

# PROJECT CHAOS

## THE SIXTH EXTINCTION
## SAM QUARREL

(Formally known as 'The Lucifer Strain')

Copyright© Sam Quarrel 2019. Sam Quarrel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work – **PROJECT CHAOS** (formally known as The Lucifer Strain). This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.

Author's note: Although this is entirely a work of fiction, the scientific experiment described by the character, Professor Veloski was actually performed and the results, although extraordinary, are accurately reported.

At a Secret Location in Antarctica

'I don't think this is a good idea, Eddie.'

Eddie Chambers had earned a decent living throughout his life from his expertise in drilling deep holes in Mother Earth, but none of his many employers had ever been minded to pay him for his good ideas – and not without good reason.

'What they gonna do out here – sack me?'

Joe Turner, Eddie's junior by thirty years, wasn't put at ease by Eddie's dismissive attitude towards authority. The ice-core storage facility was off limits to everyone except three or four top ranking scientists on the base. It was where the precious samples of paleo-ice cores which had been extracted from the massive Antarctic ice sheet were stored.

Eddie knew nothing about paleoclimatology––the study of Earth's climate over hundreds of thousands of years––his job was just to drill out the kilometre-long cores, cut them into twenty-metre lengths for ease of transport and storage, and then get them back to the base. That was his job done.

What he had been made aware of was that they were said to contain an invaluable historical record that could easily be lost forever through bad practice and mishandling. The slightest contamination would render months of hard work completely void. But hey, what the hell – he was a dumb engineer, a grease monkey, who was only there to drive the machinery and get his hands dirty where no one else would in that godforsaken wilderness.

Extracting the cores was no easy task. At temperatures that ranged from a positively balmy freezing point to extreme lows of minus-seventy, he was the man who kept the oil warm and the cogs turning and brought home the samples for the boffins to ponder over.

He may have had a couple of drinks before deciding upon this little escapade, but it was far from a drunken jape. He genuinely wanted to tell his future grandchildren that he was the first man in the history of the world to have done what he had done. Not that he would have admitted it, but he liked the idea that he, Edward John Chambers would have been able to claim his very own entry in the Guinness Book of Records.

'Come on, Eddie,' said Joe. 'Let's get out of here. Someone has spent millions to set this up. If you bugger it up now, there'll be hell to play.'

'Trust me,' said Eddie. 'One sip. No one will know. Have you got the camera and the video?'

'Yeh, but if they find it and find out what you've done . . .'

'Joe,' said Eddie. 'By the time anyone finds out we'll be long gone outta here. It's nothing. It's only water.'

'It's not only water, is it; it's been undisturbed for millions of years in that sub-glacial lake, and don't you think they will think it strange when traces of your gob are found in it?'

'That's the point. I'll be the only human being ever to have drunk water from that lake.'

'You'll contaminate it even if you take the lid off it. And it'll probably taste just like a mouthful of shitty seawater anyway.'

'It's a fresh water lake.'

'Millions of years old is not my idea of fresh!'

Eddie opened the industrial refrigeration unit where the liquid samples from the lake were stored. The container had been sealed under the most scrupulously sterile conditions to eliminate cross contamination from any foreign matter from the eighth decade of the twentieth century. He ignored the huge bio-hazard warning on the fridge door. He ignored the bio-hazard seals on the tall containers. He picked a jar up and without hesitation twisted off the lid and sniffed the contents.

'Smells like water,' said Eddie, thrusting the container under Joe's nose.

Joe sniffed likewise and shrugged. 'Yeah, water, 'spose.'

Eddie put one hand under the heavy jar to keep it steady while he prepared to pour a small amount into a waiting beaker.

'Get the camera ready. Keep it rolling. Start with a big close up on the label and zoom out.'

The door crashed open and Dr John Savage, the senior scientist on the base stormed into the room alerted by the silent temperature-alert on the fridge door.

'Just what the hell do you think you are doing!'

Eddie spun round in panic causing the tall jar to wobble in his hand. Eddie desperately juggled with the weighty container, but with Savage bearing down upon him, it tumbled from his grasp. They watched in silent horror as the glass jar fell seemingly in slow motion onto the concrete floor and exploded into a thousand pieces liberally dowsing all three with the ancient lake water. Eddie had the presence of mind to lick his lips. He'd done it – the first member of the human race to drink water that predated almost everything except the dinosaurs. Eddie Chambers, underpaid and under-appreciated engineer and divorced father of two young tearaways was now assured his place in history.

Seven days later

The base was in lockdown after those who'd had the initial exposure to the lake water rapidly fell ill. Even though they were immediately quarantined, it was too late – the unknown virus had already broken out.

The first symptom was a vivid rash, like massive bruising, caused by tiny blood capillaries having burst under the skin. This was accompanied by flu-like muscle aches and fever and within hours extreme sensitivity to light. The sensitivity to light increased exponentially, until even in absolute darkness and blindfolded the victims screamed and writhed in agony saying the light, like a thousand lasers, still burnt into their eyes. Some driven to madness by the unbearable pain that even morphine couldn't relieve, gouged their own eyes from their sockets. Some, knowing they had been abandoned to their fate by the outside world and faced a gruesome death, took their own lives before the pain was too much. Some didn't have to make that choice, as the shear horror of what was going on around them caused weak hearts to fail. Some tried to make a run for it on the skidoos, but were cut down mercilessly by Special Forces snipers lying in wait, charged with containing the outbreak by whatever means.

Ordered not to put themselves at risk of exposure, the medical personnel at the nearby McMurdo Ice Station could only listen-on helplessly to the scheduled radio transmissions from the research base reporting on the terror and mounting death toll. Their pleas for help left no one unmoved, even the most grizzled army veterans stationed at the base were not immune. Within a week the radio fell silent.

Eddie never got his place in history. A member of the American Fast Response Squad, sent out from McMurdo wearing a full NBC suit, which protected against nuclear, biological and chemical warfare, carried Eddie's lifeless body to a funeral pyre. What little remained of him after the ravages of his short, but devastating illness was thrown onto the pile of his similarly fallen colleagues and then liberally doused in petrol.

Eddie finally had the fifteen minutes of fame he once craved as his burning remains lit up the sky. He briefly shone like the sun and could be seen for tens of miles around.

The name Edward Chambers was never to appear in any account of the incident nor were the results of his tragic misadventure. Any reference to his true cause of death was erased from the public record. All that remained of Eddie and his unspectacular cameo-role in this world were small samples of his infected tissue which had been removed for top secret analysis.

Officially, the entire research team had died in a helicopter transport crash that plunged them without trace into the unforgiving Antarctic Ocean.

Officially, they had failed in their mission to extract sub-glacial lake water.

Unofficially, the lake water was found to contain a true primeval horror. The modern world had never seen anything like it; a dormant retro-virus which the human immune system simply had nothing in its arsenal to counter. The virus had the unthinkable potential to infect nearly every man, woman and child on the planet and should it ever breakout into the general population a pandemic could sweep the globe within weeks leaving a truly apocalyptic ninety-percent death toll in its wake. It could be a natural disaster almost beyond comprehension.

Once analysed, samples of the virus, named the 'Lucifer Strain' after Lucifer, the fallen one, known as the Morning Star because he once shone brighter in the firmament than any of God's seraphim, were destined to be locked away in the vault of an ultra-secure facility forever more.

Sadly, in the minds of some, nothing is truly forever.

Twenty Years From the Present Day

The primary sample of the Lucifer Strain was genetically modified with a delayed action trigger as the incubation period from infection to death acted too rapidly for any outbreak to spread and become a truly global pandemic. Lying dormant within the principle hosts, who presented no symptoms and were not unwell, the highly contagious virus was passed unawares exponentially like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

Claiming one-hundred million lives at the end of the first world war, as the Spanish Flu pandemic demonstrated, it was people in transit spreading the disease to the far corners of the earth that caused such an unprecedented catastrophe. It left no continent or race of people spared. The emergence of Spanish Flu was a terrifying natural disaster, the intention of those that had weaponised the Lucifer Strain was a cull, a virtual extermination of those who they deemed surplus to the society they sought to create.

Like seeds scattered far and wide awaiting the first rains to fall, the pandemic seemingly came out of nowhere and everywhere. The great dying began. The media, under strict instruction, played it down, but even they couldn't contain the world-wide panic and accusations that the West was slow to action in sending aid and the urgent research for a vaccine.

Medical facilities were swamped, especially in the Third World countries, and soon failed completely when the medical staff treating the sick also succumbed to the disease. Early on in the West there were protests on the streets for the developed world to do more, yet even in these countries soon people were dying in their hundreds and thousands. No one felt safe to leave their own home. Food became scarce and was strictly rationed, supplied by autonomous delivery trucks. Fortunately the robot food factories sustained a basic level of production preventing mass starvation. Lack of fuel imports was said to have led to extended blackouts, only the handful who had the ability to produce electricity themselves by wind or generator power were able to use their media devices to listen to news reports. These broadcasts reiterated constantly the official line that authorities were doing everything within their means and the situation was under control. Others who tuned into foreign radio station got a different and brutally shocking account of the disease's deadly progress. Society was at the point of collapsed. Armed patrols enforced a curfew with lethal force, transgressors and looters being shot on sight – no questions asked.

The death toll in the West was staggering, the disease wiping out great swathes of the population especially those aging. But relative to the devastation wrought elsewhere, the Old World got off lightly. Many questioned why. Better diet and healthcare were cited, as was by the devout, a Christian God's divine intervention – in their eyes proven by what later was called the 'Miracle of the Medics', with so few treating the sick contracting the disease. The rich seemed particularly immune, as did the cadre of political and establishment figures. In an apparent quirk, other groups also didn't fall ill, such as the very young and many of the bright twenty and thirty something's with specialist skills in engineering and science, who were to be invaluable in rebuilding the shattered world. It harshly discriminated against the unskilled and poor, their death rate being ten-times higher than the professional classes – their lifestyle of uneducated indulgence was held as a warning for the future.

Within six months it was over. Those that were to die, died and those who were said to have a natural immunity lived – the virus disappeared as suddenly as it arrived. Fears for newborns proved unfounded, like the Spanish flu before it, the Lucifer Strain seemed to vanish off the face of the earth once it had decimated vast populations. The world was an empty place, eerily so, with the all-pervasive stench of death and the survivors amounting to only seven-hundred million on five continents. A world government was formed from the old elite to oversee the reconstruction of civilisation – their civilisation, with their rules, their control over every aspect of people's lives, what they ate, what they drunk, what they thought, what they said, its justification, the fearful shadow cast by the emergence of another superbug sweeping the globe causing the final – the sixth extinction.

'Project Chaos' had exceeded all expectations.

1

It had been a fierce cycle to get to the mortuary and for once Dinsdale was nearly on time.

To say Dinsdale Doric struggled with punctuality was untrue. He'd conceded defeat on that one-sided tussle long ago, but as a concession to his new job once more he was up for the challenge. He hoped old Doc Taylor appreciated the huge effort he was making. But clearly he didn't.

The pathologist shook his head as he watched Dinsdale's frantic efforts to wrestle into an uncooperative white lab coat.

'Late again, Mr Doric,' the pathologist said in the weary tone the patrician class reserved for admonishing those of the common herd.

'What, you too!' had been Dinsdale's witty repost on the very first occasion that now all-too frequent reprimand was directed at him. Taylor's withering turn-you-to-stone glare had dissuaded Dinsdale from cracking any more jokes at the doctor's expense.

'Sorry,' mumbled Dinsdale. 'Lot of traffic.'

This would have been a pretty good excuse if he had travelled by car, but seeing as he had cycled, and mainly on the pavement to the annoyance of the pedestrians on route, it was a bit lame – and they both knew it.

'When you are ready, I would like you to bring me the client in drawer number four.'

Dinsdale had been working as a mortuary assistant for nearly six months, but he still found it strange that the doctor insisted on referring to the stiffs that way. They were in no position to object to what they were called. Very early on Dr Taylor had put him straight.

It was, he said, "Out of respect for them and respect for the work we have to do here."

Dinsdale wasn't sure how much of that serious-minded stuff he could take. He knew taking a job that involved cutting up dead people wasn't going to be a whole lot of laughs, but he thought the doctor would have developed the tiniest sense of humour to lighten the grim process. But no. As far as Doc Taylor was concerned there were strict procedures to adhere to with no place for frivolity.

Very much like a child, as an assistant, Dinsdale was expected to be seen but not heard. He did the hard graft, humping the body about, cleaning the instruments and taking notes while Dr Taylor had the job of getting his hands dirty to discover as to why it had all ended in tears for the poor wretches.

Transcribing the pathologist's findings was one of Dinsdale's responsibilities, but his scribbled note-taking didn't seem a particular priority as the good doctor recorded his findings on an audio machine as he went along. But procedure dictated hand written notes were made even if seemingly they were never once referred to when producing his reports.

Dinsdale slid the new arrival in drawer four onto a gurney and wheeled it over to the dissection table. As usual, the stiff was butt naked except for a name tag attached to its big toe.

Dinsdale was pretty cool about the run-of-the-mill drop-dead clients. It was the ones who arrived in body bags he hated – the ones that had died in suspicious circumstances or were subject to a police investigation. They were often decomposed, fly blown, stunk to high heaven with putrid flesh that regularly fell off the bone. When it came to manhandling them, he wore two pairs of latex gloves and three surgical masks. He could barely breathe, but gladly suffered that inconvenience.

Together they eased the doctor's latest client onto the solid steel table which sat in the middle of the room. Dinsdale made a point of not looking at the face.

When he first started the job it was a natural thing to do. Yet it was only a short time before casting his eyes upon those deathly façades appalled him. Devoid of life, they had somehow lost their humanity and looked like grotesque wax-works. He was also struck by how many had a surprised expression as though suddenly dropping down dead clearly wasn't on the agenda that day.

Dinsdale took his seat at the desk and waited with his pen at the ready. Dr Taylor wheeled around the table like a vulture hovering over carrion. Dinsdale wrote at the top of the page the time and date, then waited. The doctor conducted each examination with the same methodical precision.

'Time?' The doctor checked his watch. 'Eleven-fifteen, Thursday, March the fourteenth. Name John Hill. Age confirmed as forty-years-old.'

Dinsdale looked-up startled. He knew a Jon Hill, and the stiff would be about the same age; it couldn't be him, surely?

'Sorry,' Dinsdale said hesitantly, 'did you say John Hill? Is that with or without an 'H'?'

'Did you not identify the client yourself when you brought him out?' the doctor inquired, tutting loudly at having to recheck his own file against the name tag. He hated being interrupted during an examination. It disturbed his flow and unleashed a terrible sarcasm.

'No 'H' in the name. I am of course referring to John and not Hill. Can I now proceed?'

Dinsdale smiled apologetically, but his thoughts had wandered elsewhere.

'So, as I was saying before I was interrupted, Jon Hill, age confirmed as forty-years-old, a white male, hair coloured believed to be a natural blond.'

Dinsdale was operating on autopilot. His hand feverishly scribbled away as the doctor spoke while his mind was in a whirl. If he could get a look at the body then he could be sure or pretty certain anyway. Even in that strangely alien form that a dead face took on, he should be able to recognise the slippery bastard who had stolen his girl and ruined his life.

Dr Taylor certainly wouldn't have taken kindly to another interruption. Dinsdale would have to wait until he was asked to assist in turning the body. He tried hard to remain focused on his work, but he took an unusually keen interest in the doctor's preliminary observations. It wasn't out of any morbid fascination with the manner of Jon Hill's demise, but because Dinsdale was desperate to hear something that might highlight his dead rival's short comings, such as an exceptionally small dick or a man down in the ball department.

Jon Hill had been too perfect – a great guy. But if it was Jon Hill, and he was dead, perhaps there was still a chance. Dinsdale should have felt guilty about having such thoughts, but self-recrimination didn't feature too highly on his list of positive character traits.

'No obvious ante-mortem contusions or abrasions on the body,' the doctor said using an ultraviolet light to reveal any marks on the skin. 'There are post-mortem marks on the palms and knees, but these are consistent with a fall at the time of death, as has been confirmed by eye witness accounts at the scene.'

Dinsdale didn't have to record verbatim what was said. His job was to complete the standard examination form. It was more of a tick-box arrangement, but this was no mere form-filling exercise that anyone off the street could accomplish. Oh no. A comprehensive understanding of the medical terminology was required. Dinsdale had his surgeon father to thank for that.

Most small children were read fairy stories at bedtime, but Bertram Doric, the pioneering heart surgeon, insisted on reading his first born, Grey's Anatomy. Dinsdale's head, in those weary minutes before sleep, was filled with graphic descriptions of all manner of internal organs whose hitherto unseen presence were only revealed to your average Joe via the wonder of TV or, if they were unlucky, as the eviscerated victim of some terrible car crash observing their own insides spilling out.

'So,' Dr Taylor declared, 'that completes my external examination. It reveals nothing that might be consistent with the cause of death. This individual was apparently in good health with no underlying medical problems and it appears, which will be confirmed by further tests, that only a few hours prior to death he was engaged in sexual intercourse.'

Dinsdale jerked-up and stabbed his pen straight through the reporting sheet. The doctor continued on unaware that Dinsdale sat quietly seething. He didn't need reminding that he hadn't had a shag in over a year and Jon Hill had probably been on the nest every night with the only girl he ever loved.

'I shall begin my internal examination.'

It was normally at that point Dinsdale kept his head well down. Even though it was a dead body and therefore no great spurts of arterial blood sprayed around the room, it was still a little unnerving to see a man being cut in two. Although on this particular occasion it did represent a rare opportunity to see the actual guts of someone you professed to hate.

Dr Taylor always began with an incision just below the Adam's apple. He then made one continuous cut down the body to the pubic bone as though gutting a fish. That part of the procedure Dinsdale could just about take, but it was the subsequent exposing of the heart and lungs that turned his stomach.

Powerful electric saws and tender human flesh normally are best kept apart. But seeing, and no less offensively hearing, the 'Stryker Saw' make short work of the lateral sides of the ribs was a procedure which, even if he worked there for the rest of his life, Dinsdale would never have got used to. It enabled the chest plate to be lifted off in one piece, like the raising of a car bonnet, exposing the organs within the torso.

Dr Taylor, in his usual brisk, detached manner, announced that he was inspecting the heart. As a betting man, Dinsdale would have put money on Jon Hill keeling over from a heart attack. Over the last few months he had seen quite a few forty or fifty-something's on the slab who had dropped off the perch without warning.

'I'm removing the pericardial sac and I am opening the pulmonary artery for evidence of a blood clot.'

After a few minutes the doctor's hands reappeared from out of the chest cavity.

'No sign of coronary thrombosis or evidence of heart disease, and if you'd like to make a note, Mr Doric, that arterially and venially, for a male of this age, each are in splendidly healthy and robust condition. Quite remarkable.'

Dinsdale nearly stabbed another hole in the paper. For most people beauty was only skin deep, but seemingly not for Jon Hill. Even his internal organs were the objects of veneration. Dr Taylor removed and weighed the heart and lungs, then set them aside. He inspected the liver describing its appearance and size. He declared it normal with no external evidence of disease, alcohol or long term substance abuse. He removed it and put it in a kidney-shaped dish.

'I am now opening the stomach and duodenum,' the doctor said, attacking the exposed entrails with gusto. As normal, the truly foul stench released from the intestines made him gag. Yet it was heartening to know that at least, like everybody else, Jon Hill's shit did stink.

'There is a partially digested meal which is consistent with breakfast food stuffs and correlates closely with the reported time of death. There are no particular odours that may indicate a self-prescribed oral induction of toxic materials. This is to be verified by toxicology.'

'I am examining the large intestine and will investigate the previous assumption from the external examination that the lateral scar approximately ten centimetres long visible on the abdomen was the result of an appendectomy. Ah-ha, I am correct.'

'Please note, Mr Doric that the client's medical records will confirm where and when this procedure took place. As evidenced by the scar tissue, it is long standing in nature and is therefore unlikely to have had a bearing on the cause of death. But – there is something . . .'

The doctor stopped in mid-sentence. It was abrupt enough for Dinsdale to look-up in surprise. Normally nothing fazed the old boy. Yet there he was motionless, staring intently at something deep within the body cavity. Dinsdale had never seen him react like that before. He must have witnessed most things in his thirty-year career, but something had clearly rattled him.

Without his usual running commentary, the doctor tentatively reached inside the abdomen with a pair of tweezers. Dinsdale couldn't quite make out what he extracted from the body, but it certainly didn't look organic especially as it glinted in the overhead light. Dinsdale held his pen over the paper and waited for the doctor to describe the object, but uncharacteristically the pathologist wavered.

'Mr Doric, there's something I urgently need to attend to.'

The doctor moved far quicker than his usually languid pace and scuttled to his private room, shutting the door behind him. It took an instant for Dinsdale to make his move. The private room had a glass door, but he reckoned if he was careful he could get a look at the corpse without being noticed.

Dinsdale slid out from behind his desk and crept up to the dissecting table. Although he should have been disgusted with himself, he made no effort to stop a broad smile spreading across his face. So there was a God. Jon Hill was really dead.

He glanced over and saw the object he presumed had been removed from the body. It was partially concealed beneath a specimen tray. It looked like a small blister pack, as used in a whole range of pharmaceutical products, headache pills and the like. Dinsdale hooked a finger nail under the rim of the tray and lifted it up. It was about half the size of a credit card with small raised bubbles of clear plastic arranged like an 'Eight' as in a playing card. The plastic in the one of the centre blisters had dissolved away and was empty. The remaining seven contained an assortment of pills each with different spotted colour combinations. Dinsdale lowered the tray and crept back to his desk.

'What the hell was that doing in there?' he mouthed silently. He sat expectantly as to what the doctor's comments would be.

Some twenty minutes later Dr Taylor emerged from his room looking flustered. It was a word that Dinsdale never would have associated with the old boy.

'Mr Doric, I'll not be requiring of your services today.'

Dinsdale was surprised, but not unhappily.

'Oh, but I still get paid though?'

'Naturally. I've things to attend to at present and I'll finish my examination thereafter,' the doctor replied distractedly.

'Okay,' Dinsdale said with shrug and packing his bag. 'I'll leave the notes on the desk.'

Dinsdale left immediately before the doc changed his mind.

Once outside Dinsdale paused briefly not only to reflect on the doctor's odd behaviour, but also as to where he'd left the bike. If he didn't get it back soon, it might be reported as stolen.

Then again it was a college town; surely unsecured bikes were co-opted by fellow students all the time? The sharing of personal transportation was universal among the student fraternity the world over. And even if it wasn't currently the norm at Dunsford College, Dinsdale would have been only too happy to be the leading-light in its introduction.

Dinsdale's late entry into the world of further education wasn't driven by a sudden thirst for knowledge. On the contrary, Dinsdale had been forced to re-embark upon his studies by circumstances beyond his control.

From a young age he had always insisted to his parents that his sole ambition in life was to be a writer. Yet they had wilfully ignored that calling and forced him down an academic path hoping he would follow in his father's footsteps. He fought them all the way, but shamefully at the age of five they had made him go to school.

So having put all that nonsense behind him, and after nearly two decades of a relaxed Bohemian life-style in pursuit of literary fame and fortune, it came as a shock when, following his father's death, Mummy had finally put her foot down and insisted he made something of himself. Dinsdale protested that as an investigative, freelance journalist, he wasn't the work-shy layabout she claimed he was and because also, technically, he still ran an internet antiques business. Furthermore, he said that three years of subversive lefty-learning––his mother was of the firm conviction that all educational institutions were the breeding grounds for Bolshevism––was likely, not only to crush his entrepreneurial spirit, but also the delicate flowering of his talent as an acclaimed wordsmith.

She told him she would be pleased if he learnt anything, lefty or otherwise––scoffed at freelance, which she said was another name for unemployed––vigorously disputed the existence of any God-given writing talent as he had never had a single item accepted for publication, and dismissed his so called 'Antique Business', as to her knowledge he hadn't sold a single item since she had made him leave home five years ago, and since the family heirlooms had mysteriously stopped going missing.

Ultimately it was the threat to cut off his generous allowance from a trust fund set up by his late father forced his hand into applying to Dunsford College in Norfolk, into which, much to his mortification, he had been accepted as a mature student. It was unfortunate for Dinsdale that this concept appeared to have been based purely on date of birth and not a scrupulous intellectual evaluation. A more rigorous vetting procedure, such as the briefest of interviews, would have seen his application given short shrift.

If only as the lesser of the more challenging courses on offer, Dinsdale had chosen Psychology. Dinsdale hadn't anticipated too many problems. He'd had many years to get a handle on his fellow man.

It was his first year and he was already struggling. He had just about held his own until they started making it so damned complicated with countless syndromes and scales and spectrums for this that and the other in order to pigeon-hole every microscopic aspect of human behaviour. It should have been a doddle really, if only they had kept it simple.

"Paranoid? They are out to get you – get over it."

"Feel a bit depressed? Ah bless – have another drink."

"Hearing voices? Ignore them." Job done.

But he stuck at it. He had to. He was too old and too spoilt to live out his days as a pauper.

2

Dinsdale dumped the bike in an alley and carefully wiped-off any finger prints. Even for someone who considered himself just a lovable rogue, covering his tracks had become second nature. He had intended to return the bike, but he was in too much of a hurry to share his good news.

He strolled around the corner to the flat that Mummy had kindly rented for him. It was one condition that he had insisted upon if he was to endure the ardours of further education at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. There was no way he intended to suffer the company of his fellow first year students in the Halls of Residence putting up with their loud music and geeky squalor. His mother was such an outrageous snob that the argument appealed to all her prejudices, and she agreed.

His flat was the ground floor of a converted a red brick Edwardian house situated in Norwich's Golden Triangle, a much sought-after leafy residential area which was half a mile from the college. It was big enough to make life just about bearable, especially as he had to expectedly share it with Colin, an old school pal.

Dinsdale hadn't seen Colin in over a decade when he turned-up on his door step. His long-time friend said he was desperate because his girlfriend had thrown him out and he was skint. He asked to stay the night, and six months later he was still there. Colin seemed as keen to move on as a rat in the kitchen of the Ritz.

In fairness, Dinsdale knew no one else would put up with him.

Most people could forgive Colin's irrepressible all-day bed-hair which, like his teeth had no concept of teamwork, or his scrubby face that had never had a meaningful relationship with a razor; but what the rest of the world really found truly objectionable was his lamentable personal hygiene.

Colin claimed he was hydrophobic and said any odour he might or might not have was as Nature intended. It wasn't the best argument Dinsdale had ever heard as left to its own devices Nature had also produced the skunk. But Dinsdale suffered his uninvited lodger because Colin was a mate. And a mate was a mate even if they were a smelly pain in the arse.

Dinsdale let himself in the front door and called out, 'Alright, geez.'

That Colin didn't acknowledge him, was not because he was intentionally being rude, but because, as normal, he was engrossed in scouring the Net for conspiracy paranoia.

'Fancy a beer?' Dinsdale inquired breezily.

'Oh, hello, mate,' Colin said slowly, Dinsdale's arrival having registered at some level. 'See this. You know all that Global Warming stuff, well they reckon there hasn't been any rise in the Earth's atmospheric temperature in the last sixteen years, but the old eco-warriors aren't quick to tell you that are they. They still keep banging on about it. So asked yourself, why is there so much fuss still being made about Climate Change, eh?'

Dinsdale ignored Colin's brooding speculation.

'Fancy a beer?' Dinsdale prompted him again, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

'Beer . . .' Colin repeated distractedly. Then it was as if something had nudged a higher brain function and seized upon the invitation. 'Beer? You payin'?' he asked.

"Are you paying?" – was he having a laugh? Dinsdale paid for everything.

Colin hadn't done a scrap of work since he moved in, hadn't handed over a single penny in rent and rarely left the flat unless Dinsdale took him out for a beer and bank-rolled it.

'Yes, I'm paying.'

Dinsdale eyed his frothy pint eagerly, savouring its promise of pleasure to come. He chinked Colin's glass and said, 'Happy days.'

Colin protectively dragged his glass away.

'So what's this all about then?' Colin asked warily. 'You know – lunchtime and all?

Dinsdale hadn't as yet revealed his bit of good fortune. He wanted the telling of it to be relished over a pint, or two.

The Feathers was their regular haunt. Built in the late Victorian era, it had retained many of its original features – a dark wood interior with ornate panelling to the bar, etched glass partitions and black & white ceramic tiling to the floors, which Dinsdale reckoned hadn't been modernised in any shape or form from the day it was built, bar replacing the gas lighting for electric. This wasn't out of some twee conservation principle or because it was a listed building, but because in over century no one had been arsed to waste a single penny refurbishing such a rarely frequented backstreet pub.

But he liked it for that because it was a proper pub. It wasn't some fancy themed bar serving poncy cocktails or a family pub with a horde of feral kids throwing food around and getting under your feet, nor was it the Student Union rammed to the gills with drunken Oiks. It was just an old fashioned drinking establishment that existed purely to dispense alcohol for the purposes of pointlessly excessive intoxication.

Better still, it was cheap. The landlord, Arthur, a man on the brink of both retirement and bankruptcy, foolishly allowed Dinsdale to run a tab. Inevitably, Arthur would lose the paper upon which their tally had been carefully recorded and then foolisher still, he would ask on their next visit if they remembered how much they'd had to drink. If Dinsdale's hazy recall was to be believed, he and Colin were border-line teetotal.

Another good reason to go to The Feathers that day was that at lunchtime it was invariably empty. It was something Dinsdale wasn't unhappy about. He wouldn't feel the need to act in a socially responsible manner as he gleefully recounted his excellent news.

'You'll never guess what happened at the hospital today?' Dinsdale said unable to contain a broad smile.

Colin, noting Dinsdale's exceptionally good humour and his early return from work, reached only one conclusion.

'You got the sack?'

'No. Better than that.' Dinsdale paused for effect. 'The stiff we had in today . . .'

Colin frowned. 'Lord Lucan?'

'Do you remember that bird I told you about?'

'You mean the one you always go on about when you're pissed.'

'Yeah, Anna.' Against his best efforts Dinsdale's face lit-up with pure joy. 'Well, it was her old man!'

'What, dead?'

'Well if he wasn't, he is now. Mate, I tell yer, when the old Doc Taylor gets going with that saw – phew!'

'What was it – car crash?'

'Dunno,' Dinsdale said. 'I can't say too much – patient confidentiality and all that, but I reckon he topped himself.

There was a slight pause as almost visibly the cogs in Colin's brain started to whir.

'That's what they said about the ice cream seller they found dead in his van,' Colin said coyly.

Dinsdale took a large gulp of beer. He always telegraphed Colin's cheesy old jokes a mile off. Normally he wouldn't have hesitated to curtail the agony, but today he was in too good a mood. As a measure of his largesse, he even offered Colin a degree of encouragement.

'And?' Dinsdale enquired absently, his thoughts still purring over the events of the morning.

Colin hastily returned his drink to the bar, surprised by the unexpected invitation to continue.

'Oh yeah––apparently he was found covered with chocolate and raspberry sauce, nuts and sprinkles – ' Colin could barely contain himself as he delivered the punch-line, 'Well the police said: "He topped himself!"

Colin doubled up guffawing loudly as though he had never heard it before, while Dinsdale restricted his appreciation to a slight upturn of the mouth and a single nod of the head. Leaving Colin to regain his sensibilities Dinsdale downed another hearty gulp of beer and pondered Jon Hill's demise.

'Shouldn't really say, but there were pills,' he said expressing his thoughts aloud.

'I'd do that,' Colin said having recovered from his self-inflicted paroxysm of mirth. 'Can't stand the sight of blood, especially my own. Bottle of vodka and some pills, that's the way.'

'If I buy the booze and pills, we've got a deal then have we?

Colin ignored the proposal and asked, 'Why do you reckon he topped himself then, eh?'

Colin instantly became distracted as he spied another regular coming into the bar, and one that was always good to cadge a beer or two from. As Colin, with a near empty glass, quickly beckoned Gerry over, Dinsdale's thoughts turned to what might have prompted Jon Hill's hastily self-arranged departure from this world.

It appealed to Dinsdale's romantic notions, or what passed for them in his world, that Anna had finally broken down and declared that their marriage was a sham. She had confessed to her distraught husband that Dinsdale Doric was the one true love of her life; always was and always will be. Dinsdale pictured the scene; Jon Hill on his knees pleading with Anna. But try as he might he couldn't rid himself of the crushing image of Jon Hill giving her a right good seeing-to the morning he died.

Dinsdale drained his glass. He was feeling pretty good when he came in, but he had depressed himself already. Alcohol therapy was the only answer. He saw Colin already had another pint courtesy of Gerry.

Suited and booted, Gerry was always immaculately turned out, often with a flower in his button hole. Gerry couldn't be drawn on what he did for a living, hence he was fair game to be ribbed about his Man of Mystery persona.

'You alright, Dennis?' Gerry asked turning to Dinsdale.

That was something Dinsdale had had to put up with all his life; People calling him by something other than his real name. It was the price he paid for having such a mad one.

It was Dinsdale's mother's fault. She had openly admitted that she'd had a bit of a thing about an actor during the sixties called Dinsdale Landen. Baby Doric comes along and before he's old enough to have any sensible input in the decision, bosh, he is lumbered with the moniker Dinsdale. To top it off they had plumbed even greater depths with a more hideous middle name which he took great pains to deny even existed.

Until he went to college he had always kept his hair short. But aiming for the trendy student look, he had allowed the wild sprouting of his locks that looked like a 1980's poodle-perm on acid. Although most thought he was wearing a fright wig, in The Feathers he had acquired the nickname 'Dennis' after Dennis the Menace, the comic strip character.

'Want a beer?' Dinsdale asked Gerry. Even though Colin was standing with a conspicuously full pint, his eyes lit up.

'Lager,' Colin chipped in quickly.

'Gerry?' Dinsdale asked, hoping he wouldn't take advantage of his generosity, unlike his erstwhile flatmate.

'No tar,' Gerry said, pointing to his half empty glass, 'I've only popped in for one.'

'Wedding today is it?' Dinsdale asked.

Gerry responded with a wink, tapping the side of his nose.

Dinsdale slapped his glass down on the bar. 'Two lagers, my good man. And pronto.'

What Dinsdale considered to be his rapier-like wit wasn't always well received. But Arthur, a man of few emotions, was inclined neither to amusement, nor to giving Dinsdale a smack in the mouth for taking the piss.

'Four-Ninety,' Arthur said pushing two pints towards them.

'D'you want one?'

'Nah.'

As sociable as ever, Arthur slunk back in the corner and found a drinking vessel which had gone unpolished for at least an hour.

'So what you gonna do?' Colin asked.

Gerry turned to Dinsdale. 'About what?'

'Den's gonna start sniffing around some bird again. One he used to go out with.'

Dinsdale frowned. He resented the purity of his feelings being subject to public debasement, especially while sober.

'You gonna phone her?' suggested Colin. 'You know, offer your condolences and all that.'

Dinsdale had considered that already, but there was a danger in the direct approach, especially so soon after the event. It might appear he was trying to jump with inappropriate haste into a dead man's shoes. Which of course was exactly what he was hoping to do, but for once, Dinsdale had to rein-in his impetuosity.

'I thought I'd just turn up at the funeral,' Dinsdale said casually. 'To show my respect and offer my support – a shoulder to cry on.'

'She might not notice you,' Colin said. 'There could be loads of people there.'

Dinsdale hadn't considered that he might simply be ignored or treated as of no consequence. Surely as her one-time soul-mate, he must have represented a landmark period in her life. But he had to admit, if Anna was seen to fraternise too enthusiastically with an ex-boyfriend at her old man's funeral, it wouldn't be considered good form. Dinsdale quickly revised his plan to incorporate both strategies.

'I'll probably go to the funeral, just to show my respect, then give her a ring after.'

He was happy with that and to mark his approval he downed his pint in one hit.

'Come on, Colin, you're a bit slow today,' Dinsdale said as he turned around waving his empty glass at Arthur. 'Two more in your own time, Arthur – today preferably.'

3

Dinsdale's hand hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Anna, but he didn't know what to say. Perhaps in hindsight going to the funeral hadn't been such a good idea. He certainly hadn't meant to upset her, or her family, or Jon Hill's. Well, everyone really. It was a bit of a gaff – totally unintentional. He was only trying the sympathy ploy to ingratiate himself. How was he to know that it had been determined that Jon Hill's death was due to a heart attack and not suicide.

Dinsdale distinctly remembered Doc Taylor cooing over his viscera, especially his wonderfully robust heart. Obviously its glitzy appearance represented the victory of image over substance.

So what could he say to her now? He hadn't let on that he was present at the post-mortem before he offered his sincerest condolences and proceeded to prattle on with great authority about why people killed themselves. Losing her husband was bad enough, without Dinsdale putting his big fat size nines in it and accusing her beloved of wilfully instigating the whole affair.

He was soundly rounded upon and told much to his deepening embarrassment how wonderful Jon Hill's life had been until he was so sadly taken from them. Very happily married, a recent job move and promotion, just elected captain of the golf club and was to run the London marathon in aid of sick children.

If possible, Dinsdale hated him even more. He couldn't believe people were taken in by such superficiality. The gulf between him and Anna from their time together now felt like a chasm. Yet Dinsdale still clung to the notion that with 'The Boy Wonder' out of the way, his irresistible charm might once more win the day.

After the debacle at the funeral on his return to his job at the mortuary, he questioned Dr Taylor. It wasn't an interrogation, the doctor certainly wouldn't have stood for that, but more of a gentle prompting. Even that caused Dr Taylor to bristle and immediately go on the defensive.

'Why?' he demanded.

'It's just that he seemed so fit and healthy.'

Dr Taylor glared imperiously down the end of his nose. 'And your point is?'

Dinsdale hesitated. Taylor appeared to have taken it as a slight against his professional integrity.

'I'm not far off the same age and it makes you think doesn't it?'

'I can't remember. I'd have to check my records.' Dr Taylor peered down his nose again. 'If you think you are unwell, I suggest you visit your GP.'

'No, I feel fine, it's just that . . .'

'It's just that you need to concentrate on your work more.'

With no obvious way to re-open a further dialogue, Dinsdale used his initiative. When Dr Taylor excused himself from the room, Dinsdale jumped onto the computer to access Jon Hill's medical records.

'Access Denied'.

The Law of Sod dictated that inevitably when in a hurry, Dinsdale had keyed the wrong password. Dinsdale carefully typed it in again – 'Access Denied'. He hadn't made a mistake. The password had been changed.

4

With an hour to kill before Dinsdale had to start work, he decided to attend what he had been assured was an essential part of the undergraduate experience: a 'Veloski Lecture'.

Even though Dinsdale was late for the start, there were plenty of spare seats in the lecture room. Its snug warmth was most welcome on such a cold April morning. Dinsdale could have gone to a tutorial on Climate Change, but he doubted the heating in that room would have been cranked-up to such a heartening degree. Dinsdale took a seat in the third row and sat back to enjoy the show.

Professor Josef Veloski, sporting his ancient black house gown, bore every one of his four-score years, but beneath that grizzled exterior and spectacular puff ball of white hair was by reputation a razor sharp mind undimmed by age. His eyes still shone with his passion for his unconventional ideas on Quantum Field Theory, the Physics of the Mind and the Nature of Time.

With his wild hair and retro-academic attire, Dinsdale found it hard to believe that as a young man Veloski had contrived to spend his autumn years as the clichéd embodiment of a Mad Professor, but as Dinsdale knew only too well, life was like that – shit happens.

The emeritus professor's talks weren't an integral part of Dinsdale's course, nor anyone else's in the college, but it was an interesting diversion from Dinsdale's usual studies. He found it quite refreshing to hear a psychology lecture that didn't involve the depressing analysis of the mentally ill. Or as Dinsdale, who had never been a slave to political correctness, preferred to call those poor tortured souls – Mentalists.

The professor began drawing the threads of his hypothesis together, one which had been all but dismissed in recent years by his peers; principally because neuro-psychology and physics weren't happy bed fellows. Veloski was well-known for his mantra.

'Psychologists didn't understand physics and physicists had no intention of delving into the realm of consciousness. As far as physicists were concerned, something that can't be empirically measured or its source truly understood was an area of study to be carefully avoided.'

'. . . and so I say to you, there is something very wrong with our current world view of Time. What common sense and experience dictates, is a myth of our own making.' Veloski drew himself up to his full height and steepled his fingers on his chest. 'During my lectures I am often asked, "Is time travel really possible?" and I tell them, at some level we do it every moment of the day. In fact our very existence relies on it!'

Veloski scanned the smattering of faces in the auditorium waiting for a reaction. If he was expecting gasps of surprise there were none. This revelation was well-known to his devotees, who were mostly nerds and Star Trek fans, and to the others, like Dinsdale, who were there only to escape the cold or catch up on their sleep, this bold assertion made little impact. Veloski's lectures had entered into almost legendary status, but only his true disciples were there to embrace the message.

'There is now,' Veloski continued, 'I believe, a considerable and growing body of scientific evidence which leads us to one conclusion only – mindstuff or consciousness must be quantum in nature. Therefore its precise location, not only in space, i.e. within the physical brain, but more importantly to our daily lives, time, cannot be known with any more exactitude than the position and momentum of a single photon.'

'I am a rarity,' he said, casting his twinkling eyes around the room. 'As you well know, I am not a native of these shores, but the pioneers of the British Empire, however badly that is perceived in these modern times, must be commended for extending the reach of such a civilising influence to the world –' Veloski paused for effect, holding his audience like a seasoned entertainer. 'Cricket!'

Veloski, in an almost a preconditioned Pavlovian reaction at its mention, shaped-up and played out a couple of expansive cover-drives. A shadow cricket demonstration featured at some stage in all his lectures.

The professor shouldered his imaginary bat and returned to the lectern.

'It's a wonderful activity that demonstrates all that is good in sportsmanship; especially honesty and good manners. But if that were the only reason we should appreciate this great game then observing the conventions and etiquette of a genteel tea party would surely suffice.'

'No, I believe it is because we understand, at a level we do not always acknowledge, what truly remarkable feats these players are able to achieve. As a sport it is far from unique, tennis is another, as is baseball, but it does demonstrate the principle of the Quantum Mind admirably.'

'At the highest level,' he continued, 'a batsman faces a ball travelling at around ninety miles an hour and the length of a pitch is twenty-two yards. So how long at that speed does it take for the ball to travel that relatively short distance?' Veloski's leathery face creased into a kindly smile. 'I'll do the math for you. I guess most of you chose psychology because you couldn't add up. A batsman has around four tenths of a second to react. Under half-a-second, which is literally in the blink of an eye or the time it takes to say, 'Off-Drive'. Now try to think what you would be able to achieve in such a preciously short time when faced by such a perilous event.'

Dinsdale, probably like many others, was puzzled. He didn't think having a ball, albeit a hard one, thrown at you constituted a dire emergency in those terms.

Veloski noted their confusion.

'I am not an anthropologist or a zoologist, but it is a reasonable assumption that these skills developed to guard against our ancestors from ending up as a snack for a predator.'

'In that time,' continued Veloski, 'our batsman must accurately calculate the ball's apparent trajectory, anticipate possible late swing in the air, make reasoned assumptions regarding its carry off the wicket and any deflection caused by the seam.'

As though inspired to act out this improbable scenario, the professor shaped up to bat again, contenting himself with playing out a forward defensive.

'Now, if this wasn't hard enough, our batsman isn't just a passive spectator to these events, and if he is to keep his wicket and score runs for the team, he must take affirmative action and strike the ball. The batsman has to choose which shot he intends to play, high, low, soft or hard all in the space of less than half a second.'

Dinsdale stretched out in his seat with his hands clasped behind his head. It wasn't unknown for Veloski to bring in a radio to his lectures when England were playing a test match. Dinsdale amused himself with the notion that, perhaps as in a real cricket match, his lectures took a break halfway to adjourn for Tea. Not that Dinsdale would be around to see it; he had to be in work in twenty minutes.

'So how is this possible?' Veloski asked slowly scanning the faces in the auditorium. 'It is because our cricketer can see into the future – the fourth dimension.'

There were still no gasps of surprise.

'I believe consciousness,' continued Veloski, 'is a fuzzy cloud of awareness that is not unique to the exact moment of now, but like a field around a magnet that extends, not in physical space, but in time, from the moment of our birth and I believe also – ' Veloski deliberately paused for dramatic effect. 'To the very moment of our death. Now if you accept that mindstuff is quantum in nature, then nothing I propose here contravenes our understanding of what is permissible in the strange world of quantum physics.'

Dinsdale recalled too many fuzzy clouds of awareness in his life, primarily alcohol related, and he could get his head around consciousness hanging around for a moment, like a computer taking a few seconds for its circuits to clear, but how could this fuzzy cloud perceive events that are yet to happen – the future? He hadn't intended to get wrapped-up in the proceedings, but his hand shot up of its own accord. Veloski finished practicing an On-Drive and acknowledge him with a faint tip of the head.

'How can we possibly know something unknowable like the future, when there are so many variables of what it might be?' 'How can we be aware of events that have happened?' Veloski retorted. 'Science has yet to discover the physical basis of our memory. In their dry mechanistic view bio-scientists ultimately expect to discover an organ or complex interaction within the cells of the brain that are responsible.'

'Yet I propose that memory is not hard-wired in the head. Via the same principles of quantum mechanics, as I have said, our conscious recall of past events is the mind casting back to that actual time and witnessing, at some level, the event itself. One which, for even the most terrible tragedies, we can only passively observe and not alter by a single jot.'

Veloski suddenly sounded his years; frail and uncertain, perhaps haunted by the demons of his own past. Yet within moments he had cast those aside and his voice was once again bright and strong.

'Brain damage . . .' he said with a smile, 'is often cited as proof that the root of memory is located within the bio-mass of the brain. But is it any more sensible to make that suggestion than to blame the loss of the picture in your television, through say a faulty transistor, believing it was solely the electronic component which held all the necessary information to produce the image. No, it would not!'

Dinsdale found he wasn't alone. Another dissenting voice called out, 'If the future is predetermined surely that means there's no free will.'

'Ah-ha, good – well spotted, young man. But that's a topic I shall discuss in a future lecture, but for now all I will say is perhaps the apparent random nature of the Future only appears random because of limitations of our current knowledge. And perhaps freewill is a conscious presumption not supported by the unconscious. But for the purposes of today's lecture I will describe two trials to support my theory,' said Veloski. 'In an experiment, which has been repeated by others since, Libet and Kornhober attempted to quantify the relationship between free will and the activity of the brain. It was called the Intention Experiment.'

'Volunteers were attached to instruments that recorded electrical impulses from the brain related to physical activity. Each subject was simply asked to lift a finger while keeping their hand flat on the table.' Veloski demonstrated the process by raising his index finger off the lectern.

'And that, ladies and gentlemen was their first experiment.' Veloski waited for the laughter. Even to those who had seen this performance before it was still cause for amusement. Dinsdale leaned forward in his seat intrigued. The old boy had suddenly got his full attention. Not so much for the scientific endeavour, but for the fact that eminently qualified people got paid handsomely for doing so little.

Dinsdale had baulked fiercely at the idea of furthering his education, and some might argue, finally getting around to starting it, but if he could get involved in stuff like that then the opportunities for doing virtually nothing were endless. While musing on a whole new world of possibilities that dovetailed neatly with the ideology of a bohemian creative, Veloski continued to expound his theory.

'So, what were Libet and Kornhober trying to achieve? Quite simply they were looking for the correlation between intention and action. They discovered through measurement of brain activity that on average the intention to move the finger was a full second in advance of the movement itself. Or if you like – it took a full second for the muscles to react to the created signal from the brain. If this result were not remarkable enough, they discovered that the volunteers were not consciously aware of any time lag. Naturally they believed their intention to move the finger was instantaneous to the movement itself.'

'If I can just reiterate, there is a full one second between the mind conceiving of a movement and that action physically happening.'

'Naturally this is an extremely surprising result that runs counter to our everyday experience, and may I add, puts our poor beleaguered batsman in some jeopardy, who has barely half a second to perform a multitude of tasks.'

'The fact that anyone here will testify to is that there can be no inordinately long time delay between intention and action. A boxing match would be over after a single punch if it took the hapless fighter receiving the blow a full second to raise his guard. Is the world nothing like we perceive it to be? Are we living in some Alice in Wonderland illusion? No. I believe the answer is far simpler, but far more complex.'

Dinsdale checked his watch. He only had fifteen minutes before he had to leave for work, but he wanted to hear the old boy out.

'We have, at some level, through the nature of quantum mechanics, the ability to perceive or see the future around a second in advance. Or if you like, once the intention to move your finger is formed, the fuzzy cloud of awareness, a quantum mind field, maps that intention back in time to the 'Now' of one second previously. The brain at some level is fed the information back from the future and therefore we do know what the immediate future holds for us. On a biological level that one second advance warning is perhaps a key element in our survival, preparing us to face a perilous ordeal to come.'

'Although on a more macabre level, there is anecdotal evidence to demonstrate this phenomenon. As the executioner's axe-blade struck, severing the head, the decapitated victims were often reported to throw out their arms in a reflex reaction as if to prevent themselves falling, which is what the still briefly conscious head perceives itself to be doing as it dropped into the basket. Yet this reflex action cannot have been attributed to the brain passing that 'falling' motion via the spinal cord in the neck to the central nervous system, as by definition it is no longer physically connected to the body. Beyond invoking a metaphysical soul, the only possible explanation is that the central nervous system had already been fed the information about the 'falling' from the future and reacted accordingly at the right moment.'

Dinsdale checked his watch again. He had ten minutes.

'In another repeated experiment, the test subjects were wired to machines recording the electrical brain responses to photographic images. They were random pictures of pleasant landscapes, attractive people, fluffy cats and puppies no doubt, but mixed among them were shocking graphic images of severe injuries and those of a pornographic nature. What the experimenters discovered was that moments before one of the shocking pictures appeared the brain activity went off the scale seemingly in anticipation of it being shown. As the pictures were randomly chosen by computer, there can be no experimenter effect involved, which can only lead us to one conclusion that the source of the dramatic response was fed back from the future. There can be no doubt that the future is knowable.'

The professor was right. Dinsdale knew his future was knowable and somewhat bleak if he lost the job Mummy had arranged for him, but it surprised Dinsdale that he found this stuff so interesting.

'So once again I ask "How does this help our cricketer?". Everyone must have had the experience of looking out of a fast moving vehicle like a train and picking out an approaching object like a telegraph pole or a road sign and briefly hold it in your mind as though it was actually stationary. Clearly, in the physical world, the explanation is that our eyes are able to track the object at the same relative angle of motion to create the illusion of immobility.'

Veloski leant forward on the lectern to impress the importance of his next statement. 'I suggest this is no less than the accomplishment of our subconscious mind; to track the future and briefly hold it as though stationary in our minds as it approaches. And therefore, as regards our cricketer, make the ball appear to move significantly slower and therefore much easier to hit.'

'How many times have we heard people say of a crisis event, "Time seemed to stand still" – "I saw it happen in slow motion" And with reference to our cricketer, "He's got his eye in" an extraordinary statement which everyone understands, but would struggle to quantify.' Veloski's face creased into a smile. 'Perhaps another analogy would be useful by staying with the railway theme.'

Dinsdale hadn't realised trains featured so much in his lectures or he would have worn his anorak. He checked the time.

'Shit!' he said louder than he intended. He had two minutes to get to work. He would have been grateful for any form of time travel at that moment.

Naturally he had intended to leave without drawing attention to his departure. It was considered bad form to duck out of a lecture early. Catching his foot and clattering over the chair next to him didn't aid his stealthy departure, nor did the subsequent spilling of his books onto the floor. He looked up apologetically at the old Don and tapped his watch as though Veloski should have known Dinsdale was late for work. Veloski didn't appear to take umbrage or even actually notice as Dinsdale slipped out of the lecture room as discreetly as the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Late yet again for work, the good doctor called Dinsdale aside to have a quiet word with him.

5

'Alright, geez,' Dinsdale said with a deflated sigh, as he let himself into the flat. He was back early again from the hospital. He slung his shoulder bag onto the table.

'Fancy a beer?' Dinsdale inquired glumly.

As per normal, Colin was glued to the computer. He would have made a good Living Statue – those street artists who paint themselves with a stone-effect and have the unsettling knack of remaining absolutely motionless until they suddenly lunge at a passer-by to startle them. The difference being that Colin at no point felt inclined to dispel the notion that he was hewn out of anything other than solid rock.

'Fancy a beer?' repeated Dinsdale.

At times like this Dinsdale wished he had made good his promise to buy a megaphone. Dinsdale opened the fridge and was relieved, and more than a little surprised to find that Colin hadn't drunk all the beer he had bought last night. Of the six-pack, miraculously, two still remained.

The can made a satisfying 'psst' sound as he lifted the ring pull. Like the flick of a switch, Colin was instantly brought back to life.

'I'll have one, mate.'

Dinsdale tossed him the other can.

'Been reading this stuff about the dinosaurs,' said Colin shoving his hand down his pants. 'They now reckon it wasn't the initial asteroid impact that killed them all because some species lived on for another million years after it hit. They reckon the fireball from the explosion burnt up so much oxygen in the air and destroyed the trees and plants that produce it, that all the really large animals were literally suffocated to death. It was only the little ones who didn't need as much air that survived, like the tiny mammals. And because the plant-eating dinosaurs that did survive ate the few oxygen-producing plants that still grew they made the situation even worse.'

'Whatever. Get that down your neck, I'm going down The Feathers for a beer. You coming?' Before Colin had a chance to ask, Dinsdale added, 'And yes, I am paying.'

Dinsdale stared into the bottom of his glass watching the tiny bubbles rushing to the surface to then disappear into the ether, never to add a glistening sparkle to a pint of beer again.

'You not still worried about making a dickhead of yourself at the funeral?' Colin asked. His counselling skills lacked a certain finesse.

'I got the sack,' Dinsdale said.

Colin choked on his beer, which for mere mortals should have necessitated the egress of at least some of it, especially to such a fine cause as breathing. But he was too much of an old pro for that and with barely a dribble escaping his lips, Colin's profound way with the English language came to the fore. 'Mate, you a stupid bastard or what?'

Dinsdale ran a finger down his glass sweeping off the condensation. 'Mother's going to kill me.'

'What, they catch you rogering one of the old stiffs?'

'Said I was too unreliable. I was always late.'

'Can't complain about that then.'

Colin downed his beer and presented the empty glass to the bar. A nod from Dinsdale saw Arthur slowly make his way over only reluctantly setting aside a tumbler he had been lovingly polishing for an age.

With his glass suitably refreshed Colin asked coyly, 'So, what you going to do. You'll need another job.'

Dinsdale frowned. He thought he was a single man with no dependents, but apparently not.

'Yeah, but the way my luck's going . . .'

'Luck!' Colin snorted, duly appalled. 'You must be the luckiest bastard I know.'

'Having you as a flat mate?'

'There is that of course, but I was thinking more of your mother. When she pops her clogs you'll be minted.'

Naturally, Dinsdale should have been aghast at such a statement. The passing of his dear mother being discussed in such calculating and base terms was insensitive and crass, but it was nothing he hadn't routinely considered himself. Unfortunately, the old girl was as fit as a butcher's dog and showed not the slightest inclination to be reunited with her late, dear husband. So unless he adopted a more proactive approach to his inheritance and hired a hitman, his dream of continuing his relaxed bohemian lifestyle on a sleepy Greek island leisurely penning his blockbusters would have to wait.

'I dunno how I'm going to get another job that fits in with the course as well as that one did.'

'McDonalds?'

'Cheers mate. I think you missed your vocation as a careers adviser.' Dinsdale eyed Colin resentfully. It wasn't often he spoke-out about his pal's serious lack of application in finding employment. 'Why don't you apply?'

Colin shook his head as though Dinsdale had just touched upon the greatest sorrow of his life. 'I'm allergic to hamburgers.'

'Am I right to assume there are still no jobs out there for an IT superstar like yourself?'

'I told you, I'm over qualified. After the panic about the Millennium Bug was over, the industry dumped me. Wouldn't pay me the going rate.'

'Naturally you won't take a job whose pay is beneath you?'

'Too right. I'm not going to be a slave to the Neo-Con capitalist conspiracy – Another brick in the wall! Anyway, I'm always on the lookout.'

'Which you are relentlessly scouring the streets for? Can I safely assume career-wise that it's not your intention to lie low and wait for your next big break should there be the threat of another IT meltdown at the end of the 21st century?'

'Don't be stupid. Bound to be something that turns up well before then.'

'Your toes more likely, but anyway, it's typical,' Dinsdale said. 'My six months' probation was due to finish next week as well. Would have meant a pay rise too.'

'That's a conspiracy then.'

Dinsdale pulled a face. 'What is?'

