Tenacity

By Justin Hamlin

Some they created super-strong. Some they created ultra-fast. Some they created with intelligence or beauty. But they made their biggest mistake ever when they created one with superhuman TENACITY...

Robert Castle, crippled and unemployed, lives reduced to a shadow of his past as a star footballer. When his friends start dying in suspicious circumstances, he can't help but make his own enquiries. He will see the shadowy trade in 'custom humans' where no request is too perverse... and meet the people who'll fight with their lives to protect that trade...

A Tom Clancy-sized slab of action, violence, intrigue and more, TENACITY is Justin Hamlin's latest and greatest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Hamlin
• Release date: Aug 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943847938

Justin Hamlin

Justin Hamlin was born in 1971. He has lived in the Tunbridge Wells area since the age of seven months and has been writing since his early teens. His work is published as 'urban fantasy' but also incorporates elements of crime thriller and horror.Writing not being a reliable source of income, he works in private security. He has also been employed variously as an HMRC clerk, barman, model, supermarket cashier, rat breeder, warehouseman, bouncer, despatch rider and pantomime horse. In his spare time he enjoys photography and hill-walking, although writing is his true passion.He is unmarried and is overjoyed to have no children.

Book preview

Robertsian Translocation

The windscreen exploded hard. A slap in the face from a metal gauntlet. A cold metal gauntlet with sharp edges on it. Castle opened his eyes. He was looking down the triple carriageway at the cars in front pulling away, and the whirling flakes of snow fading to mist, and in the distance a hunched shape on the bridge half a mile off. Hunched over a rifle and looking straight back at him.

He stamped on the accelerator and the limo went hauling through the red light like a train, the massive engine roaring. Facing straight ahead, he stuck out his left hand – scattering a multitude of tiny chunks of glass from his sleeve – to shove Lyn Campbell’s head down. His gloved fingers passed through nothing but air, landing on the back of her neck. She had ducked already. That was some discipline she had, he thought. Most people – VIPs in particular – would have sat there in stupefied shock.

"Go, Anders, GO!" she shouted.

Freezing wind blasted Castle’s bare face, knocking his chauffeur's cap back into the limo’s depths. A herd of traffic spilled out around him from the entrance ramp. Someone on one side angrily honked their horn. Another joined in from behind. Tyres squealed and there was a thud of metal impacting metal. More rhinestones avalanched from Castle’s shoulders as he strafed the heavy vehicle left and right, intimidating the other cars out of the way, to end up in the middle lane behind the towering back end of a lorry. Only then did he turn to his passenger.

"Ma’am?! he hollered over the wind. You okay?"

"I’m FINE! Lyn yelled back from between her own knees. Just DRIVE!"

Castle drove. The truck in front of him would be blocking the sniper’s view, should the sniper be sticking around for a follow-up shot. But the truck was so slow. Deadly, teeth-grindingly, anus-clenchingly SLOW. Castle flicked his eyes to the rear-view monitors, watching the passing traffic on either side.

What he saw was a van. A white Transit overtaking him in the fast lane. Side door slid back. Green balaclava and baggy camos squinting down the sights of a short black carbine.

Shit! Castle accelerated forwards and slid the limo’s bulk into a gap in the left-hand lane. Another horn honked just as the shooter let rip on full automatic, hitting the limo all down its side. The sound was nothing like you expected. A deafening clatter. Louder still was the clonking and banging like huge hailstones on a glass conservatory roof. Then the truck was between them. Castle risked a look. All the damage he could see was little white dots where the bullets had hit the window glass. Not enough gun, he thought. Unless he shoots the tyres next time. Or gets in front of us and shoots through where the windscreen used to be... With that in mind, he undertook the truck –

– and the van, which had overtaken, met him around the front. With the shooter aiming straight at him through the empty windscreen.

