

### The Others

### (Haunted From Without -Book One) :

### A Mystery & Detective Paranormal Action & Adventure Medical Thriller Conspiracy

By

IAN C.P. IRVINE

Published by Ian C. P. Irvine at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 IAN C.P. IRVINE

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright observed above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to my sister for just being her.

And to Moira and to all others like her who set such an example and inspire the rest of us.

Other Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

..

Haunted From Within

21st Century Pirates Inc: A Time Travel, Medical Thriller

The Orlando File: A Genetic Conspiracy Thriller.

The Crown of Thorns: A Genetic Conspiracy Thriller Adventure

London 2012 : What If?

The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Medical Thriller

Alex Meets Wiziwam the Wizard

Please note: This is the first book in a two part series. The story begins with Book One, carries on seamlessly and concludes with Book Two.

Chapter 1

Susie's Story

August 3rd 2015

The phone rang at 4.28 a.m., the personalised ringtone of the first few bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony drumming its way through Susie's dream and bringing her swiftly to consciousness.

Reaching out to pick it up, she glanced at the clock, and the significance of the red digits blinking back at her made her heart quicken: almost 4.30 a.m., the dying time. A call at this time of the morning could only be bad news.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but may I speak with Miss Susie Morgan?" the woman's voice enquired gently.

"Speaking," Susie replied, lifting herself up into a sitting position."This is Susie."

"Hello Susie." The woman's voice changed, her tone becoming gentler.

"This is Claire Johnson, from the care home in St Andrews where your father is living. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you . . . your father had a heart attack a few hours ago, and he was rushed to the hospital . . . "

There was a pause, and Susie waited for the woman to utter those next few words, telling her that her father had died.

"Susie, your father is not well. You need to get here. As soon as you can . . . "

There was another pause, giving Susie a moment to digest the information.

Susie swallowed, holding back the tears.

"Susie, I'm standing outside the room your father is in. He would like to speak to you."

With the phone pressed hard against her ear, Susie heard the sound of a door opening, a few footsteps, a pause, and then the faint sound of her dad's voice.

"Susie . . . It's your dad . . . " the voice whispered.

His voice was weak, and he coughed lightly after he spoke.

"It's me, Dad! I'm here! I can hear you. Dad. I love you. I love you!" the first tears began to flow and her voice trembled.

"Susie, . . . I'm dying. I don't think I have much longer, darling. Susie, I love you. You know that, don't you? I love you."

"Yes, Dad. I know. And I'm coming to be with you. I'll be there soon," Susie replied, climbing out of bed and fumbling for her clothes with her free hand.

"Soon, Susie, make it soon . . . There's something I want to tell you . . . No, _not yet_ , I can't come yet, I need to wait to see Susie. I can't come yet . . . Susie, I love you. Get here soon . . . "

"What Dad, what did you say? Where are you going?" Susie asked, not understanding everything her dad had said.

"Susie, it's Claire again. I took the phone back."

"What was Dad saying? Where is he going?"

"Don't worry, Susie. Your dad is waiting to see you. He was just talking to the Others. It's normal . . . "

"What others?"

"Susie, I'll explain when you get here . . . but hurry. Please. I don't think there will be much time."
Chapter 2

St Andrews Community Hospital

Scotland

It was just after six o'clock in the morning when Susie walked into the room in which her father was lying, his eyes closed, and an oxygen mask strapped to his face. Fighting back the tears, she had driven as fast as she could from Edinburgh, trying to stay calm and not crash the car.

She hadn't yet managed to get hold of her fiancé Peter to tell him what was happening, but he was probably still out and about somewhere in Iowa in the United States, not watching his phone, and oblivious to the nightmare that was beginning to unfold itself around Susie. If only he had been there. She needed him now, and would probably need him more in the hours to come.

Her father's eyes were shut, but the nurse had said that he was still conscious, and that she should take his hand and talk to him.

On the other side of the bed, a bank of electronic machines pulsed, bleeped and hissed, measuring and displaying his heart beats, and feeding him with life-giving oxygen.

Susie looked at the display. Her father's heart beat was slow, the little green line traced by the monitor showing uneven peaks and troughs, not like the regular, steady ones you normally see on hospital programmes on the television.

Susie swallowed.

This was not happening.

She stepped closer, sat in the chair beside her father and reached out and took her father's hand.

"Dad. It's Susie. I'm here. Dad. I'm here."

Her father's eyes blinked open, and his head turned towards Susie's voice.

Lifting up his other hand, he took the face mask off, and smiled at his daughter.

"Susie . . . "

He squeezed his daughter's hand, and coughed.

"There's something I have to tell you Susie. Something important . . . "

His voice was quiet, and the words were slurred as he spoke, but Susie understood him.

She moved a little closer.

"I'm listening Dad. But maybe you shouldn't speak. You should save your strength."

"No. Susie. I have to tell you. I'm dying, I know I am, and I don't think there is much time."

Susie sniffled, and began to cry.

Her father let go of her hand, and reached up and caressed Susie's face, his fingers gently tracing the contour of her cheek.

"Don't cry, little Susie. I'm not scared. I'm ready. It's my time."

Susie took hold of her father's hand, and kissed it, wiping her tears away with her other hand.

Her father started as if to speak again, but then his eyes glazed over, and he seemed to look away over Susie's shoulder.

"Please . . . ," her father asked, as if to someone behind her. "Can I have another minute? Just another few moments with my Susie?"

Susie turned her head and followed her father's gaze, expecting to see someone else, perhaps a doctor, who may have entered the room without her noticing.

But there was no one there.

She turned around to face her father, and was met by his smiling face.

"I'm sorry, Susie. I have to go. They are waiting for me. And they can't wait any longer."

"Who's waiting?"

"Your grandfather, and your grandmother. And your mother . . . and Timothy."

Susie glanced around over her shoulder again, holding her father's hand a little tighter.

"Dad, there's no one . . . ," she started to say, but turning back to her father, the words evaporated before she could finish.

Her father was smiling at her. Studying her. There was a sparkle in his eye that she hadn't seen for many years.

"I love you Susie." Her father said.

And then he closed his eyes, and passed from this world to the next.

Susie didn't notice the doctors coming into the room, switching off the beeping alarm that emanated from the wall of flashing lights, and which had heralded the last beat of her father's heart. She didn't respond when the nurses said something to her, quietly. And she didn't acknowledge them when they left her alone in the room with her father, his eyes closed, his face peaceful and now free of stress.

The tears began to flow quicker now, the emotion that she had bottled up for the past few hours bursting forth and engulfing her.

Resting her hands upon his, Susie wept. She didn't know how long she cried for, but it must have been quite a while. When her tears eventually dried up, she looked at the clock in the room above her father's bed, and saw that it was 7.14 a.m.

She sat looking at her father, remembering him, and the times they had spent together growing up. She started to cry again, then slowly, very slowly, the tears began to abate.

Leaning forward, she kissed her father on the forehead, stroked his cheek, smiled at him, and then turned and walked out of the room.

Her father was gone. She would never speak with him again. And except for Peter, she was alone in this world.

As things would turn out, she was wrong on all counts.

Chapter 3

Ames, Iowa

U.S.A.

1 a.m. Central Standard Time (CST)

Peter opened the door to his motel room and stepped through into the small, musty room beyond. He was exhausted. He had been driving for hours, down endless roads that stretched from one horizon to the other, and although his pickup truck was automatic and the driving was easy, it was mentally tiring.

On top of that, he had spent most of the day trudging across farms, visiting corn fields where the crops were failing, and the soil was dying. He'd taken over two hundred and twenty soil samples, all of which were now labelled and packed in the heavy suitcase that he lugged with him into the room from the Dodge Dakota parked outside.

As he shuffled through the door, he bent down to pick up an envelope that had been stuck under his door, tossing it onto his bed to read later.

Putting the suitcase in the corner, he kicked off his shoes and lay back on the mattress.

What a day.

An incredible day.

A scary day.

He'd been in America for over four days now, driving around from one corn farm to another, trying to uncover the truth and doing his own research into what could possibly be the biggest story this year.

A story which most of the local farmers were too scared to talk about, and at least three would never be able to: death has a knack of silencing people very effectively.

Standing up, he crossed to the fridge, pulled out a cold bottle of non-alcoholic Coors and flipped the lid off. Peeling off his sweaty clothes he walked through to the shower, and stood underneath the cold, refreshing curtain of water, sipping his beer and thinking about what he had learned that day.

All the farms he had visited were facing bankruptcy. If not this year, then the next. And all were using corn from one of two suppliers. Genetically modified corn. Corn which, in theory, and according to the advertising, was supposed to produce bumper crops and record profits, and was designed to grow and thrive in the farming conditions of the Corn Belt of America, free from insect infestation.

Except, as with anything that seemed too good to be true, it wasn't.

The GM crops that the farmers had grown had turned out to need as much care and treatment with expensive pesticides as any other crop they had grown. True, harvests in the first few years had been great. But then the insects, which the GM crops had been designed to repel, adapted, and became resistant. And diseases, which had not seriously affected the crops before, began to threaten them increasingly more. By the fifth year, harvests were down.

And that's when the new problems began.

Peter was an investigative reporter for the Scotsman, one of Scotland's top newspapers. Since his reports on Cellular Memory and the exposé of SP-X4 \- a rogue stem-cell based treatment for patients of organ transplants, had gone global two years before and been carried in most of the top papers throughout the world, Peter's reputation and career had blossomed.

Peter's trip to the Corn Belt in the Midwestern United States had come about as a result of a chance meeting in a bar in Edinburgh in Scotland. He had been visiting the Royal Highland Show in June, where farmers got together from all over the world, when he had been approached by a farmer from the U.S. and invited to join him for a pint of beer.

"Mr Nicolson?" the large American had said, stretching out his hand. "The name is William Ralston. I recognise your photo from the papers. I read your research on SP-X4. You helped my family, although you won't know it. My wife is a transplant patient, and was taking SP-X4 too, which is why I took such a keen interest, and remember you so well."

A conversation had followed, including the invite to a drink, and soon William Ralston and Peter Nicolson were the best of friends.

"So, I'm guessing you are a farmer?" Peter had inquired. "I mean, almost everyone here is, or are at least in some way connected to the farming industry."

"You'd be right, Mr Nicolson. I am. I own a farm in Iowa. About 500 acres. We farm mostly wheat and corn and raise cattle and chickens."

"500 acres? That's large, isn't it?"

"Above average. We do well. Or at least we used to."

Peter sipped his beer. "The recession?"

"No, genetically modified food."

And so the conversation had begun.

Peter listened as William summarised the past years, highlighting the bumper years of crops, and the substantial profits that had been made. Then his face had become more serious, and he told Peter of the recent poor harvests, and the fears that his farm was dying. That the soil was contaminated. That the crops were no longer growing, GM _or_ natural crops.

"Which is why I am here. I'm the leader of the local farmers' guild, and I've come here to learn more about the issues you are facing in Scotland, and in England, regarding GM foods. I'm hoping to buy some seed too. We need fresh stock, and seed sales in the U.S. are becoming increasingly dominated by only one or two players, neither of whose seeds grow in our soil anymore."

The more the American spoke, the more Peter's senses told him that there was something important here, a significant story waiting to be uncovered.

Drinks had led to a meal, and by the time Peter and William parted later that night, they had swapped email addresses, and Peter was on to a new story.

The timing couldn't have been better. Scotland was now involved in a huge political debate about Genetically Modified crops, and with its recent, increasingly devolved powers from the British Parliament in Westminster, the Scottish Assembly was trying to decide whether or not to ban GM foods from Scottish soil, or to allow them in.

Only last week, one of Peter's colleagues had got an article dedicated to the GM discussion on Page Five, but Peter could sense something larger here: a headline article for Page One.

In the weeks that followed, Peter had digested everything he could on the GM debate. And what he learned had shocked him to the core.

On the face of it, the motivation to produce genetically modified crops was pure and simple: to produce more food.

But the deeper he dug, the more he learned, and the more sinister the debate became.

Peter had stayed in contact with William. Almost a year had passed now, and during that time Peter could sense that William and the farmers he represented were getting more desperate as the months passed.

The crisis they were facing was deepening.

Strangely, the press and the world media did not seem to be covering their plight.

In July, William had called Peter one day while he was at work in the offices of the Evening News, where he was working at the time. There had been a development. One of the other farmers in Iowa, who had become increasingly outspoken and verbal on the plight of U.S. farmers and who was posting his personal experiences online, had been found dead. Officially it was suicide. Others thought differently.

"His crops failed this year. They simply didn't grow."

"His GM crops?"

"No. He switched seeds. Planted the seed we bought last year in Scotland from a different supplier. Hardly any seeds grew. The seeds were tested. They were fine. The soil is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. Listen, Peter, this is no longer something I feel comfortable discussing with you on the phone. We compiled a file, - myself and a group of other farmers - which documents all our experiences over the past few years. It's all in there. It's powerful stuff. It's dynamite. We want to give it to someone in the media. There's no one over here that we can trust. For whatever reason, no one seems to want to run with this . . . Are you interested?"

"Me?"

"Sure. You. You're ideal. The Scottish Press is free, right? And you've built yourself a big reputation as someone who takes on new technology companies, and wins. Your exposé of StemPharma was brilliant. You're the man we need. And I trust you, Peter."

"So, what's the plan?"

"I, we - the other farmers I represent, want to invite you out to Iowa. We want you to visit our farms for yourself. Talk to as many people as you want. See for yourself the condition our fields are in. And I'll give you the file. I'm sure you will know what to do with it after that."

"You want me to take on the GM industry?"

"That's not what I am asking."

"What are you asking then?"

"I'm just saying . . . come here. Visit with us. And then write about what you see and discover. That's what journalists do, right?"

Peter was silent.

"That's what you do, right?" William prodded.

"Yes," Peter replied. "That's what we do."

"Good. Then, when can you come?"

A month later, Peter was in Iowa.

Peter stepped out of the shower, walked into the other room while towelling himself down, and flicked on the television.

Taking another non-alcoholic cold beer from the fridge, he flicked through a couple of stations before ending up on the local news channel. They were showing 'LIVE' pictures being taken from a bridge crossing one of the rivers not far from the city. Peter had driven over it only a few hours before.

He turned up the volume, wrapping the towel around his waist and sitting back on the bed. The beer was cold and refreshing, and he was still thirsty after spending another day out in the heat.

"The body, which was pulled out of the river about one hour ago, has been identified as that of Mr William Ralston, a local farmer, and leader of the Iowa Farmers Guild. No other information is available at this time, but the police are not treating the death as suspicious. It is believed that Mr Ralston committed suicide . . . "

Peter dropped his beer, and stared at the images on the screen. He couldn't believe it. William was dead? How could that be? Peter had been with him that very afternoon, and had only left him around six o'clock. Tomorrow William was due to introduce Peter to some of the other farmers and they were due to hand over the file they had compiled. In fact Peter had only left him, when William had insisted on driving somewhere alone to retrieve the file from its hiding place.

Flicking through the channels, desperate to find more news on the incident, anything at all, he eventually realised that none of the other national channels were reporting it.

He sat back down on his bed, and waited for the next local news bulletin.

What should he do now? Go to the police? Definitely. Peter may even have been one of the last people to have seen William alive. As far as he was concerned, there was no way that William was suicidal. Which meant that it had to be murder. Or a very strange accident.

Peter suddenly thought back to the conversation that William and he had shared the previous month when William had called him: William had told him about one of the other anti-GM farmers who had been found dead, another suspect suicide to add to the three others he had already learned about. William now made five.

A chill went up and down Peter's spine.

He stood up, and walked to his door, flicking the deadbolt on, and making sure it was properly locked. As he turned back towards the room, he noticed the letter that he had thrown onto the mattress.

Picking it up, he pushed his finger into the top, and ripped it open.

It was a single, folded piece of paper.

Written on the inside were three sentences.

"You are not welcome. Go back to Scotland tomorrow. Or follow William Ralston."

Peter stared at the message in his hand. His first reaction was fear. He was being followed. And threatened.

Whoever had left this message for him had delivered it personally and may even have been watching him. And whoever it was knew that William was dead.

Peter's journalistic mind suddenly sprang into gear and took over.

What time was the death of William first reported on the TV? When was this message delivered? It was already here when he arrived, which was probably at least thirty minutes before he watched the announcement on the TV. The live news coverage had said the body had been pulled from the water only an hour ago. It was a LIVE broadcast, so there was no way that whoever had written the note could have written it and slipped it under the door having learned about the death from the TV broadcast. Which meant that whoever wrote the note already knew about the death before it was reported, and had probably been a witness to it. Possibly even caused it.

Shit.

He needed to show the letter to the police.

Then another thought hit him.

CCTV.

Picking up the phone, he dialled the motel reception and asked to speak with the manager.

"Hi. Someone just broke into my pickup truck outside my room, and stole some groceries. I was wondering, do you have CCTV?"

"Yes, we do, sir. But unfortunately, the system stopped working about four hours ago. The engineer is coming first thing in the morning to fix it."

Instinctively Peter knew it was pointless pursuing that train of thought. Whoever had delivered the note had more than likely disabled the cameras too.

"Can you give me the number of the local police department?"

"Sure thing, Mr Nicolson."

Peter wrote it down.

He considered calling them now, to let them know, but looking at the clock, he realised how late it had become. It could wait until tomorrow. And besides, he was exhausted.

Pulling out his cell phone, he switched it on to set the alarm clock. Earlier that day he had switched it off to conserve power - there was no reception out in the fields, miles away from the city.

As soon as he typed in his pin code and the screens changed, the first messages from Susie arrived.

Her father was dead.

Peter stared at the messages in disbelief, a wave of emotion - sadness and regret - washing over him. He glanced at his watch. It was 2.15 a.m. Iowa was six hours behind Scotland. Which meant that Susie's father had died about two hours ago.

He started to dial Susie's number, thinking how badly things had just gone wrong.

First, William had been murdered. Secondly, his own life had been threatened. And now, Susie had lost her father.

Could it get any worse?
Chapter 4

Ames, Iowa

8 a.m. CST

The alarm clock rang, its high-pitched, piercing ring tone doing its best to rouse Peter from his deep dream: it was the same dream again, the dream that recurred whenever he was stressed or worried. Always the same, and always ending the same way: in his own death.

In his dream, he never saw the moment he died - it was always just implied - but Peter knew what the dream was leading to. Peter had once heard that if you actually see yourself die in a dream you never wake up. The journalist in him questioned this statement: how does anyone know that this old wives' tale was true? How many people have had the dream, observed their own death and never woken up, and _then_ been able to tell someone else - "yep, I saw my death, and I died!" It was a ridiculous belief.

In his dream, Peter was standing at the top of the Matterhorn, balancing precariously on a tiny ledge. Peter, known and ridiculed by all his friends for suffering from the world's worst acrophobia - a fear of heights - was pressing himself hard against the rock face, squeezing his eyes shut, gripping the cold granite with his hands and hanging on for dear life. Then suddenly, he felt someone tap his shoulder and say to him, "Hello, Peter! I'm back!" When Peter opened his eyes in the dream and turned his head gingerly to his left, he found that another person was now standing beside him: his nemesis from several years ago - a polish, serial killer called Maciek.

Maciek laughed, and clapped his hands.

"Peter, I am here to help you jump. I will jump with you. Together, on count of three!"

Then Maciek would grab Peter's hand, count to three and jump off the ledge, dragging Peter down with him.

As Peter fell, he would vividly feel the sensation of cold mountain air rushing past his face, and experience a strange sensation in his stomach as he started to free-fall. He would see the ground rushing towards him. Closer, and closer, until . . .

Just before he hit the ground he would always awake in a cold sweat. _Always_ . . . just before he died.

Thankfully, tonight at least, the alarm saved him. Peter woke up, leaving Maciek alone on the rock face.

Peter shook his head, swore aloud at his dream, and then hurried to the shower room.

Cold water rained down upon his head, and the last vestiges of the dream left him. He stepped out of the shower, towelled himself down and got dressed.

Today was going to be a busy day.

After reading the text messages from Susie, he had called her. She was in a terrible state, and incredibly relieved to be able to talk with her fiancé. Her tears flowed as she told him about what had happened, and he listened.

"It's not just that he died, Peter. I knew it had to come sooner or later, but it was a little weird. Not 'spooky weird' - I wasn't scared at all - but still weird. My dad really did seem to be able to see other people in the room with us . . . and yes, that reminds me, that's exactly what the nurse described them as being the night before, when I asked her who Dad had been talking to. ' _He was just talking to the Others. It's normal_ . . . ' she had said. She had called them ' _the Others_ '."

"Perhaps it's common for people to see their relatives when they are dying, almost as if the dead relatives have come to collect them and help guide them on their way to Heaven."

"That's what I was wondering. Anyway, I'm going to the home where Dad lived later today. I'm going to ask the nurse there what exactly she meant by that statement."

"Susie, maybe it could wait for a few days? Until I get back? Then we can go together. I think that maybe you should just take it easy today. You have to allow yourself time to grieve."

"I know, I know Peter, but I have to collect all his things, and help empty the room, and . . . "

"And nothing, Susie. His clothes and personal effects can wait. I think it's best if you do nothing today. I'm sorry to say, but you've just lost your dad, Susie. And you need time to take that in, and let the grieving process begin."

"Maybe you're right, Peter."

"I am right Susie. Please, rest."

"But it's not just that which upsets me about what happened," Susie carried on. "Dad was trying to tell me something. Something that he obviously thought was really important. He tried talking to me, but by that time it was too late. He died before he could tell me whatever it was that he had wanted to say. I can't help but think that whatever it was, it was really important. And now we'll never know what it was. Never . . . "

More tears.

"So, " Susie eventually said. "When are you coming home, Peter? I miss you. I _need_ you. You know that now that Dad has gone, you're the only family that I have left?"

For a moment Peter thought about telling Susie what had happened. But Susie had enough on her plate just now, without having to worry about Peter. He wouldn't lie, he just wouldn't tell her everything. For her sake.

"I'm going to get the last plane out of here tomorrow night. I tried to rearrange to get back today but all the flights are full. I'm sorry, darling. I won't be able to see you until tomorrow night."

Peter could hear the disappointment on the other end of the line, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was telling the truth when he said that he couldn't rearrange his flight. He couldn't.

The timing was bad. Apparently some massive convention or trade show had just finished the day before, and after the traditional last night of partying and drinking, everyone was heading home today.

They talked some more, Peter listening as Susie reminisced about her dad. She cried a little more. And then Peter's battery started to die.

"Tomorrow, Susie," Peter promised. "I will call you tomorrow."

The fact that Peter couldn't get out of Iowa until the next day did have a couple of benefits: Peter needed to go and talk to the police. He needed to tell them that he had seen William just hours before he had died, and about their meeting planned for later on today. He also wanted to show them the letter. Perhaps forensics could lift a finger print from the envelope or the paper inside.

He wanted them to realise that this was not a clear-cut case. And suicide it certainly wasn't.

Meeting the police was one thing he had to do, but more important than that, Peter wanted to drive back up to William's farm, and to talk again with Mrs Ralston.

Several days ago he had spent a night at their farm as their guest. She had cooked a tremendous spread, having literally killed a fatted calf, and roasted it on a spit in their yard. William had invited several other farmers over, and the evening had been both enjoyable and informative, turning into the sort of barn dance that Peter had always imagined would be typical of this part of America.

Peter had learnt a lot. Unable to drink alcohol – since his kidney transplant several years ago – while everyone else got drunk, Peter had made useful contacts and taken pages of notes.

It was hard to believe that so soon after such a joyous occasion William would be dead, and that Peter would be returning to the farm under such different circumstances.

"Mrs Ralston?" Peter asked, when the phone was finally answered.

"This is Sarah Ralston," a woman's voice answered. "My mother is not taking calls just now. I'm afraid we had some bad news yesterday."

"Sarah, hello. This is Peter Nicolson, from Scotland. I am sorry to hear about the death of your father."

"Peter? Oh, Peter, it's you . . . Are you okay? Are you safe? Mother wants to speak with you. She's been praying you would call. Hold on . . . "

There was a moment's silence, and then the voice of an older woman.

"Peter? Thank God you are okay. Peter, William left a message for you. He said it was important I make sure you got it."

"A message? When did he leave it?"

"He called last night, while on the way to get the file."

"What time?"

"About 8 p.m. I think he was worried he was being followed."

"Followed? Have you told the police?"

"Yes. They are here now. Asking lots of questions."

"Paula, I am so sorry to hear about your loss . . . about William . . . I can't believe he's dead."

"Peter, it wasn't suicide."

"I know."

"I can't tell you the message over the phone, Peter. I'm sorry. William said I shouldn't say anything to you on the phone. He thinks we might be bugged. Can you come here again? So that we can talk face to face?"

"Yes, I would like to. I also want to ask you some questions, if I may."

"When can you get here? I need to make sure the police have left by then."

"I'll be there at three o'clock."

"Good," she said, beginning to cry. "William trusted you. He liked you. And we like you too. Just drive carefully, Peter. _Very_ carefully."

\--------------------

Peter was staying in a motel in Ames, a small city thirty miles north of Des Moines, the capital of Iowa, the largest corn producing state in the U.S. His motel was close to the Jack Trice Stadium, the home football field of the Iowa State Cyclones. Over the past few years Peter had grown increasingly interested in the sport, watching it regularly on cable TV in Edinburgh. One day he would love to go to a real game. It was just a shame it couldn't happen on this trip.

The police station closest to his motel was the Boxholm police station, but driving past, it seemed too small; although outward appearances could be misleading, it looked like the station might be better at rescuing cats from trees than taking his claims seriously and responding to them appropriately. The next station that his iPad showed him was the Ames Police Station in Clark Avenue.

He arrived at 10 a.m., and it was 12.10 p.m. before they finally let him leave.

The police were fully aware of the death of William Ralston. The death had been discovered and reported by patrol officers from the Iowa State Patrol, who had considered it as a straightforward suicide. Peter couldn't help but feel that when he entered the station, he had brought with him the most exciting news they had heard in months. Within moments he was seated in a room being interviewed by the duty officers, but when he was finished, he was asked to repeat the whole interview again with the Ames Police Chief, who came to the station from wherever else he was to conduct the interview personally.

Peter was not a fool.

He was cautious about what he told them.

He had met William in Scotland at the Royal Highland Show near Edinburgh. Peter was a journalist. He had been invited to the U.S. by William to write an article on GM corn crops, the successes and the failures. William had shown him several farms, and was due to show him another one the next day. There was no indication, none, that William was suicidal. On the contrary, he was an active member of the local farmers' guild.

He showed them the letter he had received and gave it to them for testing.

There were a lot of questions.

Why would anyone want to warn Peter? Why did he think they were threatening him? Who would want to threaten William?

And then . . . where will you be for the next few days?

He told them he was due to go home the next day and what had happened to Susie. He gave them the phone number of his editor at the Scotsman, and his home details in Edinburgh. The police took notes - lots of notes, made a few phone calls, conducted numerous checks on the internet - Peter could only guess what - and then agreed to let him go.

By the time he left, he felt more like a suspect than a good citizen.

Calling ahead, he apologised and warned Paula Ralston that he would be an hour late. After a quick visit to a local diner, he found his way onto Interstate 35, settled back into his rental, and drove north.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about Susie, that he didn't notice the black Grand Cherokee jeep drop into the traffic a hundred yards behind, following him steadily for the next three hours.
Chapter 5

Heatherview Care Home

St Andrews

Scotland

8.30 p.m. GMT

Susie had driven home from the hospital in a daze. She had left at 1 p.m., having spent some more time with her father alone, saying goodbye to him for what she thought would be the last time.

She'd been given some documents, one of which was the death certificate, although she had not yet had the courage to open and read it.

She knew it would be so final: strange words on a formal document, stoically announcing the death of her only surviving relative. Words on paper, that said nothing about the character of the man whom they discussed. Her father. Her daddy.

After sitting in a nearby restaurant, her thoughts turned to the conversation with Peter. She missed him. She needed him.

He was her future now.

She thought briefly about their wedding, planned for September 14th later that year, less than two months away. She had been looking forward to it so much, and the planning was almost complete. Now it would be different. Her father would not be able to walk her down the aisle. Would not be able to share the First Dance with her. Would not see her in the lovely, white wedding dress she had already chosen.

She started to cry again, pulled over into a lay-by at the side of the road, and bawled her eyes out.

Life was so strange.

One minute you are there, and the next minute you are gone.

This morning her father had been alive.

And now he was gone.

Life made no sense. Living made no sense.

What was the point?

What was the point in living, when right from the very first instantaneous moment of conception, you are destined to die?

It didn't matter what great books you read - or wrote - what paintings you painted, what countries you visited, what wonderful sights you saw, what buildings you designed or built - the list went on - the outcome was the same. It didn't matter what you did, because, in the end, it all meant nothing. You died. Turned to dust. And so did everybody else.

It was then, at that moment, as she sat in her car beside the edge of the road somewhere outside of St Andrews, that she felt her little baby kick inside her for the first time.

The timing could have not been more significant. It was as if her baby had been listening to her thoughts, and it was nudging her. Telling her the answer.

In an instant, she knew what life was all about.

It was about the unborn child within her womb.

That little person who she would bring into the world and then nurture to adulthood. Who would grow up full of excitement. Full of laughter. Full of joy, and expectation.

Life was about the future. About the cycle: from life to death; from young to old; from parent to child.

She reached for the phone, determined to share the wonderful news with Peter. He would be thrilled to hear that Little Bump had kicked for the first time. Peter was going to make a brilliant father.

The call went straight through to voicemail.

"Peter, call me!" Susie beseeched, her tears mingling with laughter. "I have some incredible news for you. Call me!"

It was a beautiful day. The green grass, the sunshine, the blue of the sea . . .

It was strange how quickly her thoughts and her mood had changed from being so negative to so . . . so bright.

She knew that this sadness would pass. She had been through it all with her mother, when she had passed away several years before. She knew there was no choice but to take each day at a time. This time, however, it would be different. Now she had Peter, and their child growing within her.

She stroked her stomach, allowed herself a momentary smile, and started the car.

She had driven only a hundred yards, before thoughts of her father pervaded her mind again and the sadness returned.

For the tenth time that day she recalled the last few moments she had spent with her father in the hospital room. She remembered the look in his eyes and how he had looked over her shoulder to the empty space in the corner of the room behind.

" _Your grandfather, and your grandmother. And your mother . . . and Timothy."_

Were they really there? Could he really see them? _What_ could he see?

In those last few moments, he had seemed so calm. So happy.

And then, again, that same recurring question: " _Who was Timothy_?"

\--------------------

Claire Johnson, the nurse who had called Susie that morning, was due to start the night shift at the Heatherview Care Home at 9 p.m.

Susie was in reception at the care home as Claire walked through the door into the entrance hall - half way home to Edinburgh Susie had simply turned the car around and driven back to St Andrews. There were questions that needed to be answered, and Susie knew she wouldn't be able to sleep that night until they were. Once back in St Andrews, Susie had walked on the beach, and sat in a restaurant, killing time, thinking of her father and waiting until Claire's shift would start.

Claire recognised her as she walked in.

"You look as if you could do with a good cup of tea. Why don't you come to my office with me? I don't start my shift for another thirty minutes."

Susie followed Claire along a few corridors, poignantly passing the room where her father had lived. For a second she stopped outside, resting her outstretched fingers gently against the door, but not daring to turn the handle and walk in.

Looking back, she saw Claire watching her silently. Understanding.

"We can go in if you wish?"

"No, not now. Maybe later. Perhaps tomorrow."