'Them booting you out now,' Colin said setting his glass aside as he enthusiastically prepared to mount his hobby-horse. 'They'll take someone else on at a low rate of pay and when their six months is nearly up they'll do the same to them. It keeps their costs down and they don't have to provide employee benefits either, like sick pay and pensions.'

Dinsdale would have loved to join Colin in a rant against the sinister machinations of the system, but he had to concede he had more or less brought it upon himself. If he had his own bike, he wouldn't have wasted so much time ferreting-out one that wasn't securely chained-up.

'You see shadowy government conspiracies everywhere,' Dinsdale said. He glanced over to Arthur who was keeping himself to himself at the back of the bar. 'Presumably we're safe in here, or is he part of it too – you know – carefully monitoring how much we drink?'

Colin picked up his glass and pointed at its remaining contents. 'See that? There's a government conspiracy for you.'

'What, lager?' Dinsdale said, now eying his own glass quizzically.

'Well, the water it's made from is. The government put fluoride in it.'

'Yeah, to protect teeth, maybe?' snorted Dinsdale.

'So why does it do that then?'

Dinsdale knew Colin was leading him somewhere; reeling him into his dark world of twisted reality fermented by the internet.

'It hardens the enamel. We need less fillings.'

'Exactly!' said Colin.

'Those terrible government people keeping us healthy, tut, tut.'

'You don't get it do you?'

Dinsdale didn't and if he was to suffer this for much longer he needed another drink. He waved his glass at Arthur.

'Yes please,' Colin said instantly getting off his soap-box into cadge mode. Colin sunk the remainder of his pint in one hit and planted the glass on the bar. With his glass replenished, Colin immediately recommenced his hypothesis before Dinsdale could change the subject.

'Fluoride hardens the enamel not only in our teeth, but in all our bones. Hard things tend to be brittle, right, like spaghetti before it's cooked.'

Dinsdale leant on the bar with his chin propped wearily in his hands. 'So, the fluoride stops spaghetti getting too soft?'

Colin mimed slapping his forehead in frustration.

'No, that's just an example. Bones. It makes bones more brittle so they break easier. It's a well known fact that kids today break far more bones than the kids of our generation did. It's because the fluoride has made their bones more brittle.'

'Good teeth, more plaster casts; so why is that a conspiracy?' Dinsdale asked confused.

'Money. It's more cost effective to have some poorly paid nurse set a broken bone than to have loads of highly paid dentists to fill teeth. It's obvious.'

Dinsdale supposed it was in Colin's world.

It may not be a conspiracy that he got the sack a day after trying to access Jon Hill's medical records, but it was certainly a coincidence. He would have voiced this thought to Colin, but Dinsdale would have had to suffer an afternoon of being harangued by his dark brand of paranoia. It was a day for just getting maudlin drunk and not one for having his ear bent.

'So, you say it looked like a playing card?' queried Colin.

Dinsdale's will to resist had crumbled. He was experiencing a fuzzy cloud of awareness and it just came out. Colin had pounced cat-like on Dinsdale's rash disclosure. The strict code of patient confidentiality had gone out of the window.

'And there was one missing? Cor...' Colin shook his head with a look that was a strange mixture of delight and deep concern. He was revelling in having scooped his very own conspiracy and was milking it for all his worth. 'How did it get in there, he can't have swallowed it?'

'It was below the appendectomy scar.'

'Implants – wow!' Colin said, savouring every new detail. 'I reckon he was set-up: A government experiment gone wrong. You said that geezer was too good to be true – mind control.'

'Like a Stepford husband,' Dinsdale said, both teasing Colin and stoking his imagination at the same time.

'I don't reckon they were pills, I reckon they are electronic devices like the chips they put in dogs. I reckon they pulled the plug on him and bang, he's dead.'

'Why?' Dinsdale asked, immediately regretting it.

Colin drained his glass and put it on the bar. 'Dunno.'

Seeing as Dinsdale wasn't to be allowed a period of quiet reflection in which to wallow in self-pity, at three-thirty he called time on their drinking session. He finished his beer and announced, 'I think I need a bit of a lie down.'

'Okay mate . . .' Colin said, his attention drifting as he saw Gerry ambling in through the door. 'I'll catch up with you later.'

6

'Alright, geez.'

For once Colin was alert to Dinsdale's arrival.

'Ere, mate, you'll never guess what I found.'

Dinsdale chucked his shoulder bag on the table and opened the fridge. No beer.

'I didn't get it,' Dinsdale said. 'Can you believe even McDonalds didn't want me.'

'Come and look at this. I did a bit of digging around. It took ages, but I found this web site this morning.'

'Presumably we're not talking about a job recruitment site here are we?'

'It's those pills. There was a picture on the internet. I didn't read all of it, but at least you weren't imagining it.'

The comment rankled. Dinsdale knew he hadn't imagined it. He reluctantly leaned over Colin's shoulder.

'What is it, YouTube? I tell you there's some right sicko's out there. How could they have got that from the mortuary?'

'No, it's not YouTube, it's a conspiracy web site I found. They reckon a few of these have been turning up in people who have died suddenly. Someone had taken a picture of one. It was the same as you said, "Like an eight on a playing card, but with one missing." I'll show you.'

Colin busied at the keyboard and then leant back to wait for the web page to appear. Dinsdale stood behind him with his arms folded observing with guarded interest.

Web site not found appeared at the top of the screen. Colin tried again with the same result.

'That's weird,' said Colin.

'Why don't you just look in the 'History'?'

'I can't, its deleted.'

'You said you saw it this morning?'

'I know, but I delete everything as I go. You never know who's watching what you do. That's why you should never use the free anti-virus software from the internet. Ask yourself, "Why is it free?" Because it's put there by people who want to monitor everything we do. It protects the computer from viruses, but we are giving them permission to access every file held on your computer, every web site we visit and look into every detail of our lives.'

'Whatever. Where're the pills?'

Colin Googled it. Plenty of hits. Too many. Entering the word 'Conspiracy' brought up millions of results. He played about refining the search – Conspiracy / Pills / Sudden Deaths in various combinations. It threw up just as many.

'How did you find it this morning?' Dinsdale asked.

'I was just surfing and I came across it.'

'Do you remember what it said?

Colin ran a hand across his stubbly chin.

'The pills are always found in the body beneath an appendix scar. If that's not a conspiracy, I don't know what is.'

Conspiracy or not it certainly begged the question – why?

'There could be some weird serial-killer surgeon at work, like Harold Shipman, but with a scalpel,' suggested Dinsdale.

Colin was still furiously attacking the search engine. In an attempt to filter out the multitude of hits, he extended his search criteria, so much so that the last entry could have been an entry for the Booker Prize, but it still hadn't throw-up the site he was after.

After an hour or so, Dinsdale was relieved when Colin gave up looking. It had been like watching TV in a busy typing pool.

'Sorry mate,' Colin said.

A repeat of a Top Gear show was on the Dave channel, but Dinsdale hardly noticed it was on. He was too deep in thought.

'Did you see which pill had gone?'

Colin tipped his head back and stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Yeah, the one in the middle.'

The same as the one in Jon Hill's.

'Do you think I ought to tell her?' Dinsdale asked.

'Dunno mate,' said Colin. 'About what?'

'About the pills and the fact he could have been murdered.'

'Funny way to kill someone though,' Colin said. 'Why not use just one pill; what's with all the others?'

'But the post-mortem said he died from a heart attack,' Dinsdale said thinking aloud.

'Durhhh!' said Colin. 'The missing pill caused the heart attack.'

'The Toxicology Lab would have picked it up. Even if they didn't, the pills should have made Doc Taylor a tad suspicious.'

'Dunno mate.'

Dinsdale rued his luck. Holmes had Watson, Morse had Lewis, Cagney had Lacey and he had got – Colin.

'Maybe he's in on it too?' Colin said suddenly.

'Doc Taylor?' Dinsdale said. 'He's straight as they come.'

Colin smiled knowingly. 'He's part of the Establishment. He's been told to cover it up.'

'Cover it up?' queried Dinsdale. 'Why?'

'Dunno mate. Official Secrets Act?'

'It must be a surgeon,' Dinsdale said. 'Someone slipped it inside during an appendix op.'

'What? "Slipped it inside." How's that work then?'

'When the patient was sewn-up.'

'Erm,' Colin said, 'wouldn't someone notice, not least the patient, maybe?'

It did sound incredible, but his father often regaled Dinsdale with stories of old Saw-Bones cocking-up, and leaving various swabs and personal effects inside their patients. These little gaffs often coming to light only years later or when the surgeon noticed his watch was missing.

'Obviously no one did,' Dinsdale said finally. 'But it's the only way it could have been done.'

'So, that's why you couldn't access his records – they deliberately changed the password to stop anybody checking.'

Dinsdale pondered the mysterious 'They' that permeated Colin's world. Who might 'They' be?

7

With all that had gone on Dinsdale had slipped behind with his course work and had ducked a few lectures. He knew he had to shape-up, but he couldn't get his head right. Colin, now driven by a determination that justified being sat solidly in front of the computer virtually 24/7, left no potential conspiracy web site unexplored or can of beer undrunk.

Mummy hadn't taken the loss of his job well. With Dinsdale's reputation, the strings she had pulled for him to get it were long and arduous. She'd had to call-in a big favour from her late husband's circle of colleagues. Perhaps Dinsdale shouldn't have asked for her help to find another. It was rare for his mother to shout, but for a seventy-year-old woman she still had a powerful set of lungs on her. Self-help was the keynote of her reply.

Dinsdale returned to the flat. It was three in the afternoon. He opened the door without sing-out his usual greeting. If its absence threw Colin into a panic, believing it was a break-in, he didn't care. Colin needed a bit of tension brought into his life. Dinsdale needn't have beaten himself up over his thoughtlessness, as his arrival, as ever, went unnoticed.

'Two lectures today and a "We've got your number" from Burger King – and it's raining,' Dinsdale said wearily. 'So how's your day been . . .? Good? That's nice, so glad to hear it.'

'Oh, hello mate. No luck?' Colin asked leaning back in his computer chair with his hand down his pants enthusiastically scratching his balls. 'Nah. I reckon they closed that site down.'

The shadowy 'They' were back again.

Dinsdale had had enough.

'We should forget it. What difference does it make anyway?'

'Wouldn't she want to know if her husband had been murdered and all those others too?' Colin said, now picking his nose with a finger which only moments earlier had been raking over his nuts.

'Probably not. He's dead whichever way you look at it. And telling her isn't likely to endear me to her, not after the funeral.'

Colin fidgeted uncomfortably on his chair.

'People need to know. This story might be your big break into journalism.'

'Actually, I'm concentrating on my novel writing these days. No, forget it.'

'What if there's more waiting to croak?'

'I'm okay,' Dinsdale said. 'I've still got all me bits that I was born with.'

'But I haven't. I had my appendix out ten years ago.' Colin lifted his T-shirt to show the scar.

'How are you feeling?' Dinsdale asked with concern related primarily to the of disposing the body should Colin inconveniently keel-over in the flat.

'I've have a good poke about, but I can't feel anything.'

'I don't think you will,' Dinsdale said peering at the healed wound across Colin's abdomen. 'Was it done locally?'

'The Royal London, when I lived in town.'

'Who was the surgeon?

'Durhhhh!' said Colin. 'I was unconscious.'

'With anaesthetic or booze? If I were you, I'd check your medical records.'

The room fell silent as each became lost in their own thoughts. Dinsdale was still figuring out a strategy to win Anna back. Not having a job didn't help. Flowers would have been a good start, but a slender budget of ten quid wouldn't have gone far. And the last time he looked, the petrol station around the corner had stopped selling them. A card expressing his profound sorrow for blabbing his mouth off at the funeral followed by a plea for forgiveness was another idea. But even though he was confident that literary acclaim for his blockbuster novels was inevitable, as a novice writer, sincerity and emotional depth wasn't as yet his forte. He had considered just presenting himself at her door, but there was a strong possibility that he would have found it slammed in his face. What he needed was a go-between; a mutual acquaintance to test the water and he knew the ideal candidate. That was assuming she would even talk to him.

8

Geraldine was Anna's best friend from way back.

It wasn't the most auspicious episode in Dinsdale's life when he copped-off with her after a particularly boozy night out. Dinsdale and Anna had been going through a rough patch, but they were still sort of an item. Anna saw it as bit more sort of than he did.

He hadn't meant it to happen. He and Geraldine had never really spoken before but they hit it off. With the flirting, one thing led to another. At the time, with alcohol fuelled logic, Dinsdale hadn't seen the harm in it. After all, it wasn't as though he was going behind Anna's back with a casual pick-up – Geraldine was more like family.

But the morning after Dinsdale realised it had been a big mistake in more ways than one. The raven-haired beauty of the evening before had metamorphosed dramatically in the cold and sober light of day. Yes, Geraldine had deep brown eyes and a great pair of tits, but with a tooth missing and others gappy, she had a smile like a piano keyboard. Embarrassed, he carefully managed to extract himself from her bedroom and they carefully avoided each other ever since.

Anna said she understood, but she wanted a trial separation and moved out of the flat they shared. It didn't take long for Jon Hill to wheedle his way into her life.

Dinsdale was devastated. He had let the love of his life slip through his fingers. She had laughed at his jokes. She didn't appear to mind his lack of material ambition while he pursued his literary goals and she had made Dinsdale feel like a sex god in bed. She probably would have put up with anything except him being unfaithful.

That had been over six years ago and when Dinsdale called Geraldine the conversation between them was predictably stilted. Naturally, Dinsdale made no mention to her of the alternative theory regarding Jon Hill's death, but centred the conversation on his desire to be on-hand just as a friend to Anna. He even used the suitably apt and virtuous phrases like "Darkest Hour" or "Time of Trouble". It sounded good anyway and she agreed to speak to Anna on his behalf.

Secretly, Dinsdale hoped Anna would call back in person, but it was not to be. Geraldine brought news. Jon dying had left Anna penniless. There wasn't going to be a pay-out from his new company and he hadn't seen fit to take out life insurance to protect their giant mortgage. Dinsdale silently sneered when he heard that. Jon Hill was such a cocky bastard. He probably thought he was going to live forever.

Geraldine went on to say that Jon Hill did have an insurance policy to cover his hang-gliding, mountaineering and scuba diving exploits, but it was worthless unless he died from an accident or anything other than natural causes.

'Including murder?' Dinsdale blurted out tactlessly.

'Murder! It was a heart attack for goodness sake,' Geraldine said. '. . . yes, I suppose if he had been, it would be covered.'

'How much?' asked Dinsdale, once again demonstrating his lack of sensitivity.

'Doesn't matter, does it?' Geraldine snapped, perhaps having remembered after all these years why she didn't like him. '. . . I think she said half a million.'

Dinsdale mouthed a silent 'Wow' and left it at that.

'I told you it mattered, mate,' Colin said when he heard.

'Perhaps you ought to get an insurance policy then,' said Dinsdale.

While considering this proposal, Colin stroked his stubbly chin which made a strange and rather unpleasant rasping sound as though he was being licked by a cat.

The Feathers was empty as usual, Dinsdale and Colin were the only two patrons swelling the coffers of Arthur's retirement fund; theoretically at least.

They were on their third pint and it wasn't yet four o'clock.

'Couldn't I just get an X-ray?' asked Colin. 'That'll be easiest.'

'Get insurance first,' said Dinsdale.

'Against what? If I die it's no good to me!'

'It won't help you, but it'll pay for the rent you owe me and a cardboard box to bury you in.'

They both finished their drinks in silence. Colin placed his glass on the bar and beckoned Arthur over to refill it. He poured two pints and eagerly removed the dirty one for a good clean and polish.

'So, how you going to prove its murder, especially if dark forces in the government are behind it?'

Dinsdale shook his head and took the freshly pulled pint off the bar. Colin's paranoia was hard work sometimes.

'I'll trace the surgeon who performed the operation using some of my dad's old contacts.'

'They could be in on it too, mate.'

'At this rate everyone will be in on it, except us!'

'Anyway they're not going to shop one of their own are they?'

Dinsdale shrugged. 'The only other way is to see if I can blag my way in to get a look at Jon Hill's medical records.' With a crooked smile and a leering glint in his eye, Dinsdale added, 'I did get on rather well with the young receptionist at the hospital.

'That gay bloke you told me about?'

'No, you dimwit, it's a girl. She'll be putty in my hands.'

9

'Yes, I know mother. It's not my fault if McDonalds, Burger King, KFC and Pizza Hut all don't want me. They said I was too old and not spotty enough.'

His mother sighed down the phone. 'Dinsdale, you do worry me. What would you have done if we weren't comfortably off?'

'Ask to be adopted?'

Wisely, Dinsdale didn't voice what he considered would have been such an oh-so witty repost. His mother was very touchy on the subject of parenting and still lamented giving young Dinsdale such latitude during his childhood. She was often heard to say after learning of another crushing disappointment inflicted upon her by her first born.

"I should have got your father to punish you more often. To make you stand on your own two feet. Why can't you be more like your brother – he's so sensible. "

Hadn't naming him Dinsdale been punishment enough? If it had been around when he was young, he wouldn't have hesitated to call ChildLine. And as for standing on his own two feet, surely the fact that he'd successfully managed to live comfortably for nearly twenty years without succumbing to the temptation of a career or steady job said something about his adroit survival skills in the concrete jungle. As for his brother, he was boringly normal. The blue-eyed boy was something in the City earning loads of dosh without a thought as to it being achieved by the exploited labour of bucket sweat shops in the Far East.

'Look,' said Dinsdale, 'I was hoping to pop down and see you at the weekend.'

'Why?'

'It'll be nice to see you.'

'Hmm – why?'

Dinsdale was pretty sure other off-spring, including his goody-two-shoes brother, didn't have to obtain a Visa and negotiate Check-Point Charlie before being allowed to visit their parents. Even Colin's mother was pleased to see her son on the odd occasion.

'Well,' Dinsdale said hesitantly, 'I was hoping to dig-out some of dad's old contacts.'

'Why?'

'I want to find something out.'

'What?'

'To find out who performed a surgical procedure.'

'You haven't had any.' With a sudden note of alarm in her voice she asked, '– have you?'

'No, it was a good friend of mine,' Dinsdale nearly choked on the words "Good friend" in the context of Jon Hill, but he swallowed down the bile to add, 'I think it may have contributed to his death.'

'I have company at the weekend. Do you remember Piers Stanley?'

'Yeah, didn't dad call him Stanley Knife? If he got his hands on you, you'd be scarred for life?'

'Yes, well he's gone into politics now. He's a Conservative MP.'

'Probably the finest thing he could do for his fellow man was to hang-up his scalpel,' Dinsdale said. 'And isn't the bar subsidised in the House of Commons?'

'It's lucky I understand your sense of humour, Dinsdale, I'm sure most others don't appreciate your – wit.'

'I'll stay in my room if it'll help.'

'Very well, but promise me there'll be no jokes.'

Dinsdale's student railcard was useful to get cheap fares. But nowhere near as cheap as if he dodged buying a ticket all together. As an outer suburb of Norwich, Dunsford station was a simple affair consisting of a small building housing the ticket office and a platform, which was often only staffed by a one man and his dog arrangement. It made the non-purchase of a ticket all too tempting and easy. At the other end, his mother's house was just a short cab ride from an equally sleepy and unmanned halt in the middle of nowhere.

When visiting home, Dinsdale regularly spent the whole of the nervous forty minute train ride to Hatfield Peverel in the toilet to avoid the ticket inspectors. To save him from harassment from genuinely desperate, clench-kneed travellers, he had even made a mock-up of an 'Out of Order' notice that he BluTacked to the door before secreting himself away.

If only the train operators knew how much undeserved abuse they received over Dinsdale's little ruse.

'Hold on a minute,' Dinsdale said to the cab driver as he leapt out of the car and rang the doorbell not once, but three times. Eventually Beatrice Doric opened the door. Still tall and elegant she wore her customary slacks and blouse and a weary parental scowl.

'Do you have to make such a racket?'

'Oh, hi mumsey,' Dinsdale said, gesturing back towards the taxi, 'I don't suppose you've got any loose change?'

'How much change?'

'Ten quid.'

His mother hesitated then realised from the years of experience dealing with her feckless son that admonishments were futile in public situations. She found her purse and handed over a ten pound note.

With the cab paid for, Dinsdale dragged his rucksack into the magnificent hallway of their family home and began a charm offensive. Perhaps offensive was the operative word as Mummy was having none of it. It was successful as the first day of the Somme.

'It's great to see you,' Dinsdale said leaning forward to peck her on the cheek. She accepted the greeting, but with clear reservations.

'Hmm, is it?' she said, eyeing him up and down observing the sloppy way he was dressed in his baggy jeans and T-shirt. 'How long have you had that? Does the modern generation still know who Che Guevara is?'

'It's comfortable.'

'Hmm, I hope you brought a decent set of clothes for dinner?'

'I thought I could borrow one of dad's shirts and stuff.'

'You'll have to iron it.'

'I'm sure it'll be fine.'

'Dinsdale!'

'Okay, I'll iron it,' Dinsdale agreed instantly. After nearly four decades in this world a one word reprimand from his mother hadn't lost its power to crush him into submission.

'Best do it now.'

'It's only three o'clock. What time's dinner?'

'At eight, but I know what you're like. As chairperson of the local Conservative party, I want to make a good impression. So please behave yourself.'

'Yes, mummy,' Dinsdale said, hanging his head in mock servitude.

Dinsdale tossed his rucksack on his bed and began unpacking the couple of essential items he felt it necessary to bring along, not least of which was a bottle of scotch. Not a fine malt, as a generous gift to the hostess, but because the family home, a magnificent eight bedroom Georgian country house, buried in three acres of its own prime Essex green belt, was way out in the back of beyond and disastrously for Dinsdale, miles from a licensed premises.

So, unless mummy had had a Road to Damascus moment regarding her usual miserly distribution of alcohol, Dinsdale was unlikely to be provided with anything like enough of it to consign sobriety to a hazy memory. The situation was even worse since there was competition in the shape of Stanley Knife to quaff her sparsely filled cellar.

At the dinner table it was immediately obvious that Piers Stanley was worse for drink. He tried to hide it, but the odd slurred word escaped censorship as he regaled Beatrice with stories of the great and the good that he now rubbed shoulders with in the Commons.

Dinsdale was good as his word and didn't open his mouth, but contented himself to discreetly eyeing-up the rather attractive young dinner guest Stanley Knife had brought with him. With blonde, curly bobbed hair and a cute upturned pixie nose she was a bit of a honey.

Dinsdale excused himself this outrageous bit of leering on the grounds that, when it came down to it, obviously Anna was the only girl for him, but while she continued to rebuff him, he considered himself very much a free agent to play the field.

Piers had to be in his middle fifties at the very least. Tall and handsome, yes, he was a man in his prime, but his companion, Emily, described as his secretary and barely half his age, should by rights, have zeroed in on someone with Dinsdale's youthful dash. Dinsdale was confident that when he caught her eye and hit her with one of his glorious rakish grins she would be putty in his hands.

He had been under the self-same misapprehension regarding the petit filling clerk at the hospital, who also was impervious to Dinsdale's charm, and had told him to clear off when he had asked to see Jon Hill's medical records.

Likewise, Emily, who beyond a bland smile when they were introduced and enquiring if he wore a wig, seemed firmly set on ignoring him. It appeared that Dinsdale, in his tuxedo, frilly dress shirt and fetching bow tie, wasn't of the slightest interest to her on any level, be it intellectual, sexual or even as a curious anthropological throwback. Dinsdale blamed his mother for the snub.

He had chosen the outfit from his late father's wardrobe and knowing how stuffy Mummy was, he assumed, incorrectly, that it was going to be a Black Tie do, in honour of their VIP guest and his young plaything. But Beatrice was horrified when Dinsdale appeared for dinner in formal dress, looking like a waiter from the catering staff she had hired for the evening.

Dinsdale had never met Piers before, but he took an instant dislike to the ex-physician-cum-politician. As soon as Dinsdale strolled into the dining room to take his seat for the soirée, Piers clicked his fingers, held-up his glass.

'Gin & tonic. Double.'

Beatrice quickly intervened to save further embarrassment all round.

'This is Dinsdale, my son. He's a psychologist.'

Dinsdale wasn't sure who he was most annoyed at, his mother or Stanley Knife. Her for the humiliating lack of communication over the dress code and shamelessly ramping-up his professional standing to impress her guests, or Stanley Knife, simply because he was a tosser. It wasn't a great start to the evening. Dinsdale feared it was going to be a long night.

The courses of food came and went as did the bottles of wine, which Dinsdale and Piers competed to empty. After the carefully controlled allocation by Beatrice in favour of her guest, there was only one winner, Piers. For once Dinsdale didn't mind. It was entertaining to see someone so puffed-up with their own self-importance, when vaguely sober, become a catastrophic bore when drunk. He was like an unruly ventriloquist dummy with a stupid fixed grin and a fruity line of patter that included finishing everyone's sentences with, ". . . as the actress said to the bishop!" This was inevitably followed by him rolling around in his chair guffawing loudly like a penny-arcade Laughing Policeman.

The scary thing, Dinsdale realised, was that people like Piers ran the country. If Colin had been there, perhaps he would have been made to see that so called 'Dark Forces' in the government might just be able to organise a piss-up in a brewery, but a decent hush-hush conspiracy was way beyond them.

On the other side of the table, Beatrice couldn't see Pier's wandering hands, but Dinsdale could, and he noted Emily's growing discomfort. The hands certainly weren't wandering aimlessly. Their goal was exactly determined, as was Emily's resolve to prevent them reaching it. Chivalrously, Dinsdale tried to intervene and save her from an unwelcome front-bottom groping.

'Piers,' interrupted Dinsdale, 'tell me, what made you give up medicine?'

Beatrice shot him a withering glare, "Don't you dare say anything to upset him."

For his part, Piers frowned, a little miffed that his endeavours to get the crux of the matter were to be thwarted by serious conversation. He quickly got into politician mode with a well-rehearsed speech.

'To be at the heart of this great country's decision making and to guide us to the future we all deserve, I felt my supreme talents were best utilised within the Mother of all Parliaments.' Piers paused and looked around the table as if expecting a standing ovation, if not a round of applause.

'That's so commendable, Piers,' Beatrice fawned.

'Piers was a brilliant surgeon, so they say,' Emily said, joining in on the eulogy, while taking advantage of the lull in under table activity to discretely shuffle her chair out of range. No one noticed except Dinsdale. He also noted that the flat tone in Emily's voice suggested that the only person who believed Piers was a great surgeon, was Piers.

'It seems such a waste,' Dinsdale said. 'Surely saving lives was a greater service to mankind than making laws?'

Beatrice shot him another look, "Be careful!"

'Is that really what this world needs?' Piers asked, swaying unsteadily in his chair. 'There are far too many useless eaters in it as it stands, consuming vital resources. Surplus population, surplus to requirements, a waste of space. And they all want to come and live in this damned country.'

There was a momentary stunned silence. Dinsdale stared at Piers trying to gauge if he was for real or if it was intended to be a joke. Beatrice forced a laugh to cover the embarrassment.

'Oh, Piers you're such a card,' she said and turned to Emily. 'I don't know how you put up with him?'

Emily didn't reply. Dinsdale, determined to expose the man for what he was, asked, 'So, you don't think they should bother to find a cure for AIDS?'

Piers leant across the table and said in a slurred conspiratorial whisper, 'Who says they haven't?'

Dinsdale pushed further. 'Cancer?'

Piers tapped the side of his nose, smiled knowingly and then collapsed unconscious with a full-on face plant into the remains of his cheese course.

'I think Piers is a little tired,' Beatrice said, mainly for the benefit of Emily, who looked both relieved and disgusted. 'Dinsdale can you help me carry him to his bedroom?'

Dinsdale would have happily left Stanley Knife there enjoying the benefits from his Brie face pack, but the moment Piers began snoring, he was at his mother's side manhandling a member of Her Majesty's Government out of the room.

Fortunately Piers weighed no more the eleven stone wringing wet and with the assistance of the heftier members of the catering staff they swiftly carried him up to his room.

Beatrice was onto any rumour mongers instantly.

'If any of you dare say anything, I'll say it was food poisoning, do you understand. And I'll sue.'

The head waiter animatedly reiterated the point. He went along the line of staff wagging a finger at each in turn, stressing they should keep their mouths shut if they ever wanted to work for that company or indeed for anyone in the industry again.

'I'm so sorry,' Emily said when Dinsdale and Beatrice returned to the dining room.

'It's the pressure of the job no doubt,' Beatrice said, reassuringly patting her hand. Emily turned to Dinsdale.

'You shouldn't take too much of what he says literally. He likes to wind people up.'

'So, there is no secret cure for AIDS then?' asked Dinsdale.

Emily didn't reply.

10

'You got her number!' Colin said almost in awe.

'Yeah, she thinks I'm a qualified psychologist.'

It was six o'clock Monday evening and they were at their usual place at the bar in The Feathers. There were only a couple of other regulars in, keeping themselves to themselves.

'Gave her mine,' Dinsdale said proudly, 'so she gave me hers.'

'You're in there, mate,' Colin said with a leering grin.

Dinsdale didn't let it show, but he had fantasised all weekend about being "In there" with Emily. Especially as on Sunday morning he woke to discover that alcohol hadn't worked its old magic on ugly women, and she really was exceptionally good looking.

'And he definitely said "Useless Eaters" not "Useless Bastards" or anything?' asked Colin.

'Now, let me think,' Dinsdale said slowly. 'No, definitely you weren't mentioned – Useless Eaters is what he said.'

'The New World Order,' Colin said gravely.

'I assume this is not a pop band from the eighties we're talking about here?'

Colin slowly shook his head. 'I wish it was, mate.'

'Don't tell me,' Dinsdale said. '. . . Conspiracy?'

'Too right. An unelected world government under the direct rule of the Illuminati their position enforced by a world army to subdue any subversion against the new regime. And the Useless Eaters are the non-productive people who use up precious resources for no return and are expendable.'

'You need to make sure your name isn't on the list.'

Colin ignored the remark. 'It's why they reckon no one has tried to find a proper cure for AIDS.'

Dinsdale was about to take a mouthful of beer, but Piers' words came back to him.

'Who says they haven't?' But Dinsdale immediately reject such a daft notion and vocalised his objection.

'If someone had a cure for AIDS, they'd be minted.'

'It's all part of 'The Long Game' as the Chinese call it,' Colin said. 'They forgo any brief short term advantage to benefit from the untold wealth of their future goal––world domination––the people of the world enslaved like drones.'

'What, everyone chained-up?'

'No. Financially; ensuring the mega-rich only get richer.'

Dinsdale ordered two more beers. Colin had been standing for at least five minutes without one, which spoke volumes how his pet subject enthralled him.

'You reckon the same about cancer, then?' Dinsdale asked, once again recalling Piers' drunken outburst.

'Who's the last head of state or big cheese that you've heard of that died of cancer, eh?' Colin said nodding knowingly.

Dinsdale thought for a moment. The fact he couldn't think of one didn't mean there wasn't one.

'Okay,' Dinsdale said finally, 'even if these Illuminati, who supposedly pull the strings of power, didn't want these discoveries to get out, surely the scientists involved would want their work to be utilised for the benefit of mankind?'

'Don't be so wet, mate,' snorted Colin. 'Who do these people work for? Who pays their wages? The Illuminati. The hidden hands that really pull the strings of power.'

Dinsdale hated Colin's look of smug, self-satisfaction as the strands of his argument wove together into a predictable murky conclusion. To redress the situation Dinsdale changed the subject to one that was more pressing.

'D'you have any more luck with the internet?'

'Nah, mate,' Colin said. 'You?'

'A couple of old contact numbers, but I'm not that hopeful.'

Colin stared into the distance in deep thought mode.

'It's almost as if,' he said slowly, 'when you access a site that has info about the pills and stuff, they're onto it, and immediately pull it off the net.'

Dinsdale sipped at his beer. Maybe the concept of 'They', whoever 'They' were, wasn't so crazy after all. Then he had a dreadful thought. There was a frightening possibility that he was being dragged into Colin's dark delusional world.

'It's just that you've got such a bad memory. If you didn't keep deleting stuff all the time you'd know where to find it.'

'Ah,' said Colin wagging his finger, 'that's just where you're wrong, mate.' He slowly took a deep mouthful of beer then slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Dinsdale could have done without the amateur dramatics.

'Yeah, and?' he prompted.

'Oh, right, yeah,' said Colin. 'I found a site and when I went back later it was off line.'

'I feel a bit of déjà vu coming on,' said Dinsdale.

'Seriously, I took a big chance and kept the site in History, but within two hours the site was off-line.'

'When was this?'

'Sunday morning.'

'Coincidence?'

'Dunno, mate.'

'What did it say?' asked Dinsdale. 'Any theories?'

'Dunno, mate. I didn't read it.'

'What!'

Colin wouldn't last a second in the jungle. His instinct for danger was zero. 'There's some stuff about 9/11 that you wouldn't believe . . .'

Dinsdale's eyes narrowed. 'Hey, there's a pound coin on the floor?'

'Where?' said Colin, as he instinctively swooped to pounce on the precious find. His search for the phantom coin was interrupted by Dinsdale's beer pouring over his head. Dinsdale felt not an ounce of guilt over Colin's dowsing or the subsequent mess on the pub floor. Arthur will enjoy clearing it up and it was the first liquid Colin's hair had seen in weeks.

'What d'you do that for?' wailed Colin looking as if he was about to cry.

'Oh, sorry, mate it must have slipped.'

11

'You should have told me,' said Dinsdale, who at last had some remorse over the soggy state of his companion.

'You didn't give me a chance.'

'Never mind, let's have a look then.'

On the way home Colin had explained that as a mark of his friendship and therefore having put himself at great personal risk, for once he saved the web pages files on the computer.

Colin sat in the chair while Dinsdale leant over his shoulder and peered at the screen. Colin still stank of lager. Dinsdale tried not to breathe too often as he watched the computer bring up its stored pages.

Finally Colin said, 'There.' He glanced back at Dinsdale to gauge his reaction. 'What d'you reckon?'

There it was; the same style of pharmaceutical blister pack, photographed in close up, that was identical to the one he had seen in the lab.

Dinsdale shook his head. 'Bloody hell.'

'There's one pill missing, just like in Jon Hill's and the other one I saw,' Colin said, pointing to the screen.

'So, what's this one say?' Dinsdale asked quickly.

'Erm, well they reckon that it might be a government experiment or alien implants.'

'Alien implant! Look at the size of it! Not exactly at the cutting-edge of Nano technology is it?'

Colin shrugged. 'Perhaps the Aliens are giants.'

Dinsdale stepped back not only to take a break from Colin's smelly head, but also to make some sense of it all. Vindicated, it was the cue for Colin to stretch his legs out, thrust his hand down his pants and enthusiastically jiggle his testicles.

'Then surely it's a pretty crap experiment,' Dinsdale said finally. 'What would be the point if it kills everyone?'

'You don't know that it has,' Colin said. 'There might be thousands of people who it hasn't harmed who are being manipulated by the authorities to do their bidding.

'Do their bidding?'

'Like I told you, it's chemical mind control.'

After having had their drinking session in The Feathers abruptly terminated, Dinsdale was still in need of alcohol. The bottle of scotch he had taken to his mother's house was unopened. He decided to remedy that situation immediately. Colin usually abstained from any spirit other than vodka, but on this occasion he selflessly set that aside to keep Dinsdale company.

'It's only a sad man that drinks alone, mate,' Colin said, having seemingly acquired the wisdom of ages.

'Chance would be a fine thing,' Dinsdale muttered under his breath. He raised his tumbler and knocked the neat whisky back in one hit.

'Ah, that's better,' he said. The scotch hit the spot immediately and put a smile on his face. It also began numbing him sufficiently to continue his descent into conspiracy paranoia. 'Mind control eh? You've had your appendix out? Well, I wouldn't worry. I can believe they'd make a pill that turns people into lazy bastards.'

'Funny.'

Colin stopped abruptly in mid-ball-scratch.

'Hey, look, listen, it might not be mind control,' he said slowly. 'Taking into account what that Stanley geezer said, this is a long shot.'

The expression Long Shot, in association with Colin, conjured several absurd notions. Firstly; that he would ever get a job. Secondly, he would ever repay his debts, and thirdly, that any of his conspiracy theories might have an ounce of credibility. Colin wasn't aware of how tough a task he was to face getting his latest hypothesis passed Dinsdale's highly sceptical examination. Colin steeled himself with a slug of whisky and plunged straight-in.

'Imagine,' he said, gesticulating animatedly, 'they discover the cures for AIDS and cancer. The authorities don't want the information to come out because of the cost maybe . . .'

'And these Useless Eaters?' Dinsdale chipped in if only to speed the process up and hopefully stop Colin waving his arms about like an excited Italian mime artist.

'Yeah, right,' said Colin. 'Anyway, what if the pills are put there as a trial to see if they work on the population at large. Selected individuals. These people died for what was perceived as the greater good.'

'Jon Hill was a good choice, I'll grant you that, but it doesn't make sense. Surely if you give someone pills it is customary to remove the packaging first and more importantly how would they know who's going to get cancer?'

'Maybe that's what the other pills did.'

'Doesn't sound very scientific.'

'Yeah, but just because they had a plan, it doesn't mean it was a good one, does it? I mean Hitler had a plan and look what a tosser he was.'

'I think I preferred the idea of alien mind control. It would at least explain why Jon Hill was thought of as some superman.'

12

'Yeah, hi, this is Dinsdale, Dinsdale Doric we met at my mother's house.' Dinsdale sensed a hesitation. He had either called Emily at a bad time or she had suddenly realised it had been a big mistake giving out her number.

'Oh hi . . .'

It was only two words, but they were enough to make Dinsdale instantly regret making the call. How many times in his life had he heard that tone? It was a disinterested, can't wait to get off the phone voice, which heralded the end of many a doomed relationship. He considered just hanging up, but he mentally shrugged and carried on. She could only say no.

'I thought it might be a good idea to touch base?' he said breezily, having already prepared his not bothered either way rejection sign-off, 'No, okay that's fine, I understand, it was just a thought, bye.'

'Why?' Is what she actually said.

Her response had caught him off guard. 'Why?' He doubted the sordid truth would impress her.

'Erm . . .' he said fishing for a reason other than the hope of sexual gratification when inspiration came to his rescue. His confidence soared as he lowered his voice and replied in a concerned tone. 'When we met, I detected an unresolved issue, which I may be able to help you with.'

She hesitated again. 'I normally go to Luke's on a Saturday night. In Chelmsford, do you know it?'

Did Dinsdale know it? He and his mates had misspent most of their youth there, on the pull and getting drunk.

'I know it very well,' he said with a renewed swagger.

He was about to pin down the arrangement in more detail when she said, 'Anyway must fly. Thanks for calling.' And then hung up.

13

Luke's had almost been a second home when he was younger, but that fondly remembered association had ended over a decade ago. He had never had cause to go into a night club on his own before, certainly not sober and he felt strangely uncomfortable. He felt like some sad Billy-no-mates, propping up the bar alone, nursing a bottle of some god awful Tibetan beer, while all around him a horde of bright young things laughed, joked and loudly made merry.

Dinsdale recalled he had once been a party animal like them. Now older and wiser, he realised places like these positively encourage people to make arses of themselves. Loud hypnotic music and alcohol induced even the most uncoordinated young man to take to the dance floor and flap their arms about in the mistaken belief that the opposite sex found this in some way alluring.

At the main entrance, there had even been some doubt as to whether he would be allowed in with his retro-hippy look. His Che Guevara T-shirt, beige Chino's and profusion of unruly hair didn't represent the cutting edge of twenty-first century nightclub chic. The doormen looked at him long and hard before deciding that he wouldn't lower the tone too much and waved him through.

Dinsdale sincerely hoped it was going to be worth it. He had not only bought an expensive rail ticket, because Chelmsford station was permanently manned and had ticket barriers to prevent the occasional fare dodger like him, but also because it was ten quid to get into the club and not much less to buy a small bottle of yak's piss. It would prove an expensive night out if she wasn't up for it.

It had just gone ten o'clock and the place was filling up fast. Dinsdale made his way onto the balcony to take advantage of the aerial view of the dance floor. But as he looked down a terrible thought popped into his head as he wondered if he would actually recognise Emily if he saw her?

At the dinner party Stanley Knife had easily won in the getting-blind-drunk-and-making-a-fool-of-yourself stakes, but Dinsdale had drunk a lot too and he hadn't felt too chipper in the morning. He was still bleary eyed when she had given him a lift to the station. He knew she was really good looking with her bobbed blonde hair and pixie nose, but in the low lighting of the nightclub it wasn't easy to pick out faces especially as he had only met her the once.

As he scanned the dance floor below a voice behind him said quietly, 'Dinsdale?'

Dinsdale swung round. 'Emily?'

'Hi,' she said glancing over each shoulder nervously to see if anyone was within earshot. 'It'll have to be quick.'

Quick? Was she expecting a shag there and then?

'You asked me if there was something troubling me?' she whispered.

Dinsdale couldn't believe it. She really did want a counselling session in the middle of a night club.

She checked over her shoulder again and said under her breath. 'Do you remember what Piers said?'

'Well . . .' Dinsdale said reeling from the disappointment and starting to reckon the evening's financial disaster.

'They know,' she said. 'They don't want it to get out. But I'm not alone.'

'Good,' Dinsdale said firmly, but without a clue as to what she was on about. He had lost interest in her and her mental health issues and concentrated instead on discreetly ogling her shapely breasts which were pleasingly defined by her tight fitting blouse.

'The Obsidian Covenant. It's not a standard F-T-P. Remember: Project Chaos and the Mark of the Beast. I beg you to remember that patient confidentiality is imperative.'

He was just going to ask her if she wanted a dance, but it was too late, she was gone, lost among the heaving throng of nightclubbers. Dinsdale was speechless.

14

'So, what did you do after that?' Colin asked hanging on Dinsdale's every word.

'After I realised she was a nutter?' Dinsdale said, sipping slowly at his Sunday lunchtime pint. 'Well, the next train wasn't for at least two hours and I didn't fancy hanging around the station in the cold, so I thought I'd make the most of it.'

The Feathers was busier than normal. Dinsdale made sure he couldn't be over heard. He didn't want his failed sexual exploits to be broadcast to the world and his wife.

'I started dancing with this old bird. She wasn't bad looking. Had a decent figure,' Dinsdale said quietly, as Colin leant in closer not to miss any of the lurid details. 'I thought she was about fifty-ish, good pair though.' Dinsdale demonstrated their magnitude with his outstretched hands.

'Cor. How'd you pull her?'

'I told her that I was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's good-looking younger brother. She said she loved baking. I asked her if she liked having a big sausage in her toad-in-the-hole.'

'And,' Colin said hurriedly and with a suspicious shortness of breath that suggested a crisis was developing somewhere below.

'We had a couple of dances and a bit of a grope. I knew I couldn't hang about because of the train, so I asked straight out if she wanted a shag.'

'What!' Colin said excitedly, swallowing down a gulp of beer. 'Just like that?'

'No, I actually said, being a bit smooth, "How do you like your eggs in the morning?" She replied, "Unfertilized! Have I got a condom?" to which I said, "I didn't think someone as old as you needed to worry about that." – It didn't go down well.'

'That's when she slapped you round the face?'

'The bouncers came over because they thought it was a fight and chucked me out.'

'Oh, mate, that close to a shag,' Colin gasped with an ecstatic far off look that hinted at some resolution in his nether regions.

'So, I came home,' Dinsdale said. 'Not only was it a bloody waste of time and money, but also all the nutters were out on day release. I had one follow me all the way back.'

'From the station?'

'No,' said Dinsdale. 'All the way from Chelmsford on the train.'

Colin frowned. 'Er, he might just live here, mate.'

'In our road?'

Back in the flat and a good few pints later, Colin was sat at the computer while Dinsdale tried and failed to take a boozy nap due to the constant interruptions.

'What was it again, 'S' 'B' or 'F' 'B' or what?'

Dinsdale could have killed him. How many times had he told him, he wasn't sure what she'd said.

'Give it a rest.'

'Can't mate, I'm buzzin'.'

Dinsdale ground his teeth. He would have happily stuck a live cable up Colin's arse; then he would be buzzing alright.

'Opsidin, yeah? Not oxygen or something? Did she have a lisp?'

Dinsdale wondered if punching Colin's appendix scar might activate some dormant pills. It was worth a try. At that moment he would have readily suffered the inconvenience of disposing the body.

'It could be anything. Look, she's mad. Am I not trained in that sort of thing?'

'Sounds like there's some sort of conspiracy going on to me, mate.'

'You're right. You not letting me get some sleep.'

'I'm only thinking of you and your future happiness with that bird, Anna,' Colin said. 'Besides you can sleep anytime.'

Dinsdale couldn't be bothered to point out that the time he had actually elected to do just such a thing, was right there and then.

'She said "Project Chaos" and "Mark of the beast", yeah?' Colin said, priming a search engine.

'I remember now,' Dinsdale said. 'She said the answer was to be found in the New Testament. It had to be read from cover to cover, in one go, without making the slightest sound. She said it's best if a friend does it.' Dinsdale made a point of looking at his watch. 'Hey, what do you know? Now's exactly the time she said it should be done.'

'Six-six-six, yeah?' queried Colin, Dinsdale's useful suggestion being ignored.

Then for no apparent reason Colin slapped his forehead. Not hard enough in Dinsdale's opinion, but it was a start.

'Mate, I tell you what – Conspiracy? Mark of the Beast - It's the New World Order again. That's what they're trying to do. Get everyone 'Microchipped' with an implant. Listen to this.'

'"And he causes all, both great and small, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: And no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark" Rev.13:16.'

'I didn't hear microchip or appendix mentioned.'

'They didn't know what a micro-chip was when it was first written?'

'If they had genuinely had a vision of the future, then they would have done, wouldn't they.'

Colin ignored him again.

'Listen to this. "The aim of the 'Antichrist' is to control everything: Religion, Jobs, economics, politics, education, government, police, military, banks, communications, entertainment – to have a cashless society controlled by the Antichrist . . . The aim is a New World Order to control a universal monetary system, a universal government and a unified religion under the Antichrist." What d'you reckon?'

Dinsdale sighed inwardly. 'They' were back again and this time they had Dennis Wheatley as their PR man.

'It's getting a bit heavy. I think I prefer your first idea. I can see it now as a dodgy cable TV show,' said Dinsdale. 'When Government Experiments Go Bad. Or, hey, it could be the cracking new premise for my debut novel.'

'You shouldn't laugh, mate, it could be the end of the world we're talking about here.'

'Here we go again, more doom and disaster,' said Dinsdale.

'Anyway,' Colin asked, still doggedly in pursuit of the truth and justice, 'could it have been S-T-P?'

'This is like the teeth drilling scene from the film, Marathon Man, only more painful,' said Dinsdale.

'It must mean something, mate,' said Colin.

'Not if she's mad. That's what mad people do – they say mad things.'

'What about F-T-P?' asked Colin. There was a slight pause then he suddenly launched out of the chair punching the air. Dinsdale hadn't seen him move that quickly since the time a huge spider threatened to run up his trouser leg.

Colin did a little victory shuffle as he declared, 'F-T-P, - File Transfer Protocol!'

'File Transfer Protocol, of course,' Dinsdale said nodding sagely. 'The old File Transfer Protocol, eh... So, what's that then?

'Protocols are the way computers can handle different file formats – '

Dinsdale held up his hand. 'Keep this simple, yeah. None of your geeky computer nerd stuff. No offence of course.'

Colin hadn't noticed he had been insulted.

'Well, I reckon if this bird's on the level then she was giving you details of a web site that can't be accessed through the regular search engines on the Internet. And therefore it can't be easily monitored by the authorities,' said Colin jiggling in his chair excitedly. 'They're using an obscure protocol that no one uses or an unreserved port...'

Dinsdale held up his hand again. 'Simpler.'

'Perhaps they have a server with an unregistered IP name...'

Up went the hand. 'Simpler.'

'Basically, they've gone underground. On the Internet, but virtually untraceable. They call it the Dark Web.'

'Ah,' said Dinsdale as the mist of ignorance cleared. 'But you can find it?'

'Yes, mate,' Colin said proudly with the smile of a man given a mission of a lifetime: To root out a real live conspiracy

'Well,' Dinsdale said rubbing his hands, 'you'd best crack-on then.'

Dinsdale closed his eyes in anticipation of at last getting a well-deserved nap. He relaxed back in the chair and allowed the glorious descent into unconsciousness to commence. He was just drifting off when Colin's voice drilled into his head.

'Mate, do you reckon she said Poseidon?'

For Colin's sake, Dinsdale hoped there were no sharp objects close to hand.

15

Dinsdale had been in the police station for over five hours. He had been accused of falsifying information on the job application for the mortuary job. It related to the true nature of his qualifications, i.e. they had discovered in reality that he didn't have any. Not formal ones anyway.

Personally, Dinsdale didn't understand what all the fuss was about. They hadn't said there wasn't anything wrong with any of the work he had done, only that he shouldn't have been employed there in the first place. The issue was that he had fraudulently obtained pecuniary advantage through deception and furthermore he could have severely jeopardised the accuracy of the post-mortem reports.

At one stage Dinsdale's backside tweaked when they inferred not only might he have to repay all his wages, but also they intended to prosecute him, which would have entailed an embarrassing court appearance. Dinsdale protested that he had been amply qualified to do the job, just not officially. He hadn't needed to take the exams and get a bit of paper to prove what he already knew.

'This is a serious matter, Mr Doric. I suggest you treat it that way,' said the exceptionally young Detective Inspector Carter, whose wicked sneer had undoubtedly played a huge part in his meteoric rise through the ranks. Another young constable, who stood guard by the door, tried to affect the same twisted snarl, but the result was pretty tame; he looked more like a stroke victim.

When the police knocked on his door, Dinsdale assumed they wanted to have a quiet word about the various bikes he had misappropriated. The subsequent handcuffing was a little extreme, as was the arresting officer's deafening silence throughout the drive to the station in the back of a police car. Dinsdale had asked why he had been arrested, but was brusquely informed that he would be told when he got there.

'So, do you appreciate the seriousness of the charges against you?' demanded the young Inspector Carter, whose self-image was probably an irresistible mix of Dirty Harry and Inspector Morse.

Dinsdale nodded. He couldn't understand why these people got into such a lather about something as trivial as embellishment of your CV. He thought that's what they were for – to make you sound like some force of nature that no right thinking employer could possibly pass-up.

Dinsdale couldn't blame his mother. Although she had arranged the job for him, she wouldn't have known that it still required reams of red-tape before it could be officially sanctioned. Dinsdale assumed the application form was just a formality and completed it in that vein without much regard to its veracity.

Perhaps in hindsight he could have toned down some of his more exaggerated claims. Dinsdale wondered what had made them suspicious. Was it citing a double first from Cambridge in medicine and biology? Or claiming he had a master's degree in Anatomy from Yale? It did make him wonder who went to the time and trouble of checking these things. After all the job was sixteen hours a week, barely paid the minimum wage and involved ticking boxes, which were then subsequently ignored. Dinsdale was pretty sure if there had been a host of rejected candidates for the job because of him, then Stephen Hawking certainly wouldn't have been among them.

Dinsdale feverishly rubbed his hands on his knees fighting the relentless tide of guilty clamminess as the young copper sneered his way through a series of threats laced with sarcasm and aggression.

'We've checked all these so-called qualification. You've never been to Cambridge.'

Dinsdale opened his mouth to object, but then thought better of it. He had been to Cambridge many times with his father as a child, and normally under protest, as boring lectures on Medical Science were never his idea of a great day out. But he doubted those visits would have counted for much.

'What about this?' demanded Carter. 'Master's from Yale? – Chubb more like it. Or should that be Chump!'

At that point, as if well-rehearsed, both he and copper guarding the door thought it was the funniest joke ever and fell about laughing. Dinsdale enjoyed a good giggle like the next man, but he'd had enough.

'I must warn you, Inspector, I have friends in high places.'

'What in a tower block on some sink estate?' he smirked.

'My mother is good friends with . . .'

Carter leant across the table and got right into his face, as he growled, 'Listen, whoever your friends are, sonny, trust me, mine are higher.'

Carter pulled back and coughed self-consciously to disguise the fact that he may have over-stepped the mark.

A privileged background, albeit one Dinsdale had taken scant advantage of, paid dividends. He was genetically programmed to feel superior and middle class.

'I demand to see my lawyer,' Dinsdale said abruptly.

Carter sniggered and winked at the copper at the door.

'Okay,' he said slowly, 'who's your brief – Rumpole of the Bailey?' He leant forward again sneering. 'Or are you regularly in trouble with the law? Know the form do ya?'

'I'm allowed one phone call,' Dinsdale said defiantly crossing his arms.

'You bin watching too much TV, son. It ain't the way it works. Let me explain what's going to happen,' Carter said as he spun a chair the wrong way round and straddled it, leaning menacingly across the table. 'Now if it were down to me, I'd happily see you in court, but those kind people at the hospital have said that they'll be prepared to drop all the charges if you accept a Caution, and on the strict understanding that you neither visit their premises nor make contact in anyway, what-so-ever, by any means, with any of the staff employed there-in.' Carter sat back with an unpleasant grin plastered across his face. It reminded Dinsdale of the way a dog bares its teeth just before it bites you.

'What about if I'm ill?' Dinsdale asked. It was a genuine inquiry, and not one that set out to deliberately rile the young detective, but it wasn't received well.

'Don't take the piss, son!' Carter growled.

Beyond the immediate threat of Carter taking a chunk out of him, Dinsdale knew he was in a corner. He suspected that falsifying your qualifications wouldn't result in thirty-years hard labour, but going to court would entail a great deal of unpleasantness, which might have reveal his mother's involvement in the affair. And as Dinsdale knew full well, she had her standing in the community and the local Tory party to think of. Accusations of nepotism and abuse of her position wouldn't have gone down well with the committee. And worst of all – the hospital might demand all its money back.

Yet if he accepted a Caution it meant he would have a criminal record and his DNA would be held permanently on record. Not only did it rankle in principal, but also it might highlight his involvement in the acquisition of various two wheel conveyances. Dinsdale bought some time and went on the attack.

'Why just a Caution? Not sure you'd get a conviction?'

Inspector Carter bared his teeth again. 'Look, son, you're banged to rights. Eighteen months I reckon – nine for good behaviour. So what's it going to be?'

Eighteen months, just for a tiny bit of exaggeration.

It was so unfair when serial Asbo's got to swim with dolphins.

'Okay, where do I sign?'

16

'Perhaps we can get you a big chair and you can sit stroking a fluffy white cat?'

Dinsdale didn't feel like some Bond villain and the only reason he needed to sit down in a big chair was because he had just been buggered by the state. Colin was still aloft on his flight of fantasy.

'"The Man with the Golden CV", "Dr No Qualifications", "You Only Lie Twice"'

'Have you finished?' Dinsdale asked irritably.

'Oh, yeah – pint please, mate.'

Dinsdale scowled, but he nodded at Arthur who refilled their glasses without comment.

'You'll have to declare that on your job applications now,' Colin added unhelpfully.

'Bollocks!' snapped Dinsdale.

His earlier desperation had been replaced by anger. He took a long swig of his beer and smacked his glass heavily onto the bar. He couldn't rid the image of Carter gloating at him as he accepted the Caution. It briefly crossed Dinsdale's mind that eighteen months for punching his lights out would have been worth it.

It was seven in the evening and a few of the regulars were in. Not that Dinsdale was in a very sociable mood. He used the alcohol to fuel his growing resentment. It wasn't long before Colin had his conspiracy hat on.

'Strange though, mate, a lot of fuss about nothing and especially all that stuff about not going near the hospital. It's like they're trying to warn you off. Suspicious if you ask me.'

Not that anyone was, but Dinsdale had to admit that the whole thing was rather heavy-handed, especially as he had already been given the boot from the job.

'I tell you what,' Dinsdale said bitterly, 'if politicians were taken to task every time they lied, they'd all be serving life.'

'As I said, mate, they're trying to warn you off. They don't want you poking about trying to find out what really happened to Jon Hill.'

'Alright girls,' a voice said behind them. Gerry playfully made to knock their heads together.

'Alright, mate. You'll never guess what?' Colin said quickly having missed out on his natural calling in the Diplomatic Corp.

'You bought a drink?' Gerry suggested dryly.

'Nah,' Colin said, jerking a thumb in Dinsdale's direction, 'ask him.'

Gerry raised his eyebrows as an invitation for Dinsdale to reveal all. Dinsdale was reluctant to go into all the sordid details and kept his explanation succinct.

'I got busted in by the Old Bill because of my CV and the job at the hospital.'

'That'll go down in the annals of crime no doubt, alongside Dr Crippen and the Great Train Robbers.' Gerry smiled. 'So what happened?'

