Lifeforce (24 page)

Carlsen said: “Did he strike you as more alert?”

Lamson massaged his close-cropped hair. “I suppose that’s it… I’ll tell you one thing. The others are a bit inclined to bully him when he’s quiet. But I notice they’ve been keeping out of his way for the past couple of days.”

Armstrong said: “But that’s because it’s getting close to the full moon.”

Lamson shook his head stubbornly. “No. I’ve seen that plenty of times. He gets all tense and nervous near the full moon. But he’s different this time. It’s like this gentleman says — he seems more alert.”

Fallada said: “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“Can’t say I have. They’re more likely to go the other way.”

Armstrong said: “But he’s in solitary now?”

“Well, yes, because we always put him in solitary at this time. But in my opinion, he didn’t really need it this time. He just didn’t strike me as… as…”

As he groped for words, Armstrong cut in peremptorily: “Thank you, Fred. That’s all we wanted to know. You can go now.”

Observing the big man’s suppressed irritation, Carlsen said: “You’ve been very helpful indeed. Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.” Lamson smiled at them and went out.

Carlsen said: “A point worth noticing. The alien doesn’t wish to attract attention. But it doesn’t realise that a psycopath’s personality changes at the time of the full moon. And so it attracts attention, after all.”

Fallada asked Armstrong: “Are you beginning to find it easier to believe in vampires?”

Armstrong said evasively: “It’s strange… very strange.”

Carlsen yawned and stood up. “I think I’d like to go to bed.” Under normal circumstances, he would have been slightly overawed by Armstrong; now, able to perceive directly the underlying meanness of spirit, the vanity combined with a craving for admiration, he felt unable to control his distaste.

“Won’t you have a nightcap first?”

Heseltine followed Carlsen’s lead. “We’re all tired. We ought to get to bed.”

Carlsen said: “This man Reeves. What time does he eat breakfast?”

“At about eight o’clock, usually.”

“Would it be possible to dose his food with a tranquilliser — a mild sedative?”

“I imagine so. If you think it necessary.”

“Thank you.”

He accompanied them to the door. In the hall, they met Lamson coming downstairs. Armstrong asked: “Where have you been?”

“Just checking on Reeves, sir. What you said made me think —”

Carlsen asked: “Did he see you?”

“Oh, he was awake, wide awake.”

They crossed the darkened lawn, Fallada walking ahead with Lamson. Carlsen said: “It’s a pity he had to do that.”

Heseltine shrugged. “Why? It must be fairly normal to check on the prisoners last thing at night.”

“I’m not sure… Anyway, it’s too late to worry now.”

Their three rooms were next to one another. Sergeant Parker had moved their bags in from the Grasshopper. Carlsen was in his pyjamas when there was a knock on his door. Fallada came in, a bottle in his hand. “Feel like a final whisky before bed?”

“That’s a good idea.” He found glasses in the bathroom.

Fallada had removed his jacket and loosened his tie. They clinked glasses before drinking. Fallada said: “I was fascinated by your remarks about split personalities. You really believe these things can’t take over a healthy person by force?”

Carlsen, seated on the bed, shook his head. “I didn’t say that. They could probably take over anybody by force and guile. But they’d need to virtually destroy a healthy person. That’s probably why they had to destroy the early victims — like Clapperton.”

Fallada said: “And the Prime Minister?”

“I… just don’t know. It’s hard to believe, and yet… there’s something about him.” He frowned into his glass. “It’s something about all politicians — a kind of ability for double-think. They can’t afford to be as honest as most people. They’ve got to be smooth and evasive.”

“Statesmanlike is the word you’re looking for.”

“I suppose so. I’ve noticed the same thing about a lot of clergymen — the feeling they’re professional liars. Or at least self-deceivers.” He suddenly became more animated. “Yes, that’s what I mean. It’s the self-deceivers who’d make the easiest prey for vampires. People who won’t let the left side of the mind know what the right side’s doing. And that’s the feeling I’ve got with Jamieson. He’s the kind of person who wouldn’t even know when he was being sincere.”