They carried on through the building, eventually coming to a small room near the cafeteria. Claire let her in, offered her a seat, and left her alone for a few minutes while she went off in search of some tea and a strong coffee.

"Here you are, Susie," she said, returning with a tray. "And help yourself to the Rich Tea biscuits."

They sat down, facing each other.

"I am sorry about your father. He was a wonderful man. Everyone liked him, and I don't mind admitting I had a bit of a soft spot for him myself. He had a wicked sense of humour."

"My dad? Funny?"

"Hilarious!"

"Honestly? He was always so serious around me . . . at least he was after Mum died."

A few moments silence. Claire waited patiently for the questions to come. She knew they would.

"I couldn't go home. I'm sorry, but I had to come to see you. I needed to ask you some questions," Susie started to explain herself. "A few things happened today, that I just don't understand."

"Susie, I'd be glad to help if I can."

"Can you remember last night - this morning - when you called me? When my dad was talking to me, he said something that I didn't understand. It was as if he was talking to someone else. At least, that's what it sounded like. I asked you about it, and you said he was just talking to 'the Others' and that it was normal. Claire, you had left by the time my dad died, so I haven't had a chance to tell you yet, but when I was with him, just before he died, he looked over my shoulder at the corner of the room, and said: ' _Can I have another minute? Just another few moments with my Susie?_ ' It was as if he was talking to someone behind me. Then he turned to me and apologised and said: ' _I'm sorry, Susie. I have to go. They are waiting for me. And they can't wait any longer_.' I asked him, ' _Who's waiting?_ ' And he replied: ' _Your grandfather, and your grandmother. And your mother . . . and Timothy_.' I remember his words exactly."

Claire nodded as Susie spoke, waiting for Susie to wipe away a few more tears, guessing what her next question would be.

"Claire . . . what did you mean, when you said, he was talking to the 'Others'? And that it was 'normal'?"

Claire smiled gently.

"When I said that it was normal, I meant that it happens a lot. I'm used to it now. It doesn't always happen, but when it does, it no longer surprises us."

" _What_ doesn't surprise you?"

"I mean, when a person comes close to death, in the moments or hours before he or she leaves this world and travels to the next, it's quite common for them to start seeing, or interacting with other people that _we_ can't see. Mostly, I think, it's a family member who is already deceased, someone who has gone before. Someone who has come back from the other side to comfort the dying person in their last moments, and to guide them from this world to the next, maybe even to take them back to Heaven with them."

"And you say this happens a lot?"

"Maybe not 'a lot', but regularly. So much so, that we, the carers in this home who have seen it happen before, just call the visitors ' _the Others'_. 'The Others' that we can't see."

"Are you serious."

"Never more so, Susie."

"And you . . . ? Have you ever seen 'the Others' yourself?"

"Myself, personally, no. But I know people who have."

"What? Who have seen these ghosts?"

"Ghosts is perhaps not the word I would use. Whoever or whatever these entities are that come to visit the dying do seem to comfort them. They bring peace to the dying in their last few days, hours or minutes. They provide reassurance and take away their fear."

Susie was shaking her head.

"I don't know if I can believe this . . . but my Dad did see something. Do you think it's real? Are 'the Others' really there? Or is it just some form of hallucination experienced by the dying as parts of their brains begin to shut down, or as they become really confused?"

"I don't know the answer to that question. And in a way, I don't care. The point is, to those who see them, they are real. Which, perhaps, makes them real, even if they are not."

"So, you think they might not be real?"

"That's not what I said. Personally, honestly, I think 'the Others' are real. I think that your father did see his wife, and his parents. I think they did come to help take him to Heaven. And I think it's beautiful." Claire smiled. "Your father was very lucky. He passed away peacefully, and far from alone. He went _from_ love, _to_ love. I just hope that when my time comes, 'the Others' will come for me too."

Chapter 6

Rockville Ranch

Near Sibley, Iowa

U.S.A.

4 p.m. CST

After an hour and a half of driving up Interstate 35, Peter came to Clear Lake and turned on to Route 18. Peter hated trusting himself to Sat Navs, but since it came with the rental, and the land around him was so vast, he gave in, switched off his brain, and just drove.

Without air conditioning and the CD player in the pickup truck, Peter would have died from heatstroke and boredom days ago. Outside the temperature was once again tipping eighty nine degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than normal for this time of year, or so he was told. As he drove he was surrounded by green fields: one green field after another, most of which grew corn.

Peter had never seen so many fields in his life before. The farms in Iowa were truly impressive. But after you had driven past a thousand, the next thousand fields began to lose their appeal.

Driving through the towns, it seemed to Peter that they all looked the same. The same houses, the same shops, the same fast food restaurants advertising their services on huge billboards by the side of the road. Big wide streets, with big wide cars. And big wide people. It was true what they said, there were a lot of people in America who were big. But then again, America was a big place. Everything here was done on a scale that was unimaginable back home.

After two hours, somewhere down Route 18, Peter stopped to get a cold drink and take a walk through the local mall.

Once again, Peter was struck by the size and scale. The 'local' mall, serving the surrounding community, a place of no real geographical significance, was beautiful. Marble floors, smart shops, attractive restaurants, a cinema, a fifty-two lane bowling alley, a waterfall . . . Back home, this would be classed as one of the best malls in the country and people would drive hours to get there, and everyone would know its name. Yet this mall was in the middle of nowhere, just one of a million other malls in America that all looked the same, but were built to an incredibly high standard. How did the Americans do it? What was the cost of goods and labour here? And if they could do it, why couldn't others do it too?

Getting back in his rental vehicle, and turning back into the traffic on Route 18, Peter glanced back at the mall, and for the first time, saw the black Grand Cherokee jeep.

Although it didn't cause him any alarm, Peter's journalistic brain had seen it, registered it, and filed it.

It took another two hours to follow the Sat Nav's instructions, driving up '60' to Sibley, turning left, and along 170th St, before eventually being urged to turn right, drive up a dusty path and finally arrive at the Rockville Ranch.

Mrs Ralston was already waiting for him outside the house. No doubt she saw the dust clouds heralding his appearance.

"Peter!" she greeted him warmly, wrapping him into a gentle hug. "Thanks so much for coming."

He followed her into the house, and was surprised to find a welcoming committee waiting for him: three of the other farmers whose fields he had already visited and taken soil samples from, were standing around the large oak kitchen table. They each held out their hand and greeted him solemnly.

Peter began to feel a little nervous.

Without asking him, Mrs Ralston brought Peter two cold non-alcoholic beers from the fridge.

From the moment they had met, there had been a bond between Peter and this large, jovial woman. It was more than just her positive, infectious, charismatic outlook on life. Peter knew it was because they had both had kidney transplants, and several years ago had both been saved by the new wonder drug SP-X4. A drug which had later turned out to have sinister side-effects. It was Peter who had started the investigations into SP-X4, although in the end, it was a U.S. reporter who had exposed the drug's manufacturer StemPharma Corporation and first brought the phenomenon of Cellular Memory to the attention of a wider American audience. But without Peter, it would never have happened. In Europe, Peter had made a name for himself with his later reports and research into the drug, its effects and the Cellular Memory phenomena. But that was then, and this was now.

"Please, sit. Everyone sit." Mrs Ralston smiled.

Everyone sat.

"I'm sorry, Peter. If it wasn't for us, you wouldn't have been dragged into this mess. We invited you here. We asked you to come and explore our world, and you came. And now, we fear your life is in danger. And it is because of us."

"My life is in danger?" Peter asked, his heart missing a beat.

"We think so. But before we tell you why, I want to tell you why we asked you to come today: William wanted you to know the truth."

"The truth?"

"Yes. You see, when William bumped into you in Scotland at your Royal Highland Show, it wasn't actually an accident. It was a planned meeting."

"In what way?"

"William was sent to Scotland to meet you. To track you down, find you, and to ask you for your help."

Peter swallowed.

"Why?"

"Because of what you did with SP-X4. You tackled StemPharma, one of America's largest drug companies. And since then you have also exposed other illegal practices and scandals at two of the other big drug companies in America. You may not realise it, Mr Peter Nicolson, but over here in the States you are something of a hero. But, it's not just that. What's important here is that you are not American. You have more freedom to do what you need to do, and to write what you want. Not because the press here is not free, but because of the power that the large companies here have to stop Americans doing anything that could reduce their profits, or impact their business goals. Either through pre-emptive legal action; injunctions, libel claims, etc. or through other means: blackmail, threats, and murder."

Tears were gathering in Mrs Ralston's eyes, and beginning to spill down over her cheeks. The tone in her voice changed, a steeliness appearing that wasn't there before, an anger that sharpened her words and gave voice to the feelings beneath.

"They killed William, Peter. They killed Charles from Fort Dodge, Karl from Sioux Falls, . . . so far they've killed three farmers who were prepared to stand up and tell the truth, to speak out against Genetically modified crops . . . not just BT-maize. Corn is just the start. There's cotton, wheat - the list will just grow longer and longer. Trying to stop the monopoly they are forcing upon us is one thing, but the fact that we now know that GM crops are flawed is another! When you get home, the soil samples you have taken will help prove, independently, that our soil is dying. That GM crops are to blame. The file William put together will prove the link with the manufacturers of the seed that we have been practically forced to buy and plant, and it will show that they are to blame for forcing us to the brink of bankruptcy. But it's more than that, Peter. Shortly before William died, he called me and begged me to make sure that you understand what is at stake here. It's not just about the farmers in Iowa. Or the American farmers . . . there is a problem brewing here that could threaten the lives of millions, potentially billions of people worldwide."

Mrs Ralston took out a handkerchief, blew her nose loudly, and sat down on a chair beside the large, farmhouse table. She suddenly looked very tired. One of the other farmers - Peter remembered his name was Samuel Koons - poured her a glass of cold water from the pitcher on the table and handed it to her.

"Peter," she spoke more softly now, but looked right into his eyes. "For whatever reason, whether it is part of a global conspiracy, or just big business gone mad, the number of GM crops being planted and harvested each year is increasing exponentially, whether done legally or illegally. It's just happening. At first it's great . . . the harvests are brilliant. We make profits, even though we are forced to buy new seed every year from the seed suppliers, instead of using some of our own. The economics works. For a while. But then, nature adapts. It catches up with mankind's silly attempt to control everything, and the GM crops lose their ability to defend themselves against the new predators that adapt to live off them. The crops begin to fail. Farmers will try to switch to other seed suppliers, to go back to using natural seeds that are not modified genetically in any way. But then they will discover that they can't grow any crops at all. Too late, they will discover that their land has died. Harvests will not just fail . . . there won't be any plants in the first place. There will be no food for humans, no food for animals, the food cycle will break down. Millions, maybe billions will starve. There will be wars as people fight for food. Society will collapse . . . "

"Surely you are exaggerating. It won't happen like that . . . the governments will step in . . . "

"You think they will, Peter? They don't seem to have done anything yet! And our farms have already died. This year will probably be the last harvest for us. You've seen that most of us have already started to make plans to switch to cattle and sheep, . . . or anything where we may still be able to make a living. For a while. And even if the Government might want to do something . . . will they? Who runs the country anymore? The large corporations, or the people? Think about it, Peter. Think about it."

Peter was silent. He looked around the room, studying the faces of the others. Their expressions said it all.

Samuel Koons spoke next.

"Mr Nicolson, maybe, for others, the situation will not be as bad as we make it out to be . . . As bad as we fear it could become. But only if we all get together and do something about this now. Before it's too late. We've done the math, calculated the rate of expansion of GM crops, and it's not just scary . . . it's petrifying. Mankind is walking blindly into a catastrophe of its making. If we don't stop the rollout of GM foods in the next few years, it will be too late. There is only a small window of opportunity. And it's running out already. Mr Nicolson, we need your help to stop it."

"And how do you propose I do that? Exactly? Just me against the GM industry?"

"It's not just you. Others have died already. William has died." Mrs Ralston said.

"I can't help but feel that I have been tricked into this."

"Yes, I'm sorry for that," Mrs Ralston admitted. "But it's too late now. What's done is done. For some there is no going back. And I fear it may be too late for you too."

Peter was silent.

" . . . Or I could just walk away, like the letter has warned me to do," he then replied.

"You could."

"Yes, I could," Peter reiterated."But . . . if I were to help . . . how can I win? What evidence do I have?"

"The soil. The seeds we are using. The paper trail. It's all in the file that William and the others have put together."

"And where exactly is this file? This miraculous file that contains everything I need to bring down the GM giants?"

"We don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Peter asked.

"William went to get it. To fetch it from where it was being hidden . . . I think he told you that none of us felt comfortable keeping it in our house. There is only one file, no copy . . . and recently there have been several break-ins at our farms. The houses were turned upside down . . . It was as if somebody was looking for something but couldn't find it."

"The file?"

"Perhaps. I think so."

"So, where was it hidden?"

"Only William knew. And he went to get it yesterday to bring to you."

More silence. Everyone was thinking the same thing.

"You mean, someone followed William to get the file, and then killed him?"

"Possibly. We're pretty sure now that our phones are all bugged. It's like they know what we are going to do next . . . when we are going to be out of our homes, where we are going to go . . . "

"Who are 'they'?"

"We don't know. But we think it's the company we bought our GM seeds from. Or people working for them, or others in that industry."

"But if they have got this GM file, then we've lost the proof that you say you have, or had?"

"That's assuming they have it. Maybe they haven't."

Mrs Ralston crossed the room towards him, beckoned to him to bend closer, and then whispered something in Peter's ear.

"This room may be bugged. We don't think they have the file, because the last thing William said to me from his cell phone was: _'Make sure that Peter finds the file, and gets it out of the country! Emphasise how much we're all relying on him to use it together with the soil samples to prove our cases, and win compensation from the seed cartel to save our farms_. _We can't let those bastards win!_ ' "

"That's what his message was?"

"Yes. I wrote the words down immediately after we had spoken. It was a short conversation - there was not much signal, and he sounded flustered. And he also said this, he told me to say this to you: _'Peter, do what journalists do!_ ' "

Peter laughed. The _coup d'état_ was complete.

Peter was a journalist, and with the story he'd been given, he had no choice. The journalist in him had taken over.

"Okay," Peter replied. "I'll help. I'm a journalist, and that's what we do."

\--------------------

Outside in the black Grand Cherokee, Randal Jones sat watching the farmhouse through his sniper field binoculars. Through the windows of the house he could make out two of the five men he was being paid to monitor, and if necessary, remove.

Randal was nervous. The rest of his team had been deployed elsewhere. It was just him today.

But he couldn't afford to fuck up again.

The woman who was paying him didn't take kindly to fuck-ups, and Randal had already killed two men and still he didn't have the file.

William Ralston had been cleverer than expected. Somehow, although Randal didn't know how, he had managed to lose the file after he had picked it up from his friend in Ottumwa. Randal had seen him carry something to the car, something large. But, later, after they had thrown William from the bridge, he'd been through his truck with a toothcomb and come up with nothing.

Somehow, somewhere, he had hidden the file, between Ottumwa and Ames. How, and when, Randal didn't know - he'd been following him all the way. Unfortunately for Randal . . . they had once been forced to pull in for gas, and they had lost sight of Ralston for nine minutes and twenty five seconds. It could have happened then. Or maybe Randal was missing something. Perhaps the file had never been there at all.

Randal knew that the farmers knew someone was on to them. For weeks he had been listening to their phone conversations, hacking into their computers, and tracking their electronic communications over email, Twitter, and Facebook. It had been easy, until about a week ago, then suddenly communications became more formal, and fewer.

Which meant that either they had stopped using their normal phones and computers and were now using pay-as-you-go phones and new email accounts, or they had genuinely stopped talking so much. The latter was very unlikely.

Randal knew a lot about the reporter from Scotland. He was even impressed by the work that Peter Nicolson had done before.

Randal's hunch was this: Peter had come to the farm tonight to pick up the file from the others, who had brought it to the farm yesterday. William Ralston's trip south had been a massive decoy to get him and the rest of his team out of the way.

It had worked. Randal had made a mistake.

But he wouldn't make another. In his world, one mistake was excusable. Two mistakes were a firing offence: normally from a Glock automatic.

Chapter 7

August 5th

Edinburgh, Scotland

4 a.m.

Susie woke up with a start. A loud noise had startled her, coming from somewhere in the hallway outside her bedroom, cutting through her troubled dreams and bringing her to consciousness.

She listened again, her ears straining for any sound.

Since moving in together and buying the detached house near North Berwick, Susie had taken a long time to get used to the sound of nothing.

From the moment she had seen it advertised on the internet on the ESPCC houses-for-sale website, she'd known it was the house for them. Inexplicably drawn to it from the outset, they'd viewed it, made an offer on it immediately, and it was theirs!

Their house was large, set at the end of a small, private cul-de-sac, and was not close to any main roads or train lines.

At night time when she lay alone beneath the covers, there was only the sound of the blood pulsing in her head, or the sound of the washing machine or boiler functioning downstairs.

But the sound in the hallway had been loud. As if something had crashed off the wall, or been knocked over by someone.

Suddenly, she heard something else. Another sound. Almost like a low moan.

A shiver went down her spine.

Reaching out to her bedside table, Susie flicked on the light switch, and spoke loudly, "Who is there?"

She waited, her heart pounding in her throat.

"Who is there? I have called the police! You'd better leave now!" she said, this time more loudly.

She held her breath, waiting, listening.

Nothing.

Susie's next door neighbour was a nice man, about forty. He lived alone, kept to himself, but had made it clear to Peter and herself that if they ever needed help, day or night, they just had to call him. Susie was tempted to call him now.

The number was written down on a piece of paper in the kitchen, where she had put it in one of the drawers for safekeeping. But the kitchen was downstairs, and the noise had come from the upstairs hallway.

Susie held her breath.

The house was quiet.

What should she do?

Slipping slowly from the bed, she stood up and edged her way to the doorway to the bedroom, where she paused and listened carefully again, feeling the thumping of her heart against her ribcage.

She shivered.

It was August, but for some reason the house was strangely cold.

After standing by the door for a few moments longer, Susie made a decision.

Taking a deep breath, she burst out of her bedroom, hurried across the landing - flicking on the light switch on the wall as she passed it - then hurried down the stairs.

She made it through to the kitchen before she heard the banging sound again, this time coming behind her from the dining room at the bottom of the stairs.

Quickly reaching into a drawer, she pulled out a knife and held it up in front of her.

Suddenly the air around her became very cold, and she shivered again.

"Who's there?" she cried loudly. "I warn you, I'm armed!"

Stepping backwards towards the kitchen door behind her, Susie reached out for the key and unlocked the door.

Quickly, she turned the handle, stepped through into the garden outside, and hurried down to the bottom of the garden.

At the bottom of the garden, she stood on a crate, jumped over the fence dividing their garden from her neighbours, hurried back up the next garden, and started knocking on the neighbour's back door.

Just before the neighbour opened the door and let her in, it occurred to her just how warm the air was outside in the garden.

It was a warm night. Yet inside her house, it was freezing.

\--------------------

The police came quickly. Whether it was particularly quiet in North Berwick tonight, or it was always a quiet night in her new town, she did not know. North Berwick was a beautiful town within easy commuter reach from Edinburgh, and its peacefulness had been one of its attractions when deciding where to raise a family.

One police officer came into the house from the back, while another escorted Susie and Paul, the neighbour, through the front door.

What immediately struck Susie as they approached the house from the outside was how dark it was.

Somehow all the lights had been switched off.

"Perhaps a fuse has blown?" Susie suggested. "I turned on as many lights as possible when I came downstairs and made my way out of the back door."

Opening the front door, the police officer leaned inside, flashed his torchlight onto the wall, located the light switch and flicked it on. The hallway burst into light.

As soon as the light went on, the back door opened and the other officer entered the house from the rear door, also finding the lights and turning them on in the kitchen.

"Hello! Police!" the officer at the front door shouted. "If there is anyone here, please come out and identify yourself now!"

The officer waited a few moments, then repeated the warning.

"Okay, we're coming in. Please be warned, we are armed with Tasers!"

After urging Susie to wait outside, Paul and the police officer entered the house. A quick look around the ground floor revealed no one. Likewise, there was no one upstairs.

"Will you please check the attic for me too?" Susie requested, feeling rather like a wimp. "I'm pregnant, and I don't want to climb up by myself."

Paul looked at Susie, looked at her stomach, and then smiled, and she smiled sheepishly back.

Showing the officer how to get the trap down, and telling him how to pull the ladder down from inside the attic space, she watched as he climbed up, found the light switch, had a look around and then reappeared at the top of the ladder and looked down at them.

"Nothing. It could have been rats or mice that you heard, but there is nothing obviously knocked over up here. Maybe one of your boxes slipped off a pile and made a loud bang, or something. It happens sometimes."

"Miss Morgan," the other officer interrupted. "There is no one downstairs, but can I ask. Did you make the mess in the kitchen?"

"What mess?" Susie asked, surprised.

"Someone has emptied the knife drawer all over the floor . . . and I found this one lying on the floor in front of the television set in your lounge."

Susie stared at the knife the police officer was holding up in his gloved hands.

It was a long, white-handled bread knife.

A chill went up and down her spine.

"I never made that mess . . . It has nothing to do with me."

"Then I think that whoever it was probably rummaged through your kitchen drawers, maybe looking for your purse, or rings, or anything else they could get hold of quickly, and then when you left the house, they made a quick exit and escaped. It could be a typical drug addict looking for something to sell and get a quick fix. If you want I could ask for someone to come and look for some prints?"

"I don't think there is any point, Officer. We just moved into the house a few weeks ago, and we haven't had a chance to clean everything yet, or wipe anything down properly. If you find any prints, they could belong to anyone who was here before us."

"Well, let's take a quick look at your locks and your windows to see if there is any obvious way the person got in." They started to walk down the stairs, and the other officer came down from the attic and closed it up.

As they walked down the stairs, the officer in front spoke: "Miss Morgan, if you don't mind me suggesting, I think you should put the heating on in the house, given that you say you are pregnant. It's freezing in here."

"It's the middle of the summer," Paul said. "There should be no need for heating . . . my house is boiling and I haven't had the heating on since March."

After checking the locks and seeing that Susie had already correctly fitted the house with the latest, most secure, 5-lever mortice locks, the police confessed that there was probably nothing more that they could do just now, or at all. There was nothing to go on.

Susie thanked them, they left, and she was left standing in the house with Paul.

There was an embarrassed silence for a few moments.

"Susie, do you want to come and sleep in my house? I can make up a bed for you downstairs. I know you might feel a bit uncomfortable, but after what's happened, I think that might be best."

Susie thought about it for a moment, looking at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. It was now 5.30 a.m. Outside the sun was beginning to rise. It would be light quite soon.

"No, it's okay. I will be fine. I'll just make myself a cup of tea, call Peter, and then have a lie down. Whoever it was has now left. I'll be okay."

"If you think so . . . but here, let me write down my mobile number. Keep it by your bed. If you need anything at all, call me immediately. Okay?"

Paul gave her his number, and after she had typed it directly into her phone, she thanked him profusely, apologised for ruining his night, and then locked up after he had left.

The house was already beginning to warm up.

Making herself a cup of tea, she cleaned up the knives in the kitchen and replaced them all neatly in the drawer.

Taking another fresh cup of tea to bed with her, she tried to call Peter, but couldn't reach him: it kept going through to voicemail. She left him a message, lay back on her pillow, and almost immediately, despite the events of the evening and how upsetting it had been, exhaustion took over her. Within ten minutes she was fast asleep, even though she had left all the lights on in the house and the curtains wide open.

She slept like a log for seven hours, not waking until one o'clock that afternoon.

Making her way downstairs to the kitchen to make another cup of tea, everything in the house seemed fine.

Until she got to the kitchen and discovered the large, white bread knife lying in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Chapter 8

August 5th

Rockville Ranch

Near Sibley, Iowa

9.10 a.m. CST

Peter sat at the large oak kitchen table opposite Mrs Ralston. Breakfast was finished, and Peter was getting ready to depart. Later that night he would be flying from Minneapolis to Edinburgh via Chicago and London, a long convoluted trip leaving at 19.30 and arriving back in Edinburgh the next day at 4 p.m. It would take about four hours to drive the 370 km to Minneapolis, so Peter would have some time for a little bit of sightseeing along the way.

Looking at the map, Fort Ridgely State Park seemed interesting. Mrs Ralston had never been there, but she agreed it sounded nice.

The evening before had been spent discussing the plight of the farmers and the threat of GM crops, swapping stories about William and remembering him over a few drinks, and brainstorming about where the all important 'GM file' could be.

No one knew.

William had gone to fetch it . . . perhaps he had picked it up, perhaps not. They conjectured that he had been followed and killed, but from the short conversation he'd had with his wife, it seemed that he had not got it with him when he was caught: _'Make sure that Peter finds the file, gets it out of the country.'_

Had William hidden it again somewhere else?

Mrs Ralston and the others had agreed to call around their friends and business acquaintances that knew William, to try and establish if they had seen him that day, or if William had recently given them a package to look after.

Everyone understood that Peter had to get home to see his fiancée and to comfort her, and they were looking forward to him getting the soil samples out of the country and tested independently by a laboratory in Scotland.

Peter agreed to return to America to help, if and when the GM file was found, but they all knew that without it, Peter would struggle to prove the connection between the seed companies and the crops they had planted, and the ensuing damage done to their soil, farms, and livelihoods.

To add to his worries and the events that had unfolded in the U.S., Peter had called and spoken with Susie as soon as he had woken up, only to discover the nightmare that she had gone through the night before.

Peter was worried about Susie. The events of the previous night sounded terrifying, and coming at the same time as the death of her father, he was worried about the stress it would it all place upon his future wife . . . and his child. Susie was pregnant . . . this was the last thing they needed.

As he had listened to Susie speaking, relating the events of the night before, Peter had felt a chill pass through him. He had not mentioned anything to Susie - he didn't want to alarm her further - but the mention of the strange occurrences with the knives unsettled him. He found it all rather scary. For reasons which anyone who knew him well and understood what he had been through several years before would understand.

When Sarah Ralston returned from supervising the feeding of their livestock, Peter felt it was time to leave. Mrs Ralston and the other visiting farmers had been welcoming, friendly and hospitable, but Peter could sense that Sarah did not like Peter. He felt that she blamed him for her father's death. If it wasn't for Peter, her father would not have gone to get the file, and he would still be alive now. What she didn't grasp, Peter felt, was that it was actually the other way round. William had dragged Peter into this affair, and if anything, William had endangered Peter. Until yesterday Peter had naively been unaware just what he was getting himself involved in.

Before climbing into his pickup truck outside, Mrs Ralston had given him a bag containing food and drinks for the journey, and hugged him.

"Be safe, Peter Nicolson," she had said. "Please call us when you get home. I will worry about you otherwise."

"When will the funeral be?" Peter asked, regretting the question almost as soon as he asked it.

"In a week's time. It will be a big affair. He was a pillar of the farming community and a lot of members of the farmers' guild will be coming."

Peter could see she was doing her best to hold it together, and suspected that the moment he left, she would go into the house and dissolve into tears.

Looking back up at the house he could see Sarah standing on the veranda, watching them.

Sarah looked on as her mother hugged the journalist from Scotland and waved him farewell. Her mother watched as the truck drove away, the dust cloud billowing away in the light breeze until the truck joined the tarmacked road at the end of their long drive.

Her mother walked back to the house, and came up the steps onto the veranda. Sarah put her arm around her and together they walked back into the house and closed the door to the world outside.

After the conversations of the night before, Peter was more nervous. As a precaution he started to take a note of the traffic around him, regularly glancing in his rear view mirror to observe the traffic behind him, . . . just in case he was being followed.

Reassuringly he saw nothing untoward. The traffic on the road was light, and he was sure that if he was being followed, he would be able to spot it quite easily. He settled back into his seat, found a decent radio station to listen to, and started to think of Susie.

The miles rolled by, the friendly voice of the woman on the Sat Nav guiding him on his journey.

After an hour he pulled into a gas station to get a bottle of Coke: he was falling asleep and needed something to keep him awake.

After using the restroom, and washing his face, he bought his drink and then walked back to the truck. He climbed in, started up the truck and turned onto the road. He was now into the habit of checking his rear-mirror, and did it automatically without thinking, not expecting to really see anything. However, as he left the gas station behind, he saw a black Cherokee jeep pull out onto the road, now several cars behind him.

An alarm bell rang deep in Peter's mind, and he experienced a flashback to yesterday afternoon, when, as he left the mall, he had seen a similar jeep pulling into the traffic behind him.

Recalling the event from yesterday, and examining the image in his mind, then looking back at the Cherokee, he realised they were very similar, if not the same.

Not being one to jump quickly to the wrong conclusions, Peter knew that a black Cherokee jeep in itself was nothing to get worried about: there must be hundreds, maybe thousands of similar cars in this state alone.

Nevertheless, Peter was nervous, so to be sure, as he drove he kept an eye on the vehicle behind him. After a while, Peter started some evasive driving, trying to shake the car that was constantly behind him. He sped up, increasing the distance between him, and the Cherokee slowly dropped behind him. A minute later, he was gone. Peter relaxed.

Unfortunately, when he checked the rear view a few minutes later, the jeep was back, just two cars behind him.

Peter coughed, sat up, and swore.

"Calm down, boy . . . don't be paranoid!" he shouted at himself.

Scanning the road ahead, Peter saw a sign indicating an upcoming small town, and decided it would be a good place to try and lose his friend in the Cherokee.

Crossing a river, he drove down 2nd Avenue North into the town of Windom. He drove on, and then turned left into the parking lot of Bank of the West. Driving through without stopping, he slipped round the back of the bank and came back out onto 10th Street. He turned left, drove down to the junction and turned right onto 3rd Avenue going north. Executing a couple of other James Bond style quick manoeuvres from one street to another, he quickly lost all sight of the Cherokee behind him.

It was now that Peter became really grateful for the Sat Nav. Lost in Windom, he followed its guidance on how to find the best route to Fort Ridgely State Park. This took him up Route 71 towards Redwood Falls, and then right on 68. All without any sign of the Cherokee.

Whoever it was that had been tailing him, - if he had been tailing him at all - was no longer to be seen.

Peter relaxed.

He would have his lunch in the park, and then easily make it to Minneapolis with plenty of time to spare.

\--------------------

Back in the Cherokee, Randal Jones swore.

It was obvious that Peter Nicolson had realised that he was being followed.

Randal knew that he was heading to Minneapolis, because his boss had already phoned him and informed him Peter was booked on the 19.30 to Chicago. This gave Randal a few options: either to follow Peter from a distance, and to intercept him at some convenient point between now and Minneapolis, or to head directly north, and catch him just before or at the airport.

Furthermore, Randal was not yet sure what the best course of action would be when he got the man: simply to temporarily disable him - with his Taser -, and then search his pickup, or to actually kill him and not have to worry about him anymore.

Either way, it made no difference to Randal, and both carried risks, but worryingly, his boss had not been clear as to whether he wanted Nicolson left dead or alive.

As he weighed up his options, Randal continued driving up the roads a block away but parallel to Peter.

Tracking Peter was easy. Randal simply looked at the map displayed on his iPad, and followed the little red dot.

Randal was a professional. Peter couldn't get away even if he tried. Thanks to his expensive little toys, Randal knew exactly where Peter was and could catch up with him anytime he wanted.

\--------------------

It was coming up to midday when Peter passed through the intriguingly named town of Sleepy Eye and turned onto State Highway 4 heading up towards the Fort Ridgely State Park.

Peter didn't know what to expect. It sounded as if it would be a scenic place to visit, and Peter needed somewhere to take a lunch break, and quite fancied the idea of visiting somewhere which was not a shopping mall or a farm.