This time the gunfire was much louder. A rattling scream of utter fury. His own head down, Castle could actually feel the ripples of air on the back of his neck as the bullets passed overhead. A sudden wave of rage flooded over him stiffening his back and pushing his foot down on the throttle, how dare they pull a stunt like this, now, as if he would be off guard, as if he was substandard, and with that rage he whirled the steering wheel right, using the limo's front corner as a battering-ram. Impact went whump up his arms as the two vehicles collided, bounced apart then collided again, crumpling the van’s side like tin foil. Behind him rubber roared on road as the truck braked and jack-knifed, but he gave this no thought, concentrating on forcing the van sideways into the central crash barrier. Metal shrieked upon metal as the van was dragged along sandwiched between the barrier and the limo. Castle sat straight up. The gunman, his feet still upon the van’s floor, had overbalanced forwards onto the limo’s hood, the carbine still in one hand pointed directly at Castle with the muzzle not a foot away from his face.

Castle didn’t hesitate. One hand on the wheel, he reached outside with his other and grabbed the weapon by the barrel. Sudden heat surged through his glove. The gunman’s figure began to tense on the trigger. Castle’s back stiffened amid prickles of shock, and with a convulsive movement he jerked the weapon up over his head and out of his assailant's hand, tossing it over his shoulder. It thumped on the carpeted floor of the limo’s passenger section. The gunman had pushed himself back off the limo and into the cavern of the Transit. But Castle was only just registering what he’d seen – a glimpse, through the balaclava’s eye-slit, of the gunman’s eyes. Dull, grey eyes. Eyes that Castle recognised all too well. The eyes of someone that the world had eaten alive and vomited up again. Not the eyes of a man at all.

The eyes of MG Harrison.

That figured.

The exit was passing by. Castle whirled the steering wheel left, crossing the left-hand lane and just clipping the barrier, before plunging down out of sight of both van and sniper. The big car went slightly out-of control in the thin snow, swinging from side to side. Castle relaxed his grip and let the wheel slide through his hands until the drifting sensation disappeared and he could steer straight again.

Ma’am? he called.

Lyn was sitting up beside him. There was glass on her suit and glass in her short styled hair. She had short, styled hair puffed up with hairspray.

Go to Warehouse 9, she told him.

Castle didn’t know where that was, so he reached for the navigation unit and pressed 4, for Industrial, then 9. The little machine was silent for a moment, then said, in its calm, flat voice; Take the next exit and proceed towards Riverford.

Lyn had raised a perfectly manicured fingernail to the earpiece she discreetly wore. Stanton? she said.

Castle drove easily and evenly, keeping it below the speed limit and a wary eye out for police as well as for other attackers. The freezing wind was making his ears and nose go numb. Worse still, the cold was aggravating the steel in his face and forehead, making his eyes and brain throb.

Entertainment was not a success, Lyn was saying. There was an unplanned entrance. Intruder attempted contact with hostess. Shown the door.

Castle fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and continued through the wind and the stinging snow.

"Yes, of course I’m all right, Lyn said. Anders dealt with it, but the act is still in progress. Initiate lockdown protocol. She paused. Yes, I mean what I say. Initiate lockdown."

Take the next right, said the navigation unit.

Because this was Castle’s first time at Warehouse 9, he braked a little bit too late. The car came to a halt at an angle before he commenced the turn. By now the snow was coming down in big fluffy flakes and it was plain that this side-road had not been gritted. Every inclination of the steering was sending the limo a few feet too far, and when he tried to move the speed up to ten miles an hour the big vehicle was slow to respond, the wheels spinning spray in the soft whiteness.

Through here, Lyn pointed. A huge steel blind was rising in the warehouse wall. Castle glided the car off the snow and onto indoor concrete flooring.

Stop here, Lyn said. Get out.

Castle swung wide the limo’s heavy door and stepped out. They were parked in a concrete ‘dip’ with platforms either side like that of a railway station, but without tracking. Behind him the metal blind was descending, electric motor whirring. It closed with a shuddery clatter. Up the other end, about a hundred metres away, was a similar exit. This was obviously a place for unloading lorries. Four Longbarrie Military Services men in black bomber jackets had stepped down and were surrounding Lyn, himself and the limo from all corners. Two had unholstered pistols in their hands.

Your weapon, said one of them to Castle.