'Got a Caution.'

'You should have told them to stick their Caution up their arse.'

'They said I might get eighteen months if it went to court.'

'Eighteen months?' Gerry replied with his eyes wide in amazement as a broad grin broke out across his face. 'They're pulling your plonker, mate. Trust me it would have never got anywhere near a court. No employer is going to stand-up and say they employed someone without checking their qualifications; it makes them look stupid and incompetent.'

'How'd you know so much about it?' Dinsdale asked squirming at having so easily acquiesced to the Old Bill's demands.

Gerry thrust his shoulders back and stood to his full height.

'I have dealings with this sort of stuff every day. I have to know the law . . .'

Dinsdale stood waiting, his body language screaming, 'And?'

Gerry took a mouthful of beer and with a slow deliberation placed the glass on the bar, almost as if he was unsure as to whether he should expand on that bald statement.

'Listen girls,' he said finally, 'I don't tell many people this, but for my sins, I'm a private investigator.'

'Oh wow!' Colin said excitedly as though discovering he was in the presence of royalty.

'So what sort of stuff do you do then?' Dinsdale asked.

'Trust me, it's not as exciting as the films make out. Ferreting out infidelity is still the bread and butter, as is tracing missing persons, debt collecting, mundane run of the mill stuff really. In my long career I've never once been asked to find anything remotely as interesting as a Maltese Falcon, more's the pity.'

Dinsdale eyed his dark suit, carnation button hole and all.

'I thought you were supposed to blend into the crowd. Doesn't that wedding get-up make you stand out a bit?'

'It'll surprise you, but nobody thinks you can be up to no good dressed like this. It was a tip I got from the old boy who used to run the company.'

'So,' Colin asked, keen to embroil Gerry in his world of conspiracy paranoia. 'Do you reckon they were trying to warn him off?'

'Who?'

'The Authorities.'

Gerry turned to Dinsdale for enlightenment. 'Do you know what he's on about?'

Dinsdale sighed. 'Have you got an hour of your life you don't mind not getting back?'

'Do I need to get another beer before I hear this?'

'It would be a good idea.'

Dinsdale pulled a face. 'So that's it. Conspiracy or have I got my just deserts? What'd you reckon?'

'What you need to know,' Gerry said tapping a finger on his lip thoughtfully, 'is who performed or was present at the operation to remove Jon Hill's appendix?'

'But they've got his medical notes under lock and key.'

Gerry smiled and tousled Dinsdale's hair.

'I'll do a bit of digging for you. If I find anything you can buy me a drink, or three.'

'It's a deal,' Dinsdale said raising his glass in salutation.

'Great,' said Colin rubbing his hands enthusiastically. 'A pint to celebrate would be nice, mate.'

Dinsdale and Gerry glanced at each other with wry smiles.

Gerry winked and said, 'That's very good of you, Colin, mine's a lager.'

Colin's jaw fell open. In a bygone age, and if Colin had been a gentleman, at that moment he would have gone and found a loaded revolver and done the decent thing, but as it was, Dinsdale came to his rescue. 'Arthur, same again. And put it on the tab, my good man.'

17

'So, tell me, Mr Doric, do you think you are up to the job?'

'Absolutely,' replied Dinsdale, who was going to add that it would be a doddle, but thought better of it. To secure the position, humility was the order of the day.

Veloski's study was everything you would expect it to be. The smell of old books and learning was over powering and a novel experience for Dinsdale. In his life to date he had painstakingly avoided exposure to both.

'Excellent. I'll think of you as my twelfth man.'

Dinsdale was happy to be called anything as long as it didn't involve hard work. With the business end of the meeting concluded, Veloski stretch back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

'Tell me young man, what made you interested in psychology?'

Dinsdale would normally have answered honestly and explained it was his mother's threat to stop his allowance and ultimately cut him out of her will force him into it, but sitting opposite such a colossus in the field he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, 'If I can do anything to help my fellow man, then I should.'

Veloski eyed him coldly. Dinsdale shuffled nervously on his seat wondering if he had blown it.

'In my experience,' Veloski said slowly, 'people often choose to study psychology as a way to understand themselves.'

'Really,' Dinsdale said sounding surprised. He wasn't. You only had to look the other students on his course. They were a right bunch of misfits and no hopers.

'I for my part,' Veloski continued, 'became interested in the workings of the human mind, trying to understand what turned many within an advanced civilised nation into mindless barbarians capable of the cruellest of deeds.'

'What, football fans?'

'I was referring to Germany under the Nazis,' Veloski said looking down his nose. 'I'm a German Jew, Mr Doric, and one of the lucky ones.'

Dinsdale was keen to change the subject should his dearth of knowledge on the subject be further exposed.

'I attended your recent lecture on Quantum Consciousness. Very interesting,' said Dinsdale.

'It's a subject that is close to my heart. But, unfortunately it was one that until recently had very little empirical evidence to support it.' Veloski's face crinkled into a smile that was tinged with sadness. 'Even now mainstream scientists are reluctant to investigate the results. Especially experiments in precognition. Those have been left to the much maligned Parapsychologists. Unfortunately their results, if evaluated at all, are usually subject to the severest scrutiny and debunking.'

'It is a bit hard to get your head around Time and all that,' Dinsdale replied as he glanced at his watch to check his own time constraints. He had a lecture to go to at two o'clock and it was one-thirty already.

'Correct, Mr Doric, it is our thinking that needs to change, not the science. Physicists are able to accept what logic dictates is impossible in the world of Quantum Mechanics without being labelled ignorant or subject to ridicule.'

'Electricity,' Veloski declared, 'a flow of electrons passing along a wire is it not? Turn on your switch and the bulb illuminates at the speed of light. But electrons do not pass along the wire at anywhere near the same speed. They are jostled and deflected by the large atoms in the metal and only very slowly reach their destination. Yet somehow the electric field, which cannot be attributed to the presence of the electrons, is created instantly, connecting the power source to the filament of the bulb. The electric field, as with human consciousness, should be considered as a Whole Time Field representing that which will happen in the future as much as what has happened in the past and with what we observe in the physical world at the present. In the quantum world it is said, "All time is now." Interesting, don't you think?'

'Absolutely,' Dinsdale replied. It probably would have been if he'd had a clue what Veloski was on about. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair to rise. Before he could extract himself Veloski leant forward across the desk.

'Shall I tell you how, as even a very young man, I knew the truth of these things?'

Dinsdale hesitated. His initial reaction, especially as he had a lecture to go to, was "I'm not that bothered actually." He suspected that reply wouldn't have gone down well with his new benefactor.

'It'll be fascinating.' Is what Dinsdale actually said, as he dropped back into the chair.

Veloski's face crinkled in delight.

'When I was a small boy in Germany before the war my older brother fell ill with a fever. Antibiotics were unheard of in those days. The doctors could do nothing for him. If he was strong he'd live, if he wasn't, he'd die. That's how life was then.'

'For three days he lay semi-conscious. Yet on occasions he revived and spoke lucidly. I stood close by his bedside watching my mother mopping his brow when my brother said something which made us believe he was still delirious.

"Who's at the door?" he asked.

"There's no one at the door, Otto," my mother replied. Then not twenty seconds later we heard someone rapping hard on the front door. That incident could have easily been dismissed as just a curious coincidence if it were not for what followed.'

'The visitor having gone, my brother asked agitatedly, "What's wrong with Bruno?"

'Bruno was our pet dog that was kennelled in our garden. We heard no sound yet a few moments later Bruno was barking wildly outside. It was nothing more than the postman delivering mail, but my brother, in his semi-wakeful state, appeared to be living in a world that was a few seconds ahead of normal time.' Veloski smiled. 'Even today the sceptics would dismiss this evidence as coincidence and perhaps I too would have forgotten these long ago events, if it were not for Otto's final revelation.' Veloski stared into the distance recalling the event as though it was yesterday.

'It was the third day before his fever broke. My mother fought to keep his temperature down, but Otto remained fitful, often crying out in his sleep.'

'Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his bed and said, "Father's at the door, he's lost his key. You must let him in. He has terrible news. He says we're no longer safe here."

'I should explain. My father, as a watchmaker, was naturally a man of meticulous habits. Every day, come rain or shine, he'd arrive home from work at exactly the same hour, ¬five-forty-five. Yet when Otto cried out it was barely past three. My mother comforted Otto, urging him not to worry. Not twenty seconds later there was a commotion at the door. It was my father, and just as Otto had said, he had lost his key. That would have been remarkable enough if it not for my father's purpose in having returned home so early . . .'

Veloski appeared to be suddenly enveloped in sadness. For a moment he couldn't speak as raw emotion still had the power to move him even after seventy-five years. Dinsdale's eyes flicked towards his watch. One-fifty. He could still make the lecture if Veloski quickly wrapped-up his painful meander down Memory Lane.

Having composed himself, Veloski said, 'And so, I was fortunate enough to be sent to England. My parents, they weren't so lucky.'

'And Otto?' inquired Dinsdale more out of courtesy than real interest.

'America.'

After a suitably short pause for sombre reflection, Dinsdale slapped his knees to flag-up his imminent departure. For a psychologist, Veloski's appreciation of body language was shocking. Even as Dinsdale rose to leave, the old professor still hadn't taken the hint.

'He may have had material wealth, but in not coming to England with me, he missed out on one of the greatest joys in life – Cricket.' Veloski shook his head. 'Such a loss. Oh, and meeting my wife of course. Have I told you about my wife? May she rest in peace.'

'Erm, professor, I need to get to a lecture at two and it's . . .' Dinsdale said hesitantly, pointing to his watch.

Instantly Veloski waved him away with both hands as though wafting a bad smell out of the door.

'You must go. Education is crucial. The future wealth and prosperity of this country is dependant upon you.'

'Better get going then,' said Dinsdale, who hadn't realised the terrible economic burden that rested squarely upon his shoulders.
'We will speak again next time we meet,' said Veloski. He then frowned. 'Mr Doric, please excuse my curiosity. But is that a wig you're wearing?'

18

'Well done,' Colin said, apparently more relieved than Dinsdale was.

'Yeah, he just wants me to catalogue his collection of books. That's not too shabby is it?'

'You want to take it nice and slow otherwise you'll put yourself out of a job.'

'No, he's alright. He said he didn't expect it to be done before the end of term,' Dinsdale said, opening the fridge in the forlorn hope that a celebratory can of beer with his name on it was still chilling inside. If there had been a can with his name on it, it was now long gone, lost among all the others that Colin had slung down his neck that day.

'No, sorry, mate, I had that earlier. I had to have that to concentrate on tracking down that stuff on the internet.'

'And did it work?' Dinsdale asked sourly.

'Not quite.'

'I'll take that as a no, then.'

Colin shrugged. 'Without knowing what she meant; do you know how many web sites there are out there?'

Dinsdale couldn't even begin to guess. But he wouldn't mind betting that if Colin stayed for much longer, he would eventually get around to visiting them all. It also reminded him he had an essay to write on the day to day problems of living with someone having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and he realised he had the ideal subject for it on hand.

'I think you're wasting your time with whatever nutty Emily said. I think we should just wait and see what Gerry digs up.'

'You're absolutely right, mate; a complete waste of time if you ask me,' Colin agreed, leaning back in the computer chair and gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. A moment later he said, '. . . It couldn't have been 'Octagon' could it?'

Dinsdale yanked the computer mains plug out of the socket.

Colin's howl of protest would have been heard down the road in The Feathers. 'What you do that for!'

'It was for your own safety,' Dinsdale said. 'It was either turning off the computer or killing you. It was a close call which.'

'I'm doing this for you,' Colin said. 'I was only trying to help you get back with that bird, Anna.'

Colin's hurt expression for moment made Dinsdale feel bad, as if he had just kicked the Andrex puppy up the arse. But any guilt quickly past. Colin was a past master at that self-same pitiful look which he used to great effect cadging drinks in the pub.

'Look,' said Dinsdale, 'obviously the only way I'm going to get some peace and quiet is if I can get to speak to Emily again.'

'You gonna phone her then, mate?'

'I've tried, it's unobtainable.'

Colin slowly rubbed his hand around his stubbly chin. The rasping sound set Dinsdale's teeth on edge. He wondered how one man could embrace such a legion of truly offensive personal habits.

'You could try Chelmsford again?' suggested Colin after a moment's thought.

'What, the Nightclub?' queried Dinsdale. 'You are joking?'

'Sounds like she's a regular.'

'A regular fruit cake maybe,' said Dinsdale. 'And do I need to remind you that it's a rather long way to go just on the off-chance.'

'Yeah, 'spose you're right, mate,' Colin said staring wistfully into space. A frown creased his forehead indicating cranial activity had taken place. 'Er, she didn't say Opposition Convention, did she?'

Dinsdale snatched the railway timetable off the sideboard and smacked Colin around the head with it. Before Colin could retaliate, Dinsdale scurried off to the toilet humming loudly with his hands over his ears to block-out his cries of protest. Even within the four walls of the stout Edwardian loo, Colin's whining could still be heard.

'Mate, that hurt, that did.'

But obviously not enough to shut him up.

Dinsdale had never had cause to ponder the range and quality of literature available to assist the rail traveller, but at that moment he rued his one not having been made in a good solid hardback.

He continued to ignore Colin's protestations while perched on the toilet seat and thumbing through the train time-tables to Chelmsford. It would cost him a fortune, but if it got Colin off his back it was worth it.

Fortunately for Dinsdale, one of the other guys on his course was driving down to London on Saturday evening and offered to give him a lift. Having parked outside the station in the middle of Chelmsford, Dinsdale hauled himself gingerly out of his fellow student's beaten-up Nissan Micra.

'Justin, you're a star,' Dinsdale said, leaning awkwardly on the open door. 'You didn't have to drop me off here. At the A12 turn off would have been fine. I could have walked.'

Justin Blackmore, a young lad with buck teeth and bright red hair, who had obviously been mercilessly bullied at school, had been taken in by Dinsdale's sob story. Justin had volunteered to go miles out of his way and drop him directly outside the nightclub.

'That's okay – it's not that much of a detour. I'd hate to see you hobbling far on that bad leg,' Justin said with a wan smile.

Dinsdale winced right on cue. 'Yeah, it does play me up a bit. But I get by,' he said, smiling bravely. 'If there's anyway I can repay you?'

Justin looked up hopefully. If Justin thought there was the remotest chance that Dinsdale would dip his hand in his pocket to offer some petrol money for his kind deed, then he was sadly mistaken. Dinsdale's appreciation was only ever limited to gushing, but shallow expressions of gratitude.

As soon as Justin's car turned the corner within a few strides Dinsdale's limp disappeared faster than Kevin Spacey's had in the final scene of The Usual Suspects.

It was only nine-thirty and accepted as the crack of dawn by nightclub standards, but he decided to go inside anyway. Although most of his attire was more in keeping with modern club wear, open shirt, jacket and dark trousers, the style make-over didn't extend to his shoes. His tatty, discoloured trainers, glaringly spoiled the new look. Dinsdale hoped the fashionistas guarding the front door wouldn't notice. The two doormen, who were both fortunately wearing shades, barely gave him a second glance as they nodded him through.

Having bought a beer, he faded into the background. But even drinking with an unnatural restraint he had downed the first bottle within fifteen minutes. He bought another and slipped back into the shadows to resume his vigil.

The more the place filled, the more conspicuous he felt. He hoped it wasn't too obvious that he was giving everyone the once-over as they came in, but several aggressive young men appeared to take exception to him looking in their general direction for more than a split second. To avoid a queue of blokes forming to smack him in the mouth he went up the stairs and took-up station on the balcony.

Dinsdale was beginning to fear the plan was deeply flawed, until a fresh gaggle of clubbers bundled into the building. Among them he saw Emily. She was with a group of girlfriends that headed straight for the bar. He played it cool, waiting to pick his moment.

He hung over the balcony rail hoping to catch her eye. That having failed, he strolled back down the stairs to the dance floor. He intended to force the situation by bumping into her accidentally. It proved harder than he expected. He had no difficulty bumping into everyone and anyone except Emily. She was in the centre the tight cordon of friends. Dinsdale made several clumsy passes, but failed to attract her attention.

As Dinsdale slipped back into the shadows to regroup, he saw a tall, heavy-set guy leaning against the bar. The man was perhaps in his forty's, but in good shape. He wore a distinctive tan leather jacket. He made no effort to disguise the fact that he was observing closely what Dinsdale was doing.

Dinsdale finished his beer and chucked the bottle in the nearest flower pot. He wondered if Emily had dumped Piers and got herself a new sugar daddy. It could complicate the situation if he thought Dinsdale was muscling-in on his patch. The last thing Dinsdale wanted was any unpleasantness with someone who can obviously look after themselves.

He knew the type. Her new admirer had a certain purposeful intensity about him. Tan jacket man certainly wasn't a just man having a quiet beer in a nightclub casually eying-up a pretty girl. The place was rammed with people queuing three deep at the bar, yet Tan Jacket man radiated an exclusion zone in the personal space around him that no one dare enter.

Generally there weren't many people who had such an intense personal presence, except perhaps violent gangsters, coppers and the psychotically insane. Dinsdale couldn't imagine Emily status as Piers plaything warranted the services of the Police Close Protection Squad. So if the big man was simply a bad or mad admirer, then Dinsdale had better watch out.

While working out a new strategy, events overtook him. Emily suddenly made a break for the exit, seemingly leaving alone. Dinsdale made his move. He wove, bumping pin ball-like through the heaving throng until finally he found his way outside. The bustling street was so crowded with young revellers that Dinsdale immediately lost sight of her. Then Dinsdale caught a glimpse of Emily heading toward St John's Church. She turned into the tiny lane that led to the church.

Dinsdale quickly shot after her and equally quickly was convinced that he had lost her again. Church Walk, a footpath which ran through the church grounds was lit by old fashioned style street lamps that gave out an appropriately old fashioned dim yellow glow. It was just bright enough to illuminate the path, but straying only a few feet either side courting couples could get down to business confident of their privacy. It was into that shadowy umbra that Emily had disappeared.

Dinsdale wandered off the path and searched up and down.

'Emily – it's Dinsdale,' he hissed when he saw some movement behind a bush.

'Fuck off!' Was the angry, if slightly breathless, reply that came from out of the darkness. Dinsdale did an about turn and tried his luck further along.

'Emily,' he whispered again.

'I'll be your Emily,' said a deep voice from the shadows. Dinsdale didn't hang around to find out quite what the person of accommodating sexual persuasion had in mind before scuttling off to look in the church's graveyard.

Dinsdale swung the rusty gate open and hesitantly stepped inside. He glanced over and saw with a mixture of surprise, disgust, but it had to be said with a certain voyeuristic pleasure, a pair frantically going at it perched on top of a grand box grave. Both were too preoccupied to notice Dinsdale unashamedly rubber-necking as he slid by.

Once Dinsdale was deep inside the churchyard, he hissed, 'Emily, it's me, Dinsdale.'

A loud 'Shush!' caused him to swing round. There was Emily beckoning him from behind a tall arched gravestone. He resisted the urge to rub his hands in anticipation of the clear invitation to play a game of 'Hide the Sausage'. His good looks and charm always got them in the end.

Dinsdale positively skipped across several graves using them like stepping stones, with little respect for the mortal remains of those interred below. He reached the arched head stone and Emily grabbed his arm yanking him out of sight.

Bloody hell she was desperate.

He wondered if she would want any foreplay or would want to get straight down to business. Dinsdale reckoned he should at least kick-off with a bit of kissing. So he tilted his head and opened his mouth to reveal an eager tongue, then dipped for the smooch.

With a look of revulsion Emily cried out, 'Dinsdale, what on earth are you doing!'

'Eh, what . . .' Dinsdale gulped, as his jaw snapped shut in confusion. He was going to say that he enjoyed a good snog to get him in the mood and help the old sap rise, but Emily's body language was all wrong. What he did say was:

'I forgot my glasses and I was getting better look to make sure it was you.'

'Glasses? If your eyesight's that bad you need a guide dog.'

'It's dark,' Dinsdale said lamely.

She didn't look convinced, but was keen to move on.

'Have you come because you have information for me about Project Chaos?' she asked nervously.

If Dinsdale still clung to the hope that she had lured him to that spot to for an ecstatic exchange of bodily fluids, they were immediately dashed.

'Information?' Dinsdale queried distractedly. He was still smarting from not only his disastrous misreading of the situation, but also from the knowledge that once again it was going to be a shag-free night.

Emily looked around anxiously to ensure no one was within earshot as she said, 'For the Obsidian Covenant of course.'

'The . . .?' queried Dinsdale, yet at the same moment he realised he had discovered what he had come to find out.

'The Obsidian Covenant, remember!' snapped Emily.

'Ah,' said Dinsdale, 'we had a bit of trouble finding it.'

'So, you have nothing solid for me?'

Dinsdale could have hit her with one of his one-liners at that point regarding the old fella in his pants, which could easily have been persuaded to oblige on that score, but she appeared to lack a sense of humour. Whether it was just with regard to Dinsdale or life in general, he didn't know, but that wasn't the time to find out.

'No . . .' Dinsdale said slowly, adding in a more upbeat fashion, 'Well not yet, but we're working on it.'

'We can't meet again. I think they're on to me,' Emily said with a voice that was tinged with fear. 'I must get back.' She dramatically shook Dinsdale's hand and said, 'Good luck.'

She then disappeared into the night leaving Dinsdale with his hand still extended and his head reeling in confusion.

'What the bloody hell!' Dinsdale said, but the protest died on his lips when he saw the man in the tan jacket leaning up against a street lamp. He wasn't looking in Dinsdale's direction, but it was surely no coincidence that he was there.

19

The train had only been going for about half an hour, but Dinsdale had already suffered two serious attacks of cramp. The first was in his thigh. Without warning, an involuntary muscular reflex launched him clean off the seat cracking his head on the door while nearly taking out the wash hand basin with his knee.

The second had him performing some very heroic gymnastics. In the confined space, it was almost impossible to stretch his leg sufficiently to break the grip of the agonising contraction in his calf. The romance of rail travel was lost on him holed-up in a toilet cubicle.

Dinsdale heard several disgruntled passengers in the corridor express their forthright views on the W.C. being out of order. Dinsdale didn't like it any more than they did, but until he shook off the psycho in the tan jacket, he wasn't coming out.

Emily's new admirer had followed him, seemingly casually and at a discreet distance, all the way to the station and then even more worryingly onto the train. He hadn't approached Dinsdale, threatened him or showed the slightest sign of aggression towards him, but his presence was highly intimidating and enough for Dinsdale to invoke the 'Out of Order' ruse on the toilet door.

Dinsdale had the return train ticket in his pocket, but he was now thankful that he routinely carried his bit of handiwork. Dinsdale was hoping that if he stuck it out long enough psycho-man would give up.

Dinsdale counted the stops. He had briefly considered getting off at Hatfield Peverel to take refuge with Mummy. The idea was a non-starter. Not only did she hate late-night unexpected visitors, especially Dinsdale, but also he had blown the last of his money that he would have needed for a cab in the nightclub. He decided to tough it out.

He usually had a good memory, but he wished he had paid closer attention to the number of stations the train was due to call at between Chelmsford and Norwich. He thought it was eight. If he was wrong, he would have found himself either, forty miles distant in Cromer, on the north Norfolk coast, which was not a particularly convenient place to be at three in the morning, or run the risk of emerging one stop light of his destination with all the aggravation that might entail.

As the train rumbled on into the night, Dinsdale sat with a numb backside and bewildered sense of injustice. A 'bad night' didn't even get close to describing what an unmitigated disaster the last few hours had been. Beyond finally being able to get Colin off his back having established that the mysterious website was the 'Obsidian Covenant', the rest of the evening had been pants.

There was a jolt as the brakes came on. The train slowed down for a station. By his calculation they were pulling into Dunsford. He got off the toilet seat stiffly, shook some life into his legs as he pinned his ear to the door to listen. Apart from the heavy mechanical sounds from the decelerating train, he heard nothing. He slowly slid back the lock and opened the door a crack, peering along the corridor. Tan jacket man wasn't in sight. He stepped out of the cramped cubicle and retrieved his 'Out of Order' sign.

The train lurched to a halt. Dinsdale cupped his hands on the window scanning up and down the platform for the station name.

'Bollocks!'

The train had only reached Diss, one stop and still some fifteen miles short of Dunsford. As he turned around to re-enter the toilet, he froze. He saw Emily's new admirer not more than thirty feet away, standing casually by the next set of doors. He wasn't looking at Dinsdale, but his body language made it clear that he knew Dinsdale was there. Dinsdale had to think fast. He had an idea. Its execution required perfect timing, fleetness of foot and nerves of steel. None of which were exactly Dinsdale's forte, but he had to go for it regardless. He had no choice.

He jumped off the train and skip-jogged towards the exit. Once inside the station building, Dinsdale dived into the unlit waiting room and dropped to the floor. Keeping low, he snatched a glance out of the window. The man had followed. Dinsdale heard Tan Jacket man run past the waiting room door towards the exit into the street. With his heart racing, Dinsdale counted to five then he made his move. Dinsdale dashed back to the train and leapt inside the carriage. It wasn't a moment too soon. The doors slid shut behind him and the train began to move off.

Dinsdale couldn't resist a little gloat. Tan Jacket man had rushed back onto the platform when he realised he had been fooled. With his distinctive leather jacket blowing in the back draft from the train, the man stood on the platform with his hands on his hips looking mightily pissed off.

As the train trundled off down the line, Dinsdale was in half a mind to give him a little wave, but it made no sense to provoke him any further. If Tan Jacket man was an aggressive new suitor with a hair-trigger temper, then being marooned at Diss station at nearly midnight was more than enough to test his anger management skills.

20

'Why do you reckon all these blokes keep following you home, mate?' Colin asked, downing a mouthful of his pint.

'It must be my allure,' said Dinsdale. 'Anyway what do you mean "All these blokes". It's only been two. Perhaps, one fancied me and the other fancied knocking my block off.'

Colin shook his head slowly. 'I reckon they were following you, mate. What was it that Emily said?'

'Don't mention that woman.'

'She said "They're on to me", right,' Colin grinned a little too mischievously for Dinsdale's liking as he added, 'I think they're on to you too, mate.'

'I'll give 'em your name, how about that?'

Colin finished the rest of his beer in silence. He even put the empty glass on the bar without the usual wide-eyed puppy-dog look that begged for another. Dinsdale had no intention of disturbing him from his contemplation, especially if it saved him from buying another round.

Dinsdale took the opportunity to check his mobile for messages. He had hoped Gerry might have been there with some news, but The Feathers was unusually quiet for Sunday lunchtime.

Seemingly re-animated from his trance, Colin said suddenly, 'I think we should use the computer in the library to track down that Obsidian Covenant web site.'

'Why?' asked Dinsdale, knowing Colin's deep seated paranoia would be the explanation for this strange course of action. Then in the bat of an eye, Dinsdale realised what an excellent suggestion it was. The prospect beckoned of a gloriously undisturbed nap that afternoon without Colin chuntering-on incessantly about his usual rubbish.

'If this is all a bit heavy, we could do without them being able to trace it back to us, on your computer,' Colin said darkly.

'I tell you what,' said Dinsdale, 'I reckon that's a fantastic idea. It's open this afternoon.'

Rather pleased with himself, Dinsdale turn to order two pints when behind him Colin cursed. 'Ah, shit, that's no good, mate.'

Dinsdale's heart sank. 'Why's that?'

'Cos you have to sign in with your library card. It holds all your personal details on their computer records. They'd find out who it was anyway.'

'So the library is in cahoots with these shadowy black ops. People as well?'

'The government has access to everything.'

Two new pints arrived and they drank them in silence. Dinsdale thought deeply about how to overcome this problem.

Dinsdale said eventually, 'I tell you what. We'll borrow someone else's card.'

'Bit risky, mate.'

'What? Risky? We are not talking about stealing someone's credit card. It's a library, it's free.'

'Yeah, but they might go chasing after whoever lent us the card.'

Dinsdale wanted to take him by the scruff of the neck and give him a good shake. 'We are not down-loading pornography here; it's just a stupid conspiracy web site.'

's'pose,' said Colin.

Dinsdale had won. As to where they could get a library card from, he knew just the man. Dinsdale checked his phone to make sure he had Justin's number.

It was five o'clock before Colin got back. He noisily unlocked the door and crashed it shut behind him, waking Dinsdale in the process. He was quick to tell all.

'It's the big one, mate,' Colin said gravely.

'Which big one is this?' Dinsdale asked, still half asleep. 'Kennedy assassination, Global Warming or 9/11?'

'No, the big one, mate.'

'I thought they were the big ones.'

'Bigger than that,' said Colin. 'The – New – World – Order.'

'Yeah, whatever, but what's that got to do with the pills and this Chaos Project?'

'I told you, didn't I?' said Colin. 'They reckon those pills are the cure for AIDS and cancer and stuff. It's a cover-up. They don't want the world to know about them, you know, 'Useless Eaters' and all that, but someone has planted them so the pills can be brought to the world's attention.'

'So, who would have planted them, if it's not 'They'?'

'It didn't say. I don't think they know.'

'And is it just coincidence that these pills are just found in dead bodies?'

Colin scratched his head. 'Er, mate, they don't do autopsies on living people.'

'No,' Dinsdale said slowly, 'obviously. What I meant was – does one of the pills kill them? Like the missing one?'

'Oh, right, erm dunno,' said Colin. 'The web site was mainly to do with the conspiracy of silence by those behind the New World Order and how we can fight against it.'

'So, let me get this straight,' said Dinsdale, trying to pick the bones out of the general miasma of paranoia. 'The pills weren't put inside the victims by 'They', but 'They' know about them and 'They' don't want the knowledge to get out?'

'Sounds about right, mate.'

'Presumably, that's what this Chaos Project is all about. The scientists working for 'They' were first to discover these drugs, but again, presumably, a renegade among them broke ranks and saw to it that the information got out – to save the world?'

'I s'pose,' said Colin.

'Killing innocent people while he was at it?'

'I think they call it collateral damage, mate.'

'I think they call it murder.'

'Yeah, but,' said Colin, who suddenly, and in a total reversal of character, became a deeply caring citizen of the world, 'letting millions of people die in Africa is murder too – it's genocide.'

'Is that what it said on the web site?'

'Yeah, but it's true.'

'Colin,' Dinsdale said wearily, 'need I remind you that we are not out to save the world, only to save the love of my life from destitution. If I, we, can find who murdered her old man, she'll be minted, eternally grateful to my good self, and therefore my life will become one long shag fest.'

'Yeah, s'pose,' said Colin, running his hand over his stubbly chin. After a moment's reflection, Colin was back to normal. 'Any beer in the fridge?'

'Nope, drunk it,' Dinsdale smirked as he lay back down on the sofa to resume his nap.

Colin hovered uncertainly not knowing what to do with himself. Dinsdale wondered if he was still torn over his adopted role as the saviour of the World's down-trodden.

'We should take Justin's card back,' Colin said on a more mundane, but equally virtuous level. Perhaps the fact that The Feathers was conveniently situated en-route might have been a contributing factor to his suggestion.

'No rush,' said Dinsdale, who was stretched out with his hands behind his head.

'Anyway,' Dinsdale asked casually, 'what is the Obsidian Covenant? What's that all about?'

'Obsidian? It's a sort of black volcanic glass, mate. It's very sharp. They can make scalpels and stuff like that out of it.'

'Surgical scalpels?

'Yeah, mate, I Googled it.'

'So, they reckon it's a dodgy doctor, too?'

'Must be.'

Dinsdale considered that Colin's little ploy to drag him down the pub could work in his favour. Gerry often turned up at The Feathers on a Sunday evening.

It was unfortunate on more than one level that Justin didn't get his library card back that evening. Not only for Justin, but also for Dinsdale, who ended up being around twenty quid out of pocket having paid for the evening's liquid entertainment. Their visit, which was only intended to be a 'swifty' on the way through to Justin's Halls of Residence, with perhaps the vague idea of returning later, had turned into a full-on drinking session. And with it, Justin's library card nestled unreturned in Dinsdale's back pocket.

Dinsdale and Colin fell out of the pub at ten with only one thing on their minds – to do the right thing. They stood outside The Feathers and after a slightly befuddled moment of reflection while each wrestled with their conscience, almost telepathically they both arrived at the same conclusion – they would hit the kebab shop instead.

'No point,' Dinsdale said, pushing open the door to the takeaway. 'It's no good to him tonight – the library's shut.'

'Too right, mate,' said Colin. 'Extra chilli sauce on mine tonight, Stav.'

Dinsdale went to Justin's student apartment block first thing in the morning. Given the choice, Dinsdale would have happily let the eighth, ninth or even tenth hour of the day pass without his wakeful presence, but he was due to start his new job cataloguing Veloski's books. It demanded a prompt start at nine o'clock.

Dinsdale knocked on Justin's door and wasn't surprised in the least when he got no reply. No self-respecting student would emerge into the light at such an early hour. As Dinsdale was leaving, he saw one of the other guys from the block.

'Spencer, you around here this morning?' asked Dinsdale.

'For a bit,' said the young lad.

'Do us a favour. Give this to Justin,' Dinsdale said quickly handing over the card.

'Just pop it through his door,' Spencer said, pushing the card back into Dinsdale's hand and swiftly making his exit.

'Yeah, cheers, Spence.'

Dinsdale stood for a moment considering the proposal. Could he be bothered to go back up two flights of stairs to Justin's room? No, he decided, he couldn't. He slipped the card into his pocket and set off to get paid for putting into practice what he had got a pretty good handle on at primary school – his A-B-C.

21

Veloski greeted him warmly and ushered him into his study.

'Tea or coffee?' Veloski asked, filling the kettle.

'Coffee, please.'

Veloski returned with two steaming cups.

'So, where would you like to start, Mr Doric?'

'Anywhere – 'A' perhaps?' suggested Dinsdale, wondering if it was a trick question.

'Is that 'A' for author, 'A' for title, 'A' for symptoms or indeed 'A' for diagnosis?' replied Veloski, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

'Author?'

'Now, tell me, Mr Doric,' Veloski asked, while practicing an imaginary off-drive, immediately followed by a watchful forward-defensive. 'If I had a patient presenting with psychosis or paranoia, would my reference books, catalogued by author, be the most efficient way to obtain any research information I may require?'

'I suppose,' Dinsdale said slowly, 'if you knew which doctor specialised in which particular field.'

'Paranoia?' Veloski asked suddenly. 'Whose expertise would you seek?'

Dinsdale couldn't resist a chuckle. It didn't go unnoticed. Veloski motioned with his eyes for Dinsdale to explain.

'My flatmate, Colin,' Dinsdale said. 'He is paranoia central. He sees shadowy government conspiracies in everything.'

Veloski offered a wry smile. 'It is not hard to understand why. We are indeed living in unprecedented times. They tell us we are fortunate to live in a free democracy where the will of the people is decided by the casting of votes by the majority. Perhaps we have good reason to question that premise as is does appear governments, both left and right, work towards their own undeclared agenda. They seem to freely ignore the people's will when it suits them as in when the West takes on the mantle of the world's policemen in its highly selective involvement in strife around the world.' Veloski smiled. 'Were the British people truly allowed to express their over the creation of the European Union and the tight federal control of Brussels? No. Interestingly, when other countries, such as Ireland, were conceded a referendum on the same issue, were they not forced to vote again when the result went against what the ruling elite desired? They tell us they know best and it is for the greater good. Seventy years ago didn't Hitler and his henchmen persuade the German people that the murder of six million Jews was for "The greater good of Germany". Perhaps your friend is right to beware of our masters.'

Dinsdale had expected Veloski to have joined him in having a good laugh at Colin's expense, but he now felt like slashing his wrists. If Colin had made that speech, Dinsdale would have jeered, but it wasn't so easy to dismiss from someone of Veloski's standing.

Veloski's face crinkled into a smile. 'I am sorry, Mr Doric, you are here to catalogue my books. We should begin.'

'What way do you think is best, professor?' Dinsdale asked nervously.

'By author of course. Is there really any other correct way?'

Dinsdale was taken aback. He hadn't anticipated the old boy being a bit of a tease.

'You'll want me to index them as well, presumably?' said Dinsdale.

'And cross reference them.'

'By field of study?'

'Quite right,' said Veloski as he led Dinsdale to an ante-room at the rear of his study.

'Here we are,' said Veloski, holding open the door.

Dinsdale cautiously walked in. It was a book depository which had suffered some major calamity. Even if it had had a visitation from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, it couldn't have been in more of a mess. Toppled piles of ancient and modern books were everywhere; on the floor, on the antique oak desk and on the shelving that ran around the walls, which was full of ramshackle stacks, leaning at impossible angles. Dinsdale choked on the dust laden air.

'My cleaner let me down this week,' Veloski said with an apologetic shrug.

If Dinsdale previously had visions of stringing out the job until the end of term, they immediately vanished. Organising Veloski's lifetime accumulation of books could well prove to be a lifetime's work.

'Are there any you want to get rid of?' Dinsdale asked hopefully.

'Absolutely, yes, now let me think.' Veloski drummed a thoughtful finger on his chin. 'Yes, there is one. But do you think I can find it.'

Dinsdale smiled glumly.

'I best make a start then,' Dinsdale announced with the enthusiasm of a man charged with single-handedly painting the Forth Bridge.

What felt like an eternity later, but was probably only a couple of hours, Veloski popped his head around the door.

'Coffee, young man? Or could I interest you in something stronger?'

Dinsdale, covered head to toe in a thin layer of grime, wasn't convinced he still had the power of speech having inhaled a significant volume of the dust into his lungs.

'Are you driving anywhere today?' asked Veloski.

Dinsdale shook his head accompanied by an almost soundless attempt at 'No.'

'Scotch?'

Dinsdale nodded. He would have drunk drain cleaner if it promised to clear his throat.

'There we are,' said Veloski, sitting at his desk, presenting Dinsdale with a quadruple measure in a heavy tumbler.

Dinsdale mouthed thanks and sunk half of it in one hit.

'Cor,' said Dinsdale, savouring the fiery liquid. 'That's better.'

'How are you doing in there?'

'Not too bad,' Dinsdale said with a smile, not wishing to appear negative on his first day.

'It you need to get your clothes dry cleaned, give me the bill.'

'It's only a bit of dust,' Dinsdale said patting his clothes to demonstrate the trivial nature of the soiling. The resultant cloud of dust that engulfed the room left them both coughing and spluttering.

'Perhaps I'll vacuum as I go,' suggested Dinsdale.

Veloski shook his head. 'I think you have earned your corn for one day. Finish your drink and I'll see you next time.'

Dinsdale had barely scratched the surface of the monumental task, but for the sake of his lungs, he was happy to call it a day. He was more circumspect with the remainder of the scotch. Dinsdale could have gulped it down, but the first slug had already hit his empty stomach making him light-headed. It had also lowered his inhibitions about sounding like Colin with all his nutty conspiracy theories.

'What about this New World Order business, professor?'

'Ah, the New – World – Order,' Veloski repeated slowly. 'The internet is rife with theories attributing this Orwellian concept to everything from the creation of the European Union to the recent Credit Crunch.'

Dinsdale sipped a little more of his drink. Colin would have simply purred listening to this.

'And this idea of the Useless Eaters,' prompted Dinsdale.

The normally animated professor was stilled for a moment. Veloski cast his eyes down.

'It is the one thing, above all else, which I find hardest to reconcile. I cannot believe humanity can have forgotten so easily and not learned from those terrible events which tarnished irrevocably the otherwise glittering achievements of the twentieth century.'

It was either the alcohol or some form of osmosis from Veloski and his books, but Dinsdale, much to his own surprise, became quite the philosopher.

'Is non-action as evil as organised, wilful murder? If a cure for AIDS and stuff exists, but it is kept secret, allowing millions to die, is that as bad as what the Nazi's did?'

'I am sure if such a cure exists, then those who control it, will, in their defence cite economic, political and any numbers of persuasive arguments, ultimately they would claim their actions were for the 'greater good'. They will tell you we live on a very small planet, with finite resources and a population that is spiralling out of control towards ten billion. They will tell you that as with any living organism, an individual, whether it be a single unproductive cell in our body or like-wise, what is perceived as an unproductive human being, must be sacrificed if necessary, for the benefit of the whole.'

'It's a bit tough on those who have drawn the short straw.'

'I am sure those poor unfortunates haven't even been offered a ticket to life's lottery. There is always a choice to be made between what is best for the amorphous entity called, Society, and what is best for the individual. What is truly best can never be the same for both.'

Dinsdale tipped his head back and downed the last of his scotch. He had unwittingly strayed into something of the grown up world and he wasn't comfortable there. Dinsdale much preferred Colin banging on about this stuff because it could be safely ignored.

Okay, having to discover who had murdered his despised rival to win back the love of his life wasn't going to be easy, but it was certainly less ambitious than preventing a coup by a totalitarian ruling elite hell bent on enslavement of the masses. And what's more, it wasn't likely to happen in his lifetime, so why worry.

Dinsdale left Veloski's study with only one thing on his mind – to contact Anna. He felt it was his duty to let her know there was hope financially, and from a self-interested point of view; to ensure that there weren't any other blokes on the scene sniffing around. Dinsdale would have hated to be the one who puts half-a-million quid in her bank account, only to find she was set to spend it on a lavish wedding to some other bastard.

22

Dinsdale decided to take the direct approach. He would knock on Anna's door unannounced. He considered she had served a respectful period of mourning and he felt it was time for her to move-on and start life anew. And if Dinsdale had any say in it, it was a new life in which he was once again to play a central role.

Dinsdale had previously made a mental note of her address from the official documents at the mortuary. Their house was in Cringleford a particularly swanky part of town, which was full of big houses owned by the aspiring Norwich well-to-do. Logically they had only moved from Chelmsford because of Jon Hill's new high-flying job, but he also clung to the romantic notion that, secretly, it was at Anna's behest in the knowledge that Dinsdale was close by.

Dinsdale thought he recognised the hand of fate – a sign from the gods that they were meant to be together. It surely could be no coincidence that she had chosen to buy her house only two miles from where he now lived. That romantic notion carefully ignored the deluge of alternative evidence that suggested it was pure coincidence.

Never-the-less as Dinsdale strode purposefully down the aptly named Paramount Avenue, a leafy residential turning of imposing houses, which, if built today, might have been called High-Net-Worth Street or Smug Bastard Avenue; he only had one thing on his mind. He had to convince Anna to trust him. Sadly, by historical precedent that might take some doing.

Dinsdale approached the house. It was an impressive bay fronted red brick villa, constructed only a short time before Mr Hitler had made it part of his life's work to bomb it and many like it back into the ground again. The house was an expensive "I am successful" status symbol, bought by the likes of Jon Hill, who were confident that their standing and prosperity were in perpetuity.

It was seven-thirty in the evening. Dinsdale's timing was crucial. Too early a she might have been eating dinner and too late was, well, too late to receive guests, welcome or otherwise.

Her car was on the drive which boded well for her being at home. He hesitated for a moment then walked up the crazy paved path in the front garden. His hand hovered over the bell. Dinsdale was nervous. It was possibly a cardinal moment in his life. He remembered Colin's comment that this full-on approach could all turn out wine and roses or whine and ruing. Dinsdale told him he was very droll and cuffed him around the ear.

While working out exactly what he was going to say, he automatically reached up and rang the bell. There was no going back now as he waited anxiously for her to answer the door. He heard movement inside. The lock turned. Dinsdale took an involuntary step backwards as the door swung open. Dinsdale held his breath.

'Oh!' he said as much in confusion as disappointment. Geraldine stood before him like a wall of disdainful humanity. She scowled at him. And it wasn't a scowl that conveyed any warmth of welcome.

'Dinsdale!' she exclaimed wrinkling her nose, as though his name was synonymous with dog poo.

It took a moment for Dinsdale to regain his composure, he took a deep breath. 'I was hoping to see Anna. Is she in?'

'I'll see,' Geraldine said, shutting the door in his face.

It was a big house, but surely not so vast to be unsure whether Anna was in or not. For a moment it had crossed Dinsdale's mind to peer in through the window to see for himself, but the heavy drapes were pulled tight. It was evening, but it certainly wasn't dark enough to warrant the curtains being closed.

Dinsdale then had a terrible thought. Surely Anna couldn't still be in mourning? Not after all this time. The encounter was going to be more awkward that he feared.

Dinsdale thrust his hands in his pockets and waited. The spontaneity of wit and dazzling charm he relied on in these situations was seriously hampered by malevolent vibes. Any chance he had to win Anna over would be scuppered by Geraldine's glowering presence.

Dinsdale checked his phone. He had been left outside on the door step for five minutes. Had Geraldine just paid him lip service in the hope that Dinsdale might go away? Or was some furious row taking place as to whether to grant him an audience?

Dinsdale liked to imagine the scene inside. Anna pleading desperately with a defiant Geraldine that he, Dinsdale Doric was the only man in this world who can truly bring her happiness again and he should be allowed in to see her. He was dragged from his musings by the door bursting open.

'She's busy,' snapped Geraldine. 'She will see you, but only for five minutes.'

'Five minutes!' But Dinsdale kept his disappointment under wraps. Any sign of dissent would have seen the door slammed in his face again. A five minute pitch was a tough gig. His charm was generally of the slow burn variety – he wore down the object of his desires until they lost the will to resist – or as someone rather unkindly suggested, 'lost the will to live.'

Dinsdale steeled himself with a deep breath as Geraldine stepped aside and allowed him to enter.

Dinsdale shuffled up the hallway casting an eye over Anna's stylish pad. There were nice pictures on the wall that looked suspiciously like 19th century originals, an expensive oak telephone table with a colourful antique Arts & Crafts table lamp which was currently much in vogue and cost a small fortune.

Dinsdale was impressed. If the rest of the house was similarly decked-out, she had done very well for herself. Dinsdale had to concede that on a purely materialistic level at this stage of their lives, before Dinsdale inevitably became a mega-rich author, Jon Hill had given her more than he ever could. But had she been truly happy? Dinsdale liked to think not.

Geraldine paused and knocked lightly on a door leading off the hall. Without waiting for a reply she opened it and motioned Dinsdale inside. He was relieved that she didn't follow him in.

The room was gloomy. The curtains were pulled, but there were no lights on to compensate. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before Dinsdale saw Anna sitting tightly curled-up in an armchair like a frightened child.

'What do you want?' Anna asked coldly.

Dinsdale's head went down. It wasn't a great start, especially with the clock ticking. He hovered uncertainly, unsure whether he should take a seat.

'Erm, how are you?' he asked.

Her head snapped up angrily. 'Not good, strangely enough.'

Dinsdale was stung by the contradiction. Even in anger, she was still gorgeous. Her long golden hair wafted as though borne on the gentlest of breezes. At a glance she could have passed for a young Kate Moss. She was everything he desired in a woman, yet there she was snarling at him; the man who had come to her only with the best of intentions – admittedly, not one-hundred-percent selfless, but fundamentally well-meaning all the same.

'I'm sorry,' said Dinsdale. 'Things must be a bit tough?'

'Tough! I keep the lights turned off to save money. How tough is that?'

'It's a lovely house,' Dinsdale said, innocently unaware of his lack of tact.

'Not for much longer,' she said bitterly. 'I can't afford to pay the mortgage.'

'Oh,' said Dinsdale. 'Are you going to sell it?'

'Negative equity,' she said wistfully. 'We bought at the wrong time.'

'Oh,' Dinsdale said again, cringing inside. He could say nothing right, but he did sense an opportunity to inquire if there were any other admirers lurking about.

'So, there's no one who has offered to help you out, you know, until you get back on your feet?' Dinsdale asked tentatively.

Anna glared at him. 'I don't know many people who have fifteen-hundred quid spare each month to pay my mortgage. Do you?'

It was an uncomfortable moment, but Dinsdale realised it was time to make his pitch.

'Look, there's something you ought to know.'

'And what might that be?' she demanded icily.

'I . . .' Dinsdale started hesitantly. 'Had a job working . . .' He hesitated again. He wished she didn't look at him like that. Although her face was set hard, he still had an almost overwhelming desire to go over and snog her. He suppressed his primal urges to focus on the job in hand.

'I was present during Jon's post-mortem.'

Anna sat bolt upright in the chair. Her expression was one of almost horror.

'Why? How?'

'I worked in the mortuary. My job was to take notes.'

'But . . .' she said, her voice trailing off in confusion.

'I saw something . . .' said Dinsdale. 'There was something that wasn't right. Something that might make a big difference to your situation.'

Anna glared at him. 'If this one of your jokes . . .'

Dinsdale was just about to say – "Would I lie to you?" – Such a declaration would have instantly lost him credibility. Anna had been a victim of Dinsdale's economy with the truth too often.

'Look,' said Dinsdale, 'this might come as something of a shock.'

'Dinsdale,' she said sharply, 'if you've got something to say, say it and stop all the ham acting. Aren't things bad enough without your juvenile theatrics?'

Dinsdale was stung by the rebuke. He was trying to make it easy for her. How ungrateful can a person be when someone is trying to make them half-a-million quid better off?

'Jon didn't die of natural causes,' Dinsdale said firmly. 'He was killed, well – unlawfully.'

His statement took a few moments to sink in.

'What on earth are you talking about,' Anna said, bristling with resentment.

'Murdered,' Dinsdale said bluntly. She had asked him not to beat about the bush.

'I don't need this, Dinsdale,' Anna said, getting to her feet and stalking towards him angrily.

'I have proof,' Dinsdale said retreating towards the door.

'Can you please leave?'

'He was the victim of a serial killer,' protested Dinsdale.

'Get out, you fool,' shouted Anna.

'I can see you're upset,' Dinsdale said calmly in a desperate attempt to retrieve the situation.

'Go, now,' she said. 'I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. First you say he committed suicide and now he was murdered. You are truly sick, Dinsdale. Now, just get OUT!'

Dinsdale trudged along the street, staring down gloomily at his feet, trying to draw a positive from the encounter. If there were any, they weren't shouting at him. It confirmed time wasn't a healer as far as Geraldine was concerned and Anna was in more than a bit of schtuck financially. Was the only way to Anna's heart a big fat cheque to prevent a knock on the door from the bailiff? Apparently so. If Dinsdale was to win her back, it appeared his irresistible charm was definitely the least effective weapon in his armoury.

23

Dinsdale leaned on the bar drowning his sorrows in The Feathers. Colin was chuntering-on about some evil conspiracy or other, but Dinsdale had shut him out wondering where Gerry had got to. Dinsdale hadn't seen him in The Feathers in over week. Arthur just shrugged when Dinsdale asked after him.

When Colin finally took a two-breath pause, Dinsdale jumped and said gloomily, 'She hates me.'

Colin took a thoughtful drink from his glass. 'I reckon she's just in denial, mate,' he said eventually.

Dinsdale brow creased. 'How's that work then?'

'Hiding her true feelings.'

It was very apparent to Dinsdale, that the one thing Anna hadn't hidden earlier, was her feelings.

'Like the Egyptian swimmer, mate,' Colin said, barely able to keep the grin off his face.

Dinsdale knew he was being set up for one of Colin's rubbish gags. He downed a big mouthful of beer to steel himself. The grin on Colin's face grew bigger; he could restrain himself no longer.

'In D'nile, yeah. In De – Nile. The Nile?'

'Yes, mate, good one,' Dinsdale said wearily. Dinsdale's obvious lack of enthusiasm, far from discouraging Colin, seemingly inspired him to raid the locker for another of his antediluvian jokes.

'Heard the one about the bloke who walks into the doctor's...?'

Before Dinsdale could to declare an emphatic – 'Yes!' – Behind them a voice boomed, 'Alright, girls.'

'Gerry,' Dinsdale said, relieved on more than one level. 'How's it going?'

Dinsdale was desperate to know if Gerry had dug up anything, but he played it cool.

'Beer?' Dinsdale asked casually.

'That would be kind, Dennis,' Gerry said, fiddling with his carnation button hole. The beer arrived and for a moment all three stood drinking in silence. Dinsdale waited nervously. Colin stood with a puzzled frown, as if trying to remember the joke he had been going to tell, while Gerry just was content to stare into space.

'So,' said Dinsdale, who could hold back no longer, 'any news?'

Gerry looked at him quizzically. 'News? It's going to rain later.'

'No, what we talked about . . .'

'Oh,' Gerry said, feigning slow enlightenment. He then took an equally slow swig of beer and held the glass up admiring the remainder of the golden liquid within. 'There you go,' he said finally, reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a brown envelope. Dinsdale had expected just a name, but the weight of the envelope indicated it contained sheaves of paper.

'What's all this?' asked Dinsdale.

'I got a bit of info for you.'

'Wow,' said Colin, drooling over the exciting possibilities.

Dinsdale was transfixed by the envelope.

'This,' Dinsdale said, flapping the envelope nervously, 'has got the name of the...?' Dinsdale wasn't quite sure how to describe the appendix assassin. Killer and murderer sounded a bit too melodramatic, especially in a public arena.

'By a careful bit of deduction,' said Gerry proudly, 'I've narrowed it down to only three possibilities. Three people in the right place at the right time.'

'Wow,' repeated Colin. He wasn't even faking his awe to cadge a free beer.

'Bloody hell,' said Dinsdale, 'that's brilliant.'

'I'll let you buy me another beer,' Gerry said, beckoning Arthur over.

Back in the flat, Dinsdale still clutched the envelope. He hadn't let go of it all evening.

'You going to open it then?' prompted Colin.

Dinsdale was inclined to say no, just to annoy him, but the curiosity was killing him too. He sat at the table and slid his finger along the crease, careful not to rip the contents.

'And this year's nominations for best serial killer are...' Colin announced, and then mimed a drum roll.

'Colin,' Dinsdale said sharply. '...Shut-up!'

'Yes, mate.'

Dinsdale pulled out the small bundle of papers and unfolded them on the table. There were three sheets, each headed with a different name. Dinsdale laid them side by side. The format of each page was the same; like a brief CV.

'This must be the guy,' said Dinsdale.

'Who?' Colin asked excitedly.

'This fella,' said Dinsdale, 'Dr Crippin.'

'What!' Colin said, with his jaw hanging open in astonishment. 'You – are – joking – me!'

'Yeah, I am actually,' said Dinsdale. 'His name is Dr Cripps.'

'Even so,' said Colin, 'he sounds like the type.'

Dinsdale looked up at Colin and shook his head. He hoped to God that Colin was never asked to do jury service. The defendant's rock-solid alibi would count for nothing if their name sounded a bit dodgy.

'Looks like he works in America now,' said Dinsdale, having quickly scanned down the page. 'Ah-ha,' he added, tapping the paper. 'He was the surgeon who performed the appendectomy on Jon Hill.'

'Told you it was him,' Colin said smugly.

'No, hang on,' said Dinsdale. 'All these three were present during the operation. These are the medical team and therefore any of them could have done it.'

'I bet Cripps was in charge,' said Colin. 'Trust me, it's him, mate.'

'Couldn't be this fella, then,' said Dinsdale. 'Doctor Jack Ripper. Or the other one, Todd Sweeney.'

'Yeah, right,' said Colin. 'But I bet the other two haven't buggered off to America, have they?'

'Let's have a look.' Dinsdale ran his finger down the pages. 'Brendan Watts, he still works at the Royal Free and the other guy, David Barnes . . .' Dinsdale took a little more time reading the notes on Barnes. Finally he said, 'Gerry couldn't have been able to trace him. The last entry says he gave up practicing medicine over five years ago. His current whereabouts is unknown.'

'Okay, what do we do now, Sherlock?' asked Colin.

Dinsdale scratched his head. In truth, he had no idea. If they were sleuths in a detective novel, it would have been easy. Just confront the villain with evidence of their guilt and with no more ado, they would confess all. Dinsdale feared that the modern criminal fraternity, especially of the serial-killer variety, wouldn't be so obliging.

'Well,' said Dinsdale, 'it looks as though Brendan is the man we need to speak to first.'

'First and last, mate,' sniggered Colin.

'See this, "Whereabouts unknown", you should try that,' Dinsdale said acidly.

'I have, mate. Loads of times. You should see the debt collectors who are after me if I ever went back to any of my old gaffs.'

24

Dinsdale had a lecture at eleven. It didn't finish until twelve-thirty. He had loads of work to catch up on, and an essay to write, but the mission that had preoccupied him all day was to contact Doctor Brendan Watts.

Dinsdale had found the telephone number of the Royal Free first thing, but he hesitated to call. Dinsdale wasn't a morning person. He couldn't have faced interrogating a possible serial-killer without being totally on his game.

He didn't want to call from the flat either. Not only would it have been impossible to concentrate with Colin earwigging, but also the zeitgeist of paranoia had got to him too. He needed an anonymous telephone number; one that couldn't be traced back to him. Dinsdale had considered using a public phone box, but wasn't likely to find one in the area that hadn't been vandalised.