He had been driving up the almost empty State Highway 4 for a while, when with a feeling of dread he saw the Cherokee in his rear mirror.

"Shit!" Peter swore aloud, sitting bolt upright, instantly alert and worried.

The Cherokee was gaining ground on him. Forgetting for a second where he was and that he was not on a motorway back home in the UK, Peter put his foot down on the gas.

The pickup sped forward, pulling quickly away from the Cherokee.

A sign up ahead indicated that the entrance to the State Park was a kilometre away.

Peter went faster, his heart beginning to pound within his chest.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he fought with himself to remain calm. After what had happened to William, Peter was under no illusion as to the intentions of the Cherokee's driver.

Fervently scanning the road ahead, he finally saw the entrance to the State Park coming up fast. The road ahead was empty, with no other cars in sight. Leaving it to the last moment, he put on the brakes, slowed down, and skidded but nevertheless managed to make the turn into the park. Accelerating forward, a few hundred yards in, a side road presented itself, and Peter swerved into it, noticing over his shoulder with shock, that the Cherokee had also managed to make the turn into the park and was close behind him.

They were on a narrow road now, a small hill rising to the right, the road twisting and turning. This was not a road to take at speed, but Peter was spooked and knew his life was under threat.

As he hurtled round the next bend, his back tyres began to skid and for a second he was worried he would spin and leave the road, but at the last moment the tyres found traction and he was propelled forward again.

Another turn was coming up fast. He looked at his speedometer: he was doing 60 mph down what was surely a 20 mph road.

"Shit!" Peter shouted out aloud again, scanning the road ahead as well as glancing frequently at the rear view mirror.

As the next bend approached, he was going too fast and he took it too wide . . . his truck swerved around the corner veering onto the wrong side.

Peter swore aloud again, and as he fought to gain control of the vehicle, he prayed that nothing was coming in the other direction . . . if so, he would meet it head on!

As he took the bend, he looked on in disbelief at a large, car-sized rock boulder that must have recently slipped down the incline of the hill and was now blocking the road on the right side - the side where he should have been!

Speeding past the boulder, a momentary sense of relief swept over him . . . if he had not taken the corner so wide, he would have hit the boulder head on.

The road ahead was now straight, and Peter glanced fervently into his rear mirror, praying that the driver of the Cherokee was a better driver than he was.

Thankfully, he was.

Almost immediately, there was a flash of light, followed by a bright burst of flame in his rear view mirror, and with an incredible sense of relief Peter realised that the Cherokee had just driven straight into the large boulder at considerable speed, burst into flames and exploded!

Black smoke now billowed up from the wreck of the car, and made it difficult to see the road behind him clearly.

Nothing was following him, and the road beyond the rock was empty.

Ahead of him, the road he was driving down began to peter out, and quickly came to an end. There was a lake ahead of him, surrounded by trees, but with no way out.

Peter stopped the car, turned it round and stared at the only obvious exit.

It was a dilemma.

The likelihood of anyone surviving the crash was probably zero, but nevertheless, it would take some courage to drive back past the accident, just in case someone had managed to jump out, and had a gun . . .

Yet, the longer he waited, the more attention the black smoke would attract. Peter had to leave now. There was no time for dawdling.

Biting the bullet, Peter put his foot on the gas and drove back down the road towards the flames.

As he approached, he slowed down, his heart threatening to explode in his chest. He knew the best thing to do was to drive past at speed, giving as little chance as possible for any survivors to make a target out of him, but as he came close, he realised that the inhabitants of the truck that hit the boulder would have had no chance of surviving the impact. The front of the pickup had been completely crushed, the vehicle having hit the boulder head on with great force.

The truck was engulfed in flames, the heat so intense that Peter could feel it through the glass of his windows, even with the internal air conditioning on.

A charred and blackened body lay propelled through the broken windshield across the bonnet, the skin and clothes burnt beyond recognition. The doors of the pickup were both still closed, and there were no others in the truck.

Peter edged past, taking photographs of the car and the rear number plates with his iPhone, hoping that perhaps he may be able to track its owners down once he got back to the UK, but suspecting that it was a rental, and that personal details of the owner would be difficult to come by legally. Still, Peter had contacts . . .

Turning his attention back to the road, Peter drove around the corner and back towards the entrance to the park.

Strangely, he noted that he felt nothing. A man had just died. Burnt to death in a car wreck. Yet Peter was under no illusions. He had been lucky. If things had been different, it would almost certainly have been Peter who was dead now.

As he came to the entrance of the park he realised that his arms and hands were still shaking.

He took three deep breaths, indicated, and turned back onto State Highway 4, heading south.

On the other side of the road, a police patrol car zipped past him, beacons flashing, slowing down and turning into the park behind him.

For an instant, Peter considered going back, returning to the scene, and telling them everything that had happened. That he had been chased, his life had been under threat . . . that the accident was not his fault . . . but that someone was out to get him, and it was connected with the death of William Ralston.

But what if they started enquiring about his heavy suitcase, and all the soil samples inside? Would they want him to stay and answer lots of questions? He might miss his plane.

Then he thought of Susie, and decided that the sooner he got out of the country, the better.

\--------------------

He was just about to enter the town of Sleepy Eye, when a thought occurred to him.

How had the Cherokee been able to find him again? How did it know where he was? Or where he was going?

He pulled into the parking lot beside a Denny's restaurant, got out and stared at his vehicle.

Walking round and looking at it closely several times he could see nothing obvious, so he got down on his back and slid under the truck, examining the underside.

The device was just inside the nearside wheel arch, a small black, square box, about the size of a small box of matches. Peter had never seen one in real life before, but he had watched enough TV programmes to realise what this was: his pickup truck had been bugged.

He reached up and tried to prise it off with his fingers, but found that it was stuck to the metal surprisingly well. Taking off his shoe, he grabbed the sole and then hit the object with the heel several times, each time harder than before.

It came off with the fourth bang.

Standing up, he stared at the device in his hand. Who on earth were these people that were chasing him?

A wave of fear washed over him. What on earth had he got himself involved in?

It was time to start thinking more clearly. Peter had to take this threat more seriously.

Lying back down on the ground he surveyed the rest of the vehicle, just to make sure there was nothing more he should be worried about. He found nothing.

Then checking that there was no one watching, he walked across to a large freight truck with Florida plates, bent down and reached up and placed the magnetized bug inside above the wheel.

Smiling, he walked back to his rental, got in and drove off.

Next stop, Minneapolis airport.

Chapter 9

Thursday, August 6th

North Berwick

Scotland

2.10 a.m.

Susie sat on her bed, her knees tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped round her legs, rocking back and forward gently on the mattress. A duvet was wrapped around her shoulders and her body, trying to keep her warm.

Outside the house, on this balmy August evening, the air temperature was 18 degrees Celsius, a warm evening indeed. Yet inside, the house was freezing.

The house was awash with light, with every light switched on, and a radio playing beside her bed, gentle music soothing Susie as she rocked back and forward.

She had spoken to Peter twice this evening already: once before he boarded the plane in Minneapolis, and then again, as he waited for the flight from Chicago to London.

He would be home later that day, and then this nightmare would end. She longed for him desperately - never had she needed the comfort of another human being so much before. She needed him to hold her, to comfort her, to wrap her into him and tell her that it was going to be okay, that their child would be safe, and that whatever was happening in their house now, would stop.

The noises had started just after 8 p.m. Loud bangs or crashes that had no obvious source.

She had been from room to room trying to locate where the noises were coming from, but could find no reasonable explanation for them. It sounded as if someone was walking around, and throwing things or dropping objects onto the floor, but when she plucked up the courage to investigate, there was never anything to be seen.

And the cold. The house was so cold.

Something strange was happening, but she couldn't figure out what.

Her neighbour Paul had knocked on the door just before 9.30 p.m. and she had welcomed him in. While he was there and they were talking downstairs in the front room, he too had heard a bang, but when he went upstairs to see where the sound had emanated from, again there was nothing to be found.

"Do you want to come to my house this evening? Peter will be back tomorrow, so it will only be for one night? I don't like to think of you in here by yourself."

"This is our home. Our _new_ home. I am not going to run away from whatever is happening. And besides, there has to be a rational explanation for it all. Did Mr and Mrs Dewhurst who lived here before us ever mention anything to you? About . . . something . . . you know . . . _strange_?"

"Never," Paul replied. "Mind you, we didn't talk much. They were a nice couple, and I think they lived here for over twenty five years, but while I have been here there has certainly never been any talk of . . . anything . . . _strange_ . . . happening in the house."

Paul stayed until 10.15 p.m. but then left, citing that he had to get up early the next morning.

Paul was a nice man. Friendly, and seemingly caring. But there was something more - something which Susie couldn't quite put her finger on. There was definitely something different about him.

Sitting in her room now at 2 a.m., Susie was desperate for sleep. Her child was kicking within her, and she needed to rest. But she was scared to go to sleep in case of what might happen when her eyes were closed.

She was trying at all costs to avoid the word 'haunted', but unquestionably something freaky was going on in the house, and she had no explanation for it.

A big, green-covered leather bible sat on the bedside table beside her, a token gesture of biblical protection from whatever was around her.

She missed her father. In the past few years, she had not seen him as much as she should have. She was always telling herself that she should be spending more time with him, but when she did, he just talked incessantly about her mother, whose death Susie was still trying to come to terms with - a sudden heart attack several years back in the supermarket while doing the grocery shopping. Susie was fed up of coming away from visiting her dad feeling so sad, and without realising it, she had begun to find reasons not to visit him. Not to spend time with a lonely man who only wanted to think back upon a time when his family had been all together.

But now, with the child in her womb, she wondered if that longing for family had been such a bad thing to want for after all.

She had been wrong. She should have visited him more.

And now it was too late. She knew she would blame herself for the rest of her years for not spending time with him when she could have . . . but . . .

Bang!

A sudden crash from the stairs brought her out of herself, and back to the land of the living.

"Who's there?" she asked loudly.

Edging out of the bed, she peered into the hallway. Nothing. There was nothing to see.

She scouted the rest of the house again, like she had done several times this evening already, and still found nothing.

"Who's there?" she shouted.

No response.

Climbing back into the bed, she gathered the pillows, the sheets and the duvet around her.

She was scared.

A sudden thought occurred to her tired mind, completely out of the blue. Normally this thought would not have held any traction, but now, early in the morning, with what was happening in the house since yesterday . . . the thought was not so absurd after all.

Was her father trying to communicate with her?

It made sense . . . yesterday he died, and yes, he had wanted to talk to her about something important before he passed away . . . there was definitely something that he had wanted to tell her, but hadn't been able to before 'the Others' had apparently taken him . . . so maybe it was her father trying to talk to her . . .

"Is that you Dad?" she asked aloud, scared that there might be a reply.

Silence.

"Dad? Is there something you want to say to me? Something you didn't get the chance to say before . . . yesterday, . . . before mum came to collect you?"

Silence.

The thought that it could perhaps be her father who was trying to communicate with her, gave her some comfort.

Enough comfort for her to relax and realise how tired she was.

She lay back in her bed, her eyes so incredibly heavy, her legs so tired. Instinctively her hands went to her stomach and first stroked and then rested upon Little Bump. Her eyes closed. And she slept.

She woke the next morning at 9 a.m.

Somehow all the lights in the house had been switched off, and the large, kitchen bread knife was lying on the carpet at the top of the stairs outside her bedroom.

Susie saw it and screamed.

Chapter 10

Thursday, August 6th

North Berwick

Scotland

7.10 p.m.

Peter stood inside the doorway to his new home, holding Susie in his arms and rocking her gently back and forward, as the tears poured forth and she declared that she could no longer stay in the house.

He had just got home and through the door, when Susie had come to him and dissolved, the experiences of the past few days combining and exploding within her.

She cried and cried, then Peter led her gently into their front room, sat down on their new sofa, bought just two weeks ago for their new life together in North Berwick, and he listened to her relate the events of last night, step by step.

At the mention of the knife appearing again, this time at the top of the stairs, he shivered.

What should he say? Susie had been through a lot, and spending another night in a haunted house was not something he was going to insist she did.

"Do you want to give Denise a call, and see if we can pitch up there for a few nights?"

Susie smiled.

"I already have. She's expecting us."

"Okay, then let's pack a few things together . . . "

"Done. In the car. Ready to go."

Peter smiled. This was typical of Susie: organised, together and efficient.

"This is only temporary, Peter. Just for a few days. We need to talk to someone about this, someone who can help understand what's happening here. We'll get it sorted, and then we'll come straight back. This is our home, and we are going to live here together. But, I just need a little more sleep, some time to plan my dad's funeral . . . "

"I understand, Susie. It's okay. And don't worry, . . . I'll sort this. I promise. And from everything you've said about the knife, this is more about me than you. By the way, where is the knife?"

"Back in the kitchen drawer, where it belongs."

Peter stood up, walked through and got it. Opening the front door, he marched into the front garden, opened the rubbish bin and threw it in with all the other rubbish.

Thirty minutes later, after a cup of tea and a quick shower, Peter locked the front door to the house, climbed into the Ford Mondeo with Susie, and started driving to Edinburgh.

As they drove off, he turned around and checked to see that all the lights in the house were off. They were.

\--------------------

As the Ford Mondeo pulled away, Paul pulled back the bedroom curtain and watched his new neighbours go. Pressing the shutter on his Nikon DX40, he snapped some more photographs of Susie. After dinner this evening, he would print them off and add them to the collection of other photographs he had already taken of her and stuck on the wall.

Susie was a very beautiful girl. Very attractive. Tall, slim, long, curly black hair, beautiful green eyes, with a ring of orange around her pupils that glowed and sparkled in the sunlight, and made people want to take a second look . . .

Paul liked beautiful girls.

And he certainly liked Susie.

But with Susie there was something more. Something special that drew his attention to her over and over again . . .

\--------------------

Denise opened up her door and welcomed Susie in like a sister she had not seen in years, and not just last week when they'd gone for a drink in the Dome in George Street, their favourite wine bar.

A meal was already set and waiting for them on the table, along with two bottles of wine: one alcoholic, one not - which was for Peter.

Normally the conversation flowed between them, but tonight was a quiet affair. Susie was very distant, and Denise, - Susie's best friend and colleague from the Evening News newspaper where Susie had worked full-time until only a few weeks ago - sensed that Susie just wanted to eat, and go to bed. Although this was her house, she knew that she was the gooseberry in the room. Susie and Peter need to be alone.

At 9.30 p.m. Denise excused herself, admitting that she'd run out of a few essentials, and she needed to do some shopping at Asda. She showed them to their room, insisted that they treat her home like theirs, and then disappeared.

By 10 p.m. Susie and Peter were wrapped up in bed together, Susie fast asleep in Peter's arms.

Peter on the other hand, was wide awake. In spite of the long journey home, his mind was alert, thinking and planning.

The coming week was going to be very busy indeed.

\--------------------

The next morning Peter and Susie set off towards St Andrews at 8.30 a.m. Susie had arranged three appointments for the day.

First, she had agreed with the care home that they would come and collect all her father's personal belongings, and then help clean up his room.

After that, Susie had a meeting booked with St James Church to discuss the funeral, and then afterwards, another meeting with the undertaker.

Luckily, Peter wasn't expected back at the paper for work until the next week, and he had taken the Friday off.

Peter knew that it was going to be an emotional and stressful day ahead. What he didn't realise, was how much the next few hours were going to change his life, and start a process that ultimately had the potential to change mankind's view towards death itself.

Claire Johnson was in her office when they knocked. As ever, she greeted them warmly, and after showing them into Susie's father's room, she excused herself and disappeared back to her duties: apparently, another of the guests at the care home had died earlier that morning, and there was a lot of paperwork to take care of. "If you need anything, or have any questions, please come and find me . . . "

When they entered her father's room, they sat on his bed for a while, and talked about the various aspects of her father's life that were remembered or represented by the possessions displayed around his room.

There were tears, some laughter, and some moments of silence, when simply staring at a photograph or holding an object, brought back silent memories that Peter let Susie experience without describing aloud.

Sadly, after living a long, full life, two hours later, the remnants of her father's entire life was all neatly stored and filed in two big boxes and a suitcase, half of which would probably end up in a charity shop within the next few weeks. What remained would go up in their attic, and would one day be thrown out by Peter and Susie's children who would have no recollection of their grandfather, and nowhere to keep records of a life they never shared.

The saddest part for Susie came when she found a box full of family photographs. There were hundreds of old photographs, probably the majority of which were of either her dad's or her mum's family, but almost all of whom she could not identify: generations of lives, from people now all dead, whose time on earth had been forgotten.

"Will this happen to us? Will our grandchildren one day look at our photographs and throw them out in the rubbish too? At the end, at the _very_ end, all that is left of us are images, images like sand on the beach. How many photographs are there in the world today of people who are long dead and gone, and of whom no one carries any memories or recollections? Millions? Billions? Life is so much bollocks . . . " Susie protested.

"No, Susie." Peter said, kneeling down in front of her, and wiping away a tear from her eye."Life is not bollocks. Life is a truly amazing and beautiful adventure. Granted, it's a mystery, but that's what makes it so interesting."

Susie smiled. She knew that Peter was trying his hardest, but she also knew that in the whole history of mankind, no one had ever managed to explain what life was all about, and Peter Nicolson, . . . lovely though he was, certainly wasn't going to be able to succeed where every single person who had gone before him had failed.

After carrying out everything to the car, Peter and Susie returned to the room, where together they closed their eyes, and Susie said a small prayer. Peter was not a particularly religious person, but since he had almost died several years before, and after their experiences with the Cellular Memory phenomena, Susie had taken more of an interest in all things spiritual. After the prayer, Susie said a few words to her father, and then together they left the room, closing the door gently behind them.

Claire Johnson was sitting behind her desk when they knocked on the door.

"Come in," she replied.

She offered them tea, asked them to sign a few documents, and enquired when the funeral would be: "Some of the other guests at the care home would like to attend the funeral and pay their respects, if that would be okay?"

"Absolutely. And afterwards there will be a small wake at the local pub, where they are welcome to come and drink a wee dram to Dad's memory, if they want."

Claire smiled. "That will go down well. There is nothing better than a good wake down at the _The West Port_."

"May I ask you a question . . . Claire, about what you said the last time I was here? We talked about _'the Others_ '? Peter and I were discussing what you said as we drove over here this morning. We both find it fascinating. Would you mind if I talk to some of the other carers here about their experiences? I find the whole thing amazing . . . and I was wondering, just how common it is."

"I wouldn't mind at all, Susie. In fact, if you tell me when you want to come back, I can try and set up some time for you to talk to everyone."

"How about next week? Next Tuesday?"

"Next Tuesday? Okay, let me try and arrange it. It's funny that you should mention it, actually, because it happened again this morning. One of our long term guests passed away in her room just after midnight. I was there, along with another of the carers, and before she died, she spent quite a lot of time talking with 'the Others'."

"How long? A couple of minutes?"

"Oh no, days actually."

"Days? What do you mean?"

"I mean, it used to be that we would just see it in the moments or hours leading up to their passing, but recently, - I've been talking about this with the other carers \- it seems that people have been seeing 'the Others' for days or even weeks before they die. We've never really openly discussed it before, but now we have, it seems that recently we've all been experiencing it much more often."

Peter sat forward in his chair.

"Can you give us an example?"

"Okay, . . . for example, the lady who passed away this morning. She saw 'the Others' quite a lot, but one time, about two weeks ago, she was sitting in the front lounge having tea, looking out at the sea. Her best friend in the home was sitting beside her, fast asleep. When I went past, offering to top up her cup, Moira . . . the lady who died today, quite matter-of-factly said, nodding at her sleeping friend: 'Her grandmother just came to visit her.' I didn't know what she was talking about, so I said: 'Her grandmother? No, you probably mean her daughter. She came to see her this morning.' Then Moira replied quite adamantly: 'No. It was just a minute ago, and it was her grandmother. She was wearing Victorian clothes, and I spoke with her.' Her friend died a few days later. I think it was the sadness of her passing that then led to Moira's death as well."

Peter shook his head in disbelief.

"And you believe this? You honestly believe what you are telling me?"

Claire looked quite sternly at Peter, a little bit annoyed at being challenged so openly.

"Yes, I do. But, don't just ask me. Ask Susie. She witnessed it with her father first, . . . that's why she's asking the questions now!"

"I'm sorry, please excuse us," Susie interrupted. "It's just that, for the past few days we have been having some rather strange, supernatural things happening in our house, and at the moment we are both a bit sensitive and confused by all this talk of death and spirits."

"I understand. That's why we don't talk about this amongst ourselves really. Anyway, it's all a bit hard to grasp and understand during the day, when the sun is shining. My parents always said, that it was best not to get involved or discuss these things, and I think, in general, people don't."

There was a knock at the door, and someone else came in, said that Claire was needed urgently, and then left rather hurriedly.

The meeting was obviously over.

As they got up to leave, Susie asked, "Claire, did my father ever mention someone called Timothy to you?"

"Yes, quite a few times actually. He was very proud of him."

"Who is he?"

A look of puzzlement crossed Claire's face.

"You don't know?" she asked.

"No, I have never heard of anyone in the family called Timothy."

Someone shouted Claire's name from down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, Susie, I have to go . . . Can we talk about this later?"

"Who was he? Who was Timothy?"

Claire had already started hurrying down the corridor away from them, when she turned around, walking backwards, looked into Susie's face, and called back: "I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that Timothy was your brother."
Chapter 11

Friday, August 7th

St Andrews

12.00 p.m.

"My brother? I don't have a brother!" Susie exclaimed, exasperated, as they sat in the pub on the coast, watching the large waves pounding the beach below, having lunch and killing time until their next appointment.

"She's obviously wrong. She doesn't know your family. Perhaps your dad was getting confused, and talking nonsense."

"My dad was fine, right up to the end. He wasn't confused. I don't know what he told Claire but _a brother_? What on earth was he on about?"

"You should call her later today, on the way home, and ask her. Maybe she can clear it all up."

And so she did. After she had visited the church and the undertakers and made all the arrangements, she called Claire en route back to Edinburgh.

They caught her at the end of her shift, but unfortunately, she only had a little more to add. If anything, she made it worse. Claire was adamant that her father had mentioned his name several times. She had once queried him at the time, and he had replied that it was Susie's brother. He had died as a young man, killed in a car accident. Claire was sure that there was at least one photograph of him amongst her father's possessions. Susie's father had showed it to Claire, and pointed to the young man.

"When did he die?"

"Sorry, I don't know. He didn't say."

They were just coming into the outskirts of Edinburgh when Peter's phone rang. It was his editor at the Scotsman.

"Aha . . . so you are back!"

"Yes. I just got back in last night."

"I know you are off today, getting over jetlag and all that, but I was wondering if you had a moment to pop into the office? I have a couple of questions for you."

Susie dropped him off at the front of the new Scotsman building at the base of Arthur's Seat, a small, volcanic mountain in the centre of the city, around which the beautiful city of Edinburgh had grown up over the centuries. She kissed him goodbye, and then hurried back to Denise's where she intended to empty the box of her father's photographs all over the floor and go through each one until she found one of 'her brother'.

Malcolm Robertson was a tall man, and had been the Editor of the Scotsman for six months now. It was Malcolm who had personally invited Peter to move from the Evening News to the Scotsman, having been impressed by this work on exposing SP-X4 and its owner, the U.S. pharmaceutical company StemPharma Corporation. The series of articles that Peter subsequently wrote on the Cellular Memory phenomena had been carried by other newspapers worldwide, and generated a lot of interest. Since then Peter had investigated several other drug companies, also very successfully.

Whereas the Evening News was a fantastic city paper, the Scotsman had an international reputation, and could make better use of Peter's talents, or so Malcolm had said in his sales pitch as he had tried to lure Peter into joining the new team that he was building.

Peter didn't really need the kind words: he would have jumped at the chance anyway. He had been thinking about moving south to a bigger paper in London, but the opportunity at the Scotsman was not something to be sneezed at. He made the move.

His office had a stunning view of Salisbury Crags, a wall of volcanic basalt rock that rose at forty five degrees out of the side of Arthur's Seat, the remnants of a prehistoric lava vent from the famous volcano.

"Sorry to disturb you on your day off, Peter," Malcolm said, welcoming him into his office and waving him to a seat, "but I had an interesting phone call from the FBI this morning. They are rather keen to talk with you."

Peter's heart missed a beat.

"The FBI?"

"Yes,..first of all, they wanted to verify who you were. Did you work here? etc. And then they started asking some pretty weird questions about what you were doing in the U.S. Of course, I didn't say anything yet, because I wanted to talk with you and get our story straight first. All I've said so far, was that you had been invited over by a guild of farmers in Iowa to do a story on GM crops. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. So how did it go?"

"Great. Although to be honest, I was lucky to get back alive. The guy who invited me over was murdered three days ago, and yesterday someone tried to kill me as well. But it turns out that I am a better driver than he was: we had a car chase, and he died first, whoever he was."

Malcolm's jaw dropped open.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm lucky to be alive. By the way, did you hear that Susie's father died? That's why I came home a few days early. Turns out I'm glad I did. I don't know how much longer I would have survived if I was still in the U.S."

"Well, at least that explains one of the questions the FBI were asking."

"Which was?"

"Did you know anything about a burnt out pick-up truck and one very dead previous owner which were both found in Minneapolis?"

"What were the other questions?"

"Did I know anything about a special 'file' that you had apparently collected from the farmers in the Iowa? If so, I am to take it off you and call them immediately."

"The GM file? How on earth do the FBI know about that?"

Peter was worried.

"Of course, I told them that you were out for the next week, had some vacation planned, but I would talk with you as soon as you returned."

"Which gives us a week?"

"Exactly."

"If they call again, just so you know, the only way I would consider having a phone call with anyone claiming to be with the FBI, is if they arrange it through the police, and the interview takes place down at the station. How do you even know that the people who called you here were actually the FBI? I don't know who was trying to kill me, but for all we know, it could be the same people who are calling you and pretending to be the FBI to get the file!"

"See, that's the third time I have heard this incredible 'file' mentioned. Peter, you know what I think?"

"No, but I think you are going to tell me anyway."

"Absolutely. I think it's time you and I get a large cup of coffee, then we sit down together and you give me a good briefing on what happened while you were over there, and what's going to happen next. If your life is in danger, then maybe we need to get our lawyers involved, and alert the police."

Peter nodded.

"Yes, to all of it. But as far as contacting the police just now, it may be best if we wait until I get all the soil samples analysed and the results back."

"What soil samples?"

Peter smiled.

"All in good time. First of all, let's get those coffees . . . "

Peter sat opposite Malcolm, wondering where to begin. Malcolm was a large man, broad, strong, handsome, and an ex-member of the Scotland rugby squad. He was now a charismatic member of the media world, known both for his rugby days and for the success he had made his own, after initially entering the world of newspapers as a sports journalist.

Malcolm was studying Peter, waiting patiently for him to begin his story. Malcolm was a good judge of character, and he liked Peter a lot. Peter never bragged, or made more of what he had than he should, but he did sometimes underplay his own successes. If Peter thought this was going to be a good story, then it would be. But at the moment, what worried Malcolm more than anything was that Peter claimed someone had tried to kill him. Coming from Peter, this would be true.

In others words, someone was out to kill a member of his new team.

That made Malcolm both worried, and angry.

"Begin . . . " Malcolm invited Peter.

"The problem is, _where_ to begin," Peter conceded. "This has the potential to be a vast story, a really, _really_ , important story. Maybe one of the most important stories that any paper may run this year."

"That's a big claim, Peter."

"I know, but I did say, 'potential': it all depends on what results come back from the tests on the soil samples that I have taken . . . Don't worry, I'll tell you all about that in a minute. Anyway, let's go back to the beginning. Last year I bumped into a farmer at the Royal Highland Show. It turns out that it was no chance meeting . . . the farmer came all the way from Iowa specifically to find me, and to enlist me to help them, and to expose a disaster threatening mankind that all of us are walking into blindly."

"GM crops?"

"Yes." Peter replied."And just so you know, I've been doing a lot of research into it. Actually, perhaps not as much as I really should have, but I have done a lot of reading about it. Now, after what I've learned this week, and what happened, I will have to take this far more seriously and get all my facts _absolutely_ right. There's a lot at stake here. First of all, let me give you a quick summary of the whole GM debate. Let's go back to the beginning. In about 1946, just after the war, scientists discovered that it was possible to transfer DNA between organisms, i.e. you take genes from one plant species and stick them in another. Apparently this does happen in nature already, but the scientists thought that if it happens naturally, they could use the same process to their own advantage . . . So, this led to the first genetically modified plant being produced in 1983: an antibiotic-resistant tobacco plant. Then, in 1994, the United States Food and Drugs Administration, or FDA, approved the sale of a tomato that had been genetically modified to delay ripening after it had been picked. After that scientists started working like crazy to discover ways of genetically engineering plants to imbue them with new traits that do not occur naturally. They looked at ways of taking genes which were responsible for doing something really quite useful in one species, and then transplanting them into another species, where their special skill could be even more appreciated. In the main, scientists were keen to help plants become more resistant to infections, or to withstand exposure to herbicides used to kill off other plants or weeds. But they also were looking for ways to create wonder crops that did exactly what they wanted, _when_ they wanted, and better than any other crop. For example, growing the most nutritious crops, or designing crops that could be used to produce biofuels . . . like ethanol for cars . . . The best example I heard was that they were thinking about engineering plants to produce their own light - bioluminescence - thinking that one day, perhaps plants may become a viable alternative to electric lighting! Mostly, though, it was about growing more food and plants, and increasing crop yields. In 1994, this sort of thinking led to farmers in Europe being approved to grow tobacco which had been engineered to be resistant to a herbicide called bromoxynil. Then in 1995, they made a Bt potato which produced its own pesticide, and the Environmental Protection Agency approved it for use in the U.S. Next thing you know, there was string of Bt crops all resistant to one thing or another, like cotton, or soya beans . . . "

Malcolm lifted up his hand and interrupted.

"What has British Telecom got to do with making potatoes?"

Peter looked puzzled.

"What do you mean, British Telecom?"

"You keep talking about BT this or BT that.."

Peter laughed.

"Sorry . . . , that's my fault . . . I've been reading too much of this stuff, . . . BT is one of the terms used to describe one of the specific traits, or characteristics that is transferred into an engineered crop . . . it's just one of many . . . The BT bit stands for _Bacillus thuringiensis_ _._ It's a type of bacterium . . . At the beginning of the last century a Japanese scientist discovered that a bacterium called _Bacillus thuringiensis_ \- now commonly referred to as ' _Bt'_ **-** was able to kill flour moth caterpillars. The bacterium produced spores and little crystals which killed insects. This led to BT bacterium being commercially tailored for use as an insecticide, for killing a wide range of insect species that might threaten crops, such as moths and butterflies, flies and mosquitoes, beetles, or wasps, bees and ants, and even types of worms like roundworms or threadworms. But later, the big breakthrough was when they discovered that it was possible to identify and create genes which would produce the same toxin that they knew BT was producing to kill the insects. So they found this gene, and then started transferring it to different types of crops, to produce crops that would kill pests all by themselves, without the use of insecticides. Or at least, that was the dream . . . "

"Nowadays, you hear people talking about Bt Cotton, Bt Corn or Maize, Bt Soya . . . lots of different stuff, but essentially they are all plants that produce their own poisons that are designed to kill the pests that prey on them."

"So far, this is mostly fact, or at least, as best as I can interpret it all and remember it . . . I'm not a biologist or a scientist. What comes next is when it all starts to get a bit murky, and where I need to do more research to find out what is true and what isn't."

