Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2) Page 5

  ‘This is Marcus,’ Jim said. ‘He’s working with me.’

  She looked Marcus up and down, turned, and floated back upstairs.

  Marcus watched her go, watched her hips sway, watched the nightdress cling to her waist, her legs. He took a deep breath, exhaled.

  Jim coughed, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Friendly,’ Marcus said, annoyed he’d been so obvious.

  ‘My daughter.’ Luke gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Stranger in your hallway in the middle of the night – not the best introduction.’

  Back in the car, Jim went over the research the priests had been doing, how they’d built up a log of evidence.

  ‘So what’s with the girl?’ Marcus said, as soon as Jim paused for breath.

  Jim glanced across at him. ‘Don’t get involved.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just . . .’

  ‘Marcus, I was young once, you know. I do know the way your mind was working.’

  Marcus laughed. ‘Yeah, sorry. She is pretty hot though.’

  ‘She’s off limits,’ Jim said. ‘Way off limits.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She has history with these guys.’

  ‘With Mesmeris?’ He hadn’t expected that. ‘And she survived?’

  ‘If you can call it that,’ Jim said. ‘It caused some damage - psychologically.’

  Spicer whistled. ‘She asked me if I was one of them. I didn’t know what she meant.’

  ‘So, now you do.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN PEARL

  Mum and Dad moved me up to London. We met Jim’s brother, Ed, in a multi-storey car park. He looked a lot like Jim, although neater and tidier, and a couple of inches taller.

  I’d met him once before, one Christmas, and remembered him being loud, with a booming laugh that got on my nerves.

  He shook Dad’s hand, kissed Mum’s cheek, and took the suitcase from her hand. He ignored me as we walked to the accommodation block. He talked the whole way, waving his hand every now and then to illustrate whatever the hell he was on about.

  I traipsed behind, carrying an overloaded rucksack full of books, notebooks, and toilet rolls.

  Instead of the tower block I’d imagined, the modern building only had three floors.

  Ed punched a number into the keypad, pushed the door. ‘This is generally used for emergency cover, so you’ll get people coming off shift at all times of the day and night,’ he said. ‘Can be a bit noisy at times.’

  He swiped a card to open another door. ‘Pearl will have her own card,’ he said.

  Dad turned to me, raised his eyebrows, and winked. It made me smile.

  We climbed stairs to the second floor, pushed open a swing door onto a long corridor with windows on the left, eight doors on the right. Ed opened the first onto a tiny, oblong room. On one side, was a narrow single bed, on the other, a washbasin and cabinet. ‘Bit basic, I’m afraid,’ Ed said.

  I dumped my rucksack on the floor, stared at the bare bed, the dull magnolia walls. Then I spotted Mum doing the same, saw the doubt in her eyes. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her close.

  ‘It’s exciting, Mum.’ I made myself believe it, forced my smile to go all the way up to my eyes.

  ‘Of course it is.’ She squeezed me back, took a deep breath. ‘I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young, that’s all. It all seems so . . .’

  ‘Bleak?’ I said.

  She managed a small smile. ‘Exactly.’

  Ed glanced at his watch, cleared his throat. ‘Better get on.’

  We followed him down the corridor to the last two doors. He flung them open. ‘Bathroom and kitchen. You share them with any other occupants of this floor. Don’t think there’s anyone else staying here at the moment, so you’ll pretty much have the place to yourself.’

  Just as well, I thought, with only one shower, and one cooker.

  ‘There’s a coffee machine downstairs,’ Ed said, ‘and a communal sitting room with a TV. Never seen anyone in there, mind you.’

  Mum fussed about for a bit, storing my stuff in the kitchen, wiping everything down with disinfectant wipes. Dad ran back and forth to the car, while I made the bed. The bedding smelled of home. The rest of the place smelled of wood and plaster and paint.

  Despite the bog standard accommodation, and the lack of any company, nothing could snuff out the flicker of hope, joy even, I felt at being independent. Everything seemed new. The air, even the light, was different in London.