Dinsdale sat on the low retaining wall outside the main college building, contemplating whether his pal, Justin, would consider lending him his phone, when Professor Veloski appeared, trotting nimbly down the steps.

'Mr Doric,' he said brightly. 'Pondering the nature of human existence, are we?'

'Sorted that one out this morning, professor.'

Veloski smiled. 'A definitive paper on the subject will be forth-coming, I assume?'

'Only once I've catalogued your books of course.'

'That's the spirit,' beamed Veloski. 'And how is your friend, Colin, has he rooted out any more evil wrong-doings?'

Dinsdale sensed an opportunity coming his way and hopped down off the wall. The old professor had appeared pretty open minded about the conspiracy stuff and his opinion would have been useful. And if he asked nicely, the professor might even let Dinsdale use the phone in his study.

'Actually, if you have got a minute, could I have a word in private?' Dinsdale asked, treating Veloski to one of his winsome smiles.

*

'Well, that's an interesting story you tell,' Veloski said, reclined in his chair with fingers steepled on his chest.

Sitting in Veloski's study, it had taken Dinsdale over fifteen minutes to recount the events so far, even in précised form. He had been careful not to name names and had also excluded the inherent financial implication or his romantic entanglement. For all that, Veloski didn't appear to doubt the motivation behind Dinsdale's quest to discover the truth, and bring the killer to justice.

'And the reason you have come to me with all this, is?' queried Veloski.

'I value your opinion,' Dinsdale said quickly.

'It does appear to be a bizarre series of events, which may or may not be intrinsically linked. The death of your friend might have nothing whatever to do with the politician's statement; even if it also happened to be true.'

'I thought that,' Dinsdale said nodding sagely while eyeing up the telephone that sat idle on Veloski's desk. 'What would you do about the names on the list, would you contact them? What do you think you would you say? Would you be concerned that 'They' or the murderer might try to track you down afterwards?'

Veloski took a moment to answer.

'If 'They' exist and 'They' are determined to safeguard their secret – and bearing in mind 'They' will have access to the same information as your detective friend, and more – 'They' would have taken care of those people on your list, long ago.'

'So, it's hopeless then?'

Veloski's face crinkled into smile. 'Not if 'They' don't exist.'

'Do you think 'They' exist?'

Veloski tapped the ends of his fingers together.

'If by 'They' you mean a cabal of conspirators working in secret to bring about outcomes that are desirable only unto an elite few, then the answer must be yes. Mankind has connived and deceived its own kind since time immemorial.'

'In my time, the Reichstag fire was deliberately started by the Nazi's and was blamed on the Communists. They used it to justify curtailing many personal freedoms and the introduction of draconian laws, which ultimately led to the Holocaust.'

'Some cite 9/11 as yet another false flag operation to justify the actions of the West ever since. So many times throughout history whole nations have been deceived, even the whole world, to the advantage of others. But what we must always be on our guard against is their insidious propaganda. Remember those who control the media report only that what they want us to hear – their version of the truth.'

It had been only through a conscious effort that Dinsdale hadn't sat through Veloski's monologue with his mouth hanging open. He had only come to borrow the phone, and now, if Veloski was to be believed, 'They' were everywhere and it wasn't at all wise to mess with them.

Dinsdale asked hesitantly, 'So – what should I do?'

Veloski laughed. 'Fight back of course. Expose the lies, the secrets. Only then can we have a better, fairer world.' He paused then wagged a playful finger. 'But the 'They', Mr Doric, that's referred to in the supposed grandiose New World Order would far exceed any historical precedent. It would be an extraordinarily bold and co-ordinated venture indeed.'

'If you believe these web sites,' Dinsdale said, 'these Illuminati people have got it all sown up anyway. We can't make a move without making them richer and more powerful. So, why bother?'

'I am generous enough to believe that our fellow men, including the very rich, do not always act in blinkered self-interest. If the goal of these people is to centralise power, mightn't their purpose be to perhaps, protect us – to ensure war and ethnic strife was eliminated – especially in a time of uncertainty or even calamity.'

'That sounds like something 'They' would say, to cloak their actions with respectability,' said Dinsdale.

'True. But if something truly calamitous should happen that risked the collapse of civilisation, would it not be wise to have a central authority to organise the supply of scarce resources, which otherwise might have resulted in conflict between competing factions?'

'That sounds like the 'They' propaganda machine again.'

'I am not suggesting for one minute that I would agree with them or accept their methods, but this is a tiny planet and the life upon it is in constant and grave danger. If you don't believe me, ask the Dinosaurs. Would our Western civilisation have survived the asteroid that hit the earth sixty-five-million years ago? Will it survive if the rogue asteroid Apophis strikes the earth in 2036?'

Dinsdale frowned. 'But doesn't NASA reckon it's not going to. Not now. They've recalculated its trajectory.'

'Are they likely to tell the world anything different?' Veloski said with an enigmatic smile of someone privy to a different truth. 'Hollywood disaster movies may feature humankind calmly going about its day to day business when faced with the prospect of such calamity, but I fear the real world would not handle its impending annihilation in such a bovine manner.'

'Probably not,' said Dinsdale. 'But honestly the chances of it hitting are tiny.'

'True,' Veloski said. 'But we face another peril and one that is guaranteed to happen; the super volcano beneath Yellow Stone Park. Over the last sixteen-million years it has erupted regularly every six-hundred-thousand years, wreaking havoc not only over continental North America, but over the whole planet. The ash and debris clouds will cause the wholesale destruction of flora and fauna which will destroy the food chain. Crops will fail due to the drop in global temperature and lack of sunlight. They say as many as nine tenths of the human population will die from famine – Over seven billion people. Temperatures will not recover for a millennium and some believe it will herald a new Ice Age, which may last for tens of thousands of years.'

'Yeah, but, six-hundred-thousand years,' Dinsdale said with a dismissive shrug.

'Quite,' Veloski said. 'If only for the fact that its last eruption was over six-hundred-and-forty-thousand years ago. The next one is long overdue and there are very real signs that once again the lethal magma is rising . . .' Veloski stopped self-consciously, his face crinkling into a warm smile. 'I seem to have gone on a bit. I hope I haven't bored you?'

Dinsdale laughed nervously. 'Of course not.'

The professor hadn't bored him; he had scared him shitless. Dinsdale, by his own reckoning, would still be a man in his prime, if that asteroid hit or volcano went up.

It was alright for Veloski to have sat there grinning at him paternally, revelling in the prospect of doom and disaster; the professor would be long gone before Armageddon came a-knocking. And where had all that doom-mongering left him with regard to Jon Hill's death and his proposed future with Anna?

Veloski pulled his fob watch out of his top pocket.

'I hope you'll excuse me, Mr Doric, but I have an engagement shortly. Shall I see you Thursday, sharp at nine?'

Dinsdale nodded mechanically and left the study. He floated back out into the bright sunlight of the college concourse. Dinsdale pulled the paper from his pocket with the Royal Free's number on it and tossed it into the nearest bin. Plan 'A' had failed. It was time for plan 'B'. He smiled glumly. If only he'd had a plan 'B'.

25

Most unusually, Colin wasn't in when Dinsdale got back to the flat. The place was very empty without his monolithic presence in front of the computer. He opened the fridge more in hope than expectation. If Dinsdale had been after jam with a crust of penicillin, cheese flecked with blue mould or the remains of a limp lettuce then he needed to have looked no further. But if it was a beer he was after, then not only was he to be disappointed, but also mightily pissed-off. There had been four cans earlier.

Dinsdale threw himself on the sofa. On the walk back from the college he had convinced himself to give up on his quest. Speaking with Veloski had made it clear that whichever way he turned, 'They' would have it covered, however great and powerful or not 'They' might be. 'They' could have simply been the medical fraternity protecting one of their own. 'They' might have been a faction within the government or the security services. But whoever 'They' were, Dinsdale was just an 'I' and a non-crusading, unresourceful and lazy 'I' at that – and no match for them.

Yet he wrestled with his conscience. Would he have been able to forgive himself or ever be truly happy again if he let the love of his life slip through his fingers without having done absolutely everything he possibly could? Given it his all? Gone that extra mile? He concluded, sadly, that the answer was probably yes. He would get over it. There are plenty more fish in the sea, so they say. And he had certainly dated a few Bloaters in his time.

So that was it, his mind was made up. He firmly clapped his hands signalling a line in the sand. His quest to regain the heart of Anna was history; it was time to begin anew. It also seemed as though the loud clap of his hands had brought forth a genie. Colin stood silently in the doorway.

'Did you get lost or something,' asked Dinsdale. 'Went the wrong way going to the toilet?'

Dinsdale then noticed his face. He hadn't so much as summoned a genie as a ghost. Colin was white as a sheet.

'You alright, mate?' inquired Dinsdale.

'I've been to the doctors,' Colin said in a strangely lifeless monotone.

'You should have stayed a bit longer, you look awful.'

Colin's mouth opened and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, but no sound came out.

'Have you been donating blood? Because I don't reckon they've left you any,' Dinsdale said.

'It's taken me nearly an hour to walk back,' Colin said standing with an unnatural stillness.

'An hour? What have you been doing? It's only around the corner.'

'Mate . . .'

'Yeah, good idea,' Dinsdale said leaping to his feet. 'I need a beer.'

'No!' Colin said dramatically, still frozen to the spot.

A deep frown creased Dinsdale's brow. For a moment he was lost for words; Colin not wanting a beer?

'You had some bad news or something?' he asked finally.

Colin nodded with slow deliberation, reluctant to disturb the otherwise total immobility of his body.

'I went to the doctor's like you said . . .'

'About your operation?' Dinsdale asked.

'It was 'im.'

'Who...?' Dinsdale asked casually, but immediately knew the answer. 'Not Cripps?'

'No. Barnes,' Colin said shakily.

'Shit – mate . . .' Dinsdale fell back into the sofa. It was with some concern that was not totally geared toward Colin's continued wellbeing that Dinsdale asked warily, 'How are you feeling?'

'As it happens, mate – pretty shit.'

'Are we talking ill shit or pissed-off shit?' Dinsdale asked, dreading the reply.

'Pissed-off shit!'

Dinsdale blew out his cheeks in relief.

'Look, come in will you and shut the door.'

'I am coming in. I'm just taking it very steady. I don't want to set anything off.'

Dinsdale looked again and indeed Colin had advanced across the threshold a good six inches since he had appeared.

'Hurry up, mate, there's a draft.'

It was fortunate for Dinsdale that he was only moving at the speed of a crippled snail, or by the look on his face, Colin would have thumped him.

'I could drop dead any second,' Colin said angrily.

'Didn't you tell the quack?'

'No, course not. Do you think I'm stupid?'

Dinsdale had to bite his tongue, before he asked, 'So, what did you tell him?'

'I said, I was writing my autobiography and I was doing research into my appendix operation.'

'I bet he was fascinated. Did he put his name down for a copy when it was published?'

Colin shuffled forward another inch or two.

'He looked up my records. It had the name of the medical team. And he was one of them – Barnes.'

'You should have asked for an X-ray.'

Colin tilted his head to one side and gave Dinsdale a pitying look. 'Mate, I'd be dead within a week.'

He might still be, but Dinsdale kept that very real possibility to himself.

'If they discover I've got one of those things inside me, they'd bump me off on the operating table. "Poor old Colin, he never regained consciousness," they'd say.'

'You're assuming the X-ray department, the operating team and anyone who had anything to do with you in the hospital would be in on it?'

'Yeah,' Colin said firmly. 'I'm taking no chances.'

'So, what are you going to do? You can't spend the rest of your life walking around like you've shit your pants.'

'Go private. Those guys aren't part of the system – paid by the government.'

'You've got medical insurance then?' Dinsdale inquired sarcastically. 'You know how much that would cost?'

Colin shrugged.

'And the other thing,' Dinsdale added, 'most surgeons who are in private practice also work for the NHS.'

Colin had finally edged his way over to the computer desk and he had slowly lowered himself down onto the chair. He had a glazed faraway look in his eye; the look of a condemned man.

There followed a period of silence in which Dinsdale reflected on the fact that Colin had not only scuppered his decision to put all that investigative nonsense behind him, but also his intention to visit The Feathers.

'I could go abroad,' Colin said in a tone that suggested even he thought the idea was a non-starter.

'Abroad! It would take you a week to walk to the end of the street.'

Colin hung his head in resignation. 'So that's it then.'

Dinsdale tried to jolly-him-up. 'Well, you're not dead yet.'

'Cheers, mate.'

'No, what I mean is, either you haven't got one because Barnes had nothing to do with it, or it hasn't worked like it has on the others, probably because you are so bone idle and sit around all day, doing bugger all, your only exertion being to tug at the ring pull on a can of beer.'

'Yeah but the pen is mightier than the sword, mate,' Colin said tapping the side of his head, to indicate the apparent superiority of his computer directed cerebral activity over getting a life.

'I reckon,' Dinsdale said, 'you'd be pretty unlucky. Even if it was Barnes, how many people can he have stitched up – literally – without being caught?'

Colin shrugged exaggeratedly, just for a moment forgetting the potential peril of the excessive movement. Dinsdale found Barnes' CV. He ran his finger down the sheet.

'Look, the bloke's only thirty-seven,' Dinsdale said. 'For the last five years he has been out of circulation in the medical field. So, after dropping out from Cambridge, he went on to study Medicine at Edinburgh. Four years later, when he was twenty-seven, he started a two year foundation course in surgery. If it was Barnes, he had roughly a three year window to plant those pills. If he did that with every appendectomy he performed, people would be dropping dead all over the place.'

Dinsdale's rational analysis should have swept away the pessimism, but it didn't.

'How do you know they're not?' Colin said gloomily.

Dinsdale wanted to swear. He needed a beer more than ever if he had to suffer Colin moping about all night expecting a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

'Well, the other way to look at it,' Dinsdale said, looking on the bright side. 'If you have got those pills inside you, you won't die from cancer or stuff like that.'

'No, mate, just a quick heart attack instead.'

'Well, you can't carry on like this,' Dinsdale said exasperated, 'you're going to have to find out one way or another.'

'If I went to them, I'm a dead man, mate.'

'So, no X-ray and no operation in a hospital? What's that leave?'

'Erm, mate, I was thinking as I came back . . .' Colin said slowly. 'You could do it.'

It took a moment for the suggestion to sink in.

'What, me, operate on you!' said Dinsdale.

'Your dad was a surgeon. You know what to do.'

'Just because my father was a surgeon...' Dinsdale said, but words failed him.

'I trust you,' Colin said with his eyes wide and pleading.

'I can't –it's illegal – where would I do it? I haven't got the instruments.'

Colin hung his head again. 'Nah, don't worry, mate, it was just an idea. Something that might have saved my life, that's all.'

Dinsdale stroked his chin and reconsidered the proposal. An appendectomy was a simple procedure. A quick slash and stitch. Colin was right. He probably could have done it.

He had developed quite a skill with a scalpel under his father's tutelage when he was young. But those small furry creatures he had practiced on had been dead when he had cut them up and even with divine intervention never stood the remotest chance of coming back to life once he had finished with them.

Barring his lack of experience with a live specimen, what could he have used as an anaesthetic? A bottle of vodka? A hammer? Perhaps the tried and trusted, if painful old fashioned method of Colin biting on a bullet and just sucking up the pain? Dinsdale shook his head. Nope. As much as Colin had become part of the furniture, even if he was like a shabby piece you were ashamed of and kept hidden in the corner, Dinsdale couldn't and wouldn't do it. Ultimately, if Dinsdale had to don his funeral attire for Colin's send off, no way was he going to have been party to it.

'Colin,' Dinsdale said, suddenly having had an idea, 'what about a vet?'

26

Dinsdale was on his third pint. The beer hadn't made him feel better. He doubted even if he had another three it would have made any difference. He couldn't shake-off the thought of Colin croaking in the flat and finding him sprawled across the floor making the place untidier than usual.

As Dinsdale drained his third pint and slowly placed the glass on the bar, and much to his relief, Gerry walked in.

'Alright, Dennis?'

'Am I glad to see you,' Dinsdale said, immediately waving his glass and beckoning Arthur over.

'I wish my wife was as pleased to see me as you are.'

'Look, I need to run something past you.'

Gerry raised an eyebrow. 'What's happened now?'

Dinsdale told him.

'A bit close to home for comfort,' Gerry said after a moment's consideration as he rearranged his button hole.

'Close! He's bloody in my home.'

'And he won't go to the hospital?'

Dinsdale shook his head and took a big swig from his glass.

Gerry tutted. 'That's the trouble with these armchair conspiracy theorists; they lap it up when they're out of the firing-line and safe in front of a computer screen, but when the real world catches up with them they start screaming blue murder.'

'It's probably just a coincidence – Barnes and all that. What do you really reckon are the chances of Colin walking around with one of those things inside him?'

Gerry shrugged. 'Who knows? Did that web site give any indication how many of those pill strips have turned up?'

'Not that I remember,' Dinsdale said.

'They'd only be the tip of the iceberg anyway,' Gerry said. 'If the discoveries are being kept under wraps, you wouldn't expect too many to come to light. So, in answer to your original question, who knows? Colin is a real life example of the eternal Schrödinger's Cat paradox. Until someone opens him up and establishes for sure whether there's pills in there or not, technically his future quantum state, like the aforesaid cat, can be described as being both alive and dead at the same time. A dead man walking.'

Dinsdale wasn't sure what Gerry was on about with his pseudo-science, but the "Dead man walking" analogy was spot on as far as Colin was concerned – generally the morning after a heavy session the night before.

'I suggested a vet,' Dinsdale said casually.

'If you took Colin to a vet, they'd take one look at him and do the only humane thing – put him down.' Gerry then drummed his finger on his lips. 'No, if this is a cover up and Colin is carrying one of those things, then the authorities will undoubtedly know about it, and will have known about it for years.' Gerry drummed his lips again. 'So, if he does present himself at a hospital for an X-ray or operation, as soon as he is admitted, it'll be flagged up.'

'So, you reckon . . .'

'Put it this way, Dennis, it is easier to deal with a corpse, rather than someone who survives to shoot their mouth off, crying foul play.'

There was a moment of reflection before Dinsdale said, 'He asked me to do it.'

Gerry looked at him in wonder. 'You of course being a highly trained surgeon?'

'In an operating theatre I could do it.'

'Sure. And I could run a four minute mile.' Gerry tousled Dinsdale's hair. 'Things like that are best left to the professionals, son, not someone who once dissected a rat in a biology lesson.'

'But they'll kill him,' protested Dinsdale.

Gerry pointedly raised his eyebrows then said, 'Subterfuge.'

He appeared to be considering this idea for an age before adding, 'Colin must take someone else's identity; someone who won't arouse the authorities interest.'

'What, go to hospital pretending to be someone else?'

'Yep. It is a shame you haven't got more time because I know someone who for five-hundred quid, has a contact that makes false ID's, passports, driving licences, etcetera, that are impossible to detect as forgeries.'

'Even with a fake ID, they just don't just operate on people because you ask them too. They need medical grounds.'

Gerry smiled. 'I would suggest the first stage is to just get an X-ray, then go from there.'

Dinsdale nodded appreciatively. It was a bold plan made practically fool proof by his semi-drunken state.

'Yeah, but I can't think who Colin could pretend to be.'

'You,' Gerry said firmly. 'You're the obvious choice.'

'Me!' said Dinsdale putting his hands up to instantly distance himself from the suicidal scheme. 'Whoa. I'm keeping my name out of it. If they do find something . . .' He indicated his fate with a slashing motion across his throat.

'Not necessarily,' said Gerry calmly. 'If your names not flagged up there would be no reason to believe the hospital staff would be aware of its significance.'

'Yeah, but it has, remember. You know I've been warned off going to the hospital by the police. And there's no way I'm going to the Royal, it's miles away,' Dinsdale said firmly. 'No, what we need is someone else; a fall guy.'

'That's very magnanimous of you. Anyone in mind? Someone you consider more expendable than your good self?'

Dinsdale drained his glass and the answer came to him. He pondered what information a hospital would need to know if someone presented themselves in Casualty. Not much: Date of birth, address, name of their GP, possibly a national insurance number. It shouldn't be too hard to winkle that out of him. Dinsdale pulled his mobile phone out of his back pocket and he scrolled down the contacts menu. It was time he invited his old mate, Justin out for a beer.

27

Dinsdale came back from the pub wrecked. It had taken four pints to get Justin to open up and disclose the information that Dinsdale required. It might have appeared a little suspicious if Dinsdale hadn't stayed with him drink for drink. Especially in view of the bizarre, non-blokey conversation which disguised the fact that Justin was being pumped for highly personal information.

There had been few occasion in his life when Dinsdale had instigated a discussion on doctor's waiting times and the general efficiency of GPs, or the apparently random way in which national insurance numbers are allocated. Dinsdale had scoffed heartily at the lack of correlation between post codes and house door numbers, which lead very obliquely to an earnest discussion on star signs, Chinese astrology and dates of birth.

With a head crammed full of Justin's personal details, Dinsdale crashed in through the door at midnight. He kept repeating over and over the information on the walk back to ensure it wasn't lost in the encroaching fog of intoxication.

It was dark in the flat. Dinsdale couldn't see a hand in front of his face. At first he assumed that Colin had gone to bed and for once he had even turned off the computer monitor, which was normally an ever-present glowing beacon in the corner. The second thought was far more disturbing.

It had been broad daylight when Dinsdale had gone out to the pub. You don't need lights on during the day and you don't need to put them on at night if you are lying dead on the floor.

Even in his drunken wobbling state Dinsdale froze with a deep sense of foreboding. He held his breath as he slowly reached out for the switch. He flicked it on and flooded the room with light. It was then he saw Colin's arm hanging lifeless over the side of the settee.

'Jeeesus – Christ!' cried Dinsdale, as he slammed back into the door in horror. He was instantly sober. With his heart pounding, Dinsdale was irresistibly drawn to witness the terrible sight awaiting him. As he fearfully crept forward, shock immediately turned to anger. Dinsdale mentally berated his useless friend for his lack of consideration in dropping down dead in the flat. He forced himself to look over the back of the settee to confirm the inevitable.

'Oh, hello, mate,' Colin said sleepily.

'You...!' Dinsdale could have killed him. 'What are you doing!'

'I was too tired to go to bed.'

'You bastard! You made me think you'd . . .'

Dinsdale alternated between waves of pure fury, in which he could have happily pummelled him to death, to unbridled relief, in which he could have hugged him, but strictly in the metaphorical sense.

'It would have taken too long to get to the bedroom, mate,' Colin said apologetically.

Dinsdale's eyes instinctively darted down to Colin's groin area for a tell-tale darkened patch which would have indicated his inability to get somewhere else in a hurry.

'No, it's alright, mate,' He sensed Dinsdale's concern and pointed to a glass on the coffee table which was nearly full to the brim with what looked like lager.

Dinsdale recoiled in revulsion. It grossed him out not only to see Colin's pee festering in one of his favourite beers mugs, but also because he was about to grab a swig out of it to steady his nerves.

With Colin sprawled on the couch as helpless as a beached whale, Dinsdale knew that the scheme that he and Gerry had hatched needed to be implemented absolutely immediately or at least no later than first thing in the morning.

Colin may have made an arrangement, if rather an unsavoury one, to relieve his bladder, but it was the need to empty his bowels, which undoubtedly would occur in the not too distant future that was of greater concern.

Dinsdale was too tired and had too much beer to contemplate a nocturnal visit to A&E. But he reckoned if Colin started out straight away, he could have got his head down for a few hours and still be in time to catch up with him as he arrived at the hospital in the morning.

Dinsdale briefly explained the carefully worked plan to Colin in the hope he could finally get to bed. Obviously too briefly.

'What, mate?'

'Listen. You just go to the hospital as Justin, right.'

'And I ask for an X-ray?'

'No. Tell them you're in agony,' Dinsdale said impatiently.

'What if they don't believe me?'

'Make a lot of noise.'

'I'm not very good at acting, mate.'

Dinsdale looked at the useless liability laid out on the couch, staring up at him all puppy-eyed and pitiful.

'You'll have to take your chances then,' Dinsdale said with a shrug as he turned and headed towards his bedroom. Suddenly Colin started making a fearful racket.

'Ooowww! Aaargh! Oooohh!'

The blood drained from Dinsdale's face as he stopped dead in mid-stride. He rushed back to Colin's side.

'Take it easy, mate,' Dinsdale said. 'I'll get help.'

'What?' Colin said, confused.

'Are you in pain?'

'Pain? No, mate. I was just practicing.'

'You...!' It was to Dinsdale's credit that he didn't make Colin's agony for real. But he counted to ten then stomped off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

At nine o'clock Dinsdale called 999 and ten minutes later an ambulance promptly arrived. The thoroughly professional paramedics were on the case immediately checking Colin's blood pressure and temperature. Colin pointed to where his make-believe pain was coming from. The female paramedic, who had introduced herself as Betty, having seen his scar, deduced correctly: 'Well it can't be your appendix. It looks like it has already been taken out.'

Dinsdale quickly jumped in. 'Justin, didn't you say they once opened you up, but decided not to remove it, because it looked in such good shape?'

'Eh?' said Colin, who had instantly forgotten his temporary alias. 'Oh, yeah, the pains wicked down there.' And then threw in an unconvincing, 'Ooooh ow!' by way of confirmation.

'You haven't got a temperature, which would have indicated an infection, possibly appendicitis,' Paramedic Betty said while probing Colin's abdomen in the region of the scar.

The time delay between the application of pressure and Colin's cry of anguish was as noticeable as an out of sync movie track.

'No swelling,' she said continuing to bear down on Colin's exposed flesh, gently feeling the area with her fingers. Colin yelped theatrically again.

'Have you taken any pain killers?' asked Tom, the older paramedic who stood taking notes.

'Loads,' said Colin.

'Yeah, loads,' Dinsdale said as if to emphasis the extreme nature of the situation. He then suggested helpfully, 'Probably needs an X-ray.'

'Suppose we'll have to take him in,' Tom said with a sigh.

'Yep, the next heart attack victim will just have to wait until we get back,' said Betty.

Their reluctance obliged Colin to make further distraught mewing sounds. Dinsdale cringed. Colin's acting debut didn't herald a glittering career on the stage.

'Can you walk?' she asked. Colin shook his head. Betty also shook her head, but undoubtedly not for the same reason

'We'll need the stretcher,' she said with a sigh.

The noticeboard in Accident & Emergency department indicated they could expect a three hour wait.

Dinsdale had expected Colin to be whisked off to X-ray department as soon as the ambulance had arrived at the hospital. But the triage nurse hadn't been fooled by Colin's lack lustre performance and had told him to wait his turn in the waiting room like everyone else.

Dinsdale hadn't been allowed to ride with Colin in the ambulance. He'd had to make his own way to the hospital. An hour and two bus rides later, Dinsdale was amazed to discover Colin still sitting in the waiting area among a motley gathering of the genuinely walking wounded.

'Waiting for the X-rays to come back?' Dinsdale suggested hopefully.

'They haven't seen me yet, mate.'

'Bloody hell, you're supposed to be in agony,' said Dinsdale.

'I told you I was no good at putting it on.'

'Well, just make sure you lay it on nice and thick when the doctor sees you. We can't afford to have you sent home again without them doing an X-ray, okay?' said Dinsdale.

Colin clenched his teeth and moaned quietly, 'Ooowoow.'

'Practicing?' queried Dinsdale.

'Practicing,' said Colin. 'What do you reckon?'

It was best that Dinsdale didn't comment.

After two tediously boring hours, which had only been relieved by the sight of a passing pretty nurse or two, a doctor with huge sticky-out ears and heavy rimmed glasses appeared. He looked down at his files notes then scanned the waiting room as he called out, 'Mr Doric . . . Dinsdale Doric?'

Dinsdale instinctively bounced out of his seat only to immediately bounce back down again in confusion. He turned to Colin who had risen out of his seat and had begun to make his way forward as quickly as he dare, which was approximately at the rate of an advancing glacier. Dinsdale grabbed his arm and hissed, 'Why is he calling my name?'

Colin smiled weakly.

'Er, mate that Justin stuff – I couldn't remember it. So I gave them your details instead. Was that okay?'

'Okay! Okay!' Dinsdale wailed, as Colin shuffled off incrementally. Dinsdale slumped down in the chair and held his head in his hands, rocking back and forth like a basket case in an asylum, repeating over and over, 'I'll kill him. I will, I'll kill him.'

An hour later, Dinsdale saw Colin reappear from the treatment area. His majestically slow progress inspired a man with a plaster cast on his leg and hobbling on crutches to offer him a helping hand. Rebuffed, the man shrugged and even encumbered as he was, set off at a positive canter compared to Colin's monumentally slow progress. Dinsdale had seen tides come in faster. After about ten minutes, and with Colin having moved only ten or so paces forward, Dinsdale could stand it no longer. He found a wheelchair and plonked Colin down in it, wheeling him back to where they had been sitting.

'So?' Dinsdale asked, unable to disguise his irritation.

'They're not sure, mate...' Colin gulped. 'So he's referring it to a consultant. The doctor said there might be something very small in there.'

'That was the brain scan, presumably?' Dinsdale then turned on him angrily. 'You dim wit. Why did you give them my details?'

'Yeah, sorry, but don't laugh, mate, I could be dying here.'

'Did they say how long you'll have to wait?' Dinsdale checked his watch. He had a lecture at two and it was nearly twelve o'clock already.

'They said normally they would make an appointment, but seeing as there was an outside chance that it might be an emergency...'

As if that was his queue to depart, Dinsdale sprung out of his chair and rubbed his hands.

'Okay, you'll be alright on your own?' Dinsdale asked casually. It was more by way of a statement than an inquiry.

Colin turned to him almost in horror. 'You can't leave me, mate.'

'You'll be fine. I'm sure it's only precautionary. Even a junior doctor couldn't miss something like that. Did he show you the X-ray?'

'No,' Colin said sulkily.

'I've got a lecture...' Dinsdale said with a helpless shrug.

'Well, you best be going then, mate,' Colin said and poignantly held out his hand. 'I'll say goodbye then. You might not see me alive, again, ever.'

Dinsdale ignored the extended arm.

'You're such a tease,' Dinsdale said nudging him playfully. 'You shouldn't keep raising my hopes like that.'

'Cheers, mate.'

'Nah, you'll be alright,' Dinsdale said with a wave of his hand, as he scurried off toward the exit and before what little conscience he had gave him cause to reconsider.

28

Dinsdale had made it to the lecture that dealt with the phenomena of multiple personality or Disassociated Personality Disorder, DPD as it was now known. He made a few notes and listened with surprising interest to the psychological features of the condition.

Its occurrence is far more widespread than he would have believed, with only the extreme cases grabbing the headlines and receiving the big Hollywood movie treatment. It made Dinsdale question whether he himself exhibited traits of the disorder. He had experienced whole periods of time which were a blank. Had they been lost to an alter ego? A Mr Hyde, who had all the fun? Or were they just pure blind drunkenness when there had been no one at helm.

Professor Hart, or Heart-Throb as he was known, was young and trendy, and much to the annoyance of the male students, who were left to feed off the scraps, a fanny-magnet of the first order. Dark haired with smouldering come-to-bed eyes and an easy charm, the female students queued up for a bit of extra-curricular activity.

In the short time Dinsdale had been studying the subject, he had already got the measure of the man in psychological terms; The dashing professor was an alpha male, and one who strutted around like a peacock getting his pick of the women and was therefore, to Dinsdale's mind, a complete wanker.

Sadly, Dinsdale could easily imagine Anna going all weak-kneed over somebody like Heart-Throb, whether she was still in a respectful period of mourning or not. Dinsdale wondered if getting his hair cut a-la Hart might entice Anna to revise her desperately low opinion of him.

At the start of the lecture Hart had issued an agreed medical check list of symptoms which assisted the practitioner in formulating their diagnosis. Dinsdale scanned through the notes briefly and then read them again with interest and not some alarm. Dinsdale ticked nearly all of the boxes to a greater or lesser extent, and he wasn't mad. It clearly demonstrated that most of this so-called clever psychology stuff was a complete waste of time.

Dinsdale considered ducking out of the lecture early, but his exit wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Instead he rested back in his seat and let Heart-Throb's monologue regarding DPD and its links to schizophrenia, wash over him.

As his mind drifted, Dinsdale did ponder which schizophrenic condition would have been more problematic: Sharing a body and handing over the controls to a stranger on occasions, like Jeckle & Hyde, or having a voice constantly mithering in your ear urging you to kill everyone. He shuddered. That would be enough to drive you nuts.

It was half-past four by the time Dinsdale had wandered out of the lecture room. He considered about popping into The Feathers, but as much as he tried to ignore it, he still had some concern over Colin's well-being. He ought really to see if he was back home or indeed if he was still alive, before indulging in a pint or two.

Dinsdale opened the door to the flat and called out, 'Are you back?'

'Oh, hello, mate,' Colin sang out breezily.

Dinsdale walked into the room and saw Colin at the computer, with that strange look of contentment which only he could get from staring for hours on end at a screen.

'You're not dead then?' Dinsdale asked having his own strange disassociative experience. It was as though the events of the last forty-eight hours had never happened.

'Er, don't think so, mate.'

'What did they say?'

'Got the all clear.'

Dinsdale went to the fridge. No beer. He was sure he had hidden four cans inside.

'Feeling better then are we?'

'Yes, mate.'

Dinsdale should have been pleased that his oldest acquaintance was to live to fight another day, but sometimes friendships ran their course. Perhaps, for Colin to have been just a fond memory might have been better all round.

Dinsdale resented being intrigued, but he couldn't help asking, 'So, what happened?'

'What?' Colin said distractedly; the computer screen holding him like a tractor beam.

'The consultant!'

'Oh, yeah, he said there's nothing to worry about and gave me some pain killers.'

'Did you chuck them?'

'No, mate, I took some. Don't half give you a buzz.'

With four cans of beer and a face full of strong pain killers it was no wonder that Colin had a cheerful vacant expression.

'What did he say about the X-ray?'

'They had to call some consultant to come and have a look at them. Took ages. He spent a few minutes looking at them, then made a phone call, came back and said everything was fine.'

'Fine?' Dinsdale queried.

'Yes, mate. Although he did say it was a bit odd that there was no mention of the appendix op. on your medical records.'

'My...' Dinsdale had nearly forgotten how Colin had landed him in it. His betrayal didn't appear to matter too much now. Not that Dinsdale intended to forgive or forget. Seeing as a good hard punch in the gut would no longer kill him, Colin could expect pay back at any time.

'I tell you something else that was a bit weird,' said Colin. 'This consultant bloke asked me loads of questions about having my appendix out.'

'Like what?'

'You know, where I had it done, when, who did it?'

'Did you tell him?'

'Yeah, I don't see why not. It doesn't matter now does it? Old Barnesy can't be in the frame.'

In a way Dinsdale was relieved that life was back to normal, but Colin's death might have neatly reopened a means to win back Anna's heart; by exposing Barnes as her husband's killer and thereby relieving the insurance company of a tasty wedge of cash. But it was not to be. There was only one solution. Once again Dinsdale felt the overwhelming desire to drown his sorrows.

'I'm going to The Feathers,' he announced.

'I'll be with you in a minute, mate,' Colin replied, not considering for one moment that it might not have been an open invite. 'Just check this out. Listen. There's a theory going around that with all this nuclear disarmament going on, one of those dodgy corporations owned by the Illuminati has taken on the task of disposing of all the unwanted plutonium warheads – charging governments trillions to make them safe. This web site reckons it has evidence that specially adapted tankers ferry this stuff into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and then dump it in the Mariana Trench.'

'Colin, I'm getting thirsty.'

'No listen, this is the interesting part.'

'Colin, if you insist on bending my ear with this stuff again can I suggest you actually start with the interesting part.'

'Wait. Not only is it the deepest ocean trench in the world, but also apparently it's a tectonic plate subduction zone. The idea is that the nuclear waste is sucked down into the centre of the earth out of harms way. Good idea if it works, but they reckon they've dumped so much that it is heating up the planet and that's the real reason for global warming, and when a critical mass of the plutonium reaches the earth's core it will go off like the mother of all nuclear bombs – Booooom!'

'And we're all dead?'

'S'pose.'

'Colin, do you ever find conspiracies that don't involve everyone dying?'

'Not often. Anyway, good news isn't as much fun as this stuff.'

29

Dinsdale arrived promptly on time at Veloski's study. The old professor beamed as he ushered him in.

'Coffee, Mr Doric?'

'Please, professor.'

He placed two cups on the desk and sat down.

'So, how are things? Any nearer a resolution to your predicament?'

'I've sort of abandoned the idea.'

'Oh,' Veloski said surprised. 'Reading between the lines, I thought you were rather smitten with this young lady?'

Dinsdale shrugged cagily. The old boy was a lot sharper than he had given him credit for.

'I don't think I am cut out to be a detective,' said Dinsdale.

Veloski smiled understandingly.

'The path to true happiness is rarely a straight one.'

Dinsdale didn't need reminding. He couldn't even rely on Colin to have done the decent thing. But hey, Dinsdale shouldn't complain, he had his health – although he didn't know for how much longer, not with the prospect of Veloski's toxic books to sort out.

'Would you like to finish your coffee here or are you keen to start to work and prefer to take it with you into the library?'

'Here if I may,' Dinsdale said quickly. At least he could drink it safe in the knowledge that, unlike his lungs, the insides of his stomach wouldn't end up resembling the contents of a Hoover bag. Dinsdale eked out a few minutes as he slowly sipped his coffee.

'So, how is your friend, Colin?' Veloski inquired casually, while continuing to scribble down a stream of notes on a jotter.

Dinsdale was going to exclaim, "Still alive, unfortunately!", but it would have sounded a bit churlish.

'Usual,' Dinsdale replied in a tone laden with regret.

'Good, good,' Veloski said absently. He then paused and looked up. 'I suspect you'll be wanting to get on?'

Dinsdale took the hint and downed his coffee. He took a deep breath and plunged into the tiny library. He couldn't hold his breath for the whole two hours, but avoiding the thick fug for the first thirty seconds or so was better than nothing.

Two hours later he emerged, covered from head to toe in dust; a ghostly version of a chimney sweep. Traditionally considered to be a lucky talisman, in that grubby guise, Dinsdale would have readily made himself available for weddings, bar mitzvahs and the asthma clinic.

'My dear boy,' said Veloski with a thin trace of a smile. 'How is it going?'

'I had a problem with the vacuum. It exploded.'

Veloski looked suitably apologetic. 'Sorry, I should have warned you about that.'

'Anyway, I'm up to 'D',' said Dinsdale with a pride of someone who had lived through unimaginable suffering.

'Excellent, my boy,' beamed Veloski. 'Now, tell me, when you think of 'D' what does that bring to mind?'

To Dinsdale, 'D' immediately conjured the notion of a splendidly buxom bra size. Only reluctantly did he cast that agreeable thought aside and turn his attention to a more scholarly appraisal of Veloski's inquiry.

'Depression? – Dementia?' Dinsdale volunteered tentatively.

Veloski smiled. 'Dementia is a physiological disorder, not psychological, but certainly Depression, perhaps – Dependant Personality Disorder?'

'And – Disassociative Personality Disorder?'

Veloski frowned. 'I'm in two minds about that one.'

'What? Multiple personality? In two minds? Surely you...' Dinsdale's voice trailed off. He realised that once again he had been suckered into one of Veloski's little teases.

'No, of course you're absolutely right, Mr Doric,' Veloski said smiling. 'That along with schizophrenia are perhaps the two most interesting and disturbing disorders that we are still at pains to explain within the standard reductionist model.'

Dinsdale nodded vigorously in agreement and instantly became enveloped in a fine cloud of dust. Veloski produced a bottle of scotch from his desk. He held it up for Dinsdale's approval. Dinsdale nodded enthusiastically again and sent up another cloud of dust.

Dinsdale downed the sizeable measure of scotch in one hit.

'Conjoined twins who share one brain are a fascinating example which confounds those who hold the reductionist view,' said Veloski. 'How can two quantifiably different personalities inhabit the same physical brain? Each twin thinks differently and, as much as it is possible to do under the restricted circumstance, retains different memories, while sharing the same neurological organ. It is quite remarkable and still unexplained.'

Dinsdale made no comment. If the best minds on the planet couldn't work it out, there was little point in Dinsdale adding his miniscule intellect to the debate.

Veloski generously refilled Dinsdale's glass. Dinsdale realised that there were some advantages to be gained from a job that not only paid him generously, but also plied him with booze as a reward. He also recognised the downside. If he worked for Veloski for too much longer it would become a race as to which of his vital organs gave out first, his lungs or his liver. But with an admirably short term view towards longevity, Dinsdale heartily tucked into his second glass of scotch.

'Schizophrenia and its links to DPD are well document,' continued Veloski. 'But again the clinical causes of this disorder are poorly understood. The ancients believed the answer lay in possession by spirits and demons.' Veloski chuckled and threw up his hands. 'Even I would not advocate disincarnate entities, but I would suggest that in some cases there is strong evidence, although few of my colleagues would agree, that indicates the invasive personality is actually their own.'

Dinsdale took another warming slug of scotch, which emboldened him to take issue with the professor.

'Professor, if you don't mind me saying that doesn't sound like a very radical suggestion.'

Veloski smiled. 'True. But what I do propose, which is radical, is that the invasive personality is their own, but from a different period in their life – either from their past or from their future. You have attended one of my lectures on the Quantum Nature of Mind?'

Dinsdale nodded.

'Then you are familiar with my theories?'

Dinsdale nodded again.

'Then you'll understand I believe memories to be a real re-experiencing of the past and presentiments are the future mind nudging our present day subconscious, as in the experience of deja vu? Therefore, by extension, I believe the voices schizophrenics hear are just superior and clearer manifestations of presentiments and memories we all enjoy. Their mental awareness is not bound, as most of us are, by a narrow range of the here and now.'

Dinsdale pondered Veloski's statement and with a sharp eye for a lucrative opportunity, he asked, 'So, if schizophrenics know the future, what's to stop them making a load of money on the stock market or the horses?'

'I believe they only know what they are told. And from what we understand, there experiences could be likened to a gramophone record constantly jumping tracks which, naturally not only creates confusion and distress within the individual, but also disrupts the flow of coherent and useful information.'

'That's a shame,' Dinsdale said with genuine regret.

'Perhaps one day their suffering will not have been in vain. Perhaps in a few years we will learn to unravel the mysteries of their minds and aid those afflicted to make sense of it all.' Veloski threw up his hands in mock guilt. 'I fear I have kept you long enough, Mr Doric.'

Dinsdale conspicuously fiddled with his empty glass, spinning it on the desk in the hope that Veloski might just consent to refill it one more time before he was sent on his way. Subtle it was not. Dinsdale might as well have turned the glass upside down, put it on his head and said, 'Can't do that with a full glass!'

But Veloski's grasp of Dinsdale's odd behaviour was skewed by his own passion.

'Do you bowl, Mr Doric? You certainly give that glass a good off-spinners tweak. I recall...'

'Er, no, professor,' Dinsdale said quickly. He got to his feet and made for the door. He would willingly forsake another drink if it meant avoiding one of Veloski's torturous cricketing tales from the boundary. 'Must dash.'

30

After a long hot shower Dinsdale emerged from the bathroom a different man and certainly a different shade from when he went in, no longer looking like and old black & white photograph. He also still felt a bit woozy from the scotch earlier and collapsed on the sofa intent on sleeping it off.

'I tell you what, mate,' said Colin, back on form and back at his usual perch in front of the computer. 'They reckon the Credit Crunch was deliberately planned by them – bringing the economies of the world crashing down in order to impose their direct rule upon the masses.'

Dinsdale groaned. He knew there was little he could say that would convince Colin that the article was probably only posted by a spotty kid operating out of his bedroom, who knew as much about international finance as the Teletubbies.

With Dinsdale being desperate for sleep, what he would have liked to have said is, "Colin, shut the fuck up!" But for all his failings, Dinsdale had been brought up the correctly. As a product of a decent middle class family, it had been instilled upon him from an early age that cussing and swearing was language of the mentally deficient, who, sadly, could express themselves in no other way.

'Yeah, they reckon...'

'Colin,' Dinsdale interrupted quietly. 'Do me a favour.'

'What's that?'

'I would like to take a nap,' Dinsdale said calmly, as he rested back and closed his eyes. 'So – CAN YOU PLEASE BE QUIET!'

'Oh, okay, mate,' Colin said, hurt. 'I just thought you'd be interested, what with David Barnes and all that.'

'Unfortunately,' Dinsdale said, stung into a reply, 'unless, for some unaccountable reason, he felt sorry for you, he isn't our serial killer.'

'It must be one of the others then.'

'Obviously,' Dinsdale replied with heavy sarcasm. 'Now can I get some rest?'

'So who do you think it might be?'

'Colin,' said Dinsdale. '. . . JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!'

'Yes, mate, but I can't stop thinking about it. It keeps going around and around in my head whether I want it to or not.'

Dinsdale quickly formulated a delightfully simple plan that would have resolved both their frustrations literally at a stroke. Dinsdale would have been only too pleased to batter him about the head with a baseball bat until Colin achieved the cranial insensibility he desired. But as it was, Dinsdale was too shagged for such physical exertion.

He suggested instead, 'Hey, what about this for an idea. When you think about something, just keep it to yourself, you know, in your head.'

'Yes mate, but it's difficult.'

Dinsdale acknowledged that for someone whose lips moved when they read a book, it probably was.

'Mate, did you see you got a letter?'

Dinsdale hadn't and unless it was a big fat cheque from the Lottery, he didn't care.

'It's from the hospital.'

Dinsdale half sat up. 'Hospital?'

'They want you, well me, to go for further tests, mate.'

'What? How do you know, if the letter was addressed to me?'

'Erm, well . . . I opened it.'

'So you steam open all my correspondence, do you?' Dinsdale demanded angrily.

'No mate,' said Colin, motioning with his hands for Dinsdale to calm down. 'No, listen. Its special tests they want to do – sort of research . . .'

'Bin it,' snapped Dinsdale.

'No, listen, they're going to pay me to attend. Two hundred and fifty quid. Cash in hand. Look.'

Colin handed him the letter. Dinsdale scanned through it. The quaint expression that immediately came to mind was 'Money for old rope.' Dinsdale Doric, physically represented by Colin, had been invited to a day out in the country, train fare paid, to be poked, prodded and scanned, forfeiting a thimbleful of blood, all in the aid of Medical Science, and with the promise of hard cash as a reward.

'There's only one problem,' said Dinsdale.

'What's that mate?'

'You're not ill. And you're not me.'

'Yeah, but they don't know that.'

'I still reckon you should bin it.'

'But mate, two – hundred – and – fifty – quid,' Colin said spelling it out in the hope of Dinsdale seeing reason.

'Colin.'

'Yes, mate.'

'Trust me. It's not worth the aggravation if you get caught. When they do a blood test, they might get a little suspicious when they discover you've got a different blood group to the one shown on my records.'

'They might not check,' Colin said casually.

Dinsdale stared at him pityingly.

'Do you even know what blood group you are?'

'Yeah, they told me the other day at the hospital after the test.'

'What! They did a test? Didn't anybody say anything?'

'Nah, they just told me I am 'AB Negative'.'

'No, I'm 'AB Negative'!' said Dinsdale. 'You can't possibly be. That's my blood group.'

'That's what they said, mate.'

As a closet snob, Dinsdale had always been lead to believe AB Negative was a rare and noble blood group reserved for but an elite few, not malodorous peasants like Colin. Unswerving in that belief, Dinsdale quickly worked out what really must have happened at the hospital. They might have taken a sample, but the doctors, in the first instance, had simply noted the blood group from Dinsdale's records.

'Anyway,' Dinsdale said firmly, as he rolled over and shut his eyes. 'You are not using my ID again just to get some free dosh, understand?'

Colin didn't say anything. He just turned back to the computer and resumed his favourite occupation; tirelessly jockeying the mouse and pecking at the keyboard.

Dinsdale relished the silence which was broken only by the occasional tip-tap of the keys as Colin surfed the net. He was just on the point of dropping off into the delicious escape of oblivion when Colin's voice drilled into his skull.

'Mate, you've got to see this!'

When the red mist cleared, Dinsdale realised he had his hands around his flatmate's throat in a way which was not only surprisingly intimate for someone with Colin's hygiene issues, but also in a way that might prove a serious impediment to him living much longer.

31

'How's your neck?' Dinsdale asked glancing guiltily at the pronounced blotches around Colin's throat.

Colin rubbed his hand around the abused area. 'Bit sore, mate.'

Dinsdale hung his head. 'Erm, sorry if I was a bit grumpy.'

Colin glared at him wide-eyed. 'Grumpy! 'I'm glad I hadn't really upset you.'

'Yeah, well, all this stuff and now Emily. Must have been a big car crash.'

Not that Dinsdale knew what had happened to Emily before he had throttled Colin, but it was a useful spin to justify his behaviour. Dinsdale wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

'Another one,' he said nodding towards Colin's near empty glass.

Colin ran his hand around his neck again and winced exaggeratedly.

'Please, mate, it might help ease the pain,' he said feebly.

Dinsdale wanted to tell him there was such a thing as milking it, but he bit his tongue and beckoned Arthur over instead.

Arthur placed the full glasses on the beer mat.

'Put them on the tab?' Dinsdale suggested with a hopeful smile. Arthur let out a deep resigned sigh then went in search of another piece of glassware to polish.

'Not many in this afternoon, Arthur,' said Dinsdale looking around the bar.

The Feathers had a smattering of customer's, mostly lone drinkers and a couple of pairs of business types with pink shirts and Sonic the Hedgehog hairdos, who could only have been estate agents.

Dinsdale handed Colin his pint. They were on their third and by Dinsdale's reckoning any reparations he owed Colin for his mistreatment had been repaid in full.

'Seen Gerry?' Dinsdale asked Arthur.

'Nah,' Arthur replied, studiously towelling a pint jug and then holding it up to the light to inspect the gleaming surface for imperfections. 'There was a bloke in here earlier though,' Arthur added casually as an afterthought.

Dinsdale drank a slug of his beer waiting for Arthur to expand upon that rather bald statement. It was one which, if left unaugmented, would rank as perhaps one of the most monumentally pointless and mind-numbing things Arthur had ever said.

For a man of so few words, the least Dinsdale would have expected was that any of Arthur's rare utterances would have been surgically astute or pithy. Being generous enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, Dinsdale smiled encouragingly for him to go on.

When Arthur failed to respond, Dinsdale asked in exasperation, 'Yeah, so who was it?'

'Dunno. Never seen him before,' Arthur replied, finding another glass to clean.

Dinsdale took another desperate swig of beer wondering what he had done so wrong in a previous life to deserve being party to such a conversation.

'Shame about that bird, mate,' Colin said staring into his beer.

'Yeah, terrible. Especially as she was a bit of all right,' Dinsdale replied, taking the opportunity to move on from Arthur and his spell-binding conversation.

'I can't see why it was on the news though, mate. There are loads of people who get hurt in car crashes.'

'Must be to do with her connection to old Stanley Knife,' Dinsdale said absently.

'Yeah, but Knife doesn't even get a mention . . .' Colin's voiced tailed off as he sunk into deep thought mode. His brow creased and he stood motionless, staring vacantly at the floor.

'Mate,' he said finally.

For one night only, another of Dinsdale's self-imposed penances was to not immediately shoot down any of Colin's wilder notions.

'Remember what she said, "They're on to me." Well, mate, I reckon they got her.'

Dinsdale couldn't help himself.

'Colin, it was an accident, not the Grassy Knoll.'

Colin smiled knowingly. 'I've got just two words for you, mate. Princes – Di.'

'And I've got two for you. Bol! – Locks!'

The truce, which was unfortunately much shorter than Dinsdale had anticipated, was over. What with Arthur and now Colin. They were both as mad as a box of frogs. Dinsdale's mood wasn't improved when Arthur cleared his throat and said, 'Erm, you know that bloke.'

No one had told Dinsdale that he had died and he was in Purgatory. He downed a mouthful of beer. The anaesthesia of intoxication couldn't come soon enough.

'No, I don't actually.' Dinsdale wasn't normally short with Arthur; he didn't want to upset such an accommodating and wonderfully absent minded landlord, but he struggled to curb his irritation.

'Well, he knew you,' Arthur replied walking off to clean more glasses.

At that moment Gerry strolled in and walked up to the bar.

'Alright, girls,' Gerry called over.

Colin rapidly drained his glass. He summoned a timely low plaintive moan as he edged along the bar in Gerry's direction. Dinsdale was instantly torn. He was keen to update Gerry with events, but also he wanted to pursue Arthur's comment about the mystery acquaintance. He decided that Arthur's unidentified patron could wait.

'Ah, Colin, I see you're not dead then,' Gerry said with a crooked smile. Colin responded by grimacing and rubbing his neck.

'Nearly, mate,' Colin said, flicking his eyes accusingly towards Dinsdale.

Dinsdale seized the opportunity to prove he wasn't all bad.

'Do you wanna beer?' he called over to Gerry.

Colin piped-up instantly. 'Please, mate.'

'That's very kind, Dennis,' Gerry replied. 'Best get one for your friend here too.'

As each stood with a pint in hand, Dinsdale brought Gerry up to speed on Colin's hospital visit.

'Anyway,' Dinsdale said summing up, 'the bottom line is that there's nothing wrong with him.'

Gerry eyed Colin in a way to suggest that the Hospital's preliminary diagnosis might have been less than rigorous.

Well,' said Gerry. 'I've done a little more digging. I've got another name for you – someone else who was on duty when Jon Hill got stitched up.' Gerry chuckled. 'If you'll excuse the pun.'

It was with little interest that Dinsdale said, 'Go on.'

Gerry deliberately took his time drinking a couple of mouthfuls of beer and spent an age rearranging his carnation button hole. Finally, Gerry smiled a knowing smile.

'It was your mate, Piers Stanley, no less.'

'Piers!'

Colin began nodding furiously.

'It's him. It must be,' Colin said excitedly.

'I knew he was a dodgy old bastard,' Dinsdale sneered.

Gerry held up his hand.

'Before you guys start organising a lynching mob, need I remind you that just because he was on duty at the time it doesn't mean he was involved.'

'Yeah, but what about Emily,' said Colin.

'And don't forget that he's a complete knob,' snorted Dinsdale.

'Emily?' queried Gerry.

'Car crash,' said Dinsdale. 'Colin reckons she was got at.'

'Yes, mate, it all fits. I reckon it was a warning to others to back off.' Colin slowly placed his half empty glass on the bar, cleared his throat and stood back. Dinsdale had seen that preparation a hundred times before as Colin got into conspiracy lecture mode. Dinsdale couldn't face another onslaught of paranoia. He turned away and called to Arthur.

'This mate of mine, did he give you a name?'

'Nah,' said Arthur.

'What's he look like?'

Arthur shook his head. 'Normal.'

'So, how do you know, he knows me?'

'Knew your name. Where you live.'

'Did he look like a Student?'

'Nah,' said Arthur.

Dinsdale stood for a moment trying to work out who it could be. He had not exactly amassed a huge number of drinking buddies since moving to Norwich. There were a few blokes he spoke to in the betting shop, but he had never seen any of them drinking in The Feathers before.

'It wasn't Ed the Hippy was it?' Dinsdale asked, remembering an old derelict, a porter from the hospital, he occasionally used to chat with. 'Long hair and a kaftan? Sounds a bit thick because he's done too many drugs?'

'Nah. Quite smart. Tan leather jacket.'

'Tan . . .' Dinsdale gasped. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of his chest. If he had been of the female persuasion from a bygone era, at that moment he would have swooned into a dead faint. As it was he staggered a little and clung to the bar for support.

'Did he look pissed off?' Dinsdale dreaded the reply.

'Didn't smile much.'

Dinsdale nervously sunk his pint in one hit.

'Er,' he said, cutting across Colin's grave exposition. Dinsdale gulped. 'Erm, guys – we have a problem.'

32

That night in the pub the three of them hatched yet another foolproof plan. Unfortunately, like most before it, it was one that didn't stand up to the rigours of sobriety or the cold light of day. It wasn't a bad idea, but whether it was 'Foolproof' was highly debatable. But Dinsdale had no option. As much as he had been prepared to forget the whole thing, he couldn't now, not with the psycho in the tan jacket gunning for him. Dinsdale realised he probably wasn't as he originally assumed – a jealous suitor – but the face of those who sought to keep their deadly secret safe, by whatever means it took.

If, as it seemed likely, Piers was involved in the cover up, perhaps even the murderer himself, the only way Dinsdale could extract himself from this mess was to confront Piers with the truth and get him to call off the attack dogs.