"Carry on . . . you've got me interested," encouraged Malcolm.

"Okay, so, in the beginning, the motivation for the GM revolution would appear, - and I say 'appear' because the more I read, the more dubious I become about it all -anyway, it would appear to be for a good reason: to produce more food for mankind."

"Bollocks," Malcolm interrupted loudly. "It's all about money. Making profit."

"You're probably right. I'm coming to that bit . . . and unfortunately, I think it's much worse than that . . . Anyway, big companies got involved, obviously sensing big profits. Big companies can exert lots of pressure. Both politically and economically. Some of the big companies who were getting into the GM debate would appear to have seen several opportunities for themselves opening up . . . One of these would be to produce seeds for a particular type of crop that would be resistant to X or Y, and which would therefore produce bumper harvests, but would nevertheless require specific chemicals or nutrients to feed and optimise that crop. In other words, if Company X made the best GM seeds and helped produce the best GM crops, the farmers would have to buy their fertilisers and their insecticides too."

"Hang on a second, you said that the crops were able to resist insects . . . what do they need insecticides for?"

"The crops are GM engineered to fight the main insect pests, not them all. You still buy insecticides to kill the other stuff . . . "

"So, not as good as you first thought?"

"Exactly, which is what a lot of cotton farmers in India have recently discovered. Anyway, back to where I was . . . .so not only are GM seed manufacturers making GM seeds so that they can try and sell more chemicals to farmers, but a sinister theory, probably more an urban myth than based on fact . . . "

"Where there is smoke there is always fire, Peter. Remember that!" Malcolm interrupted.

"Perhaps . . . _anyway_ , there seems to be a body of evidence or hearsay, that suggests that the big drug and seed companies see a way to use GM crops to dominate and control the supply of food to the whole world. If they succeed, can you imagine how much power that will give them? The world will almost literally be eating out of their hands . . . To make this happen it would appear that over the years, the biggest seed companies have been buying all the smaller seed companies, and merging with other big companies to produce even larger seed companies. I went online and after only a couple of minutes browsing discovered several websites all claiming that the top ten seed companies in the world now control the distribution of the global proprietary seed market . . . i.e. if you want to buy seeds, the choice you have of where you can buy those seeds from is getting smaller and smaller by the day. One website I looked at claimed that Monsanto, the biggest global player in the seed market, dominated somewhere over a fifth of the market place. The other main players named by the website as DuPont and Syngenta, owned another fifth between them. And the company that the farmers in Iowa are most worried about, the Genetec Seed Corporation, is right up there with the rest of them, and growing every day, if you will excuse the pun."

Peter continued, "What I find scary is that only a hundred years ago, crops were grown mainly from seeds which farmers produced from their own crops and then shared or sold to other farmers. Now, with GM crops, a small number of GM companies have taken a dominant position in the supply of specialised seeds to farmers. In some places, or in some countries, if you want to grow, say cotton, you may now only have one or two companies that you can buy seeds from. For example, Monsanto apparently dominates the cotton seed supply in India. And if the big GM companies manage to push the natural non-GM seed companies out of business, farmers will have no choice but to buy and plant GM seed."

"Surely that is a long way off?"

"Perhaps not. I would like to say that you are right . . . but the amount of GM crops being planted today is growing exponentially . . . I think that in 2012, there were about 17 million farmers in the world growing GM crops, covering about 170 million hectares of land . . . which is apparently something like the combined size of Germany, France, Great Britain and Spain all put together."

"In other words, a lot. A lot more than we would be led to think?" Malcolm said.

"Exactly." Peter replied.

They both sat silently for a minute.

"But, let's face it," Malcolm added. "Business is business. And if one company has a better product than the other . . . "

"Forget that, Malcolm. On paper, it all sounds great. But in the real world, things are starting to go wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first of all. As the big seed companies become more dominant, they are starting to put up the price of their seeds. Basically, they say, 'if you want to farm, you need seeds. I'm the only one you can buy the seeds from, so pay what I want or go bankrupt. Oh, and by the way, you need to buy your insecticides and fertilisers from us too . . . ' And that is exactly what is happening in some parts of the world . . . the farmers are going bankrupt. The seed companies are squeezing them hard, and they are bleeding."

"That's business."

"No, that's a cartel. That's unfair market domination. And unfair in more ways than one, because as everyone allegedly seems to be finding out now, GM crops are not all they are cracked up to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, nature is kicking back. The insects the plants are designed to resist, are resisting back. The GM crops are getting killed by the bugs they were designed to eradicate. And, on top of that, the GM crops are apparently turning out to be poisonous for the other life forms that want to eat them too . . . like cows, pigs, cats, dogs, horses . . . and humans. From what I read online, evidence is growing to suggest that a sudden increase in the number of certain types of illnesses in recent years can be traced back to GM food which has entered the food chain and ended up inside our bellies. Which is not difficult to imagine, given that a large percentage of GM crops end up as food for animals. Which we then eat."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Just go online and read it for yourself . . . type in ' _GM Killing Fields_ ' in your browser and see what you come up with." or, ' _GM related deaths_ ' or something like that. You will be amazed."

"Okay, I can see where you are going with all this Peter. This whole GM debate is definitely something that we need to look into more, and possibly start taking a stronger position on, but how does this relate specifically to what happened to you in America, and why you were asked to go out there?"

"Right, I'll come to that now. You see, the thing is, I was asked to go to Iowa, where the number one crop is corn, or maize, as a lot of the farmers call it. In recent years, the choice of seed suppliers that they can get seed from has dwindled . . . they basically only have two or three main price-competitive vendors they can go to . . . By the way, did I tell you about the Terminator Gene idea?"

"No."

"Listen, that one is scary . . . But perhaps it's best if you look it up on Google yourself. Just look up ' _Terminator Gene_ ' and see what you find . . . Good, but you must look it up, okay? Anyway, back to Iowa . . . Have you heard the expression . . . 'Be careful what you sow?' Well, the farmers in Iowa have begun to worry about that a lot. First of all, they started noticing health problems appearing in their cattle, pigs and other livestock. What was especially interesting was they found that all of the problems went away when they sourced alternative food that was in no way contaminated with GM products. Then a few years ago, several years into the cycle of planting GM crops, they started having new, severe problems with their crops. New pests, new diseases. The harvests went down. They were told to buy new types of GM seeds. So they did. Those crops also started having problems. So many of the farmers, now facing increased costs and significantly lower yields, grouped together to source seeds from non-GM companies out-of-state. And this is where it gets really scary. The new, NON-GM, NATURAL seeds, would not grow. Well, that's actually not true, they would grow, but only about 10% of the crop made it through to harvest. The next year it was only about 5%, and this year they think it will be about 3%."

Malcolm sat forward. He had immediately grasped the significance of the problem.

"Are you telling me that the GM crops are poisoning the ground and preventing natural NON-GM crops from growing?"

"That's exactly what it appears like. Which is why I have been round a lot of farms in Iowa, taking soil samples. We need to get them analysed by someone who has no connection or is under no influence from the seed companies. The farmers in Iowa are desperate to prove two things: firstly, that the seeds they bought from the Genetec Seed Corporation have produced crops which have poisoned the soil, and prohibited the growth of non-GM seed crops. GM seeds and fertilizer have killed their farming land. Most of them are now facing bankruptcy and are desperate for compensation. Secondly, they want this to be made public. Every year the amount of farming ground being taken over by GM food crops is rising, and that's ground that is producing food for humans and animals. If GM food crops are to blame, and we don't understand this problem and stop this from happening everywhere else, we could end up in a situation where vast tracts of farming land are killed. Harvests will be slashed, and in some countries this could lead to famine. Millions, maybe billions may end up going hungry. And in countries in India where they grow cotton and other essential non-food crops, if we end up in a situation where their land dies and they can't grow anything, they won't be able to support themselves, which will lead to starvation, even if there is food available to buy but which they can't afford. Malcolm, maybe the soil samples will show that this has got nothing to do with the GM crops that were grown on the Iowa farmers' land . . . but if it shows that they are, then this could be the first sign that mankind could be walking blindly into a worldwide disaster of epic proportions!"
Chapter 12

Friday, August 7th

The Scotsman

4.30 p.m.

Malcolm stood up and walked to the window overlooking the Queen's Park. He never tired of looking out at the vista of Arthur's Seat. He would challenge anyone in the world who said that they had a better view from their office than him.

"And on top of all that, you think that someone tried to kill you yesterday?"

"I'm pretty sure, that had the driver not accidentally driven into a rock which had rolled down into the road he was chasing me on, he would have caught up with me, and killed me."

"So you didn't kill the other man?"

"No . . . it was an accident . . . He drove into the rock and the car exploded. The driver was turned into toast."

"Peter, this is freaky stuff. What on earth have you got yourself involved in?"

"Like I said, they selected me, lured me in . . . and now I'm in so deep there is no way out. I'm committed."

"Did they kill anyone else that you know about?"

"There have been a few other 'suicides' from farmers who were part of this. It looks like five farmers have been killed so far."

"And who do you think is behind it?"

"I don't know. But who has the most to lose? The obvious connection is that it is someone or some organisation that is connected to the GM seed industry. If the farmers manage to connect the dots and prove that their supplier was the cause of their misery, then that company is looking at serious litigation and damages. We're talking millions, potentially billions."

"Which is enough motivation to start a war let alone sorting out a few, angry farmers . . . "

" . . . and a journalist from Scotland . . . "

" . . . and his boss!" Malcolm smiled. "I'm the one who paid for your trip and sent you over there, remember?"

Peter nodded, acknowledging the backing that Malcolm had just given him.

"Okay, so where are we now? What do we do next?" Malcolm asked, sitting down at his desk.

"We get the soil samples tested, and we find the file."

"The file that the feds were going on about this morning?"

"Yep. Except we don't know that they were from the FBI. Next time they call you, ask for identification to be sent through, and for the next call to be arranged via the police."

"So, where is this 'file?' and why is it so special?"

"The answer to the first question is, 'we don't know.' The answer to the second question is that I am assured it contains enough information to prove the link between the Genetec Seed Corporation and the farmers. It contains correspondence, taped conversations, lawyers documents, photographs, invoices, cheques . . . everything that a court will need to establish that the Genetec Seed Corporation supplied the farmers, and forced them to use their products, without addressing their problems. The one part that is missing is proof that their products contaminated and killed the soil. That part is down to me."

"To us." Malcolm reiterated.

"So where are these soil samples? At your home?"

"No."

"Good. Where are you thinking of getting them tested?"

"Edinburgh University. I studied there . . . I know a few people."

"So do I. Listen, I think that the most important thing we can do just now is to talk with the university and get the soil samples into their safe keeping as soon as possible. Like, within the next hour or so . . . "

Peter looked at his watch. It was coming up to 5 p.m., and it was a Friday.

"I know. It's late. Which means we better start dialling . . . "

Malcolm reached for the phone, asked his secretary to connect him to the Department of Agriculture at Edinburgh University, and smiled at Peter.

An hour later, Peter was carrying a suitcase full of soil samples into the University Agriculture department, and Malcolm was holding the door open for him.

It would take at least six days before they got the first initial results, but given that there were so many soil samples to analyse, they were looking at a month in total before they had all the information they needed, and before the Scotsman got the bill for all the work that would be done.

Given the circumstances, Malcolm suggested that Peter should perhaps work from home for the next week, avoiding the office whenever possible.

If whoever it was that had tried to kill him in the U.S. was already calling Malcolm at work and making enquiries about Peter in Scotland, it probably would not be long before they turned up in Scotland, in person.

By the time Peter got back to Denise's house, it was 10 p.m. and Susie and Denise were drinking hot chocolate in their pyjamas.

The box of the old family photographs was spread out across the floor, and as Peter came in through the door, Susie was lying on the floor, laughing uncontrollably at a photograph she had found of herself and her parents, taken at the seaside: Susie must have been about one year old, standing in the surf, a small wave having knocked her nappy off, and Susie standing there waving her hands in the air and laughing.

"Have you found the mysterious Timothy yet?" Peter asked, sitting down on the carpet and putting his arm around her.

"Not yet . . . but Claire's sure that he is here somewhere."

"And if it's not marked, how will we know which one it is?"

"Dunno. Probably we just have to take a couple of suspects with us next Wednesday when we go back to St Andrews to talk to the carers there about 'the Others'."

Peter nodded.

Denise spoke up, "Susie has told me all about 'the Others'. Do you not think it's better just all left well alone? I don't think it is a good idea to go messing with these things? I mean, a case in point, why are you staying at my house just now?"

"Because our house is haunted!" Susie replied, walking right into it.

"Exactly. You've already got some sort of problem, don't make it worse by going making enquiries and trying to find out about stuff that doesn't need to concern you until it comes your turn to die!"

"It doesn't scare me. And anyway, once Susie has got interested in something, you won't be able to stop her," Peter replied proudly.

\--------------------

North Berwick

11 p.m.

Paul was just making his way down the road towards his house, returning from a quiet drink in his local pub where he liked to read the newspaper and watch the young women who came in dressed so prettily, enjoying being out and about, and hoping no doubt to catch the interest of some young man. Or perhaps even another girl.

That thought made him smile.

One day perhaps, he would like to take a photograph of something like that . . .

Looking up at his home, his eyes strayed across to the house beside his, and he thought of his new neighbours.

He still couldn't believe how lucky he had been, with such a beautiful woman moving into the house next door.

Susie was lovely. Very lovely.

And she seemed so kind, too.

He liked it when she smiled at him.

The girls didn't always smile at Paul. In fact, truthfully, they never did.

But Susie did, and that made him feel really good.

He couldn't wait to take some more photographs of her.

Paul was just walking into his garden, and starting to go up the path, when he noticed the light in Susie's bedroom flicker on.

Paul stopped and looked up.

He looked back at their gate, just checking that there was no car outside the house. Had they come back?

He looked back up at the bedroom.

The light went off.

Quickly, he opened his door, stepped inside and shut it firmly behind him. For a moment he thought about the light, and wondered who on earth would be switching it on and off. Something strange was going on next door and he didn't like it.

Then he remembered why he had come home early and felt excited again: he was going to print off some large colour copies of the photos that he had taken of Susie, and then he was going to stick them on his bedroom wall.

Along with the other photographs of Susie. And of the other girls he had liked and photographed before.

\--------------------

Denise's House

Edinburgh

1 a.m.

Shortly after midnight, Susie fell asleep on the floor, the box of photographs spread out all around her on the carpet. They had stopped looking at the photographs, having realised that the likelihood of finding one of a man they had never seen before, yet still being able to identify it as Timothy, would be pretty small. Unless it was written on the back. Clearly. As in , " _Susie, this is Timothy_."

Denise had gone to bed already, knowing that she had to get up early the next morning if she was going to make it to the summit of Ben Vorlich by lunchtime. Denise was an avid hill walker and did at least one Munro each month -, which as she had explained to Peter earlier, was the name walkers gave to a mountain in Scotland that was over 3000ft tall.

With a little difficulty, Peter scooped Susie up in his arms, and carried her up the stairs and put her into bed. Shortly afterwards he climbed in beside her.

He turned the light off and went to sleep.

About an hour had passed before he felt Susie shaking his shoulders.

"Peter, wake up! You found Timothy!"

Being woken up straight from deep sleep was not Peter's favourite activity: he struggled to open his eyes, focus and then comprehend what she was saying to him.

"Look! I think this is Timothy! Thanks for finding it and putting it beside my bed." She said, waving a small Polaroid photograph at him.

Peter sat up, and looked at the photograph. It was a tall man in his twenties, standing in front of a car. The man bore a slight resemblance to Susie. Susie turned the photograph over, letting him read the writing on the back. It said, simply, "Susie, this is Timothy."

"Where did you find it?"

"You put it by my bed, on the bedside table?"

"No. No, I didn't. It wasn't me."

"Oh . . . "Susie replied. "Denise must have done it."

"What time is it?" Peter glanced across at the clock on the side table. "1.15 a.m. No, I don't think so, but we can check in the morning. She's been asleep for a while. I could hear her snoring when I carried you up the stairs."

Susie stared back at Peter, looked at the side table, and then at the photograph in her hand.

"So, who put it there?"

Peter hesitated.

"I don't know, Susie. But it wasn't me."
Chapter 13

Saturday 8th

7.00 a.m.

Susie, Peter and Denise sat in the kitchen at Denise's new breakfast bar, - of which she was clearly very proud -, and interrogated each other to ascertain who was playing the practical joke, or who had suddenly developed dementia. One of them had definitely put the photograph on the bedside table, and then lied or forgotten about it.

By the time the coffees were all finished, and the dishwasher was loaded with the breakfast plates, no one had admitted it yet.

It was Susie who said the inevitable.

"Maybe it was Dad?"

After breakfast Peter and Susie sat in the lounge, staring at the photograph of Timothy and wondering what to do with their day. Denise said goodbye, and disappeared off to the mountains.

Peter could sense that Susie was resisting the urge to simply do nothing, because that would involve leaving the time to think, and right now, Susie did not want to think. She was doing her best to keep herself busy.

"Should we go back to the house to check it's okay?"

"We've only been away for an evening. It will be fine!"

"What happens if there is another knife on the floor, or the lights have been switched on or off again? Did we leave them on or off, I can't remember?"

"Off. We left them off. And I thought you wanted to get away from there . . . "

"I'm not scared, Peter. Don't think I'm scared."

"I don't. I don't think you are scared."

" . . . because if you think that I am scared, I am just going to go straight home and prove to you that I am not!"

"Susie, listen to me. I do not think you are scared."

"Good. But, I am. Actually, I bloody well am. Terrified, in fact. None of this makes sense. In the space of a week, my whole world has been turned upside down! My dad has died, we are being haunted, and I've discovered that there is a small possibility that I am in actual fact, not an only child. And that my parents have been lying to me all my life . . . "

Peter considered also telling her that only two days ago someone had very nearly come close to killing her fiancé, and that now there was a possibility the FBI was looking for him.

But he decided against it.

\--------------------

In the end, the morning was spent together peering over Susie's laptop. They had gone online to look at Births, Deaths and Marriages, and to see if they could find any mention of a Timothy Morgan online. Had her father and mother had a child, and given it up for adoption?

Susie was quite good at this, having conducted many similar searches during her time working at the Evening News: it was incredible how easy it was nowadays to find any information you wanted online.

Unfortunately, even though she checked all the records for Scotland, England, Ireland and Wales, she drew a blank.

By lunchtime she knew one thing for certain: if she had had a brother called Timothy, he wasn't a Morgan. Only a handful of Timothy Morgans had been registered in the past forty years. Most of them were too old to be her Timothy, another one was the son of a Jamaican single mother, and the remaining one was now only ten years old.

So, assuming that her dad had been trying to pass her a message that she did, at one point, have a brother, this now meant that her dad must either be a sperm donor, or had been married before he met her mother.

The other possibility was one that Susie was not prepared to think about, at least not yet. Not before she had buried her father and laid his body to rest, peacefully.

\--------------------

The Manse

Greyfriars Kirk

Edinburgh

2 p.m.

Several years before, Peter had come close to death. He had lost two kidneys, and received a double transplant, unusual though that double transplants were. He had been given a new wonder drug called SP-X4, and whilst taking this drug, Peter had begun to adopt characteristics of the kidney donor:-Peter had begun to see a series of murders being acted out in front of his eyes, had lost his fear of heights, and had started learning to climb.

As journalists, neither Susie or Peter could simply accept what was happening to him, and so they had begun to investigate the visions that Peter was seeing. They had quickly come to realise that the visions he was experiencing were in fact real flash-backs to a series of undiscovered murders that had been committed by a Polish serial killer called Maciek.

Over a period of very painful and stressful months, Peter had managed to identify the victims he had witnessed being slaughtered in his mind, and had finally been able to identify who Maciek was, how he had died, and why Peter had ended up with his organs in his body.

Subsequently, the organs had been removed and replaced, and Peter was now free of the dreams, and the influence of the deceased Polish killer. His fear of heights had returned, but Peter had sworn to overcome it, and during the past months had even started to attempt to learn to climb - although so far he had only made it no more than 10 feet of the ground.

During this time, Susie had turned for spiritual guidance to the Minister of Greyfriars Kirk, a beautiful little church in the centre of Edinburgh, and most famous for being the setting for the film about the Scottish dog, 'Greyfriar's Bobby.' Together, both during that time and since, - they had become good friends -, Susie and the minister had spent many interesting hours debating the meaning of life, what a human soul was, and whether or not God did actually exist. (Naturally, one of them did quite firmly believe He did!)

After Susie dropped Peter off in Princess Street to do some 'man' shopping, she had driven straight to the Manse. As had become a regular custom, the older man and the young, pretty woman had then gone for a walk to the Grassmarket, found a coffee and a beer, and begun to discuss life.

Today, however, the conversation was going to be slightly different.

First of all she was going to tell him about the passing of her father.

And then she was going to ask him how they could remove an unwelcome ghost or spirit from her house in North Berwick.

Just in case, she had brought her iPad so she could make notes . . .

The Minister was sad to hear about the passing of Susie's father. She had talked of him several times, and he sympathised with the confusion she felt for the love she had for him, but the reluctance to visit him because of the memories it would drag up.

Now that problem would no longer exist.

However, the Minister was genuinely shocked to hear about the events that were taking place within her new home in North Berwick. He was even more concerned because he knew Susie was pregnant, although that concern was accompanied by genuine joy that Susie was going to bring a new life into the world. In the past few years they had talked so much about death,- the meaning of life, exploring what they both thought a 'soul' was, and if 'souls' lived on after death - , that it was wonderful for Susie to now be experiencing the joy of creating new life herself. The Minister knew it would bring a whole new dimension to her life and their conversations.

Susie could see from the look on Walter's face - they had long since been on first name terms - that the Minister was worried.

"The question is, obviously . . . how do I get rid of the spirit or presence in my house?"

Walter frowned.

"This is not something for you to try by yourself. The easiest thing to do is to talk with it, first, to see if we can understand who it is, why they are there, and if there is anything we can do to help them. I have several friends in the Church who are very experienced in doing this, and we can ask them to help. Sometimes, it may sound strange, but some people do not know that they are dead . . . and someone actually has to tell them, and help them want to move on."

Susie nodded. "I've seen 'The Sixth Sense', you know, that film with Bruce Willis?"

"Exactly. But Susie, there are a few things I am worried about. First of all, from everything you told me previously about what happened to Peter, about the serial killer that he tracked down, and the fact that the serial killer had been obsessed with knives . . . I find that worrying. I don't want to alarm you, but I do want you both to be safe."

"You think that there is a possibility that this presence could be Maciek, the serial killer?"

"Perhaps."

" _Damn!_ . . . oh , _sorry_ . . . " Susie exclaimed. She had thought about it, but hearing another person confirm the thought made it worse.

"That's okay . . . " the Minister nodded.

"For a while I thought it might be the spirit of my dad . . . I mean it started the same day!"

"But from what you told me, it also started the first day your baby kicked in your womb. Sometimes, lost or malicious spirits are attracted by babies and children. They act like magnets. I don't know how or why, but just that they do."

"And what about the thing with waking up this morning and finding the photograph of this guy who is meant to be my brother, lying beside my bed? Who put that there?"

"From what you say, I think that that could be something to do with your father. That I would not worry about. Your father would mean you no harm, only love. He is a protector."

Tears were beginning to form in Susie's eyes. The Minister reached out and touched her hand.

"Susie, I would suggest you avoid your home for a while, just until the funeral has passed. Concentrate on your father and on your grief for now. Then we will tackle the other problem together. I will pray for you, and Peter, and your child, and I know this will all have a happy ending. I promise you."

"I will, but I wanted to ask you about 'the Others'? Is this something that is new to you, or have you heard about this before?"

The Minister nodded.

"Susie, I have been a minister of the church for more years than I can recall. I have been with many wonderful people at the moment of their passing, and, yes, I have seen them talking with others who were waiting for them. It happens more often than you would believe."

"Then how come no one talks about this? This is new to me. I haven't heard about it before."

"There are lots of things you have never heard about, my dear. Things that are not important, until they affect us. Most people prefer not to talk of death, and rather to turn a blind eye to that which waits for all of us. It's not that people are hiding anything, it's just that . . . simply . . . it's not discussed. And not everyone believes in it. I think that generally the scientific explanation is preferred . . . that as people die, they become confused, and that their brains begin to shut down. They begin to hallucinate. They see things that are not there."

"Is that what you believe?"

' _There are more things in heaven and earth, Susie, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!_ ' the Minister smiled. "Or, as Shakespeare was trying to say when he wrote that in Hamlet, we know and understand very little of what life is actually about. So, to answer your question, no I don't believe that scientific explanation. I believe that people are being comforted in their last moments on this planet, and they are being comforted by those who have gone before us. Their loved ones, and their relatives."

"Walter, have you ever seen a ghost?"

The Minister paused, hesitating.

"Yes, Susie, I have. Twice. Once when I was very young, and then once when I was in the army."

"You were in the army?"

"Yes." The Minister smiled. "The Salvation Army."

"But you honestly saw ghosts?"

"Yes, but we shall leave a discussion of that till another time. Suffice it to say, for now, my dear, that it was as a direct result of my first experience that I started to think more about the spiritual side of life. You could say, it led to me becoming what I am today."

Susie could sense that the Minister did not want to talk more about his experiences, so she changed the subject.

"I really want to learn more about these phenomena. On Wednesday I am going back to the old folks home where dad used to live, to talk with the other carers there about their experiences. Can you introduce me to any hospices, or hospitals where I might be able to talk to nurses or carers who may also have observed it?"

Walter agreed. And after further pressing from Susie, he promised to jot down a couple of names and phone numbers and send them to her by email. He would even call ahead and let them know to expect her call.

"I am worried about you Susie. Personally, I would suggest you leave this whole question or investigation into this phenomenon well alone. But if you insist on doing it, then maybe I could come along with you to meet a few people. They may open up a little more, if I am with you."

Susie squeezed the Minister's hand.

"Thank you!"

\--------------------

North Berwick

11.30 p.m.

The girl who had just come into Paul's favourite bar was already quite drunk. It seemed as if she had lost her friends, because she walked around the bar several times, slightly unsteadily, shaking her head and constantly checking her mobile.

In the end, she fetched another drink, sat down alone at a table opposite Paul and started texting.

Paul couldn't keep his eyes of her. She was lovely. Her dress had ridden up, her legs were crossed, and her thigh was exposed. She had lovely legs.

Her eyes shone and twinkled in the light, her skin glistening with youth.

She wore a low cut dress, displaying to the world her ample, but amazing cleavage. As she breathed, her bosom rose and fell. Paul found it difficult to look away.

Up until now, it had been a quiet night. For some reason, not so many young women had come into the pub tonight, and those that had all seemed to be with their young, male friends.

Paul worked diligently with his pencil in his sketch-book, quickly tracing the figure of the girl. He had to work fast, because at any moment, she might simply get up and go.

That would make him mad.

It was not often that he saw someone as beautiful as this young lady, who would inspire him to quickly pull out his pad and pencil, and sketch away. This one was special.

He began to feel uncomfortable.

"No!" he told himself. "No, not again. I promised myself, NEVER again!"

His pencil moved faster.

A barman walked past behind him, gathering dead glasses.

Paul hurriedly closed the sketch book and looked away.

As soon as the barman left, he finished his drink, - only his second pint of the evening \- and got up, making his way slowly towards the door.

Deliberately walking past the girl, he sniffed the air around her, breathing in her perfume.

She smelt delightful.

As he got to the door, he turned around and looked at her again.

Again, that same thought came to him, but this time it was with less determination than before that he said to himself: "No, NEVER again."

Outside, Paul fought with his thoughts.

It was almost closing time. Soon she would be coming out. Already the pub had begun to empty, and there were not so many people around.

Breathing heavily, Paul found a spot in the shadows on the other side of the road.

"Never again," he whispered to himself, as he watched the entrance to the pub, and waited.

Chapter 14

Sunday, August 8th

Glasgow

8.30 a.m.

Peter was tired. He had been fighting jetlag for the past two days, and the stress and strain of the events he had come back to had finally caught up with him.

He could feel the beginnings of a cold slowly beginning to take over him, and he could guess that in the next few days he would be taking Lemsip and honey. Why was it that every single time he flew on an aircraft, he picked something up? He knew it had something to do with the air conditioning recycling the combined germs and viruses of everyone on board to everyone else, letting everyone on board take their pick from what was on offer: what do you want to suffer from today, a cold, flu, Ebola?

He felt slightly guilty for leaving Susie and Denise alone at home, but he needed to get away and do something important. Something secret, that he could tell no one about.

Peter hated keeping secrets, but sometimes there was no alternative.

Leaving Denise's at 7 a.m., he had made it through to Glasgow by 8.30 a.m., meeting his contact in the car park just off the Great Western Road.

He had known Adam since childhood, had grown up chasing each other in the Queen's Park in Edinburgh, playing 'Hide and Seek' during summer, and sledging down the 'Quarter Mile' during Winter.

If there was one person in the world that Peter trusted to do this job, it was Adam.

Fearless, reliable Adam.

It had been six months since they had seen each other last, -at the Christening of Adam's son, Douglas.

"You're looking great, Peter." Adam said, as they sat in Adam's car, and drank some coffee from a flask.

"Thanks, I feel great. I _am_ great."

"Are you still taking the medications?"

"Yes, everyday. For the rest of my life. Unless they come up with some new treatment . . . "

"Which is entirely possible, granted the rate at which science is progressing."

"True."

"So, what's up. You said you couldn't talk over the phone. What's this all about, and why do you need me?"

Peter explained.

Adam whistled, a long, slow exhalation of breath through pursed lips as the magnitude of what Peter said sunk in.

"Will you do it?" Peter asked, after giving him a few minutes to think about it.

Adam smiled. "Can you stop me? This could be the big break I've been looking for."

"I know," Peter replied. "Which is one of the reasons I'm asking you."

\--------------------

Columbia

South Carolina

Headquarters of the Genetec Seed Corporation

August 8th

6 p.m.

Kurt Sanderson was staring out of the window, looking at the way the tops of the trees bent over as the strong winds blew and tried their best to snap them in two.

He found studying the movements of trees to be incredibly relaxing. He had once heard that the productivity of employees who sat near windows and could see green trees from their desks, was much higher than employees who had window seats, but could see none.

He believed it. In fact, he believed it so much that he had paid for trees to be planted all the way around his building, so that everyone near any window, could see trees.

Kurt knew that you could learn a lot from them.

When malevolent winds blew, if you moved with the air and bowed down to let the winds pass, you could survive. Try to stand strong, to fight back, and you would simply snap.

Yet, try as he could, he was struggling to find a peaceful way out of the predicament they were in now.

Sales had never been higher. His company had become one of the darlings of Wall Street, one of the most trusted brands in the GM food industry, and their stock was at an all time high.

Yet, Kurt knew just how tenuous their position truly was.

Although no one else was aware of it just yet, for a company that sold one of the best brands of manure in the market place, the Genetec Seed Corporation was in the shit.

Kurt might have laughed had he been alone.

But he wasn't. Samantha Vesper was sitting at the board table behind him, head of Security and Operations, and she was staring at him.

He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull, and he didn't like it. But, truth be told, Kurt was sick of the killing. _Sick_ of it.- He had founded this company twelve years ago and had personally dragged it from nothing to being one of the most successful agricultural companies in the world. And for what? So that he could become a murderer? Yet, way back then, when he had started out, he had been so naive . . . so stupid. Then slowly, _slowly_ reality creeps up on you, twists you, changes you, _morphs_ you into a cynical, power-crazed beast to whom the lives of anyone who stands in your way no longer matter. All that counts is that your company grows, and it hits and maintains the numbers . . .