  Ed knocked on my door at eight the following morning. ‘I’ll be driving you to work and back every day,’ he said, ‘so no need to panic.’

  Panic? Did I look like I was panicking?

  He walked ahead of me to a staid, square, silver car. He stood on the driver’s side and looked across the roof at me.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘it’s probably best not to mention . . .’

  I waited.

  His eyes seemed to focus just above mine, perhaps fascinated by my eyebrows.

  ‘That, er,’ he said. ‘The, um . . .’

  ‘My insanity?’

  ‘No, no.’ He laughed, his gaze now fixed somewhere around my left ear. It was peculiar, almost as if he was afraid of me. ‘No, the, er . . .’

  ‘You mean Mesmeris?’

  ‘Yes.’ He opened the car door. ‘Them.’

  ‘Right.’ I sat in the passenger seat.

  ‘Those who need to know, know,’ Ed said.

  ‘Great.’ I gazed out of the window, gritted my teeth until my jaw ached.

  The Probation Service building looked as dull as it sounded. Twenty storeys high, grey concrete, with soulless, regimented windows, floor after floor. A huge building was good though. Lots of people, most of whom would know nothing about me. Anonymity was what I wanted, what I longed for.

  Everything about my immediate boss, Ian, was beige - his suit, his hair, his skin, even the whites of his eyes. He looked about forty, and smelled of cigarettes and body odour.

  I spent the morning learning how to use their computer system and trying not to breathe. Ian either stood over me, his fetid breath wafting over my face in waves, or he sat next to me. Whenever he leaned across to type something, his body odour, sharp and rancid, stung my nostrils, made me shrink back into my seat.

  Every now and then, he patted my shoulder and whispered in my ear. ‘I’m watching out for them, don’t worry.’

  The third time, I was so close to swearing, I had to physically bite my lip until it hurt. ‘I’m not worried,’ I managed, finally. ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ he said, with a patronising smile.

  I concentrated on my work, and tried to forget he was there. Once I’d got the hang of the process, he left me pretty much alone. After a few hours, I forgot all about being watched, began to feel like a normal human being.

  The job was less difficult than I’d feared. Data input, it seemed, was something I was actually capable of doing. Piles of papers appeared on my desk throughout the day. I entered the information on a database. At five o’clock, I went home to my room, chain-read novels, and escaped to fantasy world, where I could be anything from a thirteenth-century queen, to an American mass-murderer; a Russian peasant, to a schoolboy with a stutter. The only character I didn’t want to be was me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SPICER

  Over the next two weeks, Marcus became Spicer. He wrote an account of his fictional childhood, one of five boys, with an abusive father and cowed mother. He felt everything - fear, rage, hatred. He punched himself in the face until the cheekbone swelled, red and painful. He experienced his older brother pushing him to the ground on the patch of stony ground outside their house, and kicking him in the head because he’d looked at him the wrong way. He visualised himself setting fire to an allotment shed, knowing the old guy was inside. He laughed as he pictured the old man emerging, coughing his guts up, his clothes smouldering. He saw himself kicking in the doo
r of an elderly neighbour, because they’d called the police, saw the frightened face, felt the power.

  Jim had given him the factual outline. Marcus made it real. He wrote Spicer’s life story like a memoir, got so far inside the guy’s head, he wondered if he’d ever get out. He was Spicer, even in his dreams. He didn’t like it. It made him sick. But that was okay. It was for a reason. The best reason there was.

  Transformation complete, Spicer became restless. He paced the bedsit, checked his phone. When could he go out? Then he realised he was on his own. No one was going to come and tell him what to do. They were relying on him to know when the time was right.

  And that was now.

  Spicer headed for the rugby club. He arranged to go for a trial. Two weeks of sitting about had done nothing for his fitness. He joined a gym, did some weights, became breathless way too quickly. A diet of takeaways hadn’t helped. He bought some decent food, fruit, vegetables, fish.