In the pub they were convinced that the spineless Piers would crack when confronted with evidence of his involvement. But now as Dinsdale's hand hovered by the phone, he wasn't so sure. If there was some sort of high level black ops thing going on, surely Piers would only be a very small cog in a big and dangerous wheel. And if dear sweet Emily's accident wasn't an accident, then what chance did Dinsdale stand?

If Piers had been prepared to let that happen to his nubile young plaything, he would have no hesitation in sanctioning a similar fate for Dinsdale. Mummy wouldn't be impressed, but Mummy was never likely to find out just how much of a scumbag Piers was – unless Dinsdale could conclusively prove otherwise. Dinsdale picked up the phone and rang the number.

Dinsdale sat quietly waiting with the other constituents. Each was there to lobby for their pet cause. Each believing that their MP, the man they had elected to Parliament to represent them, actually gave a toss that Acacia Avenue needed a zebra crossing or Tillingham was ill-served by the local bus company. Undoubtedly, like most MPs, Piers would look concerned, nod appropriately, offer a few platitudes and bid them on their way with a sigh of relief – democracy in action and having been seen to be done.

Although MP's surgeries represented an opportunity for voters to speak face to face with their representative, constituents couldn't just bowl up on the night with their soap box in hand to lambaste the guy about the inadequacies of the government. It was all done by prior appointment and having a relevant local issue to discuss.

Dinsdale's, or more precisely Doric's apparent grievance, had been Wind Farms – we need more of them! It was free power courtesy of the sun and sky, so sod all the NIMBY's, the whining, Not-In-My-Back-Yard people.

Dinsdale hadn't pretended to be his mother. He hadn't put on a silly voice or imitated her mannerisms, he hadn't needed to. The secretary didn't question his identity when Dinsdale had rung to make an appointment. She asked him who was calling and he simply said Doric. The secretary clearly knew the significance of the local dignitary, and perhaps having never spoken to her before, assumed the doughty Beatrice Doric just had an improbably deep masculine voice. Hence, Dinsdale was booked in to see Piers Stanley MP at eight forty-five in the old Methodist church in Hatfield Peverel on Friday evening.

A young party worker appeared from the small back room with clipboard in hand, ushering some old duffer out from his brief audience with Piers.

It reminded Dinsdale of the days when the common man would plead on bended knees to be granted some small mercy from the Lord of the Manor. At least the old duffer looked suitably fortified by the encounter and shuffled out with a contented smile on his face. Dinsdale wondered if Piers would look so happy when he had finished with him. Dinsdale didn't have to wait long to find out. His name was next on the list.

'Mrs Doric,' the young party worker called out. Dinsdale rose out of his chair. The young man with the clip board looked bemused then alarmed as Dinsdale strode towards the door.

'Sorry,' the young man said apologetically. 'Mrs Doric is next.' He looked over Dinsdale's shoulder trying to spot her presence among those in the hall.

'It's Dinsdale Doric actually,' Dinsdale said, barrelling through the door.

Piers had his head down scribbling something in his diary as Dinsdale burst into the room. Piers instantly leapt out of his seat and with an oily smile, thrust out his hand. The smile disappeared instantly as did the hand when he realised it wasn't Beatrice.

'Denzel?' Piers said in surprise, adding with an obvious lack of sincerity. 'How good to see you.'

'Dinsdale,' Dinsdale corrected him sharply, while keeping a clench-jawed smile on his face. Piers' knob-factor was going through the roof.

It didn't appear that Piers intended to offer him a seat, so Dinsdale took one anyway. Piers reluctantly joined him. After a moment of indecision Piers looked down at his notes.

'Wind farms?' he queried nervously.

'Emily,' Dinsdale said coldly.

Piers slowly leant back in his chair and he took on an appropriately sombre expression.

'Ah, yes, poor dear Emily. Tragic,' he said.

'An accident?' Dinsdale asked with deliberate ambiguity, while carefully observing Piers for any trace of genuine emotion.

'Terrible,' Piers said. He then threw up his hands as if to indicate that was all he had to say on the matter and time was pressing.

'So, wind farms?' Piers said abruptly.

'Not exactly...' Dinsdale said leaning forward in a not to be trifled with manner. He was going to nail Piers before he had a chance to slither out of it, but events took another turn.
'Dinsdale!' A voice behind him suddenly boomed. It was instantly and shudderingly recognisable, but Dinsdale instinctively swung round to confirm its terrifying source. The sight of his mother standing in the doorway, hands on hips and with a face like a smacked arse, didn't incline Dinsdale to believe she was pleased to see him; Especially not when found alone with her beloved Piers.

'What are you doing?' boomed Beatrice.

'Erm . . .' Dinsdale said as he shot Piers a glance. Piers just sat with his arms folded, and a smirk on his face. '. . . wind farms?'

'Wind farms!' Beatrice said. 'What on earth . . .?' She shook her head and motioned for Dinsdale to leave. 'I am sure neither Mr Stanley nor his government has any interest in harvesting your excessive flatulence.'

On cue, and like a paid stooge, Piers nearly fell out of his chair laughing with disproportionate hilarity at her quip.

'Oh, Beatrice,' Piers said, affectedly clutching his sides, 'I have always admired your sense of humour.'

'Anyway,' Beatrice said addressing Dinsdale. 'I have invited Piers and a few others back to the house for some refreshment. What time is your train?'

Dinsdale shrugged. 'I think the last one leaves at eleven-thirty.'

Beatrice stood for a moment gazing downwards as if wrestling with an inner turmoil.

She sighed. 'Oh very well, come back to the house and join us for a very quick drink.' She shot him the withering No Jokes glare.

With the barest hint of a smile, Dinsdale realised Mummy might just have done him a big favour.

A half-dozen or so political apparatchiks milled around in Beatrice's grand reception hall discussing the latest intrigues of the party. Dinsdale bided his time.

Dinsdale hadn't pounced upon Piers the moment they had walked through the door, but he waited for him to take full advantage of Mummy's liquid hospitality. Dinsdale had observed Piers downing three large gin & tonics in less than a quarter of an hour. As Piers strode slightly unsteadily towards the drinks trolley, Dinsdale was quick to join him.

'Ah, Daniel,' Piers said. For such an old wind bag Piers was suddenly lost for words before he patted Dinsdale's arm and added patronisingly, 'Your mother's a fine woman.'

He picked up his refilled glass and made to slink off, but Dinsdale corralled him.

'It's Dinsdale,' said Dinsdale behind a false smile.

'Great,' Piers said distractedly, as he glanced over Dinsdale's shoulder for someone to extract him from the encounter.

Dinsdale grinned. 'Yes, my mother. A toast.'

Dinsdale raised his glass and took a sip. Piers downed his drink in one hit.

'I'll get you another.'

Dinsdale mixed him another large one.

'Thank you Den . . .' Piers caught himself. He then gestured to the other side of the room towards his eager young minions who were chatting among themselves awaiting the return of their inspiration.

'Look, it has been great talking to you but . . .'

'I was hoping to talk to you about something,' Dinsdale said standing squarely in front of him, blocking his path.

'Wind farms?' Piers suggested tentatively.

'Project Chaos, the Obsidian Covenant.'

Dinsdale had never seen a man's face pale so quickly. Piers downed the second G &T even quicker than the first.

'Look . . . I . . . I . . .' Piers stammered as he wobbled towards the drinks trolley, refilling his glass.

'So, was it an accident?' Dinsdale asked firmly.

'Of course,' Piers protested, noticeably slurring his words. He was desperate to escape, but short of pushing Dinsdale aside he was trapped.

'The appendectomies, the pills, the cure for cancer,' Dinsdale said coldly. 'You're in it up to your neck.'

Piers gulped down more drink, but suddenly gathered himself.

'Looked,' he hissed in a low voice, 'you shouldn't be talking of these things. It's dangerous.'

Dinsdale sneered. 'Not as dangerous as it was for all those people you killed.'

'What! You don't understand.'

'All I want is for you to call off the heavies or my mother might just find out what you've been up to.'

Piers then surprised him. He took a deep breath then jabbed a finger into Dinsdale's chest.

'You really are getting way out of your depth, Dinsdale. My advice to you is, just leave it, if you know what's good for you.'

'Are you threat––?' But Dinsdale got to say no more.

'Oh, Piers!' Beatrice had appeared behind him and instantly began fawning over her guest of honour. 'I hope my son hasn't been boring you with any of his childish jokes?' she giggled.

Piers produced his oily smile. 'Not at all. Quite educational – as the actress said to the bishop.'

Beatrice giggled again and took Piers' arm to lead him away. Dinsdale stood seething. Yet another supposedly foolproof plan was in tatters, and as Dinsdale had now put his head firmly above the parapet, watching his back would become a full time occupation. From now on there wouldn't be a time when he didn't need to keep his wits about him and stay sharp twenty-four seven.

He couldn't even chance having a few beers. He shuddered at the prospect of living a life in nerve-jangling sobriety. Faced by such a catastrophic prospect, his resolved stiffened; he was going to nail Piers whatever it took.

33

It was Monday morning and a work day at Veloski's library. As Dinsdale coughed and wheezed his way through two hours of book stacking, in better times Dinsdale might have whiled away the time deep in thought, contemplating the finer things in life like the prospect of the first pint of the day, but he wasn't in the mood. He was too preoccupied; Firstly for his own safety and secondly for a way to get back at Piers.

It was ten past nine by the time Dinsdale finally rocked up at Veloski's study. He hadn't had a chance to speak to the professor regarding the latest developments. He intended to put that right when the gruelling shift was over.

Finally at around twelve Veloski poked his head around the door and called time on Dinsdale's labours. Dinsdale didn't need a second bidding.

'Getting there, professor.'

'You're doing a splendid job. Where are we at?'

'I've done 'E' and probably halfway through 'F'.'

'Excellent. It looks like you've got your eye in.' Veloski smiled. 'When you're ready, come through.'

Dinsdale left the library and took a seat at Veloski's desk.

'Drink?' Veloski asked.

'Please,' Dinsdale said eagerly.

Veloski poured him a generous measure. Dinsdale immediately gulped a mouthful down.

'That's better,' Dinsdale said wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It had an acrid taste of dust.

'Professor,' Dinsdale hesitated. 'A new situation has arisen. Have you got five minutes?'

Veloski leant attentively forward on his elbows and motioned for Dinsdale to go on. Dinsdale explained what had happened and at the end of the update his glass was empty. Veloski was quick to refill it.

'So, you are totally convinced Piers Stanley is guilty of these terrible crimes?' Veloski asked, perhaps testing Dinsdale's conviction.

'He knows too much not to be.'

'Possibly,' Veloski said as he rested back in his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin. 'What I don't understand then is, if this man is responsible, why are the authorities or 'They' as you call them, seemingly so keen to protect him?'

Dinsdale had given that some thought.

'Maybe we've got the wrong handle on what's going on. Maybe Project Chaos was a government backed trial that he was part of, which went wrong and now They are trying to conceal it.'

Veloski stared thoughtfully into the distance.

'It would appear that Piers Stanley knows something or even a great deal about this affair, but that does not make him its central architect.'

Dinsdale sneered, 'But if you knew what a . . .'

Veloski held up his hand. 'Don't let your animosity cloud rational judgement.'

'Well, if it wasn't him, it must have been one of the others.'

'And have you had any contact with the other surgeons to get their opinion on the matter?'

'There's only one available. One's gone missing and the others abroad.'

'Then why haven't you spoken to him?' Veloski asked surprised. Dinsdale emptied his glass and carefully placed it on the desk.

'Erm, professor,' Dinsdale said hesitantly, 'I couldn't borrow your phone could I?'

Dinsdale arranged to return to Veloski's rooms later that afternoon. He had drawn up a list of tough, incisive questions he was to put to Brendan Watts. Dinsdale would run them past Veloski first before he dared pick up the phone.

It was with some apprehension that Dinsdale knocked at Veloski's door. He still fostered the hope that Veloski might step-in to make the call on his behalf. The old don was far quicker-witted than Dinsdale would ever be.

'Come in,' Veloski called out from inside.

Sitting across the desk, he offered Dinsdale a drink. Veloski was surprised when Dinsdale held up his hand and refused the offer.

'Maybe afterwards,' Dinsdale said.

Veloski pushed the phone across the desk.

'No time like the present,' the professor said encouragingly.

Dinsdale pulled his list of questions from his pocket and handed them to Veloski.

'What do you think?'

Veloski ran his finger slowly down the sheet of paper.

'Can I make a suggestion?' Veloski said after a moment's consideration. 'Perhaps use these as only a guide. I think in the first instance your approach should be one of general enquiry, not full frontal assault. If this man is our villain or party to the affair, why would he talk to you, or discuss any of the other people who maybe involved? These people have demonstrated their skill at closing ranks.'

Veloski had only confirmed Dinsdale's sneaking suspicion that his in-your-face tactic was deeply flawed.

'Can I make another suggestion?' Veloski asked. 'Perhaps you can bowl Brendan Watts a googly? Perhaps you can claim to be a long lost acquaintance of that chap who's disappeared.'

'David Barnes?'

'Why not?' Veloski said. 'It is an opportunity to talk about the time they worked together. It may prove informative.'

It was already a much better proposal than Dinsdale's.

'And as yet another suggestion,' Veloski said. 'I understand your friend Colin was operated on by Barnes? Perhaps Colin should be trying to track Barnes down to thank him personally for saving his life?'

Dinsdale was confused, but then understood what Veloski was getting at. 'What, I pretend to be Colin?'

'Precisely.'

'Yeah, I like it.'

Dinsdale was nervous and his hands clammy when he picked up the phone and dialled the number. After the endless frustration of 'Press one for general enquiries, two for outpatients, three for gynaecology...' etc. each of which heralded a new batch of options to be selected, then another and another, Dinsdale finally got to talk to a real human being in the general surgery department.

'Hi,' Dinsdale said lowering his voice in disguise, 'I was hoping to speak to Dr Watts?'

'Mr Watts is unavailable at the moment,' a woman said officiously. 'Who's calling?'

'Oh, right, eh, the name's Berry, Colin Berry,' Dinsdale said.

'Do you want to leave a message?' the woman asked.

'Not really – I was hoping to talk to him personally.'

'Can I ask him to call you?'

Dinsdale looked anxiously across to Veloski. Things once again were not panning out as they should have done. Dinsdale hesitated.

'Yeah. Will it be today?'

'I can't speak for Mr Watts movements.'

'Okay.' Dinsdale hesitated again. 'Can you tell him it's regarding – David Barnes.'

She asked for a contact number. Dinsdale didn't hesitate this time. He reeled off Colin's mobile number. He put down the phone knowing he had no time to lose. He had to get back to the flat before Watts rang back and the real Colin put his foot in it by answering the call.

34

As per normal, it was a given to find Colin perched in front of the computer when Dinsdale arrived at the flat. Dinsdale's appearance barely registered.

'Anyone phoned?' Dinsdale asked breezily.

Colin seemed not to hear. Then after a time delay of a second or two like a signal from a distant satellite link, Colin suddenly said, 'No, mate.'

'Is your mobile charged up?'

Pause.

'S'pose. Dunno, mate.'

'Have you got it on you?'

Pause. 'Erm . . .' Longer pause.

'Colin!'

'Oh, sorry, mate,' Colin said finally. 'I'm just reading this stuff about organised manipulation of the masses by specifically directed media propaganda. We are not talking the old smack you round the face Nazi and Stalinist stuff. No, mate, we're talking the subtle drip, drip of background misinformation. Campaigns organised by those with the clout and a vested interest to mould public opinion and prevent media investigation into the things they don't want us to know. The Credit Crunch for example. All these countries owe all this money, but to who? And if it is making things so bad, why haven't they written-off the debt like they did with South America. Don't hear discussion about that, do we. I tell you, it's scary.'

'Yeah, anyway,' Dinsdale said exasperated. 'Where's your phone?'

'I tell you what, mate, these guys are clever. And we fall for it every time.'

'Colin, where's your bloody phone!'

'I'm not going to use mine anymore. They can track your movements every minute of the day, twenty-four-seven.'

'Just turn the frigging thing off then! But where is it?'

'It's in the fridge. There's no reception in there. They can't pick up the signal.'

Dinsdale went over to the fridge and took Colin's phone out. It had been hidden beneath a piece of cheese.

'It has got reception,' Dinsdale said confused.

'Yeah, but only when you open the fridge door.'

'But how do you know...?' Dinsdale pulled back, refusing to be drawn into Colin's surreal world of logic. He pressed the button to bring up the display. There had been no missed calls. Dinsdale hovered, not quite sure what to do next.

'There's not much credit on it,' Colin said quickly.

'Doesn't matter.'

'It's got the balloon shooting game and Sudoku.'

'Yeah.'

'And I've deleted all my texts,' Colin added.

As if they would have been of the remotest interest to the Dark Forces. The only texts Colin received were ones that told him his phone needed topping up.

'You can't be too careful,' said Colin.

'Right,' Dinsdale said wearily. It was like having to endure a conversation with a tiresome child.

'You takin' a picture then?'

'No.'

'Oh . . .'

With Colin's inquiries exhausted, the room was filled with silence as he returned to his preoccupation with on-line paranoia.

Dinsdale waited nervously for the phone to ring. Minutes ticked by. He had no idea how long it would be before Watts called, if at all. Having a vague message to call someone regarding an ex-work colleague, who he probably knew little of and cared less about, wouldn't rank as the highest priority in Watts' world.

Alone with his thoughts, more doubts crept in. He had been really up for it bolstered by Veloski's reassuring presence, but now, back at the flat, he wasn't so sure of himself. Medical people are highly intelligent and they weren't likely to be bamboozled into revealing confidences by the likes of Dinsdale. The flat wasn't the best place to hold a conversation of that nature either, with the man whose identity Dinsdale had stolen likely to earwig the whole thing.

'I'm going out. I might be some time,' announced Dinsdale deliberately echoing an apocalyptic declaration from long ago.

Dinsdale chose to wait for Watts' call in the local park, which was only a hundred yards down the road from the flat. It wasn't a warm evening or even particularly comfortable on the bench, but at least it afforded a place of undisturbed solitude.

As Dinsdale quickly discovered, a few minutes, even with something mildly diverting to occupy the mind, past agreeably quickly, but sat alone, growing increasingly cold and feeling very conspicuous, each and every second was proving to be an eternity in its own right.

His anxiety about the call wasn't his only concern. People were giving him hostile glares, especially those with small children. He couldn't help it if the bench was positioned opposite the play area and his unkempt appearance ticked most of the boxes as appearing to be a Paedo.

Dinsdale didn't know where to look when two young mums with voices raised for his benefit, said, 'Look at him. Trying to disguise himself with that wig. People like him shouldn't be allowed out. They ought to do something.'

Dinsdale turned away, but he could tell they were still glaring at him. As a distraction he called the hospital on the direct line he had been given. It went straight through to an answer phone.

Dinsdale glanced over his shoulder. The two mums had begun talking to a tattooed young thug with an unruly Alsatian dog that was the size of a small pony. They were pointing in Dinsdale's direction. Dinsdale took the hint as the thug and his excitable dog made toward him. He massaged some life back into his numb backside and briskly made for the park exit.

Dinsdale approached the park gates and caught sight of a police car parked directly outside the entrance. He disliked the police at the best of times and these weren't the best of times. And something told him that it wasn't just coincidence that they were there. Dinsdale faltered unsure what to do. He couldn't retrace his steps not with the Hound of the Baskerville's on his tail and just hanging back loitering would have looked a tad suspicious. Dinsdale realised he had to bluff it out. He steeled himself with a deep breath and affecting an air of moral outrage he strode over to the police car.

He tapped on the passenger's window. It rolled down. The policeman slowly turned towards Dinsdale. His expression was almost pure malevolence.

'I'm glad you're here,' Dinsdale said quickly. 'You after a dodgy geezer in the park?'

The policeman said nothing, but stared at Dinsdale as though he was a piece of shit. Dinsdale didn't think he had been rumbled as lot of people looked at him that way.

'I saw him over the other side,' Dinsdale said, pointing over his shoulder. 'Old bloke in a dirty Mac with a puppy and carrying a bag of sweets. He was going out the back gate.'

The policeman didn't respond and without any further acknowledgement, the window rolled up and the car pulled away.

Dinsdale sauntered off in the opposite direction with a big grin. The police were so stupid.

He wandered aimlessly around the back streets with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, one of which was clutching Colin's phone. After a few minutes Dinsdale stopped to check the ring tone's volume fearing he'd miss the call. He leaned against a low garden wall and pulled the battered Nokia from his pocket.

As he peered at the tiny screen he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and his stomach lurched. The police car from outside the park had silently ghosted to a halt by the kerb. The hard-faced policeman climbed out of the car and curled a finger to summon Dinsdale. Non-compliance didn't appear to be an option. Dinsdale walked reluctantly towards the police car. As he drew level, the copper swivelled him round, slapped the handcuffs on him and read him his rights. Dinsdale was then roughly bundled into the back of the car and taken down town.

'I can't believe you haven't got a criminal record as long as your arm,' Inspector Carter sneered. 'Or have you been just lucky, son?'

Dinsdale said nothing. The young inspector had obviously flunked the "How to win friends and influence people" exam again. For an hour Carter had basically berated Dinsdale, via metaphor, simile and police-speak, predominately in a raised vitriolic voice, that he, Dinsdale Doric, a self-confessed liar and proven fraudster, was a perverted turd of the highest order.

'You get your kicks hanging around parks looking at children, do you? Like the little boys, do you?'

It was a blatant, and with a leaden-boot subtlety, attempt to provoke Dinsdale into doing something he would regret. Dinsdale had seen through stage-managed pantomime immediately. He'd had years of practice remaining calm when moronic people wasted his time by trying to goad him into a fight, especially over his cherished name. Carter's was an extreme example, but in dealing with it, the principal was the same. Say nothing and smile. It was successful to a point, but Carter was lucky not to have got a fat lip when a couple of the insults hit hard. Dinsdale was ultra-sensitive about his cheesy feet and slanderous accusations of halitosis.

Carter became more agitated and angrier the longer the interview went on. Dinsdale wondered whether Carter was genuinely working himself into lather over his suspect's perceived evil wrong doings, or because his strategy wasn't working. Carter knew there was no evidence against Dinsdale to justify holding him and unless Dinsdale did something stupid like assault a policeman, he would walk free.

When Carter paused for breath taking the opportunity to dredge up some more savage insults, Dinsdale casually came out with the phrase, "Police harassment."

Enraged the young inspector flung his chair across the room. He leant menacingly over the table and got right into Dinsdale's face. Carter was close, very close. In fact, if that scene had been played out in an Inuit police station some might have thought they were actually snogging. But Dinsdale didn't back down. Under Gerry's guidance Dinsdale was emboldened to stand firm against such intimidation.

'Listen, sonny,' Carter said, 'you have no idea how bad your life will be if you don't take my advice.'

Dinsdale remained silent, as was his right. The kind policeman had told him so when he was arrested. Carter wasn't so keen on this fundamental principle of law.

'Do you know what my advice is, eh?' growled Carter.

Dinsdale said nothing.

'Think you're being smart do you, Sonny? Take it from me, you ain't smart, you're stupid. Hear me, stupid.' Carter let the words hang, breathing heavily from the verbal exertion.

Dinsdale was furious. Carter was still only inches from his face and Dinsdale was in direct line of fire from every rancid pant exhaled by the young inspector. How dare Carter make mention of Dinsdale's bad breath when his own would have stripped paint.

'So,' Carter said, 'my advice to you, sonny . . .'

Dinsdale was saved from Carter's pearls of wisdom because among the personal effects removed from Dinsdale's pockets and heaped together in the middle of the table was Colin's phone, and it suddenly rang. Possibly, and with some predictability, the ring tone was the heavy choral music from the film, The Omen. They both turned startled and nearly banged heads. Carter grabbed it off the table and, for a moment, it looked as though he was going to hurl it across the room. But he contained his anger.

'No this isn't Colin Berry! Who is calling?' demanded Carter.

When the answer wasn't forthcoming Carter snarled, 'I said – who's calling!'

There could be only one person on the end of the line. Thankfully, Watts was demonstrating an admirable discretion, which Dinsdale hoped wouldn't crumble under the weight of D.I. Carter's increasing fury. Should Watts reveal his identity and the police made the connection, Dinsdale foresaw a whole new shit-load of trouble coming his way.

Dinsdale swallowed hard. It was just possible at that very moment, Dinsdale's future, perhaps even his life, rested in Brendan Watts' hands.

'I have never heard of Colin Berry,' Carter growled. 'Now, tell me your name!'

Carter ripped the phone away from his ear and slammed it down on the table. Obviously the caller had hung up.

'Who's Colin Berry!' Carter demanded furiously. The young inspector wasn't used to having his authority ignored.

Dinsdale shrugged innocently. 'Dunno. Wrong number?'

Brendan Watts was a top man.

Fifteen minutes later Dinsdale was released with a stern warning from Carter.

As a man who was never short of a hackneyed cliché or two to express his forthright opinions, it came as no surprise when Carter said, 'I've got my eye on you, sunshine. Look over your shoulder and I'll be there. You take one more step out of line and I'll crush you like an ant.'

Carter then made the 'I'm watching you' warning gesture by repeatedly pointing to his eyes and then jabbing his forked fingers in Dinsdale's direction.

It was all very melodramatic and made Dinsdale wonder what treatment Carter meted out to real villains. Inspector Carter might have been a pantomime version of the Bad Cop, in the good cop, bad cop scenario, but Dinsdale was in no doubt there were some very heavyweight strings being pulled in the background to ward him off. Yes, Carter was right; Dinsdale had better watch his step.

35

'Again!' said Colin. 'You must be on first name terms with that lot. Carry on like this and they'll invite you to the staff's Christmas party.'

'They're trying to warn me off big time. They seem to be watching everything I do. It's criminal.'

Colin had zoned out of the conversation. The computer once more had him under its spell. Dinsdale opened the fridge. Right at the back hidden behind some broccoli and carrots was a can of beer which Dinsdale had cleverly hidden out of sight.

Colin never ate vegetables. He summarily dismissed anything green and vaguely healthy as "Rabbit Food". Therefore its discreet placement behind those reviled foodstuffs represented the perfect hiding place.

Psst! went the can as Dinsdale opened it and began tipping the beer down his throat. Colin reacted instinctively to the sound.

'You bought beer?'

'Found it.'

'What, in the fridge?' queried Colin.

Dinsdale didn't answer, but contented himself with enjoying the cool sparkling liquid.

'Gissa swig.'

Dinsdale ignored him. There was no chance of sharing even a drop after the day he'd had. Dinsdale fell onto the sofa and stretched out. He had just got comfortable when Colin's mobile blared out The Omen's apocalyptic theme.

'That's my phone, mate,' Colin said surprised.

'Must have slipped into my pocket,' mumbled Dinsdale as he fished it out of his trousers.

Displayed on the screen said 'Unknown Caller'. He immediately swung his legs down and sat to attention in the chair.

'Hello.'

'Is that Colin Berry?' a man with a soft Dublin accent asked.

'Oh, yes, right,' Dinsdale said in a slow drawl trying to sound a bit dim witted like Colin.

'Do I know you, Mr Berry?'

Dinsdale hesitated before he answered. It gave him enough time to get off the sofa and into his bedroom before Colin wondered why he was putting on such a stupid voice.

'Well the thing is, doctor,' Dinsdale said pulling his bedroom door shut behind him. 'I have been trying to locate someone and...'

Dr Watts cut across him. 'And would that someone be David Barnes?'

'Well, yes, actually,' said Dinsdale.

'Why? Are you with the Press? One of these Internet nuts?' Watts demanded angrily.

'No, I...'

'Why can't you leave him alone!'

'No, I – I am a friend,' Dinsdale protested. 'Well no – he saved my life actually.'

Watts sounded unconvinced. 'Well, he is a doctor. That's what we do.'

'I – I never got to thank him,' Dinsdale said quickly. 'He – he took my appendix out.'

There followed a short silence. It was long enough for Dinsdale to think they had been cut off. 'Hello, hello...' Dinsdale said hurriedly.

'I need to see you,' Watts said suddenly.

'Right,' Dinsdale said. He wasn't sure if should be pleased or concerned. If Watts was in on it, agreeing to any meeting could possibly mean accepting a one way ticket to the land of "Never to be seen again". But after confirming the arrangements, Dinsdale shrugged. He had done his part. As far as Watts was concerned, it was at the surgeon's specific request that Colin Berry and he should meet. And so it will come to pass. Not that he knew it yet, but his old pal, Colin Berry, a man with a murky medical history, had an appointment to meet one of the men who might once have nearly killed him. Dinsdale wondered how Colin would react to that news.

'I ain't happy about this, mate.'

'Colin, Colin, Colin, you must learn to trust me,' Dinsdale said, as his arm hovered to give Colin a reassuring man hug. Dinsdale couldn't do it. It produced the same gag reflex as when he once tried to eat a plate of snails. He gingerly patted him on the back instead.

'Look, we've been through what you have to say,' Dinsdale said encouragingly.

'Why can't you do it?'

'We've been through that as well. He'll smell a rat if he sees I haven't had my appendix out.'

'Why can't we both go?'

'We are,' Dinsdale said. 'Just I'll be in the background, on hand if . . .'

Dinsdale wisely curtailed his thoughts on the potentially hazardous downside to this strategy. As it was, it was touch and go whether Colin would fulfil his lead role in the affair. If they both hadn't been sat on a fast London bound train, Dinsdale was certain that Colin would have bottled-out long before now.

'Col, mate, once you've won his trust, then I'll come along and take over.'

Normally, Dinsdale never called Colin, 'Col'. It somehow conveyed a chumminess and familiarity which to Dinsdale's mind blurred the strict dividing line that should exist between landlord and smelly, rent-dodging, good-for-nothing lodger, even if he was an old pal. But in this instance, Dinsdale used the term 'Col' purely as an unscrupulous ploy to keep him on-side. Colin responded well. He ran his hand over his stubbly chin.

'S'pose. So I just ask him about David Barnes?'

'That's it,' Dinsdale said. 'See if you can suss him out. That's all. I'm not asking you to be 007.'

The train pulled into Liverpool Street station. It arrived on time at four-thirty seven.

It was then just a short hop on the Hammersmith & City tube line before they emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. On the opposite side of the frenetically busy Whitechapel Road stood the Royal London Hospital, an imposing, but now anachronistic eighteenth century redbrick edifice, which for over two-hundred and-fifty years had been dedicated to offering alms to the sick.

'It's a big place, mate,' Colin said staring up with some trepidation.

Dinsdale had to admit it did look quite Dickensian; a place where limbs were still to this day regularly amputated without anaesthetic and grave robbers surreptitiously sold disinterred cadavers at the back door.

'Just go to the reception. Watts said he would be available after five. They'll just page him,' Dinsdale said confidently, to bolster his accomplice and prevent any last minute back-sliding.

'So, where will you be?' Colin asked.

'Waiting outside.'

Not without some personal risk, they dodged the rush hour traffic to cross the road and stood on the pavement in front of the hospital entrance. Dinsdale looked at his watch.

'Go on, it's just gone five.'

As Colin mounted the steps Dinsdale called after him.

'Have you got your phone? Did you change that ring tone?'

'Yes, mate. Wish me luck.'

With those final words Colin tentatively walked into the building, possibly to his doom.

36

It was nearly six o'clock. For an hour Dinsdale had been hovering around outside the hospital kicking his heels. He had heard nothing from Colin. Dinsdale had called him, but his phone just diverted to answer phone. That in itself didn't warrant any particular cause for concern as mobile phones were supposed to be switched off in hospitals, but Dinsdale couldn't imagine what Colin and Watts would have had to talk about for so long.

Unless Watts had recognised Colin's need for an emergency lobotomy to rid him of his paranoid delusions, any meeting shouldn't have lasted more than a few minutes.

Should Dinsdale go inside and find him? Dinsdale wrestled with his conscience. It was a rather one-sided affair with the victor never in doubt. His puny sense of fair play was no match for the leviathan that was his own instinct for self-preservation. No, if Colin had been transported out of the back door in a basket, it made no sense to join him. But what should he do?

Dinsdale ran a finger down the glass sweeping the condensation away. A pint in London was far more expensive than in his adopted corner of East Anglia, but the price didn't hurt too much, mainly because, for once, he only had to buy for himself. He also didn't mind the extra cost because he was stood in a pub that had entered into East End folklore, The Blind Beggar. It was the haunt of the Kray twins and the place where the infamous shooting of George Cornell heralded the start of their downfall. Dinsdale happily soaked up the ambience of 1960's gangland chic while savouring the chill delight of the first pint of the day.

With the time reaching six-thirty and Dinsdale's pint nearly drunk, he had to decide what to do. Or more precisely, how much longer should he give Colin, before calling it a day and returning home without him. While pondering that dilemma he bought another beer.

Naturally Dinsdale's thoughts were with Colin. Dinsdale stared wistfully into the distance. He carried the full weight of responsibility for whatever predicament his pal now found himself in. In hindsight, perhaps, he had rather blithely sent Colin on what might have turned out to be a suicide mission.

And even though Dinsdale had reiterated constantly that there was no possible danger involved, he was sure that Colin realised the true, perilous nature of the endeavour, and had chosen of his own free will to fulfil his duty; a martyr to the cause of conspiracy theorists everywhere. Alternatively, Colin, with a touching naivety, might have simply believed him.

The second pint didn't go down as well as the first. It had a bitter taste as he reflected upon his own callous attitude. He placed the empty glass on the bar and emboldened by two pints-worth of Dutch courage, he was keen to make amends.

Dinsdale marched up the hospital steps determined that he wasn't going to take any nonsense from anyone. He swung the entrance door open so hard that he nearly knocked Colin clean off his feet, coming the other way.

'Watch out, mate,' Colin yelped, fending away the solid mass of glass and steel.

'Colin!'

After the initial shock, Dinsdale appreciated the irony. In a heroic attempt to save Colin's life, Dinsdale accidentally kills him.

'Where have you been? It's been ages.'

'Nice bloke, Brendan,' Colin said approvingly. 'Very thorough.'

'Thorough?'

'Checking my medical records and looking at my scar.'

'And . . .?'

'I told him about the X-ray.'

'And . . .?'

'He wondered why it wasn't on my records.'

'Well it wouldn't be would it, because officially, it was me they thought they were examining, if you recall,' said Dinsdale.

'He checked me over and said I'm a hundred percent.'

'Yeah, but what? Hundred percent healthy or sure to die?'

'I'm sound as a pound, mate,' Colin said proudly.

Crossing the road back towards the station, Colin noticed The Blind Beggar.

'Hey, mate, it's that famous gangster pub, we ought to check it out. I could do with a beer.'

'Nah, it's rubbish,' Dinsdale said dismissing it with a wave of a hand, while tightening the grip on his wallet with the other.

'So, David Barnes is in a loony bin,' Dinsdale said thoughtfully, staring out at the passing countryside as the train sped back towards Norwich.

'Yep, paranoid schizophrenia,' Colin said wistfully, throwing his own intellectual weight behind the consensus that Barnes' condition was just about as bad as mental illness could get.

'Where's he being kept?'

'Dunno, mate, didn't ask.'

'Are you sure Watts didn't seem as if he had anything to hide? Was he cagey at all? Did he fidget when you asked an awkward question? Was he unable to look you in the eye?'

Colin's brow creased deep in thought as he cast his eyes upward. 'Awkward question...? Now let me think . . .'

Colin continued to look up at the roof of the carriage for an age while Dinsdale waited patiently for an answer. Dinsdale even glanced up to see what he was staring at that was holding him so enthralled. Colin appeared to be studying a crude picture of a penis drawn with a thick marker pen. It appeared an unlikely aide de memoir from which surely nothing could be gleaned except the suspicion that Piers Stanley had recently defaced the train with his personalised graffiti tag.

After watching Colin stare vacantly into space with seemingly no end to his deliberation in sight Dinsdale tried a different tack.

'Okay, I take it you only asked Watts about David Barnes?'

'Er, yes, mate.'

'So what else did he say then?'

'Er, apparently Barnes was some sort of whiz-kid at chemistry, but chucked it all in to study Medicine.'

'And?'

'Erm...'

'Did he say why?' Dinsdale persisted.

'Dunno, mate. All Brendan said was that Barnes always seemed anxious about the future.'

'What's that got to do with him deciding to study Medicine?'

Colin shrugged.

'His illness?' Dinsdale asked with growing impatience. 'Do we know when it started? What started it? Did your new best mate, Brendan, say anything about that?'

Colin sat with a furrowed brow running his hand over his chin. 'Say anything about that? Hmm . . . Let me think.'

Someone semi-conscious and suffering from an advanced case of Alzheimer's would have had a better recall on the events of the last two hours than Colin.

'Well,' demanded Dinsdale.

'Er, not exactly, mate,' Colin said vaguely. 'Brendan did say at the end of the time they worked together Barnes had begun to suffer mood swings. Up one minute, down the other, you know, depressed. Always fretting about the future.'

'Bi-Polar.'

'I thought they were manic depressives?'

'They are. But now being labelled Bi-Polar is supposed to make people feel better about being a bit mental. It's a bit like not calling a spastic, a spastic, nowadays.'

'Yeah, anyway, mate, Barnes seems like he really is a nutter.'

As Dinsdale looked out of the window at the countryside rolling by, a nebulous idea began to form in his head as unrelated pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

'Your mate, Brendan was very protective over Barnes when I first spoke to him,' Dinsdale said. 'Stanley Knife knows far more than he's letting on. 'They' and the police have been trying to warn me off. Emily was 'dealt with'. It's obvious 'They' don't want anyone getting to Barnes. 'They' want to keep their own psychotic serial-killer under wraps to prevent an outcry. Or to prevent him blabbing his mouth off about this so-called Project Chaos.'

'Could be, mate,' agreed Colin, his voice tinged with doubt. 'But why are they letting all those people die? If they were called in for a quick op. to whip it out, they'd be right as rain.'

Unfortunately, Colin had hit upon the one element of Dinsdale's theory that didn't stack-up. Nor could it be easily dismissed. Murder by default, sanctioned by the state, wasn't generally a vote winner. But if 'They' exhibited such a blatant disregard for life, 'They' must also be ruthlessly committed to preventing either the scandal or the secret drugs becoming public knowledge.

Dinsdale was now certain that Barnes was the villain of the piece. You didn't have to be a super sleuth to work that one out. Barnes fitted the brief exactly: He was in the right place at the right time and had the technical skill required and most importantly he was completely off his head; the classic open and shut case.

Yet Dinsdale wondered how, an admittedly brilliant young chemist, happened upon the panaceas to banish all human ills. Did Barnes steal them, determined to make their existence known to the world or was he the genius who discovered them? Was Barnes' fear of the future directed towards his own welfare or that of mankind as a whole? The only one who knew the truth was Barnes.

37

Dinsdale was edgy. During his brief forays into The Feathers, he discussed strategy with Gerry. In fairness to the provincial PI, whose meat and drink was adulterous partners and debt collection, the situation was beyond his experience. The main thrust of his advice had been to try and contact another shadowy organisation, the Obsidian Covenant and seek their help.

'How are you going to do that then?' Colin asked not unreasonably.

'I thought you could track them down via the internet?'

'No chance. It's like chasing shadows, mate,' said Colin with a mocking laugh.

'Shouldn't be too hard, should it, for a complete tecky computer nerd like you?'

Colin rubbed his bristly chin as he picked the bones out of that back-handed compliment. In defence of his self-proclaimed supreme mastery of the Information Super Highway, he explained wearily, 'Look, mate, even if I did find their website, it doesn't mean there is a way to leave a message and contact them. And even if there was, why would they believe it was legit? How would these people know that it wasn't 'They' who were after them?'

Dinsdale hated Colin in those rare moments when he displayed a degree of reasoned intelligence.

'Okay, so what do you suggest?'

'Dunno, mate.' Colin then took a few seconds out from his contemplation of the computer screen. 'Emily. You know she's one of them.'

'Colin,' Dinsdale said wearily.

'Yes, mate.'

'She's in a coma.'

'I know, but she'll have visitors, won't she?'

Dinsdale slowly digested the statement.

'So,' Dinsdale said slowly, 'you're suggesting I stake-out the hospital?'

'If you want to put it like that.'

'Even if they did come to visit, I'm sure these people won't be wearing a badge that says "I'm with the Obsidian Covenant".'

'Nah, but you can use all that stuff about Psychological Profiling you're learning.'

Dinsdale sighed. A badge would have been far easier and a great deal more reliable than any expertise he might have gleaned from his educational endeavours in that field to date.

The following day Dinsdale stood outside the huge Bloomford Hospital complex in Chelmsford. He had intentionally arrived just before the evening visiting time. It gave him the opportunity to check out the throng of the arrivals as they sauntered through the main entrance.

He imagined Emily's fellow conspirators to be of a similar age, to have a certain steely purpose about them and appear perhaps a little furtive. But fifteen minutes later, and with the bulk of visitors having gone through, Dinsdale admitted defeat. A posse of well-wishers had passed by armed with flowers and grapes, but none were swivel-eyed, slyly turning up their collars or creeping in the shadows. Furthermore, while he stood guarding the main entrance, there were several other entrances people could have come in by unseen. Resigned to a more direct approach, Dinsdale went in search of Ward B4, the post-intensive care unit.

Dinsdale peered through the glass of Ward B4's swing doors. There were six beds on each side of the ward each divided by screens for privacy. Dinsdale pushed open the door and cautiously walked in.

He knew he had a perfectly legitimate reason to be there – to visit his sick pal Emily – but that didn't prevent his growing anxiety. They might have the place under surveillance and after his visit They might turn their attention to dealing with Dinsdale.

He slowly made his way down the ward glancing at each bed to find her. Dinsdale saw her in the last bed on the right. To be more precise it was her hair he spotted first, as her face was partially covered by an oxygen mask. She had no one at her bedside.

In one sense it was a relief in that he wouldn't have to explain who he was and why he was there, but the absence of any visitors also made the whole endeavour pointless.

He hovered awkwardly for a few seconds and then took a seat at her side. She did look poorly, only one notch up from the stiffs he had dealt with at the mortuary. Her skin was deathly white and she lay motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the bed sheets. As much as he could have just sat and admired that hypnotic motion all night, he did wonder what the form was when it came to visiting someone in a coma.

It wasn't as though the patient was going to do any of the talking, and depending on whom you believe, they have no awareness of anything at all. And it wasn't as if he could have sat there rabbitting-on in a cheerful monologue about old times. Dinsdale sat quietly at her bedside all-the-while keeping an eye out for any new arrivals to the ward. With a full hour of visiting time to go, there was still plenty of time for people to show up. Should a visitor arrive, Dinsdale had a well-rehearsed explanation for his presence, but it sounded as paper thin as it actually was – i.e. that he had met Emily once at his mother's and then supposedly by chance at Luke's, blah, blah.

Dinsdale looked around for something to do to pass the time as he had never been good at extended periods of quiet contemplation. He checked her medical notes hooked on the end of the bed. Blood Pressure: 115 over 75. Dinsdale nodded his head in appreciation of an exceptionally healthy reading. Temperature: Normal. Medication: Nil.

So beyond being in a coma, Emily was in very good shape. Then having discovered the bed was manufactured in China, as was the oxygen mask, and the sheets and pillows had been made in Malaysia, he'd exhausted the supply of reading material within the cubicle. He forced himself to endure another five minutes sitting silently at her bedside then unable to stand the boredom any longer he reluctantly departed the ward having accepted that the mission was a failure. It had been a shit plan anyway. What was he thinking of? Did he really expect any of Colin's great ideas to be any good? And if it wasn't for poor Justin's generosity it would have meant another costly train fare.

Earlier that day, dear Justin proved yet again to be a sucker for a sob story. Dinsdale arranged to accidentally bump into him outside the Halls of Residence. He asked Justin if he would help him out.

Justin was brought close to tears as Dinsdale related the desperately sad news that Mummy had been given only hours to live and he needed to get the Chelmsford as soon as possible. Justin offered to give him a lift to the station, but Dinsdale told him that there were long delays on the line. He then inquired coyly, 'A lift would be great. You don't happen to be going anywhere near Chelmsford by chance?'

Justin bit his lip as he wrestled with his conscience. Dinsdale hung his head. 'You're my only hope,' he said forlornly.

Justin blew out his cheeks. 'I suppose...'

'Great,' said Dinsdale heartily thumping him on the back.

Dinsdale was aware that Justin was parked in the hospital car park having to feed the voracious parking meter, but he was still in no rush to leave. It might have been a crap plan, but seeing as he was there he might as well see it through a bit longer. He took a seat in the main corridor by the spur to the ward to observe the comings and goings.

Dinsdale pulled out his phone to check for messages. He hadn't been there more than a couple of minutes before he was approached by a male member of staff wearing a surgical mask and inappropriately sporting a woeful pair of dark sunglasses. The shades were the type only ever worn by sports people who were paid handsomely to promote them, even if it made them look faintly ridiculous.

'Can you turn that off and come with me, please?' demanded the spiky-haired stranger.

'Oh, yeah, I forgot,' Dinsdale said smiling apologetically, pocketing the phone.

'This way, please,' the stranger repeated sharply.

'What...?' Dinsdale asked confused. He wondered if he once again had committed some minor infraction of the law–– using his phone in the hospital––and the misdemeanour would be brought to the attention of Inspector Carter. Dinsdale was about to protest when a second member of staff also wearing a surgical mask, but taller and more muscular with a skinhead haircut appeared, and they both grabbed him under the arms and carried Dinsdale with his legs dangling in the air towards the lift.

Once inside, and with the lift rising, the masked skinhead growled at Dinsdale, 'Who are you?'

Dinsdale wanted to ask them the same question. If they were doctors, their bedside manner had a way to go.

The man with spiked-hair pushed the 'Hold' button and the lift came to a halt between floors.

'Who are you?' the bigger masked man demanded again.

Dinsdale had to think fast. Was he Dinsdale Doric or Justin Blackmore? Before he could decide the spiked-haired guy had whipped Dinsdale's wallet out of his back pocket. He took out Dinsdale's student union card.

'Dinsdale Doric? What sort of name is that?' he snorted.

'Who are you?' the big skinhead growled again, pinning Dinsdale's shoulders against the lift.

'I – I – was just visiting,' stammered Dinsdale.

'Why!' growled the skinhead.

'To see how she was?' Dinsdale said with an antipodean inflection turning his reply into a question.

'Who are you?' the skinhead demanded again, slamming Dinsdale against the side of the lift. Dinsdale groaned as a large button speared him in the base of his spine setting off the alarm.

'You idiot,' snapped his accomplice, who proceeded to randomly push buttons to turn it off. It made no difference. The alarm continued to make a loud whoop-whoop noise. Above the din the emergency phone rang. The masked men's heads snapped round in panic. Even though Dinsdale was still held against the side of the lift, at that moment, instinct told him that his abductors weren't slick, ruthless agents of the New World Order.

'You'd better answer that,' Dinsdale said.

'Shut up!' growled the skinhead.

'He's right,' said the spiky-haired abductor.

'Okay.' The big skinhead then grabbed Dinsdale by the throat. 'And you, you keep your mouth shut,' he snarled.

Dinsdale nodded meekly.

Spiked hair picked up the handset. 'Hi,' he said with forced casualness.

'Yes, sorry– Yeah, an accident– Who am I–..? A visitor– The lift is for hospital personnel only? Oh, really...? No, we're definitely okay. No, the lifts not stuck.'

The alarm shut off.

'We better get out of here,' he said replacing the phone and hitting the 'G' button on the control panel.

The skinhead let go of Dinsdale's throat and turned to his partner. 'What about him?'

At that moment the lift came to a halt with a ping as it reached the ground floor, and the doors opened. Dinsdale prayed they would make a run for it and leave him unharmed, but as the doors slid wide things just went from bad to worse. Standing at the far end of the corridor was Tan Jacket man. And he was looking directly at them.

'Shit!' Dinsdale hissed.

His two abductors swung round and saw him too.

'Bollocks!' said the skinhead.

'Fuckin' hell, it's him again!' said his spikey-haired partner.

The masked skinhead slammed his palm against the control panel hitting the 'Close Doors' button.

As they slid shut the man in the sunglasses asked, 'What we gonna do?'

'Go up two floors,' said the skinhead. He glared at Dinsdale. 'We'll dump him out – then make a run for it.'

With a whir the lift began to rise.

'Do you reckon he recognised us?' asked the smaller man. The skinhead's shake of the head wasn't confident.

'Erm,' Dinsdale said hesitantly, 'could I come too?'

The skinhead grabbed him by the throat again and growled, 'You takin' the piss?'

'No. That bloke,' Dinsdale gasped, 'he's after me as well.'

His partner was more measured.

'How do we know you're not with them and we can trust you?'

'If I'm supposed to be undercover, why would they give me a false name like Dinsdale Doric?'

'Yeah, stupid that,' the skinhead chuckled.

The smaller man slowly looked Dinsdale up and down as if to assess his credibility. Finally he said, 'Okay. Have you got any money for a cab?'

'No,' Dinsdale said quickly. 'But I've got a car.'

All three leapt into Justin's car. If that wasn't bizarre enough, it must have added to Justin's mystification when Dinsdale shouted, 'Drive! Fast!'

'I can't,' Justin replied. 'It's a Nissan Micra.'

'Well, as fast you can then.'

'How's you mum?' Justin asked solemnly.

'Fine,' snapped Dinsdale. 'Now just drive!'

Despite the clearly expressed urgency, Justin methodically commenced his pre-departure checks. He reached up and moved the rear view mirror then put it back in exactly the same position as it was before. Justin then felt under the seat for the adjustor.

'What are you doing!' bellowed Dinsdale.

'I have to do this every time I set off.'

'WHAT!' cried Dinsdale. 'Justin, you've just driven all the way down here. Why would anything suddenly change?'

'I know, but I'm on a 'P' plate and I'm supposed to do this every time I start out.'

'Justin, I won't tell if you don't, SO JUST DRIVE!'

If Justin was curious as to why two strangers in masks and one with a ridiculous pair of sunglasses were sitting in the back of his car, he didn't ask. Nor did he question why he wasn't asked to join them when Dinsdale directed him to pull over into the car park of a quiet country pub and all three decamped in silence towards the entrance.

Dinsdale hesitated as he reached for the pub entrance door.

'You two going in like that?' he said with a nod towards their surgical masks.

The pair exchanged glances and on cue resolved the situation. In almost a synchronised movement they both pulled off their masks and the smaller man removed his sunglasses. With their faces revealed, both men looked younger than Dinsdale; he guessed they were in their twenties. They just looked like regular blokes and even the big skinhead didn't appear to be so much of a meat-head. The short hair only looked like the result of an over zealous barber rather than some aggressive far-right affiliation.

Once inside, Dinsdale carefully avoided being first to the bar. There was no way he was going to be lumbered with buying the drinks after the treatment those two had dished-out to him. It fell to the big skinhead, by dint of his partner hanging back from the bar alongside Dinsdale.

The smaller abductor was suitably abashed as he said, 'Sorry about all that stuff in the hospital. By the way, I'm Richard as he's Andy. He gets a bit carried away sometimes.'

The big skinhead swung round.

'Andy by name and 'andy by nature,' he said balling his fists and flicking out a few shadow punches towards Dinsdale's head.

'Don't take any notice of him, he writes poetry,' Richard said with a wry smile.

Andy peeled away from the bar and distributed the brimming glasses.

'Do you want to hear a bit of my poetry?'

Before Dinsdale could politely decline the offer, Andy had already cleared his throat and struck a pose for the oration. 'My love is like a boxing glove . . .'

Dinsdale was thankful to Richard for cutting him short. 'Not now, Andy.'

The unlikely trio sipping at their beer lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Dinsdale was still wary of the odd pair following their unconventional meeting: Andy the comically bad poet and thug and his pal Richard, the vaguely more intelligent one with a ridiculous sunglasses thing like Bono. It still wasn't clear if Dinsdale had fallen foul of yet another of Emily's jealous suitors, who just happened to like playing doctors and nurses, or if the pair were genuinely scared of being nailed by the same dark forces that were pursuing him.

'So, how do you guys know Emily?' Dinsdale asked calculatingly. He realised this gambit could end two ways. It might lead to useful revelations about the Obsidian Covenant, or once again he might find Andy's hand around his throat. The pair exchanged glances.

'Friends,' Richard replied affecting a dismissive shrug.

It didn't fool Dinsdale. These people weren't just casual associates. He sensed they were bound in a common cause.

'Was it an accident?' Dinsdale asked in a deliberate attempt to stir it up.

Andy bristled. 'What makes you think it wasn't?'

Dinsdale took a half-a-step backwards. Andy might aspire to write romantic poetry, but he still looked as though he would have happily beaten you death with his collected works.

'Well, because the last time we met...' Dinsdale took a deep breath. 'She said, "They were onto her."'

The pair exchanged urgent glances again.

'What do you know about it?' demanded Andy.

Dinsdale deliberately took a big mouthful of beer to buy time and weigh-up how much he should let on.

'Well, she told me about 'The Obsidian Covenant',' Dinsdale said, having decided to throw a metaphorical hand grenade into the room.

Andy lunged forward aggressively, but Richard put his arm out to restrain him and rebuked him sharply, 'Look, I think he's on the level, so pack it in!'

'Yeah, but it wasn't your brother they killed was it?' Andy snapped. The point made, his anger subsided.

'Someone I knew died in similarly tragic circumstances,' Dinsdale said with much gravity as he could muster, while recalling the wonderful sight of Jon Hill lying stone-cold dead on the mortuary slab.

During the next fifteen minutes both sides exchanged information guardedly, and only disclosed on a tit-for-tat basis. As it became clear they had nothing to fear from each other, they opened up.

'So, who is this Tan Jacket man?' asked Dinsdale.

Richard and Andy said they didn't know. But he was ever present, dogging their footsteps, making sure they knew he was always there; letting it be known they were under constant surveillance.

'And the Obsidian Covenant, how did you two get involved?' asked Dinsdale.

Richard turned to Andy who nodded for him to go on.

'I'd been running a web site,' said Richard, 'mainly conspiracy based New World Order stuff, when rumours began to circulate of drug implants turning up in dead people that had a connection with something called, 'Project Chaos', and 'Resource Alfa'. I ran an exposé, but I had very few hard facts at that time. Almost immediately I found my site had been taken down without explanation. The internet provider knew nothing about it. No one knew how or why it happened. I put together a new site, but as soon as I loaded an article on the drug implant conspiracy, it was taken down again. And again it was without explanation. I knew there had to be a heavyweight operation in place to have such a powerful name and word recognition system that could take my site down that quickly. I was onto something big, so I had to go underground.'

'So how does anyone know about you?' Dinsdale asked.

'Word of mouth. Also there's another site I host on the Dark Web. If you seriously know what you're looking for you can piece together the IP address from there.'

'And you two?' said Dinsdale looking at each of the pair in turn.

Richard again turned to Andy for his approval. Andy gave a sharp nod of the head.

'Andy's brother, Brian died, they said, as a result of a brain haemorrhage. He had been for a follow-up check at a clinic after having his appendix out. They said it was routine. Three days later he was dead.'

Dinsdale struggled with the connection. 'And you think . . .'

'Not think!' snapped Andy. 'We know. It was something to do with his appendix operation. After his haemorrhage, the ambulance arrived a bit too quickly for my liking. D'you understand?'

'Anyway,' Richard said intervened quickly, acting as referee. 'Andy contacted me and so between us 'The Obsidian Covenant' was born.'

'So, where does Emily fit in?' Dinsdale asked.

'We might have started this thing,' said Richard, 'but there are thousands of people out there who believe the Illuminati are holding back and have had the cure for AIDS and cancer and stuff for years. Emily happens to be one of them.'

'Has she said why?' Dinsdale asked.

'She knew David Barnes.'

Dinsdale nearly spat out his beer. 'What! How?'

'She was a nurse at a private clinic where David Barnes was being treated.'

'And he told her things,' Andy added enigmatically.

Dinsdale hadn't revealed that he believed Barnes was the killer.

'Did he admit his guilt?' Dinsdale asked.

'No,' Richard said firmly. 'Emily said David Barnes always blamed someone else. Barnes would say "He is responsible, it wasn't him."'

'So, who is 'He',' Dinsdale asked hurriedly, wondering if he had got it completely wrong about Barnes being the culprit.

Richard shook his head. 'He didn't say. But we are sure it was Piers Stanley.'

'That's why he was targeted and Emily put her neck on the line,' Andy said angrily. 'And look where it got her.'

As far as they were concerned, Piers was their man – the ruthless serial killer. Dinsdale still wasn't convinced. Yes, Piers was a tosser of the highest order, but of the two, Dinsdale believed David Barnes was more likely to have been the guilty party.

'Do you know where Barnes is?' Dinsdale asked.

'We're sure he is being kept at a secure unit in the Brampton Hospital,' Richard said. 'But he's not listed as a patient.'

