The Whisper of Stars (11 page)

Upstairs, her mother’s bedroom door was closed. Jen decided to leave it that way and entered her old bedroom. The smell of urine was stronger here, with an odour akin to sour milk sitting thick above it. The dampness would get to you after a while; even the squatters had moved on. Her eyes drank in the forgotten familiarity, eventually settling on a small black air vent in the wall next to where her bed used to be. Seeing it, cracked and dusty like the old garden sign, transported her back in time again.

She recalled how her mother’s familiar sobs would drift from that vent at night and how disappointed she felt to hear them. No matter how much she tried to keep her mother’s mood buoyant, some days there was no avoiding the decline. When jobs were done and friends drifted away, when the dying embers of the fire gave up hope, the night tightened its suffocating grip on Veronica Logan. Lying in bed, Jen would hear her muffled sorrow and try to pick out words or phrases in the darkness, attempting to learn the shape of her mother’s grief. Occasionally the sounds would sharpen into something recognisable.

‘I told you not to go.’

And then her father’s name repeated over and over.

‘
Jacob, oh Jacob.
Not you. Why you?’

Once, Jen overheard her mother confiding in a friend. She had described the darkness as
all consuming
, explaining how it was worse living out here now that people had left for the cities. The fields, the space, the peaceful garden – it had suited them once. The three of them. Her father, splitting his time between London and Cheltenham, was always home at weekends. Somehow, throughout all the troubles, the epidemics, the rationing and the hardship, their family life contained much happiness and love.

His death changed all of that. Life was never the same again. How could it be? Jen prayed that her mother’s grief might eventually subside, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, it settled on her, spreading like a dark stain on her heart. Jen had stopped going to her, learning from experience that any offer of comfort would be unwelcome, that her mother could no longer accept love even if she wanted to. Instead Jen would lie in the darkness and cover her ears, and in the muffled silence, watch the shadows of trees swaying and dancing across the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take her away.

The sound of scratching in the loft space sent the past drifting away like smoke pulled through a fan. Older, but just as alone, she was left feeling vulnerable and empty, second-guessing her decision to come home.

No more looking back, Jen. Time to move on.

She walked to the gable window, dodging animal droppings on the bare floorboards, and looked out. Below her she could see the wild garden and driveway, beyond that more buildings in a similar state. Her eyes drifted up and there, dark against the horizon, she saw it. The church steeple.

Her father had buried something there, something he wanted her to forget, something
they
wanted back. And tonight she was going to find out what.

Tonight she was going to dig.

Chapter 21

Nathan O’Brien raised the tranquillizer gun, took a deep breath and fired. This time his target stumbled, managed a weak groan and hit the ground hard. The man was Matthew Anderson, a news reporter for a London-based network, lured here on the promise of some dirt on a local politician. He was also the last person to see Nathan’s wife alive.

Nathan looked around nervously. It was early evening and the London street was quiet, a murky half-light rendering them almost invisible even to the commuters on the overpass. Good. He ran and crouched next to the reporter, checking for a pulse, relieved to feel it banging against his fingers. He hadn’t overcooked the dose after all.

‘Please don’t kill me,’ Anderson pleaded, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Nathan had no such intention but wasn’t going to share that particular piece of information.

He dragged Anderson towards a row of nearby garages knowing that the next scene, in this play of his, was going to be tough. For both of them.

When Anderson awoke he was siting, hands bound, eyes covered and mouth taped. The air was damp and smelt stale, like wet sheets left way too long. Nathan checked the blindfold before pulling the tape from his mouth. Anderson sucked the air hungrily and then coughed, his face contorting in pain. He’d lost a tooth when he fell.

‘Are you going to scream again?’ Nathan asked. ‘Because if you are, I’ll go outside and wait.’

‘Who are you?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Are you going to kill me?’ Anderson’s voice cracked a little.

‘That depends.’

‘I’ll do whatever you want…’

‘Katherine O’Brien. Tell me about the night you met her.’

‘Her?’ Anderson’s face squashed in confusion at the name. His head twitched like a bird, trying to locate Nathan in the room. ‘I did exactly as I was told.’

‘Told by whom?’ Nathan shouted.

