Lifeforce (23 page)

Fallada said: “Why do you want to see her now? Why not wait until morning?”

Carlsen shook his head. “They’re most active in the night. It’s better now.”

Heseltine nodded. “Yes. You could be right. But listen. Take this.” He handed Carlsen a small plastic box, two inches square. He pressed the button in the centre; immediately, a high-pitched buzz sounded from the pocket of his jacket. “If you need us, press this. We’ll be with you in seconds.” He released the button, and the noise stopped.

Carlsen asked: “Where is she?”

Armstrong heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll take you.” He led Carlsen out of the main door, along a gravel path by the edge of the lawn, through a walled garden with a lily pond, to a closed gate. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the gate. Carlsen could see a long, low building with outside lights over each front door. “That’s the nurses’ quarters. Nurse Donaldson is in the one at the end, number one.”

“Thank you.”

“Hadn’t I better come and introduce you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Very well. The gate opens from the other side without a key. If you’re not back in half an hour, we’ll come and look for you.” His voice indicated he was joking, but there was an undertone of seriousness.

The gate closed behind him. Carlsen walked to the porch of the first chalet and rang the bell. A woman’s voice answered through the loudspeaker: “Who is it?”

He leaned and spoke into it. “My name is Carlsen. I’d like to speak to you.”

He expected more questions, but the speaker went dead. A moment later, the door was opened. The woman who stood there looked at him with curiosity and without fear. “What is it you want?”

“Can I come in and speak to you?”

“How did you get in?”

“Dr Armstrong brought me.”

“Come in.” She stood aside and let him past. She closed the door behind him, then went to an inter-communicating screen.

A moment later, Armstrong’s voice said: “Hello?”

“I have a Mr Carlsen here. Did you know?”

“Yes. I brought him. That is Commander Carlsen.”

“I see.” She switched off. While she had been speaking, he had been standing near the door, looking at her. He was disappointed. For some reason he had expected her to be beautiful. The reality was oddly commonplace. She was a woman of about thirty-five, and the skin of her face was coarse. The figure had been shapely but was now beginning to spread. He noted that the hem of the green woollen dress was lopsided.

“What did you want to see me about?” Her voice had a ring of mechanical efficiency, like a telephone operator. For a moment he wondered if he had made a mistake.

“May I sit down?” She shrugged and indicated the armchair. He wanted an excuse to touch her, but she was too far away. He said: “I wanted to ask you about the man you spent the afternoon with — Mr Pryce.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. Show me your hand.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Show me your hand.”

She was standing, pressed back against the edge of a small table by the wall. Then, suddenly, there was contact. They were playing a game, and both knew the rules. She stood staring at him, then came forward very slowly. He reached out and took both her hands. The energy flow was like an electric spark. She swayed, and he stood up to steady her. The energy was flowing out of her, into him.

He looked down at her face; her stare was glassy. As clearly as if she had spoken, he felt the unformulated comment. He gripped her tightly by her bare arms. “What’s his name?”

She was leaning against him. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll hurt you.”

He squeezed her arms. She shook her head again. Deliberately, as if making a move in chess, he held her away from him and slapped her face. She shook her head again.

There was a knock at the door. It made him start, but she seemed to hear nothing. He said: “Who is it?” There was another knock. He lowered the woman into a chair, then went to the door. It was Fallada.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

Fallada came into the room and saw the woman. He said: “Good evening.” Then he looked at Carlsen. “What’s wrong with her?”

Carlsen sat on the arm of her chair. Her face was red where he had slapped it, and tears were running down her face.

“Nothing wrong.” He sensed Fallada’s question. “She’s quite harmless.”

“Can she hear us?”

“Probably. But she’s not interested. She’s like a hungry child.”

“Hungry?”

“She wants me to hurt her.”

Fallada said: “Are you serious?”

“Quite. You see, when she’s possessed by the alien, she sucks energy from her victims. But she gives it all away again. She’s like a woman who steals for her lover. Now, if I take energy from her” — he placed his hand on her arm — “she responds automatically. She’s conditioned to giving.”

