Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2) Page 6

  Spicer gazed out of the window at the empty, rubbish-strewn streets. Sunday morning graveyard. They pulled up outside a grimy building, with ‘Working Men’s Club’ engraved above a shield. Two steps led up to heavy, oak doors. Nico rang the bell. An ancient, bent, bald-headed guy opened the door. He didn’t look at them, kept his head bowed and backed away to let them in.

  The place smelled damp, as if it had been empty for a long time. Through the door on his left, Spicer saw what remained of a bar. The empty optics, the row of unused beer pumps, stood forlorn and neglected. The room at the end of the corridor was half-filled by a snooker table, its baize torn and faded. Venetian blinds hung, broken and filthy. The sunlight slipped through the irregular spaces, beamed slices of brightness through the dust.

  Spicer noticed stains on the tiled floor. Mud, perhaps. Then he saw the stains on the washed-out baize. Irregular splashes – dried blood. Snooker cues, three or four, stood propped in the corner. Stained too. Spicer felt his stomach clench. He swallowed, licked his dry lips. Maybe they knew who he was, knew he was a plant. Shit! Shit!

  His hands shook uncontrollably. He slipped them into the pockets of his jeans, noticed a camera on the ceiling, pointed at the snooker table.

  ‘Through here.’ Nico opened a door at the far end of the room.

  Spicer wasn’t sure he could move. His legs felt too weak to support his weight. The room beyond Nico was dark – pitch dark. Crap! He was going to puke. He took his right hand from his pocket, held onto the snooker table, steadied himself.

  Coward, he thought – you’re nothing but a coward.

  ‘Come on.’ Leo slapped his shoulder. ‘Long day ahead.’

  Long day - the words held untold menace.

  Get a grip, Spicer told himself. Don’t wimp out now.

  The strip light flickered into life.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Nico pointed towards a chair in front of a flat screen monitor.

  No torture chamber then. Spicer sat in the swivel chair.

  Leo wheeled a trolley across. On top was another monitor with coloured leads looped like brightly-coloured spaghetti, each lead ending in a metal peg.

  Spicer’s stomach flipped over. No way was he letting them put that near him. He stood. ‘What the fuck?’

  Leo laughed. ‘Don’t shit yourself. It’s an EEG machine, that’s all. Checks your brainwaves.’

  ‘Right.’ Spicer tried to laugh. It came out like a cough.

  It took at least ten minutes for Leo and Nico to attach round, sticky pads to Spicer’s scalp. They checked a diagram before positioning every one, then attached a lead to each.

  ‘Okay?’ Nico said.

  Spicer nodded. ‘Think so.’ His head felt heavy, but not uncomfortable.

  Leo took Spicer’s right hand and clipped a plastic peg onto the end of his index finger. ‘This’ll check your pulse, and your oxygen levels.’ He smirked. ‘You gone white, mate. Not gonna throw up, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Spicer said, although he wasn’t sure it was true. They could be lying, could be about to electrocute him. That monitor could be the last thing he ever saw.

  The screen clicked into life.

  ‘We wanna see how you react to stuff,’ Nico said, ‘okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just a personality test.’

  Spicer prepared himself. Whatever brutality they showed, he’d be okay.

  The first clip was of a cat falling off a TV. Spicer frowned. Other ‘funny’ clips came up, and he began to relax, to laugh. Two men, dark and swarthy, fought, wrestled each other. Dry, dusty earth billowed up in clouds around them. One fell to the ground.

  Shit! Spicer focussed somewhere behind the monitor. He thought about washing dishes while one guy killed the other on screen. The image changed. A woman held a young child in her arms, lifted the lifeless body up, pleading, crying. Spicer thought of mindless tasks he’d performed as a copper – cleaning shoes, making sandwiches. He realised he hadn’t eaten, thought of cheese and pickle. Each clip lasted less than a minute. Shootings, beheadings, appeared at random between slapstick comedy, peaceful images of rolling waves crashing onto the shore, snow-covered mountains. After each violent clip, he’d sense rather than see Nico and Leo exchange glances.

  He watched the lot without flinching, breathed, in, out, in, out.

  ‘Okay,’ Nico said. ‘Enough.’

  Spicer tried to smile, but felt his lip wobble. ‘How’d I do?’