"Kurt," Samantha urged him. "There is really no choice to be made here. We have to find that file, and stop this journalist in Scotland, at all costs. There are billions at stake here."

Kurt spoke quietly.

"How many have died so far?"

"You mean, how many have we killed, or how many have genuinely committed suicide, because things have gotten just a little too tough for them, and they gave in?"

Kurt turned round and stared at the woman whom he had hired nine years before.

She simply replied, "I don't keep a track of real suicides."

"So, Samantha, will you then _please_ kindly tell me, just how many fucking people we have _killed_ so far, because our scientists have got it wrong, and half our GM seeds don't actually _fucking work anymore_!" Kurt shouted at her.

She didn't even flinch.

"In total? In the U.S., nine. Worldwide twenty-three."

"What the fuck? Twenty-three?"

"Exactly. Most of them have been cotton farmers in India, who got too vocal."

"Samantha, this has got to fucking stop . . . "

" . . . And it will, Kurt, it will. The test results coming back from the new seed variants are really positive. You've seen the stats. In a couple of months, this will all be behind us. All we have to do is survive the next few months. To get through this!"

"They said that last year, Samantha. They assured me, that this was behind us then. And instead it just got worse."

"Kurt, have faith . . . "

"Don't you bloody tell me to have FAITH! It was I who built this company and fought for everything we have now, when no one else thought it was possible. Don't you talk to _me_ of _faith!"_

Samantha did not reply. She knew when to speak, and when not to. Tall, blonde, attractive, she had learned a lot during her thirty five years on this planet. Behind her good looks, her ruthless, cold blooded efficiency made her a dangerous woman that everyone who knew her feared and respected.

Ex-marine, ex-CIA, she maintained her contacts in the dark world of espionage and security, and never turned her back on a job that needed doing.

Sometimes Kurt wondered that if he took away all her stock-options and six-figure salary, if she would still do the job for free. She loved it, and when someone died, she just seemed to love it that little bit more.

Kurt nodded, as if making some internal mental decision, and returned to his desk.

"I've read the file you sent me, Samantha. And to be frank, I'm concerned about this guy . . . Peter? Peter Nicolson? You know what happened as a result of him looking into StemPharma Corp?"

"I know all about that, Kurt. You _pay_ me to know. But that won't happen if you just agree to my proposal."

"And just how do you know where the soil samples are?"

Samantha looked insulted.

"Because that's what I do, Kurt. I find these things out."

"Answer my question . . . this is NOT in the U.S. This is in Scotland . . . we don't have anyone over there . . . "

"We don't need to Kurt. Listen, my team listen to almost every word those farmers in Iowa say. We tracked the journalist from the moment he arrived on our soil to the moment he got home. And we knew he had soil samples, so we hacked into the phone records of all calls made from his newspaper to any businesses or university that has got anything to do with agriculture, biology or genetics. Turns out that within an hour of him entering his offices in Scotland, his boss phoned the Agriculture department of Edinburgh University. An hour later, Peter and his boss, a Malcolm Robertson, arrived at the University . . . we know because we tracked their e-movements from one place to another. Nowadays, when someone enters a building, makes a phone-call, sends an email, even switches on a kettle . . . practically anything that involves electricity and a network, that action generates a log or record of that IP event. What my team can do, is gather billions of IP logs, and analyse them for streams of information that actually tell us what has been happening. We can then combine that with a bit of old-fashioned computer hacking to get access to written records, and cross reference them. For example, we know that Peter's boss made a phone call to the agriculture office. We couldn't listen to a recording of the conversation, but an hour later, we saw a record of Peter and Malcolm entering the university building. On the university servers they were recorded as visiting Professor Craig. A few minutes later, we saw a record of electronic pass cards being swiped in and out of security doors, which matched building plans we accessed that basically allowed us to see that Professor Craig had left his lab, walked down the stairs, along several corridors, picked up his guests and taken them back up to his lab. Ten minutes later, we saw a log record of a large vault being opened in the lab. It was open for four minutes. Enough time to walk in, deposit soil samples, and close the vault again. Then, after hacking into the computers in that lab, we were able to see records the Professor had made of the samples he had just received from Peter: one hundred and nine soil samples from Iowa farmers, to be analysed within the next few weeks. And according to the Professor's digital notes, the work will start on Wednesday. Which means that we have to recover those soil samples before they start work next week, because once they leave the vault, we might not be able to track where they go. And if you don't think we can do what I just said, just google "Security Information and Event Managent" or "Log Management". Governments have been doing this stuff for years. Where do you think I learned it from?"

Kurt listened in silence. He didn't doubt for one moment that Samantha could do anything she wanted.

She was good.

"So, what's the plan. I'm sure you have one already."

"It's why I am here. I need you to authorise it. I flew a team out this morning. They will get there this evening and they'll be in place within hours. All you have to do is give the go ahead, and they will go into the University in the small hours of Monday morning at 2.30 a.m. Scottish time, open the vault, take the soil samples, and bring them home. We had thought about swapping them for new, clean soil samples that would give us a clean bill of health, but there isn't enough time to arrange it. So it's simply a fetch and retrieve job."

"And you are convinced that they can do this without getting caught?"

"Kurt, _please_ . . . What we want is the soil samples back here as soon as possible. I can arrange that. All you need to do is say 'yes'."

Kurt nodded.

"And what about the file? Can you get that too?"

"We will. But at the moment, no one knows where it is. And I mean no one, least of all any of the farmers in Iowa. The file has just vanished. But once we've got the soil samples, it buys us more time to find the file."

"And what about the journalist?"

"What about him? Without the file and the soil samples, he has nothing. He's no longer a threat."

"Okay Samantha, do what you have to do. But after this, I want the killing to stop. Do you understand?"

Samantha smiled, thanked him, got up and walked out.

\--------------------

North Berwick

Scotland

Paul's house

9 p.m.

Paul was tired. Nervous. And excited.

More excited that he had been for years.

He had tried his best, his _very_ best, not to do it again, but in the end, he had been powerless to resist.

And now he needed to wash.

To clean away the blood from his fingers, the dust and the dried bodily fluids.

He was sticky and had begun to smell, and he had forgotten to eat since breakfast time.

Food. He needed food. To get his energy back.

Then, yes, he needed to go to sleep. He should go to work tomorrow.

After taking a long, refreshing shower, Paul started to cook himself his favourite meal: haggis, neeps and tatties. Of course, the haggis was a vegetarian haggis, because Paul couldn't stand the thought of eating meat, not because he didn't like the taste, but because he didn't like the idea of animals being harmed in any way.

Unlike humans, animals had so much love to give. Their affection was always genuine, and you never had to pay for it.

Paul's right eyelid flickered nervously.

He hated it when it did this. It was so distracting.

The meal finished, Paul sat back in his chair and started to relax. Already he could feel the warm food and the glass of white wine that he had drunk begin to fill his body with new energy, and to his surprise he began to feel excited again.

He paced the room several times, trying to control himself. He remembered the counselling that he had received all those years ago, and he breathed deeper, filling his body with fresh oxygen.

Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect he wanted.

The fresh air and controlled breathing refreshed his mind, filling his head with new thoughts.

Graphic thoughts. Pictures of a naked, beautiful female torso flashed before him.

Flashbacks to the excitement of last night and today.

Eventually, the excitement and the anticipation grew too much, and Paul gave in.

Smiling.

Switching off the lights in the downstairs of his house, he opened the door to the stairs leading to the cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs he took out the key from his pocket, put on his face mask and opened the soundproof door.

The room beyond smelt of testosterone, his testosterone, and immediately he became aroused.

He closed the door behind him. The room inside was boiling, and Paul began to take his clothes off.

Chapter 15

Monday, August 9th

Edinburgh University Campus

Saunders Building

2.24 a.m.

Two black vans sat in the street round the corner from the entrance to the science block where Professor Craig's laboratories were housed. Inside the vans, the Alpha Crew was primed and ready to go.

At 2.24 a.m. exactly, one of the men sitting in the front seat of the van, hit a key on his laptop.

Almost instantly, the fire alarm on the Saunders Building started to ring. The man in the front seat of the van, toggled to another website, and hit another key, automatically launching a string of code that switched off the fire alarm on the management consoles and dashboards of the Fire Service.

Four minutes later, the back door of the two vans burst open and eight men dressed in protective fire suits and gas masks with air-cylinders on their backs, jumped out and ran around the corner of the building. Two of the men carried fire-hoses, and the others carried a typical selection of fire-fighting materials including fire-extinguishers and axes. Running into the entrance of the building, helmets on and oxygen flowing, past the few night-cleaners who were hurrying out in the opposite direction, the Alpha Team stopped momentarily at the security gates, while the team leader took off his helmet and shouted at the security guards to open the gates and leave the building.

Until five minutes ago the security guard was half asleep, sitting comfortably in his chair, his head nodding forward as he fought to stay awake. Suddenly all hell seemed to have broken loose, alarms were going off everywhere, and firemen were pouring into the building, fully rigged, and in a hurry to find and extinguish the fire.

The security guard stood up, not fully knowing what he should do. One of the firemen, probably the Crew Manager or officer in charge, shouted something at him, ordering him to open the security gates, and get out.

"And keep away from the doors . . . someone reported poisonous gas!"

At the mention of gas, the Security guard made a personal decision. A salary of £18,000 a year did not cover the danger of gas escaping from one of the labs. Following instructions, he pushed a button on his desk, disabling the expensive and otherwise very effective security systems, and giving the firemen free access to most of the building.

As the rest of this team moved inside, following the routes they had studied and memorised in preparation for this mission, the leader of the Alpha Team stayed behind, in constant communication with the vans, preventing others from entering the building and protecting their escape route.

Standing alone in the reception area, the team leader laughed to himself.

Thieves the world over would spend years trying to work out how to circumnavigate the most complex security systems so they could sneak into a building undetected, but whenever the fire brigade turned up, bells ringing, lights flashing, people screaming, drawing as much attention to themselves as possible, everyone just let them straight in, no questions asked.

He looked at his watch.

Speaking into the intercom sewn into the lapel of his jacket, he informed the van that they had completed Phase 1.

If everything went according to plan, they would be back in the transits and gone within twelve minutes.

\--------------------

Monday, August 9th

Edinburgh

10.00 a.m.

Peter's mobile phone rang, breaking his concentration and dragging him back from his research into all things Genetically Modified.

"Hi, it's Malcolm."

"What's up?" Peter asked, touching the screen on his iPad and saving the word document with all the notes he had made so far.

"You live in North Berwick, don't you?"

"Yes. But only for a few weeks. We just moved in."

"Good enough. Did you see the news last night?"

"No. What happened?"

"A girl from Edinburgh went missing on Saturday. She went to North Berwick to meet a boyfriend. She didn't come back. The boyfriend said they had split up, and that he never met her. He lives in North Berwick. The parents are convinced something has happened to her. Apparently she never stays away from home. Can you look into it?"

"Sure. What's her name?"

"Debbie McCrae. I'll send you an email with all the details and a picture of her. Do what you can."

"She'll probably be back home before I can find anything out."

"I know, but just in case . . . if we can get a small article in the paper tomorrow morning with a picture, it might jog a few memories. If she's back before the deadline tonight, we'll pull the article. Otherwise, let's see what we can do to help."

\--------------------

"Hey, Susie, I have to go to North Berwick to look for a missing teenager. Do you want to come along?" Peter asked, taking Susie a cup of tea in bed.

"No thanks," she replied. "I've got to finalise arrangements for dad's funeral on Friday. But check on the house please, while you are there?"

Debbie McCrae was an attractive girl. The photographs provided by her parents would make it easy to jog anyone's mind who had seen her last Saturday night.

She had been missing for less than two days, and it was more than likely that she would turn up unharmed, but a piece in the paper could only help.

When she saw the article, hopefully she would call the paper and speak to one of the counsellors that would be made available, just in case the girl didn't want to go home or talk to her parents.

Peter started by making the rounds of all the bars.

He struck lucky on the third bar. They had definitely seen her, and had already told the police all they knew.

Peter persisted with a few questions, dropping in the fact that he was now a local, and they would be seeing a lot more of him in future.

That one worked.

It turned out that she had been crying in the pub, around 10.30 p.m. She was obviously looking for someone. Not yet drunk, but on the way.

She was an attractive girl, and unfortunately, given the way she was dressed, she was bound to draw some attention to herself. She left the bar at about 10.45 p.m. after one quick drink. The bar man had noticed that she had been doing a lot of texting.

Peter continued his round of the other bars, and found two more venues which the girl had visited. All reported a similar story.

The last bar she had visited was ' _The Anchor_ ', the closest pub to the harbour.

The landlady said she'd left just after last orders. She was alone.

The last train to Edinburgh was 10:26 p.m. so she had definitely missed that.

There are only a few taxi companies in North Berwick and Peter called or visited them all. None reported a late night taxi trip to Edinburgh.

Unfortunately she would have also missed the last bus back to Edinburgh which left at 11.13 p.m.

Peter began to feel a little uneasy.

Alone, drunk, in a small town without friends, and no one had seen or heard from her since? And the last bar she had visited was beside the harbour.

An small alarm bell began to ring in Peter's mind.

\--------------------

Looking at his watch, Peter realised that he only had a few hours to get the article written and emailed over to the paper. No time to drive back to Denise's. And why would he need to, when his home was only five minutes drive away, where he could take a shower, make himself a fresh coffee and use his own office?

His mind distracted by thoughts of Debbie McCrae, Peter parked the car in his driveway, unlocked his front door and let himself in.

Standing in the hallway, he bent down to pick up some post, and realised as he stood up that the lights in the hallway were on.

Had he switched them on absent-mindedly as he came through the door, lost in his own thoughts?

No, he was sure he hadn't.

Walking round the other rooms downstairs he found everything else seemed to be in order, but as he started to walk upstairs to his room, he felt a brush of cold air waft past him, and involuntarily, he shuddered.

Peter stopped in his tracks.

It may have been his imagination, but he was sure he just heard a muffled scream, or a moan.

Holding his breath, Peter listened, hoping to hear whatever it was again.

Nothing.

The house was silent.

Slowly, one step at a time, Peter inched his way up the stairs. At the top, he looked quickly to his left and right.

_Shit_! The bedroom light was on.

"Is anyone there?" Peter asked out aloud.

Peter listened.

There was silence.

"If there is someone here, let me know, now. I don't want any trouble."

Nothing.

Peter walked quickly into the bedroom, moving a few steps before he spun around, ready to repel anyone who might be hiding behind the door and would spring out at him.

There was no one there.

Moving quickly into the other rooms, Peter found that they were also empty.

Peter breathed out, sighing loudly.

Standing at the top of the stairs in the hallway between their four bedrooms and their bathroom, Peter realised that he was shaking.

Why? Was it fear?

He did not believe in ghosts.

He did believe in a form of life after death, which was something that he had personal experience of. But that was different from white ghouls that jumped out at you from nowhere. And it had never scared him.

So what was it?

It was anger.

Walking down the stairs he realised that it was something very basic that was upsetting him: this was his new home, and something or somebody was messing with them, and intruding into their private space.

Human or spirit, whatever it was, it had made Peter mad. In basic cave-man speak, this was the cave that he had selected to bring his woman back home to, where they would bring up their little ones in peace and safety. If anyone, or anything, got in their way of that fundamental, basic dream, then woe betide them. This was his home, and he would defend it. Whatever it took.

Resolute, and with his mind now set, he took off his jacket and hung it up at the front door. Walking into the kitchen, he filled the kettle, and made coffee. Opening the kitchen drawer to take out a spoon for the sugar, Peter stopped and stared.

In the part of the drawer on the left, where all the large knives were kept, Peter saw the long, white bread knife that only two days ago, he had thrown out into the rubbish bin at the front of the house.

It was back.

\--------------------

The Scotsman

Edinburgh

8 p.m.

Malcolm had just finished reading the article Peter had sent him through by email. It was good. As usual. The article gave the facts, appealed for information, and should Debbie McCrae read the paper herself, encouraged her to come home or call a special hotline number.

Three photographs would be included: two of Debbie, and one of the front of The Anchor pub where she had last been seen.

He was just about to call his wife, and tell her to put the dinner on and that he was leaving the office, when the phone rang again.

It was the Professor Craig from the University of Edinburgh.

"Wow . . . that was fast, Professor. We weren't expecting any results back until Wednesday at the earliest." Malcolm replied.

"Actually, . . . that's not why I am ringing . . . " the Professor replied, slowly . . . and Malcolm's heart sank. He could tell by the Professor's tone, this was not going to be good news.

Chapter 16

Tuesday, August 10th

St Andrews

11:00 a.m.

By the time Tuesday morning came round, Susie was desperate to get out of Denise's house. She had spent the past two days making phone calls, choosing coffins, arranging hearses, and crying. Peter had been out and about a lot, leaving her alone, and Denise was out at work.

Susie had had a lot of time to think, and the more she thought, the more she realised that she was not going to see her dad again.

Several times, on a whim, she had felt an urge to pick up the phone and call the care home and ask to speak with him, but then each time she had realised that no, she could not do that anymore: her dad was gone. Dead. There would be no more conversations, no more visits, no more tales from him about her mum, and no more guilt about feeling bad for not visiting him as much as she should.

Now visiting him would be a lot more impersonal: a headstone, a piece of grass, and some flowers.

She cried some more.

Sadly, though, the break that she had arranged today was also centred around death, and more specifically, the mystery of whether or not it was truly possible to speak to dead people.

Yet, it fascinated her.

Ever since Peter himself had faced death, and his personal experiences of being haunted from within his own body through the apparent transfer of experiences and attributes from the organ donor to organ recipient, Susie had become fascinated by the whole question of what life was really all about. What was a 'soul'? What happened when we died? Is there life after death?

In the past few years she had read and researched almost every contemporary book she could find on the subject, and her interest in Christianity and 'God' had deepened.

And now, to top it all, there was a new life being created within her, growing within her, preparing for its own journey through life.

Where had that child, - that being, been six months ago, before it was created? How did that 'soul' find its way into her womb? Did life come from a spark that ignited it, and fuelled a being throughout its existence, or was life just the by-product of a bunch of chemicals that together created cells and muscle-movements?

Perhaps.

But where did 'inspiration' come from? The ability to imagine something new that had never been there before? Original thoughts? Emotions? Love?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Susie had always been inquisitive. That's why she became a journalist. And now, she was on to a story that had been made for her. The time was right. The circumstances were right. And Susie was mentally ready for it.

Although Peter had wanted to come too, she had persuaded him to let her make this visit by herself. For her, finding out about the 'Others' was personal.

After being welcomed by Claire, she was shown into the staff room of the care home, where three women and a man were waiting for her.

They looked up and smiled as she was shown in, and Susie couldn't help but feel a little strange.

The room smelled of flowers. Sunshine was pouring in from the outside world, and the windows boasted a wonderful view of the sea. From here you could see for miles, the white horses of the North Sea riding into the bay below and crashing noisily on the beach. At night time, the residents of the home would be caressed by the white noise, the sound coming in almost hypnotic waves which would relax even the most stressed of people.

There was a tremendous sense of peace in the room, and Susie smiled.

Were 'the Others' here in this room now, waiting to listen to their conversation?

"Hi! I am Florence," the nearest lady said, reaching out her hand. She was about forty, brown hair, quite pretty, with a strong handshake.

The others introduced themselves as Gail, Sandra and Tom.

"We are sorry about the loss of your father. We all liked Graham. He was a pleasant, charming man, and everyone misses him." Sandra said.

Susie swallowed hard, and nodded. "Thank you . . . " she replied hoarsely, the words at first struggling to come out. She coughed, cleared her throat and repeated them.

"Susie," Claire said quietly. "This is our morning tea break, and we only have half an hour, so I think we should start as soon as we can. Everyone knows why you are here: you want to talk and learn about our individual experiences of 'the Others?'"

Susie nodded, and looked at Gail, Sandra, Florence and Tom.

"Let me start," Gail volunteered. "It's not something we really talk about with each other, but we've all seen it. I've seen it quite a lot, actually. And a lot more recently than before. In fact, only two days ago, I went into the room of one of our residents, and he was talking quite animatedly to someone else. There was no one there that I could see. I asked Mr Edwards if everything was okay, and he said it was. 'I'm just having a conversation with my brother. He's come to visit me for a while. Do you mind if I continue, or does he have to leave . . . I know it's not visiting hours yet?' he asked. I said he could stay, and while I cleaned the room a little, he carried on chatting with whatever was there. After about twenty minutes, I heard him say 'Goodbye', and then Mr Edwards informed me that he was gone. He would be back later."

Susie listened in amazement. "And do you think that there really was someone - or something - there?"

"Absolutely. The thing is, Mr Edwards isn't senile, and he isn't showing any signs of that yet. He has Parkinson's -was diagnosed a few months ago, but apart from a few shakes in his leg, there are no other signs of the condition yet. He is only seventy two years old."

"So if he is so well, why are 'the Others' coming to visit him?"

"He has cancer. A year at most. Probably sooner."

"Oh . . . "

Sandra spoke up.

"A month ago, Mrs Garden was lying in her bed at night and I was talking with her . . . she suddenly looked over my shoulder and started talking with someone else. Apparently it was her mother. Come to say 'hello'. Mrs Garden started to cry . . . I thought she was unhappy and tried to comfort her, but she said she wasn't sad . . . she was happy. Her mother had told her not to worry, that it would be peaceful, and they would be with her."

"What would be?" Susie asked.

"Dying. Mrs Garden was dying. We are not a hospice, and people often transfer from here to St. Cuthbert's if the pain gets too much, but for others . . . they prefer to stay here, and we are happy for them to."

"What was she dying of?"

"A heart problem, and she had Parkinson's too. She died a few days later, but only after her father, her sister and her mother had come to visit her several times."

Susie was fascinated.

"Do you mind if I take a few notes?"

No one objected.

Over the next twenty minutes she listened to several stories, all very similar, describing times when 'the Others' had come to visit.

They reminded her of the time she had experienced it personally with her own father.

" . . . And if you are in the room, and 'the Others' come . . . how has it felt? Do you feel strange at all? Did the temperature drop? Were you scared?"

Florence answered first.

"The first time it happened . . . I had to leave the room. I was petrified." She laughed at the memory. "But I was working then with a lady called Mrs Glossop. She was a grand, wee soul. She saw me coming out of the room, white as a sheet, and when I told her why, she held my hands and smiled at me.

" _'Dinnie ye worry, pet_ ', she said to me . . . I'll never forget it. ' _There's nowt to be afraid of. The dead can never harm ye, only the living can do that_!' And she walked back into the room with me, and stayed with me. The person I was caring for died that night, but as Mrs Glossop pointed out, she died peacefully, not afraid, and not alone. It was a good death. Since then, I've always felt it was a blessing if 'the Others' came. It helps the person who is coming to the end of their time in this world, and gives them comfort. I hope it happens to me."

Tom was next.

"The rooms in the home are all quite warm, and I've never noticed a change in temperature when they come. It just seems that one moment they are there, and then the next they are gone, but there is no wind, no coldness."

"Has any of you ever seen 'the Others' yourself?"

No one had.

"I knew someone once who said he could see and talk to dead people when he was younger . . . " Tom replied. "It was a friend from school. He told me that at the time he never knew they were dead. He just saw them, and thought it was normal. Then as he grew up and went through puberty . . . he saw them less and less. Then, when he was a teenager, he was apparently looking at photographs together with his mum and dad, and he pointed to an old photograph and said that was his granddad. His mum and dad were surprised that he could identify him, because his granddad died just after the war, and there was no way the boy could ever have met him. My friend told his parents that his granddad and himself had talked many times. He was always walking around their house, and used to sit with him at night and sometimes in the morning when he woke up before everyone else. It freaked his parents out, but my friend thought it was fine. He didn't tell them about the other people he used to see, because he thought his parents couldn't handle it."

"Your friend is still alive now?"

"Absolutely. We play squash together all the time."

"And he can't see them anymore . . . dead people, I mean?"

"No. And I don't think he wants to. But he's not scared of anything like that. That ability to see stuff was part of his early life, but he grew out of it."

Susie whistled.

Claire clapped her hands together gently.

"I'm sorry . . . but it's time to finish. We've got to get everyone ready for lunch."

Susie thanked them, and followed Claire to the entrance.

As they were leaving, Claire handed her a piece of paper, with a list of other care homes and hospices and several names and telephone numbers.

"If you want to speak to anyone else, you can call or visit these . . . they're expecting you. I've called ahead, and they all have stories to tell. It's incredible, but now you've started asking about this, it seems that it's even more common than I had previously thought."

Susie sat in a pub in the centre of St Andrews having lunch. Apparently, this was one of the places where Prince William and Kate used to come when they were students at the University. The place was full of Japanese tourists taking photographs, excitedly trying to have their picture taken where once upon a time, Prince William's bottom sat on the same chair.

How sad.

Susie's mind was full of thoughts of the experiences she had heard about that morning. She reread the notes that she had made several times. A question was brewing in her mind.

Looking at the list of hospices and care homes that Claire had given her, she chose two: one was a hospice and one was a care home, but both were on the outskirts of Edinburgh. She could visit them today on the way back home.

Pulling out her mobile, she made the appointments.

When she arrived at the hospice, she wondered if it would have been better to bring Peter along for moral support. She had never been to a hospice before, and she felt a sense of sadness as she parked her car and made her way to the reception.

This was a place where people came to die. As she waited inside for a Mrs Pilkington to come down and collect her, her hand automatically went to stroke, to comfort and protect her little baby, resting and caressing the bump and letting it know that mummy was there.

The staff in the hospice were amazing. Positive. Cheerful. Wonderful. But seeing the patients and guests - what did you call them? - and knowing they were all going to die, had an unexpected effect on Susie. She felt very uncomfortable, so much so, that after only one hour in the building, she made her excuses and left.

She had spoken with two women nurses. Frankly, they amazed her. These people were the salt of the earth. It was a tough job, and Susie imagined, although she didn't know for sure, that they probably didn't get paid very much, but what they did was incredible. Susie wished she was more like them . . .

Both nurses had told her about their experiences. And basically they were similar.

They both agreed that it was common, probably more common now than before, for dying people to be able to see and converse with dead relatives.

'The Others' were all over the place.

It was while driving across Edinburgh to the care home in Portobello that the question brewing in her mind finally materialised and took shape: why was this becoming more common place now? Had this always been happening - but only with the advent of care homes and hospices, where many old people were living together under close supervision, were people noticing that it did indeed happen quite frequently? Or was this genuinely a phenomenon that was increasing in frequency?

And how was it possible for some people to see 'the Others' for weeks before they died? Previously, it seemed that people only saw 'the Others' on their death beds. Nowadays, it seemed, you could be in Tesco and hey presto, there's grandma!

'The Sea View Care Home for the Elderly' in Joppa was an old mansion that had been converted into what seemed like a five star hotel for the rich and famous of Edinburgh's elite.

It boasted a fantastic sea view . . . the clue was in the name . . . and a small golf course. Set far back from the main road, a pebbled drive swept round in a large arc leading to the entrance.

Susie was beginning to feel tired as she rang the bell outside and waited for the front door to be unlocked, a precaution she knew was to stop those with dementia from wandering out and not remembering their way back.

She was greeted by a female minister: short hair, big smile, and a dog-collar.

"Susie, please come in. Come in . . . " she said, repeating herself.

They sat in an office at the front of the building, a pile of brochures advertising the benefits of the home sitting on a coffee table positioned between their two armchairs.

She picked one up. The place looked amazing. And very expensive. What sort of people could afford to live here?

The answer was obvious though.

Rich people.

Over the next hour, Susie met three carers. Again, the story was similar: they told Susie that people nearing the end of their life, saw dead people. And increasingly so.

Susie started asking questions around that last bit . . . why was it happening more now than before. What had changed?

And was it only older people who experienced this . . . (as perhaps, their brains started slowing down or functioning incorrectly?)

She was sitting with the third carer, a Miss Tan, an Asian lady with a Glaswegian accent, when quite unexpectedly she was asked, 'Would you like to meet someone who talks with 'the Others' a lot?'

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the luxury suite of Donald Davidson, an octogenarian who had made his fortune in selling Scottish Shortbread in bright red tartan boxes to everyone but the Scots.

He seemed very excited to be meeting Susie, and was quick to offer her tea and biscuits, shortbread not being included in the offer . . . he was sick of the stuff.

Miss Tan poured the tea because Donald's hands were shaking too much for him to be able to do it himself.

Susie explained why she had come to the home, and told the shortbread millionaire about her father, and what she had experienced with him. In return, Donald admitted that recently he too had been seeing a lot of his wife. She had died ten years before, and he had missed her terribly.

Nowadays, they frequently had tea together, about this time.

They had been talking for about ten minutes when Donald's face lit up.

"Aha . . . Dorothy is here! She's here . . . "

Susie stood up from her seat, and looked around. Miss Tan remained seated, and just nodded reassuringly when Susie looked over at her.

"Dorothy is asking you to make yourself comfortable. Please sit."

Susie sat down.

"Where is she?" Susie asked.

"Over there . . . sitting on the other chair." Donald laughed. "I can't believe that no one else can see her. I can see her as clearly as I can see both of you."

Susie looked across at the empty chair in the room.

"What is it Dorothy? What's the matter?" Donald asked, talking to the chair.

There was a moment's silence. Susie hardly breathed.

"Oh . . . Susie . . . Dorothy say's that someone else would like to talk with you . . . "

Susie sat up, her heart skipping a beat.

"Who? Who wants to speak with me?"

"Oh, . . . " Donald said, as if rather surprised. "He's here now . . . by the door."

Susie spun around and looked at the door.

"Is it my dad? Graham? Is my dad here?"

"No. He's a young man. A little older than you. He says his name is Timothy . . . "

It was like as if someone had just injected her with a drug . . . her heart rate rocketed, and she felt suddenly very hot. She took several deep breaths . . .

"Timothy?"

"Yes . . . he says he can't stay long. He says he's not just here to speak to you, but to his nephew too . . . "

The room began to swim, and suddenly Susie felt quite weak. How did Donald know that she was carrying a boy? Peter and Susie had only discovered the sex of the baby at the last scan, and they had told no one.

Miss Tan, seeing the colour drain from her face, jumped up and hurried to her side, steadying her.

"Put your head between your knees, Susie," she urged.

"No . . . no . . . it's okay . . . ," Susie insisted, taking some deep breaths.

"I'm fine, now . . . I think . . . Donald, please ask _Timothy_ what it is that he wants to tell us?"

Donald was looking across at the door, listening. A moment later, he turned round to Susie and spoke, this time very seriously.

"Timothy has asked me to tell you two things. First of all, you must not go back to your new home in North Berwick. There is danger there, and you are both not safe. Secondly, Susie, your son's life . . . and yours . . . are in danger. You are ill. You have to go to a doctor. And soon."
Chapter 17

Tuesday, August 10th

6 p.m.

Susie called Peter on the way over to the doctor. She had called the doctor immediately, before leaving the Care Home, and asked for an emergency appointment.

"I think something is wrong with my baby . . . " she had said to the receptionist, crying.

"We'll see you in an hour, the last appointment of the day. You won't be able to see your normal doctor, but you can see the locum."

Peter arrived just in time, and they were able to go in together.

"What seems to be the trouble?" the doctor had asked, seeing that Susie was quite distraught.

What could Susie say? "Hi. A ghost told me that I am dying?"

"I haven't been feeling well for a few days. I'm worried about the baby . . . could you check me out? Make sure that everything is okay?"