Don’t have one, Castle replied. "But there’s a rifle in the back of the limo – one of theirs. An ES-556."

An ES-556, the mercenary repeated, with what sounded like half-amused surprise. Damage to front, damage to door. It was as if he was ticking off a list in his head. Anything else we should know?

Not as far as I know, said Castle.

The LMS man motioned to a colleague and the two of them began creeping around the car in a sort of alert crouch. A third merc approached Castle holding out a plastic tray. Would you please remove any metallic items you are carrying, keys, loose change...

Castle reached in his pockets and dumped his keys and mobile, then undid his belt and dropped that in as well. As he wore the belt purely in the interests of looking smart, his trousers stayed up.

"No, I’m fine, you stupid man, Lyn was saying. And take your bloody hand away, I can do it myself."

Put your arms out at your sides, said a fourth merc, a metal detector held out before him.

The instrument let out a yelp as it passed over Castle’s scalp. The bloke frowned, and leaned close to Castle’s head, staring in what was clearly some perplexity.

Lyn shouted down from the loading platform; "Oh for heaven’s sake. He’s got a metal plate in his head. You and you, stop hassling him and let him go. He’s with me."

Sorry, sir, said the mercenary, in a tone that indicated he most surely was not. Castle re-collected his stuff, did his belt back up as quickly as he could and stepped up onto the platform to join Lyn.

Ma’am?

Follow me.

He followed her clacking shoes through the cavernous hall of the warehouse at a decisive stride, quick and confident in her heels and skirt like she owned the place. Which she did, of course. They passed shipping containers of corrugated metal, manned by labourers in blue or green overalls who stopped to watch them. Then other constructions. Huge machines that Castle could only guess at the purpose of. Hydraulic pumps, hanging sheets of translucent plastic with dim shapes moving behind them. Dangling loops of cable and feed line. And rooms like caravans, all white metal with thick doors sealed like fridges. Signs saying STERILE ENVIRONMENT. Now it was men and women in white coats who were glancing up as they passed. Smaller people, with specs on. Nerds. One was emerging from a STERILE ENVIRONMENT caravan in a get-up like a silvery spacesuit with metal claws for hands.

At the back of the huge building Lyn paused at the door of the largest of these environments, one the size of a large bungalow. She turned, one glove on the entrance handle. In you go.

Castle stepped through. The air within was filled with a gentle warmth. There was a laboratory bench and a desk and computer set-up, along with several other doors which Castle surmised must lead to sub-rooms. An old guy with a shock of wild white hair and a white coat looked up as Lyn came in behind Castle, slamming the door. There was a brief hiss of air or gas.

Wait here, Anders, said Lyn. "Dr Rogan."

Ma’am? said Dr Rogan. His skin had the pastiness of someone who didn’t get enough natural light. Behind his lenses his eyes flicked a little too fast.

"Rogan, I told you not to use this unit for this par-TIC-ULAR PURPOSE!"

Castle had flinched at her scream then. He could not have helped it. It was louder than she had yelled at him in the car over the blasting wind and the snow. Louder than when there had been bullets flying over her head. And if Castle had merely flinched, Rogan had jumped six inches in the air, straight up and down, his specs bouncing on his nose.

But... but Ma’am, it’s...

Get it out of here, Lyn said. Castle, standing behind her, followed her line of vision and saw a glass tank like an aquarium, but with a chrome base with dials and LEDs on it. In the tank was a pinkish-grey liquid that looked to be the consistency of egg-white and an indistinct, shadowy shape, moving... no, not moving, gently throbbing... pulsating...

"But please! Rogan burst out and Castle could see his face glisten. It’s too fragile to be moved... that’ll destroy it..."

Destroy it then, said Lyn.

There was a pause, filled only with the sound of the three of them breathing and the hum of the machinery keeping whatever-it-was in the glass tank going.

I can’t, Rogan said.

"I’m ordering you to, Lyn said. Pull out the plug and take it out on a trolley. I told you not to use this unit."

Rogan paused again. There was no noise at all from outside. The three of them might as well have been in a bunker a thousand feet underground.