  ‘Borderline psychopath,’ Nico said, as if it was a good thing.

  Leo leaned in close, whispered, ‘You’re gonna live out your wildest fantasies – darkest fantasies.’

  This was not the time to think. Play the part, that’s all – just play the part. Spicer looked Leo straight in the eyes. ‘And how d’you know how dark my fantasies are?’ I know how dark yours are, you bastard.

  Leo smiled. ‘We’re all the same, mate, underneath.’

  No, Spicer thought. Not me, mate. Not me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN SPICER

  Spicer knew he’d nailed the personality test, and knew he’d nail the physical too, no problem. Nico questioned him on the way to the gym, asked about his life, his childhood, his ambitions. Spicer thanked God for Jim’s research. Not once did he stumble over an answer, but he’d pause now and again, make a show of thinking before he spoke. All the time, he felt their eyes watching, calculating, trying to see inside his head.

  Fitness was a doddle. He was fast, strong, in his element. Showering off the sweat, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good.

  Leo popped his head round the shower room door. ‘Art wants to see you when you’re done.’

  They went to a dark and dingy back room to wait for him. A middle-aged, brassy blonde brought in a bottle of Jack Daniels and three glasses. Sweat stained the underarms of her too tight, low-necked, sparkly top.

  ‘Anything else you’d like?’ she said. The smile looked out of place, didn’t fit with the rest of her hard-bitten face.

  Nico’s eyelids lowered a fraction. ‘Just put them down, would you?’

  She leaned across, placed a glass in front of each of them with painful slowness.

  Nico smiled a tight smile.

  She simpered, hovered for a moment.

  ‘That’s all,’ Nico said.

  Her smile faded, replaced by a more natural-looking stony bitterness. The door slammed shut behind her.

  ‘Who’d be that desperate?’ Leo said.

  Spicer put his hand up.

  Nico and Leo laughed. They lounged back on their chairs, legs outstretched, at ease. Spicer tried to fake the body language, but one leg shook, so he sat upright. That was okay. They’d expect him to be on guard.

  Nico filled Spicer’s glass. ‘You’ve earned this.’

  Spicer took a swig. It tasted good, burned his throat as it went down, warmed his belly. He could have downed it in one, but getting pissed in this company might not be a good idea.

  The door opened and Art came in. ‘How’d he do?’

  ‘Great,’ Nico said. ‘Gentleman psycho. Best we’ve had.’

  ‘Good.’ Art sat, widened his eyes at Leo. ‘Where’s my glass?’

  Leo stared at the ceiling. ‘It’s always me.’

  ‘Should be used to it by now,’ Nico said.

  ‘I’m a foot soldier, not a fuckin’ waiter.’

  Art’s jaw tightened. ‘Just get it, Leo. Stop acting like a tart.’

  Leo stood up and walked over to the door. He glanced back, shot a look of pure hatred at Art’s back.

  Spicer lowered his eyes to meet Art’s steady gaze.

  ‘Problem?’ Art said.

  ‘No.’

  Leo came back with Art’s glass. He banged it onto the table.

  Art filled it, took a swig, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He opened his coat. The butt of a Glock pistol poked out of his inside pocket. ‘You know how to use this?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spicer swallowed.

  ‘Wher
e d’you learn that?’

  Shit! Spicer licked his lips. ‘Not that exactly, but I’ve shot an air rifle . . .’

  A snigger went round the table.

  ‘. . . and a shotgun.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Art’s blue eyes bored into him.

  Spicer tried to look away, but couldn’t. It was as if his eyes were held on pins.

  ‘Used to go lamping,’ he said, recalling the stuff he’d learned.

  Leo frowned. ‘Lamping?’

  ‘Hunting animals at night.’

  ‘You say all the right things, don’t you, Spicer?’ Art said. ‘All the right things.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Nico said. ‘You’re never happy, are you?’

  ‘I’m careful.’ Art picked the gun from his pocket with two gloved fingertips, and held it out to Spicer. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

  Spicer’s bowels moved as he stared at the barrel. He didn’t doubt it had been used on at least one occasion, maybe a high-profile murder. He had no choice but to get his prints on it. He took the gun, felt the familiar polymer body against his skin. He weighed it in his hand – fully loaded.