"Okay, no problem. Did the receptionist ask you to provide a urine sample, by any chance?"

Susie nodded, handing over the container, still warm.

"Could you please sit on the edge of the bed, and I'll ask you some questions? Good. Now, how have you been feeling? Any pains? Nausea? Headaches? Any swelling . . . Problems with your vision?" The doctor started to ask a list of questions, while proceeding to examine Susie.

He took her blood pressure, asked her to relax a bit more, and then took it again a few minutes later.

Pressing and prodding her body gently in different places, he noted when she registered some discomfort.

Then returning to his desk, the doctor pulled out something from his desk, and dipped it into her urine sample.

"This is a reagent strip . . . we use it to test for proteins in your urine . . . " The doctor examined the strip. "Your urine is a little dark, and the reading from the reagent strip shows us that there is a little more protein there than we would like to see. Your blood pressure is also high, and it seems as if you are suffering a little discomfort in your lower back." The doctor paused. "Would you like to come back and sit beside your husband?"

Susie stood up from the bed, looked worryingly across at Peter, and walked back to the doctor's desk and sat down beside him.

"Miss Morgan, have you ever heard of a condition called Preeclampsia? Yes? Well, from the brief examination I have given you, I think there is a possibility that you have it. It never showed up in your pre-natal scans, which is interesting. If I may I would like to try and arrange for you to be seen in the hospital this evening. You will probably have to stay overnight. Maybe a few days. Just until we know what we are dealing with here."

Peter looked at Susie, reaching out and taking her hand in his.

"Is this serious?" Peter asked the doctor.

"It can be. It's our job to make sure it doesn't get serious. I'm just very glad that you came into see us just now. You did the right thing. Unfortunately, preeclampsia can be a dangerous condition because many of the signs that you have it are what we call 'silent', while other symptoms resemble the 'normal' effects of pregnancy on your body. The next step is to take some blood samples, do some scans and some other tests and confirm if you do or do not have it. Once we know, we can then decide what the best course of action will be from there."

The doctor turned to the computer screen.

"I see that it runs in your family? Did you know that you mother had it? But she delivered all her children safely, so everything turned out fine, and that will be the same with you, I'm sure."

Susie stared at the doctor.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry, I just mentioned that your mother had preeclampsia during all her pregnancies . . . "

"How many pregnancies did she have?" Susie asked, tightening her grip on Peter's hand.

The locum looked back at the computer, quickly reading the notes, flicking through a couple of screens. His face began to turn white, and he began to stammer a little.

"Oh . . . dear, I'm sorry, Miss Morgan. I just assumed you knew. I made a mistake. I'm afraid, I can't discuss that with you in any more detail. I shouldn't have said that. I apologise."

"Timothy? Does it say on the screen that my brother was called Timothy? Please, tell me, . . . when was he born?"

"Miss Morgan, I am truly sorry. I cannot give you any more information. It would be illegal. I was wrong to tell you even what I did . . . "

Crying and very upset, Susie and Peter were shown into a separate room. The locum called the hospital, made the arrangements, and soon after an ambulance came and picked Susie up.

Peter followed them in his car.

Fifteen minutes later Susie was lying in a hospital bed.

While they waited for the doctors to start their tests, Susie stroked Little Bump, closed her eyes, and said, "Thank you, Timothy. Wherever you are. Thank you."

\--------------------

Denise's House

Edinburgh

10 p.m.

Peter was asked to leave the hospital just before 10 p.m. They had been given a private room, at least for the evening, but the ward was closing and he had to go.

He had listened to Susie, amazed at the events that led her to visiting the doctor.

It turned out, although Susie did not yet know it, that Timothy may have saved two lives that day: Susie's, and their unborn son.

Before Peter had left the hospital, a doctor had spoken to him quietly in the hallway, informing him of the initial results back from Susie's tests.

Everything confirmed that Susie did indeed have preeclampsia. It was bad, but not severe. Unmonitored, without the correct treatment, - which was mostly bed rest and an offer of a new drug which was being trialled - the situation could have grown life-threatening.

Tomorrow they would decide whether or not they would have to keep Susie in hospital for the duration of her pregnancy, or if they would allow her home, where she would mostly be committed to rest in bed for the duration of the pregnancy. They had immediately started to treat her for her blood pressure.

It was likely that the baby would have to be delivered early, at around 37-38 weeks.

Susie would have to take it easy from now on.

When Peter mentioned the funeral, planned for Friday, the doctor frowned.

"Let's talk about it tomorrow. Attending it might be difficult, but delaying it might also cause additional stress. At the moment, it's all about the blood pressure. We need to see what the situation is tomorrow. But if and when we do release her, it has to be into a peaceful environment."

Which absolutely ruled out North Berwick.

Driving back to Denise's, Peter stopped off in a pub to get an orange juice, gather his thoughts and relax.

Peter was devastated by the news about Susie and his unborn son. He felt sick with worry. How could this be happening to them? So many things seemed to be going wrong all in the space of one week: Susie's father had died, someone was trying to kill him, Susie had just discovered that her parents had been lying to her all her life, and that she did have a brother after all, - even though she had always been upset at being an only child -, their newly bought house in North Berwick was haunted, and now . . . now . . . it turns out that Susie's life and their babies life could be in danger.

All the rest though paled in comparison with the news about Susie and Little Bump. All that mattered was that they would be safe. Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.

Even before he had got this news though, it had already been a bad day.

Earlier that morning, Malcolm had called Peter.

"Can we meet at lunchtime? In the pub where we last drank together? In an hour?"

The Sheep Heid Inn in Duddingston Village was one of Peter's favourite pubs. Steeped in history, and a reported watering hole for Bonny Prince Charlie prior to the Battle of Prestonpans, it was also where many of the journalists would sneak off to in the evening, after putting a story to bed and leaving the paper.

Malcolm was sitting in the corner, stress written across his face as Peter walked in.

"It's not good news," Malcolm announced, even before Peter had sat down.

"I gathered. Why the clandestine arrangements and conversation on the phone, or need I not ask."

"Don't ask, I think you already know. It's probably not safe to talk on the phone at the moment. Someone, somewhere is listening to us."

Almost without realising it, Peter looked over his shoulder and around them, before moving a little closer to Malcolm.

"Don't worry. I've been watching. I think we are okay. But the damage is already done. I'm sorry Peter, but someone must have listened to our conversations with the University, or tracked our calls. I don't know how, but they knew we sent the soil samples to the University. And they went and got them."

"What do you mean? How is that possible?"

"They took them yesterday morning. At about two thirty."

Malcolm told him about the call he he'd had late the previous night with Professor Craig. He described how the Professor had only discovered in the afternoon that the soil samples had been taken.

When he went to retrieve the first of them for testing, he found that they were gone. There was no break-in. No damage. Nothing. They were just gone. It turned out that there had been a fire alarm the night before, and a fire crew had entered the building. A video tape from a CCTV camera showed five of the firemen entering the Professor's laboratory, attaching some sort of device to the keypad lock on the vault door, pressing a few buttons and then simply opening the door. They were carrying empty bags on the way in. The bags were quite full on the way out. It was obviously a very professional job."

"And what about the firemen? The police can track down who they were by contacting the fire station . . . "

"Peter, listen to me. It was a professional job. There _was_ no fire. There was no fire crew from the fire station. The fire station didn't even register that the alarms were going off in the University. The whole thing was a ruse just to get into the university."

"Shit . . . " Peter whistled. "Who are these guys?"

"That's not all. An hour ago I got a phone call from the FBI. Again. Or at least, they claimed it was the FBI."

"They called you? After what had just happened. Wow..these guys have got balls!"

"Exactly. They wanted to speak with you. I gave them your desk number. Reiterated that I would tell you they had called when you returned to work. But, I expressed some concern about allowing staff to talk directly with the FBI during work time. I started to enquire what it was about? They mentioned your trip to the States. Talked about this mysterious 'file' again. They want to know if you have got it, and if you have, they need to see it."

"Repetition. They've already told you that."

"Exactly. I said, that this was actually Scotland and not America. Perhaps, if they wanted to speak with you formally, and request your help, then maybe they should go through the proper channels? In actual fact, next time round, it would be better if they went through the Edinburgh Police? The paper would be extremely happy to comply with any requests from the Scottish Police Constabulary. As it always does. And did they have a contact telephone number and name I could reach them on, and an identification number for whoever it was that was calling me, so that I could check it directly with the FBI to confirm who I was really talking to? I pointed out that the Scotsman talked quite regularly with the FBI and had established channels and contacts I could approach to verify everything."

"And?"

"Whoever it was couldn't get off the phone quick enough . . . "

"Did they give you a number?"

"Did they heck. The man said he would call back soon, reminded me to talk with you, and stressed how important it was for you to collaborate with them. Peter, I don't think they will be calling me back at the Scotsman, but I wouldn't be surprised if they turned up in Scotland and tried to find and talk with you. Be careful, pal. Please."

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Peter was touched that Malcolm had called him 'pal'.

They had lunch together, Malcolm suggesting that Peter continue to stay out of the office: "Do some more research on the missing teenager, learn what you need to about GM, and try to think, if at all possible, how we can get hold of this missing file."

"By the way," Malcolm said during desert - sticky toffee pudding with custard - I followed your orders, did my homework and looked up ' _Terminator Gene_ ' on the internet."

"And?"

"Scary stuff. _Very_ scary stuff. I can't believe that people have actually developed this. It sounds like the stuff of some science fiction movie."

"Malcolm, that's the whole point. This whole GM movement, it's science fiction out of control. Except it's not some future vision of the world - this stuff is happening now!"

"What do they call it again . . . .'Genetic Use Restriction Technology'?"

"Yup, or GURT for short."

"Or Terminator Technology . . . Arnold Schwarzenegger meets the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz."

"Actually, Malcolm, I've been thinking about it a lot, and on the face of it, in its purest form, perhaps the desire to develop it was legitimate . . . Originally the plan was supposedly to alleviate concerns about GM by engineering GM crops to produce seeds which were sterile, i.e. that way, when GM crops were planted, seeds from the GM crops which were grown could not escape and inadvertently start growing somewhere else and start spreading out of control. Then someone took the technology that little bit further . . . by manipulating the genetic makeup of the crops so that seeds would be produced, but that they would only grow and produce the crops with the characteristic enhancements of the GM crops, if the farmers treated the seeds or the land with special chemicals which would then act as a key, unlocking the seeds with their GM traits, and letting them grow."

"I read that too, and I also saw some internet sites that suggested that the development of this GURT technology was a lot more sinister than what you suggested . . . Basically, that this technology allowed the big GM companies to control the food chain by effectively turning God's gift of seeds to grow crops into a money making business. It went something like this . . . the big companies use their size and political pressure to force governments to make GM crops legal, and then by buying up all the small seed companies, the large GM seed companies end up with the monopoly of the market place. Farmers are effectively forced to buy seeds from the only sources they can get the seeds from . . . "

" . . . which is what is apparently happening in India just now with cotton seeds . . . the only seeds the farmers can get are genetically modified cotton seeds, which come from one company . . . " Peter interrupted.

"Exactly . . . Now whether this is happening or not yet, I don't know . . . but if the GURT technology was used, or is being used, then the idea is that once farmers have planted the GM crops, those crops will no longer produce fertile seeds that the farmers can harvest by themselves for the next year. So, when the new year starts, the only way the farmers can plant new crops is by buying even more new seeds from the seed companies, or by buying special chemicals which they can use to treat the seeds they harvested from the year before, which then switch on the growing genes and make them grow. In other words, whereas God gave mankind plants which would produce their own seeds, thus allowing farmers to collect enough seeds during harvest to prepare for the next year's crops, the GM company have stepped in, and stopped plants from doing that. If you want food, if you want seeds, you have to buy the seeds from the companies that produce them! Kill Mother Nature, Move over God, GM Seed Companies rule, Okay?!"

"And what then happens if everyone in the world is dependent upon seeds from only one or two companies, and then those few companies get picky and decide not to provide seeds to farmers in one country or another? Without seeds, there is no harvest, and that country starves. The power the large GM companies will have in the future will be vast. They will yield more power than governments!"

"And what if the companies are owned or manipulated by governments in the first place? On one of the websites I visited, there was a quote from Henry Kissinger, the U.S. Secretary of State in the 1970s. It said: ' _Control oil and you control nations, control food and you control the people.'_ It can't help but make you think. Do we really want the international seed companies to be allowed to gain so much power?"

"Listen, a lot of the stuff you read on the internet is not official, and is not written by scientists . . . "

"So, what does 'official' mean? Written by a government body and possibly censored? Or is it better to read content written by someone exercising free speech, . . . maybe not completely factually correct, but containing enough facts to make you think twice?"

They were both silent. The topic had got them both fascinated and excited.

"Peter," Malcolm continued. "We need to learn a lot more about this. We need to find out what is fact, and what is not. For example, apparently the Terminator Technology has been banned . . . it cannot be used . . . "

" . . . Or has it? I don't know yet. And maybe not in all the countries in the world. But the mere fact that it has been developed, means that one day, it will more likely than not be used. Let me ask you another question, Malcolm, how much food do you think already contains GM 'stuff', for want of a better word?"

"I don't know. But I know that people are nervous about it and are kicking back."

"Yes, we hear about people protesting, but in the background, every day more and more crops are being planted. Again, I don't know if it is true, but I just read this morning that in the U.S. they estimate that already between sixty and seventy percent of foods found in most U.S. supermarkets, already contain food with GM modifications! Now perhaps that figure is wrong, . . . maybe it's not sixty percent, or even fifty percent . . . maybe it's just forty percent. But even if it's just half, that's already still way too much! That means that whenever an American sits down to eat, they are eating genetically modified food, and are probably completely oblivious to what they are doing!"

"Peter, I know. I understand what you are saying, and hey, I think that this topic is one of the most challenging we as a paper have faced in a long time. And I think we need to start educating people as to what is happening and what our choices are. But we need facts."

"Facts may be hard to get."

"We need to do our best."

"I was trying, Malcolm. I _am_ trying . . . but don't forget, someone just stole all my soil samples, and now I have to regroup and start all over again!"

"What we need now is that file," Malcolm replied.

"I know. I'll do my best."

As they made their way out of the Sheep Heid pub, Malcolm shook Peter's hand.

"Like I said before, Peter. Be careful!"

Peter nodded, smiled and left.

Malcolm watched him go.

He wasn't the only one. High above them, from the slopes of Arthur's Seat mountain, a pair of military field binoculars watched both men leave the pub.

As they climbed into their cars, the man with the binoculars noted down the number plates on both vehicles.

Then he picked up this cell phone and dialled a number in the U.S.

Chapter 18

Tuesday, August 10th

11 p.m.

Debbie McCrae whimpered. The silver duct tape stuck across her mouth was too tight, forcing her lips into her teeth, and the taste of blood made her feel sick.

Her hands were tied fast behind her back, and her right leg was chained to the wall.

She was naked.

It was so hot that she felt as if she was slowly cooking alive.

She knew she was going to die.

The only respite came when the man with the mask came back, and took the silver tape off.

He always held a knife against her chest, pressing the tip hard into her skin, while he let her eat and drink, and before he removed the tape he warned her not to scream.

"If you do, I will cut your breast off."

She had woken up in the room, lit constantly, but with the lighting controlled by a dimmer switch by the door. The room was empty, apart from a bucket in the corner that she could just make it to when she needed.

When the man left, he turned the light down to a low glow, enough to just keep the darkness at bay, and let her sleep, but when he came back he turned the light up full.

"I like to see you," he said. "You are beautiful."

Debbie did not know where she was, or how she got there, but she was sure that she must have been drugged.

She knew the man was going to kill her, but so far he had not raped her.

Surely, though, he would.

So far, all he had done, was sit beside her, stare at her, and run his hands slowly but gently all over her body.

Twice he had kissed her breasts, but he had done so almost tenderly. When she trembled through fear as he did it, he looked up at her, anxiously, almost as if he was scared that he was harming her.

Sometimes he would come into the room, turn the light up and pace back and forward across the room, looking over at her, and mumbling something under his breath.

A few times he swore at himself, and Debbie wondered if the man had Tourettes, but when he came closer to her, he became quieter.

She had lost all track of time, didn't know if it was day or night.

At first, when the man had gone, she had screamed and cried, for hours, until she realised that it made no difference. No one could hear her. No one was going to come and rescue her.

The man with the mask was kneeling down beside her now. He reached out his hand, and cupped her left breast in his palm.

He looked at her then, almost sheepishly, and she knew instinctively that he was asking permission to kiss her.

Fighting the urge to scream, or to vomit, she nodded.

Slowly the man took her breast in his mouth and started to kiss the nipple, playing with it with his tongue.

"Am I too rough?" the man asked, pulling back for a second.

Too scared to speak, she shook her head.

There was no hope for Debbie. She knew he would kill her. But strangely, she felt that somehow, in these moments, she exercised some form of control over him.

The man didn't seem to be getting aroused when he was kissing her. If anything, it calmed him down.

After five minutes of kissing and caressing her breast, he slowly pulled back.

He sat there beside here, looking at her. Admiring her.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said.

The man left the room and came back a few minutes later with some milk in a plastic cup, and some fresh fruit: a banana, an apple and an orange.

"There is no natural light in here . . . " he said. "You need to eat fresh fruit, for the vitamins."

Sitting down beside her again, he used the long, sharp knife to cut the fruit into pieces, and then he fed them to her, piece by piece.

As she was chewing the oranges, some juice squirted out and ran down her chin.

The man gently wiped the juice away with his finger tip.

Standing up, he admired her again.

Without speaking he picked up the slop bucket from the corner, and took it away, momentarily leaving the door open behind him.

Seeing the door ajar, Debbie pulled hard on her chain with her feet, but it would not give, and the metal dug deeply into her skin.

The man returned, replaced the clean bucket, and kneeled down beside her again.

He was looking deep into her eyes.

Gently he lifted a finger, and stroked a hair away from her forehead.

"You are so beautiful," he said.

Then he stood up, walked out of the room, and turned the light down as he went.

She heard the sound of a lock being bolted, and once again she was alone.

\--------------------

Denise's House

Edinburgh

11.30 p.m.

Susie was confused. What was happening? She didn't feel ill. She felt fine. Yet, apparently, as the doctor had explained to her this evening after Peter had left, preeclampsia was a serious condition that they had to treat with respect.

There was good news. The doctor thought that the her condition was not as severe as they had first thought.

Once Peter had come to be by her side, her blood pressure had gone down a lot of its own accord, and the doctors were able to give her some reassurance that things were not as bad as she feared.

"White coat syndrome," he said. "We see it a lot."

What Susie hadn't explained to the doctor was that the reason she was so stressed was because she had just been communicating with a ghost. Her dead brother. Whom she had never spoken with before.

Nevertheless, the doctor had stressed that although they were pleased with the initial results, she _did_ have the condition. Tomorrow, when the last of the results came back, they would be able to decide whether to release her or keep her in. But the signs were good.

Lying back in her bed, she felt strangely comforted.

She was still angry with her parents. And now, not only her father, but her mother too - her mother never mentioned the other times she had been pregnant! Why not?

But comforted, because obviously her brother had been looking out for her. He had come to warn her.

Was this the first time? Had Timothy ever come to look after her before? Was Timothy her guardian angel?

After a while, her thoughts wandered back to the events of the day, and the same question that had surfaced earlier that afternoon popped back into her mind.

Why did it seem that people were able to see 'the Others' more frequently now than before?

And increasingly, it seemed that people who were days or weeks from death were able to converse with them; it wasn't just limited to those who were minutes away from dying!

How was that possible?

She thought about Donald Davidson, the shortbread millionaire. He was not expected to die any time soon, but he had already been talking to his wife for quite a while.

She started to think about the other stories she had heard of. Was there something connecting them together? Was there a physical or obvious reason why these people all shared the ability to see the dead, and talk with them?

She was still thinking about this when she fell fast asleep.

\--------------------

North Berwick

Paul's House

11.50 p.m.

Paul locked the door to the cellar, and walked slowly up the stairs.

As always, now the adrenaline was passing out of his system, he felt tired, and began to feel down.

He needed a shower.

Taking the mask from his head, he cast it carelessly aside on to the chair in the kitchen, took a glass of water, and drank it down thirstily.

It was so hot in the cellar.

The shower was cool and refreshing, and as the water cascaded over his face, he closed his eyes, and thought about this evening.

Already she was so beautiful.

He thought about his hands moving slowly over the contours of her breasts, the delicate line of her jaw. The nape in her back.

The temptation to rush it all had to be resisted. He knew he had to take it slowly.

He was already in love with her. He knew it.

This time he would keep her. Forever.

Pouring a small whisky, he settled down into the armchair and flicked on the TV. Moving rapidly from one channel to another, he eventually gave up in frustration. There was nothing on.

Instead he picked up the Scotsman and unfolded it. He'd been so busy that he hadn't had a chance to look at any of the news for days.

Unfolding the paper, his eyes were immediately drawn to the pictures of Debbie McCrae and the article that ran with it. The parents were offering a reward of £50,000 for information from anyone that would lead to her safe return.

He read the article, hurried to the bathroom and vomited.

Chapter 19

Wednesday, August 11th

9.30 a.m.

As Peter drove into the hospital, in his mind he juggled with the various tasks that he had to do, planning how to spend his day and trying to prioritise what needed to be done.

First and foremost was Susie and his child, which they were affectionately calling Little Bump until they met him face to face. Peter was dreading the meeting with the doctor: a few years ago he had come close to death several times with kidney failure. During that time he had numerous meetings with doctors and renal consultants, and although they had saved his life, and he was grateful, he would be happy if he never had to visit a hospital again.

He was dreading the meeting with the consultant this morning. What if it was bad news, not good?

"Think positive, Peter! Think positive!" he told himself.

So, thinking positively, and if all things went well, Susie would be released from hospital. Peter knew that he had to resolve the situation in North Berwick: he had to get rid of the ghost that had taken up residence in _their_ home. They couldn't stay at Denise's house indefinitely, and Susie would need a place she could relax and rest in until their baby was born.

Then there was the GM file. He needed to find and locate it as soon as possible. He was considering calling William's wife and getting an update from her. What had happened two days ago had angered Peter. Peter was not scared of big companies . . . if anything, the fact that they were chasing him and had the gall to steal the soil samples from under their eyes, now made him more determined than ever to help the farmers in Iowa. And the more he read about the GM industry, the more concerned he became about the future - both their's, and his son's.

Peter smiled at the thought.

It was the first time he had worried about the future and the world that Little Bump would live in. There would be many more times, he was sure. For now though, it was down to Peter to help defend the future for Little Bump, and make sure the GM food industry didn't destroy it for him.

And then, there was Debbie McCrae. He had never met her. He did not know her. But the fact that she had gone missing in his new backyard - North Berwick - made this personal. This was the place he had chosen to live and bring up a family - if there was a crazed, serial killer stalking women in North Berwick, Peter was going to do his best to help find him and make the streets safe again.

Little Bump needed to be safe.

The traffic was bad, and Peter barely made it in time.

Rushing into the ward, he only just had time to kiss and cuddle Susie, and hand over some flowers, before the door to their private room opened and in walked a small, rather round, Indian man with a nurse.

"Hello, Susie." The man said, holding out his hand and smiling.

The doctor sat down on the side of the bed, still holding Susie's hand and still smiling.

"My name is Mr Chattopadhyay . . . don't worry . . . you can call me Rajesh, my first name. I am your consultant."

Peter and Susie said hello.

"I think the doctor on the ward talked with you last night, yes? Well, I'm happy to say that the news is somewhat good. We took a few tests yesterday, looking at your blood, your urine, monitored your baby's heart rate, and did a ultrasound to check the blood flow through the placenta. Your blood pressure has come down quite a bit . . . it's still high, but better. The test confirmed that you do have the condition we call preeclampsia. I note that you are a journalist, so I am sure you will do your own research on this condition, and there are many good sites dedicated to it. You may find this leaflet quite useful . . . " he said, handing it over to Susie. "The good news is that it is not as severe as we had first feared, and we think it will be possible to release you in the next few days back into the care of your husband, so long as you can promise you will get lots of rest. Unfortunately, this will mean spending a lot of time in bed. It's all described in the leaflet. Because of your condition, we will most likely look to deliver your baby . . . do you know the sex?- yes? Good . . . we will look to deliver your little boy during your 37th or 38th week of pregnancy, just so that we can minimise any risk, and make sure we can provide the best care for both of you. Until the baby is delivered, we'll arrange for a nurse to come to your house and check your blood pressure regularly, and we will give you some medication to help you keep your blood pressure low."

The doctor smiled. Again.

A wave of relief swept over Peter. He had spent hours online the night before reading everything he could find on the subject. He knew all about preeclampsia, and eclampsia, the more serious condition which could lead to fatal consequences.

The doctor stayed for a while, answered some questions they had, and then left.

If all went well, Susie would be released tomorrow.

Doctor Chattopadhyay - Peter had no idea how to pronounce it - was not thrilled by the idea that Susie was going to attend the funeral of her father, but he agreed to it. Not going, or cancelling the funeral, would probably be more stressful for her. But he had insisted that thereafter, she should rest, in bed, for the next week, and avoid anything that might upset her or stress her further.

After the doctor and the nurse left, Peter sat with Susie, and they talked.

He had still not told her the truth about what has happening with regard to the story he was working on about the GM food. He felt bad, but knew that telling her everything would worry her, and that was now out of the question.

While they were sitting talking, Peter got a call from Malcolm: someone had called the paper, reporting a sighting of a man following the missing teenager. They were giving a photofit to the police later that day. Could Peter visit the police station and get a copy?

"Peter, there's something I want you to do for me. Please . . . " Susie started.

"Sounds ominous, but you know that the answer is yes, whatever it is." Peter agreed, blindly.

"I want you to take over from me on my investigations into 'the Others'. I want you to find out why all of a sudden it seems that more and more people find that they can see and talk with their dead relatives, days, weeks, and in some case months before they actually die."

"So, has this become a formal investigation then? For you, or maybe something you can sell to the paper?"

"Both. But that's not the reason why I want you to do this for me."

"What is the reason then?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. But first, I want you to think back to what we did when you were sick, and having your visions caused by the kidneys you got from Maciek. What we did then was talk to as many recipients of transplant organs as possible . . . and we sent them a questionnaire . . . Remember, we noticed, just like now with the ability to see 'the Others', that instead of just a few people experiencing Cellular Memory Syndrome, suddenly lots of people seemed to be having it. A relatively sudden increase. Caused by what?"

"By SP-X4, the new drug that they were all taking!"

"Exactly! _Exactly!_ Everyone was taking new medication which led to most of them adopting characteristics and experiencing memories belonging to their organ donors _. . . "_ Susie exclaimed excitedly. "I was thinking about that last night . . . trying to figure out if there was a connection between everyone we talked about. Do they all have cancer? Is it a new cancer drug they are taking? Or blood pressure? Or, I don't now, _something_ else? Probably something else that old people get. Something that quite a few people suffer from in that age range."

Peter laughed. Susie was on a roll, her mind as sharp as ever. Her _mind_ was as _sharp_ as ever . . .

"How about Alzheimer's? Or dementia?" Peter asked. "How many of those seeing dead people, are being treated for Alzheimer's or dementia?"

Susie's face went blank, quickly recalling snippets of conversations from the day before, along with a sudden mental picture of the shortbread millionaire apologising for not being able to pour the tea.

"No," Susie replied excitedly. "Not Alzheimer's. Or Dementia. It's Parkinson's! Peter, they've all got Parkinson's!"

When Peter left the hospital, on instructions from Susie, he had his work cut out from him.

She had spent an hour that morning making a long list of Scottish hospices and care homes, - with help from her iPad and the hospital wireless connection and the lists she had already been given by Claire and the Minister of Greyfriars.

"I've sent it to you by email," she explained. "I want you to contact them all today and tomorrow. And send them the short questionnaire I wrote for you. Tell them we - you and I - are doing some progressive research on a new phenomenon that is sweeping Scotland . . . etc. Big it up. And ask them, no beg . . . .no . . . just use your charm to get them to fill in the questionnaire and return it to us as soon as they can. Tell them the deadline for the article is next Wednesday, . . . can they get back to us by Monday?"

The questionnaire was simple: after describing the phenomenon they were researching, they gave some examples of how carers and nurses in St Andrews and Edinburgh had witnessed their patients talking to 'the Others'. The questionnaire asked if those working within their own institutions had observed similar experiences. If so, how many times had this happened in the last few years: not at all/ rarely/ often/ very often?

Other questions included:

_C_ : When patients were observed to be able to speak to 'the Others', was this

-during the last hours of their life

-in the days preceding their death

-in the weeks preceding their death

_D_ : In cases of people who were able to speak with 'the Others', what medical conditions were they suffering from (followed by a list of conditions, including Alzeheimers, dementia and Parkinson's Disease.) - Please check the relevant boxes.

_E_ : Please describe the medications being taken by these residents/ patients, including commercial names for these drugs.

_F_ : In your opinion, is this happening more frequently than before, and is there any obvious relationship between medications being taken and those experiencing these phenomena?

_G_ : Have any carers/ nurses in your institution actually seen 'the Others' themselves?

_H_ : Would you be willing to discuss individual cases with the Scotsman and be quoted in a newspaper article?

Peter was back at Denise's by 11 a.m.

By 1 p.m. he had spoken with a mixture of twelve hospices and care homes, and by 1.30 p.m. he had emailed thirty places in Scotland, and twenty in England, which he had located himself.

As he pressed enter and sent the last email, he couldn't help but admit to himself that he was excited, and was looking forward to the responses he would get from the questionnaires. His gut feel, that special gift that most good journalists were born with, couldn't help but feel that Susie was on to something big.

Something very big.

But little did he realise at that moment, just how quick the tsunami of responses would come back and sweep them away, altering their perception of life and reality for ever. But not just for them.

For all mankind.

\--------------------

Columbia

South Carolina

Genetec Seed Corporation

August 11th

10 a.m.

Samantha Vesper put down the phone and swore.

"Holy _shit_!" she shouted aloud, furious at the initial results which had just come back from the laboratory. Having recovered the soil samples from Scotland on Monday morning as planned - it had gone like clockwork - they had been flown back to South Carolina that same day, and had immediately been sent to the lab.

Unfortunately, that bastard Peter Nicolson had just labelled the soil containers with numbers, so there was no way of knowing which farms the samples had come from. Their scientists had confirmed that it was typical Iowa soil, and said they may be able to narrow it down to north or south Iowa, but not more than that at this stage.

The good news was that results from twenty of the soil samples had come back.

The bad news was that the initial analysis showed that the soil was effectively dead for traditional farming in Iowa. It would not be possible to grow corn, cotton or soya beans in that soil. Not for the foreseeable future.

That was all that she had for now. More details would be forthcoming when she received the full report, but she had what she needed: confirmation of what they already knew, but the shareholders did not - not only could the farmers in Iowa build an almost watertight legal case for suing the pants of the Genetec Seed Corporation if they got the file, but more worryingly, it appeared that the science and technology of Genetically Modified seeds and foods which their company had built an empire around, was, fundamentally, flawed.

In short.

They.

Were.

Fucked.

Samantha sat back in her chair and swore again.

From where she sat, and from what she had learned from the board room so far, it would be one or two years before they could solve the problems they were facing. But in those two years, all the land planted with their GM variants would possibly be destroyed, made barren, and poisoned, preventing the growth of most future crops.

The GM Seed Company was sowing death.

And the world was racing blindly to one failed harvest after another, and possible starvation for millions of people.

