Insanitus

Insanitus

William P. Thomson

Austin Macauley Publishers

Insanitus

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information

Blood

Aftermath

Close

Blood

Soliloquy from a Madman

BROTHERMIND

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

VALEDICTION

MINDHORIZON

Prologue

The Setting

The First Principals

That Room

The Secondary Characters

The Man Who Wasn’t There

Mind’s flight

Mind Horizon

A Journey

Host Absent

Norman

I

Creation

Why?

II

Morphia

A Briefing

Brave New World

Morphea

III

Country Undiscovered

Pandora

A Briefing

Madness

Sunset

Sunrise

About the Author

Now 75, writing most of his life, mainly short horror stories. In the ‘70s some were broadcast on the old Capital Radio, and also on a popular radio station in Israel. Strange to tell, his first two published books (through AUSTIN MACAULEY) were Medico Science Faction (about the world’s first attempt at a living, human brain transplant), and a Children’s story about a dog called ’GEORGE’. This is his third book.

Dedication

DIONNE JUDE

My friend and mentor for many a year.

Copyright Information

Copyright © William P. Thomson (2019)

The right of William P. Thomson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528926331 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528926348 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528926355 (kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781528964654 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Blood

Sunday was followed by Monday, accompanied by Hell

Aftermath

Of my death, think not ill of me. Rather that I was ill served by He that gave me life.

It was a short journey as journeys go. Plain, average, but in a souped-up, unmarked police vehicle. In the back, two plain-clothed policemen: Commander James Llaw and Det. Sergeant Sidney Animal Parker. The former tall, well-set, smart, softly spoken and exceedingly articulate, but miserly with his wordage. Whilst one had the look of someone who could look after himself in a tight situation, there could be no doubt the other could steamroller just about anything, and enjoy the opportunity. Whilst Llaw moved with the fluid grace of an athlete, Animal moved with the true East-Ender walk – not swagger, but latent confidence and strength. Chalk and Cheese.

Whilst the attributes of high intellect, ability, rank and command was obvious to see in Llaw, Parker’s attributes could only be seen in the physical aspect, and such did not convey his other qualities. Animal was possessed of high natural intelligence, a wonderfully dry, cutting East-End humour, courage in spades and a loyalty that had to be earned, as he did not freely bestow it. He loved good old plain, English food, his beer (not forgetting a good wine), dogs and kids. He never intentionally started an affray, but most often, if so involved, came out as the last man standing. These two men, so different in so many ways, fitted perfectly, hand-in-glove; the former in kid-leather, the latter in thick woollen mittens.

The two men came together through the Army; Llaw in Military Intelligence, Parker by way of the Military Police. At some point, their paths crossed. A major drugs smuggling episode. MI and MP (Military Intelligence and Military Police) came together in a major barracks bust. Legalised violence ensued. Llaw gave a good account of himself, whilst Animal removed many a bolshie rank and filer from the barracks that night, via the shortest route, and so kept the glaziers in work for many a week!

After the bish and bash followed the whys, wherefores and where of the top villains, not to mention the possibility of breached security. This, in turn, had meant further foot slogging investigation, some five-knuckle persuasion and enough paperwork to sink the Titanic – on land! Captain Llaw, by then promoted to Major, needed a not-so-little special help, so seconded a Corporal, upped his rank to Sergeant and continued, as he put it, onwards and upwards!

A few years after that, a truly major bust, with more than a few top brass being exposed as nothing more than little Caesars, with too much scrambled egg on their shoulders. Such success caused embarrassment, and consequences. The short telling of it being that Major Llaw departed the Military and joined the Metropolitan Police, as did a demoted and demobbed Sergeant Parker, not so long after. He went through the mill at Hendon and from thence into an East End station.

Almost before he’d indulged in a beer and a few bouts of fisticuffs, he’d found himself seconded once more. Into the MIU, the Metropolitan Intelligence Unit, to act as wingman to a fast rising star, one newly promoted commander by the name of James Llaw. So, same author, different plays and stage.

This time around, it was to be a favour to their immediate Guv’nor, a middle-order Deputy Assistant Commissioner, who in turn was doing a little favour for another higher up in the rankings food chain. Llaw and Animal didn’t even know the name of the destination, a somewhat exclusive hotel, somewhere in Central London.

As the car continued on, Llaw gazed out of the window to his right, still amazed by it all. How, after a major storm of howling winds, lashing rain and lightning, everything thereafter seemed somehow fresher, cleaner. The streets, the very air. And they’d endured three days of such a storm. It finally died out early Sunday evening. At the twilight of the day, they were gifted by seeing a stunning, fire-red, golden sunset, which did, indeed, foretell of a beautiful day to follow.

The journey was done; they’d arrived. Per instruction, the car had stopped at the head of a cul-de-sac. Llaw and his erstwhile Sergeant decanted from the car and walked to the far end. How odd. The hotel seemed to be deliberately hiding within the folds of the great city. In fact, it didn’t even look like a hotel. A large, black smoked-glass revolving set of doors the only entrance.

Llaw led, Animal followed. Neither had spoken for the entire, relatively brief journey. Such was frequently their way. Nothing untoward, just mutual understanding, respect.

