Delirium (London Psychic) (21 page)

"Smoked salmon terrine, or venison carpaccio with fig," she said, offering the platter and a napkin. There was an answering pang in Missinghall's stomach as he surveyed the delicious tiny bites. It couldn't hurt to have a couple – after all, he might be here for a while and it was almost time for afternoon tea. He took a couple of each, popping one in his mouth. It was usually just a Rich Tea biscuit on the job, so these were too good to miss.

As the young woman walked away, a waiter took her place, holding a bottle of red wine with a splendid label that Missinghall knew he and the Missus would never see down their local.

"Can I interest you in this vintage, sir?"

The waiter held the bottle slightly tipped over a bulbous glass. Missinghall's mouth was full of glorious venison, so he could only nod slightly, realizing he needed something to wash down the food. He didn't drink much and it wasn't officially allowed on duty, but a few sips would surely be allowable, if only to blend into the crowd and keep an eye on Matthew Osborne. The waiter poured a generous measure, the wine swilling around and coating the sides of the glass.

"Thanks," Missinghall said, as he finished swallowing the canapé. He took a tiny sip as the waiter moved on. They had some good stuff, these MPs, he thought as the blackberry aftertaste filled his senses. He took another larger mouthful as he surveyed the room.

***

Matthew Osborne looked at his watch again. Only twenty minutes to go before they needed to move into the Chamber and only half the MPs were here. The Prime Minister still hadn't arrived, even though Matthew had followed up with his secretary this morning. At least those who were present were partaking of his generosity. They all knew the politics of the pre-debate reception, but all were disciples of Janus, the two-faced god, and they managed their betrayal with a glass of wine in hand. Matthew felt sweat drip down his back, sliding along his spine to pool where his shirt tucked into his suit trousers.

Suddenly, there was a ripple of conversation at the entranceway and Matthew saw Glen Abrahams enter the room, his trademark 'interested' face on. It drew people in and made them feel special, but for only a second before he moved on. The Prime Minister was a pro at working the room, fascinating to watch in action and Matthew couldn't help but admire the man, as much as he despised his individualist politics. Matthew walked to the drinks table, nodding at Peter to pour a glass from the special bottle of Bolney Estate Pinot Noir he had purchased especially for Abrahams. He knew the man was a stickler for all things British, part of his own insecurity as the child of an Eastern European immigrant family.

"Glen, thanks for coming," Matthew said as Abrahams approached, his eyes unreadable.
 

"Sorry to be late, Matthew. You know how it is. Are you ready for this debate? Great Bill, by the way. I know how much work you've put into it." For a moment, Matthew felt the effects of the distortion field Abrahams seemed to exude. Everyone did what the man wanted. Matthew held out the glass of red, his hand unwavering.
 

"You have to try this one. It's from Bolney Estate in Sussex, part of their new batch of pinot noir. I know Madeleine enjoys pinot, perhaps you can introduce her to a new one."
 

Abrahams took the glass, raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply. He waited the appropriate amount of time before giving his verdict.

"Umm, does smell good." He took a mouthful, swallowing it straight down. Matthew lifted his own glass, pretending to take a sip but barely allowing the liquid to touch his lips.
 

"That's so smooth. Lovely. Now, I must talk to Harriet before the debate starts. Please excuse me, Matthew, and all the best today."
 

Matthew saw the defeat that faced him in Abrahams' eyes, but it didn't matter anymore. He watched as the Prime Minister walked over to talk to Harriet Arbuthnot, MP for York Central, and continued to sip at the wine, draining the glass as the two spoke.
 

Within a few minutes the room started to clear as the MPs began to head towards the Chamber, ready for the debate.
 

"Good luck," Peter whispered, as he walked past with two of the empty decanters. Matthew smiled and nodded at him. It was time.

With Missinghall on scene keeping an eye on Matthew Osborne, Jamie continued to search through the pile of papers. Amongst the typed manuscript pages, she found one in Lyssa's handwriting, torn from the notebook that Osborne had given her.

