Had he begun suffering from some kind of blackouts? But what manner of breakdown caused memory loss yet inspired creativity?
Ward shook his head as if to answer his own unspoken question. It was
impossible.
And yet it was happening.
He drained what was left in his glass and decided to go to bed. No matter how long he sat up pondering on his current dilemma, it wasn’t going to help.
He trudged through to the kitchen and took a couple of paracetamol. For fleeting seconds, he wondered about taking the whole bottle.
He drew the kitchen blinds slowly, peering out into the blackness of the garden. He looked towards the office. No silvery-grey light shining inside.
Nothing.
He pulled down the blind and turned to leave the room. As he did, he heard the scratching. Loud at first but then dying away rapidly.
It was coming from the back door.
Ward stood where he was as the sound came again. Then silence.
He took a step closer to the door. The handle moved slowly. Ward swallowed hard.
Someone was trying to break in.
He crossed to the kitchen drawer and slid out a large kitchen knife. It was serrated with a wickedly sharp point and fully twelve inches long.
The door handle moved slowly up and down as whoever was outside stealthily attempted to gain access. Ward wondered how long it would be before they tried a more forceful method. He crept closer to the door, his eyes riveted on the handle. It had stopped moving.
The scratching sound, however, had begun again. More insistent this time. It continued for a full five minutes.
In the silence that followed he stood motionless. Waiting. Wondering what he was going to do if someone did get inside.
Ten minutes later he was still standing there.
The scratching had not recommenced and the door handle had remained still.
He shook his head. Another hallucination?
Ward clutched the knife as he made his way out into the hall. He set the alarm and climbed the stairs, hurrying to his bedroom, anxious to see if he could detect any signs of movement from a higher vantage point.
The garden was deserted. He looked in the direction of the office and saw nothing.
For a full fifteen minutes, Ward stood at the window, the kitchen knife gripped in his fist.
Finally he laid the weapon on the other side of the bed, undressed and slipped between the sheets. He fell asleep with his fingers still touching the handle of the knife.
SWEET DREAMS
3.11 a.m. Ward woke with a start. He reached for the knife, his breath coming in gasps, the last vestiges of the nightmare fading. The images were gone as soon as he opened his eyes. He tried to remember the dream but couldn’t.
He put down the knife and tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He swung himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom where he spun the tap and scooped several gulps of water into his mouth.
Ward ran both hands through his hair and made his way back into the bedroom.
He stood beside the window for a moment, gazing out into the night. The silence was overwhelming. He leant forward, pressing his forehead against the cold glass.
Something smacked into the window with such force he thought it was going to shatter.
Ward stumbled backwards, his heart thundering in his chest. He looked up.
Pushing against the window was a.bird, its wings fluttering madly, its head flattened against the glass.
No, it wasn’t a bird. The wings were leathery. The face was flat and rodent-like.
A bat? It was too large. Jesus, it was much too large.
The fucking thing was the size of a hawk.
It hovered there for interminable seconds, its claws scratching at the pane.
Ward looked into its blood-red eyes and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
There was crimson around its mouth. On its small, sharp teeth.
It finally wheeled away, disappearing into the blackness.
Ward sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart still pounding. He reached for the knife and found his hand was shaking. He got up again and drew the bedroom curtains shut.
Dawn seemed to be a long way off.
LIFE GOES ON
No marks on the back door. None on the office door.
Ward sat down at the keyboard, pressed the power button and watched the screen light up. He began to type.
Sit down.’ The boy spoke with an authority beyond his tender years.
‘No thanks, I’d rather stand,’ Doyle told him, his gaze moving alternately between the boy’s face and the glinting blade of the Stanley knife.
Hassim smiled and held the blade before him.
‘You will never understand true power because you will never have it,’ he said, looking at Doyle.‘I will show you what it is.’
He struck at the servant. The razor-sharp blade carved effortlessly through the material of the man’s jacket, exposing the material of his shirt beneath.
Hassim continued to smile.
The servant remained motionless, his eyes looking over Hassim’s head, as if he were studying the wall opposite.
‘Whatever I want, this man must do,’ said the boy. ‘I tell him to obey me and he does.’
He used the knife again. This time he cut through the servant’s shirt and into his flesh, just below the elbow. Blood burst from the deep cut and stained the material.
‘I tell him he must not move and he obeys,’ said Hassim.
He cut again. This time the blade hacked into the flesh and muscle just above the servant’s wrist. More blood began to flow, some of it running down his arm and dripping from his outstretched fingers.
Doyle took a step forward. ‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘That’s enough.’
Hassim rounded on him, his face suddenly contorted with rage.‘No,’ he hissed.‘l am the one with the power. I will decide when it is over.’
He cut the servant a third time. The wound was deep. It ran from just below the inside of the elbow to an inch or two above the wrist.
Doyle saw the servant sway slightly, his eyelids flickering. Blood was now pouring freely from the wounds. It splashed the expensive carpet beneath.
Hassim took a step back. ‘He will not move until I say,’ the Prince announced.
‘He belongs to me. He serves me.’
‘Because he has to,’ snarled Doyle.
‘Because he loves me and my family.’
Doyle took another look at the servant. His face was pale and there was a thin film of sweat on his skin. Another minute or two and he’d pass out.
‘You’ve made your point,’ Doyle said. ‘Now let me get him a doctor.’
‘I will decide when the time is right. You are only a servant like him. You do not tell me what to do.’
Little bastard. Sadistic, malevolent little bastard.
The servant wavered. Hassim barked something at him in Arabic and the man fought to regain his balance.
Struggled to remain upright before the boy.
Blood continued to stain the carpet.
Hassim held up the crimson-smeared blade and smiled. ‘My word is power,’ he said. ‘This knife is nothing compared to the one who uses it.’
Doyle glared at the boy.
The servant finally dropped to his knees. Hassim turned on him furiously. He swung the blade around and caught the man across the cheek, laying the flesh open to the bone. The boy snarled something else in Arabic and spat at the
hapless servant.
Doyle turned and headed for the door.
‘I did not give you permission to leave,’ Hassim called. ‘Stay where you are.’
‘Or what?’ Doyle said challengingly. ‘Do you think I’m going to stand still while you do to me what you just did to that poor sod?’
‘I will tell my father you disobeyed me.’
‘Tell him. What’s the worst he can do? Throw me out? Because if he does I’ll tell you something Your Highness.’ The last two words were spoken with distaste. ‘I’ll make sure that his worries about you are well-founded because ‘/ come after you. You want to see real power?’ He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92F. He aimed it at the boy.