First Horseman, The Page 4

  ‘Look!’ said Jim, pulling up his shirt in frustration. ‘I can’t afford to get any more messed up.’

  He watched his coach recoil. His right side might have been chewed up by some large and ferocious animal. He dropped his shirt, bowed and parted his hair, showing a long scar across his scalp. ‘I’ve been in a fair amount of trouble,’ he said, ‘and next time I don’t want to rely on luck to keep me alive.’

  Next time? Pat had looked Jim up on the Internet: he was some kind of retired super-rich, boy-genius banker – but something had messed him up good and proper.

  ‘You don’t have to kill me,’ said Jim. ‘You can pull your punches a little.’

  Pat started to take off his focus pads. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but don’t ever say you didn’t ask me nicely to beat you senseless.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Jim.

  Pat looked doubtful. ‘I’ll be putting my head guard on and you’ll be keeping your gloves.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jim.

  Pat returned with his head guard in place and a pair of practice boxing gloves on. ‘I’m not messing up my knuckles on your face,’ he said, waving his right hand at Jim.

  Jim smiled. ‘OK,’ he said, and put in a mouth guard.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Pat, sounding reluctant.

  Jim nodded, crouched, and began to weave.

  Pat kicked his legs out from under him, then towered over him ready to land a punch.

  Jim rolled away and up. In that moment he had felt what it was like to stand up against a world-class fighter. Pat’s speed was breathtaking. And Jim was paying to be trained by the best. ‘You should have hit me,’ he said. ‘Punish my mistakes … Well, punish them a bit, OK?’

  Pat moved towards him. Jim could see he was going for a grapple, so he fended off the grab with his left hand and tried to land a punch with his right. Pat’s head seemed to fall out of the way of his blow and Jim hopped off.

  Jim’s concentration was intense, adrenalin coursing through his body. In a split second he saw Pat consider several moves. He was going to fire a shot at Jim’s temple so Jim shot a blow to his stomach. He felt it was the wrong move as it went off, so he twisted to avoid Pat’s jab, which seemed to come in slow. Jim’s punch was heavy, given extra energy by his turn. It was a contact that scored hard. With better poise he could have fired off another shot, but he needed to hop back into balance first.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp blow to his left eye and a cuff to the other side of his skull. He was instantly confused and falling.

  Pat was looking down at him.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Jim, weakly, shaking his head.

  ‘Not so bad yourself,’ said Pat, and pulled Jim to his feet.

  ‘That was great,’ said Jim, trying to blink his left eye.

  ‘I hope that’s enough.’

  ‘For now,’ said Jim, pasting on a smile. ‘I learnt more in that minute than in all the other lessons.’ His eye was swelling. He took his gloves off and his mouth guard out. ‘Ow,’ he said, touching his eye. ‘That was awesome. I didn’t see your punches at all. Incredible – amazing.’

  Pat wondered why his pupil was looking so happy, if somewhat dazed. ‘I think you might quite possibly be mad,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, dizzily. ‘I appreciate that.’

  Stafford put the tray on Jim’s desk. ‘Best fillet steak,’ he said. ‘The best thing for it.’ He regarded Jim’s black and red eye. ‘Can you see properly?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘no problem. It wants to close a bit, but I can keep it open.’ He took the steak, which was cold and wet, and clapped it on his eye, which enjoyed the cold but was irritated by the pressure. ‘Are you sure this’ll help?’

  ‘No, but it comes recommended by folklore.’

  12

  The Veyron was ludicrously fast. It was almost impossible to drive without sailing instantly above any speed limit. Consequently his foot lay lightly on the accelerator at an uncomfortable angle and he kept having to take it off altogether to slow down. The novelty of the car was quickly wearing off. He’d get Stafford to find him something slower. He took his foot off the accelerator again and braked – he was doing 115 m.p.h. after daydreaming for just a few moments. At this rate he’d arrive at the professor’s lab horribly early, with a handful of speeding tickets.