I know what Monro has done with my body. I feel the after-effects of his violation even though I'm not in myself as he does it. He's a vampire for the experiences of madness. He scribbles like he is the maniac as I speak of the things he wants to hear. If he could only see himself as he records my crazy, he would be the one under scrutiny. I've suggested he try certain drugs, to alter his own reality but he shakes his head violently, like a dog shaking off droplets of water. I don't think he trusts his own mind. As well he shouldn't, for when I glimpse the edge of my own consciousness, I realize that I'm not in control at all and shades of onyx and ebony begin to curl through my head.

Sometimes the darkness steals out of my brain at night, leaking out onto the pillow like quicksilver, and the shape shifter turns my world into a nightmare. I dream of Saturn devouring his son, the headless body clutched in bony hands as teeth tear another chunk from dead flesh. Wild hair and mad eyes fixed on my own as he swallows, ripping another mouthful, blood dripping down his chin, driven mad by the need to destroy that which he loves. Goya painted it on the walls of his own house, the Black Paintings. That is what he saw in the night, that is his legacy.
 

My own black paintings were formed in the house of RAIN, for now I know who they are, now I know what they did to me. Any chance I had to rise above my flawed chemistry is dashed, and they tore apart what remained. The strands that once held are now loose and broken. They said they would help me end it, that I wouldn't even have to lift my own hand. They will make it a celebration, and I welcome the finality.
 

But Matthew, oh, my brother. There's too much to say and not enough time. I am your smashed, damaged sister and you have forever been my champion. Your whole life has been tied to mine, like the tail of a kite, unable to escape following behind my ducking and diving. Never able to live for yourself, and defined by my broken life. By cutting us apart, I can set you free, as well as myself. Sometimes in your eyes I see a need to devour me, as if by making me a part of your body, you can make me whole. But sometimes you can't fix everything, and I'm so tired.
 

Jamie felt the prick of tears as she read Lyssa's final words, both for the woman who was lost and the brother intent on revenging her death. She understood the pull of violence in pursuit of justice, but Matthew had to be stopped. All she needed was clear evidence they could arrest him with and it had to be here somewhere. Jamie walked upstairs into the main office, determined to find it.

The upstairs room was spacious, a double bedroom turned into a workspace. After the riot of color on the walls downstairs, the palette here was somber. There were some hand weights and kettle-bells in one corner, and a Swiss ball instead of a desk chair. A wall calendar etched with black marker and highlighted sections betrayed how busy Matthew usually was, but the months ahead were strangely empty, as if cleared of commitments. The room smelled fresh, notes of pine forest and spice in the air.
 

Jamie walked to the bookshelves, her eyes scanning for anything curious. There were a number of chemistry textbooks and journals with a thin hardback book next to them. She pulled the little book down and opened the front page. It was a Master's degree thesis on entheogens – psychoactive substances used in a spiritual context for transcendence and revelation. Osborne had once been a chemist. Jamie's mind leapt through the possibilities, the threads of the case entwining. Her heart thumped as she thought of Missinghall in the drinks reception at Westminster.
 

"Don't drink, Al," Jamie whispered, her voice a plea, as she grabbed her phone, dialing Missinghall's number. It rang and rang before clicking into voicemail. Perhaps he couldn't answer within the halls of Westminster. Perhaps he had already taken a sip. She texted him, her fingers mashing at the keyboard in her haste.
Osborne is the poisoner. Don't drink anything. Get security in there right now.

She called again. No response. There was so little time, and she had to get to Missinghall. Jamie weighed up her options. Westminster was only a couple of blocks away. It would be quicker to get there herself and explain in person, rather than call and wait for the various approvals to go through. She turned quickly to head back downstairs. As she did so, her elbow knocked against another book. It dropped to the floor and a sheaf of photos fell out.

