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  ‘No pain at all,’ he said, trying to smile but the blinding white agony in his head restrained him. ‘It’s my bloody head now.’

  ‘I’ll go and get breakfast ready. I’ll get you a couple of Paracetamols,’ Maureen said and pulled on her house-coat. She padded out of the bedroom leaving Watson alone. As slowly as he could he swung himself out of bed and crossed to the bedroom door. The headache seemed to intensify as he walked across the landing to the bathroom and, when he looked at his reflection in the mirror, a haggard, white-faced ghost stared back at him. His face was the colour of rancid butter, the dark circles beneath his eyes looking all the more prominent because of that. He ran some cold water and splashed it over his face, leaning over the sink for what seemed like an eternity. When he did finally straighten up, he put both hands to his temples as if he were afraid his head was going to explode. With the red hot hammers pounding away at his brain, he began to remove his shaving equipment from the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall. He filled the sink with hot water and, carefully, lathered his face.

  The prospect of a day’s business and hard selling seemed to make his pain all the worse.

  Sixteen

  The dining room of the City Hotel was already crowded with its daily quota of businessmen as Watson and his two customers entered. He’d booked a table for one fifteen and a quick glance at his watch told him that it was over thirty minutes before they were due to eat.

  ‘How about a drink before lunch?’ he said, smiling, trying to ignore the headache which still raged, threatening to split his skull in two.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Edward Canning, the first of his prospective customers. Canning’s thick American drawl drifted through the air, mingling with the smell of cigarettes, liquor and the tempting aroma of freshly cooked food. Canning was in his late thirties, heavily built but without a hint of fat on his powerful body. He lit up one of his huge cigars and followed Watson and the other man, Kenneth Riggs, into the smaller of the City’s three bars.

  Riggs was younger by a couple of years but his grey hair gave him the appearance of someone twice his age. His face was lined and his cheeks seemed to hang down like those of a bloodhound. When he laughed, which he often did, a row of double chins wobbled fluidly, spilling over onto his shirt collar which looked so tight it threatened to strangle him. Canning had removed his tie because of the heat and, as he found a table near the window, he rolled up his sleeves. Riggs joined him while Watson stood at the crowded bar brandishing a five-pound note in front of him.

  He looked angrily at a man who bumped into him and the unfortunate chap apologised hurriedly when he saw the expression on Watson’s face. His nerves were not so much frayed as shredded. He’d picked his two customers up at nine and driven them to the factory to show them the computers in action. They had asked surprisingly few questions, only those relating to reliability, performance, output and, most importantly, cost. A fact for which Watson was grateful because he was finding it difficult to even think straight, so intense was the throbbing inside his skull. Nevertheless, he’d established a good rapport with the two men, particularly Canning. Both seemed interested and satisfied with his approach and also the computers. Watson felt almost certain that the contract would be signed but he would feel a hell of a lot happier when he could actually see their names on that dotted line. He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes momentarily. The noise in the bar seemed to swirl around him like a bank of mist yet it seemed distant, as if he were alone in a sealed compartment and everyone else was outside. He opened his eyes again, craning forward to see where the barman had got to. The little man in the red jacket was serving a couple of customers at the far end of the bar so Watson continued to stand in his place holding up the fiver as if hoping it would attract the barman. He ran one hand across his forehead, wondering if his headache was ever going to go. The two tablets he’d taken at breakfast had done nothing to help, neither had the four others he’d taken since. He just hoped that the deal could be concluded quickly. He promised himself he’d go straight home to bed afterwards.

  The barman finally arrived and Watson ordered, leaning against the counter while the little man fetched the drinks. He returned with surprising speed and Watson collected both drinks and change and made his way carefully across the room to the table where his customers sat.

  He almost fell into the seat, reaching for his vodka.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, his false smile returning with effort.

  The other two men echoed his toast and there was a moment’s silence as they drank.

  ‘What do you think of the place?’ asked Watson, finally.

  Canning scanned the bar and the dining room beyond. The walls were festooned with a mixture of rusty farming implements and old weapons. In the next, larger, bar, there was a huge open fireplace stacked high with logs over which hung a full size man-trap.

  ‘Big mice around here, huh?’ said the American, smiling.

  Riggs laughed loudly, spilling some of his drink.

  ‘They used to use them for catching poachers,’ Watson told his customer.

  The man-trap was about the only authentic piece of apparatus in the entire hotel. It was what some people might call a ‘plastic restaurant’. The wooden beams which criss­crossed the ceiling were imitation and even the massive log fire was lit by a gas flame hidden beneath the wood. The weapons and prints were antique shop acquisitions designed to give the place a feeling of age and character which was palpably second hand. Two suits of rusty armour stood guard at either side of the fireplace, as if guarding the secret of its falseness.

  The dining room itself was festooned with flags bearing the emblems of dukes and lords who had probably never existed and a stag’s head hung from the central wall. Canning saw it and touched Watson on the arm.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said the American, a wry smile on his lips. ‘That goddam deer must have been doing about ninety when it hit the other side of that wall.’

  Watson laughed his polite laugh and Riggs once more went into a fit of giggles, spilling more of his drink.