  Another week went by, and still nothing happened. He began to get twitchy. The guys at the rugby club were okay. He went for a pint with them, but could see they felt uncomfortable around him. When he looked in the mirror, he could see why. The short, fair hair was the same, the regular, unspectacular features where they’d always been, but the hazel eyes held something new – a clinical coldness. They’d lost something too – humanity, compassion, warmth. By the look of it, Marcus no longer existed.

  Spicer began to wonder if he’d made a big mistake. He could deal with the crappy bedsit, but the loneliness was a different matter. Try not to involve any innocents, Jim had said. That meant no girlfriends. No girlfriends, no sex, and it was driving him crazy.

  The following afternoon, he saw them, hanging about outside the train station, and knew he hadn’t made a mistake after all. It was beginning to get dark – the end of a dull, overcast day. He almost missed them, lurking in a darkened corner, like the cockroaches they were. The shorter one, Leo, lit up a rollie and said something. Spicer was too far away to hear what it was, but the other two laughed.

  A filthy hand landed on Spicer’s shoulder. ‘Hey, mate. Got a light?’

  He shook the hand off. ‘Don’t smoke.’

  Now the hand was on his arm, grimy fingers, blackened nails digging into the flesh. ‘Come on, mate. Give us a light.’

  Spicer was aware of the cockroaches watching. Could this be a set-up? Maybe. If so, how far did he go? He didn’t want to get done for assaulting a copper.

  He turned. No way was this guy a cop. He wore a beanie, and looked like a user – grey skin, dead eyes, low-life. His sidekick stood next to him, fidgeting, twitchy, flexing his fingers.

  ‘Don’t – smoke,’ Marcus said. ‘Sorry.’

  He tried to step round the pair of them. They blocked his path. Something flashed in Beanie’s hand. A knife. Shit! No set-up then. Out of the corner of his eye, Spicer saw Leo lean forwards, sensed the expectation, saw his smile.

  His mouth dried up, pulse punched in his ears. These two losers weren’t going to leave it. He could wait for them to start, or . . .

  He kicked out, knocked the knife from Beanie’s hand, slammed a fist into his stomach, an upper cut to the jaw, and he was flat out, unconscious. Sidekick turned and ran.

  Spicer stared at the unmoving would-be thief, watched blood soak into his grey beanie, then pool on the concrete.

  ‘Nice one.’ Leo swaggered towards him, took a drag on his ciggie, and nudged the unconscious man with his foot. ‘Looks like you pegged him.’

  There was a hell of a lot of blood coming from that head wound. Spicer itched to check the guy’s pulse, call for an ambulance.

  ‘Bother you?’ A smile hovered over Leo’s lips, his eyes probing, searching.

  ‘No.’ Spicer shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t ’a touched me.’

  Leo glanced at the others.

  Art nodded, just once.

  ‘Come on,’ Leo said. ‘We’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Don’t let them see how eager you are. Spicer closed his eyes as he turned, uttered a silent prayer. Don’t let him be dead. Please, don’t let him be dead.

  Nico kicked the knife. It clattered across the ground. ‘Not takin’ the blade?’

  ‘Think I need a weapon?’ Spicer said. ‘You calling me a coward?’ He lifted his chin – a challenge.

  Nico raised his hands. ‘No offence.’

  Spicer took another look at the flick-knife. Was that rust on the blade, or dried blood, old blood? ‘Not getting my prints on that.’

  ‘Got form then?’ Leo had the palest eyes Spicer had ever seen - almost colourless, like looking into a marble.

  Spicer stared into them. ‘Overstepping the mark - pal.’

  Art smirked.

  Spicer walked away, ears straining, praying they’d come after him.

  And they did.

  ‘Look, mate,’ Nico said. ‘Come for a drink. We have a proposition for you.’

  How would he react if he didn’t know who they were, if three randoms hit on him at a train station? ‘I’m straight.’

  Nico laughed. ‘Not that kind of proposition - business.’

  This was so easy. Too easy? The unknown lay in front of him, dark, deadly. I can save myself here, he thought, walk away, forget it.

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ he said.

  Nico smiled, patted his shoulder.

  He was in. No going back.

