The Night of the Mosquito (15 page)

Chapter 33

Priestley police station. 1:10 p.m.

Emerson turned away from the window as Williams knocked once on the open office door and walked in.

‘I can’t afford for you to be loafing around out there, Williams. I want you to make your way to Professor Young’s house. Bring him back with you.’

Williams raised his eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t loafing, it was my break—’

‘Your whole life is a break, Williams.’

‘Sir, you said you were going to reconvene at noon—’

‘For a half-dozen people?’

‘Yes, they already think we don’t talk to them.’

‘I don’t give a shit.’ Emerson growled.

‘I can’t see why we don’t try to hook-up with headquarters, sir.’

Emerson’s voice took on a tone of infinite patience, as if he were speaking to a child. ‘Because to do that, we’d have to go over there. I’m not abandoning my post or my people.’ He dismissed Williams with a backhand gesture. ‘And don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who says what goes. Do as you’re told. Adams will tell you where the old boy lives.’

Five minutes later, Williams started up the hill leading to the professor’s house. A tall, grey-haired man laboured against the steep gradient a hundred yards ahead.
Is that the professor?
He didn’t want to make a fool of himself calling out from so far back, so Williams jogged until the gap between them had narrowed to twenty yards. ‘Professor?’ he said in a loud voice.

The man stopped and turned round. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Emerson wants you back at the station.’

‘Does he now?’

The deep-throated roar of a motorcycle coming around the corner at the bottom of the hill interrupted them.

‘That’s my grandson, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ the old man said. He raised his hand in salutation. The bike accelerated towards them.

A few moments later, the rider pulled up, and raising his visor, said, ‘Granddad. Officer. Is everything all right?’

‘Of course, Nick. The constable has just passed on a request from the new inspector to attend the station.’

Summer regarded Williams with suspicion. ‘What for?’

‘I think the inspector needs the professor’s advice,’ Williams replied.

Summer looked at his grandfather. ‘I have something I need to talk to you about first. In confidence.’

‘Let’s go to the house, Nick.’ He motioned Williams with his eyes. ‘You as well.’

Summer could barely contain his irritation. He throttled the bike, covering the last hundred yards and set about parking his machine.

‘Shit,’ Professor Young said, patting his pockets. ‘I’ve locked myself out. Wait here.’ He disappeared down the path leading to his back gate. Williams heard the hollow scrape of something dragged across concrete. A moment later, the professor returned with spare keys in his hand, and inserting one of them into the lock on his metal garage door, turned it. Twisting the handle, he heaved upwards. The ribbed sheet thundered as it tipped. Hidden wheels rolled back on overhead guides; a shaft of brightness moving with it penetrated deep into the gloom, revealing dustsheets covering what was clearly a car and two motorcycles. He flipped the light switch without thinking. ‘How many more times will I do that before I finally get the idea there isn’t any power?’ He strode in and peeled the cream-coloured covers from the vehicles.

Summer and Williams followed the old man inside.

‘These are the bikes I mentioned to you earlier, constable,’ the old man said, admiring the classic lines and gleaming chromium parts. ‘Thanks to Nick’s attentions, they look like new.’

Williams nodded in approval. ‘Professor Young, I can’t keep calling you that. What’s your first name?’

‘It’s Dai,’ he said. ‘And there’s not a single joke I haven’t heard about it.’

Williams grinned. ‘Call me John.’

‘John Williams?’ the professor said, deadpan. ‘What were your parents thinking?’

‘John, can you give me a minute with him?’ Summer said.

‘Sure.’ Williams backed away through the door. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

Summer steered his grandfather into the far right-hand corner of the garage and began speaking in hushed tones. Williams could tell by Young’s body language that he wasn’t comfortable with the conversation.
What are they talking about?

Williams crept down the side of the garage. A high-level window was open a crack and he could just make out what they were saying.

‘Granddad, Jack the Ripper is hot news, even now. There’s always someone coming up with a new angle on it.’

‘Yes,’ the professor replied. ‘What you have is an interesting story. An escaped psychiatric patient with a taste for blood would be enough for most people. Not for you, though. You have to go one better. I must admit, I’m somewhat intrigued. You’re sure the patient confided to a guard that he had recurrent dreams about killing people, and he was convinced that it had something to do with Jack the Ripper?’

‘That’s what he told the guard, yes,’ Summer said. ‘What he didn’t know is that the doctor treating him had collected a sample of his DNA. Here’s the really interesting bit. The psychiatrist compared it to semen found on an article of clothing recovered from the scene a hundred and twenty-five years ago.’

The professor looked away.

‘What’s the matter, Granddad?’

‘Isn’t it obvious, Nick? How did the guard know this?’

‘Apparently, the guard and the good doctor often had a drink together. It all came out during one drunken session.’ Summer paused upon seeing his grandfather frown. ‘You think it’s far-fetched? What if I could give you the doctor’s name? You could check it out when the power’s back on.’

‘To prove he worked with this patient?’ The professor shook his head. ‘It would still be hearsay.’

‘Maybe, but it pushes the likelihood to a higher level. You want to know the results?’

‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense, boy.’

‘It was a match.’

A few moments of silence followed, broken when Summer cleared his throat.

‘Oh sorry,’ Young said. ‘I was just thinking. If that’s true, it’s an incredible coincidence. It presumably means we could track the patient’s family tree—’

‘Exactly, Granddad. We’re on the threshold of discovering not only who the Ripper was, but whether or not his DNA carries a behavioural signature passed down on the father’s side.’

‘I think you may be getting ahead of yourself, Nick.’

‘No, Grandad, I’m not. What if I told you the guard eventually let on that Wolfe’s father was convicted of murder? What if I discover other murderers in the male lineage?’

‘Nick, if you do, you’ll have a fantastic scoop. It’s a big if, though. And right now, you’re stumped for further research.’

‘No, Grandad. I’m not. If I can just borrow a tankful of petrol, I can access the libraries in London.’

‘Even if you can verify your theory, the story won’t count for anything until it can be printed and circulated. There’s no point dashing off until the infrastructure is operational again. It seems that could happen in an hour or two. The engineers will be watching the sky before switching back on. They don’t want to risk frying the circuits by doing it too early. Now, come on, let me deal with the officer and we can talk further.’

Williams scooted back to position himself adjacent to the garage door.

‘Sorry to have taken so much of your time. Tell the inspector I’ll be along as soon as I can. Meanwhile, perhaps he should take to the streets locally, and familiarise himself with people. They’ll respect him for it, you know.’

‘I’ll be sure to pass that on, Dai,’ Williams said. ‘Oh and he’s bound to ask, any idea when the power could be restored?’

‘Keep watching the sky,’ he said. ‘When the lights disappear from it, there’s a good chance there won’t be much longer to wait.’

Chapter 34

Hilltop Cottage. 2:17 p.m.

Locked into a half-world from which there appeared to be no escape, Anderson ascended flight after flight of stairs. Thoughts raced like petals on a fast-flowing stream.
What is it I search for? What was it that attracted me to pick up that book?
He sensed he was changing, seeing in a different way and thus more connected with nature. Empathy. He felt at one with all beings. His mind shot through freeze-framed moments in a breathtaking display of photographic recall and stopped on the image of a heron. He knew it had stood for hours in cold water at the edge of a reed bed, unmoving. Then, without warning, the bird’s head shot into the murky depths, the surface turbulent as it reappeared with a fish flapping in its bill. In three deft movements, the bird flipped its prey around, and tilting its head, swallowed everything. Skin, eyes, stomach contents, bowels.

A moment of epiphany followed.

The bite!
He’d been injected. The saliva from the creature pumped in. It had in some way changed him, revolutionised his thought patterns.
Impossible.
Yet Ryan’s voice whispered across the divide.

The two of them sat in his office, Anderson on the other side of his desk, in the days before his eye had become sightless. ‘Such a thing happened to me once, Anderson, following a bite. I called it the Night of the Mosquito. It caused a reaction akin to a long, dark night of the soul. Tainted with the blood of the last person bitten, some religious zealot I would think.’

Anderson grinned. ‘It isn’t possible.’

‘You believe that?’ Ryan raised a single eyebrow and studied his friend’s face. ‘The theory isn’t without merit. Consider how just one bite from a malaria-carrying mosquito can threaten your survival.’

‘That’s a parasite,’ Anderson said. ‘Something else entirely.’

‘Is it?’ The old man picked up his pencil and twirled it in his fingers. ‘What is a disease if not a pathogen, a genetic mutation capable of causing devastating effects in human cells? Genetics is in its infancy. We’re unlocking so many doors to understanding that were previously closed. We are what we eat, are we not? What if the genetic code in the saliva injected is so strong it infiltrates our own and takes over?’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it,’ Anderson replied.

‘You should. The world is changing. Here in England, malaria was eradicated in the fifties. The authorities are watching for its return.’

Further conversations resurrected themselves. They covered resistance syndrome – sufferers who obstructed all efforts to treat them, as though on a mission to punish themselves. Some of Ryan’s child patients were addicted to chaos. Like black holes, they sucked others in. Followers. Leaders. Anderson followed the thought-train. His old friend was an accomplished hypnotist, and patients were often unaware he’d got them under his influence. Anderson shook his head slowly as his thoughts took on a life of their own. The medium, Vera Flynn. For him, Ryan’s deviation into the paranormal had been the last straw. In his mind’s eye, Ryan protested all over again. ‘Using her was incredibly successful, I tell you. I drew the line, though, at experimenting on my patients with mind-altering drugs.’

Ryan had theories on everything. ‘To ensure their survival, Anderson, plants evolved symbiotic relationships with birds, animals and insects. They found ways to interact with mankind. Through chemical experiences, they showed us that the whole world is one; we’re all interconnected and capable of sharing profound experiences. Experiments with LSD and psilocybin have proven that.’

The bite. The mosquito’s bloody saliva. Could it be possible? Couldn’t be.
He drifted, aware of a craving for salt and a raging thirst he needed to slake.

If the blood of a bad person was mixed with that of a good one, would the good prevail?

