The Night of the Mosquito (21 page)

Chapter 50

Priestley. 9:47 p.m.

Emerson stood by the window in his office and stared out through the open slats at the moon, awestruck by its sheer size. ‘Have you seen this, Adams?’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘The moon. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so big and bright before.’

‘There was an article about it in the papers yesterday. They call it a supermoon,’ Adams said, his serious expression giving way to a grin.

Emerson turned to face him. ‘What’s so funny?’ he said.

‘I was just thinking.’ His smile grew wider. ‘I know why you never noticed it before.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because most of the time you’ve got your head up your arse.’

Emerson scowled. ‘Is that any way to address your senior officer?’

‘The way things are going out there,
sir
, it’ll be every man, woman and child for themselves in a couple of days. Maybe even tomorrow, so I don’t think it matters much. Do you?’

Emerson nodded. ‘I’m in two minds about what I should be doing. Just sitting, waiting doesn’t seem right.’

‘I know what you mean, but me, I’m retiring soon. I’m up for the easy life. You’ll get no heroics from me.’

‘You think I should be doing more, Adams?’

‘I do. I’m not sure what exactly. Maybe you should have been out there pounding the streets, talking to people, giving advice.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’

‘I know, but you’d have felt better about yourself.’

‘There are less than three thousand officers in the whole of Avon and Somerset. Even if we could have put out a call, pulled them all in here at once, we’d have been outnumbered in the town centre alone. We couldn’t have responded with anything effective. No helicopters, no transport. What really crippled us is no communication.’

‘Then that’s your answer,’ Adams said.

‘I wish Williams would hurry up. ‘And where’s the professor?’ Emerson returned to gazing through the window. ‘Speaking of heads up arses, Adams, you never noticed this, did you?’

Adams joined him looking out. ‘What are we looking at?’

‘The sky,’ Emerson said. ‘It isn’t green anymore.’

Chapter 51

Hilltop Cottage. 9:59 p.m.

Wolfe slapped Anderson hard, knocking him down. He fell into the flower bed. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ he growled. ‘You like watching, Mikey? I guess you must do, because you had a chance to have some fun and you didn’t want to know.’ He grabbed Eleanor. ‘Well, watch this, see how it’s done.’

The colour drained from Eleanor’s face. She had the appearance of a hostage caught in some far-flung place. A missionary for good in the hands of evil, condemned to die.

Wolfe ripped her blouse open. His massive hand crawled under the cup of her bra and tugged her breast from it.

She cried out, indignant and in pain. ‘No. Don’t do that!’

The giant moistened his lips. He pinched her nipple, and pulling it towards his mouth, licked it. ‘See how hard it’s gone, Mikey? She loves it.’ His fingers, deceptively nimble, popped the button open at the top of her jeans. ‘Get them off, bitch.’

Unable to watch, Anderson turned his face away. He mouthed a prayer. Not the Lord’s Prayer or a Hail Mary, but a prayer he hadn’t used since he was a child, lying in bed, afraid of the dark. The terror he’d known then was nothing to how he felt now. A tear rolled down his cheek. His swollen eye felt like it would burst. All his life he’d lacked faith. Until today. Reading about Ryan had re-established a tenuous connection with the old psychiatrist. For a short while, he’d drawn comfort from the illusion that had led him to believe there was a deeper meaning to life. The realisation it was, at best, just a fancy, some wild notion, left him crestfallen. Yet, still he prayed. The words were more fervent with every mewl of pain, at every ripping sound he heard. Anderson squeezed his eye shut. An image came to mind. He was with Margot in Italy, crossing the road, engrossed, eating an ice cream. A squeal of tyres. She shouldered him hard. He watched as a scoop fell from his cone to the ground. He grabbed for it. Time stood still. His mind roared.
You coward! How will you live with yourself for even a minute more if you do nothing? Look at her. See what she’s going through, and all because she tried to help you.
His eye snapped open. Eleanor was pinned beneath Wolfe, as helpless as a butterfly trapped by a spider.

A little girl emerged from around the corner of the house. Anderson did a double-take.
What in the world?
He yelled with all his might, ‘Run! Get away!’

‘Too late for running,’ Wolfe said, drunk with anticipation of what he was about to do. He glanced in the direction of Anderson’s gaze, turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘What are you fucking looking at, Mikey?’

How had he not seen her?
Anderson breathed a huge sigh of relief. In desperation, he shooed her away. The child shimmered pale in the silvery light, and at that moment, Anderson realised he was hallucinating.

The girl placed a blade of grass between her thumb and forefinger and raised them to her lips. She smiled.