Jamie knelt down, gloved fingers pulling the pictures together briskly to tidy the scene. But something in them stopped her. They were stills of surveillance footage, showing figures entering and leaving a door under a series of railway arches, recognizable as an area near London Bridge station. One photo was dog-eared, and Jamie pulled it from the pack. The street lamps lit up the face of Lyssa Osborne, the date stamp just a few days before her death. Two men flanked her, either helping her in or making sure she entered. This must be the RAIN clinic Lyssa had referred to. Matthew had been keeping surveillance on it. Jamie flicked through the sheaf of pictures, evidence of the number of people who went into the clinic in the last months. How many of them were still able to function? How many more were dead?

Then she saw another face she knew. The image was grainy, but the features of the men were clearly visible from the street lights. The bald man she had seen with Cameron and a heavy-set bodyguard helped, or perhaps dragged, Blake into the side door of the clinic building. Blake's face was blank, as if he didn't see what was around him, his vacant expression that of a junkie in another realm. Jamie felt her heart wrench at his face, a little boy lost in the labyrinth of his mind. Someone with his kind of psychic ability would be invaluable to intelligence research. Had RAIN been targeting him since the beginning? Or was Blake suffering some kind of breakdown at the death of his father?

The photo was date stamped two nights ago. The fact that Blake hadn't contacted her meant he was either very sick or held without his consent. Jamie thought of the last entry in Lyssa's diary, the abuse she had suffered, the darkness in her mind that RAIN had amplified. She needed to get Blake out of there, but her partner needed her. Jamie called Missinghall again, the phone ringing until it switched to voicemail.

"Pick up, pick up," she whispered, her mind filled with visions of what could be happening. She knew she had to make a choice.

As Missinghall finished the delicious glass of wine, the Members started to move out of the Churchill Room and into the corridor on their way to the House of Commons Chamber for the debate. He stood to one side to let them all pass, shaking his head a little. He was suddenly unclear as to why he was here, anyway. There was a shiny edge to his vision, and like a filter on a lens, it intensified the light around him.

There was a buzzing in his pocket, but he couldn't take a phone call right now. His head was fuzzy, spinning far more than a glass of wine should make it. Whatever it was didn't matter anyway because the Houses of Parliament were stunning and he was captivated by the beauty around him. The dappled light from the windows patterned the great tapestries on the walls and made them come alive with golden rays. Sea battles raged with majestic ships that danced upon the blue ocean waves. He could almost taste the salt spray in the air and hear the cry of the sailors as they climbed the rigging, the words of
Rule Britannia
echoing in his mind. Missinghall smiled, a broad grin that transformed his face as he gazed into the tableau before him.

Then a dark cloud passed across the sun, and the light from the stained glass cast a red glow across the room. Missinghall frowned as the waves in the tapestry began to undulate faster, their violence shaking the ships in their midst. Shadows under the waters blackened into the shapes of sea monsters, giant squid with flailing limbs tipped with razor-sharp talons. One long tentacle arched out of the water, wrapping itself around a sailor and dragging him into the water. His screams echoed through the hall and Missinghall watched in horror as the man was sliced in two, body parts floating on the waves as blood turned the sea crimson around him. A flash of silver-grey. The sharks arrived, powering through the water, teeth ripping to shreds what the monsters dragged into the churning water.

Lightning ripped through the tapestry, as storm clouds gathered above the boats, like vengeful gods punishing mankind for the hubris of happiness. Wind whipped around the boats, spinning them in the vortex of waves, casting men into the depths of the sea, at the mercy of the creatures waiting beneath. The waves churned with blood, whipped into foam by the feeding frenzy of the sharks. The purple of the angry sky bled into black at the horizon, a promise of the ultimate end. Missinghall fell to his knees, tears on his cheeks as he witnessed the destruction, desperate to save the men before him. He clutched at the tapestry, screaming into the storm.
 

"Sir, please. It's OK, sir," a voice came in his ear, as strong arms pulled Missinghall away. "There's nothing there. You're having some kind of attack."

"No," he roared, pushing back violently against them, his eyes fixed on the horror before him. "I have to help. Let me be."

The next moment, Missinghall was down on the ground, two large security guards pinning him down. His head spun with the sound of the ocean storm, the screams of the dying, and the words of caution spoken in his ear were just a whisper. He closed his eyes to shut out the horror and succumbed to the pull of the deep.