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  Sawyer avoided eye contact but monitored their hands, checking for twitches, for fists. ‘No. It’s a coping strategy. Sort of a debrief with someone I care about. Unfortunately, she’s not around any more.’ He smiled. ‘Do you have anyone you care about, lads? Is there love in your hearts?’

  The two sidekicks looked up at their leader. He scowled and kept his eyes on Sawyer. ‘You a queer, mate?’

  Heavy local accent. The other two laughed.

  ‘No. I’m heterosexual. Although it’s all fluid, isn’t it?’

  The laughter fell away.

  Sawyer stepped closer, in striking range. He ignored the leader and spoke to the bigger of the other two: a scrawny boy in skinny jeans and bright red trainers. ‘Is this the latest trend now, then? Trolling mourners? I know it must be dull, growing up in a toy town like this. But maybe one day, if you try really hard at your sums, you’ll go to the big city and you’ll realise that threatening strangers to relieve your boredom is a really, really bad idea. That’s the thing about strangers, see. They might be a bit strange. You don’t know who they are. You don’t know where they’ve been.’

  He nodded at the biggest boy and walked away, back to the main gate.

  Murmurs behind. ‘You’re a fucking loony, mate!’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘I get that a lot.’

  At the edge of the village, he drove over the packhorse bridge and slipped the Mini through a narrowing lane, crowded on both sides by mottled stone facades. At a T-junction he aimed north, and the village hustle fell away as he carved through pure countryside, riding the rolling lanes past only modest blemishes of humanity: tractor trails, ossified stiles, fossilised railway tracks. Sawyer had been urbanised by his work, but his soul still resided out here, nurtured by the natural cycle, the unending indifference.

  He tried to zone out to strident guitar music—AC/DC, Manic Street Preachers, Soundgarden—but he couldn’t muffle that familiar tingle: a background itch somewhere in the base of his brain, a simmering that never quite came to the boil. As ever, there was the ache of urgency, the sense of an alert. But it was vague, intangible. He could intellectualise it, link it to events. He knew something was recoiling: at the teenagers, at the tension of the meeting to come. He could sense its weight, its presence, but found it impossible to stare down. It was like a mischievous spirit, lurching from shadow to shadow. Always in his periphery, never in plain sight.

  Rosemary House had the look of a careworn country hotel: a three-storey manor with a cluster of outbuildings, set in spacious, well-tended grounds. Geometric pathways marked out like ley lines, herbaceous borders ablaze in lemon and magenta. But despite the poise, the place carried an air of desolation. In trying so hard to look welcoming and transitory, it betrayed its true, institutional nature.

  As Sawyer signed in and the receptionist printed his pass—good for one hour—he was joined by an unctuous gent in bulging suit and bow tie. The man hovered as he fitted the pass into a lanyard and hung it round his neck.

  ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer. How lovely to finally meet you.’

  Sawyer shook the hand: moist and puffy. ‘“Jake” is fine. I’m not—’

  ‘Ah, no. Of course. My apologies.’ He shuffled forward and rested the other hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘I’m Chris Hill. I’m the Operations Manager here at Rosemary House.’ He was still clinging to Sawyer’s hand, shaking. ‘I recall you were due to visit us several weeks ago, but the occasion didn’t transpire.’

  Hill was a large, misshapen man with a scruffy ginger beard and old-fashioned half-moon glasses. He was clearly local, but had clipped his vowels and sharpened his consonants to pompous effect. He was standing way too close, and Sawyer winced as he caught a whiff of his halitosis.

  ‘Yes. I did call to cancel.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hill released Sawyer’s hand and swiped a key card across a panel set into the reception desk. Sawyer followed him through a set of heavy double doors, down a bright, featureless corridor: skylight, pale blue linoleum, pastel green and beige walls. No posters, no signs. Nothing too primary or arousing. The air was overheated, and bristled with fresh detergent, as if the place had been cleaned especially for Sawyer’s visit.

  Hill slowed his walk and fell in alongside Sawyer. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your father recently. He visited us in early summer. June, I believe.’ He turned his head to Sawyer, clearly expecting engagement. He didn’t get it.

