Nmemesis

By Pat Whitaker

Humanity is under attack from an enemy within. An enemy unable to be seen or confronted. Nemesis tells how in a battle with no rules, each individual must find their own answers, their own way in which to protect themselves and those they love.

The book also invites the reader to reconsider the nature of life itself and whether our current definitions are really adequate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cooper's Press
• Release date: Aug 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781877557224

Pat Whitaker

Born in England in 1946, I moved to New Zealand with my parents and older brother at the age of four and, apart from five years in my late twenties spent traveling the globe, have lived here ever since. After a fairly rudimentary education, I found work as an Architectural Designer and this became a life-long occupation. I started writing late in 2006. The books I write are intended in the first instance to tell a good story and secondly " once the tale is told " to leave the reader with something to ponder. To this end, all my stories attempt to provide an original take on some commonly held belief, be it cultural, social or scientific. Being a fan of both science fiction and classic murder mysteries, these tend to be common themes, with elements of both often combined in a single story. As a person who likes to read a book in a single sitting, I normally limit each work to around forty-five or fifty thousand words. Unfashionable I know, but it's what I prefer. Of my books, Mindset, Antithesis, Returning and Nmemesis were finalists for the Sir Julius Vogel Awards - Best Adult Novel between 2009-2012, plus Best New Talent in 2009. If you'd like to know more, please visit my website.

Book preview

NMEMESIS

Freed of the flesh, the mind is lost.

Pat Whitaker

Copyright © 2011 by Pat Whitaker

Cover design Pat & Robert Whitaker

All rights reserved.

Other Titles by Pat Whitaker

Bad Blood

Time Out

Raw Spirit

Antithesis

Mindset

Returning

Smashwords Edition 1.0, June 2011

Manchester, England.

Saturday, 15th March 2007.

2.25am:

Bronwyn Rich was ripped from her sleep by a deep, primordial scream–a scream that tore at the very fabric of her soul. Instinctively, she rolled off the bed onto the floor, and crouched there on all fours, naked in the darkness. For an eternity she did not move, did not even breathe, then as her eyes adjusted to the moonlight she slowly, silently rose to her feet. She surveyed her bedroom. Nothing. She looked to the door, but it was shut. And her room was empty. All was as it should be. She began to shake, and went and sat on the end of her bed.

It was not a dream, she was sure of that. And it was close—very close. Bronwyn knew that she was going to have to check the house, but for the moment the thought of what might await her left her unable to move. Then it occurred to her. The scream was loud, loud and clear, not muffled as it would be through a closed door.

She looked toward the open bedroom window, and knew it had come from her garden.

Bronwyn was not a brave woman, nor a big one, but she was a realist. To do nothing was not an option. To sit there in the darkness with her imagination running amuck would produce far greater demons than anything waiting in her garden–as long as she proceeded with the utmost caution. Hesitantly, she slid off the bed and started downstairs. It was only on reaching the back door that she realised that she was still stark naked.

She took her old raincoat from behind the door and slipped it on, then returned to the kitchen to collect a torch from the kitchen drawer. Alongside the torch was a large steel, such as is used for sharpening knives–not that she had ever used it or even knew how. On impulse, she took this as well.

At the back door Bronwyn hesitated. She knew she was going to go out and knew that it could cost her her life, but she didn't think so.

She heard someone running. Running up past the side of the house toward the road. Then silence. She put her hand on the doorknob and slowly opened it. As she did so, a car door slammed and an engine started. With a screaming of revs and squealing of tyres, the car disappeared off into the night.

Bronwyn sank to her haunches on the steps and started to tremble. Whatever awaited her in the garden, she somehow knew it was no longer a threat to her. It might not be pleasant–it may well be horrific–but it wasn't going to hurt her. She stood up.

At that moment a light came on next door. This gave her an overwhelming sense of relief; she was no longer facing this alone.

Mr. Grayson? You’re awake?

There was a clattering as her neighbour pulled up his sash window.

Bronwyn? Are you all right?

Yes, I'm fine.

We heard the scream, we thought...

