He started up his car and drove off into the night towards his new home on forty-one Acacia Avenue. Then, on impulse, he slowed down and doubled back, heading east along the A232. He took a right turn towards New Addington in Croydon. When he got there, he cruised along Castle Hill Avenue, the street that Kaz lived on. It was something he’d taken to doing recently. He’d followed her home once and discovered which of the brick semi-detached houses was hers. Since then, he’d become a stalker.
As he cruised down the road, he saw her crossing directly ahead. He hoped she wouldn’t look his way and recognise him. She didn’t. He put his foot on the brake but it didn’t feel right — and it didn’t slow down his car one iota. He twisted the steering wheel, but too late, there was a sickening bump, and Kaz disappeared beneath the bonnet, giving rise to two further sickening bumps as his wheels ran over her.
Pratt drove on. He had no choice. The brake wasn’t working.
His mind raced with possibilities, none of them good.
Oh fuck. I might have killed her. I love her and I’ve killed her. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. What’s going to happen now? If I get caught for this the police will find out my car hasn’t been serviced or MOT’d or insured. I’ll be arrested and locked up for murder or manslaughter or something. I hope to God that nobody saw me do it. Oh fuck, my driving is a liability. I’m gonna kill myself if I don’t watch it.
He eased his foot from the accelerator and slowed to a crawl so that he could turn a corner safely. Somehow, by a combination of driving slowly and using his handbrake as a footbrake, he made it back to forty-one Acacia Avenue in one piece and parked in the drive. He went indoors with his mind in a turmoil. He wondered whether Kaz had survived, and, if she had, what sort of state she was in; and he worried that he was going to hear a knock at the door at any minute and it was going to be the police.
He tried to recollect what had happened when he’d run over Kaz. With his heart in pieces, he came to the realization that he’d probably killed the one person he loved. He checked the television, radio and internet for news of what might have become of her. News wasn’t long in coming. There was a bulletin on a local TV channel about the killing of a young woman in a hit-and-run incident on Castle Hill Street.
Even though he’d known that was the likely outcome of his actions, Pratt’s heart sank. The one crumb of solace he was able to extract from the report was that so far, no witnesses had come forward. But there had been an appeal for information, which meant he wasn’t home and dry. And even if he was, he’d be burdened for all time with the guilt of what he’d done.
Pratt switched channels and began watching an old political documentary. And while he watched, he thought about Professor Ted Forsyth’s machine in the cellar.
Maybe Kaz is dead, he thought. Maybe I have killed her. But I can make amends. I can bring her back.
He watched the old footage on screen and another thought came into his head.
I knocked her down and ran her over. If I did bring her back to life, she’d be like that mouse. She’d be twisted, deformed and hideous.
Images of a re-animated Kaz with deformed arms and legs and a half-mashed face with tyre-tread marks running across it came into his head and refused to leave, no matter how hard he tried to evict them.
That’s terrible, he thought. I couldn’t be responsible for bringing something like that into the world.
Then something appeared on the screen that inspired him: an image of a woman who, in a way, represented his idea of female perfection.
Wait a minute, he thought. I could rebuild Kaz and improve her. She was beautiful, but I could make her more beautiful. I could make her into the figurehead that Bludge was talking about, the person that people would rally around. People would stop making fun of me if I did that. They’d sit up and listen. They’d bloody well have to, because I’d be important, maybe as important as Bludge, certainly a lot more important and respected than I am now. I might even get admitted to the Inner Circle.
No, wait, I’m crazy. I can’t do that.
But once having had the thought, he couldn’t let it go.
Yes, I can. What’s stopping me? I’ve got the know-how and the equipment. All I need is her body. But how will I get it? And how will I get hold of the other body parts I need to replace the ones I damaged so that I can rebuild her? Think, man, think.
Then he remembered something he’d heard about a long time ago. He’d seen it on television: a program about body snatchers. He went on the internet and did a search for “Modern-day grave robbers.”
He was pleasantly surprised by the thousands of results he got. The most prominent was an article in the ‘Catholic Media Coalition’:
‘The Return of the Body Snatcher.
‘We now have a new demand for cadavers, or rather the body parts of cadavers and the Resurrectionists are returning. Transplant surgery, which was relatively rare only a few decades ago, is growing at a phenomenal rate. Tissue, bones, skin, heart valves and tendons from corpses are in strong demand.
The advantage of human parts over man-made parts is significant. The new term for these parts is “allograft.” The allograft remodels like an autograft, but doesn’t require a second surgery to harvest tissue from the patient as does the autograft. As in the 19th century, the market keeps growing, and the demand far exceeds the supply. Allografts are used in more than 600,000 surgical procedures in the United States annually.’
The article went on to discuss what it called ‘The Return of the Underworld Characters’.
It was referring to Body Snatchers!
It was then that Pratt realised that what he was considering might yet amount to more than mere idle fantasy.
He knew that if he could make contact with a body snatcher and strike a deal with him (or her), he’d be able to get hold of the items he needed to carry out his plan, and he’d be well on the way to rebuilding Kaz and raising her from the dead.
That positive thought eased his troubled mind, if only for a few moments.
CHAPTER 20
The motorway service coffee shop was busy.
It was noon, and salesmen, truckers, and others who made their living on the road, were beginning to take their midday breaks. Pratt rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept. He wondered whether he’d ever sleep again.
He was sitting at a table for four. The other seats around his table were empty. He’d put his jacket on one of them and his hoodie on another to reserve them, and he’d bought a packet of M & M’s which he’d left unopened next to his coffee.
A man with the look of a male model appeared at his table with a stunning Asian woman. They were both wearing business suits. The man looked at Pratt’s packet of M & M’s.
“Do you mind if we sit here?” He asked.
“Be my guest,” Pratt said. He moved his jacket and hoodie to allow them to sit down. He discreetly checked out the Asian woman. He was attracted to her in spite of his beliefs.