Samantha swivelled around in her chair and started watching the tops of the green trees move gently in the light breeze.

Her mind began to think beyond the problem.

Okay, so the bad news was that the Genetec Seed Corporation faced problems. Big problems. But, they were not alone. Thankfully, they were not a company operating in isolation of the rest of the industry. It was not only them that were facing these issues. All the big seed companies were. And they had powerful backers. Extremely powerful backers that would not allow them to fail.

There were problems. But they would be given the opportunity to fix those problems. Surely. Otherwise, if they went down, some very powerful and famous people would go down in flames with them. Samantha would personally make sure of that!

A flock of birds . . . Samantha had no idea what type of birds they were . . . flew into the branches of the trees and took roost.

Although Samantha was oblivious to nature and didn't really care two hoots whether elephants, tigers and lions all became extinct, she did like birds.

She watched them fly with the wind, quickly changing direction and adapting their course according to the way the wind took them. They were fast. Flexible. Born survivors.

If Samantha had to be any other form of creature, a bird was probably as best she could get.

She evaluated the situation she was in.

They were in trouble. But seen objectively, they would most likely not be allowed to fail. Others, powerful others, would help manipulate the press, the public, the legal system, . . . even governments . . . to ensure their continued success.

The same others that had helped them to bend existing laws and force Congress and individual states to pass new legislation which allowed GM companies like them to prosper and succeed.

To get where they were today.

However, granted that it was extremely unlikely that the worst scenario would be played out - that their company would fail, and Samantha's stock would become worthless, - it still did not excuse her from performing her duties.

If Peter Bastard Nicolson, that little shit from Scotland, did manage to pull the pieces of the jigsaw together and publish in the Scotsman, he could do a lot of costly damage. Probably not terminal . . . but certainly painful for the Genetec Seed Corporation.

She was very aware of what she had promised Kurt Sanderson, but, sometimes, promises had to broken.

She would have the Scottish Shit monitored closely. She would monitor everything about his life.

She wanted to know if he had the file.

And if she found out that he did, she would kill him.
Chapter 20

North Berwick

August 11th

16.30 p.m.

The County Police Station in North Berwick was situated in the High Street, only one street back from the beach, and not so far from the pub near the harbour where Debbie McCrae was last seen alive.

After flashing credentials at the desk, Peter was shown into a room, and offered a coffee.

He declined. He'd had far too much coffee already today, and tonight he wanted to sleep.

A few minutes later a policeman came into the room, introducing himself as Sergeant Lynch. He was carrying with him several sheets of laminated paper.

The Sergeant had been expecting Peter.

He spread the pictures out on the table top.

"Not the best of photofits, but not terrible. To be fair, it was dark, so it's amazing that we managed to get as much detail as we did from the witness."

Peter looked at the images. Disappointed. They were so generic, it could almost be anyone.

A tall, bald-headed man with a slight stoop.

"And who was the witness? Is he/ she reliable? I mean, had they been in the pub too?"

"No. It was a respectable dog-walker. Apparently, she, . . . it was a she . . . hadn't touched a drop all night."

"You think this was the person who killed Debbie, or kidnapped her?"

"I never said we thought she had been killed or kidnapped. All we know at this stage of the enquiry is that she is missing. The witness only reported seeing a woman who matched the likeness you published in the paper talking to a man. They walked together for a while. But that was it. The witness walked past on the other side of the road, and turned down towards the beach. They went in the opposite direction."

"Away from the beach? So at least we can rule out that she came from the pub and fell into the harbour? By the way, have you dredged the harbour for a body, just in case she did fall in, and this is a red-herring, and someone else?"

"We will be doing that tomorrow. A diver is booked for tomorrow afternoon."

"Have you talked with all the locals from the The Anchor?"

"Yes. And tomorrow, if she hasn't come back by then, we will do a reconstruction in the pub. A young police officer will retrace her last known steps. Maybe we will be able to jog a few memories . . . "

"What do you reckon, Sergeant Lynch? What does your gut tell you?"

"This is an ongoing investigation, Mr Nicolson. I don't want to comment just now, but we are concerned. Apparently, Miss McCrae is a bit of a mummy's girl, and has practically never stayed away from home. The last time was two years ago on a school trip. This is very out of character for her."

"And the boyfriend?"

"Perfect alibi. He was with his new girlfriend. In a restaurant round the corner. He spent the night with her."

"Ouch." Peter said. Now he felt even worse for poor Debbie. "Do you think she found out and did something stupid?"

"I doubt it. The boyfriend swears he never saw her. North Berwick is a small place, but he didn't leave his restaurant until 1 a.m. and then they got a taxi straight back to the new girlfriend's flat. Her flatmates corroborate. The boyfriend is not a suspect."

Peter passed the Sergeant his card.

"Can I have these?" Peter asked, tapping the laminated photofit pictures.

"Absolutely. They are for you."

"Will you email me the pictures?"

"I'll do it immediately . . . to this address?" the Sergeant asked, pointing at the business card.

Peter nodded, thanked the Sergeant and left.

He looked at his watch.

If he went straight round to his house in North Berwick, he could write a quick few lines on the witness's account, and email them along with the photofit to his newspaper. Hopefully, when the paper came out tomorrow, someone looking like the man in the picture would come forward and voluntarily give his side of what happened, and remove himself from further suspicion. Or, someone else would recognise him.

It was a big hope.

Realistically speaking, the photofit was so generic, it could be any tall, bald man on the planet.

\--------------------

When Peter arrived in his house, all the lights were full on.

Peter switched half of them off.

The white kitchen bread knife was back in the kitchen drawer, even though, once again Peter had thrown it into the rubbish bin outside.

Peter shook his head, feeling no fear but only annoyance.

Making a cup of tea, he made his way up to the office, turned the music up loud, and wrote a short article.

As promised the Sergeant had sent the photofits over by email, and Peter appended them to the article and forwarded them to Malcolm and another of his colleagues, asking for an acknowledgement. If he didn't receive one, he would call them from his mobile, but he was reluctant to use his phone unless he had to. Tomorrow he was planning to buy a pay-as you-go and several disposable SIM cards.

A few minutes passed, then 'Bingo', Malcolm replied. He'd got it.

The fridge was empty, and so Peter made a mental note to buy some food on the way back from the hospital.

Driving fast, and perhaps a little dangerously, he arrived at the hospital in Edinburgh an hour later, managing to spend a full forty minutes with Susie before they politely asked him to leave.

When he was still there twenty minutes later, they chucked him out, with instructions to come back the next day and collect Susie at 1p.m.

Driving back to North Berwick he steeled himself for the night ahead. He was going to spend the night in his own house. Tomorrow Susie was getting out. Fine, they could stay at Denise's for a few more nights, but after that, they would have to go back home.

It was quite clear to him what he had to do tonight.

Peter had to face up to whoever or whatever it was that was haunting his home.

He needed to tell them they were not welcome, and ask them to leave.

If 'it' refused, Peter didn't yet have a Plan 'B'.

But soon he would. Peter had already met Susie's friend the Minister, and if Peter couldn't reason with 'it', whatever 'it' was, then Peter would enlist the help of the Church to make sure 'it' was sent straight to hell.

He just hoped 'it' would see sense.

\--------------------

Surprisingly, as he approached the house, he noted that all the lights were still off.

Just as he had left them.

Opening the door and letting himself into his own home, he listened for a moment before closing the door.

Nothing.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the knife drawer and discovered that there was no large, white breadknife to be seen.

Putting the kettle on, he walked around the house, checking to see if he would find it anywhere else. The answer was no.

Eventually, as he should have done in the first place, he stepped back outside, opened the top of the large, green, council bin and saw that it was exactly where he had left it.

Peter smiled.

Taking a shower, Peter washed away the stress of the day, put on some shorts and a T-shirt, and returned downstairs to the lounge.

They hadn't yet got round to installing Cable TV . . . Peter wanted it for the Sports channels, but Susie was dead against it.

"What do we want it for? So we can have another hundred channels of nothing to flick through every night? Perhaps it might just be better to talk to each other? Let's enjoy the peace and quiet while we can. You know, when Little Bump comes, that's going to be the end of all our free time and the end of silence."

And now, that time couldn't come fast enough. If only they could get through the next few months, safe and sound, with everyone healthy, and Little Bump delivered alive and well! That's all Peter wanted. That's all.

So, thinking of Susie, Peter switched off the TV, put on some of his favourite, relaxing music - the sound track to the film City Of Angels, and started to read a newspaper.

By the time he got to the third page, he was asleep.

\--------------------

The loud drumming on the front door woke him up. Opening his eyes, for a few seconds he struggled to understand where he was, not immediately recognising his surroundings.

The banging soon demanded his attention again, and he pushed himself up from the sofa and stumbled, bleary-eyed to open the front door.

Two police officers stood outside.

"Good morning, sir. How are you?" one of the police officers asked.

"Tired," Peter replied. "You woke me up. What time is it?"

"Almost five o'clock, sir. We're sorry for disturbing you, but we were wondering if we could have a word with you, if we may. One of your neighbours has reported some strange activity coming from your upstairs. They noticed, as we did just now as we watched from the patrol car, that someone upstairs is turning your lights in the bedroom on and off, repeatedly. It's been going on for several hours now. And, for anyone who knows anything about the sea, or Morse code, whoever is flicking the light-switch is signalling S.0.S."

Peter turned and looked behind him up the stairs. There was no obvious light to see. Pushing gently past the police officer he stepped outside and looked up at his own bedroom window. Sure enough, the light was going on and off.

"Sir . . . ," the police officer asked. "Do you mind if we come in to see who is upstairs? To make sure that everything is okay?"

Peter stared at officer.

"Do you have a warrant?"

"No, sir, I don't. But bearing in mind we have a missing teenager in the area, I am very keen to understand who is up in your room flashing so obviously for help!"

Peter looked at the police officer. He was quite young, but seemed very confident. Looking quickly from the officer back up to the room, Peter nodded.

"Yes, no problem. And to answer your question, I have no idea what's happening upstairs. I've been asleep on the couch downstairs. But let's find out. Please, come with me. Let's go up together, but quickly!"

Peter hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the two officers following immediately behind.

The door to the bedroom was closed, and Peter was just about to open it, when, thinking quickly, he stepped aside, and invited the young officer to go in first instead.

Almost gingerly, the young officer took the door handle, turned the knob, and pushed.

The door opened, and the room inside was now dark. Peter reached across the policeman's shoulder and flicked the light switch on the wall. Opening the door wider, the police officers stepped into Peter's bedroom.

It was empty.

"James, you check the rest of the house," the officer said, dropping to the floor, and looking under the bed.

"May I check the cupboard?" the officer asked, discovering nothing.

"Sure, be my guest." Peter asked, shivering. The room was deathly cold.

Peter walked out of the room and started looking through the other rooms upstairs, all empty.

The other officer returned from downstairs.

"Nothing. The house is empty."

"That's not possible," the other officer replied. "Who was turning the lights on and off when we were talking to you, outside in the garden just now?" he asked aloud, looking at Peter.

Peter put his hands up in the air.

"I've no idea. Like I said, I was asleep downstairs, and then you woke me up by banging on the door.

"May I ask, where your wife is?" the police officer enquired.

"My wife?" Peter looked surprised.

"Yes. A woman called us out last week. I came in response with another officer. She had reported an intruder. We looked everywhere, but found nothing. There was signs of a disturbance of some kind, with some knives scattered across the floor in the kitchen, but the house was empty. I can remember, it was really cold. It was a bit weird, to be quite honest. A bit spooky."

"It's freezing in that room now!" the first officer replied, pointing to the front bedroom.

Peter nodded.

"Yes, I'm her husband. I was away in America last week. We just moved in last month. And to be quite honest, I'm beginning to think that this house is haunted. Listen, can I offer you both a cup of tea or coffee? And by the way, I'm a reporter for The Scotsman, and I wrote the articles in the paper about the missing teenager Debbie McCrae. Any developments on the case?"

The officers declined the offer of a drink, and after asking for some identification from Peter, also admitted there was no new news on the McCrae case.

As they were walking out, the police officer who had come to assist Susie last week, stopped in the hallway and said.

"Mr Nicolson, I don't want to alarm you further, but you may be right that you are haunted. When I came last week to see your wife, in hindsight it was actually a little scary. And this evening, your bedroom light was definitely flashing out S.O.S., which given this is a coastal town, almost everyone hereabouts knows means 'Save Our Souls'. It could be that you do have a ghost in your house, and that it is asking for help, for someone to help save its soul!"

Peter was silent. The police officer was right. S.O.S. - Save Our Soul! Maybe Maciek, or whoever it was, was looking for help.

\--------------------

Paul's house

Next door, Paul breathed a long, sigh of relief. The police car was leaving.

Staring out through a crack in his bedroom curtains, he followed the vehicle as it turned around and disappeared down the street, around the corner, and out of sight.

He was still shaking when he climbed back into his bed, and tried to calm down, breathing deeply and rhythmically, just as he had learned years before to try and avoid a panic attack.

When he had first seen the blue flashing lights through his bedroom curtain, just as the police arrived, Paul was convinced that they had come to talk to him.

Someone must have remembered seeing him looking at the girl in the pub and drawing.

But instead, rather strangely, they had gone next door.

Why?

Paul didn't understand it.

Then he realised that maybe nobody in The Anchor may have recognised him after all.

Maybe he had got away with it!

Slowly Paul managed to bring his breathing back under control.

The thought kept recurring in his mind: "No one saw me. I got away with it!"

Within the hour, he was asleep.

\--------------------

Peter's house

Peter stood at the end of his bed in the bedroom.

"Whoever is here, let yourself be known. I am not scared of you. I want to talk with you."

Peter waited for a response, sure that one would come.

His heart was thumping so hard, he could hear the blood pulsing in his eardrums.

"Show me a sign that you can hear me!" Peter demanded.

As he breathed out he could see his breath condensing into a light mist. The room was still deathly cold, even though outside it was another warm, summer's evening.

"Are you scared of me?" Peter challenged.

A low moan. A deep, guttural moan.

Peter looked around.

He could see nothing.

"What is it that you want?"

Suddenly, a loud crash, downstairs.

Peter rushed out of his room, bounding down the steps as fast as he could go.

In the kitchen there was nothing, no sign of anything.

Quickly, Peter moved into the dining room at the back of their house, and then into the lounge.

A picture of Peter and Susie lay on the floor, the photo frame smashed, but the picture thankfully intact.

Underneath the picture was the newspaper he had been reading.

One of the shards of glass from the picture frame was standing up on end, its sharp end piercing the newspaper underneath.

"What do you want?" Peter shouted loudly, spinning around as he spoke, looking all about him?

"Maciek? Is that you?"

A sudden coldness in the room, as if someone had opened a window and an artic wind had blown in.

"Maciek? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

What Peter heard next, he would never forget for the rest of his life.

It was a strange sound, like nothing he had ever heard before, or would ever want to hear again. The sound pierced his mind, and echoed within his head. At first Peter could not make out what it said, but in the moments following first hearing it, it was if his brain was processing it, filtering out the extraneous white noise, slimming it down, rationalising it, trying to comprehend it by replaying it over and over again until suddenly it was there. It's meaning clear.

One word.

" . . . ..hhhhheeeeeelllllllllllpppp!"

'Help!'

Chapter 21

North Berwick

August 12th

5.27 a.m.

Outside, the rising sun stretched out and cast its first light through the curtains of Peter's house.

Almost immediately the coldness in the air vanished.

One moment it was there.

An instant later, it was gone.

Peter shook his head, clearing his mind.

Had he truly just heard what he did?

The sound . . . the word . . . continued to echo through his mind.

It had sounded a bit like a wind whistling down a long pipe, a long elongated ''hhhhheeeeeeuuuuuullllll" with an subtle 'p' being appended to the end.

Peter blinked.

Without being able to explain why, Peter knew instinctively that the presence had gone.

Maciek had gone.

He was no longer there. For now, at least.

Looking down at the carpet, Peter walked through to the kitchen and fetched an empty plastic bag, and the vacuum cleaner from under the stairs.

Bending down to start picking up the shards of glass, one by one, he reached out to pull out the largest piece which had embedded itself into the newspaper underneath.

It was only then that he noticed it.

The largest shard of glass stood vertically, the narrow point at its base slicing through the middle of the article he had written in the Scotsman, its jagged edge cutting deep into the photograph of the missing teenager Debbie McCrae.

Stabbing her through her heart.

\--------------------

Denise's house

Edinburgh

2.10 p.m.

"Denise, honestly, Peter and I both know how much of an imposition this is on you. You invited us for a night, and we're practically moving in." Susie apologised as Denise put the fresh cup of coffee down on the bedside table.

"Nonsense," Denise replied. "None of this is your fault, and I've got plenty of room, so why not help you out if I can? Plus, Denise makes a really good girl's name, . . . if it's a girl."

Peter smiled. Denis might not be out of the question.

"Thanks, and we truly appreciate it. But rest assured that if we don't 'unhaunt' our house in the very near future, we're going to get a flat somewhere in North Berwick. You need your own space, and the last thing you want is a moody, hormonal, pregnant woman littering up your home."

"I'll say this only once, and I mean it. Susie, you're welcome as long as you want . . . And by the way, did I ever mention about how good a godmother I might make someone some day?"

Susie laughed.

"I get the hint."

Earlier Peter had picked up Susie from the hospital, flowers, grapes and chocolates all in abundance. As soon as he arrived in her room, he had kissed her and held her in his arms, holding her head gently, and kissing her forehead and her closed eyes.

"I love you, Susie Morgan. More than you will ever know. And I will love our son, even more."

Susie was almost surprised by the strength of his emotion.

"Wow," she whispered into his ear. "If I had known you would treat me like this, I might have considered developing a life-threatening condition years ago!"

Peter pulled back, looking deeply into her eyes.

"Don't even joke about it. Nothing must happen to you. Nothing must happen to us. Do you understand?"

"Don't worry, Peter. Nothing will. I promise."

There was a tear in Peter's eye.

Susie wiped it away.

As they drove over to Denise's, Peter told Susie about North Berwick, and everything that had happened.

Susie shivered.

"I'm scared!" she said.

"I know. And you are not going back there until Maciek, or whoever it is, has gone. Timothy made that much pretty clear, and I agree."

"How come you're not scared?" she asked, reaching out and resting her hand on his leg as he drove.

"Susie, after what I've been through, death, or the dead, can't scare me. I'm more scared of living than dying. Dying is not difficult. Living is."

"But Maciek might harm you!"

"He won't. I can't explain it, Susie. But I know he won't. Maybe, deep down somewhere in my cell structure, he is still part of me. Maybe I'm inextricably linked to him. Wherever he is. I'm pretty sure he won't harm me. If he wanted to, he could have done it by now, when I was asleep. If anything, I think he needs my help."

Susie shook herself.

"You honestly heard him say, 'Help'."

"Yes. The word just runs through my mind constantly, over and over again, and the more I hear it, the more certain I am that that's what it is."

"So, what's next?"

Peter glanced across at her.

"I don't know," he replied. "But we'll think of something soon. We have to."

The conversation moved onto the next day. Susie's father's funeral.

Peter was not surprised to learn that instead of sleeping and resting all morning, she had been on the phone, finalising all the aspects of the next day.

The funeral would not be a huge affair. Not very many people were coming: a few surviving friends of her dad's, some people from the care home, and perhaps a couple of distant relatives, who Susie had not seen in years and would probably never see again.

"I had an idea," she said, proudly. "I'm going to take all of dad's old photographs with us to the pub, \- at least the ones we don't recognise, and if any of the distant relatives turn up, I'll give them to them . . . if they want them."

Susie's father was born in St Andrews and grew up there, only spending only a few of the war years abroad, while doing his national service in Korea.

The funeral cortege would drive past his old home, down the streets he played in, and then a few minutes later, past the home where he had lived with Susie's mother for the rest of his life until she died.

Her father would be buried in the church yard, resting forever alongside Susie's mother who was waiting peacefully for him to join her.

Afterwards, there would be a wake in the pub.

And there would be tears.

Many tears.

That night, Susie went to bed early. Peter went with her, holding her in his arms while she talked of the happy times she had spent with her dad, and then stroking her face as she drifted off to sleep.

When she was fast asleep, Peter left her, and went down to speak to Denise.

Over a coffee, Peter told Denise everything that had happened the previous night in North Berwick.

Denise looked on amazed.

"So," Peter finished the story. "What do I do next? I'm just right out of ideas."

Denise laughed.

"And how am I meant to know? Do I look like a ghost hunter to you?"

"No. But two minds are better than one."

"Okay. Fair enough. Let's think about this, go over the facts. Firstly, your house is haunted. You think you know who it is - a knife, wielding serial killer whose kidneys you carried within you for a while and whose personality you started to adopt, until you managed to persuade your surgeon to rip them out, burn them, and give you a new set!"

"That's right so far . . . "

"Don't interrupt, I'm on a roll." Denise told him off. " . . . In spite of Maciek's past, for whatever reason, you believe that you are not in danger. And incredibly, you think that he is asking you for your help?"

"Yes."

"But you can't see him or speak to him?"

"No."

"Okay. Then it's pretty obvious to me what you need to do!"

Peter sat forward in his chair. He knew he could count on Denise!

"What's that then?" Peter asked.

Denise smiled. "It's easy. You just need to find someone who _can_ see this ghost, and who _can_ talk to him!"

Peter had taken the afternoon off. He had done some more research on all things Genetically Modified in the morning, and now Susie was tucked up in bed, he slipped off in his car, driving to the centre of Edinburgh, where he parked in the Caledonian Hotel, and slipped upstairs to the Business Suite.

Peter had a few phone calls to make, and because he was now convinced that most of his contacts were being tapped by whoever it was behind William's murder and the theft of the soil samples, he knew that not only did he have to be careful of what he said, but also from where he said it.

The Caledonian Business suite was ideal. The most that anyone would be able to do, would be to track any calls he made down to the hotel in the centre of Edinburgh. Alternatively he could use a pre-paid SIM card, but once he had used it, and they had identified its signal and associated it with him, they would be able to triangulate his presence from any three radio masts. The risk of forgetting to switch it off when he carried it in his pocket was too great. It would be like carrying a tracking device on him that shouted to the world 'Here I am! Come and get me!' No, the business suite idea was safer.

First on his list to call was Mrs Ralston. He wanted to check in with her and see if there had been any developments. He had received no email communications from her, even though before he had left America they had made up some new dummy email addresses, through which they could communicate, and would have less risk of being followed.

Peter's address was ' _X45ghtosm.com'_ , a totally random address. Mrs Ralston had chosen ' _Williamwillbeavenged.com'_.

"Whatever you do, if I call, do not call me by my first name. From now on, when we talk, I am X45, and you are Mrs Avenger. Okay?" he had told her, whilst in Iowa.

She had laughed. Peter wondered if it made her feel like a superhero, with such a title.

The phone rang several times, while Peter waited for Mrs Ralston to come in from the veranda.

"Hello? This is . . . "she started.

"X45, " Peter hurriedly interrupted. "This is X45!"

"Oh, Pet . . . " Mrs Ralston started to reply, excitedly, before managing to stop herself.

"Hello, Mrs Avenger!" Peter said.

There was a little chuckle on the line.

"That is I. She who will be avenged!" she laughed, but with a steely edge to her voice.

The first question Peter asked was about the file. Had they found it?

"No."

The first question she asked was about the soil samples. Had he got the results back yet?

"No."

He decided not to elaborate yet on what had happened. There would be time for that later.

They talked for a little longer, but Peter wanted to keep it short and sweet. In total, the call lasted no more than fifty seconds. Peter placed a few more calls, drove to another hotel, then called Malcolm.

There had been no more strange phone calls looking for Peter.

A few more people had called into the office in response to their coverage of Debbie McCrae, but nothing else which could be considered promising. Peter took a few notes, and promised to follow up tomorrow.

"Peter, I've been thinking." Malcolm said. "Will you be able to get me a short taster article on GM? A precursor to a series we could do? We could start a whole debate on it, advertise the series on the TV. Get experts involved. Politicians. Maybe we could send you back to Iowa, or someone else, to get new soil samples and take some photographs? Let's not let those bastards get away with this. We have to do something. From all I've read so far, the last thing I want is for Scotland to start growing GM foods or for us to get it in our food without us knowing about it."

"I think it is too late for that now. It's in everything. Ultimately, if we can't get them to ban it, the most we can do just now is to get the politicians to rule that food sold in Scotland, or England, contains proper warnings on the packaging. Maybe like cigarette advertising."

"Like, this food contains GM products, which could damage your health?"

"Yes. Something like that?"

"We have to leave it to the experts to decide, but I agree we should lobby for greater awareness of the issues. The more I think about a series of big, advertised, articles on the GM food industry, the more I like it. Perhaps I should get someone else to help you on it?"

Peter winced.

This was his baby. He wanted the control, . . . and the credit. He had already risked his life for it, and had probably broken the law smuggling the soil samples back into the UK without declaring them.

"Malcolm. Let's not rush ahead on this. Give me the weekend to think about it, please. I've got Susie's dad's funeral tomorrow. Let me get that out of the way first, okay?"

Half an hour later, Peter was at home - at Denise's - checking email on his laptop. It was the first time he had been online since lunchtime.

Opening up his remote work connection, going on the VPN and logging into his private hotmail account, Peter gasped.

There were sixty emails responding to the request he had sent out yesterday to Susie's list of care homes and hospices.

There were even responses from places he had not contacted directly. After reading a couple of the emails it became clear that his request for information had gone viral.

It had touched a nerve.

Managers and carers in the homes he had contacted were forwarding the original email to colleagues they knew in other institutions, or copying their replies to others.

People were interested in the questions Peter had asked. They wanted to know the answers. And answers were flooding in.

"Unbelievable," Peter said aloud, not believing what he was reading, scanning the responses as fast as he could.

Picking up his laptop, he took it upstairs, sat on the side of Susie's bed, and woke her up.

"The Others?" Peter said.

Susie blinked, stared at him and the laptop, and tried to sit up, yawning.

"What about the Others?" she asked.

"They exist," Peter replied. "They are everywhere!"

Chapter 22

Denise's House

August 12th

9 p.m.

They sat on the bed, reading the emails together. The emails came from all over the country with a few from abroad, and even more were arriving as they were online. They were flooding in.

People were relating personal stories and experiences of what they had observed with their patients. Some even admitted to seeing 'the Others' themselves.

As they read through the responses, there were several things that stood out and seemed to be common to them all.

Firstly, it seemed that the older carers and nurses had always known about 'the Others'. They had experienced it throughout their long careers, and it was not a big surprise to them when people in their last hours on Earth started to converse with dead relatives that only they could see.

Although it wasn't taboo to talk about it, people refrained from discussing it outside of work.

Perhaps they were worried that people might think them mad?

Some felt it was a private affair, not to be shared or discussed further.

Those who believed in God, felt that it was not right to meddle or get involved in any way with spirits, ghosts or the dead.

For years, no one had talked about it.

But now, perhaps with the advent of television, and programmes on ghosts, vampires, and the occult, maybe such things have become more acceptable.

Whatever the reason, people were suddenly willing and eager to share and discuss their experiences, happy that they were not the only ones who had witnessed it, and amazed that so many people had a similar story to tell.

The second point that emerged from the responses was that experiences of people seeing 'the Others' were increasing in frequency.

As Peter read through the emails, he started to take notes, making a timeline chart of each experience that he read about, and scribbling down comments or important observations that respondents had made in their emails.

With every 'dot' that he added to his timeline, a pattern began to emerge.

The first cluster of experiences seemed to start appearing in May, two years before. Since then, their frequency had increased.

Could it be that people were just recounting things that had happened more recently and had not detailed older experiences? Was it that a lot of people emailing him were younger, and had only been working as carers or nurses for several years and therefore their experiences were all more recent? In other words, was there another reason, not yet obvious, why before May, witnesses attesting to 'the Others' appearing, showed up only randomly on his timeline, but after May, they happened frequently and regularly?

Perhaps there were other reasons, and over the coming weeks, Peter and Susie hoped to get a good answer to this question.

Thirdly, and this was important, looking backwards before May two years ago, 'the Others' only seemed to appear to people in their last hours before death. After May, people seemed able to see them hours, days or even weeks before their passing. This was an important change, that pointed to a fundamental alteration in the pattern of observations. Something must surely have caused that change.

The question was, what?

There was also a fourth point that seemed to be coming out and forming a real trend. Something astounding.

Susie and Peter watched this point emerge together, as Peter stuck a large piece of A3 paper on the wall of Denise's bedroom and started noting down the medical conditions that people were suffering from when they had seen 'the Others'.

Three conditions appeared repeatedly.

Old age.

_Alzheimer's_.

And _Parkinson's Disease_.

The first was too vague and generic to hold specific value.

But as Susie watched the third one, Parkinson's Disease, slowly emerge as the most common disease shared by all those who could see 'the Others', she almost shook with excitement.

"Exactly. Exactly!" she shouted, hitting Peter on his arm repeatedly. "It's true. It makes sense . . . When I talked with the nurses and carers in St Andrews, they often spoke of their patients having Parkinson's. And that's what Donald Davidson, the shortbread millionaire guy, has. He's got Parkinson's and has been able to see dead people for months!"

It was the answer to the next two questions from Peter's survey that enthused and fired up the two journalists more than any of the others.

E: Please describe the medications being taken by these residents/ patients, including commercial names for these drugs.

F: In your opinion, is this happening more frequently than before, and is there any obvious relationship between medications being taken and those experiencing these phenomena?

Eighty per cent of the people who responded to 'F', said _'Yes_ '.

In the answer to 'E' - the _'Show me the money'_ question, two drugs were mentioned time and time again.

_Serantopex_ , a treatment for Alzheimer's.

And _Dianzapol_ , a medication prescribed for Parkinson's.

The final clue that they needed came when Susie beat Peter to it, and googled both drugs.

They both belonged to the same company, a U.S. based drug company called _Anderson & Jones Pharma Labs._ and were first licensed for use in February, two years ago.

Chapter 23

Denise's House

August 12th

Midnight

For a while, they sat in silence, just staring at the charts on the wall and looking at the notes that Peter had scribbled on sheets of paper, which now covered the bed.

Peter looked at his inbox.

They had now read one hundred and twenty emails.

But in his Inbox, two hundred and thirty six emails lay unopened. Having all arrived in the past hour.

Each email contained multiple stories. A plethora of information. The trend of which was now all too clear.

"This is huge!" Susie said, quietly, vastly understating the significance of what they had discovered.

"This could be your equivalent of 'StemPharma' and SP-X4!" Peter smiled, referring to the discovery they had made two years earlier relating to the wonder drug SP-X4, and their contribution to the exposé of StemPharma Corp, the company who made the drug and continued to sell it, knowing full well the effect it was happening on its patients. Susie had deliberately let Peter take most of the credit for the work they had done, and at the time, Peter had not been in a position to argue. Not only did he not have the strength - he was still recovering from his kidney transplants, but Susie hated the limelight, and had shied away from the international publicity that they had received.

But whatever happened, Peter was not going to take all the credit for this one. This was Susie's discovery.

They sat and savoured the moment. Was this moment now, anything like when Fleming discovered Penicillin, or Edison thought he was the first person to invent the light bulb?

This discovery had the potential to change the world.

Both Susie and Peter knew it, and neither felt the need to state the obvious.

"I'm going to get us some tea!" Peter announced, and Susie laughed.

"Are you Scottish or English? You sound so typically English . . . at a time like this, you want a cup of tea!"

"I'm thirsty."

He returned a few minutes later, put Susie's 'Sleep Eazy' herbal tea down on the bedside table, and sipped his own.

