9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (2 page)

Chapter Two

T
he large woman whose apartment overlooked Central Park in midtown Manhattan had only
a first name. She had never needed a surname and so had never taken one. Though wealthy
beyond measure, she held no bank accounts. Though she owned this swish apartment and
another, equally salubrious, in Palm Beach, Florida, she was not named in any deeds
or land transactions. She had no national security number or driving license. Though
widely travelled, she held no passport. National authorities were not aware that she
existed.

She spent most of the winters in Florida, only returning to New York for the two weeks
or so leading up to Christmas. There was something about Christmas that fascinated
her. Not the religious significance or mythological aspect, but the spirituality that
she sensed at this time of year; the general feeling of being part of something bigger,
something more significant, more
cosmic
, that was shared by people of all races, religions and creeds. This sensation was
stronger in the massed humanity of New York City than in Florida and attracted her
back to the city at Christmas year after year. It reminded her of home. Of course,
she also sensed the underlying cynicism, the desire to make a fast buck, the despair
and loneliness that came to the fore during this season. Strangely, this too attracted
her, making her marvel at the contradictions in mankind. She also wondered at herself;
whether she was growing soft and sentimental. She could not afford to indulge such
weaknesses.

Within seconds of sending the e-mail around the world, she started to receive replies.
They were terse and along similar lines:

Acknowledged and complying
or
Message received and understood
or
Will action immediately
.

For thirty minutes, she sat in front of the computer and read each response, her face
set grim. Only a couple of the replies gave her any pause. One was from California;
just a one-word reply:
Obeisance
. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at that word; for some reason that she
could not put her finger on, it caused her a little disquiet.

Then she read the response from Sydney in Australia and her frown deepened. The message
was from Troy Bishop:
Yes! At long last! It will be my great and undiluted pleasure to begin at once. Whoo-hoo!!!
The last thing that Milandra expected or wanted was for anyone to derive pleasure
from what they were about to do. She made a mental note to keep an eye on Bishop.

The replies were now arriving thick and fast. The computer had been programmed to
check each response against the addresses to which the original message had been sent
and display at the side of the screen a list of recipients that had not yet responded.
As her inbox rapidly filled, that list grew shorter.

Milandra eased her bulk from the computer chair and moved back to her favourite armchair,
again causing it to creak ominously as she settled into it. She pulled her cell phone
from the pocket of her housecoat and speed-dialled a number. It rang once before being
answered.

“Milandra?” The voice was deep and resonant.

“Jason, listen. I’ve been contacted. They are coming. It is in motion.”

She heard a deep intake of breath and she waited. He did not disappoint her.

“Okay,” said Jason. “I’ll contact the others. We’ll stock up on perishables. We’ll
be with you by lunchtime.”

“Yes,” she said and broke the connection.

She smiled, gratified by his reaction. No questioning whether she was sure; no panicking;
no superfluous words. When she had chosen Jason Grant to be her immediate right-hand
man, she had chosen well.

Grant was one of four of what she liked to refer to as her ‘Deputies’. He would now
be contacting the other three and they would go shopping for fruit, vegetables, dairy
products and other short-to-mid-term perishable items. In addition to the refrigerator
she had for everyday use, the kitchen in her apartment contained two industrial-sized
refrigerators and freezers for the very purpose of storing all this produce that the
Deputies would shortly be bringing. Her villa in Florida had a custom-built walk-in
refrigerator for the same reason, though it would never now be employed for this purpose.

Milandra remained in the armchair, listening to the pinging of the computer as more
responses arrived. Even through the triple-glazing she could hear the faint sounds
of New York on a December morning: the dull thrum of traffic; the honk of horns and
squeal of brakes; a distant siren; a muffled shout. The rumble and grumble of a city
alive and seething.

Another look of deep sorrow creased her face.

* * * * *

Tom and his teaching assistants bustled about the classroom, straightening furniture,
washing paint pots and brushes, wiping aprons and table-tops, feeding and watering
guinea pigs, all the while chatting about the Nativity and which child should play
which part.

By four o’clock, they were almost finished.

