Prisoner of Fire (6 page)

“What are you going to do—about me?”

“Do you want to probe again?”

“No. I’m just asking.”

“Well
, then. I’m going to look after you, feed you, help you get back your strength.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards? Refugees like us, Vanessa, find it difficult to consider an abstraction called afterwards. We live from hour to hour, day to day.”

Suddenly, Vanessa stiffened. The nightmare voices had returned. They were somehow nibbling away at her mind. She set up a block, but she did not have much strength.

“What is it?”

“They are trying to probe me,” she said as calmly as possible. “Could you let me have some music, please? I can’t stop them alone.”

He did not say anything. He got up from the bed, went to a chest of drawers, found a transistor radio, switched it on, turned the volume up.

Vintage pop music flooded the room. Vanessa was immensely grateful. She relaxed her block and let the music dominate her mind.

“Why are they so persistent?” He had to speak loudly to make himself heard above the music.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you so good?”

“The best they had, I think. But at other schools there must be many who are as good, or better.”

Badel stroked his chin. “Not so many as you think, perhaps. Paranormals—the good ones—are much in demand these days… Did they let you see much tri-di at Random Hill?”

“Quite a lot. It was censored.”

“Then you may not know that Joe Humboldt is fascinated by paranormals. Just now, they are the in thing. The Prime Minister needs them for political insurance, therefore he is afraid of them.” He laughed
grimly. “The political animal reasons thus: who is not with us is against us… Perhaps that is why they want you back so much. Perhaps you are—or could be—a valuable weapon in the psych war.”

“I don’t want to take part in any kind of war,” she said vehemently. “I just want to be left in peace… It is not only the Random Hill people who are trying to find out where I am. I know their patterns. But there are other patterns, other probes. At first, I thought they were all working with the police, or something like that. But there is a sort of smell of evil about some of them, a smell of death.” She shuddered. “They frighten me. They frighten me horribly... I’m so hungry. Could I have something to eat, please?”

He held her hand. “I have plenty of food waiting for you, my dear. Soup, milk, eggs, fish, meat—whatever you like. You shall have whatever you want in a minute or two. But let us think. Time may be critical. You want to be left in peace, and I want to be left in peace. Our interests are identical… I told you my name. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, it’s—“

“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. What I told you was a pack of lies. Now I will tell you the truth. My real name is Oliver Anderson. I was injured in a hovercar collision. I used to be a painter. Perhaps, when I have fully recovered, I will paint again… What is my name?”

“Oliver Anderson.”

“Where do I live?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You really don’t know?”

“No. I just ran and ran. I don’t know where I am.”

“Good. Then I shall not tell you. You must know as little as possible. What is my name?”

“Oliver
Anderson.”

“What am I?”

“A painter. You were injured in a hovercar crash.”

“You had better believe it,” he said intensely. “Because if you don’t, I shall beat you. What is my name?”

“Oliver Anderson.” Tears trickled down her face.

“I’m so hungry. Please may I have some food?”

“Say: please, Oliver, may I have something to eat?”

“Please, Oliver, may I have something to eat?”

“That’s better. Now lie back and rest for a minute or two.”

Presently he brought soup and milk and bread and cold meat. She ate greedily until he forced her to eat slowly.

D
ENZIL
I
NGRAM WAS
a solid
extrovert, a pragmatist, a professional hunter. He was also highly intelligent and, as head of the Snatch Group in the Department of Internal Security, politically powerful. He had a P2 rating, which gave him—if he needed it—direct access to Sir Joseph Humboldt.

Because of a certain question asked in the House of Commons, he had taken personal control of the team assigned to tracing Vanessa Smith. He was now in the process of causing Dr. Lindemann to sweat profusely.

“You were personally responsible for the training, welfare and security of the girl?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no way Lindemann could wriggle out of that responsibility. It was all on paper.

“You clever boys make me sick,” observed Ingram coldly. “Here you are, running a classified factory farm for child paras, and all the security precautions you can develop are electrified fences, guards and dogs.”

“Security is not my responsibility.”