I... cannot, Rogan whispered. What you are asking me to do... my own work... Was it tears or sweat running down the man’s face? I have put so much in...

Then do another one, Lyn said. "You’re getting rid of this one. Now."

"The creator... the creator cannot destroy his own creation..."

"Well if you won’t, Lyn replied, then I’ll have Anders do it for you instead."

For the first time, Rogan looked at Castle. Rogan’s hands were clasped before him – unintentional, Castle guessed, but regardless the picture could not be any clearer if the doctor had mouthed ‘Please’ to him. Yet Castle felt little for the man. To him, Rogan was a bizarre sight, but not one that inspired anything more than mild disgust.

Just then the door clunked and in came another man. His dark suit jacket was unbuttoned to show the pistol holstered at his side. He was a few years older than Castle, with clipped grey hair and grey eyes so pale they were almost white. Castle had never met this person before, nor had he seen a photograph or even had the man described to him, but he still knew immediately who this was.

Stanton, said Lyn.

Stanton smiled. He had lips so thin they might as well not have existed. Thank God you’re all right.

Don’t thank God, said Lyn. Thank Anders here.

Stanton turned to Castle. He was lean and gaunt, and his eyes didn’t blink. Well done, Anders.

Thank you, sir.

Lyn said to Castle; Report, Anders.

Two shooters, Castle began. First was on a bridge on the M25, first bridge after the turn-off to the roundabout to Riverford. That was the sniper.

Did you see him? Stanton asked.

Aye... sort of. He was a long way away.

"Anything you did see?"

Not really... Sir.

Anything else you can tell us?

Yes, the sniper was Gordon Smith. You know him already, Stanton. By HELL, you do.

No, Sir.

And the other shooter? With the carbine?

Him neither. Had a balaclava on. From a Transit van.

Stanton put his head slightly on one side as he looked at Castle. Did you see his eyes at all? We don’t have much to go on here. There is more than one faction we are looking at right now. Anything you say could be useful.

Castle paused, as if thinking. No. No I didn’t. Sorry, sir.

Did you see the skin around his eyes? Stanton asked. What I mean is, could you tell me if he was black or white?

No, sir.

But the driver was black. His name is Dougal Ajibwande.

I see, Stanton nodded. I don’t suppose you got the number plate.

I doubt that he did, said Lyn. "He was too involved in saving my life."

Castle took a breath. LKE, 540, V.

Stanton smiled again, if that was what you called it. Thoroughly impressive, he said.

Lyn said I want AgriTech investigated over this.

Wait outside, Anders, said Stanton.

Castle nodded and opened the door. Stepped out onto the ramp in the sudden din of the hangar. It wasn’t a hangar, but that was how he’d started thinking of it. He shut the door carefully behind himself. Several white coats and LMS black jackets turned to stare. Two of the LMS had rifles, but they were not of a type he recognised. One of them had what appeared to be a blow-torch or some kind of paint-stripper. All of them had very obvious sidearms, just like their boss. Castle wondered what he should do while waiting. Hanging around like the others would make him look like a div. Instead he opted to stay on the ramp with his back to the door. It gave him something to do with his arms – to fold them in front of himself, in the manner of a bouncer. Also, it gave him a better position to stare back from.

He only had a couple of minutes to wait. Less, probably. The containment room’s door swung open. Castle turned. The glass tank with the pulsating, writhing thing in it was emerging upon a wheeled trolley, Stanton pushing it. Get this and put it on the floor, Stanton said to Castle.

As soon as Castle had a hold of the lower end of the trolley Stanton let go, so the thing started rolling down the ramp, pushing Castle with it. Castle gripped the trolley handle tightly and braced his back and dug the heels of his boots against the metal ramp, and slowly managed to ease the trolley and its load onto level ground. While he was doing this he ought to have been able to get a good look down into the tank to see what Rogan had been working on in there. Except there was a lid on top, a translucent white lid, through which Castle couldn’t even make out a shape. The temptation to lift the lid, or duck down a couple of feet and peer through the glass, was enormous. But he fought the temptation the same way he’d wrestled with the weight on the ramp, and once he had the trolley stable on the flat floor he turned back to Stanton for further instructions. Curiosity, he knew, would get him nowhere in Campbell & Forsyth. Especially not the curiosity of a lowly driver.