Anderson seemed confused. ‘You – you aren’t with
them
?’

‘I’m worse,’ Nathan whispered, desperately clinging to his tough-guy routine. ‘Tell me what you talked about.’

‘They’ll kill me…’ Anderson paused, twisting his hands against the tape binding his wrists, and then hissed, ‘You as well.’

Nathan wondered if he should have played along, said he
was
with them. But it was too late for that now.

‘Please.’ Anderson’s head flicked around the room. ‘I don’t know anything.’ There was a subtle change in him. He didn’t seem as scared.

That wasn’t good.

Nathan stepped closer. ‘You offered to meet her, you had information. What did you tell her? Where did she go next?’

Anderson took a deep breath, fishing for something, an idea, maybe.

‘Okay. I remember her,’ he admitted. ‘She contacted me because of an article I wrote a few years back.’

‘Go on.’

‘She wanted to talk about it. There were rumours. Some conspiracy shit about Hibernation. She connected some dots, same names kept popping up. I didn’t buy it.’

‘Then what?’

‘We met, we talked, she left. That was it.’

It was clear, just from the speed of delivery, that Anderson’s story was well rehearsed. The bare minimum, not necessarily lies but nothing new. Nathan suspected it might actually be true, but time was running out. Suspecting wasn’t good enough. For all he knew, Anderson could be under surveillance, the police already on their way. And of course, Nathan could have easily been spotted dragging him in here. He needed results, and he needed them quickly.

‘What did they tell you to do?’ Nathan shouted, closing in.

‘Please. I can’t.’

What are you waiting for?

Nathan took a deep breath, closed his eyes and struck Anderson, a backhand right across his face. Anderson turned back, a little too quickly, and Nathan realised with horror that he hadn’t hit him hard enough. He would have to do it again, except this time, he had to mean it. Awkwardly he raised his hand, jaw clenched, determined that this time he wouldn’t hold back.

Go on, you fucking pussy. Do it!

He hit him again, whipping Anderson’s head to the side. The reporter let out a cry and began panting, his face contorted in pain. Nathan hadn’t hit anyone before, not like that anyway, not in anger. The feeling of muscle and teeth compressing made him feel sick. It was strange, though, he could also feel adrenalin pulsing through him. His body donor was athletic and strong, something he had noticed immediately after the operation. In fact, everything was different, all of it new. His body felt charged with energy, an intoxicating reminder that this newly acquired physique came with a fresh set of rules.

Anderson spat blood. ‘What the hell did you do that for? Jesus, you don’t need to do this.’

Nathan took his mind back to the night Katherine was murdered. She had called him just before meeting Matt Anderson. Two hours later, the woman he loved, the one he’d chosen to spend his life with, was stabbed through the heart.

She bled to death.

Alone.

Her face flashed into his vision and suddenly he could feel her, the pain immediate, a vacuum of loss crushing him like a can. His grief would often come like this, silently approaching and then consuming him whole. Nathan looked at Anderson, brightly lit from above like a macabre window display.

‘You know what happened, you fucker,’ he screamed. ‘You sent her to her death.’

Anger descended in an all-consuming wave. Nathan found his hands around Anderson’s neck, lifting him up off the chair, squeezing the life from him.

‘Histeridae,’ he screamed. ‘What does it mean?’

Anderson could do nothing, any possible answers trapped inside lungs that were banging for air.

‘Is it a code word?’

‘I don’t know,’ Anderson hissed, beads of foam flying from his mouth.

Nathan had prepared himself mentally but lost track of time, his grief finally discovering a welcome and gruesome outlet. Something slapped him out of it, though. He wasn’t sure, but it could have been Katherine calling his name.

Nathan. No.

Her voice again.

Don’t kill him.

His hands shot open, sending the chair rocking backwards. For a moment it looked as though it might fall. But it tipped back, sending a globule of bloody spit from Anderson’s mouth. He coughed, gasping for air. Nathan knew that just a few more seconds would have killed him. He resumed pacing, babbling to himself, cursing his lack of control.

Then Anderson began to talk.

‘After she contacted me’ – he coughed and swallowed, blood dripping from his nose – ‘I got another call.’

