Blood Prize (3 page)

Doctor James classified Fox as having a disorder referred to in an overarching way as Dysphasia, which he classified as a partial degree of impairment. The diagnosis also included Dysgraphia, which explained Fox’s inability to spell correctly on one day and not on another, and Anomic Aphasia, which caused him intermittent problems with remembering the names of buildings, movies and frequently used items.

Tom Fox understood the deepest complexities of philosophy and scientific theory, yet on many occasions, couldn’t remember the name of a friend.

Doctor James explained that Fox’s subsequent emotional, behavioural and social problems might well be a negative consequence of his Dysphasia. He quoted
Zebat & Hibrow (2042)
: In the case of the British prison population and in particular violent inmates; twenty four out of thirty suffered from learning disorders, which were not in any way related to IQ.

The priest closed his eyes and nodded; happy with the summation of his thoughts.

“Yes, Mr Chairman, Fox could be defined as street smart. This is a reflection of his upbringing. His poor results are primarily due to a severe lack of parental reinforcement with regard to academics. I believe his abilities are worth our level of risk. Fox is the perfect conduit to our success.”

“Yes, yes, but can we realistically achieve this? Given these current incidents, the board needs to be assured that our goal can be safely accomplished.”

“If Mr Vogel’s spy has your trust, Antonio, then yes, it can be accomplished and earlier than we’d previously planned. It’s an opportunity that we can’t easily discard.’

“I disagree, Mr Chairman.”

Both men looked at Frederick Vogel with surprise.

“This is not an acceptable risk. We must remove this threat at once. These incidents tell us that our opposition are now aware of his worth.”

The priest squeezed his lips together. The Assembly’s head of security remained a servant in this company. He knew the required protocol, which meant he interrupted with a purpose. Vogel played the opportunist. If he got to Fox first, then he could own the information himself and only God knew what might happen, if that cold-hearted bastard discovered the location of the Prize.

T
om hurried through the thick morning fog and it swirled around him. He could hear people and vehicles, and at times caught brief glimpses of them through the murk. This suited his purpose. He didn’t want to be recognised and no-one could follow him.

He continued walking until an imposing red-brick building emerged out of the mist. As he approached, the expansive double archway rose above him with a metal sign attached to the top, which read: ‘Squatter’s Flat Station’.

Tom remembered the decrepit state of the entrance. Eight years of disuse, scattered clumps of pigeon droppings, and the refuse from countless vagrants, caused a lot of filth.

Come on, Tom. Keep concentrating, just for a little longer.

He searched about for the tunnel entrance and any signs of danger. Everything remained the same as his last visit. Old slabs of timber and rusty sheets of corrugated iron covered the doorways, windows and ticketing booths.

He crept towards the east tunnel and tugged at the tin barrier at precisely the right place. It moved just enough for him to push through. He fumbled in the darkness for his miniature Mag-lite, twisted the metal shaft and the tunnel became visible. As he looked around, he realised that his body ached from tension and his brain felt as foggy as the dank environment outside.

He looked up at the dripping walls. Graffiti covered most of the surfaces. Just above his head, a religious slogan claimed God to be a murderous despot, only loving the rich.

He stifled a laugh.

The rich of London acted like Gods, so he supposed it held some semblance of truth. His neighbourhood’s only blessings involved violence, depravity and suffering.

Tom found the driest piece of concrete not covered with faeces or broken glass and tried to make himself comfortable. As he lowered himself to the floor, he wondered about that; the idea of being comfortable. It didn’t seem to fit with his reality; a double murder, probable gaol and the possibly of his own, violent death.

Yeah. Very comforting.

His chest hurt as he sucked in a breath. He tried to stop the unwanted thoughts, but the same images kept returning; his date, Jacqueline and the youth in the long dark coat; their eyes searching, questioning, asking him why.

He took another deep breath and tried to think of something else.

Then he remembered the letter. For the past hour, every time he moved, he felt it like a hypersensitive part of his anatomy.

He removed the envelope from his pocket and brought it out into the beam of his torch. Despite his impatience, he opened it and removed the contents with reverence. As he unfolded the paper, the memory of bloodied teeth filled him with revulsion.

Tom,

My name is Noah. We need to meet. I have something of great interest to you. There is a bookshop near your house, on the corner of Queen’s Avenue and Lawrence Street, called Bartholomew’s Books. Be there tomorrow at precisely nine in the morning.

If you think to ignore this message, then consider this; you are not and have never been Tom McKnight. That is because your entire life is a lie and I can prove it. Don’t be late and don’t let anyone follow you.

Tom felt let down.

Adoption … Really?

He couldn’t stand his angry, mindless parents. Only the law kept him under their control, forbidding him to leave their care until he reached the age of twenty-one.

