Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (13 page)

Tilly looked at him, incredulous. “You’re serious?”

Darkus nodded. “Obviously, if we both suffer symptoms, it’ll be up to you, Bogna.”

“
Mój Boże
. . .” She crossed herself and descended the stairs again.

“Good.” Darkus took a seat at his father’s desk and angled a reading lamp.

Tilly’s phone started vibrating, and the word “
Dad!
”
filled the screen. She clicked to reject the call. “Have I got time to freshen up?”

“The bathroom’s across the landing,” said Darkus. “I’ll read slowly.”

A thundering on the stairs heralded Bogna’s arrival with a tray of mixed sandwiches cut into triangles. “The brown bread is dinner and the white is dessert,” she announced.

“I don’t eat wheat,” said Tilly.

Bogna cocked her head, while Darkus ignored the comment. “Thank you, Bogna. It’s going to be a long night.”

He opened the book at page one and began to read,  impatient to find out what was inside. The first line began:

It was an effective opening. Intrigued, he continued.

He skimmed to the next page.

Darkus wanted to find the answer to this book; he knew that much.

Darkus felt lulled by the monotony of the book’s unrelenting message. It was a selfish message, thinly disguised as New Age philosophy and rammed home with the persistence of a jackhammer.

But it was having no sinister effect on him. There was nothing inherently evil about the book.

Fifteen minutes later, Tilly returned to the room as a brunette and was mildly peeved that Darkus didn’t appear to notice her transformation. His gaze remained focused on the book, his eyes steadily moving from left to right.

She examined him once more, just to be sure he wasn’t undergoing any transformations himself. Satisfied, she curled up in an armchair with her phone, while Darkus speed-read late into the night.

Bogna returned several hours later to find the investigators asleep. She examined them carefully for any unusual symptoms, then reached into her apron and quietly applied plastic wrap to the tray of sandwiches.

“Sleep tights,” she whispered, and closed the door behind her.

Darkus and Tilly were woken in the early hours with a start by the Armageddon-like ring of the secure phone. Bogna appeared through the door in a flash. Knightley was in the exact same position as before; Tilly pulled a pillow over her head, while Darkus fumbled for the phone and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Aye, good morning to ye,” Uncle Bill’s voice blurted. Darkus rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. “Based on the information ye supplied,” Bill went on, “we now have an address under round-the-clock surveillance. We believe one suspect’s in the house, and the other’s in the vicinity. There’s still a chance they have the Knowledge on them. There’s a car waiting outside for ye.”

The suspects’ address was an anonymous suburban house off a busy road on the edge of the city. A nondescript Ford sedan pulled up at the end of the street, then Darkus and Tilly got out of the back and walked toward a white van parked on the corner. The van had a ladder strapped to the roof and a workman behind the wheel with his feet on the dashboard, reading a tabloid newspaper. The workman glanced over his paper and discreetly nodded to Darkus, who opened the rear door for Tilly, then climbed in after her.

The back of the van was lined with TV monitors and surveillance equipment. Uncle Bill was compressed into an office chair beside a lanky male technician at a computer keyboard.

Bill attempted to swivel his chair. “A’right, Doc. I’d offer ye a seat, but . . .” He trailed off, gesturing to the cramped confines.

“Proceed,” said Darkus.

Bill craned to look at Tilly. “Aye, yer Internet Protocol address led us here, to a safe house of some kind. You’re looking at the first suspect, Bogey One . . .”

The main monitor displayed an image of the house, but painted in blues, oranges, and reds, as seen through the lens of a thermal-imaging camera. Heat rose in pink waves from a radiator, and a glowing male figure, Bogey One, sat on a sofa, watching an orange square: his TV.

Bill pointed an unlit cigar at the screen. “What you’re seeing is the individual heat signature of the suspect—”

“I know,” said Tilly. “I’ve got an app like that on my phone.”