“Are you taking energy now?”

“A little, enough to keep her semiconscious. If I stop, she’ll wake up.”

“Like the girl last night — Miss Bengtsson?”

“Yes. But with her, it was just a normal desire for surrender. This one is far worse. She’d like to be completely destroyed.”

“Totally masochistic?”

“Quite.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to leave her alone?”

“When I’ve found out what I want to know: the name of the prisoner who’s taking her energy.”

Fallada knelt in front of the woman and raised her eyelid. She looked at him indifferently; she was interested only in Carlsen.

“Can’t you read her mind?”

“She’s resisting. She doesn’t want to tell me.”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you. She wants me to force her to tell me.”

Fallada stood up. “Would you like me to leave?”

“There’s no need — if you don’t mind waiting. This gives me no pleasure.” He said to the woman: “Stand up.”

She stood up slowly, a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Carlsen put his arms round her. He noticed that she winced as his left hand pressed her back. He said: “Tell me his name?” She shook her head, smiling. He pressed her back again. She gasped and writhed against him, then shook her head again.

Fallada said: “What’s hurting her?”

“I don’t know.” Carlsen took hold of the zipper and pulled it down to the waist. The dress parted. The flesh of her back was scored with scratches.

Fallada looked more closely. “They’re fresh. A souvenir of her lover today.”

Carlsen could feel the energy flowing through the bare flesh where his hands touched. He started to pull the dress forward off her shoulders. Fallada said: “What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want to watch, go into the other room.”

Fallada said: “Not at all. I am a natural voyeur.”

Carlsen pulled the dress downwards, and allowed it to fall around her feet. She was wearing a bra and panties that were held at the waist by a small safety pin. Her arms now moved around Carlsen’s neck. He held her close against him, feeling the warmth of naked flesh radiating through his clothes. He wanted to remove his own clothes for closer contact, but was inhibited by Fallada’s presence. With one hand against her buttocks, the other on the torn skin between her shoulder blades, he pressed her tightly against him. She winced; then, as he pressed his mouth against hers, she suddenly abandoned herself. The vitality flowed into him through her lips, the tips of her breasts, and the pubic region.

Fallada cleared his throat. “It’s incredible. Her back is becoming paler…”

She freed her mouth to say: “Now. Now.”

Fallada said: “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to go?”

Carlsen ignored him. He did as she asked, brutally draining her energy as if intent on destroying her. He felt the glow of her body as she writhed against him, and the pressure of her arms almost stifled his breath. Her thighs and hips ground against him. Then her grip relaxed, and her knees buckled. Suddenly, her mind was no longer closed.

Fallada helped him to prevent her from falling. Carlsen picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. There was a pink-shaded lamp, and the bedsheets were turned back. He laid her on the bed. Fallada, standing in the doorway, said: “That is the first time I have ever known a woman to reach orgasm in the upright position. Kinsey would have been fascinated.”

Carlsen pulled the bedclothes over her. Tendrils of hair were plastered over her forehead with perspiration. A dribble of saliva was running down the side of her mouth. He switched off the light and backed quietly out of the bedroom.

It was starting to rain as they left the house, a fine drizzle blown on the wind that came from the moorland. The air had the sweet smell of broom and heather. Carlsen was startled by the sensation of delight that ran through his body like electricity. And then, as if cut off by a switch, it stopped. He was puzzled, but a moment later had forgotten it.

Fallada said: “And you still didn’t find out what you wanted to know.”

“I found out enough.”

The lawn was now in darkness; they could see the shape of the Grasshopper, outlined by its phosphorescent paint. From the row of long, low buildings opposite, a man crossed the lawn towards them. Armstrong’s voice said: “Is everything satisfactory?”

Carlsen said: “Fine, thanks.”

“Your sergeant has decided to retire to bed. You’re over there, by the way, the three end rooms.” He pointed to the lighted buildings.

He inserted a key and opened the front door; the hall was now lit only by a blue night light. Heseltine was walking up and down the room. He said: “Good, I was beginning to worry.” He told Armstrong: “There’s been an awful racket coming from upstairs — someone screaming.”