Tom allowed the letter to fall to the ground.

Damned nonsense.

Killings didn’t generally happen over long-standing adoption issues, which meant the deaths must be random and unrelated?

He remembered her words, ‘You’ll never get away from me. I know who you are. I’ll find you no matter where you go.’ She knew him. That made it related.

Why did the woman reveal herself? Hell. Why kill someone for delivering an impotent letter?

A more pertinent question remained; what could he do about it?

I can’t leave, that’s for sure.

Friends or the ability to sustain himself didn’t exist outside of the East End. This left him with only one choice; stay and discover his enemies.

Tom stiffened. He heard a scuffling sound.

He raised the torch, reached out and sought a piece of broken concrete, which he launched in the direction of the noise. A thud and a screech echoed down the tunnel, as the rat scurried for the cover of darkness.

Tom grinned and tried to refocus his thoughts.

This Noah may have the answers.

He sent the young man to warn him. He wrote the letter. Despite the risk, Tom knew he must attend the meeting.

T
he priest held his breath as he watched the chairman raise his hand for silence.

“Yes, the danger’s real, Frederick, but I agree with Dominico … In principle. We are the protectors of our Mother the Church. As such, we cannot forget our sworn undertaking. The return of God’s True Ordained Order for this world is our mission and I believe that Tom Fox is the pathway to that end. That said, if I take this to the Assembly Council, I need something tangible. I need proof of success.”

The priest perceived the chairman’s true meaning.

If it all goes to shit, the bastard needs someone to blame. Alright, it’s about time I delivered my coup de grace.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr Chairman. It can be done and with minimal risk. Our original plan required manipulation and enforced coercion, but the spy in the PMSG presents us with a unique advantage. We can be reasonably sure that this subversive group is trying to recruit Fox. So we use them. We even help them.”

“No. You’re joking.
You’re suggesting we help the enemy. They could destroy us.”

The priest felt his shoulders tighten; Vogel’s interjections continued to disregard long-standing protocols and the chairman did nothing.

“Calm down, Frederick. The PMSG are the perfect vehicle. Through your spy, we’ll have the opportunity to instantly monitor all outcomes.”

The priest glared at both men, before continuing.

“We’ll drive Fox into total dependence on them. We can then direct every movement from then on, forcing them to find the Prize for us.”

“And, if anything goes wrong?”

The priest recognised the threat behind the question. Vogel’s hatred for him remained palpable; as obvious as the man’s ambition.

He turned away from the security man and focused his attention on the chairman.

“If anything goes wrong, we can instigate a thorough clean-up operation. We simply utilise Vogel’s spy and eliminate the problem from the inside.”

The chairman adjusted his great bulk and thrust his head forward in concurrence.

“I agree, Dominico, and I’m sure my colleagues on the Assembly Council will also agree. We must find the Prize. However, if we lose control, then Frederick has my full authority to clean-up any mess.”

The three men nodded and exchanged parting pleasantries without conviction.

_____________

Vogel scrutinised his two superiors as they left the room. He despised them, particularly the priest. He knew both of these men served only themselves. Like him, each grasped at this unprecedented opportunity. Tom Fox remained a treasure beyond reckoning. If he could capture him without the Assembly’s knowledge, it would only be a matter of time before he forced the truth out of him.

As he pondered this, a flutter of movement broke his concentration. A Red Admiral Butterfly floated to a stop on the table in front of him.

“How-the-hell …?”

He watched with amusement, as it flew toward him and landed on the back of his hand. Without any fear, it opened and closed its wings and Vogel noticed the deception in colour; dull brown on the underside, yet the upper portions portrayed markings of white and black, and glowed with vivid red and orange. He coughed out a rasping laugh of appreciation. Like him, this organism chose what personality it presented to its enemies.

“You’ve defeated my entire security network, little one.”

With exceptional speed, he flipped his hand in a clockwise direction and caught the butterfly between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed and smiled, as the tiny creature’s life oozed out between his fingers.

“Nobody defeats me.”

He laughed again.

Fools.

They thought they owned this game, but he refused to be a servant. When Fox became his, then no-one could stop him … He’d own it all.

T
om noticed the dilapidated state of the bookshop as he edged his way in past the proprietor. A thick layer of dust covered every surface including the floor, which carried so much grime that it appeared to be natural earth. He couldn’t see anyone else inside the building, so he pretended to fill in time, searching through the mishmash of bookshelves that stretched up all the way to the roof.

“Tom.”

As Tom tried to turn, he stumbled and pulled several books from the shelf in an effort to rebalance; one striking the new arrival in the side of the head. He looked back at the man as he brushed the dust from his clothing. He expected him to be white. In this world, black men rarely held positions of power.

“You’re Noah?”

The man nodded towards the rear of the building.