  They sat on benches outside the pub, even though it was chilly.

  ‘So,’ Nico said, ‘What d’you want from life, Spicer?’

  ‘Er, don’t know. Money, I suppose – girls.’

  They laughed.

  Spicer forced himself to relax, even smiled. He was going to have to get on with these people, at least on the surface. He needed to stop thinking about the guy he’d just flattened, and the blood.

  ‘That it?’ Nico said. ‘D’you have family?’

  ‘No.’

  Leo lit up a fag. ‘You working?’

  Spicer shook his head. ‘Lost my job. Sacked – for flattening a tosser.’ So far, so true.

  ‘So what’s your plan for your future?’ Art said. ‘Where do you see yourself in, say, ten years’ time?’

  ‘I . . .’ He had no plan, had never thought past destroying Mesmeris. After that – what? His career was shot, his family non-existent. Even his friends had distanced themselves. No one liked a failure. He shrugged.

  ‘We can turn your life around,’ Nico said. ‘You join us.’

  Spicer laughed, sceptical. ‘What is it, a job?’

  ‘A life,’ Art said. ‘We’re a community, a family.’

  Clever, Spicer thought.

  ‘We support each other,’ Nico said. ‘The community’s self-sufficient. No nine-to-five – none of that. Everything’s provided – home, money.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Work with us to make the community strong, powerful, to protect it.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ And, despite what Spicer knew, it did sound good, really good.

  ‘You like money?’ Nico said.

  Spicer snorted. ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘Power?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Slow, interested.

  Nico’s eyes glowed - rich brown flecked with gold. ‘You want something worth living for, fighting for?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spicer had been warned about the recruitment method, knew exactly what they were doing, and yet still it worked. He did want something to live for, something to fight for. He needed it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN SPICER

  As soon as he got in, he called Jim. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Something’s happened.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Think I killed someone.’ As he said it, his voice caught. He coughed, took a deep breath.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Jim said.

  Spicer slumped into the chair, his legs weak.

  ‘Swollen jaw and a headache,’ Jim said, ‘but he’s okay.’

  ‘Was he one of yours?’

>   ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Shit, sorry. He lost a hell of a lot of blood.’

  ‘Capsules,’ Jim said, ‘in his hat.’

  ‘No way.’ Spicer laughed until his eyes streamed. ‘Don’t believe it. He was so damned good.’

  ‘Did it work?’ Jim said. ‘That’s what matters.’

  ‘Think so. They took my number.’

  *

  It had worked. They called the very next day.

  ‘Spicer?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Nico. From yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, as if their meeting had slipped his mind. ‘Hi.’

  ‘You still up for that proposition we talked about?’

  Spicer’s hands shook. ‘Yeah, ‘course.’

  ‘Cool. We’ll pick you up tomorrow – aptitude test.’

  Spicer gave them his address. He closed his phone. ‘Shit.’ He paced the length of his room, and back. ‘Shit!’ In theory, it had seemed so easy. The reality terrified him. He called Jim.

  ‘They’re picking me up tomorrow, taking me somewhere for an aptitude test.’

  Jim whistled. ‘You up for that?’

  His tone didn’t exactly calm Spicer’s nerves. ‘Why? What is it?’

  Jim paused. ‘Not sure.’

  Great. Brilliant, Spicer thought. Thanks.

  ‘It may involve stuff you’ll find distressing,’ Jim said, ‘that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m solid,’ Spicer lied.

  ‘Don’t go native, will you?’

  ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Never.’

  *

  The next morning, he waited outside on the street, because he didn’t fancy having them nosing through his stuff. At nine o’clock exactly, a black Audi drew up. The passenger window slid open. ‘Jump in,’ Nico said.

  Leo was already in the back seat. A girl drove them through the town centre. Spicer studied the back of her head and what he could see of her profile. Cropped, spiky crimson-red dyed hair, dark skin. Her lip gloss, thick and glistening, matched the colour of her hair exactly, as did her long fingernails – blood-red talons that gripped the steering wheel. No mention of her in the dossier. One to add to Jim’s list.