  ‘Great.’ Art took the gun, slid it back into his pocket and drained his glass.

  ‘Thought this was a community,’ Spicer said, remembering he was meant to know nothing. ‘Why d’you need guns?’

  Art shrugged. ‘People try to stop us practising our faith.’

  ‘So, it’s a religion?’ Nice one.

  ‘Yes.’

  Spicer pursed his lips. ‘Right – and you need . . .’ he shook his head, ‘ . . . weapons?’

  Art’s jaw clenched – a tiny movement of irritation. ‘There are occasions when you may be under attack, or one of your fellow members. We need to know you can look after yourself.’

  ‘I did all right yesterday,’ Spicer said.

  ‘You’ll need more than that.’ Art gave him a small smile. ‘You’ll need to be highly trained.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Spicer laughed. ‘Thought you guys were all peace and love.’

  ‘Not us,’ Nico said. ‘Wrong church.’

  Art sat back, eyes narrowed. ‘Foot soldier.’

  ‘What?’ Nico said. ‘Are you crazy? He’s Elite material.’

  ‘I’ve detected something . . .’ Art pursed his lips, eyes on Spicer’s. ‘There’s something about you, Spicer – something I don’t trust.’

  ‘Is there?’ Spicer said. What the hell was he meant to do about it?

  Nico groaned. ‘He never trusts anyone.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with footies.’ Leo clinked his glass against Spicer’s. ‘Welcome to the ranks.’

  Jim had said Nico was a rival for the top spot, but he was wrong. The hierarchy was unmistakeable. Leo and Nico were wary in Art’s presence, like dogs circling their master. And with good reason. Once you looked in Art’s eyes, you were stuck there until he decided to let you go, and the whole time, it was like he was rifling through your thoughts, searching out your memories.

  Spicer could feel Art’s gaze on him, so looked at Leo instead. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You go to the home, do your training.’

  ‘The home?’

  ‘The seaside,’ Leo said. ‘Brighton.’

  Spicer picked up his drink to hide his reaction. People knew him in Brighton. He’d be recognised for sure.

  ‘Not that you get to see any of it,’ Nico said. ‘The home’s enclosed. You don’t get off campus.’

  Spicer breathed, lowered his glass to the table. ‘Sounds like a prison.’

  Art stared. ‘It’s what you make it – prison, hell-hole, playground, domain.’

  ‘Right.’ Not for one second had Spicer thought he’d have to go into Pitt’s lair. He was pretty sure Jim hadn’t thought of it either. His mind whirred. Brighton was risky. Too risky? Could he do it, without giving himself away? He’d be right there, in the core, the birthplace of Mesmeris, but would he ever get out?

  They were watching him, waiting for him to say something. He said the first thing that came to mind. ‘What do foot soldiers do?’

  ‘Whatever Papa says,’ Leo said. ‘Papa knows everything.’

  Nico nodded. ‘And he means everything. He knows what you’re thinking, man. He knows what you dream.’

  In that case, Spicer thought, I’m in deep shit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SPICER

  The spiky-haired girl picked Spicer up in a red Ford Fiesta. ‘Change of plan,’ she said. ‘Art’s training us himself.’

  ‘No Brighton?’

  She pulled out into the traffic, didn’t answer.

  Spicer felt relieved, but bizarrely disappointed too. ‘You know why?’

  ‘No.’

  Chatty, Spicer thought.

  ‘I’m Spicer, by the way.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Right.’ What was it with him and girls lately?

  They parked outside a sports hall. Metal railings all round it, and a padlocked gate.

  ‘Looks like they’ve shut up shop,’ Spicer said.

  ‘Here.’ The girl shoved him aside, unlocked the padlock. ‘It’s ours. We own it.’

  ‘Yeah? Think they’d look after it a bit better then.’ He kicked a piece of cardboard aside, and two rats scuttled out, down the side of the building.

  ‘Not scared, are you?’ she said, with a sneer.

  Spicer let it go.

  Art turned up just as they opened the door. He glanced up and down the road. ‘D’you check you weren’t followed, Ruby?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Like hell, Spicer thought. No way had she been checking.

  The sports hall reminded Spicer of school - wall bars, floor mats. It even smelled the same, of stale sweat and rubber shoes.