  ‘Is your boss expecting us to sign a contract today?’ asked Canning, sipping at his drink.

  Watson shrugged. ‘Well, he’s not banking on it, but it’d be a nice surprise for him.’

  The American smiled.

  ‘And a nice bonus for you.’

  Watson nodded, the movement sending fresh jabs of pain through his head. He gritted his teeth and smiled, downing what was left in his glass.

  ‘You are prepared to guarantee us full maintenance, free of charge for the next five years if we accept the deal?’ said Riggs, studying the salesman over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Yes,’ said Watson.

  Riggs nodded. ‘So, the only thing that still is to be worked out is the price.’

  ‘The price was agreed, Mr Riggs,’ said Watson. ‘There’s no machine comparable to the Mark-1. You’ll find nothing better for your particular needs, not at the prices we’re offering anyway.’ He paused, seeing that he had both men’s eyes on him. ‘In the long run it will be an investment. You could buy cheaper elsewhere, I wouldn’t attempt to delude you about that. But nowhere will you find a machine with the capabilities which ours can offer.’

  ‘How long have you been doing this job?’ asked Canning, a slight grin on his face.

  ‘Seven years,’ Watson told him, slightly puzzled.

  The two customers exchanged an enigmatic smile which unsettled the rep slightly.

  ‘You’re very good at it,’ Riggs told him.

  Watson thanked the man, wishing that he’d just put his bloody name on the contract instead of lavishing compliments on him. Riggs asked a few more questions about the computers which Watson answered with his usual thoroughness. The grey haired man nodded but didn’t speak. There was an awkward silence between the trio which was finally broken when a nasal sound came over the small speaker in the bar. The garbled tones chattered on for a moment and Watson finally made out the s
ound.

  ‘Mr Watson,’ said the voice. ‘Your table for three is now ready. Mr Watson.’

  The three men got to their feet, a wave of pain so powerful it staggered him, causing the rep to support himself against the wall for a second. His head felt as if it were going to split in half and he had a mental picture of his brain swelling, trying to burst free of the confines of his skull. He stood still for a moment, his fixed smile finally fading.

  Canning saw him swaying slightly and put out a hand, as if fearing that the younger man were going to fall.

  ‘You OK?’ asked the American.

  Watson sucked in a laboured breath. ‘Yes, just a bit of a headache.’ He found the smile once more and looked at the two men. ‘You carry on into the dining room. I’m just going to the toilet.’

  Canning hesitated but the salesman raised a hand to signal that he was all right. He watched the men walk into the dining room then he made his way to the lavatories.

  The cold white light which flooded from the banks of fluorescents made him wince and his feet echoed on the white tiled floor. He found that he was alone and crossed to the nearest sink, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the jar of Paracetamol. He unscrewed the cap and scooped a handful of running water to swallow the pills with. They remained on his tongue for brief seconds, the bitter taste making him feel sick but then he swallowed them, clutching the side of the wash basin. He groaned aloud as the pain in his head pounded away. It seemed as if the red hot hammers had been replaced by hundreds of blazing chisels and someone was driving them relentlessly into his tortured brain. He bent and splashed his face with cold water, straightening up slowly to gaze at his pain racked features in the mirror.

  A single drop of blood trickled from his left nostril. It ran slowly down and over his lip, falling to the sink beneath where it made a tiny crimson explosion on the white enamel.

  Watson shuddered and wiped it away with the back of his hand. He washed his hands hurriedly and dried them on the nearby towel-roll then he returned to the mirror.

  There was no more blood and he dabbed at the nostril with his handkerchief, relieved to find that it showed no hint of red when he inspected it. He swallowed hard, steadied himself against the basin edge then walked out.

  He saw Canning and Riggs seated at a table in the centre of the dining room, talking animatedly, only slowing their machinations when they saw him approaching. He smiled and sat down, draping the napkin across his knees.

  ‘Feel any better?’ the American asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Watson lied, reaching for the menu which lay before him. The waitress was approaching, order pad at the ready and Watson had only seconds to skim the menu before ordering. The waitress took the order, (steak for Watson and Canning, Spaghetti Bolognese for Riggs) and was about to walk away when the rep added a postscript.

  ‘And a bottle of the Beaujolais please.’

  The waitress nodded and disappeared.

  ‘Well Mr Watson,’ said Canning, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘While you were elsewhere, my partner and myself made a decision.’

  Watson swallowed hard, trying to forget the blinding headache for a moment.

  ‘We’ll accept the terms of your contract,’ the American told him, flashing him a mouthful of capped teeth. He extended a hand which Watson shook thankfully. Riggs too repeated the gesture.

  ‘I thought we might finalise things and sign over a drink after lunch,’ said Riggs, smiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Watson, one hand almost unconsciously touching his nostril. He looked at the hand, relieved when he saw that it bore no crimson mark. His head was still thumping and the noise created by the many other diners made him dizzy but, the realization that he’d secured the contract was at least one worry less.

  The waitress returned with the wine, uncorked it and poured some into Watson’s glass. He sipped and nodded. She put it down and left them. The rep filled the other men’s glasses and they raised them in salute.