Chapter 35

Signal House, Churchend. 3:00 p.m.

Wolfe dug his heels into the floor of the signal house as he stretched out his legs and arms. The chair acting as a fulcrum, he held a plank-like pose while he yawned. At first, his long sleep had tricked him into thinking it was dawn and he’d slept the day away.
The last of that bloody cocktail Chisolm gave me.

He took a bottle of water from the desktop, unscrewed the cap and drank. His eyes drawn to a large notebook, he leaned forward, and picking it up, opened the bookmarked pages, slicing them apart with the thin red ribbon attached to the spine. The day, the date, neatly written. The signalman had kept a note of the events of the day so far. Power failure. Telephone down. Visuals good. Clock stopped. Wolfe glanced at the wall where it hung. 8:44 a.m.

He rubbed his hands together.
No communications, eh, Wolfie?

Outside, shimmering pinks and iridescent greens continued to marble the sky. It was near impossible to guess the time with accuracy. The old woman had been bringing sandwiches, but that didn’t mean it was lunchtime. Though the sun wasn’t clearly visible, from the brilliance in the southeastern sky, he imagined it to be midafternoon.

Wolfe pushed the chair back and half-rose.
Wait.
The remnants of a dream nagged at him and he sat back down, piecing together what he could remember.

Wolfe realised once again he’d been in the company of someone who’d lived a long time ago. Sometimes Wolfe rode in the stranger’s head; others, they walked side by side. Snatches of conversation overheard while walking through the backstreets of London’s East End filtered into his brain. He’d stopped at the mouth of an alleyway. Three men – toshers, scavengers of the sewers – huddled together in a doorway, drinking from a bottle they passed back and forth. Backtracking, he stood against a wall, hidden from view, listening.

‘Rats bigger’n dogs, I seen. Hordes of ‘em. Pick yer bones clean in about two minutes, so many of ‘em.’

‘Them’s old wives’ tales. Who told ya that?’

‘Seen it wit’ me own eyes.’

‘If you was that close, how comes the rats left you alone?’

‘They got me mate, the second he come off the ladder. I was still at the top. Jumping for me, they was. Nothing I could do, so I scarpered.’

Eyes narrowed, his companion said, ‘Where was that then?’

Looking furtively about, his voice dropped to a whisper.

‘That, my friend, was at the entrance to the richest pickings to be ‘ad in all of London’s sewers.’

The other man nodded. ‘Oh, there,’ he said. ‘I know that place. It’s true, bodies wash out the other end, picked clean by all the creatures in hell’s creation. I know all the other tunnels like the back of me ‘and. I’ve been everywhere, except there.’

Wolfe’s companion moved to the side and stepped into view, scraping a heel deliberately on the cobbles. The men turned to face him. He towered over them, but despite his huge size, the biggest man stepped forward to intercept him. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

A sovereign held out, glistening in the half-light, Wolfe heard the voice he’d become so familiar with speak. ‘I’d like you to show me the entryways and exits into the sewers throughout the Whitechapel area. That’s if you know your way around there.’

The tosher looked him up and down. ‘I make that on a good day, and I’m not for sharing.’

‘It isn’t a share I want. Just a guide for a few days. A guinea a day.’

The man’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re on,’ he said, spitting into his palm and offering it to seal the deal, laughing. ‘I bet you’ve never had dirty hands in your life, guvnor.’

Taking it, the stranger said, ‘Dirtier than you could imagine.’

Dregs of other dreams came back to Wolfe and slotted into place. The errant jigsaw pieces finally made sense. When he was a boy, he’d been afraid of the dark streets and the stinking underground world he’d come to frequent. The closer he’d come to this devil, the more he sensed a connection. Way back, in his teens, he’d told doctors what he knew. They never laughed out loud, but they thought him mad; it showed in their eyes. Jesus, surely this was proof. In the moments before waking, Wolfe had floated out of his evil host, and looking back over his shoulder, had seen him under the glow of a street lamp, saw his face in detail for the first time. The eyes. Mismatched in colour. One blue, the other the colour of stormy waters.

He’s got my eyes.

Time to get moving. He opened the fridge. Nothing but milk, a half-eaten bar of chocolate, and a shrink-wrapped pack of bottled water. His fingers dug into the plastic and forced a hole through it, making it wider. Removing one of the bottles, he slid it into his pocket, the cold not unpleasant against his thigh.

Wolfe let himself out and sauntered down the stairs. Going out of the gate into the lane, his inner compass pointed him up the hill the railway man’s mother had cycled down. The sky had turned from pastel shades of green to a ghostly pink streaked with red.
What’s with this strange light?

Leaning into the steep gradient, Wolfe laboured towards the top at a steady pace. Fragments of his early treatment filtering into his mind, he recalled how he’d learned in therapy that his mother had been led astray by his father, something that came as no surprise. His parents freely admitted they’d taken LSD and magic mushrooms all the way through his mother’s pregnancy with him. One line of questioning the doctors had taken, he recalled, seemed to focus on whether he saw unusual colours, or suffered flashbacks of any kind.

Maybe that’s what’s happening now?