A dog started barking somewhere out of Faraday’s view. It was Carruthers, Burke’s Yorkshire terrier.
Pollard winced. ‘Can’t you muzzle that filthy beast? You know what I think of dogs!’
‘Well, it can hardly be any worse than what they think of you,’ Burke snapped.
Pollard held his tongue, merely shaking his head in distaste.
Faraday sighed. He looked forward to sunset and a brief respite from the terrible sun. Swatting an insect away from his face, he watched the overworked natives, wondering why they hadn’t deserted him weeks ago. Something landed on the back of his neck, escaping his notice. One of the workers started shouting and waving his arms about as Carruthers began chewing part of the wide breeches he was wearing. Faraday swore, got to his feet and started walking down to the water.
‘Burke! If you can’t control—’
The mosquito clinging to his neck chose that moment to insert its feeding tube.
It felt as though someone had jabbed a long, ice-cold needle into his flesh. Then, as the long, long seconds passed, the pain escalated and Faraday started to jump about in terrible agitation. He slapped the back of his neck repeatedly in a desperate and futile attempt to remove whatever was causing the agony.
His yells attracted the attention of Burke and Pollard, who now looked on in obvious confusion.
‘What on earth is he doing?’ Burke turned and began walking towards his boss.
‘I don’t know, but at least he’s got off his lazy backside for once,’ Pollard muttered, following behind. They approached their employer, unsure of what to do or say.
‘What the devil’s wrong, Mr Faraday?’ Pollard stopped, his mouth hanging open. Burke had seen it too.
Fastened to the back of Faraday’s head was what appeared to be a mosquito, but its size was wrong. Very wrong. It was huge. The two men stepped back, open-mouthed. Faraday was now making the most dreadful sounds, his suffering clearly immense. The workers had ceased all activity and were staring sombrely at the white man, as though they’d witnessed such a spectacle before.
‘For God’s sake!’ Faraday shrieked. ‘Get it off me! Get it—’ He staggered around blindly, then fell backwards onto the sand, his eyes bulging, limbs twitching. In seconds he was dead.
Burke and Pollard locked eyes, then stared in disbelief at the body. Faraday’s skin was quickly turning green. As they watched, horrified, the grotesque insect, now maroon in colour from all the blood it had consumed, crawled out from under the man’s head, flew up onto his forehead and crouched there, regarding the two men. Steam was rising from Faraday’s wound. As the two men watched, liquid began soaking into the sand around the dead man’s head. Some of it was blood; the rest was something else.
‘Oh my Lord Jesus.’ Pollard started retching. Faraday’s head, it seemed, was dissolving.
The wings buzzed momentarily to life, then stopped, then buzzed again. The creature rose into the air. Burke and Pollard were only vaguely aware of the dog barking as he bounded up the beach towards them. Without warning the monster flew straight at them. In his panic to flee, Burke stumbled and fell, cracking his head open on a sharp rock. The pain was terrible but short, as death came upon him swiftly. Pollard, following suit, tripped over Carruthers and hit the sand. Turning, swearing and scrabbling about, he glimpsed the insect’s long sharp feeding tube instants before it plunged into him. The sound it made was only faint, but Pollard’s cries travelled miles.
Carruthers sniffed around his master’s head, whimpering. He couldn’t accept that he was dead. The natives were gone. Some of the supplies they’d been carrying were left abandoned halfway up the shore; some were starting to float down the river. After Pollard had stopped screaming and Carruthers had stopped whimpering, there was silence, save for the sound of the water, and a faint whine.
I: PROPOSITION
London
September 2005
My name is Ashley Reeves and I’m extremely lucky to be alive.
It’s one thing to be told a scary story, and quite another to be right in the middle of one. But that was where I found myself only a few days ago, and I’m worried that if I don’t write down each and every detail of my horrifying experience on Aries Island, I may end up convincing myself that it was all fiction, the diseased imaginings of a young man on the brink of madness.