Stanton had closed the door, leaving Lyn inside the STERILE ENVIRONMENT, and was now coming down the ramp, followed by Rogan. Castle considered lifting the tank off the trolley and physically placing it on the floor, but decided against it. It was obviously too heavy for one man to lift. Stanton could only have got it on the trolley in the first place by sliding it on from the lab bench, especially as it was very unlikely that Rogan would have helped him. Lyn of course would be above such tasks.

Please... Rogan was saying.

237? Stanton was addressing one of the mercenaries. Give it to him.

237 was suddenly in front of Castle, holding out with both hands the thing that Castle had previously mistaken for a blowtorch or paint stripper. With a momentary sensation of faintness – the colour drained from the world for one second, then returned – he saw it for what it was. A flamethrower. The safeties were off and the ignition was on, a roaring yellow and blue flame that reminded Castle of a Bunsen burner. Castle accepted the weapon, pistol-grip in his left and supporting it with his right, as the man who’d passed it to him was evidently right-handed. Castle was also right-handed, but this was no time to change over, as if he was unfamiliar with weapons or unsure of himself in any way. Not now.

Stanton pointed to the glass tank on the trolley.

Burn it.

"Anders! Rogan whined. That’s your name, isn’t it? Pleeeease..."

That did it.

Stand back, Castle said. He put out his hand and waved to anyone who might be watching. Not much need, though – since Stanton had emerged, most of the white coats and black jackets had gone back to whatever their jobs were. 237 and another Longbarrie mercenary still remained, though. No doubt they were appointed security for Lyn during lockdown procedure. These two were slowly walking backwards.

Anders. You’re clear, said Stanton.

Castle squeezed the trigger. It didn’t break like with a gun, and there was no recoil. Just an enormous whoooomph, and a backlash of heat that made him blink and take a step back, and then the tank burst. It could not have been glass after all, then. It must have been plastic or something. Which was just as well. It swelled and popped like a giant boil, a nightmare of adolescence, and the fluid poured, dropped out like a flood before the whole thing was engulfed in flames. Castle ran the jet up and down it a couple of times until there was a towering pillar of fire fourteen feet tall on a collapsing, running base, with bubbling and hissing fluid spreading out across the floor and around his boots and the ramp in a great flat puddle.

That’s enough. Stanton was raising his voice over the popping and cracking. 237?

237 stepped forwards and accepted the flamethrower back as silently and stolidly as he’d given it. Behind Stanton, Rogan had turned sideways and was leaning on the ramp’s railing, his face in both hands.

Back on duty, Stanton called. "Everybody back on duty! Except you, Anders. He was striding down the ramp. Come with me."

Stanton made a left and headed back towards the loading platform. He was fast despite his apparent middle-age and moved with a bounce in his step, like a younger man. A teenager, even. As they approached the loading platform he saw that the limousine had gone. Been taken away. In its place was a huge silver Maybach, four doors. Stanton stepped down off the platform and opened the driver’s door with a smooth assurance that showed this was his own vehicle. Castle approached the passenger side, and bent down. Behind glass, Stanton widened his eyes and beckoned with his hand. Castle opened the front passenger door and sat down in the shotgun seat. When he closed the car’s door again, it sealed with a thudge sound.

Merry Christmas, Stanton said, although it was New Year’s Day.

He handed Castle a plastic box. Castle took it in both hands and looked down at it.

Open it, then.

Castle found the two little catches, unsnapped them with his thumbs and lifted the lid. Grey foam, cut out inside around a black pistol, just like the other Longbarrie men had, with two spare magazines.

Know what that is? Stanton grinned.

A handgun – Castle began.

Taglieri SP7 in the all-steel edition, said Stanton. Chambered in forty-four. Best handgun in the world.

Castle swallowed. This had happened much quicker than he’d thought.

What do you say?

Thank you.