“Any plans for the weekend, you two?” Tom asked.

“I’m meeting up with some old school friends tonight,” said Mark Davies. “Not seen
them in a while so it’ll be good to catch up.”

“And a couple of pints while you’re at it?”

“Oh, one or two.” Mark returned Tom’s grin.

“What about you, Lisa?”

“Um, nothing much tonight,” said Lisa Jones. “A spot of Christmas shopping in Cardiff
tomorrow and. . . .” She paused, cheeks dimpling as she smiled, green eyes twinkling
mischievously. “Tomorrow night I have a tryst planned with my secret lover.”

Tom felt colour flare in his cheeks and hoped that Mark hadn’t noticed.

“Oh,” he said. “Well . . . good. Good for you. Anyway—” He made a show of consulting
his watch, momentarily forgetting about the wall clock. “Anyway, Mark, why don’t you
get off? There’s nothing much left to do and Lisa and I can finish up. Since you’re
the only one going anywhere tonight. . . .”

“Okay,” said Mark. “Cool. Have a great weekend, folks. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Mark grabbed his coat from the row of pegs near the door and shrugged it on as he
left. Lisa went to the door and glanced out into the corridor. She walked back to
Tom and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Can’t wait for tomorrow night, Mr Evans.”

“Me, neither,” said Tom. He placed a kiss on her nose, but as she tilted her head
to bring her lips towards his, he pulled back, unwrapping her arms as he did so. “Wait
until tomorrow, Miss Jones.”

Lisa folded her arms and pretended to pout. “I wish we could go out,” she said, “instead
of having to skulk away as if we’re doing something wrong.”

Tom sighed. “We’ve been through this. We can’t risk being seen. Not until we’ve told
Ross the Boss. It has to come from us, or from me anyway. If he were to hear about
us from someone else. . . .” Tom shuddered.

Mr Ross was the headmaster of Penmawr Primary School. Sometimes jovial but more often
crusty, he was a stickler for doing things the right way and it didn’t pay to get
onto his wrong side. Having a relationship with one of his teaching assistants would,
Tom reckoned, very much get him onto the wrong side of Ross.

“Then let’s tell him,” insisted Lisa. “Before the staff party. Then we can go to the
party, and leave it, together.”

Tom grimaced. “The party’s just two weeks away.” He breathed out heavily. “Oh, cripes!
Yeah, I’ll tell him next week.”

“Why not now?”

Tom didn’t have a good answer. Lisa was right: they weren’t doing anything wrong.
They were both single, both adults in their twenties, Tom at twenty-seven Lisa’s senior
by three years. They weren’t breaking any hard-and-fast rules, but he knew that Ross
would frown upon a classroom relationship. He had seen Ross beetle his bushy brows
and didn’t relish being on the receiving end.

He shrugged. “Next week? Please? I need to psych myself up.”

Lisa laughed. “Okay. I don’t think he’s all that bad, you know. Bark worse than his
bite, I reckon.”

“He’ll still insist that you change classes.”

It was Lisa’s turn to shrug. “I know.” She glanced around the classroom. “I’ll miss
the reception kids. . . .” She smiled. “Though not their little accidents. Still,
most of them are toilet-trained now.” Her expression grew serious. “I’ll miss being
with you throughout the day. But if it means we can be seen together the rest of the
time . . . it’ll be worth it.”

Tom nodded. “Yes. It will.”

* * * * *

Troy Bishop dressed simply: canvas cargo shorts with deep pockets, tee-shirt and rubber
deck shoes.

He stepped to the wall in his lounge, the exterior wall, made of solid brick and breeze
block. He swung aside the print of Munch’s
The Scream
to reveal the sturdy-looking safe built into the wall. His hands shook a little as
he spun the safe’s dial and he had to reset it and start again, forcing his breathing
to slow down and his hands to steady.

This time he spun truly and the safe clicked open.

Bishop reached in and withdrew a silvery-metal canister that glinted in the moonlight
entering his apartment through the uncurtained windows. In that pale, milky light,
he imagined the canister to be a futuristic artillery shell for some sci-fi heavy-duty
plasma weapon. In less fanciful moments, he thought it resembled a sleek thermos flask.