“Aye,” said Bill, slightly deflated. “Bogey Two is being tailed on the main road two miles from us.” He pointed to another monitor, which showed a surveillance image of the taller suspect, Bogey Two, walking past a row of stores carrying a large sports bag.

“It’s them, all right,” Tilly confirmed. “What are we waiting for? Let’s make the grab.”

“We’re keeping a safe distance,” Bill explained, “till we know what’s in the bag.”

“Sounds logical,” said Darkus.

“In the meantime, Doc, I suggest ye two approach the safe house and attempt a swatch.”

Darkus and Tilly looked at each other, unsure of exactly what Bill had said.

“You want
us
to go in?” said Tilly.

“No one suspects a kid.”

“He’s right,” agreed Darkus.

Back at the office, Knightley’s chest heaved and fell at long intervals. Bogna sighed mournfully from an armchair, then slotted a videotape into the machine at the base of the TV, which was set up at the end of the sofa. A dated-looking title sequence appeared on the screen, and she sat up in her seat a little.

A large clock dial filled the frame, surrounded by a jumble of letters and numbers. A punchy theme song accompanied the ticking clock, then ended with a flourish as the letters came together to form the title. The presenter smiled at the camera. “Hello, and welcome to
Countdown
.”

Bogna produced a notepad and pen and prepared to join in.

The presenter continued: “. . . the game where the right
combination
of letters or numbers will put one of our contestants in the champion’s chair . . .”

Bogna hovered over the notepad with her pen poised.

Knightley’s eyelids fluttered with an eddy of recognition. His right hand tensed up into a silent gesture.

On the screen, a male contestant said, “Can I have a consonant, please?”

From the sofa, Knightley’s lips began to curl into a malformed word. “Coh . . .” He repeated: “Coh . . . mmm . . . !”

Bogna started. “
Matka!
”

“Coh . . . mmmmmm . . . ! The Combination!” Knightley sat bolt upright, causing Bogna to scream.

“Alan!!”

“What am I doing here? Where’s Darkus?” Knightley threw off the tartan blanket and looked around.

Darkus and Tilly stepped out of the back of Bill’s white van and walked across the road toward the target address. Tilly went up the garden path first and rang the doorbell. Footsteps could be heard approaching the front door. A few moments later it opened.

“Can I help you?” the stocky suspect demanded, wearing a mesh tank top and permanent-crease trousers.

“We’ve lost our soccer ball,” Tilly announced innocently. “It went into your back garden.”

The suspect examined them closely, and Tilly tensed up, fearing he might have recognized her. But instead he just looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching them. “Well, you’d better come inside and get it.”

“Thanks,” said Tilly, and Darkus hesitantly followed her in. The door slammed behind them.

In the van, Bill shifted in his chair, watching their heat signatures on the monitor—which made for uncomfortable viewing. A bagpipe melody announced itself from somewhere on his person, and he started patting himself down until he located his cell phone and took the call: “Alan . . . ?!”

Inside the safe house, Darkus instantly detected the acrid smell of body odor, which strangely complemented the familiar metallic taste in his mouth, the slight weakening of his bladder, and the constant whirring of the catastrophizer—all signs that indicated only one thing: fear.

“The garden’s that way,” said the suspect, pointing to a grubby kitchen.

Black smoke drifted past the back door from a bonfire of some kind. Darkus and Tilly exchanged a glance. Then Tilly walked through the kitchen to the back garden, while Darkus waited in the living room.

The suspect kept an eye on him as the news played on the TV in the background. All the curtains were drawn. The rooms and hallways were piled high with cardboard boxes. Darkus decided he would need a better look around.

“Excuse me, sir?” he asked. “May I use your facilities?”

“Facilities?”

“Your bathroom. If it’s not too much trouble.”

The suspect grimaced. “Up the stairs, on the right.”

“Much obliged,” said Darkus, and moved toward the hallway.

“Hold on.” The suspect looked down at Darkus’s shoes, then back to his face. “What are you
really
doing here?”

Darkus paused. “Retrieving a soccer ball, just as she said.”