Stanton reached over and clapped Castle on the shoulder. Only the best for the best. Now, you go off home, take a couple of days off, keep that with you at all times – I needn’t say, of course – and you’ll report direct to me on Wednesday. Main office, I’m on floor eighteen. Any questions?

Uh... No thanks, Sir.

Glad to hear it.

By now it was dark outside and the snow was up to two inches, creaking under Castle’s soles. Another of Campbell & Forsyth’s drivers was waiting outside for him, this one in a four-by-four with knobbly tyres.

Where to, sir? the driver asked. Castle reflected that the driver must already have been informed of his promotion to Sir.

Just the nearest Underground.

The vehicle laid parallel tracks through the whiteness, windscreen wipers splatting the falling flakes to water on the windscreen. Rush hour traffic was starting to kick in. It was four miles to the station. The driver made it in about three quarters of an hour. Well, it could have been worse.

Castle went down the steps and caught the train, wedging his wide shoulders in among the standing crowd. He counted off the passing stations and changed, using his travel card to get through the ticket barriers. Down an escalator and onto another train and trying not to think about the whatever-it-was in the tank he’d burned. Had to burn. Or maybe could have got out of it. Maybe. Had that thing been human? Could it have felt pain, or had it simply not been that developed yet? Had it had a soul? Castle had been raised as a Catholic, and while after twenty-one years of non-attendance it would be fair to say that he was now a lapsed Catholic, the doctrines would always be in the back of his mind, however distantly. For the rest of his life he would now have the possibility hanging over him; the possibility that he had committed a murder, or an abortion, or whatever it was... a mortal sin, and that due to his circumstances, he could never go back to the Church and ask for forgiveness.

Was there any way he could have saved it? There had been Rogan’s face, pleading. Rogan was surely of some importance. Perhaps he could have interceded on Rogan’s behalf?

No, he told himself. If he'd attempted to, it would have ruined everything. The thing in the tank was gone. The others were gone. And by this point, even what had been Robert Castle was gone. He was something else now... a new creature, and he wasn't sure that this new creature he'd become was something he liked in the least.

How the fuck had all this happened, anyway?

Some more stations passed by. Off and up two escalators. Out onto the street again and crumping through the snow underfoot. Another half-mile or so while cars rolled slowly by and excited kids shouted and lobbed snowballs at one another. Around a corner. Tall terraces lining the street on both sides, narrow gardens with laurel bushes, big leaves weighed down with cakes of meringue.

Up two steps. His key hit the lock. Four flights of stairs to the top, setting off the pounding throb in his knee even though the central heating was on in the hallway. He changed key and opened his flat. The door closed on its air-hinge behind him and locked itself back up. He went straight for the bathroom, lowered the seat and lid of the toilet and sat on it. Another sensation was coming from the vicinity of his metal knee. A noiseless buzzing. A vibration.

He bent down, pulled up his trouser leg and rucked it up over the small clamshell ‘phone that was duct-taped to his left shin. Pulled the ‘phone off, feeling the twinge of a couple more hairs ripping out, and opened it up. On the little screen was a number, and ‘UNKNOWN’ underneath. The ‘phone did not recognise the caller's number. But Castle did.

He pressed the little button to answer the call, held it to his ear and said aloud; I’m in.

Autosome 1 Dominant

One year earlier

It was always the same dream; wide open space under a grey sky. Long grass, grass that came up to your knees or even your waist. The ground underneath so soggy and mossy that walking on it was as bouncy as walking on a mattress. You’d go faster if you kept to the hard sandy dry paths. But if you fell you’d graze yourself, so be CAREFUL.

In the distance, miles away, the ground rose to become hills. Those are mountains. You could walk for hours and not get there.

– But I WANT to climb the mountains, Mam.

– Haha. You’re too little for that. And we haven’t got the time today.

In a gap between the mountains was mist, and through the mist, a glimpse of the sea. Huge, and black, and crinkly.

The bell went.

Castle flinched, reached out and grabbed the alarm clock on his bedstand, fingers scrabbling for the switch. Just as he registered that the switch was already off, the doorbell went again. Must have woken up already, then dropped off. He opened his eyes. They were sticky and dry. Who could it be at the door? Martha, of course. He must have missed an appointment. Shit.