Through the doors and into some other world of thick, shag-piled, carpeted, sound-muted, guarded, luxurious privacy; and secrets, perhaps?

There was a long walk forward to the large, but discreet, reception desk, where Llaw had been informed his contact would be waiting: the senior house manager, so titled, with the ludicrous name of Philpott Samson.

The commander was soon to realise the man’s appearance and manner more than matched his name. Short, rotund, with pumped up pomposity to boot. Llaw had already made his own assessment of the man on sight: a puffed up puffin penguin. Even so, the annoying man had, as was soon to prove, two saving graces. He did not seem too fazed by the situation of the moment, and he spoke with a conciseness and economy of words the commander much appreciated. A sort of kindred spirit, in an exaggerated manner of speaking.

Little time was given to the courtesy of introductions, sufficient only to meet the need. Llaw requested to be taken to the problem immediately. Samson, a master key in hand, obliged, leading the commander and his sergeant to the nearest lift and an upward journey. A rapid Q&A session followed along the way, pistol sharp and fast. Samson’s answers were likewise, although the senior house manager soon realised that next to the commander, he was strictly second division, not to mention the fact that he felt his authority was somehow under siege. Whatever. Even before the lift had reached the required floor, the essential details had been obtained.

It appeared the problem centred solely round a single guest. He was dead. Also, the member of the cleaning staff who discovered the body when she went forth to clean the man’s suite was taken to her room in a somewhat distraught state. This, in part, because it had not at all been a neat, clean departure from life present to life eternal. There was blood. A great deal of it. All seemed to be in the worse possible state; not in keeping with the standards required of the guests.

The room had been booked over the phone some days previously, and the requirements of the guest-to-be made clearly and simply. That he’d arrive late on the Friday night and stay until midday on the Monday. That he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. His voice had been a little hoarse, his wordage economical. Also, his speech had been somewhat laboured, as if he lacked a certain strength for the purpose, rather than breathing as such. Even so, there was something about it.

As an afterthought, the house manager, for only he kept employing the senior bit, made mention of something he thought rather odd. The man had closed his requirements by guaranteeing he would be there at the appointed day and hour, no matter what the weather.

Then Samson had gone on to explain the late evening in question, in his almost staccato mode of speech.

The man had appeared, so to speak, from the teeth and darkness of the storm-ravaged night. That, and his appearance, presented to Samson and his night staff a somewhat fearsome sight. Abnormally tall, physically sparse, although hard to be sure because of the ankle-length black coat he wore, matching his black fedora, which he had pulled down over his eyes.

As on first contact over the phone, his voice in person had been slightly hoarse, the speech short, sharp, rather truncated, although seemingly with a greater sense of urgency, as if he had wished his face-to-face contact to be concluded as soon as possible. To be gone to the sanctuary and privacy of his suite.

The only time Samson did not seem totally comfortable in making known details of the deceased came when Llaw asked how the man had paid for his stay. One very direct look from the commander suggested to Samson that it would not be advisable to become coy, but to remain strong and open in this trying time.

The guest had paid exactly as he said he would: five thousand pounds, in fifties, in cash, in an envelope. Even Samson seemed surprised as he recalled it.

It did not best please either Samson or the commander when, in some astonishment as to the amount and way of payment, Animal had asked if the man’s next of kin could expect any sort of rebate under the circumstances!

To Samson’s credit, he gave a little cough and soldiered on, stating that the man seemed to have injured his left arm. Leastways, it seemed to be rather immobile at the side of his body, the hand pushed deep into the pocket, and remaining so. Perhaps that is why he didn’t have any luggage. ‘Too weak to carry any,’ he suggested in a moment of intended black humour. Having failed, he had made further observations.

There were the eyes, the look. The few times the man looked up, and the light of the reception fell upon his face, it was seen to be gaunt, deathly white, a hint of grey notwithstanding. The eyes pale blue, but bloodshot. They seemed to be dead, at least not indicating a living being behind them.

As Samson put it, seeming to have warmed to his subject, and allowing such eloquence as he commanded, its head, he went on to state the guest had all the appearance and sound of a dead man walking.

Any time for melodramatic pause was immediately scuppered by another rare intervention from the sergeant.

‘So would I have been if I’d just forked out five thousand quid for a few nights of B and B. It would’ve fucking killed me an all!’

The lift came to a silent halt, the doors opening equally silently. Llaw was grateful, inasmuch as it had stopped him laughing, and also not having to admonish his Sergeant’s uncalled for contribution. The commander had reappraised his opinion of Mister Philpott Samson, Senior House Manager, but not that much.

Even so, as they stepped out of the lift, he headed off any fractious retaliation with a simple question to their somewhat put out guide, ‘His speech, Mister Samson. What of his speech, his actual speaking voice?’

‘Interesting you should raise that point, Commander,’ responded the little man with some enthusiasm. ‘I’m something of a theatre buff myself. Some classic, but mainly sticking to Shakespeare. Our guest had a beautiful voice, be it hoarse, too soft, not over generous to us. Even so, the depth, power and clarity was still there. A good bass, at