Dinsdale frowned. 'How's that work then?'

'We reckon they've given him a new ID,' Andy said.

'Which is?' Dinsdale asked hopefully.

'Not sure,' said Richard. 'We think he is one of three: Johnston, Tyler or Edwards.'

'Why would they do that?' asked Dinsdale. 'Secure unit? New ID? Seems a bit over the top.'

'Probably because they can control the others, put pressure on them,' Richard said. 'But someone who is mentally ill is as likely as not to just shoot their mouth off.'

'Yeah, but someone who is mentally ill isn't likely to be taken seriously either!' retorted Dinsdale.

Richard shrugged, dismissing the whole conversation as irrelevant. He had his prime suspect, Piers, and nothing Dinsdale said was going to change that.

Andy leant across the table and looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot as he said in a low whisper, 'You knowing him as you do, in your experience, where would be the best place we could expect to find Piers Stanley? You know – on his own.'

Dinsdale rocked back in his chair. Were they asking him to aid and abet them in some skulduggery against a junior minister of the Crown? Was that treason? Even if it wasn't, DI Carter would certainly take a dim view of it. Dinsdale considered their request a moment or two before he said, 'I have no idea.'

'Pity,' said Andy with a sigh.

Dinsdale rose to his feet. 'I'm going. You guys need a lift?'

'Look now we've met, we must keep in touch,' said Richard.

'Okay, give us your number.'

Andy nearly fell out of his chair. 'You havin' a laugh or what!'

'Phone tapped?' Dinsdale suggested casually.

'What d'you think.'

Richard motioned for Dinsdale to sit down again.

'Listen, we have a way that can't be tracked electronically. It's an email address.'

'Right,' Dinsdale said slowly, pretty sure emails could be hacked into too.

'It's an email address, but we don't actually send an email.'

'Yeah,' Dinsdale replied even slower, thinking he had missed something.

'We leave our message saved as a draft. You go into the email address and can then find it in the Draft box. The message is never actually sent, therefore, it never goes through the system which the authorities can monitor.'

'That's clever. Do you want to jot it down for me?'

'No,' Richard said firmly. 'You must remember it. Never, and I say never, write it down anywhere.'

Dinsdale groaned. He had trouble remembering what day it was sometimes.

'It's not too complicated is it?' Dinsdale asked hopefully.

Richard leant forward. 'Listen. Its "when-the-bough-breaks", lower case, no spaces, at Google mail dot com, got it? Password is "lifeline", yeah?'

Dinsdale nodded and repeated it in his head.

'And don't,' said Richard, 'under any circumstance send the bloody thing or we'll all be in the shit, got it?'

'Got it,' repeated Dinsdale, who had already decided he was never going to use it anyway. He got to his feet again. 'Right, I've got to get going. Lift?'

'Which way are you heading?' Richard asked.

'Whichever way you want, Justin's a good lad.'

38

Dinsdale had finished another gruelling shift in the dust depository cataloguing Veloski's books. And as had become the norm, he was sat at the old professor's desk, caked in grime, waiting for a well-earned shot of hard liquor to make the appalling task worthwhile.

'Splendid, Mr Doric, you'll have the place ship-shape in no time.'

His wan smile in response was in marked contrast to Veloski's cheerful enthusiasm. Dinsdale would need to put himself on the waiting list for a double lung transplant before much longer.

Veloski produced a bottle of scotch from his desk and proffered it towards Dinsdale. Four fingers of whisky down his neck later, Dinsdale placed the glass on the desk with a satisfied sigh.

'No more for me,' Dinsdale said presumptuously, adding, 'I have to keep on my toes nowadays.'

Veloski's expression was grave.

'I wish I could be more constructive in assisting you in this matter. If indeed it is true that they are keeping David Barnes under effectively lock and key, then it would appear a positive outcome to this matter will be neither simple nor, I fear, immediate.'

Veloski knew how to cheer someone up.

'Aren't patients in a secure unit entitled to visitors? Perhaps that's the way to reach him?' suggested Dinsdale.

His life had become intolerable. He needed a tiny glimmer of hope – anything. But Veloski wasn't the man to offer empty words of comfort.

'As I understand it,' Veloski said slowly, 'all private visitations have to be booked in advance with the details of names and purpose of visit supplied for prior approval in addition to a criminal record check.'

It wasn't what Dinsdale wanted to hear. Even with the necessity to remain vigilant at all times, at that moment he would have happily accepted another very large measure of scotch. He didn't want to just drown his sorrows; he wanted them buried at sea.

'But,' Veloski said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers on his chest, 'I also understand professional visits are regularly made by teams of psychiatrists for clinical training and field study purposes.'

Only slowly did Dinsdale appreciate the relevance of the statement.

Veloski smiled. 'Teaching professionals take their students with them. And I understand the vetting procedures in these instances are not so rigorous.'

'What? You? We?' Dinsdale said, hardly daring to believe that the old professor would do such a thing for him.

'No, not I, unfortunately, but Professor Hart does make periodic trips to these establishments, where he does take a handful of selected students. I could speak with him?'

Everyone in the college had heard of Heart-Throb's Away-Days, especially in combination with the inevitable over-night stay. But it was no secret, that almost without exception, Professor Hart's 'Select Few' only comprised of the cream of the female student crop.

'But what's the chances of Professor Hart going to Brampton in the near future?' asked Dinsdale.

There was a twinkle in Veloski's eye as he replied, 'Oh, I don't know. Professor Hart doesn't appear to need too much encouragement to pack a tooth brush, and Brampton isn't that far.'

'He'll need to get permission. He'll have to write. It might take ages,' Dinsdale said.

Veloski's face crinkled into a smile. 'Leave that to me.'

Later that day after having attended a depressing lecture on the Stockholm Syndrome, which described the strange affinity that develops between hostages and their captors, Dinsdale returned to the flat in the late afternoon.

Dinsdale was too preoccupied and morose these days to bother with niceties like saying hello. Colin rarely noticed if Dinsdale was there, as he sat worshipping at the shrine of his own personal god, the computer.

Dinsdale slung his bag on the table and opened the fridge. Empty. Did he really think the Beer Fairy would have been considerate enough to replace all the cans that his idle flatmate had slung down his neck during the day? With an irritated flick of the wrist Dinsdale slammed shut the door. He plodded across the room and threw himself on the sofa.

'Oh, hello, mate,' Colin said, finally acknowledging him.

Dinsdale didn't reply. He couldn't be bothered. He jabbed a finger at the remote and turned on the TV. It was a cookery programme with lots of happy people, making happy food, with a happy presenter boisterously bouncing around the studio entertaining the contestants and audience alike with his happy carefree charm and oh-so witty repartee.

'You git!' Dinsdale growled and turned the TV off again, slinging the remote aside.

'You alright, mate?' Colin asked.

Dinsdale turned on him sharper than the naïve enquiry merited. 'Of course I'm not bloody alright!'

'Oh,' said Colin stung by the retort. 'You shouldn't let it get you down, mate.'

'This is all your fault,' Dinsdale said suddenly, as his simmering resentment bubbled to the surface. 'If it wasn't for you and your stupid appendix, I wouldn't be mixed-up in all this.'

'Sorry, mate, I thought you were doing this to get back with that bird?'

'Hardly,' Dinsdale snorted. 'She hates me.'

'Oh, okay, mate,' Colin said slowly.

'Colin,' Dinsdale said. He had never been this close to before and he hesitated.

'Yes, mate.'

Dinsdale took a deep breath. 'Colin, I want you to leave.'

'Leave!' cried Colin.

Dinsdale hesitated again. '. . . yes.'

'But...' Colin stammered, 'I – I've got nowhere to go.'

Dinsdale didn't reply. He sat staring resolutely at the blank TV screen.

'But I thought we were a team, mate? Don't we need to stick together through this?'

'A symbiotic relationship between parasite and host maybe, but team, no.'

It was harsh and Dinsdale knew it was harsh, but the words just tumbled out.

'I thought we were friends,' Colin whimpered.

Dinsdale didn't reply. His mind was made up and he didn't intend to allow one of Colin's guilt trips to deter him from his decision.

'Okay, mate, if that's what you really want?'

Dinsdale remained silent staring into the distance.

Some people turned to food when they were unhappy; Colin found comfort in surfing the net. A heavy silence hung in the air broken only by his random pecking at the keyboard. After a few minutes, Colin summoned the courage to ask, 'When?'

It grated. Dinsdale didn't want to set a dead-line. He just wanted Colin to get on with it, with no hassle, recriminations or moping about. On impulse and without feeling the need to explain where he was going or what he was doing, Dinsdale spun off the sofa and marched out of the flat.

Dinsdale marched towards The Feathers, assuring himself that there was no person or circumstance, short of being locked up behind bars, which would deflect him in the next few hours from indulging a wildly excessive amount of alcohol. He might live to regret it or literally, not live to regret it if 'They' got him, but at that moment he really didn't care. If 'They' bumped him off right now, it might be doing him a favour.

Dinsdale was on his third pint and was still alive, but already had serious regrets; primarily over his poor choice of drinking establishment. Not that there were many others to choose from within staggering distance, but even by The Feathers abysmally low entertainment standards it was mightily bad for a Thursday evening. There were none of the regulars in. Dinsdale had rarely ever spoken to any of them except to say hello, but their presence would have represented a reassuring sense of normality in his fractured world.

As it was, there was only Arthur, who stood in a corner threatening to polish away a glass to nothing, and two sharp-suited sales reps sitting in the corner. They spoke loudly and with unrestrained glee at having extorted shed-loads of money from their last batch of unwary customers. The longer the back-slapping conversation went on the more he hated them. They didn't have a care in the world except from wondering where the next punter to be fleeced was to come from.

If nothing else the beer had emboldened Dinsdale to inquire of Arthur, 'That guy, the bloke in the leather jacket, you . . .' He coughed to disguise the words catching in his throat. 'You seen him lately?' Dinsdale downed a big gulp of beer and hid behind his glass in fear of the answer.

Arthur considered his reply for a moment as though Tan Jacket man had only been one of a multitude of leather clad strangers who had recently taken to frequent the bar.

'Tan jacket?' Arthur queried, as if reinforcing the point.

'Yeah,' Dinsdale said squirming.

Arthur paused again. 'Nah.'

Dinsdale could have kissed him. Naturally he didn't. Arthur wasn't the type to inspire overt displays of affection. Even if Arthur had scored the winning goal in the World Cup his team-mates would have been loathe, as was the usual custom, to plant a smacker on his shiny bald pate. Dinsdale emptied his glass instead and plonked it heartily on the bar. 'I think I'll have another – you?'

'Nah.'

'Well, make mine a double, and at the double!'

39

Over the next few days that followed Dinsdale threw himself into his work. Not only, as was much needed, into his college studies, but also the hours he spent cataloguing Veloski's library. Anything that meant he avoided contact with Colin. The atmosphere between them was tense and the conversation strained.

On Dinsdale's arrival, Colin would instantly apologise for not having left and then a brooding silence would descend. Within that silence some of Colin's foibles, which until then had only been the cause of minor irritation, grew exponentially in Dinsdale's mind: Colin's thudding staccato key-strokes on the computer; his breathing, which as he exhaled always ended in a shrill asthmatic whistle, and also the way in which he made the normally mute leather desk chair creak loudly even when apparently sitting motionless; for any one of which, and many other grating annoyances, Dinsdale would have happily killed him.

Dinsdale had bought beer which remained poignantly untouched in the fridge. Not that Dinsdale was in any mood to drink in the flat. Once or twice he attempted to watch TV relaxing back with a can in his hand. He cranked-up the volume in an effort to blot out Colin's infuriating noises. Not only were the programmes crap and the beer bitter to the taste, but somehow above all the prattle coming from the box, Colin's thudding and whistle could still be heard.

Dinsdale had never taken advantage of the local library as he did in those few days. He thought that if he ploughed on with his writing it would help to take his mind off all that was going on.

His debut novel was to be a comedy thriller about an unscrupulous antiques dealer who conned vulnerable old people out of their worldly possessions. His mother, having read the synopsis, suggested wryly that his first book should have been a work of fiction and not an autobiography, but Dinsdale was undeterred. In his own mind it was already destined to be a best seller. He was forty pages in and he planned to write ten more each day. But try as he might, in five days he had written less than a thousand words, most of which ended in the wastepaper bin. He would spend hour after hour staring into space unable to put his mind to anything other than his predicament. At the end of the day the staff often had to throw him out in the same no nonsense manner as if ejecting a drunk at pub closing time.

'We close in five minutes.'

'We close in two minutes.

'We're closed! Go!'

'We're calling security!'

On Monday morning at the start of the following week, by nine o'clock Dinsdale was already in Veloski's library restacking books. He was only interrupted from his endeavours by the all too frequent bronchial seizures, which left him hacking-up great globules of phlegm that were not too dissimilar in colour and texture to half-eaten jelly fruits. But he didn't object. What had been a life endangering chore had now become a penance.

At noon Veloski poked his head around the door.

'Oh my word, Mr Doric, it is simply a splendid job you are doing here,' the professor enthused.

Dinsdale's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, but try as he might no recognised sound emerged beyond the wheezy rattle of a man staggering out of a scorched desert.

Dinsdale savoured the cool liquid that seared a cleansing a path to his vocal chords.

'Ah, that's better,' Dinsdale said contentedly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Without prompting Veloski refilled Dinsdale's glass.

'I have heard from Professor Hart,' Veloski said. 'He tells me, he has had the agreement from the hospital and has organised a student field-trip on Thursday and Friday.'

'That quick? I thought it would take months.'

'Professor Hart is a charismatic and persuasive man. People readily fall under his engaging spell.'

'And you managed to get me in?'

'He was most accommodating,' Veloski said with an enigmatic smile. 'Professor Hart is prepared to take your good self in addition to his own group of students.'

Dinsdale smiled. He was to be surrounded by a feast for the eye of the young, blonde and willing.

'Presumably we'd be under close supervision the whole time?' Dinsdale asked voicing something that had been bothering him since this suggestion was first mooted.

'I suggest they wouldn't want people strolling hither and thither in a high security hospital casually passing the time of day with some of the country's most dangerous individuals.'

Dinsdale sipped at his second measure of scotch with more circumspection.

'I appreciate what you've managed to do, professor, but what are the chances of actually getting to see David Barnes? Especially as they've given him a false identity. Even if we knew which of the three he was, any specific request to see him would immediately set alarm bells ringing.'

'That is a strong possibility,' Veloski said. 'Although I believe Professor Hart tends to practice group therapy sessions. In such circumstances David Barnes, in any of his guises would not appear to have been expressly targeted.'

'But how can we guarantee Barnes will be among those who are asked to attend the session?'

'You have three names; perhaps Professor Hart will be kind enough to invite all three along.'

Dinsdale downed the remainder of his scotch in one hit.

'Will the real David Barnes please stand up.'

'If, as it is reported, he is suffering severe schizophrenic episodes,' Veloski said with a grin. 'It is possible he may not even know who he is himself.'

Well done, professor for pissing on his parade – his one and only hope nicely trashed.

Dinsdale stood to leave. If it wasn't for the alcohol he would have been feeling lousy. Even in his slightly befuddled state there was no getting away from the fact that the whole scheme was absurd and doomed to failure. On top of that, doubts were creeping in as to his conviction over Barnes' guilt. He expressed his anxiety to Veloski.

'Apparently before they locked him up, Barnes kept insisting that he wasn't responsible. He said, "He made him do it.".'

Veloski stroked his chin thoughtfully.

'It is possible someone else might have committed these acts, but it does appear, with the evidence we have at our disposal, that David Barnes is likely to be the guilty party.' Veloski smiled reassuringly. 'I would suggest this is a case of projection of that guilt onto a third party. It is common with this type of serious offence. Ordinary people who have committed extraordinary crimes often cannot come to terms with their wrong-doing and lock-away their culpability deep inside. They will even convince themselves of their own innocence and often loudly protesting it to the world.'

'I suspect,' Veloski added, 'David Barnes' schizophrenia will be the rationale for this denial. I am sure you will discover He is the personality in David Barnes' head, and He is the one that commanded him to do these deeds, therefore as far as David Barnes is concerned, the abstraction He is solely responsible.'

'If I recall, professor,' Dinsdale said, 'you believe He might be another aspect of David Barnes personality, but from a different period in his life?'

'That could be one explanation.'

Dinsdale recalled joking with Gerry over the value of obtaining a confession from a madman, but hey-ho he had nothing else planned for Thursday.

The journey to Brampton was uneventful. Being locked in the back of a minibus with five gorgeous young girls should have been the thing that dreams were made of, but Heart-Throb had chosen his concubines well.

They rattled off down the road with Dinsdale attempting to ooze charm to win them over. He hit them with some witty one-liners and droll observations, but the girls either ignored him or shot him faint looks of disgust as though he was something that simply oozed. Conversely, Heart-Throb only had to open his mouth for them to be held in rapt attention.

'Did you know this section we're on is part of an old Roman road?'

'Really, that's fascinating, professor.'

'Hey, look at that,' Hart said. 'The road works sign says there will be delays until next spring. We can't wait that long!'

Oh, didn't the girls laugh.

Realising he couldn't compete with such wit and repartee, Dinsdale sat back and shut his eyes to allow the remainder of the journey wash over him.

Dinsdale found it strangely empowering. He had been given a white coat and a photo-ID pass and therefore in the eyes of the world he ranked as a respectable health professional.

Two burley security personnel and a senior consultant psychiatrist, Dr Herring, accompanied them through the long and sterile corridors to the therapy centre. The security men took the opportunity to give them a briefing on the procedures to be adhered to; most of which, in Dinsdale's opinion, was stating the bleeding obvious: Don't go off alone, stay in one group, sound the alarm if there are any signs of aggression towards you and don't let any of your possessions out of your sight or the patients will have them away them before you can say, 'Oi! Nutter! Leave it!'

But one thing both security men reiterated was the paramount importance of keeping their freshly issued plastic ID security tag safe. It was stressed to the group in the strongest possible terms that if they attempted to leave the facility without its return they would face consequences so dire that they didn't dare put it into words.

The consultant gave a short sharp tap on the meeting room door and marched in. The consultant acknowledged the male nurse in attendance. The patients, about eighteen of them, were already assembled, their chairs arrayed in front of a desk with a whiteboard on the wall behind.

Dinsdale filed in with the others. He noted the way the visiting group instinctively herded together behind the desk as the last line of defence against the intimidating gathering of headcases. Dr Herring introduced the group and began to outline the aims of the session.

'Good afternoon, gentlemen. I believe some of you have met Professor Hart before.' The consultant indicated towards Heart-Throb, who hit the patients with one of his swoon-inducing Hollywood smiles. It was one which guaranteed to make his female admirers go weak at the knees, but to a man, the patients were unmoved. Some sat slouched with arms tightly folded exuding an air of defiance, while others were glassy-eyed and all but absent from the proceedings.

Dinsdale scanned the seated faces. If Veloski had liaised with Hart correctly, requesting the inclusion of Messrs. Johnson, Tyler and Edwards, then one of those people sitting before Dinsdale was none other than David Barnes. Dinsdale picked out the trio from their lapel badges.

Johnson was one of the defiant characters. His age was hard to determine, but he sat steely-eyed and threatening. Dinsdale observed his hands. Doric Senior often commented that throughout his career he had never seen a surgeon that had anything other than delicate hands. Johnson's were course and thick. He was a man accustomed to wielding heavy tools not delicate medical instruments. Johnson could be safely ruled out.

Dinsdale barely noticed Heart-Throb's opening address as he turned his attention to Edwards. Edwards was different. He was one of the few who actually looked alive to the situation. Age-wise, he fitted the bill, but his hands were hidden. His arms were tightly folded out of sight. Dinsdale held his gaze too long and caught Edwards' eye. Edwards fixed him with an unwavering stare as a trace of a smile formed on his lips. It was a secret, knowing smile and one which Dinsdale found more than a little unnerving. Dinsdale turned away. He had enough on his plate without one of the psychos taking against him.

Hart was in full flow explaining to both his eager concubines and the indifferent patients what they hoped to achieve today.

'The Cognitive Behaviour Therapy or CBT, we plan to use today is hypnotherapeutic regression. Anyone who objects to this treatment is of course free not to take part. But I think you'll find most of you will gain a greater understanding into the primary underlying cause of your conditions, what the triggers are for the psychosis and ultimately what controls the factors that bring about theses psychodynamic stresses.'

Hart looked along the line of patients. It was a bold, if incomprehensible claim, and if he had expected the patients to enter into a heated debate over the merits of this novel therapy, voice their objections or give this interesting initiative a rousing thumbs-up, he was to be disappointed. Hart would have created more of a stir if he had pitched his proposal to a collection of waxwork dummies.

Undaunted, Hart pressed on explaining the procedure.

'You will be paired up, taken to separate cubicles where myself and my colleagues will commence the therapy. We will then reconvene in this room and commence a thorough examination of what each of you has gained from the experience. The complete procedure will take about an hour and I'm sure you will find it a worthwhile and challenging experience.'

Dr Herring appeared amused by these college guys turning up with their fancy ideas and zero practical experience.

'We tend to favour ECT here, Professor Hart,' Herring said.

'Yes, electro-convulsive therapy did once have its place, but now we are trying to encourage our students to move away from physically invasive protocols.'

'It is a procedure we have demonstrated a verifiable measure of success,' Herring said firmly.

Dinsdale looked at some of the glassy-eyed patients before him and reckoned some of those had had a one or two volts more than was good for them.

Hart smiled and conceded the debate. Herring appeared satisfied with his minor victory.

Hart turned to the students. 'Okay, each of you will act as the co-conductor today and you will be supported by staff provided by Dr Herring who will oversee the process as your conductor. Please read the patients files and familiarise yourselves with their history. Are any of you familiar with the techniques of deep hypnosis? If not, Dr Herring's team will assist.'

He then picked up a sheaf of files from the desk and began handing them out randomly, two at a time to the students. Dinsdale immediately waded into the milling group, urgently checking the names on the buff files as they were passed over. He snatched Tyler's file from one petit blonde student, who huffed and glared at him and then accosted the other girls in turn until he had wrestled Edwards' file into his grasp.

'Got my two, professor,' Dinsdale said casually.

'So I see,' Hart said. 'A random choice was it?'

'Absolutely,' Dinsdale replied. 'Luck of the draw.'

'Hmm, very well if you all have two files take them to your cubicles and read the notes. You will have ten minutes then your patients will be brought to you.'

After the prescribed ten minutes of revision, the orderly brought Tyler and Edwards into the room and sat them down at the desk in front of Dinsdale. It was the first chance for Dinsdale to study Edwards' hands.

The fingers were long, delicate and straight. They were not a workman's hands. They were the hands of an artisan, a painter, a pianist or indeed perhaps a deranged surgeon. But it was Edwards' eyes that truly worried Dinsdale. Dark, staring and intense, they were the eyes of a predator; the eyes of someone you would never turn your back on. But were they the eyes of a person who once was a shining star in the firmament of academia?

John Tyler was the complete opposite. He was grey-faced and like a glassy-eyed automaton. His date of birth made him out to be thirty-seven, but he looked much older. Dinsdale looked at his hands and recoiled in disgust. From what he could see of the fingers, which were covered in scabs and calluses, they could have once been the hands of surgeon, but the finger nails, or what was left of them, were violently red raw and hideously bitten to the quick as though Tyler had played Chicken with a paper-shredder and lost.

So, was David Barnes now under the assumed name of Tyler or Edwards? Dinsdale had gleaned nothing from their files to indicate either way. Dinsdale hadn't seriously expected to. If 'They' had gone to that much trouble to fabricate a new identity for Barnes they would have created an immaculate history to back it up.

The notes described Andrew Edwards as a serial arsonist who killed six people in a boarding house fire, and Tyler as a violent schizophrenic who was considered a permanent and ongoing threat to the community.

But the one thing Dinsdale could be pretty sure of, a new identity can be adopted only with the individual's willing consent or imposed through coercion and submission. Tyler with his brain fried and regularly dosed-up to the eyeballs with drugs represented the latter, while the cold calculating Andrew Edwards was the former.

'Have either of you been hypnotised before?' Dinsdale asked looking at each patient in turn. His enquiry received no reply.

Dinsdale turned to the burley male nurse standing protectively at his shoulder.

'Have they?' Dinsdale asked hopefully.

'Not here, we favour ECT,' the nurse said, adding with a hint of a smile. 'It is the treatment we find most – rewarding.'

Dinsdale wondered who for. Maybe it was the staff's idea of entertainment – watching some poor bastard getting zapped between the ears.

'Okay,' Dinsdale said trying to inject some urgency into the proceedings. 'I think we will start with you, John, yes?'

There was an awkward silence which Edwards broke. He leant forward and with a faint air of menace, said slowly, 'We call him, Watt.'

'Wat? As in Wat Tyler the leader of the peasant's revolt?' Dinsdale queried, not only willing to be impressed by the inmate's knowledge of medieval English history, but also reckoning it was the sharp wit of an intelligent and well educated person, possibly somebody who was once a brilliant scientist.

'No,' said Edwards. 'Watt, as in . . .' He then put his index fingers to his temples and made a cruel electrical buzzing sound. 'Buzzzzzzzz! Old Sparky's favourite customer in the ECT room.'

Dinsdale laughed uncomfortably, realising he had given Edwards a little too much credit, but it did give him an idea. It wasn't super ingenious, but it might work. Dinsdale cleared his throat to ensure the emphasis wasn't lost.

'Not – DAVID – Watts then? The hit song for The Kinks.'

Dinsdale's eyes flicked rapidly between the two inmates for the slightest hint of reaction to the name. Tyler's vacant, thousand-yard stare remained steady and Edwards just looked at him blankly. Obviously, Edwards' wasn't a connoisseur of sixties pop music either.

Dinsdale reckoned that even if the session was being monitored by the nurse or recorded on CCTV then the David Watts reference could be shrugged off as a joke. He then dared to take it a step further.

'The Kinks apparently lived in – BARNES,' said Dinsdale then held his breath. Again there was no discernible reaction.

'Right, moving on,' Dinsdale said quickly. 'Would you like to hop up onto the chair?'

Tyler slowly rose out of his seat and moved over to the reclined leather chair at a rate that couldn't even be described as slow. It was as if the extensive series of shock treatments had reduced him to half speed.

Tyler lay back and Dinsdale commenced the therapy.

Almost unbelievably, Dinsdale's hypnotherapy training had been with the classic stage hypnotist's pendulum. Other, more sophisticated techniques were available elsewhere, such as white noise and sensory deprivation, but the college budget only ran to some thread with a shiny metal bob at the end. It was simple, but in practice it worked.

Dinsdale knew that most people can be hypnotised, not only those who were highly suggestible, but he also knew it rarely worked on people who were extremely stupid and therefore by extension, presumably not on those people like Tyler, whose waking consciousness was just above the level of an amoeba.

Nevertheless he swung the pendulum back and forth in the prescribed manner, but only as fast as he dared to let Tyler's lethargic eyes keep pace. After a few minutes, in which Dinsdale had repeatedly suggested without any evidence of compliance, that Tyler's eyelids were heavy and he was feeling very sleepy, he turned to the nurse. The nurse and Edwards both had smirks on their faces.

'Is this man on any medication today?' demanded Dinsdale.

'Of course he is. Risperdone,' the nurse said. 'He would be eating your face off now, if he wasn't.'

The nurse and Edwards laughed as Dinsdale nervously checked that Tyler wasn't about to emerge from his torpor.

'I can't proceed with the therapy under those circumstances.'

The nurse pulled a face that said, 'fair enough.'

With a twisted grin, Edwards put a finger to each temple again. 'Buzzzzzzzzz!'

Another nurse was called to take Tyler away.

Following his departure Edwards leapt into the chair.

'My turn, doc.'

Dinsdale tentatively picked up the pendulum and felt the reassuring weight of the bob.

'Okay, lie back and relax,' he said. If there was any funny business, Dinsdale wouldn't have hesitated to knock him out with it.

40

Later that afternoon, Professor Hart assembled his students in one of the meeting rooms, while he stood at the whiteboard preparing to take notes.

'An interesting session I think you'll all agree,' Hart declared.

Dinsdale glanced at his note pad. It was blank.

Edwards hadn't entered into the spirit of the occasion. He resisted being hypnotised, but kidded along that he had fallen under Dinsdale's mesmeric spell. Clearly Edwards saw it as an opportunity to lark around at Dinsdale's expense. He lay reclined on the couch and made suitably trance-like utterances.

Dinsdale wasn't taken in, but he had to be seen to go through the motions and attempt to regress Edwards back to the cardinal points in his life; those which purportedly shaped the homicidal arsonist of today. Edwards cited much to his own amusement no doubt, early childhood influences such as repeated screenings of The Wicker Man and how, as a babe-in-arms, the nursery rhyme London's Burning had left him deeply traumatised.

Dinsdale even dispensed with the traditional, "When I count to three you will wake up." Instead he wrapped up the session with a single clap of his hands and said, 'Okay, that's me done.'

So Dinsdale sat with precious little clinical appraisal to show for two hours of hypnotherapeutic regression on Edwards. He wasn't that bothered. He had his man. David Barnes, the once brilliant chemist and surgeon, was now the shambling John Tyler. What 'They' had done to that man to protect their secret was nothing short of barbaric. Even the gruesome "Eat your face off" tag unnecessarily demonised him in the minds of all concerned.

Okay, Dinsdale had to temper his sympathy by reminding himself that, although Barnes, with or without drugs wasn't the blood-lusting psychopath they declared him to be, he was a serial killer and in America that would have been sufficient to have him sent him to the Chair. One zap and he would have been toast. In the EU capital punishment was outlawed, although in Barnes case, perhaps Old Sparky was being used to surreptitiously execute him by instalments.

As Hart called upon one of his female entourage to go through her notes and offer her analysis, Dinsdale thoughts turned to how he could get to speak with Barnes in a non-drug addled state. Did the hospital keep him like that permanently or only when he was wheeled out and put on show? Dinsdale needed to find out.

During a break for coffee, Dinsdale butted in on an animated discussion between Hart and Herring regarding the precise nature of multiple personality. Herring was halfway through making a point, the importance of which required him to repeatedly jab a finger at Hart, when Dinsdale stepped up.

'Dr Herring, I am sorry to interrupt.'

Hart actually looked relieved by Dinsdale's intrusion and adroitly made his escape.

With Hart gone, Herring reluctantly turned to Dinsdale and said sharply, 'Yes?'

'John Tyler.'

'Yes,' Herring said sharply again.

'His medication.'

'Yes.'

'The hypnotherapy wasn't a success.'

'So?'

'I thought perhaps when we come back tomorrow we can try it again, but without any medication dispensed immediately prior to the therapy.'

Herring stared at him calculatingly and then asked with a patronising smile, 'Have you read his case notes?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me . . .' Herring leant forward to check Dinsdale's name on his security tag. 'Daniel – what clinical benefit is likely to be gained from this exercise?'

'Dinsdale,' he countered instantly. It had become second nature having had thirty-odd years of correcting people. He then kicked himself. In hindsight the anonymity of being known as Daniel would have suited him just fine. 'Professor Hart is a great believer in hypno –'

Herring held up his hand. 'Quite. Never-the-less, John Tyler is considered to be a serious danger to himself and those around him.'

'I bet he's just a pussy cat really,' said Dinsdale.

'Hmm,' the doctor said slowly. Herring was either unimpressed by Dinsdale's frivolous attitude or he too was fully aware that Tyler a.k.a. David Barnes wasn't inherently dangerous outside a hospital operating theatre.

'So, you fancy yourself as a Daniel in the Lion's den, eh?' Herring asked fixing Dinsdale firmly with his gaze as if trying to probe him for motivation.

'No one's all bad,' said Dinsdale.

Herring continued to stare hard at Dinsdale.

'I will need to discuss this matter with Professor Hart and the facility director.'

'Thanks,' mumbled Dinsdale. He retreated towards the coffee machine now a worried man.

If his request was taken to the top, Dinsdale realised he could be laying himself open to some seriously unwelcome scrutiny. Even if Herring didn't know Tyler's real identity, it was inconceivable that those in charge, including the facility director, weren't privy to the truth.

41

'No, can't be done,' Hart said bluntly.

'Oh,' Dinsdale said, not unduly surprised.

Hart told him while he stuffed his face full of breakfast in the youth hostel canteen, replenishing the energy the professor had expended during the previous night's extra-curricular activities. Dinsdale picked over his watery scrambled egg deep in thought. The refusal wasn't exactly a bombshell, but it was bad news. The plan, which as he feared, was barely credible at the outset, was now in complete disarray. Even in the event of Dinsdale getting five minutes alone with Barnes, it probably would achieve nothing. Doped up to the eyeballs, Dinsdale was unlikely to get any sense out of him. And what if Barnes had meekly confessed, it would have hardly been the incontrovertible evidence necessary to persuade a coroner to reopen an inquest or induce the insurance company to cough up.

It was with little enthusiasm that Dinsdale took part in the morning therapy session. It was organised as a group forum. Under the careful watch of Dr Herring and two male nurses, Hart instructed his team to record the inmate's responses to the open discussion on the topic of 'Delusions and Psychotic Thinking'. Each member of the team was given a hand-held tape recorder which they used like roving reporters, to capture the inmate's own thoughts and ideas on the subject to be transcribed later for research purposes.

The students were allocated the same two patients as the previous day. Dinsdale took up station standing behind his seated pair, holding the microphone between them. Tyler sat comatose and motionless, while Edwards appeared agitated by Dinsdale's overly close proximity. Edwards became increasingly restless and glared angrily over his shoulder at Dinsdale. Dinsdale took a step back, but it was too late. Edwards exploded out of his chair, sending it flying across the floor and turned to make a grab for the retreating Dinsdale.

'GET OUT OF MY FACE!' screamed Edwards trying to viciously kick and punch Dinsdale to the ground. Now backed up against the wall, Dinsdale had nowhere else to go. As Edwards lashed out, Dinsdale hit him several time around the head with the microphone, swinging it hard like a ball and chain. Although it made a satisfying thunk each time it bounced off Edwards' skull, unfortunately the lightweight mic's design hadn't anticipated the necessity to bludgeon a man senseless with it.

The attack was only moments old before the nurses leapt into the fray. Not that it seemed that way to Dinsdale. He thought he had been battling away for hours before restraining hands dragged Edwards away. Dinsdale ducked out from the mêlée and made a dash for safety, only to collide with the still seated Tyler. The impact sent them both crashing to the floor in a tangled heap.

Dinsdale winded by the assault took a moment to catch his breath. He looked up and held out his hand in the modest expectation that one of his fellow students would help him to his feet. That small token of kindness never materialised. Perhaps it was the enthralling spectacle of the gladiatorial tussle between Edwards and the nurses, or perhaps the others in his group just weren't minded to, but either way Dinsdale began to scrape himself off the floor unaided. As he rolled onto his knees he felt Tyler's hand gently tug his sleeve. He was surprised by Tyler's delicacy of touch. Dinsdale was also surprise that he no longer had the look of a spaced-out zombie. His eyes were clear and bright.

Tyler looked up at Dinsdale almost pleading as whispered, 'It's you. Please.'

Dinsdale stared at him bewildered. Tyler put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a palm-size notebook. Carefully ensuring no one else observed the exchange, Tyler pressed it into Dinsdale's hand. Dinsdale, still reeling from the dramatic metamorphosis, hesitated for a moment, but then instinctively slid the book into his pocket. Tyler looked relieved and slumped down resuming his seemingly catatonic state.

Herring called a halt to the session as the still struggling Edwards was led away by both nurses holding him firmly in a double arm lock.

'I see nothing to be gained by continuing.'

'Quite,' said Hart, looking shaken and surrounded by his frightened concubines clinging onto him for protection.

Dinsdale picked up the chairs and helped the still prostrate Tyler back into his seat. Dinsdale made some wincing noises and a show of brushing himself down and checking for injury. Not that it produced any sympathy. Hart was more concerned with the welfare of his nubile groupies, stroking their hair and huddling them together in a protective embrace, while Herring focused on the removal of the remaining patients.

Just as Tyler was led away, Dinsdale shot him a glance in the hope of some acknowledgement of what had occurred. There was none. Tyler was glassy-eyed and as zombie-like as ever. Dinsdale patted his pocket to feel the weight of the notebook to confirm he hadn't imagined the whole thing. The book was there and it was real. But just as to what it contained was anyone's guess.

42

Dinsdale didn't dare take the notebook out of his pocket; just having it in on his person was troubling enough, carrying as it did a strange burden of responsibility and possibly even guilt. In all likelihood it contained no more than the ravings of a madman, but the curiosity was killing him. Dinsdale couldn't wait to get out of the hospital and get back home to read it.

He subtly chivvied the others along, hiding his urgency behind the pretence of having a lecture he needed to attend. But at the main entrance there was an unexpected delay. It was near chaos when another batch of students arrived just as Hart's group were leaving.

As the two groups milled-around waiting to be processed, Dinsdale feigned nonchalance, but if anyone was watching closely his body language was all wrong. He was sweating profusely and his movements were jumpy and awkward which marked him out as a man with a guilty secret. He was convinced that at any moment he'd have his collar felt by the hand of officialdom demanding he explain himself.

The delay was caused by the issuing of fresh security passes to the newcomers, while those of Hart's entourage were checked and returned. It took an eternity for the security guys to vet the comings and goings, but finally Hart led them out of the entrance into the late morning sunshine.

Dinsdale filled his lungs with the fresh warm air. The anxiety lifted and a broad smile spread across his face. It disappeared instantly when he realised he was still holding onto his ID security badge. Dinsdale hadn't meant to keep it, but in the scrum, he and it had somehow slipped through. Dinsdale could have gone back to return it, but he was desperate to get out of the place. He knew it was a big risk as the security briefing all but had made it clear that its non-return was basically under pain of death.

Dinsdale quickly palmed it out of sight and practically jogged towards the parked minibus. When Hart finally caught up and blipped the key fob to open the doors, Dinsdale was first on-board. With his heart racing, Dinsdale sat huddled in the back waiting to get past the last obstacle – the security guard on the main gate. It should have been a formality, but if at the reception desk had realised their mistake and radioed ahead, Dinsdale was toast.

As they approached the gate, the security guard stepped out of his hut and flagged them down. He walked around the mini bus peering through the windows counting those on board. He checked his clipboard. Satisfied the numbers tallied, he waved them through without a backward glance.

Dinsdale sat nervously throughout the two hour drive back to the college constantly feeling his pocket to ensure the book was still there.

The second the van dropped him off outside the college and drove away, Dinsdale pulled the book from his pocket and flipped open the cover. The handwriting was exceptionally neat copper-plate, penned by a cultured hand. He couldn't conceive how the shambling Tyler-Barnes combo could have produced such an immaculate thing, especially not with the mangled fingers Dinsdale had observed.

Dinsdale set aside the intriguing practicalities of its creation and flicked randomly through the pages. Everything was written in Latin and was laid out in the form of a diary or journal. Dinsdale knew a few Latin terms, mostly those associated with human anatomy, but what Barnes had written down was way beyond him. Dinsdale felt strangely deflated. To write it in Latin, which was no mean feat for a supposed nut job, was also extremely frustrating. What it contained might still be just the wild ravings of a paranoid schizophrenic, but the curiosity was killing him. While Dinsdale couldn't hope to translate it, he knew a man who could.

Dinsdale strode down the corridor towards Veloski's study. A cleaner looked up from mopping the floor.

'You after the professor? Well he won't be back until this evenin'.'

Dinsdale blew out his cheeks in exasperation and reluctantly spun round and headed back the flat.

He hesitated when he arrived at the front door. The spectre of Colin's continued presence still haunted the place. Dinsdale would be incensed if Colin was still there wheezing and pecking away at the keyboard as though nothing had changed. Dinsdale let himself in, puffed out his chest and marched into the living room ready for a fight. But the place was empty.

'Huh, good,' Dinsdale said, as he tossed his overnight bag onto the table.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge. Dinsdale opened the can half expecting Colin to spring out of hiding to shamelessly cadge one.

Dinsdale went through to Colin's bedroom to check he had cleared all his stuff out. Yes, Colin had emptied all his draws and cupboards, but he had stuffed all his possessions into a rucksack, which, infuriatingly, he had left on his bed.

Dinsdale swore. He still wasn't completely rid of the man. He grabbed the rucksack with the full intention of lobbing it out into the street, but as he hauled it across the floor towards the front door, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Colin might be an irritating bastard, but those few bits were all he had in the world. Dinsdale dumped the bag in the hallway. He eyed it for a moment. The bag seemed to be mocking him with its presence. Dinsdale even thought he saw Colin's face mocking him from within its creases. He knew it was only his imagination, but even so, he gave it a hefty boot as pay back.

Dinsdale pulled out Barnes' book again and turned to the first page. He picked out sections of the text which appear close to their modern Anglicised counterpart, in the hope of getting some understanding of it. Apart from the odd word or two, the only thing that stood out was clearly a date at the beginning of the book.

" _Dies Dominica XXVI Februariuss MMXXIX"_

And below that: _"ORDO AB CHAO_ "

Dinsdale sat down at the computer, which predictably Colin had left switched on, to Google an English translation of the phrase. He shook the mouse and the monitor came to life to reveal a street map filling the screen. Curious, Dinsdale scrolled left and right but he didn't recognise any of the road names. He zoomed out. Dinsdale realised he wasn't even looking at a map of Norwich. Colin had been looking-up an address in Great Yarmouth.

Dinsdale, perhaps for the first time, felt some guilt about callously evicting his long-time friend. He had a mental image of Colin having to take lodgings in a cheap and seedy seaside guest house on the cold, windswept Norfolk coast. But after a moment's reflection Dinsdale realised that Colin and such a grotty establishment were made for each other.

Dinsdale zoomed in and enlarged the map again. He thought it was odd that the marker wasn't actually on a residential address, but centred on a facility called the Portobello Clinic. Dinsdale thought no more of it as he minimised the map web page and keyed in:

"Ordo ab Chao"

The English translation came back as "Order from Chaos".

'Jesus Christ! 'Project Chaos', 'Order from Chaos', the 'New World Order'; they're all at it, even the mad ones!'

Then unbidden, Portobello Clinic popped into Dinsdale's head again. Why did it sound so familiar? He punched it into Google. It didn't return much. The clinic's own web site described it as:

A private establishment specialising in advanced therapies and drug trials. The Portobello Clinic received an award last year for clinical excellence and achievement...

It wasn't short on hyperbole in promoting to the world how brilliant the place was and gave an email address as a contact, but emphasised that any clinical appointments were strictly by referral only.

'Portobello?' Dinsdale repeated to himself. He had a vague recall of its mention by Colin, but he couldn't remember in what context. Then it came back to him. It was this Portobello Clinic that had sent the letter inviting Colin, a.k.a. Dinsdale Doric to go for further tests following his X-ray. That's where Colin was headed to get the two-hundred and fifty quid in cash they had promised.

Colin hadn't done the decent thing and found himself some suitably grotty digs in Yarmouth. He intended to blag his way into that clinic to get some readies, courtesy of Dinsdale's ID, and thereby flag-up his name once again to the dark forces against him.

Dinsdale angrily bore down upon Colin's rucksack and fiercely booted it down the hallway. It came to rest against the front door then slowly toppled over as though expiring. Assuredly Colin's face no longer mocked him from its folds.

He needed a drink. On the way to The Feathers he made a brief detour. He left Tyler's journal in Professor Veloski's mail box with a note asking him to urgently read it.

Dinsdale knew one o'clock in the afternoon wasn't the time of day when The Feathers normally teemed with business, if that expression was ever appropriate to such a rarely frequented establishment, but it represented a place to kill some time before Dinsdale getting to speak to Veloski.

Dinsdale stood at the bar. Arthur was polishing a piece of glassware as usual.

'Pint please, Arthur.'

It arrived without further conversation.

Dinsdale had nearly finished when a familiar voice behind him called out, 'Alright, Dennis?'

Gerry was stood at the bar adjusting his button hole.

'How's things?' Gerry asked.

'Pissed off,' Dinsdale replied gloomily.

'Too bad,' Gerry said. 'No further forward then?'

'I think I've satisfactorily identified the killer as a certified lunatic. So in truth, no.'

Gerry looked up and down the bar. 'Talking of lunatics, I see your mate's not here. Finally signed the pledge has he?'

'No,' said Dinsdale. It was a jarring reminder of how he had made his old school mate homeless.

'I see your other pal, Piers Stanley is in the news,' said Gerry.

'News?'

'Apparently his nibs has been reported missing.'

'Where?'

Gerry raised his eyebrows. 'I am sure if the top brass at Scotland Yard or Special Branch know where he is, they wouldn't be describing him as "Missing".'

'Yeah, no . . .' Dinsdale was instantly in the grip of a terrible dread. He hoped to God Andy and Richard weren't involved. If the police found out that Dinsdale had not only met them but also knew Piers, it wouldn't take much extension to implicate him in the affair. If they came a-knocking once again, it wouldn't be to arrest him for littering the pavement.

'Did they see who took him?' Dinsdale asked nervously.

'Took him?' queried Gerry. 'There hasn't been any suggestion that it was an abduction.' Gerry eyed Dinsdale up and down. 'Is there anything you need to tell me, Dennis?'

Dinsdale gulped down his beer. 'I really hope not, mate. I really do.'

43

Dinsdale had booked his permitted free hour on the computer in the library and was sat with his fingers poised over the keyboard summoning the courage to go ahead with it.

It was a defining moment. Until now he had been an innocent party; just an outsider looking in. Even having possession of Barnes' weird diary couldn't be considered a crime. But if Richard and Andy were involved in Piers disappearance, then even a casual contact might make him an accessory to their wrongdoing.

Part of him simply wanted to walk away and have nothing to do with the whole thing, but he needed to know for sure. He took a deep breath and reassured himself that his anonymity, electronically at least, was guaranteed. Being rather remiss in returning poor old Justin's library card had proved an unintentionally fortuitous move.

Dinsdale carefully entered the email address: when-the-bough-breaks and the password and prayed nothing would be waiting for him – nothing to report – no ridiculous goings-on. The screen took a few agonising moments to load. The Inbox was filled with Spam. On the left hand side of the screen beneath the Sent Mail icon was Drafts. Alongside that was the figure '1'. It was displayed in red and shone out like a warning beacon.

'Shit,' Dinsdale silently mouthed. But he had come too far.

He checked to make sure no one was prying over his shoulder then clicked it open. In bold text there was a short entry.

" _Where angels fear to tread"_

'Fu...!' The expletive died on his lips. Dinsdale didn't have to do the Times Crossword to understand that cryptic clue. Those silly bastards had snatched Piers. And now, short of amnesia, Dinsdale couldn't unknow prior knowledge of their plan. He quickly decided to leave it as unread. As he clicked back to the Inbox ready to exit the programme, he noticed the figure '1' had disappeared from beside Drafts. He stared at the screen puzzled. He was sure it didn't normally do that. He opened the Draft screen again, but it was now blank.

'Shit!'

He must have accidentally deleted it.

He quickly gathered himself. All he had to do was type it in again as it was. No one would know.

He quickly typed Richard and Andy's cryptic message back onto the page, hit spell-check and then exited to the main page. Drafts had a nice bold '1' beside it. Relieved, Dinsdale moved the cursor to shutdown emails, but he saw the '1' in Drafts had once again disappeared.

'What the . . .'

It once would have been easy for Dinsdale to find the whole thing amusing and shrug it off – stupid computers and their stupid foibles; they were all such a stupid waste of time. But it so wasn't the right time for one to play up. While resisting the urge to smash the thing to bits something odd happened. A '1' appeared next to Drafts again.

Dinsdale opened it to make sure his re-entered text hadn't been deleted, but he nearly leapt out of his seat as he saw what was now on the screen.

" _Singing like a canary_ "

'Shit! – Shit! – Shit!' Dinsdale hissed under his breath.

Andy and Richard were on-line. They now knew Dinsdale had read their first message and therefore he was now fully implicated in their idiotic caper. There could be no denying he was aware of their crazy plan if those two fingered him. Worse still, the message implied that they had somehow made Piers talk.

Undoubtedly Piers was a spineless knob, but surely he wouldn't have told them anything unless it was under duress. How had Andy made him talk? Had he savagely beaten the truth out of him or had Andy forced his dire poetry upon him, stanza after ear-grating stanza, until Piers finally cracked? Either way, Piers would probably never be the same again.

And what did Andy and Richard intended to do with Piers when they were finished? Kill him? Even if they let him go, kidnap was still kidnap. If they and Dinsdale were ever brought to book for the crime, DI Carter's threats would be empty no more.

Dinsdale's first instinct was to run. Not just from the library, but from the college, from Norwich, from his previous existence, anywhere, even abroad. It had always been his dream to live in an exotic part of the world enjoying the hassle-free bohemian lifestyle of a renowned writer, but this was different.

He stared at the screen contemplating the unpalatable notion of spending his remaining years skulking in enforced exile eking out a poverty-stricken existence on some godforsaken shore – when an image of Colin popped into his head, quickly followed by the Portobello Clinic. Any thoughts of Colin were an unwelcome intrusion even at the best of times, but taken in conjunction with the Portobello Clinic, Dinsdale had an uneasy felling something was very wrong.

Dinsdale had a vague recollection of a clinic being mentioned in another context. The recall came with a jolt: Andy's brother, who died in suspicious circumstances a few days after visiting a clinic. If that too was the Portobello Clinic, Colin shouldn't expect his future to be very long or rosy.

Dinsdale racked his brains to think how to adapt a saying, one which was in keeping with Richard and Andy's semi-coded communications.

" _Where does a stitch in time save a brother dying?"_

" _An apple a day and your bros' clinic was which way?"_

" _A brother shouldn't ask for whom the bell tolled, but in which clinic did it toll for him?"_

After five minutes Dinsdale gave up.

They were all crap. So he came right out with it and typed in plain text.

" _Andy, what was the name of the clinic your brother visited before he died?"_

Dinsdale closed the drafts window and waited. In less than a minute the '1' beside drafts disappeared and barely seconds after that the '1' reappeared again. He opened it.

" _The beautiful port in Yarmouth"_

Dinsdale mouthed, 'shit' and threw himself into the back of the chair. Beautiful Port – Portobello. If there had been any doubt before, there wasn't now. They had cynically lured Colin to his doom. Perhaps the doctors had lied. Perhaps Colin did have the toxic pills inside him. If so, these dark forces were truly evil.

Once the initial shock of the fate awaiting Colin passed, Dinsdale shrugged. 'Oh well, I suppose we all have to go sometime.'

But he was thoroughly pissed-off when a strange and very alien feeling of moral responsibility took hold. Colin might be a complete pain in the arse, but Dinsdale somehow felt inexplicably compelled to save him. And Dinsdale hated him for it. If Colin hadn't been so greedy and money grabbing, Dinsdale wouldn't have been put in such an dangerous position. If Dinsdale had known an hour ago what he knew now, Colin's rucksack would have taken one hell of a pasting before being dumped in the nearest skip.

Yarmouth was only about twenty miles away, but on public transport it would take for ever. He needed someone with a car. He pulled out his mobile.

'Hi, Justin. Long time no see. I was wondering . . .'

44

Dinsdale urged Justin to put his foot down as they motored at a leisurely pace towards Yarmouth. It was a seventy mile-an-hour road, but Justin was reluctant to exceed a stately forty-five.

'Justin, trust me,' Dinsdale said exasperated. 'It will go faster. Avoid the pedal in the middle - I know it's a magnet for your foot – but concentrate and push really hard the one on the right.'

'My reactions aren't very good and everything shakes if I try and go any faster.'

It was unclear whether Justin was referring to the car or himself. Either way Dinsdale was prepared to put up with the discomfort for the sake of a little more speed.

'Just try!' growled Dinsdale.

In fairness to Justin, Dinsdale hadn't fully explained the urgency of the trip, only that they had to get to Yarmouth quickly to find Colin. Beyond that, Dinsdale had said nothing and dear trusting Justin hadn't questioned the purpose of their mission further.

Justin shot Dinsdale a nervous glance. 'Okay, I'll try.'

With his tongue sticking out and seemingly doing most of the work, Justin hit the gas pedal. Not that there was a noticeable surge in power. The speedo sneaking up towards sixty was accompanied by an increasingly violent vibration throughout the car. They endured the rest of the journey as if travelling aboard a washing machine on fast spin. Dinsdale was still twitching when they slowed down to enter the outskirts of Yarmouth.

Dinsdale had printed the street map with the clinic's address and he quickly oriented himself to the route they should take. But Dinsdale quickly learned that Justin did indeed have slow reactions. Hasty commands to turn at various junctions that were almost upon them went unheeded on one too many occasions for Dinsdale's liking.

'Just turn the bloody steering wheel when I say so.'

'You've got to give me more warning,' Justin said feebly.

'Do you want me to get out there and walk in front of you with a red flag? Would that help?'

'No. Just a bit more warning.'

'Should I send you a text or email to inform you which road we're going down next?'

'I only passed my test six months ago.'

'Did that not involve going round corners then?'

Justin didn't reply, as more by luck than judgement, they had stumbled upon the Portobello Clinic.

'Is that it?' Justin asked.

Dinsdale checked the map. 'Got to be.'

They slowed down and saw the brass plaque on the gate.

"PORTOBELLO PRIVATE CLINIC"

'Pull in here,' said Dinsdale.

Justin stopped the car. Dinsdale stared out of the window at the modern glass fronted facility. It wasn't a place of gothic horrors. It appeared efficient, clean, even welcoming and not a building where shameful acts of wickedness were conducted under a cloak of secrecy.

'What's Colin gone there for?' asked Justin.

'Tests.'

'So, why . . .?'

'He forgot his tooth brush,' snapped Dinsdale, resenting any interruption while deep in thought working out a plan of action. But there was little time to waste as he assumed Colin was already inside and in their deadly clutches.

Dinsdale had left messages and texts on his mobile to warn him, but, as likely as not, Colin had been asked to turn it off once inside. But would they just let Colin walk away? The prospect of having to single-handedly storm the building to rescue him wasn't remotely appealing. Although he had been inspired to do the decent thing when the heroic mission began, now facing the reality of putting his own neck on the line caused him to hesitate.

Dinsdale took a deep breath and marched up to the formidable pair of wrought iron gates. There was an entry phone system on one of the gate pillars.

To avoid the confusion and virtual impossibility of two Dinsdale Doric's being present at the clinic at the same time; once again he prepared to descend cerebrally to take on Colin's guise. He buzzed the intercom.

'Yes?' said an unfriendly male voice.

'Hi,' Dinsdale said casually, 'I'm here to pick up Dinsdale Doric.'

'Wait.'

After an age of electronic static the voice crackled, 'You are?'

'His mate, Colin.'

'Wait.'

The intercom hummed with static again, but for much longer than before.

'His appointment will finish in approximately thirty minutes. Please call back,' the voice announced coldly.

Dinsdale had to think fast. 'Can't I wait for him?'

'If you wish. Good . . .'

'No. I mean inside,' he said hurriedly.

'Admittance is strictly by appointment only.'

'Can you at least tell him I'm here?'

'Thirty minutes.'

If Dinsdale had been fitter and had retained sufficient motivation to be the hero, he might have shimmied over the top of the gates and taken things into his own hands, but he wasn't. As a last hurrah, and to demonstrate his determination to save Colin before conceding to the inevitable failure, he was going to urge Justin to ram the gates with his car. But that clapped out old banger would have had trouble toppling a line of dominoes. In an exaggerated display of frustration, primarily for any onlooker's benefit, Dinsdale seized the bars of the gate and rattled them furiously like a stir-crazy prisoner. To his surprise one of them swung inward.

'That's a bit of luck!' Justin shouted from the car.

'Yeah, right,' Dinsdale said minus the enthusiasm. In his own mind the rescue mission had already ended in a glorious failure; Colin's destiny had been taken out of Dinsdale's hands. But this new and frankly undesirable development rekindled his obligation to try to save him.

Dinsdale could have mimed wrestling with the gate, as though grappling against an irresistible force intent on its reclosure, while discreetly pulling it shut, but bizarrely, now half open, it wouldn't budge either way.

'Toothbrush,' shouted Justin.

'Yeah, got it,' Dinsdale said giving a half-hearted thumbs-up.

Dinsdale slipped through the gate and slowly made his way up the drive all the while cursing under his breath. If they hadn't killed Colin already, he would happily do it for them.

At the main entrance Dinsdale steadied himself. He had to keep his nerve and get the story right. He still had the security pass from Brampton in his pocket. With it, he could be Dr Doric, clinical psychologist, on the trail of his runaway Munchausen's Syndrome patient who had stolen his identity.