‘Who called you?’ Nathan whispered, not looking at him.

‘I never met them, I swear.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They told me to meet her and, if she asked about Logan, to give her an address.’ He was crying now. ‘I didn’t know they would kill her. I swear it.’

‘Who’s Logan?’

‘Some bad shit happened, I guess. They didn’t want –’

‘Who is Logan?’ Nathan moved closer.

‘Jacob Logan. She asked about him, so I gave her the address. You know, the one where she…’ He trailed off.

The one where she was murdered. Yeah, I got that part.

Nathan had checked his wife’s notes a thousand times. None of them mentioned a Logan.

‘Is he alive?’ Nathan asked. ‘Is Jacob Logan alive?’

‘I don’t know, I swear it.’ He sniffed, sucking in three sharp breaths. ‘Please, don’t kill me.’

Nathan believed him; it felt right. This was how it happened. He pulled a syringe from his pocket and pushed it into Anderson’s neck.

‘What the hell was that?’ Anderson screamed, before slipping out of consciousness.

In about two hours he would wake and have no memory of their encounter. Nathan cut the tape from Anderson’s wrists and let out a long sigh. He had nearly killed him – that wasn’t good – but he
had
gotten results. He had a name, one that set alarm bells ringing higher up the food chain.

Jacob Logan.

Chapter 22

Jen spent the afternoon exploring Brook Mill Farm, deciding to focus on happier times. She recalled hard but fulfilling days feeding the chickens and sheep, her mother pulling handfuls of irregularly shaped vegetables from the rich soil. At the end of those days Jen would always check the battery cells and ensure the animals were secure. The Logans had always been self-sufficient, even before rationing.

Now, most of the farm was run down, but she found an old solar generator and attached it to the maintenance droid – once charged, she could programme the droid to guard the perimeter. The old church appeared at least partially maintained, which meant it would likely be locked. Jen found a shovel and some bolt cutters in the workshop and ended up in the barn, which had stood the test of time well. In her mind’s eye she could see her mother driving the tractor out, her father entertaining friends and sharing the delights of home brewing.

It was dusk. Jen ate a functional, rehydrated meal and waited. Anyone watching would have seen her eyes shimmer faint purple as her active contact lenses adjusted to the half-light. Basic shapes and outlines; not full night-vision, but good enough to navigate the roads and better than a flashlight drawing attention.

The church was a short walk from the house. Just after nine, she set off. Apart from the odd solitary light dotted amongst the large houses, the village itself seemed almost deserted. She needed to be careful, though. Her tracker may have been off since the first motorway checkpoint, but they could find her if they wanted to. She just hoped they weren’t as fast as Callaghan suspected.

The church was exactly as she remembered it, an unfussy stone building with a single, vaulted steeple. The surrounding gardens were wild but cut low in places, the pathway almost clear. Someone had made an effort, even if it was a token, vain attempt to control the relentless growth. Jen noticed some of the graves had been tended, little pots of dead flowers sitting at the headstones suggesting recent activity.

She scanned her surroundings again and listened. In the distance the constant thrum of farm machinery. Close by an owl announced itself, sending a buzz through her back. The moon, shrouded beneath thick clouds, meant her augmentation was struggling for light. She kept low, moving as quietly as she could on the gravel towards the church doors. The chain wrapped through the handles was feeble and, with a squeeze of her cutters, broke easily. Jen grabbed the links, stopping them from rattling to the ground, and paused for a moment before stepping inside.

Her vision adjusted to the grey shapes around her. Pews in good condition lined with dusty half-burnt candles suggested the church was still used, but maybe not often. The smell of wet newspaper and incense brought back early memories of choirs and reluctant Sunday outings.

Jen made her way towards the altar and then turned left to the only separate room in the building. With a push, the arch-shaped door creaked open. Inside, in what appeared to be the vicar’s private chamber, she found what she was looking for: large leather-bound books recording births, deaths and marriages. These would also be recorded on a central database, easily accessed from her office in London, but Jen didn’t want to risk a search. Her father had carefully hidden it, and the last thing she wanted to do was advertise its location by using a standard traceable search.