  ‘You’re privileged. Dad isn’t the gregarious type.’

  Hill sniffed. ‘He used to be a police officer himself, I understand.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘You have done your research, Mr Hill. How is my brother doing?’

  Hill stopped at a door marked with his name, engraved into a brushed silver sign. He swiped his card and stepped inside.

  Sawyer hovered in the corridor. ‘I was hoping to see my brother, Mr Hill.’

  ‘Of course. I won’t detain you for more than a minute or two. There’s just a small administrative matter I need to attend to. I’ve been trying to reach your father, but to no avail.’

  Sawyer sighed and followed Hill into the office. It was spacious but sterile, with an ugly mishmash of flatpack furnishing and pretentious period pieces. Hill eased into his padded black chair and opened a file he’d set aside on the desk.

  ‘Please have a seat, Jake.’

  Sawyer stood to the side of the open door and regarded the low-lying pair of squat, armless easy chairs facing Hill’s desk. They looked like they’d been sourced from the children’s section at IKEA.

  ‘I’m fine. I really don’t have much time, Mr Hill.’

  Hill twitched with irritation but then broke into a practised smile. ‘As I’m sure you know, we are a small rehabilitation and recovery inpatient centre. Only fifteen beds. We provide rehabilitation programmes in a community setting for individuals who have been referred from other hospital environments and the community. The aim is to allow the individual to live outside hospital and reach their full potential within a community setting. All residents are actively involved in their care plans.’ He stalled, shuffled a few papers. ‘I’m afraid that, as one of our longer term patients, Michael’s package is up for review, and potential renewal, at the end of the year.’ He gathered the papers into a folder and placed it on the desk, pushing it towards Sawyer. ‘I’ve prepared a letter for you and your father. It contains details of the renewal and payment plan. I’m afraid the rate has increased for the forthcoming period.’

  Sawyer glanced down at the folder, then scowled at Hill, withering his smile. ‘How is my brother doing?’

  Hill sat back. ‘We have good days and bad days. Lately, I’m sorry to say, mostly bad. We seem to have dips at weekends. He does respond well to therapy. He becomes more industrious and engages a little more. Mostly, though, he reads. I’m told he reads at an astonishing rate. He leaves finished books in his tray, with handwritten notes on future requirements.’ He took a breath and glanced out of his window, squinting through the slats of the blind. ‘I often wonder, Mr Sawyer, if Michael can articulate his feelings about his practical needs, why he can’t—’

  ‘How is he progressing? What progress has he made? Have you made?’

  Hill turned to face Sawyer. ‘It is a two-way process. Your brother is receiving exemplary physical care here, and my staff have tried many approaches to address his mental and emotional well-being. But as he remains unwilling to engage, then we are rather restricted to nurture and nourishment.’

  ‘You make him sound like a house plant.’ Sawyer took the folder and moved back out into the corridor. ‘I’d like to see him now, Mr Hill.’

  Hill stood. ‘Absolutely. But could I please ask that you take a look at the package details and contact me as soon as possible?’ He joined Sawyer in the corridor, closed the door and lowered his voice. ‘I have to say, Mr Sawyer, renewal of the package will make Michael an exception. We normally don’t take patients for more than five years.’

  Sawyer browsed thr
ough the papers. ‘He is an exception.’ He looked up, caught Hill’s eye. ‘Rest assured, Mr Hill, I’m working on getting him out of here.’

  ‘I might go to see Dad soon. Don’t suppose you fancy the trip?’

  Sawyer dragged a plain chair from the side of the room and sat, a few feet from his brother. Michael was perched on the edge of the single bed in the corner of his immaculate en suite room. The decor was upscale Travelodge: single white pillow; off-white sheets; high-backed side chair; tea and coffee-making facilities; mini fridge. A boxy, wall-mounted TV—muted—broadcast an American sports show, but Michael’s attention was fixed on a handheld gaming device.

  He flashed a look at Sawyer, shook his head, and returned to the game. It bleeped and chirruped. A synthesised voice confirmed his plays. (‘Archers!’, ‘Spearmen!’)