No, it wasn't me, but I think it came from my back garden. I'm just going to check.

Don't do that. I'll call the police.

It's okay, I heard someone drive off, I'm sure it's safe now.

Still, wait for me, I'm coming down. I'll meet you at your back door.

Truth be told, Bronwyn was only too happy to wait for a bit of psychological support, although how much help Barry Grayson would be in a crunch was a moot point.

Moments later Barry arrived. He looked at Bronwyn standing there in the moonlight, and with an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness muttered, Coat...

Pardon? Oh! Sorry, I... well I wasn't... Hastily, she fastened the buttons, previously neglected.

I understand. Please. Where do you think the scream came from, exactly?

To be honest, I don't know, it woke me from a heavy sleep. I just know it was out here in the back garden.

They looked at each other in the darkness, both reluctant to move, fearful of what they might find. Finally Bronwyn said ‘This way’ and, leading her companion around the corner of the house, headed out across the large lawn. The grass, stiff with frost, crunched under her bare feet, but her system was so pumped with adrenaline that she didn't notice.

Barry Grayson, looking up at his wife who was watching from their bedroom window, cannoned into the back of Bronwyn.

I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going.

There was no response. Bronwyn stood rooted to the spot, speechless. Barry stepped around her and was confronted with a naked man, half crouched in the middle of the lawn. But there was something else, something very wrong. The man was clearly dead, and yet he was upright. Well, semi-upright, and that in itself was wrong, as he was obviously off balance and yet he didn't fall.

Barry started towards the victim, but Bronwyn grabbed his arm.

Don't. Ring the police.

But what's happened? I don't understand.

But Bronwyn did. In the middle of her back lawn was a large feature, a 1920s sundial. A circle of mosaic flush with the ground and a large wrought iron arrow pointing skywards at an angle. The man, perhaps in his mid twenties, had been impaled on the arrow like some medieval execution–the point entering his anus and being forced right up through his abdomen into his chest.

Oddly—and perhaps somewhat selfishly—the first thought that came into Bronwyn's mind was 'Why my garden?'

Monday, 13th March 2007.

11.10am: Bootle Street.

For the umpteenth time, Detective Inspector Paul Stringer shook his head and asked himself 'What the hell is going on?'

Inspector?

Paul looked up. A constable, with an apologetic look on her face, had appeared in the doorway.

Yes, what's the problem?

Not a problem, Sir, a woman. A Doctor Katherine Platte, she has asked to speak with you. Do you want me to fob her off?

Paul positively leapt out of his chair.

No, no, send her in. Is she here?

The constable raised her eyebrows, surprised at his reaction, and stepped aside to allow a petite and not unattractive woman to enter.

Hello Paul, long time, no see.

Katherine, this is wonderful. he stepped forward and embraced her, an act so uncharacteristic that the lurking constable reacted audibly.

That's all for now, Constable, you can go about your business. And close the door, if you would. Katherine you are looking wonderful, you don't look a day older than when we last met. I lie, you actually look younger. Have you had...

A facelift? Don't be disgusting! It's not having to work for you that's made the difference.

So, have a seat and tell me why you're here.

Am I that transparent?

Only when the light's behind you.

Oh, shut up. You had a young man impaled on a sundial yesterday. That was very odd.

Not the only thing that's odd.

Meaning?

Where do I start? Actually, there was another man involved with the impaling, we have him downstairs.

That was quick!

He turned himself in–no credit to us.

Still, it simplifies things.

Actually, I'm not sure that it does. I'm going to interview him again as soon as I've had something to eat. If you can spare the time, we could talk over lunch and then you could sit in on the interview. I'd very much appreciate your take on things.

I'd be happy to, but don't you have a new pet psychologist?

I do, but I'd still like your opinion–unofficially, of course.

Katherine got up and turned to the door, Done. But I'm expensive–the downside of being married to Hugh.

Seated at a corner table at the back of Cafe Gio, Paul and Katherine sat in silence, waiting for their food to arrive. The cafe Gio was on Princess Street, the other side of the Central Library and a little walk from the Bootle Street police station, but that very fact meant that it was not frequented by Paul's work colleagues and they would not be interrupted.