He threw back the duvet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Castle’s legs were lop-sided. The right was as thick as a pillar, not defined muscle as it had been in his pro days, but solid meat. His left was skinnier than a man’s leg had any right to be, and the knee and shin were a mess of pale, indented scars. He bent down to grab his trackie bottoms off the carpet and threw himself back to pull them on. Next he was bending down again – aware of his growing paunch under the T-shirt, he was more out of shape than ever – and grabbing his stick. Put his weight on the stick and lifted himself up on his right leg into a standing position. His bad leg hadn’t woken up yet. That was a good start.

The stick’s knob wedged firmly under the heel of his hand, he gimped his way over to the bedroom door. The bell went for the third time. Can’t be Martha, he reckoned as he came out onto the landing. Martha would have gone away by now. Must be a bloody Jehovah’s Witness or something. An attention-seeker intent on disturbing a man’s sleep. Well, whoever they were, they were going to get a definitive talking-to, and very soon.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he could see the shape through the door’s frosted glass panels. It was definitely a man. And just at that moment the bastard was pressing the bell again. In order to get down the stairs Castle had to put one foot, then the stick, then the other foot down one step and repeat thirteen times. He wondered to himself as he often did why he didn’t just sell the house and get a bungalow. Then he reflected, as he always did, that getting a bungalow would be an admission of defeat. By the time he reached the bottom his bad leg had woken up and had started to throb, a headache in his knee. Even though he had barely any weight on his left at all. Fucker’s getting worse by the day.

He threw the door wide and there was the man. Tall. Thin. Very thin. Thin like an Ethiopian. Bulging eyes, probably a side effect of his emaciation. Face glistening with sweat. A satchel over one bony shoulder. And, like Castle himself, this newcomer was also what was called these days ‘mobility impaired’. Two sticks, not handmade like Castle’s own double spiral that thickened to a great round bole, but dirty grey plastic and metal NHS crutches. Castle didn’t recognise the bloke, but whoever he was, he looked like a man at the end of his tether.

The man and Castle stared at one another for several seconds, before the man asked, Robert?

No-one had called Castle ‘Robert’ for twenty-something years, but Castle answered Aye? ...And you are...? A softening of what he would have said had the man not been another crip, which would have been something like What’s it to you?

Max w... White.

It took a moment for Castle to place the name. Max White had been a boy he’d gone to school with. He hadn’t seen Max since he was eleven, and even then they’d had barely anything to do with one another. For Max had been a mental kid, and not a pleasant one. Max had been a div of the highest order.

It’s ‘Bobby’, said Castle. What’s, uh, going on? Are you all right?

Aye, Max wheezed. No. I’ve got hunnnn... Huntingdon’s. Hunnnntingdon’s... Chorea.

Castle didn’t know what that was.

It’s fatal, Max clarified. I’m gonna die. But don’t worry, he hastily added, it’s not contagious.

Castle looked Max up and down. He didn’t want to have to deal with this man who’d popped up out of nowhere. Then again, this man who’d popped out of nowhere was very sick, and Castle could hardly leave him standing on the porch.

You better come in, he said, and turned away from the door.

Castle was in the kitchen before Max had finished shutting the front door behind him. From the kitchen doorway he watched as Max staggered his way into the sitting room like a drunken daddy long-legs, the satchel swinging like a pendulum, and collapsed on the couch, gasping from the effort. His crutches had both fallen onto the carpet, pointing outward at diagonals.

You sure you shouldn’t be in hospital? Castle asked. "I could drive you – I mean, I can still drive."

Hospital won’t hhhhhhhh – help, Max breathed. We need to talk.

Uhhhh, right. Castle wondered what to say next. "Sure there’s nothing I can do for ya?"

Got water?

Aye... I’ve got fruit juice, too.

Just water. Please.

