HUSH Read online

  “An animal rights activist was killed and a security guard seriously injured last night during a break-in at the Hellier labs in Beckington. Details are still sketchy, but it is understood that the intruder was electrocuted during an attempt to damage the facility’s power supply. Prior to the incident extensive damage had been caused to the building and a number of other individuals were observed fleeing the scene. The name of the dead man has not yet been released. A police spokesman has stated that this was a ‘carefully orchestrated plan of sabotage and disruption which backfired with appalling consequences’.

  “The Hellier labs have long been at the centre of controversy, forming a focus for animal rights protests due to their dependence on vivisection-based research. The secrecy surrounding their projects and funding has led to a number of large-scale demonstrations in recent years. The latest such disturbance occurred only yesterday, when heated confrontations between police and demonstrators led to violent scenes and several arrests. Police have not ruled out a connection between this demonstration and the break-in.

  “The Dufuax Institute -- owners of the Hellier complex -- were approached by this program for a statement, but declined to comment. More coverage of this story on the twelve o’clock bulletin. And now, Carol Napier with our national round-up...”

  Jacob let the radio burble on, but everything that followed blended into white noise. It was after seven o’clock, and the smell of frying breakfasts had begun to filter through the floorboards from below. However, Jacob could not even force himself to feel hungry. His stomach growled and his body screamed out for caffeine, but the thought of food

  Morris was dead.

  Dead.

  He would never rant again, never stand in the street and badger passers-by, railing at the perfume they wore or the meat they ate. One time, he had actually scrapped in the street with a woman wearing a fur coat, struggling to tear it from her so that he could “reinstate it to its rightful mink owner”. Dead. Killed. An accident, they said.

  Jacob barely reached the bathroom before he was sick, spurts of greenish-tinged vomit flecking the glossy tiles. He fell to his knees and puked again, almost relishing the agony in his stomach, wishing it hurt more, willing his muscles to tie him up in cruel tight knots. He retched again and again and again until there was nothing left to bring up, and then his tears took over. He used the shower-head to sluice the puke away, more in an attempt to dilute his tears than to clean up.

  Morris had been fine when the door closed. Trapped, but fine. How far would an organisation like this go? Far enough to keep records concerning anyone who might be a threat? Videos? Surveillance photos? Far enough to track down saboteurs who had inadvertently nudged their secrets into the light? Far enough to kill? He had to warn the others.

  “Morris, God, I’m so sorry, Morris,” he muttered, the sound of his own voice providing some scant comfort. He hurriedly dressed and tossed his few belongings into his rucksack. The last thing he dropped it into the bag was the diskette. He paused: some of Morris’ skin particles -- a smudge of his sweat -- were still clinging to the plastic. Jacob pulled the rucksack’s drawstring with a bitter snap, sat on the bed and began to shake uncontrollably.

  How the hell could he tell the others? Had they heard already?

  He remembered the sour, frightened journey back to town last night. Trev snorting blood, spitting great globs of the gory stuff onto the floor of the van, his nose a split plum which should have been stitched; Janey driving in silence, taking her anger out on the gearbox until Liam held her shoulder and murmured quiet calming words. Sondra sitting up front, gnawing so hard on absent fingernails that blood trickled down her chin.

  “Well, we’ve gotta go back,” Dogstar Bob had said, scratching at his beard with one splintered drumstick. “Can’t leave the man.”

  “Bob, for fuck’s sake,” Jacob had muttered wearily, leaving the rest unsaid because they’d been through it a dozen times already. Morris had been caught, and was probably banged up in the local nick already. There was sod all they could do about it. To the others, Morris’s capture was paramount, Jacob’s fevered comments concerning the caged girl virtually ignored. Morris was real, they knew him, and now he was in dead trouble. The spectre of the girl was something unknown, unquantifiable, and so, subconsciously, of far less import.

  Jacob rested his hand on the door handle of his room and took one last look around. On the windowsill sat his watch, still synchronised with Morris’s, no doubt. As he moved to claim it he wondered if Morris’s watch was still on his wrist; whether it had been broken by whatever violence had killed him; whether one of the employees of the Hellier labs had kept it as a souvenir.