  Stafford had selected a number of cars for him, assuring Jim that they were right for a man of his station in life. They sat in his garage collecting dust. They were pretty enough but he hated the way everyone stared at him as he drove past. He’d get less attention if he walked down the road naked, he told Stafford.

  Stafford ignored his protests and bought the latest concept from any supercar company that came along. He put into storage the vehicles he considered out of fashion. He would drag Jim to see his latest acquisition and practically force him to take them for a drive, like some old owl trying to fledge one of its brood.

  In return, Jim tried to make Stafford take them for a drive: he knew that Stafford was in love with his shiny car collection. Yet Stafford demurred, ‘I shouldn’t be able to get back out of it,’ he would say, flapping a hand dismissively at the low driver’s door. ‘I doubt a man of my weight would even fit inside.’

  Jim would shrug and smile. There was no harm in him assembling a few flash cars to polish in the stable block.

  13

  Bob Renton had a funny, springy walk and a black-bearded grin permanently on his face. There was a kind of happy determination about him, enhanced by the implied authority of his white lab coat. His gait seemed to suggest he was doing several jobs in parallel, all of them exciting, important and running according to plan.

  That scenario was perfectly likely because Renton was Professor Cardini’s chief assistant and the linchpin of the professor’s many research projects. His faintly eccentric but jovial demeanour ensured he was an object of mirth among the students. He seemed to pop up everywhere around the lab, as if he could appear at will wherever he chose. He was the go-to guy for all necessities and help in the lab. He always seemed to be there.

  He showed Kate into a little study. It acted as a waiting room for those wishing to see the great Professor Cardini.

  Renton seemed to look at her oddly. It was as if he was enjoying something different about her from what she guessed other men were thinking when they eyed her in a particular way. Like a bad memory, Bob Renton made her want to shudder.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ he asked, in a friendly way, standing a little taller on the balls of his feet.

  ‘No thanks, Bob,’ she said politely.

  ‘He shouldn’t be too long,’ said Renton, smiling, his chin pushed forwards.

  ‘Thanks.’ She sat down in a worn green armchair, crossed her legs and looked out of the window. The door closed.

  It was a lovely summer day and a breeze was fluttering the leaves of the horse-chestnuts outside. She was not going to wonder what the professor would say to her: she had thought it over a thousand times. She would soon know, she told herself, as a small blue sports car drove noisily into a parking space outside.

  Renton closed the door of his room and locked it. He opened the video monitoring software and pulled up the feed from Cardini’s anteroom. There Kate sat. He clicked up the remote control centre, the master controller of many of the lab’s experiments, and sent an instruction to the container in the far-right corner of the room – it looked like a mouse trap. A little door opened in its side and a fan inside began to turn, blowing a silent gust of air though the flat white plastic housing. The mosquito rose on its legs and instinctively flapped its wings as if resisting. The airflow dislodged it and it was blown out into the wider world.

  It flew up to the ceiling and landed, hanging upside down. As moments passed it began to smell Kate below. With only one millionth of the neurons of a human, it located her, calculated her position and prepared to fly to a place on her body where it could pierce her skin and feed. It flexed its legs, dropped from its
hold, turned and flew.

  Kate was watching a young guy get out of the sports car. She wondered what make it was. It looked like one of the Mazdas she had always fancied having one day, whenever she could afford a luxury like a sports car. He was wearing a suit that didn’t quite go with the car. He’d have been better off in jeans and a leather jacket. He wasn’t bad-looking in a funny way … In fact – she craned her neck – he was pretty handsome, perhaps even dangerously so.

  Renton watched the screen. It was kind of pointless. He couldn’t see the mosquito because it was too small. Neither was the girl likely to jump up and scream when it bit her. He would just have to hope it did its job, which, as a hungry mosquito, it most surely would.

  The buzzer sounded in Reception. Who could it be? He switched feeds. A young guy was standing at the desk. Was he the professor’s meeting? If so, he was early. He switched off the monitor and got up.