“Follow me.”

Noah turned, swinging his powerful shoulders around in the opposite direction. He moved quickly, despite the beer belly that hung over his bandy legs.

Tom felt anger redden his face.

“No. Not before you tell me who killed her.”

The man turned back and frowned.

“Don’t stop. Just keep moving to the back. Then I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

“Yeah, like I’m not supposed to be Tom McKnight?”

“We can give you back your true identity, but from here on your choices become difficult.”

“This is such bullshit. My parents aren’t real and I’m not who I think I am?”

“Yes.”

“Hey look, I’m not worth ripping off, alright. I don’t have anything you’d want.”

Their conversation ceased, as several people entered the store and sidled their way into the adventure section.

A tense silence fell between them.

Tom held Noah’s steady gaze, but allowed his peripheral vision the opportunity to scrutinise the shorter, stockier man. He seemed likable. Streaks of grey coloured his dark hair, which receded above the temples, making his jovial looking face appear bulky. A prominent beak-like nose dominated his features, with large black eyes and long feminine lashes adding a softer contrast. Tom discerned a gentle nature, yet the man’s entire persona conveyed strength.

“Alright, lad, let’s get to the point. The people you know as your parents are impostors. They’re not your real family. You were born in Australia. Your mother’s an Aussie and your father’s a Yank.”

Smiling, he held up both of his hands with the palms up and shrugged his shoulders; as if this gesture proved his statement.

“Your pretend father and his sister are illegal immigrants. They’re remnants from a bad time in Ireland and wanted over most of Europe.”

“Brother and sister …? How do you know this?”

The man handed Tom several sheets of official Europol mug shots. One for his surrogate father and another for the man’s sister; the woman he’d known as his mother. The third sheet contained lists of their unlawful behaviour, including terrorist activities and murder.

Tom felt his face flush. He became aware of a hand squeezing his shoulder and he pushed it aside. Terrorists? Murderers? These words didn’t belong in his world.

“So if they’re not my parents, then who is?”

“You get that information when we have an agreement.”

“Yeah, right. Just tell me who they are and what you know about the killings.”

Tom experienced a moment of desperation. He needed answers. Not being a McKnight didn’t bother him; it felt like relief; a kindness, yet an irrelevance compared to his current situation.

Another two shoppers drifted into their aisle, which only added to his frustration. He looked over at Noah, who nodded towards a smaller area to their left; a section provided for readers.

“I’ll give you some of the information, but it comes at a cost.”

Tom closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Here comes the rub.”

“Wake up, lad. You’re in trouble. Yes, the courier belonged to me. He’s dead … because of you.”

Tom tried to shut out the images, but the memory of the young man’s terrible demise forced its way back into his mind.

“My organisation is willing to give you protection, but you’ll have to earn it. We’ll need your assistance with certain matters.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Tom. You’ll just forget the whole thing and hide. That’s a mistake. Whoever killed your friend and my man, knew their business. They’ll find you, use you and kill you, lad. If you want to survive, your only real choice is me.”

“Bullshit. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play games, Tom. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. Killing means nothing to these people.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Why me?”

“You get your answers when we have an agreement.”

“Come on, help me out here.”

Noah began to speak and Tom shifted closer. Simple answers, that’s all he needed. The idea of an agreement made him suspicious. This fellow sounded convincing, but he could just as easily be his enemy.

“Alright, Tom, I’ll give you this much. Your real father had an involvement in a restricted project. We’re talking about weapons development that superseded everything else; it provided the ultimate power for its owner. That’s why they want you so bad. You’re connected to these weapons.”

Noah stopped and looked around, as another reader drifted by.

“Make up your mind, Tom. I can’t tell you any more than I have. Not here; we’ve stayed too long already.”

“It sounds like crap to me.”

“For God’s sake, lad …”

“Alright then, tell me who you are; who you represent. And, I want to know exactly why you’re helping me and what you want in return.”

Noah leaned further forward and lowered his voice.

“We’re a group called the PMSG, which means ‘The People’s Movement for Secular Government’.”

“I’ve heard of you. You’re that anti-government group that I read about in the news … because of …’

Atrocities.

More words appeared in Tom’s mind.

Stupidity, mistake, danger.

“Surely you realise that the papers are government owned, Tom. They only print what serves them.”

Tom stood and looked around. He felt anxious. Anyone in this shop could be one of them.

“Look, you’re probably right. They don’t seem to be my real parents, but I’m no radical either. Please. Don’t contact me anymore. I don’t want your help. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Tom hurried out of the store and set off along the familiar putrid streets that led to his old residence. He knew of several places to hide, but first he needed to confront the people who pretended to be his parents. They knew something, or they knew someone who did. He needed answers. Even now, that hellcat of a woman could be following him.