  He wished he’d kicked that guard a bit harder. Caused some really serious damage.

  The dog had stopped barking. There was a sudden stillness outside, an arrest in the natural rhythm. No birds sang. The rustle of trees moving in the breeze had died away.

  Jacob brushed the net curtain to one side, and saw a car pull up in front of the Bed & Breakfast. It was big and black, the Mercedes hood badge catching the early morning sun, winking up at him. The windows were tinted as in all good gangster movies.

  Three figures emerged from the car--two men wearing dark suits and ties and a woman who sported a black polo neck, black velvet hipsters and a bomber jacket. As they stepped into the daylight the two men drew out sunglasses and donned them with almost perfect synchronicity. Jacob would have sniggered had he not been paralysed with fear.

  The woman glanced up at the building’s facade, and Jacob recognised her from the day before. She had filmed him at the Hellier labs. His fears were confirmed. Here they were. The enemy. Maybe the ones who had done for Morris? Perhaps his body was even now stiffening in the boot of their Mercedes, shoved into one corner so that there was room for another corpse...

  With their roles reversed--he the watcher, she the observed--Jacob could not help taking a few seconds to examine this woman. She was young, though not nearly as young as he’d thought at the demo, and possessed of a rawboned prettiness which flattered from afar. Her features were very sparse and contoured, like she’d bought her skin shrink-to-fit, tight around the wrists, sharp across the jaw. Her hair was a streaky strawberry blonde, scraped back into a stubby ponytail. Her bearing was militaristic, straight-backed with purpose, while her colouring seemed oddly toneless, like cloth bleached by the sun: a dash of caramel freckles; invisible eyelashes; zinc-coloured eyes.

  She too put on shades -- Ray-Bans -- and then scanned the front of the guesthouse. Abruptly, she froze.

  She could see him.

  Jacob went cold. He tried to back away from the window, but her gaze held him pinned there, like a gopher in a cobra’s stare. She pointed, mouthing silent words. The two men followed her lead and looked up. Jacob gasped, trying to suck down air which suddenly seemed thick as breeze blocks. The sensation conjured other dark memories, only adding to his terror.

  The men were at the side door now, though they did not knock. One of them tried the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Jacob could still hear the sizzle of frying bacon from below. He wanted to stamp on the floor, warn the cook, scream and raise the alarm. But he found he could only stare into the dark glasses of the woman in the courtyard. His vision became hazy with fear, and a crawling sensation prickled across his back. He half-expected the woman’s eyes to lift the shades and extend forward on black plastic stalks, zooming in on him as her camera had the previous day.

  He wondered, with a feeling of dreadful dislocation, just what the fuck he had started.

  The man at the door reached for the handle again, but this time he didn’t actually touch it. There was a sound -- almost too high-pitched to hear -- more an irritation in the inner ear than a noise. Jacob cringed and the dog start barking again. Something jumped from the man’s hand. It happened so quickly, and the distance was so great that it was difficult to see properly, but... But Jacob was sure that the air had shimmered for an instant, as if subjected to an intense burst of heat.

  The door drifted open. The intruders swiftly entered.

  There was no time to think. Fear still had its claws in him, but panic suddenly flushed his system with adrenaline. He tried to recall the layout of the building, but even that was wasting time. He reckoned it would take ten seconds for them to race up the stairs, break down (“waft” open?) his door, and then they’d have him. The thought of what they would do never entered his head; just the certainty that -- unless he acted now -- he’d be dead within twenty seconds. As dead as Morris.

  The burst of anger was brief, but white hot while it lasted. He knew he would have no chance against them, but the notion of standing to fight was all he could think of for one idiotic second. Then his eyes flashed over the potential escape routes. The window was the only viable option. He reached for the latch and his heart skipped a beat--

  The fucking window had been painted shut!

  He tore the lamp from the plug next to the bed and hurled it at the grubby panes. The resulting crash fused with a scream from the landlady downstairs. He kicked out the remaining glass, feeling the skin ripping along his shin. One of them will stay downstairs, stationed just inside the door, he thought. I would, if I were them.