  ‘I suppose this ought to have been done with champagne really,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘What the hell,’ Canning said, grinning. ‘A drink’s a drink. Here’s to our agreement.’

  They drank. The waitress returned a moment later with the food which she put down before the three men. They began eating, their conversation now veering away from business. Canning started talking about his family but the words didn’t seem to register with Watson who had put down his knife and fork and was sitting motionless in his seat, his fists clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. He found it difficult to breathe and, when he tried to swallow it was almost impossible.

  Canning looked up and saw him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, a sense of urgency in his voice. ‘What in the hell is wrong, David?’

  Watson reached for his wine and raised it to his lips.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, his voice a dry rasp. ‘It’s this bloody headache.’

  He managed to get a couple of mouthfuls of wine down, almost slamming the glass back onto the table. He reached for his knife and fork again and cut his steak, the pain, unbelievably, intensifying.

  Riggs, peering up from his plate of spaghetti bolognese, was the first to see it.

  A thin, almost watery, trickle of blood ran from Watson’ s nostril and dripped onto the table cloth. It left little stain but then, suddenly, it began to thicken and grow darker and within seconds, viscous clots were gushing from the nostril. They splattered onto the tablecloth and even onto Watson’s plate with a force and sound which made Riggs feel sick. The rep put a hand to his face and groaned, the blood spilling through his fingers and running down the back of his hand. He remained upright in his seat, clutching at the nostril which was pouring forth blood like a tap with no washer.

  ‘Jesus H Christ!’ murmured Canning, pushing himself back and away from the table.

  And now other diners had seen or heard the commotion and all eyes turned towards the horrendous scene.

  Watson rocked back and forth in his seat, hands clapped to his head as the pain reached intensities beyond endurance. Blood continued to gush from his nostril and then, to the horror of all those watching, something white appeared amidst the welter of crimson. Something long and tapering which seemed to grow from the very nostril itself.

  ‘Oh my God,’ gasped Riggs.

  The worm wriggled free of the nostril, its white body covered with blood. Then, as it tore its obscene form from the bursting orifice, Watson shrieked and pitched forward. He crashed into the table, plates, glasses and food cascading down after him as he grabbed at the tablecloth, which fell across him like a blood-spattered sheet. He rolled onto his back, the worm slipping down his cheek. It lay in the pool of crimson beside him.

  A waitress nearby screamed and dropped an armful of plates, people began to bump into each other in their efforts to get away from the abominations before them. Only Canning remained nearby, transfixed by the sight. Watson’s body was twitching madly, the muscles going into spasm so quickly he looked as if someone were tugging him about with invisible wires. Then, as the American watched, the flesh of Watson’s eyelid seemed to split, as if someone had pulled it too hard. There was a small jet of clear liquid, some of which spurted onto Canning’s leg and then, the eye began to bleed. The white turned crimson, the blood vessels appearing to swell and then burst.

  A second white shape came writhing up from the rent in the eyeball.

  The second worm was bigger and, when it finally succeeded in tearing its vile form free, Watson’s eye collapsed in on itself. Blood pumped thickly from the ruined socket.

  The worm slid across his face, touching the fluttering lips briefly and, with a newly awakened disgust, Canning thought that the monstrous thing was going inside his mouth but it lay there for a second then seemed to stiffen and it rolled off into the puddle of blood along with the first creature.

  Watson raised one blood spattered hand as if soliciting help and his remaining eye fixed Canning in a baleful stare, th
en, the hand fell away and the American could see that the younger man was dead. His face a bloodied ruin, he lay amidst the spilled food and the gouts of his own blood.

  Riggs had passed out.

  A waiter appeared at the American’s side and looked down at the body. He swiftly turned his head, fighting back the hot bile which was clawing its way up from his stomach.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he groaned.

  ‘Get an ambulance,’ said Canning, kneeling to help Riggs up.

  The dining room was filled with noise. Somewhere a woman was crying somebody was shouting something about it being an accident. The waiter was phoning for an ambulance.

  That done, he hurriedly dialled the Council Offices and asked for the local Health Inspector.

  Canning took one last look at the body of David Watson, his own stomach doing somersaults but it wasn’t the appearance of the body which drew his attention. It was the two white shapes which lay beside it and, finally, he lost control and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.

  Seventeen

  Brady pulled up outside the City Hotel and was surprised to see up to a dozen people standing on the steps which led up to the main doorway. He locked the Vauxhall and strode across, pushing through the group into the lobby. There was no sign of any ambulance or the police and the Health Inspector wondered just what the hell was going on. He’d received the call about ten minutes ago and come straight out. Some garbled message about an accident at the Hotel, could be hygiene problems and then the caller had hung up.

  The Health Inspector made his way through the group of people on the steps and walked through the lobby, his feet sinking into the deep pile of the crimson carpet. He frowned. There were more people huddled about outside the entrance to the dining room. A woman was sitting in a chair nearby and, as far as Brady could ascertain, someone was waving smelling salts under her nose.

  He pushed open the door of the dining room and found several red shirted waiters standing around, all looking into the area where the tables were. There were two or three men in suits there as well and it was one of these who approached the Health Inspector. He held up his hands, as if to bar Brady’s way.