"I have a question for you Susie, " he asked.

"What? It sounds ominous." She replied.

"The other day, when you asked me to start doing this, . . . to contact everyone on the list you gave me, . . . you were going to tell me the reason that you wanted me to do it. Why it was important to you? Remember? . . . But you forgot to tell me, and then I left and came home from the hospital. I've been wondering about it ever since. Can you tell me now?"

"Ah . . . yes, I remember. There is a very good, and very simple reason why I wanted to pursue this. And it's probably not what you expect. It's got nothing to do with finding an answer to the most important question faced by mankind since the dawn of evolution. It is in fact, very selfish."

"So? What is it?"

"I wanted to find out if it is really possible to talk to the dead. And if it is, how was it done? Is there a physical reason why this has suddenly become possible for so many people? And if so, would I be able to do it too?"

"Why? Who do you want to talk to?", feeling immediately stupid as soon as the question had left his mouth. It was obvious.

Her father had just died. There was something that he had wanted to tell her before he passed, but had not managed to do so. Susie wanted to talk to her dad.

Susie looked at Peter.

"I know what you are thinking. I can read you like a book. But you're wrong. It's not my dad."

"Who then?"

"It's Timothy. I want to see my brother and talk to him. Others have. I want to too!"

They both slept well that night, but woke up the next day with a mixture of excitement, sadness and trepidation.

Today was the day of the funeral.

It was to be a day of great sadness, and Susie knew even before the day began, that it was going to be one of the worst days of her life: the day she buried her father.

She knew what to expect, because she had already buried her mother, and she had loved them . . . continued to love them . . . both as much as each other.

Peter tried to tell her that she shouldn't focus on the negatives, but try to make it a day of celebration: an opportunity to celebrate her father's life.

Her response to that was: "What a load of rubbish!"

Her father was in a box. They were going to put that box in the ground. And worms were going to eat it and everything inside. Her father had been taken from her.

There was nothing to celebrate today. Nothing.

She would, however, have a day full of respect, and regret.

Respect for everything he and her mum had done for her. It was only just beginning, but now she was starting to think like a parent and understand all the things that a parent had to sacrifice for their children. As her son grew up, there would be many times she would realise how much her parents had given up for her, but now she would not be able to discuss this with him. Her father had been a great man. Truly. But Susie had been a spoilt brat and never appreciated him enough. And now it was too late.

Regret would flow in equal measure. Regret for all the things she never did with him. Regret for the number of times she never went to visit him recently, when he was lonely and needed her, but when she didn't want to expose herself to the sadness of the loss of her mum and couldn't deal with the way he wallowed in her loss. In truth, Susie was just as guilty. She hadn't wanted to be reminded of her loss, because Susie had also struggled with the loss of her mum. Her 'mummy'.

In a way, she blamed her dad for her mum dying.

Not for any real, sensible, viable reason. But just because there was no one else to blame.

Susie dressed in black, and felt black. There was no smile to be found today.

The day progressed very much as she expected it would.

A sad drive to St Andrews.

A ceremonial procession following the hearse through the streets of her dad's life. Following the instructions from her dad, the hearse drove past the pub where he had met Susie's mum, and Peter jumped out, hurried into the bar, and put £150 behind the counter. " _Free drinks from Graham. Have one on him. This placed changed his life. Have a drink, and raise a toast to Julie, who became Mrs Morgan, and the love of Graham's eye."_

Her dad had always been a generous man, he had loved her mum, and it was typical, that on his last day on the surface of this planet, he had dedicated his last action to his wife.

When they got to the church, Susie was given a pleasant surprise.

The pews were packed.

There were people here who she didn't know and had never seen before, but who had all been acquaintances or ex-work colleagues from her dad's thirty years in the same factory.

Word of the service had either spread on the _'guess-who-has-kicked-the-bucket-now_ ' grapevine, or from reading the obituary in the paper.

Claire was there, and Susie recognised a few other faces from the old folk's home, and also an aunt from Glasgow.

The service was a sad affair. She delivered the eulogy in tears, and Peter had to help her down to her pew.

The coffin dominated the front of the church.

There was nothing positive to be said about the service.

Except that eventually it ended.

Afterwards, outside in the cemetery, they stood around the hole in the ground, lowered the beautiful wooded box into the dirty earth, threw 'dust' onto more 'dust', listened to a few more words from the minister, and then each person closed their eyes.

It was while her eyes were closed, and she felt at her lowest ebb, that it happened.

She felt a hand upon her back.

A soft, steady, secure hand.

It wasn't Peter's hand . . . she was holding it tightly by her side.

It was however, simultaneously the most strange yet wonderful thing she had yet experienced in her life so far.

She knew whose hand it was.

It was a hand of comfort.

Without opening her eyes, she could see her father standing behind her, could sense it with every ounce of her being.

In her head, she heard her father say six words. Six simple words, but which conveyed to her in one sentence all that she would ever need to know.

" _Susie, you have done me proud!_ "

Susie cried like a baby, smiling.

Peter held her. The others left the grave, and they stood alone, taking their time to say goodbye.

And when eventually Peter and Susie left the graveside and walked back to the car, her father, her mother, and Timothy, watched them go.

\--------------------

The Lion

3 p.m.

After the church, they retired to the pub for the wake. Susie was worried that were would not be enough food to go round, but luckily not everyone from the church came along. There were still more people than expected, but the buffet they had ordered turned out be sufficient. Peter ended up putting a little more money behind the bar, and everyone who came had a couple of drinks on Graham.

Throughout the day, people had been coming up to Susie and paying their respects to her, saying nice things about her father, and relating little anecdotes about their experiences of him.

It was not intended, but slowly the day did turn into a celebration of her father's life after all.

Susie laughed at the stories people told her, and was amazed that there were aspects of her father's life that she never knew anything about.

It seemed that at work, he had been a complete prankster, always playing jokes on others, and making everybody laugh.

He had been hugely popular amongst his work colleagues, and hearing that, made Susie feel good.

It was just after 3 p.m. when most of the remaining people were quite merry, and were even beginning to sing the odd folk song or two, when her old Aunt from Glasgow came up to her.

"The last time I saw you, Susie, you were seven years old. You were beautiful then, and you're beautiful now. You're father was always very proud of you, you know. He loved you very much."

Susie smiled. The woman was a relative, but in her whole life, this was only the second time Susie could remember meeting her.

And yet, she was maybe the only relative left alive that she had.

Which should make her precious.

Sadly, Susie felt very little.

"Do you know, your father called me last week, Susie. I hadn't spoken to him in over six years. I didn't know if we ever would speak again, to be honest." She paused. Susie did not fill in the gap. "He asked me to keep an eye out for you if anything happened to him - he knew was getting old. He told me he was going to tell you the family secret and that you would perhaps be a little upset. And that I should try and help you understand. He didn't want you to be angry with him or your mother. But he asked me not to say anything that you didn't already know. He wanted to tell you himself."

Susie stared at the woman.

"I'm sorry . . . Aunty Moira, what family secret? And what do you know that I don't? Dad was going to tell me something, but then he died. He never got to tell me anything."

Auntie Moira looked startled. Almost afraid. Suddenly aware that she may have said too much already.

She stuttered a few words, obviously flustered. But Susie didn't understand her.

Her aunt suddenly looked sad, and started to apologise profusely.

"I'm sorry, Susie. I shouldn't have said anything. It was wrong of me . . . .but I thought that Graham would have told you."

"Told me what? That I had a brother called Timothy? But that he's dead now? And I never met him!"

"Timothy?" Aunt Moira replied, a smile coming to her lips."That's a nice name! I never did know their names . . . "

"Their names? What do you mean 'their'?"

Aunty Moira began to mutter again, incoherent words stumbling out of her mouth, nervously. She started to say ' Sorry' again, over and over again, and backing away from Susie and Peter.

Susie reached out and grabbed her hand.

"Aunty Moira. Please, tell me. What is going on? What do you mean that you didn't know _their_ names? Who were you referring to when you said ' _their_ '?"

The woman in front of Susie must have been in her seventies. Still strong and healthy, but in that moment, all her years suddenly began to show. She started to crumble, and a few tears began to run over her eyelids, taking some mascara with it.

"I'm sorry, I have to go . . . I shouldn't have said so much . . . my fault. Sorry . . . "

"Aunty Moira, please, you're the only person alive now that can tell me what's going on. You're the only person left who knows the truth."

She was backing away, pulling out of Susie's hand, trying to shake free of her grip.

Susie was desperate, but she could see the distress in the old woman's eyes, and let go.

"Please . . . " she said, one more time.

Aunty Moira from Glasgow looked away at the others in the pub, then turned back, trying to focus her old eyes on Susie.

She opened her mouth to speak, and said something.

"I'm sorry," Susie said, frantically. "I couldn't hear you."

"Oh dear . . . oh dear . . . " Moira muttered, this time more coherently. "Timothy . . . wasn't alone. Timothy had a brother. He was a twin!"
Chapter 24

Bannerman's Bar

Edinburgh

August 12th

8 p.m.

On the way back from St Andrews Peter had received a simple text message on his new SMS card.

"Your favourite pub. 8 p.m. The Rugby Bear"

Peter knew instantly that the message was from Malcolm, a big bear of a man, who had played rugby.

After the wake, Susie was a mess. She was distraught, confused, angry, but also very excited.

She had another brother!

"Is he dead too? How do I find him? Where is he? What's his name?"

A thousand questions were fired at Peter during the journey back from St Andrews, interspersed by tears, and some laughter, as she recalled some of the stories she had been told about her dad by his former workmates. But any diversion away from the central theme, only lasted a minute or two.

"I have another brother! I may not be alone!"

This annoyed Peter a little bit.

"You are not alone, Susie. You've got me. And you've got Little Bump."

But he knew what she meant.

They got home about 6 p.m.

In spite of being upset, Susie was ravenous, and they ate two large pizzas. She was now eating for two.

Then on strict instructions from Peter, she took her medication and was sent to bed, where she would have to rest for the next few days.

Today she had had a lot of stress and excitement, but now it was over, it was time to care for herself and the little one.

As soon as her eyes closed, Peter left Susie with Denise.

Bannermans was busy, the offices of Edinburgh having emptied out to the incredible selection of bars, pubs, theatres and nightclubs that made the city the best in Scotland.

Malcolm was sitting in the corner, not surprisingly reading the day's edition of the Scotsman - which he had put together and probably knew backwards.

Except, as Peter approached, he realised that he was only pretending to be reading the paper. In reality, he was constantly scanning the area around him, watching everyone.

He looked spooked.

"What's up, big man?" Peter asked, sitting down and placing a fresh pint of McEwan's 80 Shilling draught beer in front of Malcolm. Peter was on the orange juice. As usual - but it was better to be bored and alive, than dead, from failed kidneys.

"The police were looking for you today. Three of them came to the Scotsman's buildings. Security brought them upstairs to my office. They showed me credentials. They had a warrant, so I had no choice but to let them in. They emptied your desk."

"Oh . . . shit . . . I'm wanted by the police in Edinburgh? What have I done?"

"That's not all of it . . . " Malcolm said, taking a quick drink from his pint and wiping the white froth from his top lip. "I memorised a couple of their ID numbers, and as soon as they had left the office, I called Police Headquarters in Fettes Avenue, and got put through to the new Chief Superintendent, who I met him last month. I told him about the police visit, gave him the ID's and asked him if it was possible to get an explanation of what had just happened. He promised to look into it . . . He called back ten minutes later. Nobody had any record of the visit. The Police Ids that I gave him belonged to two constables that were on duty somewhere else with their partners. They hadn't come anywhere near our office. And to cap it off, there was no record of you having done anything wrong or being under any suspicion on the police system. In his words, whoever had been to see us, weren't police. They were pretending to be police. But they weren't."

"Whoever it was, they have some balls to walk right into our offices and do that!"

"I know. The Chief Superintendent is pissed. He's launched an investigation. Now I've got a different bunch of coppers going all over my office and your desk looking for prints, and taking descriptions from everyone. They've taken copies of the CCTV. I suggested that they might want to watch the airports. I told them I think they are after you and I was worried about you. I asked if he could make sure that some police cars patrol past your house and keep an eye on you every now and again. I gave him your home address"

"Why?"

"Peter, I think we've got no choice but to tell someone what's going on. This is getting a bit dangerous. And these guys are professionals. This is some serious shit which is going down here. We can't keep this to ourselves anymore."

"We can't tell anyone anything yet, Malcolm. We lost all the soil samples. We've got no proof of anything. The moment we tell the authorities everything that is going on here, then that's it. We are talking about the GM Industry here, right? This is big business. If we tell anyone about this too soon, someone high up with big connections will shut us down before you can say Jack Robinson. The paper can say goodbye to the Pulitzer Prize winning exposé of the GM industry that I'm going to write."

Malcolm was quiet.

"I'll think about it. But I'm worried about you Peter. This is bigger than both of us."

"We're journalists Malcolm. You are the Scotsman. You don't run away from a story. And believe me, at the moment, I've got far more important things to worry about than this!"

\--------------------

South Carolina

E.S.T. 18.00 a.m.

Samantha Vesper stared at her computer screen, thinking.

She owned 1,000,000 shares in the company. Stock which had been given to her in options, granted at $2 each, and now with a market value of $38 each.

She was, in theory, a very rich woman.

For Samantha, however, it was not all about the money.

She loved her job, but she had a sense that her job, her career, and her future could all just be about to turn to shit.

It was time to sell her stock.

But there was a problem.

She couldn't offload too much stock too soon, and as a director, she didn't want to draw too much attention to what she intended to do.

Their accounts were due soon, and she had insider knowledge that the stock price may be about to plunge.

She had two options.

Firstly, to offload the stock slowly but surely over the next few weeks.

Secondly, to take additional, extra, private action to ensure that the Iowa farmers and the Scottish journalist did not release any of the information they had, before she had 'legally' sold her stock. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that the Field Team on the ground in Scotland had so far come up with nothing.

She knew what she had to do. And this would have to be something that she did by herself.

The ringleader of the Iowa farmers was Mrs Ralston. She needed to disappear. Just like her husband.

And the Scottish journalist, who was so far evading discovery and contact with her private field team, now needed to be located and terminated. Samantha knew what she was doing. She was a professional.

If they both died, carefully, and in secret with no verifiable connections to her or the Genetec Seed Corporation, then it would take months for the Iowa farmers to regroup and restructure an attack upon their company.

So far, the secret file that was alleged to contain enough to destroy them had eluded discovery, but Samantha was determined that before Mrs Ralston died, she would tell her where the file was.

As in any thinking process, the most difficult part was always the evaluation of the data, enabling a decision to be made.

But now Samantha had made the decision, she felt good.

The way forward was clear.

Everything was going to be fine, after all.

\--------------------

Saturday August 13th

Denise's House

Edinburgh

8.00 a.m.

Peter had just brought Susie a cup of tea in bed, with a light breakfast.

Her mind was all over the place, and quite understandably Peter could see she was still upset from the day before.

He considered taking the day off to be with her, but Susie insisted he didn't.

"I'm just going to try and sleep all day. I feel so tired. Knackered. I don't want to overdo it, so if the doctor says take it easy, I will. I'll do whatever I need to do to look after Little Bump."

"I think that's wise Susie. Sleep and rest is the best medicine you can get."

"So, what are you going to do today, Peter?"

Peter could tell from the way she asked the question that it was loaded. He knew her too well.

"Before I answer that, you just tell me what it is that you want me to do. Come on, spill the beans!"

She laughed.

"I want you to find out more about _Serantopex_ and _Dianzapol._ Is it safe for me to take one of them? And how do I get hold of some?"

"You're joking, right?"

"No, Peter, I am not." She said, very calmly. "I told you that the main reason I'm interested in all of this is because I want to talk to Timothy. These drugs can make that happen. So I want you to find out if I can take them without harming him," she said, stroking Little Bump. "And I want you to get me some."

"Susie," he started to say something, but changed his mind before he did. Instead, he tried a different approach."Personally, I don't think this is wise. Your father has just died. The dead are dead. They're gone. Leave it like that."

"I can't, and you know it. Aunty Moria thinks mum had twins. Timothy had a brother. I don't know if he's alive or dead, but the only person who can tell me is Timothy. I need to see and talk to him."

Peter knew Susie. He knew there was no point in discussing it anymore.

He thought about it for a moment.

"Write down the address of the care home where this rich shortbread guy stays, and I'll go and talk to him."

Susie pulled out her phone, scribbled down the details on some paper, and handed it to Peter.

"I love you," she said.

"Ditto," he replied, and left.

\--------------------

North Berwick

10 a.m.

The police patrol car pulled up in front of the house at the end of Glenesk Drive, and Constable Eddie switched off the engine and turned to his new partner.

"This is the second time in a week we've been sent to this house, and it's my third time. Why are we here this time?"

"The boys from Edinburgh have asked us to do regular drive-bys and look out for anything suspicious. The home owner works for the Scotsman, and it seems some very suspicious people are out looking for him. Apparently, a bunch of guys dressed up and impersonating policemen walked right into the Scotsman offices and tried to find him. Nobody knows who they were. The Super thinks that whoever it was might come looking for him here. Apparently they could be dangerous, so the word is to be vigilant, but not heroes. If we see anything funny or anyone we don't recognise, we've to get straight on the blower."

Constable Gray got out of the car, walked across the driveway, and rang the doorbell.

There was no answer.

They sat outside the house for another ten minutes, saw nothing suspicious, and then left.

A little bit further down the street, Paul peered from behind his curtain and watched them go.

"What sort of neighbours had moved in next door?" he wondered. "Whatever they've done, I could do without this attention." He thought to himself.

Paul was nervous. He had had plans for this morning. Now he didn't feel like it.

He was a little angry. And he knew he should stay well clear of the cellar when he felt like this.

He didn't want to do anything he might regret later.

Another stupid mistake, just one, and all his work could be ruined.

She could wait. He would go for a walk. Calm down. After all, she wasn't going anywhere, was she? She would still be there when he got back. And this was the weekend. Two days to give her his undivided attention. As much attention as it took.

\--------------------

Before Peter left the house, a thought occurred to him.

Opening the door to Denise's garage, he found the suitcase and boxes they had put there that contained all of Susie's father personal belongings.

It took him twenty minutes to rummage through them. It was just a small chance, but Peter wondered if Susie's dad had perhaps been taking any of the _Serantopex_ and _Dianzapol_ tablets himself? And if so, was there any possibility that there were any left in his personal effects that they had gathered together. Susie didn't seem to think that he had either Alzeiheimer's or Parkinson's, but was it possible that he did, and she didn't know about it?

After a thorough search, he gave up. He couldn't find any tablets.

Standing in the garage, he called the care home on his mobile and spoke to Claire.

She confirmed that Susie's father didn't have either condition, and 'no', he had not been taking any medications apart from the blood thinning and heart pressure tablets, which he had been taking for several years.

Instead of calling ahead, Peter thought it would be best to just turn up at 'The Sea View Care Home for the Elderly' in Joppa. He brought with him a bottle of whisky, some magazines and one of the latest thrillers for Donald Davidson: Susie had said that although he was old, he loved to read. She had noticed that his room was full of the latest books.

After explaining that he was the fiancé of Susie, and that his wife had visited Donald a few days earlier, a carer went to speak with the octogenarian, returning with the news that Mr Davidson would be happy to see Peter.

"We owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr Davidson." Peter said loudly, as he was invited into the old man's rooms.

They shook hands.

"Don't thank me. You need to thank that young man who came to see her. I'm afraid I can't remember his name." Mr Davidson replied.

"Timothy. His name was Timothy."

"Ah, yes. That was it. I remember he was rather worried about your wife and the child? How are they?"

"As I was saying, Mr Davidson, we owe you and Timothy both thanks. It's just possible that you saved my wife's life, and the life of our son. After visiting with you, Susie went straight to the doctor's. She's been diagnosed with a serious pregnancy related health condition that could potentially have been fatal, if left untreated and unmonitored. She should be okay now, though."

"That's good to hear, Peter, good to hear. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please, Mr Davidson. I would love one. By the way, are you allowed to drink? I brought you some whisky, and a good book to read. Susie thought you might like it."

"That's very kind of you, Peter. Very kind. Could you put it over there for me, please. I don't like to handle precious things like bottles of whisky myself, just in case I drop them. I'm afraid I have a bad case of the shakes. Parkinson's you know. Dreadful thing. But hey, I can't complain. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Over here? Is that okay?" Peter asked, putting the bottle down on a side table.

"Mr Davidson, would you mind if I ask you a question? In fact, if you will allow me to, there is something I would like to confide in you."

"Sounds interesting. Please, tell me whatever you want. The more interesting the better. I'm afraid I'm cooped up here far too much these days. Your visit to me here today is the most interesting thing that's happened . . . since . . . since your wife visited me!"

"The thing is. Susie's father died last week. We buried him yesterday. Susie is very interested in your ability to see 'the Others'. Susie told me how you can talk with your wife, almost daily?"

"Yes, it's a real blessing. It's wonderful. Not at all scary. Don't worry. I may be old, but I'm not daft. I know she's dead. I know I should not be able to see her. But I can. And I'm happy about it."

"To be honest, Susie is a little jealous of you. She wants to speak with her father. There was some important unfinished family business that her dad wanted to explain to her before he died, but he wasn't able to tell her before he passed away. Susie thinks, that if she was able to speak to him again, she could find out what it was that needed to be said."

"I understand, Peter. But how can I help?"

"This may sound a little strange, but can I have a look at the tablets you are taking to treat your Parkinson's? Sorry . . . I just assumed you are taking some form of medication for it? We've been doing some research into people's ability to see 'the Others' and the medication they are taking, and we think there is a link."

The old man slowly pushed himself up out of his chair, and shuffled through the room, disappearing into his bedroom. He returned a few minutes later.

"Here you go." He said, handing a bag over. "That's all the medication I take. I'm sorry, I take quite a lot. But it keeps me alive. The nurse puts a mixture of them into a weekly pill case, and each day I take whatever it says against that day."

"Do you mind if . . . "

"Not at all . . . Have a look through. See if there is anything there you need?"

Peter emptied the contents of the bag onto his lap. There were several boxes, some open, others not. He struck lucky with the third and fourth boxes he looked at.

They were both _Dianzapol._

Mr Davidson saw the sudden interest in Peter's eyes.

"Is that what you were looking for?"

"Yes. These are the ones. Dianzapol."

"And you think that these help me to see Dorothy?"

"Yes."

"And you think that these might help Suzie to see her father?"

"Yes."

The old man was silent for a moment.

"What's the other box you have there?"

"Another box of Dianzapol. According to the label, each one contains a month's supply. You have two months here."

"Two months, you say?"

"Yes."

"I see." Mr Davidson nodded.

"The thing is Peter, I would be a little worried if you didn't have that second box, because I can't be without seeing my Dorothy, you understand. She's what keeps me going . . . " he said, and Peter could see a little tear appearing in the corner of his eyes. The old man wiped it away. "Silly me!" he said. "But, the good thing about being rather well off, is that if I were to lose a packet of medication . . . the doctor will always just give me another one. One of the advantages of being old, is that I'm always losing stuff, if you get my meaning!"

"So," Peter asked. "What are you saying . . . "

"Oh, don't be so daft lad. You know exactly what I'm saying. I can see it in your eyes. And I'm still compos mentis enough to know that's what you really came here for. You want the tablets? Yes? Well alright then. You can have them. Just put a box of them in your pocket and take them with you when you leave. But first, do you have time for that cup of tea? And how about a game of draughts?"

\--------------------

The Cellar

12 a.m.

Debbie blinked, instinctively trying to reach up and shield her eyes, but quickly discovering that her hands were still tied behind her back.

The light was bright, the darkness once more banished, signifying that the next step in her journey to hell had just begun.

Her captor exhaled loudly, repulsed by the stench from within the room. He hurried to her slop bucket in the corner, picked it up and hurried back out of the room and up the stairs beyond. Thankfully, the smell of human excreta went with it.

With another rush of adrenaline Debbie realised that he had left the door wide open, such was his haste to get rid of the horrible smell.

Once again, she tugged frantically at the chain attaching her to the wall. And once again the metal cut into her ankle, the sudden sharp stabbing pain causing her to gag into to the duct tape covering her mouth.

With the light now on full, she glanced down at her ankle and saw that it was infected.

The flesh around the chain shackling her ankle to the wall was swollen up and bruised.

At that moment, the man returned, adjusting the mask back over his eyes as he came through the door.

The wig that he always wore on his head was not on properly today, perhaps even sitting backwards on what was obviously a bald head underneath. It looked ridiculous, but Debbie was in no position to laugh or point that out.

Debbie had become used to the routine.

The man would enter, and either sitting or standing, he would stare at her.

After a while he would remove his clothes, and then pace the room erratically, sometimes muttering to himself, and at times seeming as if he was arguing with himself.

He would approach her, sit down beside her, and stroke her.

Then we would start to caress her. Touch her. Kiss her breasts.

And when he did this, he would always seek her permission first. Sometimes verbally. Sometimes by asking with his eyes.

Debbie felt continuous fear. Abject fear that went on and on. Constantly on the verge of screaming hysterically, it would feel like as if she was watching herself from afar when she nodded and gave the man permission to take advantage of her.

So far, thankfully, he had not harmed her physically.

Yet she knew that this time surely must come.

Twice, he had held the knife against her chest so hard that the tip had broken her skin, and small drops of blood had begun to emerge.

The man had watched them appear, and then slowly, almost erotically, he licked the blood off.

As he kissed her breasts, the man now got aroused.

Each time this happened, Debbie expected the man to rape her. To push her back on the floor and enter her. In the dark, when she was left alone, she lay on the ground, shaking with fear and thinking of when this would happen. But so far it had not.

Instead, several times the man had sat on the floor, backed away from her a few feet, and then pleasured himself, watching her eyes closely.

In the moments when the man ejaculated he would whisper, "You are so beautiful. You are so beautiful."

Afterwards, the man would appear to be shy. He would clean up the mess he had created, fetch fresh food and water, and then let her eat in peace.

Several times he had come back later, after she had eaten, and sponged her body down, washing her carefully and with consideration.

Debbie had completely lost track of time. She did not know how often the man visited her or whether it was day or night. Perhaps he came twice a day, or maybe it was once, or even three times. She did not know.

She no longer knew what a day was.

Today, however, was different. After the man had pleasured himself and left the room to fetch her food, again leaving the door open, Debbie stretched out as far as possible along the floor towards the door. As the man walked up the stairs, Debbie was able to glance up the stairs as he went. She saw him open the door at the top of the stairs, and his ankle disappear off the top step into the space beyond the door, surrounded by a beautiful, bright light. It was only the faintest glimpse, but she immediately recognised this as daylight.

It was daytime.

It was only a small piece of information, something that most people never pay much attention to, but to Debbie in her sensory deprived state, with no power, or freedom, just this small glimpse of light provided her with an immense sense of hope.

It was daylight outside. And freedom lay beyond that second door.

And the second door was still open.

Still lying on the floor, Debbie curled backwards, arching her back so that her hands could touch her ankles behind her.

Stupidly, she had not tried this before.

Searching with the tips of her fingers she felt for the metal chain, encircling it and grasping it tightly as soon as she discovered it.

Taking a deep breath, she strained her muscles, and then pulled as hard as she could.

There was a slight, cracking sound, and she felt something give. Not much, but very slightly.

And then she heard footsteps.

Releasing the chain, she uncurled her body, and sat up.

As the man came back into the room, carrying the knife and her food, she edged backwards against the wall, covering the chain with her legs.

Perhaps it was nothing. Or perhaps it was something. But maybe, just maybe, the chain had dislodged itself slightly from the wall.

If she tugged it ten times more like that, or a hundred, or a thousand times, would the chain come loose?

For the first time since her captivity had begun, she had hope.

Hope.

The most powerful of all human emotions.

\--------------------

South Queensferry

1 p.m.

Peter sat on the quay at South Queensferry, looking out at the combined view of the Forth Road Bridge and the Rail Bridge, two of the world's largest bridges that together spanned the River Forth outside Edinburgh. Beyond the Forth Road Bridge he could make out the stumps of the new road bridge being built across the River Forth: the Queensferry Crossing. Peter had seen the photographs of how it would look once completed, and it promised to be amazing.

It was a wonderful day. The sun was shining, glistening off the Forth Estuary, and sparkling in bright, little flashes as the rays caught a swell and bounced back towards him.

It was a great day to be alive.

Which was a little ironic, because in his hands, he now held the secret of seeing the dead.

Throughout history, famous men and women had pondered the meaning of life, and the existence of an afterlife. Men like Harry Houdini had made the study of clairvoyance and the ability to speak to the dead a lifetime's focus.

And yet, through a stroke of luck and coincidence, it could be that Susie and Peter had stumbled across a secret that would now not only prove that indeed life did exist after death, but would also open the gates to mankind being able converse with those who had died.

Peter sat with the box of Dianzapol in his hands and thought of how the world would change if their theory was correct.

Would Peter and Susie really be able to answer the fundamental question homo sapiens had been asking since they had developed the ability to think?

Before getting out of the car and wandering down to sit on a bench beside the sea, Peter had spent half an hour reading email on his mobile.

Hundreds of new emails had arrived over night in response to his questionnaire. A floodgate had been opened, and now people all over the world were rushing to tell Peter and Susie the secrets that until now no one had wanted to openly discuss.

And just like yesterday, a common theme ran through them all: Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, and Dianzapol and Serantopex.

Peter opened the packet of Dianzapol and read the information and instructions contained inside.

Two important points stood out.

Firstly, a noted side effect of the drug was hallucinations. It didn't elaborate on the types of hallucinations, but Peter could guess what they were: people were seeing ghosts.

Secondly, these drugs should not be taken by pregnant women.

Peter found that curious. How many younger women would actually get Parkinson's? Until now, he had always thought Parkinson's was a disease that only old people got. Obviously not.

Unfortunately for Susie this meant that for now she would not be able to see and speak with her brother. Peter would forbid her to take the drugs.

A bird flew overhead, its squawking ringing in his ears. For a moment, the sound reminded him of the noise he had heard uttered by the ghostly presence in his new home: 'help'.

His thoughts flipped back to the house in North Berwick, and being haunted by Maciek.

How could he help an evil spirit that he could not even hear or see?

Peter looked down at the box of tablets in his hand.

His eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped open.

And then Peter laughed.

In an instant, Peter knew the answer.

Potentially, it was so simple.

Dianzapol.

A glass of water, and two Dianzapol for several days, and then 'hey presto', Peter would be able to see the dead for himself.

And the first person that Peter wanted to meet was Maciek: a serial killer, ghost and Peter's erstwhile saviour.

There was a lot that they had to discuss.

END OF BOOK ONE

To carry on reading and enjoying the story, please download BOOK TWO from the internet.

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Other Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

Say You're Sorry

I Spy, I Saw Her Die

Haunted from Within

The Orlando File

The Sleeping Truth

The Messiah Conspiracy: The Race to Clone Jesus Christ

London 2012 : What If?

Alexis Meets Wiziwam the Wizard

If you have any comments, please contact the author at :- iancpirvine@hotmail.co.uk

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To connect with Ian C.P.Irvine on Twitter, connect with Ian at @IanCPIrvine

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To keep up to date with other news, events and ebook releases, please visit the website at: www.iancpirvine.com

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To keep up to date with other news, events and ebook releases, please visit the website at: www.iancpirvine.com

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My other friend throughout the writing of this book has been Wikipedia. A great source for everything.

For help editing and a plentiful supply of encouragement, my dear friend Paula Gruber, Joe Howard, and my wife.

May 8th 2014

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