They had walked in silence, just as they now sat in silence. Not awkward, but companionable. Their food arrived, and with the waiter gone and with him any distractions, Katherine asked, You're worried about something, aren't you? Is it this killing or something else?

Paul thought for a moment, Well, both really. This killing doesn't make any sense–I mean, even in the context of murder generally, it doesn't make sense. The lad was happy, well-adjusted, popular. No problems, mental or otherwise. He was not mixed up in anything dodgy or even unusual. And nor was the person who was with him when he died.

You don't say 'who killed him', why's that?

Yes, the man who killed him. But there is something wrong with that. The person concerned was the victim's closest friend; they had known each other since childhood. He knows what he did, but says that it was something they had agreed to between them. The thing is, he says he has no recollection of why. Why they decided Christopher Lake should die, or why he should die in that manner and in that place.

You believe him, don't you?

"I think I do. He says he can recall the events, but he is sort of removed from them–like something he had watched on television. The two of them had met up earlier in the evening at a pub. By his account they had had a pint each, only the one, then decided to go back to Lake's flat and get something to eat. After dinner, they had been sitting discussing nothing in particular when they suddenly got up and went out.

It was at this point where—by his description—things got disconnected. He has no recall as to why they decided to go out or where they were to go. He knew that it was important, something that they needed to do, but that was it.

No drugs?

No. He swears that neither of them had ever used drugs, it was something they both abhorred as they had seen what it had done to a close mutual friend. And no alcohol other than the one beer earlier in the evening. Of course, this is just his account of events–we are checking it at the moment.

Katherine sat back in her chair.

But you believe him. It was a statement, not a question. But there's something else, isn't there?

Paul looked at his companion. It was odd that although they'd not seen each other for nearly six years, the bond, the intuitive understanding that they had enjoyed when working together was undiminished.

You know there is, it is the reason you came to see me.

Katherine smiled.

10.35pm: North Sea.

Huddled in the dark, soaking wet and frozen to his very soul, Jeremy knew he was going to die. His body was battered and bruised from the storm and he had a nasty cut to his forehead from falling headfirst down the companionway.

And he was lost. He had no idea where he was, other than he was somewhere in the North Sea. He knew this because he recalled stealing the small boat in Peterhead the previous morning and heading out towards the rising sun.

Why, he could not remember. He had never been to sea in his life, apart from a Channel crossing with his parents at the age of eight. That had terrified him, and he had studiously avoided anything to do with the sea ever since. He knew nothing about boats, he had no suitable clothing, and he had no food.

All he knew was that for some reason–some reason that however he tried he could not recall–it had been important. And now he was going to die.

While the engine had been running the motion had been somewhat easier, but it was four hours since the fuel had given out and he could not even keep the boat head into the waves. He tried to get up, to find a more comfortable position to brace himself against the pitch of the small craft, but he no longer had the strength.

But there was one thing he had to do before he died. With his last ounce of strength he rolled onto his side and got his cellphone out of his pocket. He thumbed through the functions until he had the file he was looking for, entered an address—and waited.

Then, as he felt his life finally slipping away, he pressed 'send'.

Tuesday, 14th March 2007.

9.36am: Manchester City.

D.I. Stringer didn’t like being in the mortuary and didn’t like the casual attitude and irreverent humour that pathologists seem to delight in.

It looks like your boy was telling the truth.

Paul looked up from the report he was reading,

How so?

Well, as you can see, the victim died of massive internal trauma–all detailed there–from having a large metal spike forced up his rectum into his chest. It would have been excruciatingly painful, and not quick.

No?

No, about ten minutes, I'd guess, but he would probably have been unconscious for much of that.

So no surprises, then

"You mean, was he killed then put on the spike? No, nothing like that–nor was he drugged. I did find markings on the victim’s shoulders consistent with having been held from behind and pulled down onto the spike. It's conjecture, of course, but I'm quite sure in my own mind that the victim