  Michael was heavy-looking, on the edge of obese. In contrast to his brother, his greying hair was buzz-cut, but he had Sawyer’s face shape, and the same colour eyes, alert but misted over.

  ‘What are you playing? RPG?’

  Michael nodded.

  ‘I prefer a bit more action, myself.’ Sawyer looked up at the TV. Two red-faced pundits, side by side, berating each other in what looked like good humour. He was grateful for the muting. ‘I took a transfer, Mike. Coming home.’

  No reaction.

  ‘I’ll soon be able to come and see you more often.’

  Michael squinted at him: a look of doubt.

  ‘Not here, though. Obviously, Chris is delightful, but we need to get you out of this, into your own place. Your own world.’

  Michael’s shoulders heaved in an immense sigh.

  ‘The wounds aren’t healing, Mike. We need to get some air on them, you and me. Bit of light. We might not like what we find, but we can’t leave it all locked away until we’re too far gone to look back.’

  Michael flicked off the device and laid it on the bed. He dropped his head, but raised his eyes to watch his brother.

  ‘It’s time to open up, to talk about the things we don’t want to talk about. The things other people don’t want to hear. I’m ready, Mike. And I need you to be, too.’

  Michael raised himself, slow and unsteady, as if he wasn’t used to bearing his full weight. He turned, revealing the logo on his black T-shirt: a circle of turquoise triangles surrounding the words, APERTURE LABORATORIES.

  ‘You were closest, Mike. On the day. You must have heard something.’

  Michael closed his eyes. His shoulders rose and fell. He was taller, wider than his brother.

  ‘You must have heard her. You must remember.’

  Michael opened his eyes and covered the distance to Sawyer in three short steps. Sawyer didn’t move. Michael planted himself, a few inches away, and raised his right arm, fist clenched, revealing an embossed ladder of scars down his inner forearm: blade cuts, pen cuts, key cuts. He held his fist in the air, trembling, staring into his brother’s eyes, green on green.

  Sawyer held his ground. His voice was calm, unruffled. ‘I’m going to finish it, Mike. Rip off the plasters. It’s going to hurt, but it’ll be better than this. A fucking holding pattern with no landing.’

  Michael heaved for air. He breathed in short snatches. The tears were coming.

  As he dropped his arm and fell forward, Sawyer caught him, staggering backwards at his bulk. He squeezed tight, leaning into him, holding him up. The hug was unreturned; Michael’s arms hung limp at his side. At last, the agony burst out of him, and the room heard his voice: a feral howl; a cry of loss, of longing. All that love not given, gushing up and spilling out.

  Sawyer could feel the warm tears trickle into his hair. One found its way through the albino patch at the top of his head, and dripped down onto his neck. He spoke over Michael’s sobs. ‘There’s a timeline to this. And it isn’t “another five years”. Just because you’re struggling to live at the moment, doesn’t mean you’ll never be able to have a life.’

  Michael spluttered, caught his breath, and wrapped his arms tight around his brother.

  7

  ‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Professor.’

  Kelly ushered Viktor Beck into Donald Ainsworth’s office. Beck made it across the room before Ainsworth had a chance to stand. He crashed down into the patchwork chair.

  Beck was short and puckish with a lustrous thatch of inky black hair, gelled into a tall quiff. He was dressed all in black: shoes, socks, skin-tight trousers, polo shirt with collar flipped up. Ainsworth couldn’t decide if the brilliant white buttons on his shirt were there to offset the blackness, or if Beck hadn’t been able to find a shirt with black buttons. He was well on the road to fifty, but his good looks held him at the north end of his thirties.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee, Mr Beck?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He sat back, clasped his hands and crossed his legs. The buckles on his shoes glinted. ‘I am keen to hear about the details and the process of the Challenge. Forgive me for not shaking hands, Professor Ainsworth. I always prefer to make physical contact towards the end of a meeting, as an excess of psychic energy can leave me feeling drained.’