There was a potential flaw in that approach. Despite Dinsdale's best efforts, in the next few days Colin could well end up being carted-off in a body bag, and if Dinsdale declared himself as the real D. Doric Esquire, he might well end up joining him. Then Justin came to the rescue. Or at least his library card did. Dinsdale slipped it into the plastic pouch and hooked it on his shirt pocket.

If anyone took the time to read it they would have clearly seen 'Norfolk Library Service' written across the top, but Dinsdale banked on the fact that no one ever did.

He strolled purposefully through the door into the reception area and presented himself at the desk. The smartly dressed blonde receptionist looked up in mild surprise, perhaps wondering how he had got past the security gates. Dinsdale immediately took the initiative before he had to field too many questions.

'Hello, I'm Dr Blackmore.' Dinsdale said with a flick of the hand towards his improvised name tag. He immediately half turned away to avoid closer examination of his fake ID.

'That's the clinical area? Yes?' Dinsdale asked pointing towards a set of double doors.

'Yes, but – who are you?' the receptionist demanded in a firm but professional manner.

'Have they not called you!' Dinsdale growled. 'Heads will roll for this!'

'Sorry . . .'

'One of my patients has entered your facility under an assumed name. I need to find him. He has an attention seeking syndrome and is likely to endanger himself with false claims regarding his identity and medical history. He's allergic to needles. One prick could kill him.'

'Oh, goodness. Do you know what name he might have registered under?'

Dinsdale knew it was a gamble. The business with the intercom at the gate had already flagged-up his name, especially as now it appeared within the space of a few minutes two wildly different people seemed to have taken a keen interest in this patient.

'Dinsdale Doric.'

'I'll call Dr Clare immediately.' The receptionist then sniggered. 'We thought it was bit of a wacky name to choose – Dinsdale Doric!'

Dinsdale scowled. 'It's not that bad. Anyway, there's no time to lose. Which room is he in?'

'Four.'

'This way?' Dinsdale said pushing through the doors.

'On the right.'

Dinsdale hurried down the corridor and found consulting room four. He gave the door a short sharp tap and marched in. Colin was alone in the room lying on a bed. His ex-flatmate immediately sprung up with a look of guilty horror when he saw him.

'What –' Colin spluttered. 'Look, mate, I – I had to. I had no money and you . . .'

'Get your stuff,' Dinsdale said quickly.

'I'm sorry, mate, I . . .'

'You've got to get out of here.'

'I know, but I haven't been paid.'

'Did they give you an injection?'

'Yeah. Why? Just a little one. For my circulation they said.'

'Well, you probably won't be needing that two-hundred and fifty quid then.'
'What? You've changed your mind? I can stay?' Colin said with a hopeful flicker of a smile.

'Colin, stop bloody talking and get a move on.'

'Yes, mate.'

Colin bounced off the bed and gathered his coat. Dinsdale opened the door and looked out into the corridor, beckoning Colin to follow.

'Keep your mouth shut until we get outside.'

Dinsdale carefully led them down the corridor, keeping a watchful eye out as they passed each door to ensure they weren't taken by surprise as they made their way back towards the reception. But the whole place was unnaturally empty – more like a chapel of rest than a buzzing medical facility.

Once they reached the reception area Dinsdale intended to breeze through with little ceremony – a tip of the head and a dismissive wave of the hand to indicate the need for speed, and then make haste down the drive. The receptionist had other ideas.

'Just a minute, please,' she said quickly rounding the desk and barring their escape. 'Dr Clare will be here in a few moments. I need to take more details.'

Dinsdale stopped so abruptly that Colin bumped into him.

'Sorry, mate,' said Colin.

'Delusional,' Dinsdale said shooting Colin a withering glare then twirling a finger at his temple to indicate that his patient was completely mental.

'So,' said the receptionist, 'I'll need to take your patient's real full name – for our records.'

'His patient!' Colin said in confusion.

'Delusional,' Dinsdale said, twirling his finger at his temple again while sharply elbowing Colin in the side.

'Name and date of birth please,' demanded the receptionist.

'Look . . .' said Dinsdale, but realised he had no option other than to play along. 'Okay, his real name is –' Dinsdale hesitated as he caught the look of betrayal on Colin's face. 'Thomas Jones. Tom to his friends.'

'Tom – Jones,' repeated the receptionist as she noted it down without question. 'And date of birth?'

'Right, date of birth . . .?' Dinsdale turned to Colin.

'Oh, yeah, mate,' Colin said, slow on the uptake. 'Date of birth, right. Yeah, first of – April? Nineteen-eighty-four.'

'First – of – April, eighty-four,' echoed the receptionist. 'And you are Doctor . . .?'

'Blackmore,' said Dinsdale, adding with as much authority as he could command, 'Look here, I don't think you appreciate the urgency. This man will die if I don't get him to an A&E unit immediately. He has been given an injection and, as I said, it will kill him. We have but a few minutes to save his life.'

'What!' Colin spluttered with eyes the size of saucers.

'I will ring your Dr Clare with the complete record of his condition. Now good day to you.'

It was a performance worthy of one of those 'Luvvie' awards. The receptionist stepped aside. Dinsdale grabbed Colin's arm and dragged him out of the door, hurrying him along the drive.

'That was a joke, right? The injection?' Colin asked breathlessly as they briskly trotted towards the gate.

'Sort of.'

Fortunately the gate was still ajar, but the last remark stopped Colin dead.

'Hurry up,' shouted Dinsdale.

'Do I really need to go to a hospital then?'

'I advise you to shut up and just get in the car.'

45

Dinsdale ordered Justin to drive as soon as they were installed in the car, but as to where was another question. If he was correct about Colin having a ticking time-bomb in his gut, then going straight to hospital should have been the obvious choice. But if the pills were there, and he had been the victim of a deadly cover-up by the establishment, a hospital was the last place Colin would have wanted to be.

He tried not only to ignore Colin's mithering in the back seat, which, fortunately, for the most part was lost among all the loud squeaks and rattles, but also Justin's innocent questioning.

'Didn't he need his tooth brush?'

'Forgot the toothpaste,' Dinsdale said as he stared intently out of the window. If he was hoping glean inspiration from his immediate surroundings, alas, the back streets of Yarmouth didn't cut the mustard on that score. But he did decide to advise Colin of his predicament, if only to shut him up about the two-hundred and fifty quid he believed he had unnecessarily forfeited. Dinsdale chose his words carefully using a subtle code that he thought only Colin would understand.

'Your appendix; It might still need to come out.'

'Eh, it's out, mate.'

'No. Listen. To make it safe.'

'Don't know what you're on about, mate, but two-hundred and fifty quid . . .'

'Colin!' Dinsdale said exasperated.

'Yes, mate.'

'You need an appendectomy, an emergency operation, understand?'

'Operation? Why?'

'They lied to you.'

Colin's look of confusion was replaced by one of horror.

'What, the –' Colin cried, pointing fearfully at his abdomen.

'Yes,' said Dinsdale.

'Shit, mate.'

Justin, who gave the impression that piloting the vehicle took every ounce of mental effort with little to spare for additional cranial activity, said casually, 'It's a shame you're not an animal. My brother's a vet. He could have done it for you.'

Dinsdale was about to tell him to shut up and keep driving when an idea formed in his head.

'Your brother,' he said slowly. 'Is he like you?'

'Some say we'd be twins if we weren't born five years apart.'

Dinsdale wrestled with that rather curious statement then asked, 'Does he live locally?'

'Not far.'

'I think I'd like to meet him.'

'Yeah, okay, but where are we going now?'

'To meet your brother.'

An hour later, having rattled southward down the narrow A12 leaving a frustrated tail-back of traffic behind them, and following an unedifying scene in a petrol station over who should pay the twenty quid for the fuel, they arrived in Saxmundham.

'He might not be in,' Justin suggested protectively.

Justin hadn't fully connected the dots over the purpose of the meeting, but he must have had an awful suspicion that it wasn't entirely a social call.

Justin stopped the car outside a small terraced cottage.

'I thought vets earned loads of money?' Dinsdale said, eying the modest abode.

'He's not a partner. He's only been in practice a year.'

Colin, who had sat in a terrified silence all the way except for the occasional wail of 'Oh, shit!' when they went over a big bump, whimpered, 'So, now what?'

'What's your brother's name, Justin?' Dinsdale asked brushing aside Colin's request for clarification.

'Julian.'

'Justin and Julian? It's a bit like twins.'

'My sister's name is Jemima.'

'Bit of a 'J' thing going on here,' said Dinsdale.

'It's my parents; they're called Jerome and Juliet. And my granddad was called Jeremy.'

Dinsdale bit his tongue over their novel name fad – people in glass houses etcetera.

'Go and give him a knock,' said Dinsdale.

'What should I say?'

'How about, "Hello Julian, I've brought some friends to see you." that should do it.'

'Won't he think that a bit odd?'

Dinsdale bit his tongue again. That Justin, not only had friends, but they also wanted to meet his equally geeky brother? Yes, that indeed might seem odd.

'Tell him we were just passing.'

'But . . .'

Dinsdale planted a silencing arm across Justin's chest and pointed towards his brother's front door.

Inside the car the conversation on the door step between the siblings went unheard, but puzzled frowns, sideways glances and general looks of confusion were evident all round. After a brief negotiation, Julian swung his door open in a gesture of welcome and Justin beckoned the two from the car.

Dinsdale was first through the door and some minutes later, moving at a speed that could only be described as painful, Colin joined them.

The cottage was certainly bijou. Four of them made the living room instantly over-crowded. Justin sat down and without invitation Dinsdale also availed himself of an arm chair.

'You okay?' Julian asked Colin with some concern.

Before Colin could bore him with his travails, Dinsdale said, 'So you're a vet, wow! You must get to operate on those poor sick animals all the time.'

'Occasionally,' Julian replied warily shooting his ersatz twin a questioning glance.

Justin shrugged.

'What's the biggest creature you've had on your table?'

'Oh, probably a St. Bernard.'

'How big was that?'

'Don't know, probably a hundred-and-fifty kilos.

'Presumably big ones are easier than little ones?' Dinsdale suggested. 'Not as fiddly as operating on something as tiny as a guinea pig or hamster?'

'Are you interested in veterinary practice? Justin said you're on his psychology course.'

'My father was a surgeon.'

'Ah,' said Julian slowly, as if that explained everything.

'What type of anaesthetic do you use?' asked Dinsdale.

'For big animals, Detomidine.'

'Would that be effective on the size of something –' Dinsdale swung round and pointed at Colin. 'Like him?'

'But he's not an animal,' Justin protested with amusement.

'Well,' Dinsdale replied guardedly. 'I suppose it depends on your point of view, but the principal's the same.'

'Yeah, body mass basically.'

'Thought so,' Dinsdale said triumphantly. 'So, what dosage would you have to give to an animal which was, say, for example, the size of Colin? About seventy-five kilos?'

'Thirty mcg per kilo. I.V.'

'Okay,' Dinsdale said as he wrote the figure down on a piece of paper.

There followed an awkward silence prompting Julian to ask nervously, 'Can I get you a drink, tea, coffee?'

Dinsdale suddenly sprung to his feet and said, 'Julian, I know it's out of hours, but I tell you what, I'd really love to see your surgery.'

'See the surgery? Why?'

'I love the smell of surgical spirit. It reminds me of my father. Oh, how I miss him. To get that smell wafting through my nostrils again would mean so much to me,' Dinsdale said dreamily.

'I've got a bottle outside, if that's any good to you?'

'If only,' Dinsdale said, shaking his head. 'I need to be beside an operating table or the effect is just not the same.'

'Oh,' Julian said shifting uncomfortably, 'it is a bit irregular.'

'I know, but it is the only time I feel at one with my dear departed father. We were so close.'

'The surgery is all locked up.'

'But you have keys?'

'Yes, but . . .'

'Great,' said Dinsdale with a clap of his hands and making toward the door. 'Is it far?'

'Er, no, it's a two minute walk, but . . .'

'Right, we'll go on ahead and get everything ready and Colin can catch us up.'

'Ready?' queried Julian. 'For what?'

Dinsdale ignored the question and turned to Colin.

'There's no danger of you getting bit of a lick on, is there? We don't want to be hanging around 'til next week, for you.'

'But, mate . . .' said Colin pointing to his stomach. 'If I go too fast . . .'

'Trust me, too slow mightn't be such a good idea, either,' Dinsdale said raising an eyebrow.

Colin gulped. 'Shit!' And he was out of the door first.

Julian flicked the switch and the operating room was bathed in light. 'Not much different to a hospital operating room.'

'Excellent,' Dinsdale said looking around checking out the equipment. 'Surgical gowns, instruments?'

'Eh,' Julian said confused. 'I thought . . .'

'Yeah, but I need to be fully kitted-out, otherwise . . .' Dinsdale cast his eyes longingly heavenward. 'I don't feel dad's presence.'

'Oh,' said Julian, who wasn't so much anxiously hopping from foot to foot as doing a full-on River Dance. 'The gowns are in there,' he said pointing nervously to a locker, 'and the instruments in the steriliser.'

'Carbolic?' asked Dinsdale

'There's a bar of soap by the sink if your hands are dirty.'

'No. For scrubbing-up.'

'But . . .'

'It's all part of the ritual. The smell and everything . . .' Dinsdale said with an apologetic smile.

Julian's shoulders went down and reluctantly pointed. 'Through there.'

Five minutes later Dinsdale returned. It was standard surgical practice to cleanse everything from the tips of your fingers to the elbow, scouring for at least fifteen minutes, but Dinsdale considered a cursory once over the hands was more than sufficient for Colin. Not only was it was only going to be a minor slash and stitch, but Colin was also more likely to be the source of a serious infection than the victim of one.

If Julian was alarmed at the turn of events, it was nothing compared to Colin. He had taken on a ghostly pallor and stood staring at the operating table as would a condemned man at his place on the gallows.

'Right,' Dinsdale said rubbing his hands. 'Best crack on.'

'What are you going to do now?' Julian asked hesitantly, terrified of the reply.

'Ah, good thinking, Julian,' Dinsdale said. 'Can you get me some Detomidine? Two point five kcmg's should do it.'

'Should do it? Do what!'

Dinsdale sidled over to Julian and put a comforting arm around his shoulder. Julian shook him off in fear of his life.

'This must all seem rather strange to you?' Dinsdale said soothingly.

'Strange!'

'If you'd lost someone dear to you, you would understand.'

'Anyway, I can't,' said Julian.

'Why?'

'The drugs are kept under lock and key and I haven't got it.'

'Shit!' Dinsdale said finally, as the implication sunk in. 'Colin, how good are you with pain?'

46

It was only to be expected that Dinsdale got an odd look. The Asian shopkeeper can't have had many people who came in to his off-license to buy a bottle of vodka wearing a green surgical gown and latex gloves. Saxmundham was a small rural town and hordes of party goers in quirky fancy dress weren't normally to be seen parading the streets.

Naturally Dinsdale hadn't intended to do the alcohol run himself dressed as he was, but neither Colin, who was too traumatised with what was to befall him, nor Julian, who refused point blank to be party to the affair, and had threatened to call the police, stepped up to the plate.

'Here we are,' Dinsdale said presenting Colin with the bottle. Colin took it, but never before in his long history of cadging drinks did he look so desperately reluctant to accept such a generous gift. Dinsdale found a specimen beaker emptied out a gooey brownish substance from it and gave it to Colin.

'Here's a glass. So, get it down your neck then,' Dinsdale said checking his watch. It was seven-thirty already. It would take about half-an-hour for Colin to get through the bottle, another half hour, tops, for the slash and stitch and another hour to drive home. Dinsdale couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a full day.

'Are you sure, mate?' Colin asked as he twisted open the screw cap and took a long swig straight from the bottle.

Dinsdale rubbed his chin. 'I think I remember the correct procedure,' he said vaguely.

Colin took another urgent swig from the bottle.

Julian, who had been observing the evermore bizarre proceedings with wide-eyed horror, intervened.

'Look, Dillon . . .'

'Dinsdale!'

'Well, whatever your names is. This has gone too far. I've tried to understand this Father thing of yours but . . .' Julian abandoned reasoned argument and began to physically push Dinsdale and Colin toward the door. It became quite a tussle. In the mêlée Colin was still at the bottle attempting to down as much of the vodka in a shorter space of time as possible, whether he was going under the knife or not, and Dinsdale was trying to stand his ground against the surprisingly strong young vet.

'You don't understand,' protested Dinsdale.

'I'm sorry, not here,' Julian replied giving them both a good hard shove towards the door.

As Dinsdale's feet slid along the floor, as though propelled by a bull-dozer, he considered correcting any misunderstanding that may have occurred, and encourage Julian to reconsider his position, by chinning him. But Dinsdale wasn't able to throw a meaningful punch mainly because he needed both hands to stop him careering into various large obstacles and the warp-speed at which he and Colin were approaching the door.

All three clattering heavily into the door didn't stop Colin taking another swig from the bottle or Julian's efforts to eject them from the room. There was a momentary impasse and stillness, which was only marred by Colin's glugging and the straining sounds Julian made from his repeated efforts to achieve the impossible – to get two solid objects, in the form of Dinsdale and Colin, to pass through another solid object, the sturdy timber door.

Just as Dinsdale drew his arm back to take a re-educational swing at him there was a gentle knock. All three heard it and stopped instantly, unsure if they had caused it in the scuffle or if there was someone outside. There was another knock. Julian backed off and allowed Colin and Dinsdale to take a step away from the threshold. Another knock.

'Who is it?' asked Julian breathlessly.

'Me, Justin.'

That was all Dinsdale needed; Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee, there together.

Dinsdale yanked open the door. It was Justin, but behind him stood two policemen. Dinsdale shot Julian an angry glance assuming he had made good his threat to call them. But Julian was as surprised as he was.

'Here they are,' Justin said unnecessarily to the policemen.

Still nobody moved except Colin who, with an admirable lack of propriety and sense of occasion, took another large swig of vodka. One of the policeman's radios crackled into life.

'Status report.'

The policeman tipped his head toward the radio on his breast pocket. 'Suspects located. We are bringing them into custody. One of them has tried to disguise himself by wearing a stupid wig.'

Dinsdale knew talking his way out of this one was going to be a tough ask. The degree to which wearing medical scrubs in suspicious circumstances was going to damage Dinsdale's credibility was unclear, but it certainly won't have done him any favours either.

'Were we too loud officer? We were having a bit of a party.'

'Party!' Julian repeated unhelpfully with a hollow laugh.

'Right, you two, come with us,' the policeman barked, stepping forward and grabbing Dinsdale by the arm.

The other policeman moved toward Colin who was now swaying happily, but unsteadily, with a big grin on his face. With little resistance, he swung Colin around getting one of his arms around his back and reached up for the other. Colin took a final long swig from the bottle before allowing himself to be handcuffed. Dinsdale too was clapped in irons; his request to remove the green medical gown first being ignored.

They were led to the police car waiting outside the surgery and bundled into the back seats. They sat in silence as the car set off without any undue urgency. Obviously it wasn't the local nick they were being taken to because the car headed straight out of town toward the busy A12 junction.

'Where are you taking us?' Dinsdale asked, while mentally reckoning up the any number of serious offences they might be charged with. The policemen didn't reply and even if they had, the response would have been drowned out by the start of Colin's loud and drunken rendition of Danny Boy.

The first note, 'Ohhhh', had its origin way down in his boots and worked up a quavering momentous volume through his body until the long bass tone finally emerged out of his mouth in an unsteady vibrato. It was followed by a harrowing sound, which could only be likened to a cat having its tail stood on.

'Ohhhwhwa...Danneee boyyyyeeeeee!!!'

It created a very real dilemma over the value of keeping Colin alive.

The police car approached the junction. Left onto the slip road would see them London bound, but turning right to head north back towards Norfolk would undoubtedly see him renew his acquaintance with his nemesis, young Inspector Carter. To Dinsdale's surprise the car headed towards London.

At the Essex Police Headquarters in Chelmsford Dinsdale was taken to a small room and left alone. It felt like he had being sitting there hours. The interview room was simply furnished with two chairs and a table. There was no window or distraction available to put his mind to other than his present predicament.

He had been told nothing. Demands to see his lawyer had either been blanked or greeted with wry smiles. 'They' had got him and 'They' didn't answer to anyone.

He and Colin had been separated at the entrance to the building. Colin was taken away, perhaps behind the police station to be stood against a wall and summarily shot for terrible crimes against music. Not that he would have noticed the bullet holes in his drunken state.

As they were parted, in desperation, Dinsdale called out to the two policemen marching Colin away, 'He needs treatment!'

The policemen, having listened to Colin murdering the entire back-catalogue of his karaoke favourites during the course of the journey would have been only too aware that some kind of drastic treatment was required, whether it was a medical procedure, a gag, or both.

Dinsdale heard the chorus of Harry Nilsson's Without You being slaughtered as Colin disappeared from view. There followed a thwump, a muffled cry from Colin and then silence. Dinsdale had to admit that police brutality on some occasions was justified.

The door opened and a policeman held it open as a familiar figure swept into the room. Dinsdale bounced out of his chair in shock and confusion.

'Dinsdale!'

'Mummy?'

The door closed behind her. She scowled at him, in only the way she could, reducing him once again to a naughty four-year-old.

'What have you got yourself into this time?' demanded Beatrice.

'I don't know.' Was his meek and honest answer.

'Sit down,' she said. 'You've been foolish enough without you standing there gawping at me like an idiot.'

'Yes, mummy,' he mumbled as he fell into the seat.

She pulled out the other chair and sat down.

'Dinsdale,' she said looking him straight in the eye. 'I need you to be totally honest with me now. None of your usual flim-flam or jokes.'

Dinsdale nodded obediently.

'Piers Stanley,' she said firmly. 'What do you know about his disappearance?'

'Disappearance?'

'DINSDALE!'

Dinsdale slunk down in the chair. 'Not much.'

'And . . .'

'A couple of guys, that's all.'

'All – what?'

Dinsdale squirmed. He would have preferred a grilling from Inspector Carter.

'They got this nutty idea in their heads that Piers was responsible for the car crash that injured Emily.'

'I don't know about that,' Beatrice huffed. 'But what I do know is that you are all in a lot of trouble if Piers is harmed.'

'They wouldn't,' protested Dinsdale.

'I just hope so – I really do.'

'But it's nothing to do with me, anyway,' Dinsdale said lamely.

'You knew they were planning this – this stunt.'

'It wasn't like that.'

'What on earth made you get involved with these people anyhow?' demanded Beatrice, yet again exasperated by her firstborn's infinite capacity to cause her vexation.

It was a good question. It all felt a long time ago now. But in the final analysis, the reason he had got into all this mess was the desire to get his leg over with Anna and or possibly Emily. It was best not to admit to have been driven by such base urges as Mummy wouldn't have approved.

'I was trying to save Colin.'

'From what? A bath?'

'He'll die if we don't do something.'

'Hmm,' Beatrice said unconvinced. 'It's lucky I still have some clout around here. If you help these people find Piers they said you will be treated leniently. They might not even press charges.'

'What about Col –' Dinsdale hesitated. In a sinking ship it was every man for himself. 'I'll tell them everything I know.'

'You'd better.' With that Beatrice stood up and made for the door. 'And Dinsdale,' she added tartly, 'for your information, Emily is in hospital because she tried to commit suicide, not because of an accident. Anyway I must be off.'

Beatrice abruptly left the room leaving Dinsdale with his jaw hanging open. He had little time to fully digest the implications of that statement before the door opened again. Into the room stepped another familiar, but terrifying figure. It was Tan Jacket man.

Dinsdale sprung up like a startled meerkat.

'Take it easy,' the man said in a cultured Dublin accent.

Dinsdale recognised the voice, but was too anxious to place it.

'Dinsdale, take a seat, we need to talk.'

Dinsdale had both hands on the back of the chair and was prepared to use it if Tan Jacket man came any closer. As if reading his mind, Tan Jacket man said, 'I am with Special Branch and I am also ex-SAS. So, as I said, please take a seat.'

Dinsdale reluctantly sat down.

'That's better.' Tan Jacket man also sat down. 'My name is Patrick O'Hare.'

Patrick O'Hare or not, Dinsdale knew that voice from somewhere. He also observed that the secret policeman and ex-SAS tough guy, Patrick, had been given a real corker of a black-eye by someone presumably a lot tougher than he claimed to be.

The Special Branch man put his hand in his pocket and placed a small thin object on the table. It was one of the deadly blister packs. Dinsdale would never make a poker player. He instinctively sprung forward staring incredulously at the silvery sliver of pharmaceutical mischief.

'That was removed from your pal, Colin, about an hour ago,' O'Hare said casually.

One of the pills in the centre of the arrangement had gone exactly as in the others Dinsdale had witnessed.

'Is he . . .?' Dinsdale couldn't bring himself to say the word.

'Dead? No. These are completely harmless.' O'Hare picked up the blister pack and twirled it through his fingers as if demonstrating the impotency of a defused bomb. 'It was removed as a gesture of good will. It was never going to kill him. None of them were. Your friends have got this one wrong.'

'But – what about the others?'' Dinsdale stammered, trying to make sense of it all.

'Coincidence.'

O'Hare observed Dinsdale's disbelief.

'Five-hundred thousand people die each year in the UK. That's fifteen-hundred people per day. We all die. Some sooner than others like your friend, Jon Hill, like Andy's brother, Brian. It can be hard to take. People seek explanations, someone to blame, look for something other than bad luck or simply nature taking its course.'

'But you were following me,' protested Dinsdale.

'We have been keeping our eyes on these guys from the 'Obsidian Covenant' for quite a while now. We realised Emily was using Piers Stanley to get information. You happen to turn up on the scene. We needed to know if you were involved.'

Dinsdale was barely coherent with the confusion of thoughts swirling around his head.

'But – I – they said . . . Those things – are what? A hoax? And what about this so called Project Chaos?'

O'Hare smiled kindly. 'David Barnes is a very sick man. He alone was responsible for placing these objects inside his patients. You with your training, perhaps more than I, would have a better idea as to the mental process of someone suffering from paranoid delusions.'

'So, the pills are . . .?'

'Sweets – with an exceptionally high dextrose content; Manufactured in China as part of a medical play set. Banned here, but totally harmless. Unless of course you are diabetic or a small child who has raided their parent's medicine cupboard looking for what they imagine to be more of the same. But, to screen for the former, we employed a bit of a deception involving the Portobello Clinic.'

'But, Colin was given an injection,' Dinsdale said.

'A saline solution. Placebo really is a powerful effect.'

Dinsdale tried to come to terms with the shift of reality. Nothing in this whole affair had been what it seemed.

O'Hare gave him space to think and then said, 'So, Dinsdale, we need your help. We know you can contact Andy and Richard via draft emails and we need the email address and password. It is for their own good, and to ensure Piers Stanley remains unharmed.'

'But why did you keep taking down their web site if Project Chaos doesn't exist?'

'It gave people false hope and publicity we could do without.' O'Hare leant forward almost conspiratorially. 'I will now tell you something that very few know. David Barnes is related to the Royal family. Having one of the Queen's relatives exposed as not only as insane, but also a surgeon who was allowed to commit these acts, wouldn't be good for the monarchy's standing.'

'What will happen to Andy and Richard if they're caught?'

'When. Not if,' O'Hare said firmly, then relaxed, adding, 'It is not we who decide these matters.'

Dinsdale was in the biggest hole of his life and for what? Nothing but dodgy sweets.

'If I help you, am I guaranteed immunity?'

O'Hare extended his arms in a 'who knows' gesture.

'As I said, it is not we who decide these things. But one thing is sure – should any harm come to Piers you would be an accessory and any chance of immunity from prosecution would be gone. Conspiracy to kidnap a member of the government, I reckon would earn you twenty years minimum for a crime under the Terrorism Act.'

'It wasn't . . .!' Dinsdale cried out, but curtailed his protest.

'Dinsdale, it is imperative that we contact your pals before anything untoward occurs, do you understand?'

Dinsdale nodded dutifully.

Mummy's so-called clout didn't prevent Dinsdale spending a night in the cells with precious little of it asleep. The bunk was one notch up from a bed of nails, but physical discomfort was the least of his concerns. He should have left the country when he had the chance, but once again Colin had landed him in it – this time big style.

That lazy good-for-nothing was lying in a comfortable hospital bed having his every need attended to, with pretty nurses at his beck and call, while Dinsdale faced the wrath of the establishment and twenty years behind bars. That's what you got for trying to do the decent thing.

At seven-thirty the bolts opened noisily on the cell door. A uniformed officer stood in the threshold. Dinsdale got to his feet in welcome expectation of a hearty breakfast. The policeman was empty handed.

'Come with me,' he said sharply.

It didn't sound like Dinsdale was being escorted to the canteen for a slap-up Full English.

At the desk the sergeant explained the details of being released on bail. Leaving the country featured high on the list of no-no's.

So, if Dinsdale did plan to do a bunk, it needed to be somewhere that was pretty relaxed about extradition. That exempted most of the places in the world he would have voluntarily chosen to live, which only left a handful of swamp-infested banana republics. He couldn't speak Spanish, hated bananas and was phobic about crocodiles, and he would have needed to get there without the aid of his passport.

Mummy was waiting for him outside.

'Get in. I'm on a yellow line.'

Dinsdale clambered into her car, a luxurious Range Rover. It was a powerful status symbol, but it didn't make her immune to over-officious parking attendants. She hit the gas the moment he shut the door.

'You're a fool, Dinsdale. Getting yourself involved in this mess, just because you have taken a dislike to Piers. How ridiculous. I never thought a son of mine would be so dim. Why can't you be a bit more like your brother? He's done so well for himself.'

'Where are we going?' Dinsdale asked as his stomach rumbled. 'I'm starving.'

'I'm putting you on a train to Norwich. It's part of the bail conditions. And when you're there, you stay there. Because if you don't –'

'I know, I know,' Dinsdale said wearily. 'That nice man in the police station told me that if I didn't, they'd lock me up and throw away the key.'

'Just you remember that.'

47

Colin's bag was still sat in the hallway like a faithful, but dumb dog awaiting its owner's return. Dinsdale gave it a hefty boot that sent it skittering across the floor.

He threw himself onto the settee and stared at the ceiling. The wheels on the bus had come off good and proper this time. The only good news was that Piers had been released completely unharmed except for a big dent in his ego.

He had been found handcuffed to a lamp post in Central London stark-bollock naked with his very modest, modesty plain to see for those with either the inclination or a certain keenness of eye. Amusingly, he was initially arrested for public order offences before the police accepted that he was the missing government minister.

Whether Dinsdale's disclosure regarding the email played a part or not, only time would tell, but Piers safe return was at least a cause for a minor celebration. Mummy advised him candidly that although the police were looking to charge him with kidnap and terrorism offences, her legal team were sure they could get a lesser charge accepted in a plea bargain. As to the fate of Andy and Richard, he had heard nothing.

One of the more degrading bail conditions was the necessity to report to the Police Station every day. Dinsdale feared this would almost inevitably bring him back into contact with his old sparring partner, Inspector Carter. If things weren't bad enough already, to have that idiot taunting him every morning was too much to bear. Dinsdale accepted that it was his karma for his previous transgressions, dodging fares, stealing bikes and the like.

Dinsdale had never expected too much from life – except of course when Mummy popped her clogs – but for the moment he had simple wants: a regular shag, a few beers, the odd bet and his novel in the best seller chart. The only thing jail guaranteed was a regular shag, as highly unwelcome as that would be.

As Dinsdale lamented his fate, he suddenly felt very alone. A visit to The Feathers was in order, even though it was an hour before noon and extraordinarily early even by Dinsdale's liberal standards. As a place to seek solace in the company of a multitude, The Feathers was an unlikely choice of venue, but the drinking of a skinful of beer, if nothing else, should go some way to ease the pain of his predicament.

Dinsdale trudged into The Feathers. With some predictably, he didn't have to fight his way through to the bar nor would he have had trouble finding a seat. There was only one other patron at that early hour – An old duffer in a flat cap who was nursing a half of stout and quietly reading the Racing Post.

Arthur, again, not unpredictably, was to be found diligently polishing a piece of glassware. He didn't acknowledge Dinsdale's arrival. It had long been accepted that Arthur was there purely to dispense alcoholic beverages not to make people feel in the least bit welcome.

'Pint of lager, please, Arthur,' said Dinsdale finishing his request with a long drawn out sigh. Within moments a brimming glass was set down in front of him and moments later it was only half full. Dinsdale wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, savouring the bite of the chill beer. It was something else he would be potentially missing out on for a very long time. He intended to relish every moment of freedom before he was sent off to be incarcerated into Mad Mitch the axe-murderer's love nest, as his new bitch. Dinsdale drained the glass and beckoned Arthur over to refill it.

The beer was going down well. The alcohol was working wonders and as his cares slipped away, it left him in the grip of a rosy glow tinged with anger.

'They're all bastards,' Dinsdale declared to the world. 'Every single one of them.'

The big clock behind the bar ticked on quietly, unmoved by his rant, as likewise did the two marginally more sentient beings present, Arthur and the old duffer. Neither were impassioned enough to join him in a diatribe against these clearly terrible, but unidentified foes.

'What's the point?' Dinsdale asked as he stared gloomily into the bottom of his glass. If Arthur or the old duffer in the flat cap had the answer, they weren't rushing to let on.

Dinsdale was a goodly way towards finishing his fourth pint, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

'Did you not go home last night, Dennis?' inquired Gerry with a smile, not knowing that never a truer word had been said in jest.

Dinsdale dispensed with pleasantries. 'Am I in the shit or what?'

'Have we been a bit creative with our CV again?'

Dinsdale let out a humourless snort. 'A bit worse than that.'

'You haven't been caught cycling on the pavement without lights, have you?'

Dinsdale wrestled with the idea of patching Gerry in on events, but blabbing his mouth off to all and sundry, although not specifically stated, would probably be treated as an infringement of the bail conditions.

'I'm not sure I ought to tell you.'

Gerry adjusted his button-hole. 'You're not going behind my back with my missus, are you?'

'You're having a laugh, aren't you!'

Gerry rocked back on his heels feigning affront. 'And what's wrong with my wife?'

'Trust me,' Dinsdale said bitterly, 'if things pan out as I suspect they might, you won't have to worry about me copping off with you wife for a very long time.'

'I take it the Rozzers have nicked you for something a bit more serious this time?'

'Just a bit.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'I'm not sure it's allowed.'

Gerry exaggeratedly checked over his shoulder to ensure no one was within ear shot. 'Look, Uncle Gerry will buy you a beer and you tell me all about it, okay? Just between us.'

'It's bollocks. I had nothing to do with it.'

Gerry eyed him quizzically. 'With what, exactly?'

Dinsdale took a deep draft of beer and began to relate the events of the last twenty-four hours.

'What evidence have they said they've got against you?' Gerry asked.

'Dunno,' said Dinsdale.

'It must be circumstantial, if you ask me,' Gerry said slowly.

'That's good – isn't it?'

'But it doesn't mean they can't get a conviction from it.' Gerry shook his head. 'It's the terrorism element that concerns me. In the Court's eyes, you become public enemy number one, with the necessity to be made an example of.'

Dinsdale should have been distraught, but the alcohol had numbed him sufficiently to absorb Gerry's grim evaluation.

'Terrorism! If there's any terrorists around here, it's that bloody lot. And for what? Sweets.'

'Have you found out what's in Barnes' book?'

'Probably a Roman recipe for gobstoppers.'

'So, they gave you no idea why Barnes did all this?'

'They just said he was mad. Schizoid delusions.'

Gerry sipped at his pint thoughtfully.

'They do seem to have gone to a lot of trouble for no good reason, especially if these things are harmless? I know it was once believed that Jack the Ripper was a member of the Royal family, but for someone provably insane, even if they are related to the Queen, shouldn't have caused this much of a stir, even if got into the press – certainly not to warrant such a large-scale cover-up by the authorities.'

Gerry's musings barely registered with Dinsdale. He had drifted off into an alcohol fuelled haze filled with lustful yearnings for the once love of his life.

'Do you think I ought to go and see her?' Dinsdale asked suddenly. 'You know, to tell her I might be going away for a long time.'

'I thought she'd told you to clear off?'

'She was upset.'

'Well, if she still is, you going away for a long time might cheer her up!'

'Thanks, mate.'

For a few moments they both drank in silence and then Gerry grinned. 'Did Arthur tell you what happened the other night?'

Dinsdale looked at Arthur happily polishing glasses. Dinsdale couldn't remember the last time Arthur had said anything meaningful to him beyond 'Tab' or 'No tab' and quoting the price of the beer.

'Well, I am told,' continued Gerry, 'there was a guy who came in a couple of nights ago, who started asking a lot of questions. Been in before apparently. Arthur told him to leave, but this fella kept asking away.'

'What about?'

'Arthur wouldn't say, but there was a scuffle and Arthur gave this fella a black-eye as he chucked him out.'

Dinsdale turned and looked at Arthur and then Gerry and back to Arthur again.

'What, Arthur?' Dinsdale said incredulously.

'Yep.'

'Threw someone out?'

'Yep.'

'Gave him a black-eye?'

'Yep.'

'Arthur? Good God.'

Gerry lent forward and said quietly, 'I hear Arthur is an ex-Commando. He was in the Falklands.'

Dinsdale shot Arthur a glance. Arthur hadn't heard their conversation. He was contentedly holding up a glass to the light to check for the slightest imperfection.

'Bloody hell,' said Dinsdale. 'Who was this bloke?'

'Don't know. An Irish fella.'

Dinsdale nearly spat out his beer. 'He wasn't wearing a tan leather jacket, was he?'

Gerry shouted across the bar to Arthur. 'That fella the other night – had a tan jacket?'

Arthur considered the question for a moment then nodded.

'Still waters,' Gerry said sagely.

'Stagnant, I thought. I'd better pay for the beer in future.'

They drank in silence once more. What he should to do about the love of his life was still playing on Dinsdale's mind.

'Do you think I should go and see her?'

Gerry carefully placed his glass on the bar.

'I don't know the girl, but if you're asking me, I think your Runes have been read. Even if you're facing a long stretch behind bars, from what you've said, it doesn't seem likely she would be inclined to jump into bed with you because she finds you so irresistible or even out of sympathy. So, in my opinion, I think you're barking completely up the wrong tree.'

At two o'clock, with six pints inside him and buoyed by Gerry's ringing endorsement regarding his chances with Anna, Dinsdale weaved his way unsteadily home. A lie down for half-an-hour or so was in order to clear his head.

It was dark when he woke up stretched out on the settee. He had a crick in his neck and an ice pick hammering inside his skull. He felt like shit. The hangover was bad enough, but sobriety saw the return of all his miseries multiplied many times over.

Moaning quietly, he scraped himself off the settee. To ease the stiffness, he did a few modest neck rolls to ease the seized vertebrae, but it only intensified the hammering and made him feel sick.

He staggered over to the kettle and made a coffee. It tasted awful, but he forced himself to drink it if only for medicinal purposes. As he put the cup down, he made a decision. Perhaps he wouldn't be at his sharpest or charming best, but how long left he had to sow his wild oats, he had no way of knowing. As far as he and Anna were concerned, it had to be now or never.

He smartened his clothes, brushed his teeth and strolled out of the flat. He turned his collar up against the cold and trudged purposeful towards the swankier side of town.

An exhausting twenty minutes later he was at Anna's door. The estate agents 'For Sale' board staked in the garden was a poignant reminder of her financial predicament. But Dinsdale was encouraged to observe that the curtains were no longer drawn; surely an indication that a respectful period of mourning was over and she, like her house, was on the market and open to offers.

He rang the bell and while waiting, he practiced his winning smile. It was just about perfected when Anna opened the door.

'Dinsdale,' she said surprised.

'Hi,' he said.

'What do you want?'

'I thought I'd pop round to see you.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Why?'

'Old time sake?' He hadn't intended to turn the answer into a hesitant suggestion, but faced with her misgiving, it came out that way.

'I'm busy packing.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Dinsdale said quietly in a feeble stab at sincerity, adding, 'Do you need a hand?'

She considered the proposal for a moment.

'You can move some of the heavier bits.'

'Excellent,' Dinsdale replied with more enthusiasm than such a laborious task would normally warrant.

She led him into the living room which was strewn with cardboard packing boxes; some were sealed while most were empty, waiting to be filled.

'When do you have to be out by?' asked Dinsdale, shaking his head to sympathise with the injustice of it all.

'I'm off as soon as I'm packed.'

Dinsdale shook his head again. 'They're bastards, aren't they.'

'Who?'

'Those bloody banks. You would have thought they'd have shown a bit more leniency under these circumstances – just throwing you out onto the street.'

'They're not.'

'Doing a runner? Yeah, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction either.'

'Satisfaction? Dinsdale, what are you on about?'

'You being repossessed.'

She stopped abruptly and glared at him. 'What on earth makes you think I'm being repossessed?'

Dinsdale shuffled uncomfortably and said, 'I – I thought you didn't have any money.'

'Someone from the insurance company came round and said they'd made a mistake – they paid out.'

'What! Half a million?'

'None of your business,' she said sharply, adding in a more considered tone, 'But it was enough to pay off the mortgage.'

'So...?' Dinsdale said looking at the boxes in confusion.

'I'm renting it out if I can't sell it. Either way, I'm leaving and I'm going back to live with my parents for a while.'

'But you don't need to?'

'No. But I want to. There's nothing for me here.'

'Nothing?' queried Dinsdale staring deeply into her eyes hoping to melt her heart and remind her just exactly who and what she would be forsaking.

'Nothing,' she said bluntly.

'Oh, I see,' Dinsdale mumbled as he hovered uncertainly. Then he blurted out, 'I'm probably going to prison! – And for a long time!'

'Dinsdale, I don't know what your game is, or why you came here tonight, but I have long since failed to find your jokes funny or even imagined we could really ever be friends. Our time together is history,' said Anna.

'I could get twenty years,' said Dinsdale. 'This might be my last night of freedom. My last chance to . . .'

'Well, it's probably best that I don't detain you then.'

'Didn't we used to have fun? A few laughs.' Dinsdale cleared his throat nervously. 'A good time in bed?'

Anna snorted. 'Well, I thought I did, until I met Jon.'

Dinsdale swore under his breath. Like Banquo's ghost, that bastard was still stitching-up Dinsdale even from beyond the grave.

Dinsdale bowed his head in defeat. 'I see. There's nothing more to be said then.'

Anna picked up an empty box and thrust it into Dinsdale's chest. 'If you want to help, start filling that one.'

Dinsdale winced theatrically. 'Actually, I've just remembered my bad back.' He pushed the box back at her. 'Sorry, I'd love to help, but its doctor's orders.'

Dinsdale despondently wandered home. Perhaps being banged up with Mad Mitch would be so bad after all. Having at least one person in this world who found him sexually attractive would represent a much needed boost to his ego.

He replayed the events of the last few weeks over in his head and was simply astounded how he came to be in this position. He was a more or less innocent man, who with the noblest intentions was implicated in a dire felony, while everyone else had come out of the affair with unscathed. Even Barnes' book was now of little importance. Then he remembered poor Emily.

How could Richard and Andy confuse a suicide attempt with a road accident, unless she clumsily planned to take her own life by getting a car to drive into her? It didn't stack up. Someone was lying, misguided or both. He didn't know why it bothered him to discover the truth, beyond the tiny niggle of knowing he was to spend the best years of his life behind bars perhaps on the basis of a lie. Yet bother him, it did.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before he got back to the flat. He was cold, hungry and perhaps more than anything else, incensed. He had worked himself up into a fierce self-righteous lather on the slog home. Quite unintentionally he had adopted Colin's mantle as the seeker of truth and justice.

48

Dinsdale presented himself at the police station at nine in the morning. The duty sergeant was only too keen to extract the maximum humiliation from the proceedings. At the front desk he spoke in an exaggeratedly loud tone to ensure that no one, public or police, within twenty yards could fail to hear the heinous nature of the charges laid against Mr Dinsdale Doric, resident of 12 Ladysmith Avenue, Norwich.

'Bloody terrorists!' jeered a little old lady as she tottered by to report her cat missing.

Dinsdale swung round intent on offering a few words in mitigation, but the burly sergeant cut him short.

'Right, sign 'ere and you can go,' he said holding out a pen. Dinsdale did so willingly and shot out of the police station.

Dinsdale needed to discover the truth about Emily. He had called Bloomford Hospital, but, even posing as a brother in Australia, they gave out few details of her injuries beyond the news that she was out of her coma. It was all Dinsdale needed to know.

Finances were tight. He was nearly maxed-out on his cards, but he couldn't take the chance of dodging the fare. Being caught even for the slightest misdemeanour would see him immediately thrown back into jail.

Dinsdale jumped off the bus outside the hospital. Regular visiting time started at two o'clock. He had ninety minutes to kill. It was far too cold to hang around outside.

Sitting in the warm cafeteria with him hands enclosed around his piping hot cup of coffee, Dinsdale was nervous. He couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling that any contact with Emily, however innocent, would only further prejudice the case against him. He was also acutely aware that he might still be under surveillance. O'Hare, the not-so-secret policeman in the tan jacket, had always made his presence obvious, perhaps to warn Dinsdale and the others off, but things were different now.

Dinsdale discreetly observed the comings and goings in the room while keeping his back to the CCTV camera. Only one other person who had been sat in the cafeteria longer than he had was an old boy who had probably fallen asleep.

At one-thirty, although he was early, Dinsdale made his way up to the ward. As Dinsdale walked up the stairs a voice behind him hissed, 'Dinsdale!'

He swung round and saw a figure with thick glasses and a beard, who Dinsdale immediately recognised as Richard, despite the ridiculous disguise.

'What the...!'

'Over here,' Richard said beckoning him to come back down the stairs.

Dinsdale didn't move, unsure what to do. He should have run the other way. It wasn't just his bail conditions he had to worry about now, it was potentially conspiracy not only before, but also after the fact.

'Quickly,' hissed Richard. 'We haven't got much time.'

Dinsdale hesitated, but his independent-minded legs walked him back down the stairs. Richard grabbed his hand and dragged him off into a side corridor. At a door marked 'NHS Personnel Only' Richard bundled Dinsdale into the small room.

It was a broom cupboard.

'They've got Andy,' Richard said breathlessly.

'He's been arrested?'

'They've sectioned him under the Mental Health Act.'

Dinsdale wasn't entirely surprise, but foremost in his mind was self-preservation.

'And I'm out on bail, charged with supposedly helping you two. If I'm seen...'

'You don't understand,' said Richard. 'Piers Stanley told us everything, Project Chaos – Resource Alfa. Now they've got Andy, they'll never let him out. He knows too much. It'll be the same for me if I'm caught – and you. You won't be put on trial, they wouldn't take the chance. They're using the Soviet tactics of the sixties when they locked away political prisoners in lunatic asylums. They are doing exactly the same now to keep people quiet.'

'You're saying that's what they'll do to me?' snorted Dinsdale.

'Anyone who threatens to blow their secret.'

'What? The Royal Family connection? It's not that big a deal.'

Richard looked puzzled. 'Royal Family? It's nothing to do with them. It's the lifesaving drugs David Barnes has discovered. The ones they don't want the world to know about – and the secret behind Project Chaos.'

'They're sweets,' snapped Dinsdale. 'This whole conspiracy thing is a fantasy.'

'So why would they section, Andy, eh?' demanded Richard.

'After kidnapping a member of the government they thought, well perhaps – he really was a bit mad?'

'He's as sane as you and I!' snapped Richard.

Dinsdale raised an eyebrow.

'We must get David Barnes out,' said Richard.

'Whatever. I'm going,' Dinsdale said, preparing to exit the broom store. 'I only came here to ask Emily the truth about what happened.'

'Ask Emily?'

'I want to hear it from her whether it really was an accident or if she wanted to commit suicide.'

'Suicide! A police car ramming you off the road, claiming it was in pursuit of a stolen car that was never traced, cannot be described as a credible or calculated attempt at suicide.'

'They told me she tried to kill herself.'

Richard looked at him pityingly. 'And you believed them?'

'It makes more sense than all this Big Brother crap.'

'Of course it does. That's what makes these people so dangerous.'

Dinsdale swore under his breath. Each minute he spent in Richard's company would not only potentially lengthen his sentence, but also drive him closer to the edge of reason.

'Right, I'm going up to the ward to do what I came to do – then I'm off.'

'You'll have a long wait.'

Dinsdale glanced at his watch. Official visiting time was about to start. He reached out to open the door. 'I only want a straightforward answer from her, yes or no . . .'

'Well, you won't get it from Emily – she's still in a coma.'

It took a moment for the statement to sink in.

'What? But they said . . .' Dinsdale said, his voice trailing off in confusion.

'They are setting a trap for anyone who might be connected with the Obsidian Covenant.'

'What! That's . . .'

'How do you think they got Andy?'

Dinsdale pushed open the door. 'I'm getting out of here.'

He stepped into the corridor. It was empty except for a policeman with his back turned, standing no more than ten paces away.

'Fuuu . . .' mouthed Dinsdale, as he retreated back into the broom cupboard.

'Old Bill, outside,' hissed Dinsdale.

'Put this on,' Richard said handing him a porter's coat. 'And take this and look as though you know how to use it.' He thrust a broom into Dinsdale's hand.

The pair, with brooms at the ready, emerged from the cupboard. Without making a sound they set off along the corridor quickly putting distance between themselves and the solitary police guard. They were two paces short of reaching their goal, an emergency exist at the rear of the building, when there was a shout from behind.

'You two, stop! Police!'

Richard reacted instantly. 'Run!'

They both launched at the glass exit door. It burst open with Dinsdale through first. Richard stopped momentarily to hit the fire alarm button then hared after the fleeing Dinsdale. Alarm bells instantly started sounding all over the building.

Richard easily overtook Dinsdale and shouted back, 'This way. Run!'

Dinsdale did his best to keep up, but Richard powered away almost as quickly as the policeman gained ground on him. In the distance Richard dived around the corner of the building out of sight. Dinsdale could run no harder. His leg muscles were tying up and his chest was about to explode, but sheer terror kept him throwing one leg forward after the other.

With the sound of the policeman's heavy footfalls closing in, Dinsdale, in a final bid to evade capture, followed Richard's lead and dashed around the corner. Dinsdale caught a glimpse of Richard crouching down in wait as he felt the policeman lunge to grab him.

One second the policeman was up, like a deadly predator about to take down its prey, and the next he was flat out, face-first into the concrete, knocked-out cold. Richard withdrew the projecting broom that produced the spectacular trip and tucked it under his arm. He caught up with Dinsdale who was bent double gasping for air.

'Don't stop. Where's your car?'

Between great heaves, Dinsdale rasped, 'I – haven't – got – one.'

Richard grabbed his arm. 'We've got to get out of here.'

He led the still staggering Dinsdale away.

In a quiet area by the boiler vents they discarded their porter's coats and Richard threw his broom and false beard into a skip. Shrill sirens from police and fire brigade alike sounded all about.

'They'll have all the exits covered. I think we'll need to get out over that,' said Richard, pointing to a tall, sharply pointed metal railing.

The boundary fence was explicitly designed to prevent such a traverse. There were no foot holds to get a leg up and the vicious trident of prongs that crowned each post was enough to make even the most determined intruder think twice.

'How?' gulped Dinsdale, staring up in awe at Chelmsford's own version of the Berlin Wall.

'I'll give you a hand.'

'Can't we dig under it?' inquired Dinsdale, who had long since left his childhood climbing exploits behind him.

'No time. Now quick.'

Richard stood by the fence and clasped his hands together into a stirrup.

'Put your foot in here and I'll help you over.'

Dinsdale was in no doubt that Richard would have the strength to launch him with sufficiently momentum in the upward direction, but it was the return to earth that troubled him. There appeared to be the serious prospect of severe and painful impalement.

A police siren sounded closer.

'Come on!' shouted Richard.

Dinsdale tentatively raised his foot. Richard immediately cupped it in his hands and bore the weight.

'Okay, on three.'

'But . . .'

Dinsdale must have missed one and two because no sooner had he tensed his leg in preparation, than he was flying up through the air. As it happens, Dinsdale shouldn't have worried too much about the prongs, as thanks to Richard he sailed majestically over the fence, clearing it by some margin. It was the landing site on the other side that was now a cause for concern – he was plunging straight towards a vicious thorn bush.

To its credit the bush cushioned his fall and while Dinsdale lay nestled inside it, he was surprised to discover that he had been left miraculously unscathed by the encounter with the fearsome shrub. That curious state of affairs was instantly rectified when Richard hauled him out. Then every needle-like thorn made it their business to lance and tear agonisingly into Dinsdale's flesh.

With twigs in his hair and thorns three inches long still sticking out from various sensitive parts of his body, Dinsdale was dragged onto his feet howling in pain.

'We'll make for those trees,' Richard said. 'If they put a helicopter up, it won't be able to find us.'

A hundred yards of open farm land separated them from an isolated copse. It was the nearest natural cover for miles.

'I can't make it, I'm done,' moaned Dinsdale.

Richard hesitated then he offered Dinsdale his hand. 'Okay, good luck.'

'Hey, you can't just bugger off and leave me!' wailed Dinsdale.

'But – you said . . .'

'What happened to never leaving a man behind?'

'Um, okay, let's go,' said Richard.

'I'll just catch my breath.'

'No time. Run!'

Richard took off at a gallop and Dinsdale staggered after him puffing and panting. When they reached the safety of the trees, Richard took up station behind a broad oak to keep lookout while Dinsdale was doubled up, gasping for air and babbling incoherently about the hand of death that was soon to be visited upon him.

'I think we're okay, but I don't think we dare make a move until its dark,' said Richard.

'What! That's hours yet and it's freezing,' said Dinsdale between gasps.

'It's up to you. You can break cover if you want to, but the police are swarming all over this place. They'll pick you up in no time.'

Resigned to a long and uncomfortable wait until nightfall, Dinsdale sought out a fallen tree trunk and collapsed onto it exhausted. The vicious thorns that were still embedded in his backside instantly made their presence felt.

'Fuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!'

Birds exploded from their roosts and small animals leapt into their burrows. Richard's plan to remain quietly hidden until they could make good their escape became an instant non-starter. Dinsdale's cry would have been heard halfway to London.

'Shit,' growled Richard. 'There's old Bill looking this way. He's on his radio.'

'He wouldn't know it was us, surely?' said Dinsdale.

'Yeah, but he might just take a look. We've got to move.'

'But you said . . .'

'I know, but we've got no choice.'

Dinsdale groaned. 'Can we just walk this time?'

'You can walk if you want to, and if you want to get caught.' Richard peered through the undergrowth to see what was beyond the copse. 'We'll have to go straight through, keeping the trees in the line of sight between us and the copper.'

They clambered through the dense undergrowth. The copse extended much further than it first appeared. Richard forged ahead, determinedly sweeping the tangling fronds and low branches aside. Dinsdale's progress was more cautious. It was as if every tree and shrub was out to get him; blocking his path, whipping back tearing at his flesh or tripping him. Dinsdale swore and cursed and explained in gleeful detail exactly what he would like to do to those evil weeds if he got the chance. He vowed if he ever met any of those unjustly reviled Amazonian Rain Forest clearers, he would shake them warmly by the hand.

Up ahead Richard shouted, 'There's a road.'

Spurred on, Dinsdale lashed out and kicked his way through, quickening his pace. Soon he was standing beside Richard in a sunken lane.

'Didn't know this was here,' said Richard. He looked up and down the narrow road. 'I assume this way will take us back to Chelmsford and that, further out into the country. Can't hang around here.'

Dinsdale was shattered. 'I bet we're not on a bus route, are we?'

Richard wasn't listening. He had taken off and was sprinting in the direction of town.

Dinsdale tried to follow his lead, but he had run more today than any other time in his life, including six long years of enforced cross-country torture at school. Even with the urgency the situation demanded, he was too bushed in more ways than one to do anything other than gamely hobble after him.

Richard wasn't making any allowances. He was soon out of sight. Dinsdale tried to keep up, but each laboured step was accompanied by an 'ooh!' or an 'ow!' In some ways, the thought of being apprehended and thrown into the back of a warm and comfortable police car had its attractions.

As Dinsdale lurched painfully down the road, he wondered how once again he had got himself into such a mess. On top of what he already faced, he was now on the run having been party to a vicious assault on a policeman.

He wasn't even sure why he was running, unless it was in the vague hope that he hadn't been recognised. Save for the Police arresting Russell Brand in a serious case of mistaken identity, Dinsdale's distinctive mop of hair would have given him away him instantly. He ought to have just given himself up to save further pain and hassle, but perhaps like all fugitives fleeing from justice since time immemorial, he reckoned there was just a chance he might get away with it.

Dinsdale emerged from the country lane on to one of the main roads that ran between Chelmsford and Braintree to the north. He hesitated. The tiny back road had offered a degree of natural cover being out the way and little used, unlike the fast open road. With cars constantly bombing up and down it, there was nowhere to hide if the police suddenly appeared.