“But Vanessa Smith is. You should have known, Lindemann. Even allowing for your Ph.D., you should have known when the girl was going to run. An ordinary prison guard would have known. There’s a remoteness in the eyes, an air of evasiveness, a sense of detachment. It always adds up to escape.”

“I
am not a prison guard,” retorted Dr. Lindemann. “I am a scientist.”

“Before this little jape is over,” said Ingram, “you may well be a reconditioned lavatory cleaner…Well, let us see how we stand now. You have now destroyed all records of the girl’s existence?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Of course I’m sure—sir.”

“Good. Because, Lindemann, if there is anything on paper, micro-film or in computer storage that proves she existed, I, personally, will stamp on your balls. At the moment, we are on a no-win basis. Therefore we must play for a draw. If we could find her within the next twenty-four hours, and if she would say the right things, there is a clear win. But my nose tells me that we won’t get her in twenty-four hours and, even if we did, there would not be enough time to brainwash her for public display. Therefore we are left with negatives. We must ensure that the Opposition doesn’t find her before we do. And when we find her, we must quietly take her out.”

“Why has she become so important?” asked Lindemann. “She is highly gifted, but there are other highly gifted children. She is not irreplaceable.”

Ingram sighed. “Wrong again, college boy. She is not just Vanessa Smith. She is now a Parliamentary Question. Sir Joseph Humboldt does not like Parliamentary Questions where he cannot score… Now, let us quietly review progress. A farmer saw her stealing eggs. A chopper reported her heading south. What is your contribution?”

Dr. Lindemann pressed an intercom switch. “Send in Dugal, please.”

The door opened and Dugal Nemo came into the
office. He looked very small. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot.

Dr. Lindemann brought a chocolate bar out of a drawer in his desk. Denzil Ingram saw the look on the boy’s face and rolled his eyes upwards. “Put the chocolate away, Lindemann. It will make the boy vomit. Can’t you see he’s not one of your Pavlovian dogs?” He turned to Dugal.

“Now, laddie, what is your name?”

“Dugal Nemo, sir.”

“Do you like this place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do they treat you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you like Vanessa?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like her to come back? Would you like things to be as they were before she ran away?”

“Yes, sir. Very much. I love Vanessa and she loves me.”

“Well, laddie, then we can help each other. I want Vanessa back, too. I don’t love her like you do, you understand. But I think I might like her—when I get to know her. I want to meet her, you see. I want to understand what made her run away. If I can, I’ll put it right. That’s a promise. Now, what do you know?”

“Not very much, sir. Dr. Lindemann has asked me to do a lot of probing recently. It has made me very tired. I can’t seem to get the patterns right. Perhaps I will do better if I can have a good rest.”

Ingram shot a despairing glance at Lindemann then turned to Dugal once more. “I’m sorry about that, Dugal. Dr. Lindemann is going to let you have a good rest after we have talked. Now, what do you know?”

Dugal
hesitated. “Please, sir, will Vanessa get into trouble?”

Ingram patted his head. “No, laddie. We won’t do anything to make her unhappy. We want to make sure she is safe and well, that’s all. You see, she is important to us as well as to you. So we are all on the same side.”

Dugal brightened. “I’m glad. Vanessa will be glad, too. I’ll send as soon as I can.”

“You know where she is, boy?”

“No, sir. But I know how she is. She is very hungry and very tired. I think she’s been ill. She doesn’t want to come back.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

Dr. Lindemann opened his mouth and looked as if he were about to explode. Ingram withered him with a glance.

“She told you?”

“Yes, sir. It was very weak, but she did send. Since then I have only heard music blocks… But I tried once when she must have been sleeping. There was frightening shapes in her mind. Somebody else was there, too. I felt him. Very cold… I got scared and came out.”

Ingram, who understood little of telepathic processes, made the best of it he could. “You are sure there was someone else?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you describe him, tell us about him?”

Dugal smiled. “You can’t describe a probe, sir. It’s warm or it’s cold, that’s all. This one was cold. Too cold.”

“Too cold for what?”

“Too cold to be good,” said Dugal innocently. “That is the way it was.”