Impossible. She’s interacting with me.
Anderson pushed himself up. In the flower bed, left there from days ago, standing upright in the soil, he saw a garden fork. He sensed the little girl’s eyes on him, saw her draw a deep breath and blow. The resulting shriek was ear-piercing.

Wolfe’s cookie-cutter teeth hovered above Eleanor’s nipple, his huge shaft poised to enter her. ‘What the fuck?’ The question froze on his face.

Anderson staggered towards the fork.

Wolfe, taken over by animal instinct, turned, and rolling to one side, scrambled to his feet in almost the same movement. ‘Oh, no you don’t, Mikey-boy,’ he yelled, charging to intercept him.

Anderson grasped the handle and yanked it. The effort of wresting the tool from the ground threw him off-balance. His leg gave way. His hands still grasping the handle, he crumpled to the floor. His backside landed first. He hadn’t the strength to prevent himself falling backwards. He ended up flat on his back, his arm outstretched as if glued there, and looked up as the giant loomed over him. Wolfe’s leg bent at the knee and rose into the air, foot poised to stamp down on him again. ‘You know what, Mikey? I don’t know why I didn’t do this earlier.’

The fork. It came loose as I fell. I’m still holding it.
Anderson’s hand slid halfway down the handle. He jerked. His elbow cranked, bringing the four-pronged implement up the moment Wolfe’s foot crashed down. Too late, Wolfe saw what Anderson intended. He tried to pivot on his other leg to get clear, but failed. ‘No!’ He screamed in agony, his lower thigh impaled. Wolfe hopped, grabbing for the handle of the tool that had spiked him. Anderson held on doggedly. Wolfe snarled and pitched himself forward, aiming to land on top of the older man. The fork caused his body to twist as he fell. He landed beside Anderson. His eyes ablaze with fury, the big man grabbed Anderson’s arm and wrenched it with such force, it snapped at the wrist. Anderson cried out. The giant gripped the top of his head, and pulling it backwards, exposed his throat. Wolfe hesitated. He switched tack. Wrapping a hand around his victim’s throat, he crushed his larynx. ‘That was close,’ he jeered. ‘I nearly took a taste of the shit you’ve got in your blood, Mikey.’

Anderson’s eyes bulged. He thrashed from side to side, unable to break free. Tiny rainbow-coloured flecks of light danced before him, the periphery of his vision totally black. A tunnel opened up before him and in it, the shape of a woman. She hovered above him. He couldn’t make out her face.

Whumph. Wolfe’s head crashed forward. Shards of terracotta and earth rained down on him.
Eleanor.

Dazed, Wolfe lashed out. His hand cut through the air and caught her ankle, sweeping her from her feet. He bit hard on his lip and wrenched the fork out of his leg, yowling pain. ‘Get up here, you fucking bitch,’ he said, his voice guttural. Eleanor yelped as he scraped her half-naked body through the gravel towards him
.

Released momentarily, Anderson choked, inhaling deeply.
What next, Mikey-boy?
He shuddered. Thinking of himself in Wolfe’s derogatory terms triggered a spurt of bile. It rose, burning his throat.
What next?
What could he do against a man who, though badly injured, was still more than capable of completing his murderous aims?
If their roles had been reversed, what would Wolfe do?
He had his answer:
Bite him.
Anderson chomped down on the giant’s thumb.

Taken by surprise, Wolfe, cried out, and letting Eleanor go, rolled on top of Anderson, forcibly shoving the fingers of his other hand into the older man’s mouth in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his thumb.

Anderson’s lips tore at one corner; the saline taste of Wolfe’s blood mingled with his own. He bit down harder, determined not to let go.

Eleanor grabbed at the fork. Wolfe, seeing it sliding towards her, snatched it, his hand around the collar that secured the metal spikes to the wooden handle. Eleanor held on in a vain attempt to wrestle it from his grasp.

The angle of Wolfe’s grip and her weight slowed the metal tips in their inexorable progress towards Anderson’s throat.

‘Michael,’ she cried, ‘I can’t hold on much longer.’

Ignoring the pain in his leg, Wolfe slid higher against the other man’s body. Anderson recoiled at the first touch of the cold steel points, but with nowhere to go and completely helpless, he finally bit Wolfe’s thumb off. The giant roared; the remaining four fingers freed, he stared fierce-eyed at the bloody stump. He didn’t say a word as he used his free hand to pull Anderson’s head up from the ground, forcing the fork deeper into the skin of his throat.

‘No!’ Eleanor cried, her face inches from Wolfe’s crotch. Amazed his penis was still erect, she took a deep breath and bit it.

