.

At the far end of the room, Conor stared through the smaller window down at the sun deck and the well-tended garden which belonged to the ground-floor flat below. ‘Seems like a reasonable rent, don't you think?' he said.

‘Paying a premium for the area, but it's not bad – considering it's virtually Chelsea here. What about the rates and service charge? Want to watch those – that's where you can get really stuffed,' Rowley said, lighting a cigarette. ‘And you'll need to do something about these windows – draughty as hell.'