Ingram
tried again. “The music. Can you tell us anything about that?”

“The first time, it was very loud and with lots of bangs. They sounded like guns. I think I have heard it before, but I don’t know where.”

“And the second time?”

Dugal wrinkled his nose. “Oldies. Classic Pop. Country and Western. Folk. Even the Beatles. Terrible stuff. All out of the ark.”

“Is that all you can tell us?”

Dugal scratched his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure.”

“What are you not sure about?”

“I keep thinking about a man who has something wrong with his face.”

“Is he connected with Vanessa? Does she know him?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe it is just something I made up—you know, like a nightmare. I’ve been trying to reach Vanessa an awful long time…” A tear trickled down his face. “She doesn’t want to talk to me. Can I go, now? I’m very tired.”

“Yes, son. Go and get some rest. Dr. Lindemann won’t need you at least until tomorrow.”

Jenny Pargetter had just listened to the 1812 Overture for the third time. She didn’t know why, because it was not a piece of music she liked. It was too flashy, too naive. But when she heard it—particularly when the cannon started booming away—she derived a strange feeling of security. It was as if she needed the noise in order to be able to think freely. Which was plainly ridiculous. Thinking was best done without distraction. But, while she waited for Simon to come
home, she indulged herself idiotically by filling the room with sound.

For once, he came home early. He kissed her, glanced at the stereo box, raised an eyebrow, and turned the volume down.

“Love, how can you stand it?”

Jenny looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t know, Simon. I don’t even like it. But it makes me feel good.”

“May I turn it off?”

She got up from the settee. “Yes. I don’t need it now that you are here.”

“Why did you need it?”

She seemed almost surprised by the question. “So that I could think. It provides a good background for thinking… Strange. I’d never thought of the 1812 before as an aid to thinking.”

Simon poured himself a large drink, a lot of whisky and a little water. “Would you like one, Jenny? I think maybe you are going to need it.”

“You have bad news?”

“I don’t know whether it is good or bad.” Simon swallowed half his drink. Then he topped up his own glass and poured a neat whisky for Jenny. “There was a Parliamentary Question this afternoon. Tom Green asked the P.M. if he could assure the House that Vanessa Smith was not being restrained against her will at Random Hill Residential School.”

Jenny swallowed her whisky in one. “What did Black Joe say?”

“He denied that she existed. It was a stalling action.”

“I see. Give me another whisky. It seems your Mr. Draco was right.” Jenny began to laugh. “Marvellous, isn’t it? My child is now a matter of national importance. She has gone over the wall to the embarrassment of H.M. Government.” Jenny’s laughter dissolved in
tears. “I wish I’d known her. I wish I’d kept her. Oh, God, I wish I’d looked after her!”

Simon held her close. “Steady, love. We cannot change the past. I am as much to blame as you… But we must face facts as they now are. Wherever Vanessa is now, she is in great danger.

“Because,” went on Simon, holding her tight enough to hurt, “Humboldt will need to prove his statement. Otherwise, his Security of the State Bill might get hammered. So, somehow, we must find Vanessa first.”

Professor Marius Raeder fed Turkish delight to the child he called Quasimodo. Quasimodo’s real name was Hubert Fisher. He was twelve years old; but his body was misshapen and his personality warped. He looked like a wizened dwarf. Professor Raeder, sensing that the boy had been treated as an object of compassion for too long, treated him as an object of ridicule. He responded well. Since his escape from Coniston Residential School, his paranormal talents had increased prodigiously.

After the third chunk of Turkish delight, Professor Raeder sensed that the time was ripe for the experiment. A brown rat was happily nibbling at a pile of oatmeal in a small cage on the far side of the room.

“Kill,” said Professor Raeder.

Quasimodo, his lips sticky, and with a dribble of half-melted Turkish delight on his chin, looked at the Professor uncomprehendingly.

“Kill the rat,” said Raeder. “If you can kill it, you get more of this dreadful stuff. Do you understand, Quasimodo?”

The boy nodded. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The rat fell on its side. But after a few seconds
, it picked itself up and started to eat the oatmeal once more.”