They sat in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Fallada drained his whisky. He said: “What are we to do if these things are indestructible? If there’s no way of forcing them to leave the earth?” When Carlsen was silent, Fallada said: “We’ve got to face that possibility. The world’s full of criminal psychopaths. Every time we caught up with one, they could move on to another. Don’t you agree?”

Again, Carlsen experienced the flash of insight, followed immediately by a sense of confusion, as if looking into a fog. He said: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Fallada stood up. “You’re tired. I’ll let you get some sleep.” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “But think about this. Isn’t there any possibility of establishing some kind of understanding with these creatures? We know now they don’t have to destroy people to get their nourishment. Look at that man Pryce. I got the impression he enjoyed giving his energy. He’d do it all over again for a chance of another afternoon in bed with that girl… It’s worth bearing in mind.”

Carlsen smiled. “All right. I promise I’ll bear it in mind.”

Fallada said: “Sleep well. I’m in the next room if you need me.”

He went out quietly. Carlsen crossed to the door and pressed the locking catch. He heard Fallada go into the room next door, then the sound of water in the wash basin. He climbed into bed and switched off the light. Fallada was right: he was tired. But when he closed his eyes, he experienced a strange sensation of duality. Part of him was lying in the bed, thinking about what he had to do the next day, and a part of him was detached, looking down on himself as if on a stranger. It was a cold, alien sensation. Then he felt his physical body sinking towards sleep, while the detached mind watched indifferently. A moment later he lost consciousness.

The awareness that returned was like floating upwards through dark water. He lay there, half asleep, surrounded by a warmth that was like the security of the womb. It was a deep, blissful relaxation, accompanied by a sense of timelessness. It was then that he realised the alien was there. She seemed to be beside him in the bed: the slim blonde girl whom he had last seen in the Space Research building. She was wearing some kind of thin garment, a gauzy material. He was sufficiently awake to think: this is impossible; this body was left behind in Hyde Park. She shook her head, smiling. Since he knew that his eyes were closed, he recognised that she was some kind of dream. Yet, unlike a dream, she seemed to possess duration and a certain reality.

Her hands reached inside the pyjama jacket, touching his solar plexus with the cool fingertips. He experienced a stir of desire. The hand tugged at the pyjama cord, then moved inside the trousers. At the same time, her mouth pressed against his; the tip of her tongue prized his lips apart. His arms lay by his side; he seemed unable to move them. Again, he tried to determine whether he was dreaming, and was unable to decide.

She was not speaking to him, but her feelings were being communicated direct. She was offering herself, telling him that he had only to take her. As her fingers moved over his body, his nerves flared into points of intensity like crystals reflecting the sunlight. He had never experienced a physical pleasure of such intensity. Again he tried to move his arms. His body seemed paralysed, inert.

He felt her head bending; the tip of her tongue ran over his neck, then across his chest. The pleasure reached an intensity that was almost painful. She seemed to be telling him: the body is unimportant; it is the mind that can experience freedom. Everything in him expressed affirmation.

It struck him suddenly that his mind, like his body, had reached a point of total passivity; his will had vanished. He was aware only of her will and its power to mould him. This produced a sudden uneasiness, a nervous withdrawal. He felt her impatience, a flash of imperious anger. Her attitude seemed to change. Instead of offering herself, transforming herself into a unified caress, she was ordering him not to be a fool. It aroused a memory he had forgotten for more than thirty years: a female cousin trying to persuade him to exchange a toy dog for a teddy bear. She had become angry and shaken him by the arms. Now, as then, the pressure aroused a sullen resistance. At the same time, he knew that if she returned to persuasion, he would give way. She held all the cards. Except one. Her own anger was impossible to control. She hated to be thwarted. He caught a glimpse of a sour abyss of frustration. He struggled to push her away. Then she was no longer caressing him but holding him tight, her mouth suddenly voracious. He had an illusion of being held by an octopus that had wrapped its tentacles around his limbs; the beak was seeking his throat. Terror burned his nerves, and he struggled violently. She held him a moment longer to prove her strength, but the murderous anger had cooled.