Armstrong said imperturbably: “Many of the inmates suffer from nightmares.”

Carlsen said: “If I described one of the inmates to you, do you think you could tell me who it is?”

“Probably. If I couldn’t, the chief nurse could.”

“This is a big man — over six feet. He has a large nose — rather beaky — and red hair with a bald spot…”

Armstrong interrupteed. “I know him. That’s Reeves — Jeff Reeves.”

Fallada said: “The child killer?”

“That’s the man.”

Carlsen said: “Could you tell me about him?”

Armstrong said: “Well… he’s been in here for, oh, five years. He’s rather subnormal — I.Q. of a child of ten. And he committed most of his crimes at the time of the full moon — four murders and about twenty sexual assaults. It took them two years to catch him — his mother was shielding him.”

Fallada said: “If I remember rightly, he claimed he was possessed by the devil.”

“Or some kind of demon.” Armstrong turned to Carlsen. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get his description?”

“From the nurse — Ellen Donaldson.”

“Couldn’t she tell you his name?”

“I didn’t ask her.”

Armstrong shrugged; Carlsen sensed his suspicion that they were keeping something from him.

Heseltine asked: “Is this man with the other prisoners?”

“Not at the moment. He becomes violent at the full moon. And since it’s the full moon tomorrow, he’s in a cell of his own at the moment.”

Heseltine asked Carlsen: “Do you want to see him tonight?”

Carlsen shook his head. “It’s best to wait until tomorrow. They’re less active during the daytime.”

Armstrong said: “Would you like me to send for Lamson, the head nurse? He might be able to tell us whether Reeves has shown any signs of… vampirism.” The irony was scarcely perceptible.

Carlsen said: “There’s no need. He wouldn’t have noticed anything — except, possibly, that Reeves is slightly less stupid than usual.”

Armstrong said: “Then by all means let us ask. I’m intensely curious.”

Carlsen shrugged. Armstrong interpreted this as permission, and pressed a button on the I.C.S. He said: “Lamson, would you mind coming over here?”

They sat in silence for a moment. Heseltine said: “I still don’t understand why this alien should choose a subnormal criminal. Surely she… it… could choose anybody?”

Carlsen said: “No. To choose a criminal — particularly a criminal psychopath — is almost like moving into an empty house. Besides, this man already believed he was possessed by a devil. He wouldn’t find anything strange in being possessed by a vampire.”

“But what about this nurse — Donaldson? I presume she’s not a criminal?”

“It’s not a matter of criminality so much as of a split personality.”

Fallada nodded. “That’s an axiom of psychology. Anyone who is at the mercy of powerful subconscious urges has a feeling of being two people.”

Armstrong said smoothly: “If you’re suggesting that Ellen Donaldson is suffering from severe personality dissociation, I can only say that I’ve never noticed it.”

As Fallada started to reply, Carlsen said: “It didn’t have to be a severe personality disorder. She’s sexually frustrated. She has strong sexual drives and no husband. She also feels that she’s no longer able to attract males. So when this creature satisfies her deepest sexual urges, she asks no questions…”

There was a knock at the door. Armstrong opened it. A powerful man with the build of a weight lifter came in. His eyes gleamed with interest and recognition as he saw Fallada and Carlsen.

Armstrong laid a hand on his shoulder. His voice was caressing as he said: “This is my invaluable aide and chief assistant, Fred Lamson. Fred, these gentlemen are interested in Reeves.” Lamson nodded; he was obviously hoping to be introduced, but Armstrong had no intention of prolonging the interview more than necessary. Carlsen noted with amusement how Armstrong’s attempt at camaraderie was spoiled by impatience and snobbery. “Tell me, Fred, have you noticed anything different about Reeves in the past few weeks?”

Lamson shook his head slowly. “No.”

Armstrong smiled. “Nothing at all? Thank you, Fred.”

Lamson refused to be hurried. “I was going to say, not in the past few weeks . But in the past couple of days, he’s not been his usual self.”

“In what way?” Armstrong was unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Oh, I couldn’t really put my finger on it —”