Castle looked at the glasses he had, selected a pint jug and filled it from the tap. He went into the sitting room and handed it to Max. Max accepted it with both hands – Cheers, mate – and drank it the same way, like a baby with a mug, ignoring the handle. Drips escaped his lower lip to splash dark on the front of his top, but he kept gulping. Castle sat in one of the chairs and watched, hoping Max wasn’t going to embarrass himself by dropping it. Finally, Max drained the last drops and set the jug on the floor. Ah, thanks. That really did good.

Glad to be of... Castle muttered. Sorry about your Huntingdon’s.

Max looked up, at Castle and Castle’s stick, which he had across his lap. You too? Max asked.

"What... this? No, I got this in a match," said Castle.

F... foo... football? asked Max.

Aye... said Castle. You didn’t know?

I don’t foh... follow football, said Max.

Even so. Castle paused. "It was quite famous." And it had been. If this had been anyone else, Castle would have thought the piss was being taken. Max would have had to be completely uninterested in sport or even national news not to know what had happened. On the other hand, Castle could just about believe that Max might be the only man in England who might not know.

Eeeeah, said Max. He reached over and lifted the flap of his satchel, slipped one trembling hand inside. It took him two or three attempts to grab hold of what he wanted, but he got it out eventually. It was a wad of paper, A4 size, about two inches thick. The paper was bound through the holes with string. The top sheet was printed on, a few lines centrally spaced in mostly white.

Castle watched in silence, waiting for Max to speak again.

Rob... Bobby, there’s something you ought to... need to. Max took another breath. You know at school, what I did, what I was like?

Castle vaguely remembered. Max had been a loner, always on the side of things, not participating. He had had a terrible temper, screaming and crying if he’d got less than perfect marks in a test. Embarrassing, since most of the class had usually got less, Castle included. Still, everybody was encouraged at that little school. While Danny Cooper and, eventually, Castle himself had been champions on the pitch, Max’s drawings and essays had been up on the classroom wall.

Aye... Castle said. He thought of something he could say. You liked dinosaurs.

Max managed a flash of a grimace. "I was eleven last time we saw, saw each other. That, that, thirty years ago..."

Go on, said Castle.

And when I was sev-seventeen, Max said, I knew I would never be, amount to anything. So so I deci-ee-ided to be a writer. Cos writers are immortal.

Oh?

Their words, their words live forever. No-one burns a book. Max paused. Unnnn-nless it’s Nazis. He looked down at the wad of paper and pointed his finger.

Look mate, Castle broke in. The word ‘mate’ sounded dry to his tongue, for Max was not his mate, but still... You don’t look so good. I really ought to get you down the ‘ozzy.

Max looked genuinely shocked. But there’s, but something there’s, yuh yuh you gotta know... you need to know see this...

"You got anywhere else you need to go? Castle asked. I could give you a lift..."

No... no... where go to...

"You got any pills you can take?"

Taken ‘em... you need you need to... Max drew breath, then let it out all shuddery. Uhhhh, he said.

C’mon. I’ll drive you there. Castle extended his hand. Work can wait.

"No! Max almost shrieked and Castle flinched back. No, he said again, his voice back to what it had been before. I carn... can’t. This is for you, and you alone."

You ought to see yourself, Max. Castle tried to look reproving. You need help.

It... won’t... help... me. Max spoke slowly, forcing control over his words. Leave... me. I’ll... be... all... right... in a... minute.

There was silence for a while. Castle watched Max. Max’s breathing was becoming more regular. Perhaps he was getting himself under control. That was what Castle hoped, anyway.

Was it the walk here? Castle asked. That set it off?

Max stared at Castle for half a second, then nodded.

Do you need to rest?

Max nodded again. A bit more emphatically.

Castle looked at the DVD recorder. He couldn’t help it, but he did. The clock on the front of it showed 09:20. Damn.

Max had seen what he was looking at. If... you... want... to... go... to... work...

It’s just volunteer work, Castle said. There’s not much opportunity right now.

You go, said Max.

Sure?

Max nodded.

"You absolutely sure? That you’re going to be all right while I go upstairs and take a shower?"

Max nodded.

O-Kay, Castle said. He stood up, leaned forwards balancing on his stick and clapped Max on one shoulder. I’ll be back soon.

Max nodded again. Righty-O, he said. It