  He threw his rucksack through the ragged mouth of the window and eased his legs outside. His hands were resting on the splintered frame, tiny slivers of glass piercing his palms.

  “Fuck, oh you fucking bastards!” he hissed, and tried to swivel his body so that he could lower himself safely down the outside wall. The manoeuvre didn’t work. Pain gnashed at his hands, and his grip failed. He was falling...

  He hit the ground hard. Even over the confusion of his impact he could sense the high-pitched whistle again. The dog was
frantic on its leash, visibly foaming at the mouth. Jacob half-crawled across the yard, trying to ignore the screams of pain from his ankles and knees. It took a good few stumbled attempts before he could finally haul himself to his feet again.

  He hobbled to the Mercedes, keeping one eye on the guesthouse doorway. He jerked open the driver’s door, knowing that they would never be so stupid, but needing to look anyway. He was right. The ignition was empty.

  Terrified at what he might see, Jacob looked back up at the gaping window. It looked like an open wound in the pale face of the house, and the figures that suddenly appeared in the gash were like dark blood welling up. They still had their shades on, he saw. It was dark in the house, but they still wore their sunglasses. He barked a laugh that sounded more like a grunt of pain, and ran through the open gate to the main road.

  Jacob ducked into an alley, then clambered over low fences to dodge his way through a brace of overgrown, tatty gardens. He encountered no one, though he couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed. Fuck, he’d been watched for years. The photos proved that. Maybe he should always feel like this.

  Jacob finally stopped running when he could barely walk. He heaved himself through a small gate into a secluded park, then slumped down onto a bench, feeling like a vagrant but hardly caring.

  The day was warming up. The ground steamed lazily where the sun found its way through the trees. A cat slunk out of the bushes, startling him, and causing his heart to hammer once again. Images flickered through the morning haze, too quickly to discern, but as a whole they painted a grim portrait: the girl, curled like a foetus in a steel womb; a lawn, well-clipped and damp; a noise like thunder, and a throaty growl too loud to be possible.

  He had to go to the police. He was a criminal, he was hunted, but there were worse things than breaking and entering, worse things than assault.

  Just ask Morris.

  5. Once Removed

  Jacob left the park. It was peaceful there, comforting, but he couldn’t hide forever. The world just didn’t work like that anymore.

  The huge iron gates, rusted open over the years, let out onto a quiet residential lane. Cars coughed away from driveways in clouds of exhaust fumes and blown kisses; their drivers were shadows, already hiding from the sun behind dark glasses and visors. Curtains twitched back as people took their first glimpses of the day. Further along the street a postman finished his round, and a raggedy stray cat sat staring into space.

  Jacob walked quickly along parallel to the park wall, taking comfort in the shadows thrown by overhanging trees. Every time he heard the approach of a car he fell to his knees and ducked behind a parked vehicle or -- when there wasn’t one available -- pressed himself flat against the stonework. But there were no Mercedes here, no black sunglasses scanning from darkened windows.

  The noises of normal life increased as the road nosed into a main street. Cars in queues crawled by so slowly that Jacob easily outpaced them. Through the windows he seemed to see blank faces glancing up at him time and again, and abruptly wondered whether the people in black had only hypnotised him into believing he had escaped...

  A tray of brightly coloured cakes tempted him from a bakery window. He realised with a slow shock how famished he was. But eating would feel all wrong while Morris was lying on some cold slab somewhere.

  As soon as the post-mortem had been carried out, they would know how he died. How he’d been murdered. The police knew about the death -- the radio report had made that obvious -- so they would know of the lie, the misdirection.

  He had to contact the others, it was the very next thing he had to do. The thought had been there all along, buried beneath the sands of his shifting fears, hidden by the primal urge to save his own hide. But now, alone and potentially safe, Jacob knew that he should be getting in touch with everyone else. Maybe they had heard about Morris, maybe not, but the time to mourn would come later. For now, he had to warn them.