He carried it to his desk, holding it carefully like an overfilled glass that might
spill. He set the canister down and sat before it, his bearing as tense as taut wire.

Quickly at first, then forcing his hands to slow, he reached for the top of the canister
and unscrewed the lid. As it came loose, a pressure released with a low hiss and Bishop
smelt an aroma, dark and sweet like scalding caramel.

He pulled the lid aside—it remained attached to the body of the canister by a length
of black polymer plastic. They had not been permitted to open the canisters before
now so as to avoid the risk of contaminating and harming the efficacy of the contents;
this was the first glimpse he’d had of the interior of the canister.

There wasn’t a great deal to see. Just below the lip of the canister’s exposed neck
lay a silvery disc that filled the gap. Set into the disc were two shallow grooves,
forming a raised portion between them that could be gripped by thumb and forefinger.
On the smooth metallic surface on either side of the grooves was engraved in small
but clear block capitals:

CAUTION: KEEP UPRIGHT AND OPEN ONLY IN CALM, DRY CONDITIONS.

Bishop did not feel calm—excitement bubbled below the surface like a geyser readying
to spout—but he guessed the engraved admonishment referred to the environment in which
the canister was being opened, not to the condition of the person opening it.

He reached forward, grasping the raised portion of the disc with his right thumb and
forefinger. With his left hand he tightly gripped the canister, the surface cold and
smooth against his palm. He twisted the disc.

It turned with surprising ease, like a freshly-oiled wing-nut. Three complete turns
and another hiss of releasing pressure. Another waft of sweet darkness. Half a turn
more and he was able to lift the disc away. He placed it carefully to one side and
pulled the canister closer until, by craning forward, he could peer inside.

Bishop’s apartment was equipped with all modern conveniences including, of course,
electric lighting, but he rarely turned the lights on at night. He was therefore accustomed
to darkness and had developed a highly-tuned night vision. The ambient moonlight amply
illuminated the interior of the canister for him to clearly see what it contained.

Earlier versions of the canister had been replaced every few years as their contents
were upgraded. This canister had been in his possession, locked away in the safe,
for around eighteen months. During that time, the contents had settled and their surface
now lay about an inch below where the disc had been.

That surface resembled a smooth circular expanse of creamy-white chalk. If the person
gazing in didn’t know better, he would think that the contents were solid and could
be coaxed out of the canister, by turning it upside down and tapping its base, in
a cylindrical rod. But Bishop knew better.

He slowly lowered his right index finger into the canister until it met the creamy
surface . . . and continued through it. He pressed his finger down for maybe an inch,
then withdrew it. The top of his finger down to the second knuckle was coated in a
creamy powder, so fine it was almost translucent, each grain too minuscule to be identified
individually.

Bishop turned his finger, admiring the silkiness of the powdery coating, able to make
out the cuticle of his nail through it.

He grinned once more, his tongue lolling out to wet his lips, almost slavering. That
and the moonlight combined to make him appear more lupine than ever.

Bishop moved his hand over the canister and used his thumb to flake away the powder
on his finger. It came away easily, like chalk dust, and fell back into the canister
in a fine drizzle.

Abruptly he stood. He strode into the kitchen and extracted a large sandwich bag from
a drawer: a polythene bag, the type that self-seals. He unsealed the bag and shook
it, making it billow as it filled with air, before moving back to the desk. Forcing
himself to move deliberately, he turned the bag and placed its open end over the top
of the canister. Carefully—he didn’t want to waste any—he slowly upended the canister,
keeping the bag in close contact with the canister’s smooth sides. Gently, oh so gently,
he shook the canister to discharge the creamy powder into the bag. When he judged
that the bag was three-quarters full, he righted the canister, making sure that the
bag also remained upright as it slid off the canister.

Placing the canister carefully to one side, he expelled the remaining air from the
bag and sealed the opening. Next came the most risky part of the process; the part
where, if he acted hastily or impatiently, the bag might tear.