There was no sign of Richard, but there was an enclosed wooden bus shelter in the distance. It was a godsend. It was the perfect place to hole-up and wait for a bus that would take him to Chelmsford town centre. From there it would be a simple matter of getting the train back to Norwich and then with luck he would be in the clear. With a renewed sense of purpose, Dinsdale put his head down and hobbled towards the shelter.

'Richard!'

Richard was huddled into a corner of the shelter and was less than pleased to see him.

'Get in and try to keep out of sight. The police will be looking for two people and hey, guess what, here we are.'

Richard's attitude hit a nerve.

'I didn't choose to be in this situation. This is all your fault!' bellowed Dinsdale.

'Keep your voice down you idiot. If you'd have kept it down in the woods we wouldn't be here now.'

It was too much after all Dinsdale had suffered and was to suffer in the future at the hands of the law. He grabbed Richard's arm and flung him out of the shelter onto the ground.

'Find your own place to hide. Don't take mine,' Dinsdale said as he took Richard's place inside.

Richard got to his feet glaring at Dinsdale. He brushed himself down and caught sight of an object on the floor. It was Dinsdale's identity tag from Brampton. It had fallen out of his pocket in the scuffle. Richard picked it up.

'What's this?'

'Durrhhh! What's it look like?'

Dinsdale had forgotten he still had it.

Richard studied it for a moment.

'Security ID for Brampton?'

'Throw him a fish.'

'That's where they're holding Andy. I could use this.'

'Not with my bloody name on it you can't. I'm in enough trouble as it is.'

'I'll Photoshop it. They'll never know it came from you.'

'No chance,' said Dinsdale as he tried to grab it back. Richard was too quick for him and snatched it out of the way. Dinsdale was about to launch another strike when a bus pulled-up surprising both of them.

With a whoosh, the folding door opened and two passengers hopped off. Dinsdale shrunk back into the recess of the shelter. No sooner had he done so than Richard leapt aboard, and before Dinsdale even thought about getting on too, the bus with a blast of compressed air from the brakes was off again. Dinsdale punched the side of the shelter in anger. He had been doubly stitched-up.

As the bus disappeared along the road, a white car, which was travelling noticeably slower than the normal traffic, nosed past the shelter. The yellow and blue horizontal stripes on its side were terrifyingly recognisable. It was a police car. With his heart thumping, Dinsdale curled-up and squeezed into the corner of the shelter hoping beyond hope that they wouldn't see him.

It was surely impossible for them not to. Even with the slightest glance to their left he would have been in full view, but the policemen appeared totally focused on the departing bus.

Dinsdale didn't dare move. There might have been more police cars patrolling the road. But if there were, it was the unexpected onset of cramp which would have led to Dinsdale's downfall. The foetal position might suit babies for nine months, but a mere five minutes was too long for him.

He sprung out of the shelter with a howl of pain as his leg went into spasm. If they caught him now there was nothing else he could have done. The agony far outweighed any consideration toward self-preservation. He threw himself to the ground with his leg in the air and pulled hard on his toes stretching his calf. No sooner had one leg eased than the other cramped. He writhed on the floor in a right state, his relief efforts alternating between legs.

Dinsdale was vaguely aware of a car stopping in the bus stop, but at that stage he was past caring.

'Can I help you?' asked a voice immediately behind him.

A sarcastic copper was the last thing Dinsdale needed at that moment. He would happily have had 'Verbally abusing a police officer in the course of their duties' added to his growing charge sheet. Dinsdale was about to give him a mouthful when the owner of the voice hove into view. The man was dressed in black not unlike a policeman, but the striking difference was his dog-collar.

'I saw you in some difficulty and I wondered . . .'

Part of Dinsdale wanted to be left alone like a wounded animal to lick his wounds, but another seized upon it as an unsolicited, yet remarkably appropriate gift from heaven.

'Well, actually vicar . . .'

The elderly vicar helped Dinsdale from the car in the drop-off zone outside Hatfield Peverel station.

'Are you going to be okay on your own waiting for the train? I wouldn't want you to have another seizure with no one around to help.'

The vicar generously assumed, with Dinsdale making no attempt to correct him otherwise, that he suffered from epilepsy.

'They're so rare, I honestly can't remember the last time I had one. Anyway best be off,' Dinsdale said hurriedly. Trains to Norwich were on the half-hour and it was nearly three-thirty.

'You take of yourself young man,' said the vicar. 'And don't worry about the mess you made in the car. You know, the dust and twigs and things. I'm sure the blood will come off the seat.'

Dinsdale gave the Good Samaritan a quick salute of gratitude and ducked around the side of the station building. He walked across the old brick footbridge and stepped down onto Platform 2 that served the East Anglia trains. Unlike the London bound side with its waiting room and toilets, which would have been handy place to stay out of sight, except for a clear glass rain shelter, Platform 2 was just an open stretch of concrete with no place to hide. If the police arrived he was toast.

With growing unease he glanced at the information monitor. The next train to Norwich was due in three minutes. It was a slow one, stopping at almost every station in between, but it was better than nothing. He would have boarded a coal truck if it meant getting out of there.

After a long, long three minutes, Dinsdale saw a tiny light approaching way in the distance down the line. An automated station announcement broadcast the train's imminent arrival and a summary of the stops on route.

The light grew brighter as the train neared. Dinsdale stood waiting nervously with the irrational belief that if he could just get on the train he would be safe.

Dinsdale looked across to the station building and his heart almost stopped. He saw through the glazed doors a police car had appeared and two policemen were quick to enter the building. The train was still some two hundred yards off arriving. He could actually hear it now, chuntering along the line. He immediately tried to disguise his appearance by running his fingers through his distinctive wild hair to flatten it. But with a mind of its own it simply sprung back out. He darted towards the rain shelter and leant against the glass with his back half-turned to the other platform. That he was the only traveller seemingly uninterested in the train's immanent arrival marked him out, even to a casual observer or thickest of policemen, as someone who was rather keen not to be ID'd. Dinsdale knew it was ridiculous too, but in desperation he continued with the charade until the train arrived at the platform and shielded him from view.

Above the clatter of the train he listened out for any noises that indicated he had been rumbled: raised voices, heavy running footsteps, barking dogs or the wail of sirens in the distance. There was not a sound.

As the train slowly crawled to a halt, Dinsdale pounced on the nearest door and smacked the round opener with his palm. The carriage door didn't respond. He hit it again. The driver controlled the release mechanism and perhaps keenly following Health & Safety guide-lines, was in no hurry to activate it until the train was absolutely stationary.

Finally the light around the opener flashed on. Dinsdale instantly hit the button again. The door hesitated then opened with a hiss. Dinsdale leapt aboard the near empty carriage. There were only two other people inside; a girl reading a book and young man with his legs stretched out, listening to his i-pod.

Dinsdale took a rear facing window seat giving him a clear, if terrifying view should the police cross the footbridge in pursuit.

Dinsdale had lost any true sense of time, but the doors had remained open far too long for a scheduled stop. He fought the overwhelming urge to jump off again and just make a run for it. He took a deep breath and nervously glanced across to the other platform.

'Fuuuu...!'

Two policemen were now stood on it shielding their eyes against the glare as they scrutinised the stationary train. One nudged the other and they turned on their heels and sprinted toward the footbridge. Dinsdale jumped out of his seat, not with a decisive strategy to evade capture, but in a primitive flight response to put as much distance between them and him as possible.

He rushed forward through the carriage and pushed open the interconnecting door. He found himself in the compartment which had the toilet. It was the only option. The police weren't stupid, but if they didn't know for sure he was on the train, there was still a chance.

Dinsdale entered the cramped cubicle and sat down on the toilet seat preparing for a long, nerve-racking journey back to Norfolk. He was relying on the one remaining blob of Blu-Tack on his personalised 'Out of order' notice not to literally let him down.

After several minutes the train was still yet to move. He held his breath when footsteps approached and passed by. Moments later the footsteps returned. They paused by the door. Dinsdale nearly cried out when the handle was rattled violently. Fortunately the lock, not once, but three times, stood firm against the testing examination from the outside.

Dinsdale's heart might have been going like a train, but the real train remained ominously stationary. He imagined the police were calling for back-up or bringing dogs to sniff him out. For a moment he seriously considered breaking cover to try to escape, but he held his nerve.

Eventually the footsteps moved away. A ruse? Two coppers? One feigns losing interest while one remains quietly outside the toilet waiting to nab him when he emerges. Dinsdale wasn't taking any chances. He was in there for the duration. If they were to arrest him, they would need to batter the door down first.

He cracked his head against the wall of the tiny cubicle as the train jolted forward. At last they were on the move. Dinsdale reckoned there were to be ten stops between Hatfield and Dunsford which presented ten new opportunities for the police to re-board the train and nab him. As quickly as the notion entered his head, Dinsdale dismissed it. The police were under resourced. They might have left someone on the train as a precaution, but keeping guard on each station would have been an unimaginable waste of manpower.

The initial threat had passed, but the greatest danger of being caught now was when he emerged at Dunsford.

With nothing else to do but sit tight for a couple of hours, Dinsdale made himself as comfortable as it was possible to do when perched on a rock hard seat in a toilet cubicle that wreaked of piss.

49

Rather than rely on his bad memory or his fingers, Dinsdale devised a more practical way to keep track of the stops. He stuck small squares of toilet paper on the door as the train exited each station. It was a system that worked well until the train braked sharply and most of the squares fell onto the floor straight into the splashes of wee at the base of the toilet pedestal.

Without the slightest inclination to retrieve them from their unsavoury resting place, he focused on the automated PA announcements as they arrived at each station. But within the tiny cubicle they were so muffled that he strained to make them out clearly.

They pulled into stations with a regular monotony. After an uncomfortable two hours Dinsdale was convinced he had heard Dunsford announced over the public address. He took a deep breath. It was time to make his bid for freedom. As the train slowed, Dinsdale hoisted himself off the toilet seat in preparation. Not that he remained doing so for long.

Unaware that one of his legs had gone to sleep during the long journey, as he rose from the toilet seat the numb leg gave way and he instantly collapsed back down again. That rapid movement wrenched his other leg causing it to go into spasm with cramp. He was powerless to stop the reflex action that saw his leg snap out straight and burst the cubicle door open with a kung-fu style kick. The door caromed back off something hard in the corridor and a moment later there was the dull thud of a solid mass hitting the floor.

Hardly daring to look, Dinsdale leaned out of the cubicle and craned his head around the broken door. A policeman lay flat-out on his back with the peak of his cap pointing towards one ear and his flattened nose pointing towards the other.

'Ohhh! Shit!' mouthed Dinsdale.

The carriage doors had opened and he hurriedly stumbled off the train.

'I don't 'effing believe it!' he hissed, screwing his eyes shut in frustration.

He had travelled one stop too far – he was at Norwich Station in the heart of the city. There was no option, he just had to get out of there as quickly as possible and make his way back across town.

Dinsdale warily climbed the stairs and approached the ticket barrier. He couldn't see any police, but that didn't mean they weren't there in hiding waiting to pounce. On constant lookout for the net closing in, he fed the ticket through the machine and the gate sprung open. Just a few more steps would enable him to disappear into the city throng, and with a growing sense of exhilaration, he realised he might just have got away with it.

'Excuse me,' a voice called out sharply from behind.

Dinsdale froze and gripped the stair rail in panic. He had no thoughts to run. They had got him. It was over. He slowly turned around shaking uncontrollably.

'Alright, mate,' the owner of the voice said with a hopeful smile and waving a glossy magazine. 'Big Issue?'

Dinsdale clenched his jaw. He felt like smacking the cheery magazine seller in the mouth, to add toothless as well as homeless to the down-and-out's list of wows. But Dinsdale hesitated. He saw the despair behind the young lad's smile. There came a blinding moment of clarity when he realised that he and the homeless lad actually weren't so very different. He, like Dinsdale, surely would never have wanted to be in the desperate circumstances they both now found themselves in.

The day that young man first entered the world his excited parents would have been full of hope and expectation for their newborn child. They believed, like all parents, that with their care and nurture his life would be one of endless possibilities and fulfilment, and confident that it would be better than their own. But then something happens, a chance event – fate flipping a coin and that dream is shattered forever.

Then in a sudden shocking revelation, as if he was looking at himself in a mirror, Dinsdale saw for the first time how others saw him––a selfish, arrogant, bullying manipulator with little care for anyone except himself and his own shallow desires––then all his past, thoughtless and scheming transgressions flashed in an instant before his eyes––or they would have done if there weren't so many of them––and he was deeply, deeply ashamed of the person he was. It was at that moment he vowed to change – be a better, decent person and think of others. He even felt the irrational need to beg forgiveness from the young magazine seller for his momentary anger towards him. That necessity quickly past, but the crushing guilt of his past misdeeds remained.

Dinsdale dug down into his pocket and pulled out a five pound note – the last of the cash he had. He handed it over and said with a concern that was for once sincere, 'Good luck.'

The beaming street vendor proffered a magazine, but Dinsdale waved it away and hobbled out of the station.

In the grip of despondency it took a painful half-an-hour to cross town. He trudged along with his head bowed full of remorse and self-contempt knowing he had been as a complete arse all his life. He even felt bad about taking advantage of poor old Arthur's generosity and dodgy memory. The aging landlord should have been close to a millionaire by rights if Dinsdale's had paid him his due.

By the time he had reached the corner of his road even his blisters had got blisters and he could barely stand. In a way he relished the pain as penance for his sins. Although he was repentant and a new, changed man, he still wasn't taking any chances with the police. He slid up to the wall and peered around. His fears were justified. There was a policeman standing on-guard outside the flat. He knew it was over, yet out of curiosity and perhaps for nothing other than his own peace of mind after all he had been through, he had to find out what was in Barnes' journal before they banged him up in jail.

Dinsdale knocked hesitantly on Professor Veloski's study door. It was seven o'clock. He was usually to be found there at that hour still working away at his desk. The first light tap brought no response. Dinsdale knocked on the door again, only a little firmer, still wary of advertising his presence within the building.

Dinsdale heard movement inside. Slow, perhaps, reluctant steps approached the door. The lock turned and the door opened enough to frame Veloski's face.

He looked startled, and with the tiniest shake of the head, said sharply, 'I have a visitor. Remember cricket practice tonight, yes?'

Confused, Dinsdale was about to remind the absent-minded old don who he was, when the door was shut in his face. He raised his hand to knock again to remonstrate with Veloski, but Dinsdale hesitated. A visitor? The police! If so, it was no wonder Veloski looked so alarmed. Dinsdale turning up there would have dragged him into the mire as well.

Dinsdale swiftly turned round leaving the building way he had entered. He had come in through the back entrance and only now did he realise how fortunate that choice had been. Sat in the main road directly outside the building was a police car.

The situation called for an urgent plan 'B', which for the moment simply entailed putting as much distance between him and the college as possible until it was hopefully safe to return in the morning. He set off for the halls of residence hoping to find a room to doss-down for the night. Careful to avoid the main roads, Dinsdale's hunched figure hobbled painfully through the back streets. Over and over he replayed the events of the day in his mind, but for some reason the professor's cryptic reference to 'Cricket Practice' kept bothering him. Was Veloski just losing his marbles or had it meant something? The professor couldn't play, or even practice at his age. He had a passion for the game and demonstrated a few imaginary shots during his lectures . . .

'Of course!' Dinsdale slapped his weary head. It was a coded message to meet him in one of the lecture rooms; the place where he regularly entertained the students with his cricket loving antics.

Dinsdale let out a low groan. He was at the point of collapse, but what Barnes' book contained tore at him. He did an about turn and limped back to the college.

Dinsdale crept into the lecture room. He left the lights off. If the police came looking for him, he didn't want to gift them his whereabouts. Although if they had a keen ear, they would have heard Dinsdale clattering about as he stumbled over various unseen obstacles in the darkness.

Dinsdale felt his way into the corner and slumped into a chair. Every muscle in his body ached. His countless puncture wounds and scrapes cried out for attention, reminding him where each and every vicious injury had been inflicted upon his body. Every blister upon blister throbbed. How he could have murdered a pint or three.

In the calming atmosphere of that place of learning, the instinct to evade capture evaporated like the morning mist in the sun. He strangely came to terms with his fate. It was pointless. He would hand himself in after speaking with Veloski and perhaps after a few farewell pints at The Feathers.

He felt secure in the knowledge that his supposed crimes could be proven to be accidental and without malice. In hindsight, even Richard's scare-mongering over being sent to Brampton, seemed ridiculous. Barnes was mad and Andy probably was too. What sane person writes poetry nowadays? And Dinsdale only had Richard's word for it that Emily was still in a coma and being used as a lure for his co-conspirators in the Obsidian Covenant.

No, Dinsdale would place his faith in British Justice – it was said to be the envy of the world, which he sincerely hoped meant that it wasn't just the best of a bad bunch.

While Dinsdale waited for Veloski to appear, his thoughts drifted towards Barnes and his cryptic journal. Why was he still intrigued as to what he had written? It might offer an interesting insight into the inner workings of a mind in torment––what exactly drove Barnes to do what he did and if he understood it was wrong––but in other respects, it was all irrelevant now. Barnes was just another of life's unfortunates, a Saddo, who, without conscious design, had created a rampant new conspiracy industry on the internet.

Dinsdale must have dozed. He awoke with a start as the door opened. A soft light from the corridor tumbled into the room. Dinsdale instinctively shrunk down in his seat. Like a halo, the professor's distinctive puffball of hair shone in the back light.

Dinsdale remained silent. The professor might have had company. He would voluntarily be locked-up in a police cell soon enough, but he preferred to surrender himself under his own terms – after closing time at The Feathers.

'Mr Doric,' said Veloski into the darkness.

Dinsdale remained silent. He was pretty sure Veloski wouldn't deliberately grass on him, but the police could be ruthless.

'Mr Doric, are you here? I am alone,' Veloski hissed again. 'The police have gone.'

Dinsdale hesitated then hissed back, 'Over here.'

Veloski stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him, once again plunging the room into darkness. With a faint click, a single fluorescent overhead light flickered into life. It was enough to partially illuminate the auditorium and reveal Dinsdale's huddled presence in the shadows.

'It's not safe here,' Veloski said in urgent tone. 'Come.'

Dinsdale prised himself out of his seat with some difficulty. Resting had given his muscles the opportunity they needed to lock solid. It was Dinsdale who felt like the octogenarian as he watched Veloski nimbly skip across the room beckoning him to follow. He led Dinsdale to a small antechamber behind the raised podium.

'Sit down, Mr Doric,' Veloski said pointing to a swing chair in front of a cheap utility desk. Dinsdale willingly fell into the seat. Veloski slowly sat down behind the desk. He reached into his pocket and drew out Barnes' journal with his hand visibly shaking. Dinsdale hadn't noticed his geriatric tremor before. He also noticed how, in the space of only a few days, the elderly scholar suddenly appeared frail and uncertain. No longer did his eyes twinkle mischievously. They were dark, sunken and still tinged with what Dinsdale had witnessed earlier that evening – fear.

Veloski slowly set the notebook down in the middle of the desk according it the reverence of a priceless ancient manuscript. Dinsdale was too exhausted to immediately comprehend the deliberate import of the act.

'I'm in big trouble,' said Dinsdale. Normally, Veloski would smile reassuringly and by a curious osmosis, he would inspire the confidence and the strength to take on the world and win. But the professor's face was set hard.

'Mr Doric, this document . . .' Veloski faltered as cleared his throat. 'If, as I believe, it is true, then . . .'

'Has he confessed?' Dinsdale asked wearily.

Veloski nodded slowly. 'Yes . . .' he said, leaving his reply ambiguously hanging in the air.

Not that Dinsdale really cared anymore.

'I'm going to turn myself in,' Dinsdale said desperately. 'I've got no money and nowhere to go. They've even placed a police guard on my front door. I've brought all this upon myself, I realise I've been . . .'

'Mr Doric, listen to me,' Veloski said sharply, cutting across the unburdening of Dinsdale's soul. 'This is no time for self-pity.'

The professor sat transfixed by the battered journal before him. 'David Barnes was an exceptionally talented, some would say, genius research bio-chemist. But above all else he is a human being, a scientist, who believes in fairness and equality for all and has dedicated his life to the welfare of his fellow man. He couldn't live with it on his conscience if he didn't try to change what the future holds for mankind. That's why he undertook this drastic course of action.'

'To make these wonder drugs freely available to the world?'

'No – he did it to save the world.'

50

'He murdered his patients to save the world! Really?' said Dinsdale.

'He didn't kill them. Apparently the drugs getting into his patient's systems was due to faulty packaging. It wasn't the cause of their deaths.'

'That'll be of comfort to the grieving families.'

Veloski looked at him hard. 'You must listen. He chose those particular patients because from his knowledge of the future, he knew where and when they were going to die.'

'That's a bit scary.'

'Yes, not as much as what else he has to say. Because of that knowledge, he knew there would be a post mortem, so ensuring the drugs would be discovered. This journal contains a detailed account of everything he did.'

Veloski hesitated. 'As I said, that's not all. This details his driving motivation. He describes how an elite few who have taken it upon themselves to play God, or at least one of the Greek Pantheon of gods, the first of the gods to emerge at the creation of the Universe. CHAOS – the primeval god of the Air. They will claim this 'Project Chaos' is for the greater good; to ensure the human race continues to survive and safeguard the established order, to maintain their position and power.'

'What's for the greater good?'

'A holocaust: the calculated and wilful cull of five-billion human beings on this planet.'

'What! Five-billion? Billion?' Dinsdale had the greatest respect for the ancient scholar, but he had lost the plot. 'Erm, professor, David Barnes is quite mad you know.'

Veloski offered a hint of a smile. 'Are we really the ones to judge madness if this journal is a true account of what the future holds? What man intends to do to man?'

It was late. Dinsdale was exhausted. 'I'm struggling with this. Before my head explodes, I don't understand what this has to do with the miracle pills if everyone's going to die in this 'Cull' anyway? It doesn't make sense.'

There was the hint of a tear in Veloski's eye as the he replied, 'Sadly and terrifyingly, it all makes sense.'

'With respect, professor, this will be my last night of freedom. I hoped to have a few beers before I gave myself up.'

Veloski reached down into a drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch followed by two tumblers. He poured Dinsdale a stiff drink and set it down hard in front of him.

'You cannot give yourself up,' Veloski said firmly.

While the scotch was welcome, the sudden edge to Veloski's voice made him sit up.

'The police have my passport and I've got no money. I'm going to jail whether I want to or not. And frankly I deserve it.'

'Never-the-less you must understand. You must listen! Tonight the police suggested you might be suffering from mental health issues and asked me if I had observed any unusual or erratic behaviour.'

Dinsdale was dumb-struck, recalling Richard's warning about Brampton.

'Mr Doric, you are not aware of it, but you have a crucial role to play in the near future if David Barnes is to succeed.'

'Me!' Dinsdale said still reeling from the revelation about his proposed mental health issues. 'I only met him once and the state he was in I am not convinced he'd even remember who I was.'

'Now you may feel you don't want to get involved, but after what I recount, you might change your mind.'

Veloski shakily flipped open the cover of the journal and took a deep breath.

'I will précis what is written here: The origins of Project Chaos, perhaps the most guarded secret of all time, lay in the nineteen-fifties. That's when scientists discovered perhaps the greatest threat ever to the existence of mankind. The ruling elite came together to devise a global strategy to fight it. The data was slim and for much of the fifties and sixties they maintained a watching brief except switching from dependence on fossil fuel burning power stations to that of nuclear power and clean energy. As more data was available and analysed during the seventies it became apparent that without drastic action the human race was on a rapid road to extinction. The world's population had already grown in twenty years from around two-and-a-half-billion to nearly four and it has almost doubled since then. The demands for scarce resources, food, power and fuel has placed an unimaginable burden upon the planet, causing truly vast tracts of rain forest and vegetation to be cleared every year for agriculture and raising livestock. Passive birth control measures were promoted, but failed often due to poor education, religion or cultural reasons.'

Dinsdale thought he knew where this was going. 'So this shadowy elite has decided to kill five-billion people to stop Global Warming. Just like that. Just because the planet might be getting a couple of degrees warmer. Surely no one can be that insane, not even these Nazi New World Order people.'

'Ah, Global Warming,' Veloski said with a wry smile. 'Or Climate Change as everyone insists on calling it nowadays. This strategy to cloak the true aims of Project Chaos is a masterstroke of deception. Magnificent in its execution and unprecedented throughout history, the campaign of misinformation has achieved universal acceptance by the vast majority of peoples of all nations by so cleverly tapping into Mankind's eager propensity for self-loathing. So perfect has been its implementation that it has brainwashed even the most sceptical among us, and now those who argue against it are, with a certain irony, treated almost as if it was tantamount to 'Holocaust Denial'. Those renegade scientists who buck the trend are vilified by, not only those who are secretly pulling the strings behind Project Chaos, but also by the misguided evangelical fervour of their colleagues.'

'I knew it was all nonsense,' said Dinsdale pushing his empty glass towards the scotch bottle. He desperately needed another drink now with very real threat of incarceration at Brampton hanging over him. Veloski took the hint and refilled it along with his own.

'Mr Doric, do not make the mistake of believing these people are fools. Of course climate change is happening. It is happening as surely as night follows day, as summer follows winter. It must. Earth is a thermo-dynamic system in constant state of flux subject to influences far beyond the most self-important creature on the planet––mankind––such as the output of the Sun, cosmic radiation and the Earth's weakening magnetic field. But how much of the change is natural and how much is manmade – there lies the genius of their half-truths and the double-talk of their new dogma.'

Veloski stared deep into his whisky glass as he swirled the liquid. 'Glaciers retreating and the ice-caps melting? And so they should be. Geologists all agree that we are still emerging from the last great ice-age and the Earth has been generally warming for the last ten-thousand years.' Veloski smiled. 'Even those who tentatively champion the advantage of a modest increase in global temperatures by pointing out that cold weather kills far more than hot, have their argument shot from beneath by the cleverest twist of all. The strident climate change lobby warn that rising temperatures could actually bring about a new ice-age that would sweep down and cover most of the northern hemisphere and wipe-out our Western civilisation.' Veloski threw up his hands in despair.

'Is this in Barnes' journal, professor?'

'More or less, but I have suspected these things for a while.'

'So what's with all the stuff they keep banging on about if preventing climate change is not their real goal, and what's it got to do with this mad plan to kill everyone, presumably the so-called, Useless Eaters?'

'At the heart of the 'Climate Change' crusade is a kernel of truth. The real justification for 'Project Chaos' is what is called the Resource Alfa, and the impending 'Oxygen Catastrophe'. There is no doubt that carbon-dioxide is a greenhouse gas, but the effect of water vapour in the atmosphere is so much greater. Those advocates urging us to be more Green say, even though we cannot control the amount of water vapour in the air, we can control how much carbon-dioxide we pump into it; most of which, incidentally, is actually reabsorbed by the oceans. But it is not, as they have repeatedly told us for the last twenty years, to prevent the Earth warming. The truth is much darker and more terrifying than anything you can imagine.'

'What, more than killing five-billion people!'

'Oxygen. Without it we die, but we take it for granted, and give not a moment's thought that it won't always be there like the soil under our feet and the water in the ocean.' Veloski stared deep into the bottom of his empty glass. 'Simple chemistry. Carbon-dioxide: one part carbon and two parts oxygen. Every time we drive a car, turn on the heating or indeed, the insane justification for their proposed holocaust – breathe, carbon and other elements like nitrogen are drawing twice the amount of free oxygen and more from the air and chemically locking it away. We are slowly being suffocated of the stuff of life that we need to survive. We are literally choking ourselves to death. You only need to witness the noxious clouds that hang over every major metropolis. Photosynthesis returns some of the oxygen to the atmosphere, but the lungs of the Earth, the green vegetation, the rain forests and the algae in the seas, are being destroyed at an alarming rate as mankind's demands upon the planet become greater and greater.'

Veloski spun the top off the whisky bottle and refilled both glasses. Dinsdale didn't hesitate to sink half of it in one hit. Veloski clasped his hands together to stop them trembling.

'Three-hundred-million years ago in the Carboniferous Age, the atmospheric concentration of oxygen was thirty-five percent, double what it is today; With plentiful oxygen, animals thrived. It was an age of super-abundant flora and huge creatures: Giant mayflies with wingspans of over a metre, huge insects and crustaceans – Scorpions two metres in length. By the nineteen-fifties it had fallen to around twenty percent and today it stands at just eighteen percent.' Veloski shook his head. 'When David Barnes dictated his journal that figure had already fallen to sixteen-and-a-half percent. For mankind, and the other larger species of animals, the crucial, and lethal tipping point, is an atmospheric concentration of less than thirteen parts per hundred. To put that in perspective, it is the same level as what you will currently find at the top of Mount Everest – few can survive in such an oxygen depleted atmosphere.'

Dinsdale was tired and now light-headed from the drink, but something jarred.

'Sorry professor, but you said when Barnes wrote the journal it was lower than today?'

'I said it was lower when he dictated it.'

Dinsdale made a 'Yeah and . . .?' gesture.

'What is written in this journal is authored by David Barnes, but the not the man you met, not David Barnes of today. The voices he hears are his own, but from the man he will be in the future. The David Barnes you met is simply the scribe taking dictation from his future self some fifteen years hence.'

Dinsdale raised his eyebrows. 'Really? The voices in his head are from the future? And recorded in such detail?'

Veloski threw himself back in his chair as a flash of anger crossed his face. 'Do you not understand anything of what we have ever discussed? This is not fortune telling quackery. David Barnes, unlike most of us, has a unique, but misunderstood ability. His auditory hallucinations, which in our ignorance we designate as mental illness, are communications across time with his future self.'

'Enough to push anyone over the edge,' said Dinsdale.

'If this account of the future is true, then the burden of responsibility on this young man is immense, intolerable,' snapped Veloski.

Dinsdale sipped at his scotch. 'I think I've missed something. He plants these pills now to stop five-billion people being killed in the future? How? I don't get it.'

Veloski slowly sat back shaking his head.

'If I detail the events, as chronicled in his journal, it will become clear.'

Dinsdale could have easily gone back to sleep, but it was perhaps his last opportunity to discover what it was all about.

'The strategies instigated by those behind Project Chaos weren't working,' continued Veloski. 'They had allowed millions to die from AIDS and malaria in Third World countries. It was a callous Darwinian survival of the fittest exercise, knowing they had already secretly developed drugs to combat these deadly diseases. Reducing industrial carbon output alone wasn't working. Oxygen levels were still falling and at a point of no return. The hawks among Project Chaos believed if they were to save our species and preserve their precious Western Way of Life there was no other solution. If the secret ever got out regarding the failing oxygen supply, they believed all-out war and destruction across the globe would ensue. Rival factions would justify mass slaughter of their enemies in its name and anarchy would ensue. This is what the ruling elite have always been afraid of – anarchy. Their power and wealth has no real basis. Their fortunes only exist as a series of electronic impulses held on a computer. Should that information be wiped clean they would be nothing, their power and status gone – as would be their presumptuous right to rule and control us.'

'Even a wheelbarrow stacked high with cash would mean nothing as the German people discovered after the First World War. Mere pieces of paper; their only worth lying in someone believing in their value. Even gold, that which empires have fought over since time immemorial has no intrinsic worth. What good is all the gold in the world to a starving man?

So, these shadowy power brokers devised a plan to instigate a mass cull of the human population, a wilful act of genocide almost beyond imagination . . .' Veloski paused, his voice taut with emotion. 'Some on the evangelical right even believed the proposed cull was fulfilling Biblical prophecy – The Last Judgement – but it was they who had assumed the mantle of God's judgement.'

'The decision was taken. A primitive retro-virus had been discovered in an ancient lake beneath the Antarctic ice sheet, which was related to the fearful Ebola virus. Unlike the modern Ebola virus, its distant cousin proved to be an airborne pathogen which spread like the common cold or flu. It was named the Lucifer Strain, because of the extreme photophobic reaction of its victims before death – Lucifer: 'The Evil Bringer of Light'.

Barnes believes it was no accident that this retro-strain of Ebola, one of the most virulent ever known, suddenly appeared when it did. He also believes supposedly spontaneous, outbreaks in remote regions of Africa in the years preceding it were controlled experiments by these people to test the new strains potency.'

'Incubation was as short as a few days and after the skin blotching and first flu-like symptoms appeared, it generally resulted in death from massive internal bleeding within five, and the seemingly unbearable agony of the photophobia. Historically such a short period of infection to mortality would have limited the virus's spread, but the modern world teems with humanity on the move and with a near one-hundred-percent incidence of infection it crossed the globe within weeks. Its mortality rate was over ninety percent. Think of it, of ten people you might know only one would survive. And that might not be you.'

Veloski reached for his drink with an unsteady hand.

'The world went into meltdown as the unimaginable death toll increased at an exponential rate. But there was no anarchy only carefully controlled chaos all planned years before.'

Dinsdale nervously sunk another gulp of scotch. Even if he was sceptical about Barnes' ability to predict the future, the precise details of which certainly beat Nostradamus's desperately convoluted prophecies, he couldn't fail to be moved by Veloski's powerful oratory.

'But the pills?' asked Dinsdale. 'What's the point of having the cure for cancer and the others if we are all going to be wiped-out by this?'

'As you will see, not all,' said Veloski. 'Please let me finish the account and you will then understand their purpose.'

'Some isolated pockets of mankind escaped infection: The self-sufficient Nomads of the Russian Steppes, remote African and South American tribes, but few had any natural immunity to a virus that was a hundred times as old as modern Man. It is almost impossible to imagine the swathes of humanity were wiped-out almost in the blink of an eye.'

Dinsdale's glass was empty again. With three large scotches inside him and having had nothing to eat, he was feeling very light headed and very confused. 'I still don't understand.'

'Barnes needed to make sure the right people discovered the pills, his fellow doctors and scientists and to prevent them from falling into the hands of those who would keep it secret, the same people who would decide who shall die and who shall be saved.'

'New World Order?'

'Yes, the ruling elite. For years they had been running a covert operation to secretly vaccinate the chosen few who had been selected for survival in their brave new world. Those few who shall be the workers; a subservient and controlled population sufficient in numbers to maintain the established order's privileged way of life. And why do you think there is such a rush to produce driverless transportation – cars, lorries, trains, evens gigantic container ships – because the people needed to run them are expendable – surplus to requirements. Those poor souls who are saved will be as they have always been, like dogs at the master's table thrown a few scraps of what they the elite feast upon to ensure their continued obedience and loyalty. Why do you think the measles, mumps and rubella, the MMR vaccination jab for the young was so heavily promoted in the West? The USA and Europe was used almost as a modern Ark by actively encouraging immigration from all over the globe to gather the cream of humanity as they saw it, into these safe shores, while effectively allowing the remaining five billion souls on this planet to go to hell.'

Veloski bowed his head in sadness. 'Barnes' had to include the anti-cancer and AIDS drugs to ensure his peers in the scientific community would recognise the significance of the implant and the vital importance of the odd man out, the pill which has no currently identified purpose – the vaccine for the ancient Lucifer strain.'

It was a lot for Dinsdale to get his head around especially after the day he'd had.

'So, these New World Order people plan a genocide of five-billion people to stop the air running out and the breakdown of civilisation and Barnes is trying to stop them? That's in the book?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Both lapsed into a brooding silence. Then something crossed Dinsdale's mind.

'So how did young David Barnes know how to produce these pills and the cures for cancer and AIDS?'

Veloski tapped the journal. 'It's all in here. The chemical formulas. The method. It's all here. The details were dictated across time in the form of automatic writing. With that knowledge, the brilliant young David Barnes then had them secretly produced in China.'

'Wouldn't the Chinese have guessed what they were for?'

'Their role was that of a general pharmacist preparing a prescription to order without questioning its purpose.'

'Does Barnes say whether it worked? Have those who need to know worked out what the unidentified drug is for?'

Veloski smiled ruefully. 'The evidence suggests that this shadowy elite have certainly worked out which drug is affective against cancer even if they aren't letting on. As for the rest, who knows?'

Dinsdale's head was buzzing from the combination of alcohol, tiredness and weird information overload.

'What makes you think that I'm to be involved in all this? I only met Barnes once.'

'Firstly you are mentioned in his journal by name.' Veloski cleared his throat self-consciously. 'Although in it, he does refer to you as Toby. A minor error, but there can be no doubt it is you he is speaking of.'

Dinsdale cocked a questioning eyebrow. How is it that massively complicated chemical formulas can be transmitted across a gulf of time with total accuracy, but Barnes, with all that wisdom at his fingertips, still managed to get his name wrong?

'So, what do I have to do?' Dinsdale asked cagily.

'Nothing. You are the catalyst for events, not the instigator.'

Even if Barnes' journal wasn't nonsense, he was relieved. His rehabilitation into a decent human being didn't include the transformation into an all-action super-hero.

'So people like Piers Stanley know this is going to happen?'

'As we speak now, I very much doubt it. A great deal can happen in fifteen-years. They may be aware of the impending oxygen catastrophe, but the unthinkable solution, even today, is probably only an unspoken thought in the minds of the most hard-line of the shadowy elite.'

'Erm, did Barnes say whether the Lucifer vaccine was only contained within in the MMR jab?'

'He mentions no other.'

'Shit! They didn't have it when I was a kid. Do you reckon it is too late to ask the doctor for one?'

'I think you would be the oldest in the queue and perhaps these people only want the young and strong to re-populate their new world.'

Dinsdale shrugged. 'What the hell. I'm not sure I'd want to live in a world like that anyway.'

Veloski smiled kindly. 'You look bushed, Mr Doric.'

It was probably because Dinsdale still had various parts of one sticking out of his hair, but as a metaphor, the old professor was right on the money. He was out on his feet.

'Tonight you can sleep in my rooms in the college. I doubt the police will look for you there. Then in the morning we will discuss how we can prevent your detention.'

'I seriously don't like the idea of being sectioned at Brampton, but it won't involve literally going on the run will it? I'm not sure I'm up to all that chasing around.'

'Perhaps the best strategy is to remain hidden in plain sight.'

51

It wasn't the best night's sleep Dinsdale had ever had, laid out on the professor's couch. The couch was too short which meant either Dinsdale's feet stuck over the end or his head did. It was a position that he uncomfortably alternated between throughout the night.

Come the first light of dawn at six o'clock, Dinsdale was up and dressed instantly. There was nothing to be gained from lounging around waiting for the hour that he normally rose, which was an agreeable nine-thirty. The professor was an early riser too.

'Good morning, Mr Doric, sleep well?'

Dinsdale massaged his neck. 'Pretty rough.'

'I understand. These things are most, most disturbing.'

Dinsdale was actually referring to the inadequacy of the sleeping arrangements. But during the long wakeful hours of the night, many thoughts tumbled around his head questioning the possible truth of Barnes' claims.

'Coffee?' Veloski asked, putting on the kettle.

Dinsdale nodded.

The strong coffee hit the spot. The hot liquid in his stomach reminded him how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten in nearly twenty four hours.

'You haven't got any biscuits or anything?'

Veloski produced a tin. There was a choice between lemon puffs and bourbons. Neither were his first choice, but Dinsdale wolfed them down ravenously.

'I've been thinking–' Dinsdale said slowly.

Veloski seemingly had read his mind as he held up a hand to silence him.

'I once advocated the notion that even though our minds can probe the past and the future at some level, but I believed what was done, was done. The past is immutable and cannot be altered by a single jot. If Barnes' journal is the product of a sane mind, then either I am wrong or his undertaking is surely destined to fail.'

'That crossed my mind too,' Dinsdale said nodding as if he too had wrestled with that self-same paradox throughout the night.

During the hours of darkness, and with the benefit of a clearer head, Dinsdale had formed his own opinion as to why the whole 'Messages across time thing' was not only improbable, but also verging on the ludicrous. Firstly, how does Barnes become this brilliant scientist who sets out on a mission to save the world when he is currently on course to spend the rest of his life locked away drugged to the eyeballs in Brampton? And secondly – Toby?

'I think you're right, professor,' Dinsdale said. 'It can't be true, can it? And seriously, these pills might be just what I was told they were – sweets.'

'In his journal, Mr Barnes did anticipate this doubt,' said Veloski. 'Therefore as a precaution he described three events, which to the David Barnes of the future would be part of the historical record, but to us are a forewarning of things to come. He claims these will validate, without question, the truth of his account.'

'Winning lottery numbers?' Dinsdale inquired hopefully.

Veloski shook his head. 'But I do applaud Mr Barnes for his foresight, if you'll excuse the pun. He realised if he were to be believed, and get you on-board, the fulfilment of these predictions must occur sooner rather than later. The three events he speaks of will happen soon and within a few short weeks of each other.'

'Does he not say exactly when? Might they not be just random occurrences that were likely to happen anyway?' suggested Dinsdale.

'Not these. Those of a certain age will never forget where they were when Kennedy got shot and others when the twin towers were hit. These events will be equally as momentous and ingrained upon the psyche of a whole generation,' said Veloski, adding gravely, '. . . or for as long as that generation continues to exist.'

Dinsdale still wasn't convinced, but prophetic claims of any kind were always strangely compelling.

'The first –' Veloski's voice died in his throat, choked with emotion. 'No,' he said finally, 'I will tell you the second event. It is the double assassination of high ranking public official and a member of the royal family in a car bomb attack. An Islamist terror group will be blamed, but Barnes says history will prove this untrue. It was a conspiracy organised at the highest level to eliminate a troublesome politician considered a potential whistle-blower on their activities and rid them of a royal scandal that could threaten the existence of the monarchy should a serious skeleton in the closet be revealed. And that in the end it fell to their own people to remove these dangers to the established order, exposes their utter ruthlessness.'

It was a sobering thought.

'When will this be?' Dinsdale asked.

'Soon enough.'

'Why can't you tell me about the first event?' Dinsdale asked with a sudden look of horror. 'It's not me, is it? He hasn't foretold my death, has he?'

Veloski frowned. 'I'm sure your death would represent a sad loss to all your friends and family, but your passing, however tragic, would hardly etch itself on the psyche of a generation. No,' continued Veloski, 'the first event is a terrible crime against humanity on many levels, with the deceit and bloodshed that would follow in its wake. Once again it will be a false flag operation unfairly blaming Islamic extremists. A nuclear device will be detonated at Guantanamo Bay by a supposed suicide bomber. Although only a relatively small yield, the explosion will destroy the base, kill anyone who was unfortunate to be within five kilometres, and send up a radio-active dust cloud on an Easterly wind that will rain down on much of Cuba.'

'But the Americans on the base . . . ?' queried Dinsdale.

'A hundred low ranking, expendable soldiers will become martyrs and give the American government justification for an all-out war against the Islamic world, primarily Iran. And it's also a neat way to eliminate the problematic detainees.'

'And Cuba gets a kick in the nuts as well,' added Dinsdale.

'As you so succinctly put it, the long-time thorn in their side, Cuba, gets what these people see as its comeuppance too.'

'And all this is supposedly going to happen before the car bombing?'

Veloski nodded. 'If Barnes is correct.'

'If!' thought Dinsdale. It all sounded too pat to him – too much information. If the soothsayer's 'Ides of March' warning to Julius Caesar had been as detailed as Barnes' predictions, old Jules could have easily dodged the knife in his back.

He had no intention of expressing these doubts to the professor who, on the back of Barnes' notebook, was thankfully keen to keep Dinsdale out of the hands of the authorities. Whether Barnes was right or wrong, Dinsdale now had his own reasons to evade capture.

'So what does Barnes say I have to do?' Dinsdale asked.

'He doesn't.'

'A hint?'

'No. He doesn't know how you went about it, only the result.'

'Which is?' Dinsdale asked expectantly.

'I can't tell you.'

'Can't or won't?'

Veloski didn't reply. He opened a drawer in his desk and produced a thick bundle of banknotes.

'Take this money. They might have put a stop on your credit cards.'

'Yeah, my bank's rubbish like that . . .' Dinsdale didn't hesitate taking the money and sliding it in his pocket. 'Oh, I see, you mean the authorities?'

'Their powers are limitless.'

They both lapsed into thoughtful silence.

In Dinsdale's previous existence, he hadn't a care in the world, but now according to Barnes, he was tasked with saving it – and without any hint as how to go about it.

'Last night you suggested you had an idea to stop me being arrested? Hidden in Plain sight?'

'Yes –' Veloski was interrupted by a heavy knocking on his door.

'Open up. Police!' a voice demanded from the corridor.

Both men froze in silent shock.

'I don't suppose its Rag Week is it, professor?'

'Not to my knowledge, Mr Doric.'

'Then I'll say goodbye and take my leave via the window.'

'This room is on the first floor, remember.'

'Damn.'

52

Dinsdale had been at Norwich Police Station for the best part of the day. He had been brought in the rear entrance. Once inside he was immediately thrown into a holding cell without questioning, being told what was to happen to him, having to turn out his pockets or even removing his laces. He had seen no one since. He hadn't even noticed someone occasionally checking up on him through the observation flap either. He could have easily strung himself up hours ago or slashed his wrists with a concealed knife and they would have been none the wiser. Dinsdale wondered if secretly that's what they were hoping he might do.

He and the professor were taken away in separate cars. Dinsdale had no idea if they had both been brought to the same station. He hoped the well-meaning professor wasn't in too much trouble. What would the punishment be for harbouring a criminal? A fine? Community Service? Prison? Or perhaps the bastards will have him sectioned at Brampton as well.

And what of Barnes' journal? Unless a search team went in after they had been arrested, it had been left untouched on Veloski's desk.

Then again, so what if they had retrieved it. The police would surely have dismissed it as the ramblings of a lunatic, and who was to say they were wrong.

As far as Barnes' soothsaying went, it had failed at the first hurdle. Facing an uncertain future at the hands of the authorities, Dinsdale wouldn't be in any position to fulfil his supposedly 'Special Role' in Barnes' quest for years, or possibly ever. Dinsdale's prompt arrest that morning had convinced him more than ever that the whole prophetic 'Messages across time' thing was crazy.

Dinsdale was starving. It was the best part of a day-and-a-half since he had eaten anything substantial. Three lemon puffs and a bourbon didn't count. It was surely breaching his human rights or something not to be given food and drink. He intended to bring this grievance to their attention.

'Excuse me,' Dinsdale shouted out almost apologetically through locked observation flap. He probably wasn't the most vexed detainee the police had had to deal with in their cells. 'Hello – I'm hungry.'

Dinsdale cocked his ear to listen. Nothing. He shouted out again. Still nothing. Dinsdale was beginning to feel like he was the last man alive on Earth.

Dinsdale didn't know if his polite request for sustenance had been heard, but a few minutes later a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Dinsdale expected to see his old sparring partner, Inspector Carter, but an older man walked into the cell.

'I'm Inspector Gadger. Come with me.'

Dinsdale followed him down the corridor to an interview room. His stomach rumbled. 'There's no chance of something to eat?'

'No,' the inspector growled, directing Dinsdale toward a chair.

'Drink then?'

'Sit down and shut up. This ain't no bloody picnic.'

Obviously, Inspector 'Gadget', as surely as he must be nicknamed, had attended the same charm school as Carter.

Gadger leant menacingly across the table. 'Do you know how much trouble you're in?'

Dinsdale had a pretty good idea. He might be a changed man, but he wasn't going to make their job easy for them. They might have missed a few of his minor indiscretions.

'Failure to attend the police station this morning?' Dinsdale suggested hopefully.

'Trust me; you don't wanna be taking the piss son if you don't want to be more in the shit than you already are.'

Dinsdale hadn't realised that possession of a sense of humour was a criminal offence.

'Sorry, inspector. I usually see Inspector Carter and we normally have such a good laugh together. Is he not around?'

'Look, son, the sooner you realise this ain't no laughing matter the better off you'll be. And if I were you I'd take off that stupid wig. It ain't funny. But in answer to your question, he's on holiday.'

'Anywhere nice?'

'Cuba – but what the fuck has it got to do with you!'

Dinsdale shrugged.

'Anyway,' Gadger continued with a twisted smile, 'you will be sad to discover that it will not be me who is going to conduct the interview today. You are going to London because some nice people at Special Branch are having a quiet word.'

The inspector placed a clear plastic pouch on the table.

'You'll need to take your passport with you.' The unpleasant smile got broader. 'No, son, you ain't goin' on holiday. They're going to tear it up because you ain't never goin' to need it again!'

Inspector Gadget threw back his head and laughed wheezily.

There was a knock on the door. A young constable poked his head around the door. 'Sir, you're needed urgently.'

'I'm busy!' Gadger snapped, his fun curtailed.

'Sir, we've had notification of 'Code Red' protocol 'Alpha'. You need to come immediately.'

'Code red, protocol . . .' Gadger's jaw fell open. 'But that's . . . Jesus Christ! Can't be!'

'Yes, sir. Yarmouth. All personnel are required. Everyone.'

Gadger dashed out of the room leaving Dinsdale alone with his thoughts and his passport.

After a few minutes, and with no one having been sent to stand guard over him, Dinsdale reached over toward the plastic pouch. It was a common resealable type. He pulled open the top and slid his passport out. He flicked to the page with the photo. Not his best mug shot, but it captured his boyish charm. But why did Special Branch need his passport? Was he to be disappeared like Barnes and taken to Brampton under a false name? Surely his family would kick up a fuss and demand to know what had happened to him? Then again knowing his family, maybe not.

Several more minutes went by in which Dinsdale became increasingly restless. A bodily function urgently needed attending to. He was desperate for a wee. He tried the door handle and found to his surprise he wasn't locked in. He quietly opened it and peered into the corridor. There was no one about. He was bursting, he had to do something. On impulse he went back and grabbed the passport from the table. He slid it in his back pocket for safe keeping. You couldn't trust anyone in a place like that.

He tentatively stepped out into the passage. There had to be a toilet somewhere. Going through the door at the end of the corridor, he was surprised to find himself in familiar territory. He had emerged by front desk in the station custody area.

Dinsdale instinctively stepped back, but beyond a WPC hunched over the switchboard with her back to him, there wasn't a soul around. He considered asking where the toilet was, but she was engaged in a frantic stream of calls.

The main door to the street was invitingly open. The decision was made instantly; to put his bodily functions on hold in favour of escape. With a quick glance at the WPC, he tip-toed towards the exit and slid out of the door.

Once outside, he scampered along with his head down, but discreetly keeping an eye out for any police. He reached the High Street and deliberately slowed his pace. It was difficult as every ounce of his being urged him to run, to get out of there as fast as possible, but he forced himself to affect a casual shopper's amble. From all around there was the desperate wail of police sirens. Dinsdale deliberately kept his back turned to the road to avoid the town's CCTV cameras, crabbing from shop to shop as though he was a hardcore window shopper. But it made progress towards the railway station frustratingly slow.

The High Street normally jostled with crowds of people going about their business, but today most stood in clumps and huddles shaking their heads and talking animatedly. Some stood alone peering at iPhones. Another group had gathered outside an electrical retailer's window. Curious, Dinsdale joined the half-a-dozen people pressed up against the glass. They were watching the TVs on display. Whether it was HD, 50" plasma or small portable, each screen was showing the same piece of news footage. There was no sound, but the text that scrolled repeatedly across the screen made it clear what they were witnessing.

SUICIDE BOMBER DETONATES NUCLEAR DEVICE IN GUANTANAMO – UK PLACED ON FULL TERROR ALERT FOR COPYCAT ATTACK.

Dinsdale head spun and he swayed unsteadily. Against all that was holy, Barnes and his improbable messages across time had got it right. Dinsdale felt an enormous burden descend upon him. Like it or not, it appeared after all, he was destined to be an accidental hero.

He shouldn't forget his old pal, Inspector Carter, either. The ambitious young detective perhaps should have consulted Barnes' journal before holidaying in such a pariah state. If Carter had gone to Cuba for the heat and bright lights then he would have certainly got more than he bargained for.

And what did it mean for the two guys who were to be blown up? They had quite a shock coming to them. Dinsdale didn't know if it was part of his new remit to do something about it or if it was just one of those things that were meant to be. And how would Dinsdale humbly warn such a high ranking people that they are going to be assassinated, without the finger of suspicion being pointed firmly in his direction. Bloody Hell! He had only been on the job five minutes and he was stressed-out already.

Dinsdale slipped away from the crowd outside the shop and hurried towards the railway station. He had Veloski's cash and he had his passport, but what was he to do? Then he knew. He had to tell his story and expose the people behind 'Project Chaos' and their diabolical plan. It was the way, not only to prevent an unimaginable holocaust, but also to clear his name. He will write his detailed account of events in the form of a novel – a comic novel. He already even had the title for it in his head that cut to the chase: 'We're Doomed!'

In the current confusion, there might be still time to fly out of the country and get to Greece. Once there he could disappear in one of the islands and get it down on paper. Perhaps that was the special role Barnes intended him to play? He needed a new identity to avoid being tracked down. It didn't take much working out what his new first name should be – Toby. But Toby what? He kept it simple. He would be known as Toby – Wilde, after one of his literary heroes with immaculate fake ID to back it up.

Dinsdale grabbed his mobile phone from his pocket and called Gerry.

'Gerry, listen. That guy you told me about when Colin needed an X-ray, remember?'

Gerry understood instantly. 'Are you in trouble?'

'Yes.'

'Hang up!'

Dinsdale cursed his own stupidity. They were probably not only listening-in on the call, but also the inbuilt GPS would pin-point his exact location. He flicked off the cover and hooked out the battery.

There was no time to buy a cheap Pay-As-You-Go. He stood for a moment not knowing how to contact Gerry again. Dinsdale then spotted a familiar figure walking towards him. It was the young Big Issue seller and he had a mobile cupped to his ear. Dinsdale strolled over to him.

'Hello, mate.' Dinsdale said blocking his path. 'How's things?'

The young homeless man looked up startled.

'Yesterday in the station – I gave you a fiver,' said Dinsdale.

'I've spent it.' He went to step past Dinsdale, but again he blocked his way.

'Nah, you're welcome to it. But can I borrow your phone, I have to make a call – it's urgent.'

'Look, I ain't got much cred . . .' said the young man eying him suspiciously.

Dinsdale pulled out a twenty pound note. 'Just one quick call.'

'Twenty quid?'

Dinsdale slapped it his hand. The young man gazed at the note with relish, but was still torn.

'Look, you dial the number,' said Dinsdale. 'That way you know it's legit.'

'For twenty quid?' he queried.

'It's an important call.' Plus Dinsdale could afford to be generous with someone else's money.

Dinsdale called out the number. The young man hit the keypad.

'There you go, it's ringing.' He handed Dinsdale the phone.

Gerry answered. Dinsdale turned away keeping the call as private as possible.

'Gerry – I've got to be quick. I need a passport and ID in the name of Toby – Wilde, with an 'E', yes, got it?'

'Photo? Date of birth?'

'I'll get a new phone and send it. Date of birth, hmm. First of the fourth, nineteen-ninety-two?'

'Making you twenty-nine? Well, okay, fine, if you say so.'

'How long?'

'Two weeks. Only call me from an unregistered mobile,' Gerry said quickly terminating the call.

Dinsdale handed the phone back. 'Cheers, mate.' Then headed towards the station, no longer to catch a train to anywhere, but to get a cab to the airport. He glanced up at a Ladbrokes betting shop and hesitated. He fingered the thick wad of cash in his pocket. It was a lot of money, yet was it enough to stay out of reach of the authorities until his blockbuster expose hit the shelves? Even so, he reckoned he could still spare a few quid.

He strolled into the betting shop wondering what odds they would give on a member of the royal family being killed by a bomb in the next couple of weeks. Pretty good he reckoned. It was a macabre bet in extremely bad taste and would undoubtedly raise a few eyebrows at Ladbrokes head office – possibly with them tipping off the police about an assassination plot.

Dinsdale tapped his lip thoughtfully. The bet – would they require it to be on the nose, specifically identifying the doomed royal or would they accept an each way punt? Pick a couple of the most likely blue-bloods suspected of having rattling skeletons in the closet. Dinsdale shrugged. It won't do any harm to ask now, will it?

Post Script

BBC News Report May 2013

'The Chinese government announced that their scientists have created a mutant strain of Bird Flu from the existing H5NI virus and human influenza, which if it were to escape from the laboratory would cause a global pandemic that could kill hundreds of millions around the world . . .'

*

What have the Chinese to gain from the creation of such a potentially devastating pathogen?

Why have they openly declared its existence to the world?

Does possession of the mutant virus act as the ultimate deterrent against a biological attack by the West?

Is it based on the principle of mutually assured destruction (MAD) as prevailed in the post-war nuclear arms race?

DOOMSDAY:

The slaughter of massed armies of hundreds of thousands of men?

Nuclear annihilation turning Earth into a radio-active wasteland?

Or one man, one vial, one crowded international stadium and only one side with a vaccine?