A sound popped, something akin to the cleaving of a melon in two. Wolfe’s expression froze, agonised, uncomprehending. He threw Eleanor off and began to stand, a bloody curtain descending over his face, and then he fell forwards. Wolfe’s head rocked violently from side to side. Squelching, like the noise of a boot being extricated from mud, reached Anderson’s ears.

Eleanor screamed.

In the half light, Anderson registered the horror on her face, the flecks of blood that had sprayed over it, and close to her feet, standing beside the stricken giant, a dark hooded figure wrenching on the shaft of a sickle. Standing beside the mysterious person, the little girl smiled down at him.

The light above the porch flickered. The house flashed as if it were transmitting messages to another world, a beacon of hope, the only light visible for miles.

Surrounded by carnage, Eleanor sobbed, her hands trembling as she adjusted her bra and pulled the tattered remnants of the blouse around her. She buttoned a seam that hung ribbon-like, detached from the rest of the fabric. She couldn’t find her panties and suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world.

The robed man sunk to his knees, leaning for support on the handle of the scythe.

Anderson, shell-shocked and with his arm broken, hadn’t moved. He watched Eleanor circle around on all fours looking for something. He almost asked if she were all right, but dismissed the question as ridiculous. Although he was indifferent to her nakedness, he thought she should cover up. He rose to his feet in painfully slow stages, conscious of further injury to his arm should he fall. Once upright, he arched to ease the kink in his back, and walked over to retrieve her discarded jeans. He returned, holding them out to her. ‘Eleanor. Here.’

She stopped circling, hesitated, and then reached up and took the clothes. Relieved to see her undergarments rolled up inside, she fished them out, shivering as she began to dress.

Anderson turned away and looked for the jacket she’d taken off earlier. Locating it, he staggered over to pick it up. ‘Put this on,’ he said, draping it around her shoulders.

Eleanor lifted the front corner of it and used it like a flannel, but only succeeded in spreading congealed blood across more of her face. She eyed the killer nervously. ‘Is he dead?’ she said, her voice tremulous.

‘I think so.’ Anderson squatted next to Wolfe. The white pieces of bone clearly visible amidst the blood and gore in the gaping wound confirmed he didn’t need to examine the giant’s skull further. ‘No one could survive an injury like that.’ He turned to face her. ‘Eleanor,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry for what you went through.’

A ragged gasp drew their attention.

‘Oh, God,’ she cried, ‘how could we have just left him like that?’

Together, they rushed to the stranger, taking positions kneeling at either side of him.

‘Come on,’ Eleanor reassured him. ‘You don’t need that anymore.’ After prising his fingers from the scythe, she allowed his weight to rest on her. ‘Take this, Michael,’ she said handing him the sickle. ‘And help lay him down.’

Anderson grabbed the scythe with one hand and threw it down. ‘I think my arm’s broken,’ he said, placing his good hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You’ll have to get the other one.’

‘Oh, Michael.’ She smiled thinly. ‘What a disastrous first meeting this has been.’

Together they lowered him, the size of the bloodstained hole over the man’s left breast now clearly visible. ‘I don’t know how you survived that,’ Anderson said, peeling the hood back. ‘But we owe you our lives.’

The stranger stared at Anderson, tight-lipped. Deep-set and dark-rimmed, his brown eyes spoke of a suffering beyond anything he felt now.

‘What’s your name?’ Anderson said.

The man remained silent. He turned his face toward the corner of the house.

Eleanor tore away the shredded front of the black habit. ‘Michael, have you got a clean towel? We need to stop the bleeding.’

‘I’ll get one. We really need an ambulance.’

‘Towel first. If we don’t staunch the blood flow, he’ll die before it gets here.’

Anderson left her to go inside the house.

The man’s chest rose and fell quickly as he struggled for breath. Eleanor’s fingers worked furiously, ripping the stranger’s outer clothing to get to the wound. Beneath the outer garment, he was dressed in a blue boiler suit. The canvas-like material wouldn’t tear. Re-adjusting her grip, she said, ‘Please forgive me if I hurt you.’ Her fingertips hooked into his chest pocket. They brushed against something hard. She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, her eyes filled with wonder.

Anderson returned. ‘Here’s the towel. I’ve brought my mobile, too, now the lights are on.’ He caught the look in her eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘You won’t believe this, Michael,’ she said and held up the book she’d taken from the man’s pocket. ‘His life was saved by this Bible.’

‘Yes,’ Anderson said. A moment of enlightenment brightened his expression. ‘Saved by a bible and that little girl blowing on a blade of grass.’

Eleanor frowned. ‘What little girl?’