  ‘It’s down the hall on the corner,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, and turned to go. The place reminded him of his comprehensive school, which he hadn’t thought about since he’d left it at sixteen. He had gone to work for an investment bank as a gofer on the trading floor and never looked back.

  How different this place was from a bank. There were tiles rather than marble, and wood, painted many times in an off-blue colour, rather than the steel and ebony of London’s financial heart. Here he detected a whiff of cleaning fluid, not coffee, in the air.

  Jim wandered down the long gloomy hall. He opened the door at the end. A girl inside started. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Is this the right room for Professor Cardini?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll join you, if you don’t mind. I’ve got an appointment with him but I’m really early.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, ‘but he’s late.’ She smiled.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Jim. He was staring at her arm. ‘Just don’t move.’

  She looked at him questioningly and froze.

  ‘You’ve got a mosquito on you and it’s about to tuck in. Shall I get it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

  He lunged and slapped her arm gently. ‘Got it!’ He picked something off her just above the elbow. He held it up. ‘You were nearly lunch,’ he said, admiring his handiwork.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling nervously.

  He became aware that someone was standing behind him. He turned, mosquito in hand, to see a bearded guy in a lab coat.

  ‘Hello,’ Jim said. ‘Just saving this lady from a blood-sucking insect.’

  ‘Are you Jim Evans?’ the man said, peering at the tiny corpse between Jim’s fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m very early.’ Jim rolled the insect between his fingers, dispersing it like dust.

  ‘I hope that thing didn’t bite you, Kate,’ said the man in the lab coat. ‘The locals aren’t as nasty as our subjects, but even so.’

  She shrugged.

  The man in the lab coat stepped forward. ‘Kate, do you think you can come back at one? The professor’s running a bit late. I don’t think he can see you before his meeting with Mr Evans here.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Kate, surprised. ‘OK.’

  ‘Mr Evans is a philanthropist and his time is incredibly valuable.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Jim. ‘I’m way early. I don’t mind waiting, that’s OK.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kate, with a resigned smile. ‘I’m dying for some lunch.’ She stood up and grabbed her jacket. ‘See you at one, Bob.’ She grinned at Jim. ‘Nice black eye.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said sheepishly. ‘It’s my new look.’

  The man in the lab coat opened the door for her. ‘Thanks very much, Kate.’ He followed her out.

  What a crap way to treat people, thought Jim, sitting down. He would happily have swapped the crusty old professor’s company for hers. Even a five-minute chat would be better than an hour of waffle from a fat cat angling for a handout.

  14

  The door opened and a tall man, perhaps over six foot six, in his late fifties, entered. Jim knew immediately it was Cardini. He stood up.

  ‘Welcome,’ said the professor, in a very deep voice, holding out a huge hand at the end of an immensely long arm.

  ‘Hi,’ said Jim.

  ‘That’s a bad contusion you have there, young man. It looks untreated.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Jim.

  Cardini was now up close to him, studying the bruise. ‘I don’t approve,’ he said finally. ‘That needs to be looked at. Come this way.’ He led Jim into his office. ‘Please sit down,’ he said, then went to his desk and brought out a bag. ‘I used to be an eye surgeon, you know.’ He put his giant hand gently on Jim’s head. Jim noticed him raise an eyebrow as he noted the long scar across his scalp. ‘I’m going to look into your eye to check your retina is intact. Try not to blink if you can.’

  Jim was dazzled by a bright light.

  ‘Very good,’ said Cardini. ‘No damage.’ He stood up and took a little pot from his bag. ‘This,’ he said, holding it between thumb and forefinger, ‘is something I’ve been working on for thirty years. It will help your injury – may I put some on you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jim.

  Cardini took a pair of white rubber gloves from his bag, removed the top from the pot and dipped a cotton bud into the contents. There was a faint smell of pears. ‘You may feel strong heat where I apply the balm. Do not touch your eye for ten minutes while your skin absorbs it. It is a cellular stimulant, and if you have it on your fingers you may spread it elsewhere, producing unintended consequences.’ He dabbed it on Jim’s eye.