Although he was now fully awake, he was still unable to move. The fear had left him drained; he no longer had strength to fight. He could still experience her thoughts and feelings, and now he was able to grasp what had prevented her from killing him. His fear had aroused memories: of creatures struggling for life, drawn into the greedy vortex. Then she had remembered: for the time being, no one must die. It would wreck their plans. Even if she took over his body, it would be impossible to maintain the deception for long. Fallada would know the difference; so would his wife and children. He had to remain alive.

He became aware of a new kind of pressure. Now there was no longer someone in bed with him. He was sufficiently awake to know that there never had been. His pyjama jacket was still buttoned; the cord at the waist still tied. And the alien was no longer a woman. She had become a sexless creature, an “it.” And it was outside him, trying to enter his body. His mental defences were closed, like hands covering his face; it was trying to force its way past the hands, to spread-eagle his will and force its way into his essential being. It was as cold and brutal as rape. He wanted to cry out, but he knew this would relax his guard.

Under the unrelenting pressure, he felt his defences yielding; the thing was forcing its way past them. He was suddenly aware of the consequences that would follow. This creature intended to enter his nervous system and sever it from his will; he would be a prisoner in his own brain, unable to move, like a fly bound by spider’s silk. It needed to keep his individuality alive, but only for the sake of its knowledge. The thought of sharing his brain with the alien lent him a frantic strength. With his teeth clenched tightly together, he forced it away. This time he locked his will, as if contracting his arms and legs into the foetal position. The thing continued to cling, without relaxing its grip, hoping to exhaust him. It was aware now that there were no pretences. They were enemies; nothing could change that.

Ten minutes passed; perhaps more. His strength began to return. The alien’s chief weapon was fear; yet he realised that, deep down inside, he was not afraid. He had grasped its weakness, the angry desire to impose its will that made it careless. It had the desire to be absolute master at all costs; and now it had been placed in a position where it could not destroy something it hated. As the thought passed through his mind, he felt it becoming angry again; his insight was like a taunt. It renewed the pressure, tearing frantically at his locked will. Again he resisted with the strength of desperation. After a few minutes, he realised that it was defeated again. Some instinctive biological loathing had aroused a deeper resistance. He felt a flow of power, a sense of being prepared to resist for days or weeks if necessary. He experienced a curious pride. This creature was in every way stronger than he was; its power and knowledge made him feel like a child. Yet some universal law made it unable to invade his feeble individuality against his will.

The pressure suddenly relaxed. He opened his eyes, which had been tightly closed, and noticed that the dawn was streaking the sky outside the windows. Then he was alone again. He moved his hands and realised that the bed was soaked with perspiration, as if he had suffered from a fever. His pyjamas were as wet as if he had just taken a shower with them on. He pulled the damp sheet around his neck, turned the pillow over onto its other side, and closed his eyes. The room seemed strangely peaceful and empty. A moment later he was deeply asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of a key in the door. It was the chief orderly, Lamson; he was carrying a tray. He said cheerfully: “Good morning. It’s a lovely morning. I’ve brought you coffee.”

Carlsen struggled into an upright position. “That’s kind of you. What’s the time?”

“Eight-fifteen. Dr. Armstrong says there’ll be breakfast in half an hour.” He placed the tray on Carlsen’s knees.

“What’s this?” Carlsen pointed to the glossy magazine on the tray. The cover looked familiar.

“Ah, I wonder if you’d mind, sir?” Lamson was holding out a pen. “My nephew’s a great admirer of yours. Would you sign your picture for him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, after I’ve given the other gentlemen their coffee. Isn’t that Dr Fallada, the man who does the Crime Doctor programmes?”

“That’s right.”

“And haven’t I seen the other gentleman on TV?”

“Sir Percy Heseltine, the Commissioner of Police.”

Lamson whistled. “Not often we get such famous visitors. Matter of fact, it’s not often we get visitors at all… except relatives, of course.”

He went out, leaving the door slightly ajar; Carlsen watched him push the trolley on to the next door.

As he drank the coffee, he re-read the article. It was headed: “Olof Carlsen — Man of the Century.” He winced as he recalled the nonstop publicity of three months ago; it had been more exhausting and nerve-wracking than his most difficult assignments in space exploration. This was one of dozens of similar articles that had appeared in the world’s press; it was sentimental, with a double-page colour photograph of Carlsen with Jelka and the children.