  ‘We had a tail yesterday,’ Art said. ‘Pretty crap, but it’s the second one this week. Assume everyone’s following you, and assume they’re all top-class detectives.’

  Ruby snorted.

  Art frowned. ‘Don’t underestimate your enemy. Could be a fatal mistake.’

  ‘No Brighton then?’ Spicer said.

  Art shook his head. ‘People are asking questions about the home, so for now it’s a residential school, nothing more. Just being careful. You two are a little old for school.’ He gave Spicer the once-over. ‘You look in good shape. D’you work out?’

  ‘Play rugby.’

  Art closed his eyes.

  ‘Rugby union,’ Spicer said. ‘Game with a funny-shaped ball?’

  Art opened his eyes. ‘I know what it is.’

  Ruby sniggered.

  ‘It’s good to have two for unarmed combat,’ Art said. ‘You can fight each other.’

  ‘What?’ He had to be joking. ‘She’s a girl.’

  Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘Twenty-twenty eyesight.’

  ‘This isn’t about bodyweight or strength,’ Art said. ‘Some of your targets will be female, some male. Some will be easy, some well trained, possibly by me. It’s all about the psychology – tactics. Get inside your opponent’s head. Know what their next move will be before they do.’

  Spicer didn’t want to go anywhere near the inside of Ruby’s head. ‘Okay. How do I do that?’

  ‘You fight me first, and I’ll show you.’

  Spicer and Art were about equal in height, but where Spicer had muscles on muscles, Art was half his weight at a guess, and skinny with it.

  ‘You reckon you’d beat me?’ Art said.

  ‘If I’d never met you before, I’d think it’d be easy.’

  ‘So, I’m after your wallet. I ask you for it, nicely – and I won’t take no for an answer. What d’you do?’

  It was too good an opportunity to miss. Art was relaxed, expecting Spicer to talk. Instead, he jabbed a sharp punch at Art’s head, full force behind it.

  Next thing, Spicer’s back hit the floor, and Art was sitting on his chest.

  He leaned forwards, dug his knees into Spicer’s shoulders. ‘How did I do that?’

&nbs
p; ‘I . . .’ It was difficult to speak with Art’s weight pressing down on his chest. ‘I don’t know.’

  Ruby folded her arms, mouth twisted in a superior sneer.

  Art shifted his weight, just enough to regain Spicer’s attention. ‘You looked away.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Ruby raised her eyes to heaven.

  ‘You did,’ Art said, ‘just for an instant, but that’s all I need.’

  ‘I get it.’ Spicer tried to wriggle out from under him. ‘You can get off now.’

  Art, it seemed, had no intention of shifting. ‘Get the right place, back of the knee say, and your opponent’s down. Then, it’s all about weak points and how to use them. This, for instance.’ Art leaned forwards, dug his knees into Spicer’s shoulders, ‘hurts, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Spicer felt the sweat break out on his upper lip. It hurt, all right.

  Art climbed off, stood up. ‘Ruby.’

  Ruby did better than Spicer, even managed to hold him off for a few seconds, before finally hitting the floor.

  Art stood back. ‘Ready to fight each other?’

  ‘Not comfortable with that.’ Boys don’t hit girls – wasn’t that the rule?

  Ruby smirked. ‘He’s scared I’ll humiliate him.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Spicer said. Every rule had its exception

  Ruby won the first couple of bouts. Her lip curled. ‘Easy.’

  ‘You’re holding back, Spicer,’ Art said. ‘I can see it. Forget she’s a girl. Forget about being a gentleman. She’s an opponent, nothing more.’

  Spicer nodded.

  ‘Once more,’ Art said.

  Spicer concentrated on Ruby’s eyes. The first flicker, and he had her. Her back slammed onto the floor, and Spicer held her there, used his knees, just like Art had.

  Ruby gave him a hate-filled stare. ‘Lucky.’

  Spicer jumped off her, rubbed his hands on his jeans.

  ‘She sting you?’ Art said.

  ‘Like I said - not comfortable.’

  Art frowned. ‘We’ll have to get you over that kind of qualm, Spicer, or you’ll be no good to us.’

  You can try, Spicer thought.

  ‘Remember what I said.’ Art pointed at his eyes. ‘Watch the eyes, and wait. At some point, they’ll look away.’