  ‘Wow,’ said Jim. ‘I can feel the heat.’ Warmth spreading around his eye, then down his cheek, as if blood was flooding from a gash.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to treat someone today,’ said Cardini, standing back, ‘but it’s always a pleasure.’

  The intense heat on Jim’s face was almost painful, but not unpleasant. It was like the taste of a hot curry on his tongue, except the tingle was on his face. ‘What is that stuff?’ he asked, reeling a little.

  ‘Telomere eukaryotic retranscriptase.’ Cardini smiled.

  ‘Right,’ said Jim, puffing. ‘Whatever it is, it’s hot stuff.’

  ‘Let me show you around.’

  Jim stood up, flustered, distracted by the pulsing heat in his face.

  Cardini was watching his expression with a degree of amusement. ‘We have a lot of programmes on the go at present, thanks to very generous donations from America.’

  They left the office, went down the hall and climbed a flight of stairs.

  ‘Our speciality is in finding genetic solutions to medical and general health issues, but we also focus on biomechanics,’ said Cardini, launching into what seemed to be an informal presentation. ‘We have some of the most advanced programmes on genetics, biomechanics and meta-organic synthesis on earth.’ He stopped at the top of the staircase and looked at Jim. ‘Where is your degree from?’

  Jim normally said, ‘Tesco,’ to that kind of query, but his face was taking most of his attention. Someone seemed to be pressing a hot bread roll to his eye. It was, surprisingly, a rather nice sensation but it made it hard to concentrate. ‘I didn’t go to university,’ he said. ‘I went straight into banking.’

  ‘And well it did you, too,’ said Cardini. They walked along a corridor on the first floor. The professor swiped his pass over a pad and opened a swing door. ‘This is our mosquito lab. We’re trying to build the perfect mosquito, a specimen that can replace the current insect in nature.’ The walls were lined with glass tanks that housed pink rats.

  ‘Hairless rats?’ enquired Jim.

  ‘Food for our subjects,’ said Cardini.

  Jim looked closer. There were mosquitoes in the tanks: some were squatting on the rats and feeding off them. He felt a bit queasy and turned away.

  ‘We’re trying to make a mosquito with adapted
salivary glands that won’t carry malaria but, of course, we need it to out-compete the normal species and enable it to replace it by out-breeding it in the wild. This, of course, is the difficult part. Out-designing evolution is, without doubt, the greatest of challenges.’

  ‘Out-designing evolution or God?’ asked Jim, almost by accident. His internal censor had gone off duty, defeated by the fierce heat in his face.

  ‘Ha ha! It would be a great disappointment if the people’s God was responsible for such a killer, would it not?’ He leant forward and gave Jim an amused, quizzical look. ‘Of course, if we succeed, we can forestall the journey of many to test the supernatural axiom.’

  ‘You mean by saving lives.’

  Cardini continued: ‘We are making solid progress with the mosquito. If we can solve the final problems we can change the world for ever. And that is what you are trying to do, is it not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘not really. I’m just trying to help people. Does that mean changing the world?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Cardini. ‘Great advances always change the world. Take penicillin,’ he boomed. ‘When it was discovered there were but two billion people in the world. Now, thanks to this panacea, there are seven billion. Dr Fleming is the grandfather of five billion people.’ He looked deep into Jim’s eyes. ‘Of course there is danger in progress, but it takes a man of vision to face these consequences with courage.’ He lowered his head. ‘Are you a man of vision, Mr Evans?’

  Jim didn’t answer. His face was beginning to itch and he was trying not to scratch it for fear of getting the balm on his fingers. His left ear was whistling. He caught sight of a cowering rat covered with feeding mosquitoes. ‘I’m not sure I’m too keen on genetic engineering,’ he said. ‘What happens if you screw up? It’s like programming, right? Well, you know what happens with software – it’s always crashing.’

  ‘There is no second place in nature,’ said Cardini. ‘A flawed design will be gobbled up by the voracious environment that is life.’