Chapter Sixteen

Dalton McGovern could no longer bear the weight of it all. Everyone around him expected nothing short of excellence from him. Having the greatest scientific mind of a generation, however, is of little significance without the strength of character one needs to overcome adversity. And at the age of twenty-eight, the Oxford-educated computer scientist was now taking more of an interest in biology. Indeed, sitting on the kitchen floor of his Liverpool flat, he evaluated that a quick, clean cut, half an inch deep, into his forearm, down to his wrist, would do the trick. The greatest challenge would be to overcome the pain after the first incision and repeat the operation on the other arm. Best to start with his left arm then, as he was left-handed. He deemed he would have a greater chance of succeeding using his dominant hand, despite the injury.

Someone knocked on his door.

“Bugger off,” he shouted.

Quentin Campbell was part-demon, part-virtual, and part-convict. Breaking and entering was the least of his concerns and burning down doors with his hands was a neat little skill his demon-side had developed. He stepped over the ash that was once Dalton’s door and strode into the kitchen.

Still sitting on the floor, Dalton pushed himself back with his legs into a corner between the counter and the adjacent wall, away from the intruder. Quentin’s face was full of blisters and his eyes were black. His arms and neck were covered in prison tattoos, and he seemed to flicker away from time to time, like a lagging image on a computer screen. Quentin put his hand in his pocket and took out his switchblade. He knelt down and held it against Dalton’s neck.

“I suppose I could just kill you. Unlike you, I’d do it right, and your death would undo this whole mess you’ve created.”

Dalton whimpered.

“What’s the matter? I thought you wanted to die.”

“I… what are you?”

“What am I? I’m your bloody creation. You did this to me. You, and your bloody ego.”

“I don’t know who you are or—”

“Shut it. Do you want to die or not?”

Dalton hesitated. The terror in his eyes drifted away and shock took its place. He looked Quentin in the eye. “I suppose I don’t.”

“If I leave this flat, will you try to kill yourself?”

“I don’t know—”

Quentin slammed Dalton against the wall with his burning arm and pressed the knife up against Dalton’s neck, cutting him on the surface of his skin. A tear fell from Dalton’s eye.

“No, I won’t. I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me.”

Quentin nodded and pulled back from Dalton. “I believe you. But if you change your mind and think of killing yourself again…” Quentin rapidly brought the knife down to Dalton’s eye and stopped half an inch away. Dalton flinched and cowered. “I’ll be back.”

I’ve lost my mind, thought Dalton. I’m hallucinating, I’m suicidal… I’ve completely lost touch with reality. I need help. 

Quentin looked down at himself; he was disappearing. He smiled at Dalton.

“Well done, mate! We’ve changed the course of the future!” Quentin Campbell vanished.

Dalton took his phone out of his pocket and called Darcy. She picked up, and he burst into tears.

“I’m not well. I’m not well at all.”

“I know, love. I had a feeling. I’m on my way over, just hang on.”

* * *

Dalton McGovern learned that a pill a day kept suicidal thoughts away. With all that silly emotional rubbish behind him, he was able to focus on his research. By the end of the year, he had made some impressive advances in the field of artificial limbs controlled by the human mind. His technology was ready to be tested, and in the event his experiment proved successful, he expected to make a fair bit of money selling the concept to bionics companies. He knew that Karl had a taste for luxury. He wondered if he could win him back once he struck it rich; little did he know, however, that Karl had been arrested in France.

Meanwhile, Isidora Prentice sat inside Quentin Campbell’s flat after she’d listened to a Welsh construction worker’s theory that an old man living there had kidnapped her nephew. Her hand shook slightly as she lit a cigarette after meeting the ghost who haunted the flat. She exhaled slowly and was finally able to wrap her mind around what she’d witnessed.

“What are you going to do about the ghost?” she asked.

“We’re not really sure,” said Quentin. “We tried everythin’, even the church, but they said it wasn’t a serious enough case to justify sending over an exorcist.”

“That’s unacceptable,” said Isidora. “Give me their number. We’re getting an exorcism.”

* * *

The Pope sat in front of Father Peter in the Vatican’s reading room.

“You have to go to Liverpool to perform an exorcism,” said the Pope. “There is this… crazy lady… she keep yelling at everyone at the Vatican on the phone and sending angry emails demanding an exorcism and it is too annoying.”

“Is there even a demon?” asked Father Peter, laughing at monks’ drawings in ancient religious texts.

“There is a real demon, some old man, but no one is very possessed, he just sort of latch onto some murderer’s neck.”

“Then there’s no need for an exorcism. Sounds like a waste of time.” Father Peter inadvertently tore out a page of the ancient book in his hands, crumpled it, and threw it behind him. The Pope slammed the book shut.

“What you are doing now is wasting my time. This lady, she keep nag, nag, nagging, I am sick of her bullshit. Go to Liverpool and get rid of the old man.”

* * *

Father Peter reluctantly performed the exorcism and made drinks for Isidora, Stanley, Quentin and Edward. He sat with them at the table.

“I suppose you’re ready to get back to normal, play soccer with your friends at school,” Father Peter said to Stanley.

“I can’t play football. I limp like a bloody idiot. Look at me foot.” Stanley took off his shoe and revealed that the better part of his left foot was missing.

“That explains the limp,” said Isidora.

“He lost it in the car accident,” Quentin said.

“You know,” said Father Peter, “on my flight over here, I was just reading about an amazing experiment by one of the researchers over at the University of Liverpool. Apparently, he’s found a way to design the best prosthetics to replace arms, legs, hands or feet. They respond to the brain’s impulses exactly like a real body part would. I read they’re about to start human trials. Maybe, Stanley, you’d be a good candidate.”

Stanley signed up for the experiment.