  His accent was thick and angular. Slavic? Maybe Middle-Eastern? Maybe he was an Essex boy putting it on. It would fit with his bearing. Ainsworth hoped he wasn’t Israeli, and he didn’t see himself as some sort of upgraded Uri Geller for the generation not raised on spoon bending and watch stopping.

  Ainsworth smiled. He unscrewed the cap from his bottle of water and took a sip. ‘Thank you for coming in on a Saturday. I was intrigued by your application, and was keen to meet you in person before we set anything up.’

  Beck nodded. ‘Not a problem. I run my own time. I am currently touring the country. Mostly mid-level venues, local places. But I am developing a strong following. I’m playing in Cumbria this evening, and so the journey was convenient.’

  Ainsworth had seen the tour dates. Provincial arts centres, members’ clubs, a couple of open-air events at artisan festivals. ‘Were you born in the UK?’

  ‘Yes. My parents were Romanian. They came here to escape Ceausescu. I am based in London. Bayswater. Near where I was born.’

  ‘And how would you describe yourself, Mr Beck? Are you a medium? A clairvoyant?’

  Beck nodded and paused, affording the question more time than it deserved. ‘I’m a psychic. A medium. I offer psychic readings and support, in person and over the telephone, email and Skype. I am proficient in palmistry, Tarot, tasseography.’

  Ainsworth couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘Coffee grounds?’

  ‘Correct. Please understand, Professor Ainsworth, that I am used to sceptics and cynics. As a pioneer in an emergent field, I share this burden with many outliers from the past.’

  Ainsworth took out a notepad. ‘Darwin? Newton? Christ?’

  Beck rolled with the blow. ‘I am here on quite serious business, as I trust you will soon discover. I am confident that I can back up my claims.’

  ‘And you have no affiliation with any conjuring organisations? The Magic Circle? International Brotherhood of Magicians?’

  Beck shook his head and fixed Ainsworth with a pitying stare. ‘Not at all. That is because I am not a magician.’

  Ainsworth nodded. ‘My researchers will confirm that.’

  Beck smiled. ‘Indeed they will.’

  Ainsworth took another sip of water, holding the moment. ‘Let me tell you a little bit about the Challenge, Mr Beck. We’ve found that clairvoyants, mediums, psychics… They have been reluctant to come forward because of the threat to their credibility, and livelihood.’

  Beck leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘I would not be here if I wasn’t confident that I can back up my claims without threat to my reputation.’

  Ainsworth studied him. ‘The Challenge is really very simple. My unit offers £50,000 to anyone who can demonstrate paranormal abilities under strictly monitored conditions. I understand you are claiming to be a remote viewer?’

  Beck scratched his che
ek. Ainsworth noted it as a potential tell.

  ‘If I come into contact with an item that has been “imprinted” with the energy of a specific person, I can determine the location of that person. In some circumstances, this is a quick process. Other times, it can take a few days.’

  Ainsworth scribbled something. ‘We will not be able to test your claim over a period of days, Mr Beck. I will set up a carefully controlled experiment that will be conducted in a few hours, within the department here. You will have no input into the set-up or process.’

  Beck sat back. ‘I accept that.’

  ‘You will also not be informed about the nature of the experiment until you have been searched and screened and we are ready to go.’

  Beck sniffed. He seemed bored now. ‘Yes. As I said, I am confident that I can back up my claims.’

  Ainsworth watched as Beck uncrossed and crossed his legs. For a character with such outward confidence, he was displaying a lot of anxiety. ‘Tell me a little about how the remote viewing manifests itself.’

  Beck looked around the room, his eyes pausing on Ainsworth’s photograph of the young girl. ‘Normally, I use this ability as part of my psychic readings. I handle an item that was close to the deceased, then I provide detail about their mood and relay information from the spirit world. Recently, I have been able to access visions of living people. The touching of the object will induce a hot, tingling sensation, almost like a headache but without the pain. I will then “see” a scene, a detail. It is like I am observing, a distant watcher. I do not witness the person in question, just detail about their location or situation.’

  Ainsworth frowned and looked down at the notebook, doodling. ‘With deceased subjects, are you able to relay emotion? Specific messages?’