  They had all stayed in different guest houses, in a naive attempt to avoid detection should something go wrong. Well, something had gone wrong. Gone pear-shaped, fucking pyramid-shaped with their heads impaled on spikes at each corner. He turned from the bakery, hunger pangs scattered by a sudden desperation. Who first?

  Janey, Saxon Guest-House. Right, first remembered, first approached. A new purpose in his stride he headed off toward the town centre. The hairs on his neck prickled with paranoia, but he thought himself safer in the bustling centre of Beckington than anywhere else. He felt his identity was subsumed by the myriad streets and busy alleys all ringing with the tones of early morning: car horns, coughs, tired sighs, shouts. He glanced behind him. He could see no obvious pursuers, certainly no black sunglasses, and the traffic had begun to flow steadily now. If a large black Mercedes did choose to hang back it would be easily visible, suspicious even to these innocents making their usual automatic journeys to work.

  Jacob suddenly fiercely wished he was one of them. Lunch box under his arm, a twenty-minute stroll to work every day. Nodding hello to the same people, but never, ever speaking to them. Shirt and suit, colourful ties worn in a vain attempt to brighten the day. Sour MaxPax coffee, edgy computers causing grief, the most exciting event of any day the time when a typist brushed his leg, or when he realised it was an hour closer to home time than he’d thought. He wished for this, but at the same time there was a vile taste in his throat, a sense of condescension bordering on disgust for the life he had been yearning after. As if he knew he had something far more important to do. Now, he had to warn his friends.

  A woman threw him a half-smile as he passed, but he didn’t respond. He’d spied a telephone box. Fearing it was PhoneCards only Jacob jogged the last few steps and wrenched the door open. One side of the box had been kicked in, and shattered glass crunched underfoot like a million scattered diamonds. He lifted the receiver and heard the dialling tone, then fumbled a handful of change onto the shelf, losing most of it to the floor in the process. He whispered soothingly to calm himself down, closed his eyes to try to block out the red veil of rage.

  He managed to slip thirty pence in the slot, then realised he didn’t have the number for the guest house.

  “Shit!” He dropped the receiver and kicked out at the wall, cringing as the rest of the shattered window sprayed across the pavement. Pedestrians jumped in surprise as glass tickled their heels. A few flashed sharp looks his way, but quickly thought better of confronting him when they caught sight of his expression. Others simply walked on, averting their eyes, unwilling to become involved in anything as nasty as this before work. Jacob giggled wildly, unable to hold it in. He was ready to knock out the rest of the windows and it took all of his restraint not to descend into hysteria right there and then.

  He rang directory enquiries and memorised the number they gave him, then slid money into the slot once more and dialled. There was only one ring before the call was answered.

  “Hello.” Man’s voice, neutral.

  “Hello, Saxon Guest House?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder, do you have someone staying there by the name of Janey Weeks? I really need to speak to her.” He was almost tongue-tied with reluctance, dreading the next few seconds when he would have to tell Janey his terrible news, to beware of men in black.

  Why didn’t they follow him?

  “Weeks?”

  “Yes, Janey Weeks. Tall, dark, attractive.” He bit his lip, frustrated at the silence, ready to shout into the void of crackles and static. He couldn’t even hear the guy’s breathing.

  Why didn’t they get into their car and cruise around looking for him? It was early, not many people around.

  “No one here by that name.” And the line was cut.

  “What the fuck--” Jacob struck the phone with the receiver, anger and violence his retort. He hissed as ground glass from the guest-house window dug deeper into the wounds on his palms. Returning the receiver to his ear all he could hear was the dialling tone, droning out its burr of dismissal.

  Maybe they knew what he’d do? So they knew where to wait...

  Jacob shouldered the door open and stumbled into a woman wearing sunglasses and a dark jacket. He jerked backwards, and the reproach which had so obviously been on her lips faded when she saw the way he stared at her. He launched himself off down the street. In his mind he turned over the possible reasons why Janey had not been staying where they’d agreed. But his thoughts travelled the same road, and led back to the same destination. A place he didn’t want to consider-- the same place that Morris had been approaching last night when Jacob had left him behind the steel door. The place those thugs in black had come from.