That I survived the ordeal is a mystery in itself, for I stared death in the face more than once. But perhaps the most worrying aspect of it all is what drove me to visit that island in the first place. I’m a journalist, and therefore naturally predisposed to pursue stories. But this story should have made me cautious right from the beginning, and I realized too late that I had let my ambition lead me into more trouble than I could handle.
This account is of an extraordinary creature. A creature so dangerous that if it had been able to reproduce, it could have wiped us all from the face of the earth.
Mosquitoes are just insects. Nothing more than tiny biological machines. But they are also carriers. They communicate diseases like malaria, yellow fever, West Nile virus, dengue and encephalitis. Transmitting infection seems to be their primary function. Mankind is perhaps the herd that mosquitoes are destined to thin: millions of lives have been claimed by malaria alone. But mosquitoes don’t know what they are doing. They don’t know they are carrying terrible diseases. It would be an incredible thing indeed if a mosquito, or any insect, were capable of thought.
But one thing I’m reminded of time and time again is that Mother Nature loves a paradox.
I think many journalists must come to a point in their career when they think they’ve heard everything. I came to that point surprisingly early, with stories about three-headed pigs, blue sheep and talking plants; the only thing that shocked me was the audacity of the idiots behind them.
The magazine I work for,
Missing Link
, was launched a few years ago. My editor, Derek Jones, left a newspaper he’d been with for several years and started up
Link
on his own, to cash in on the public’s fascination for all things ‘inexplicable’.
The magazine has done very well, building up a pretty respectable readership. I came on board some months ago, fresh from college with a degree in journalism. But by then certain changes had already taken place at
Missing Link
. Derek had just sold the magazine but had decided to stay on as editor. The new owner was obsessed with credibility and wanted
Link
to focus more on oddities and freaks of nature, than on what he deemed ‘nonsense’. Out went the little green men and in came the flora and fauna. Soon we were re-branded a ‘science magazine’, dedicated to the weird and the wonderful. For me it was an exciting time and I was keen to get stuck into serious reporting.
Gradually, however, doubts crept in about exactly what I’d got myself into. I’d been aware for a long time that honesty and journalism could be a difficult marriage, but I was surprised by exactly how difficult it was. I had to accept that the distortion of facts was not merely commonplace but ever present. Gradually elements of the job lost their appeal, but one that didn’t was Gina Newport, the magazine’s star photographer. At twenty-two she was nearly a full year older than me and I’d liked her, a lot, from the moment I laid eyes on her. But somehow I could never find the opportunity or guts to do anything about the way I felt. Such is life.
Last Monday, a day that now seems lost in the mists of time, was the day the letter from Reginald Mather arrived. It was a glorious early autumn day, so I decided to run to work, taking my favourite route along the canal. After I’d reached the office, I showered, dressed and went next door to the newsagent’s to buy a carton of orange juice. Sitting behind my computer, I opened the juice and began sorting through the small pile of mail the office junior had brought me. Mather’s letter was at the bottom, and was the only one that didn’t end up being filed in the bin.
The letter was brief, something that caught my attention straight away. Usually the lunatics who write to me waste page after page of paper trying to convince me that they have an amazing story for the magazine. Mather’s letter was businesslike, concise and therefore more credible.
Dear Mr Reeves,
I have in my possession a specimen known as the ‘Ganges Red’, a unique strain of the
Aedes aegypti
mosquito family and the only one of its kind. If you were to ask an expert about it, they would no doubt tell you that it does not exist.
I have enclosed a map that will help you find your way to Aries Island, located in the middle of Lake Languor. I own the only house on the island, so you should have no trouble finding me. A boat can be chartered from Tryst harbour. I know the harbour master to be a very helpful fellow, and can assure you that his rates are most reasonable.
It would be splendid if you could come right away, though of course I understand that a journalist’s schedule must be fairly tight. I regret that I have no telephone, so shall expect you at any time, or otherwise a letter to say that you cannot come.
I must ask for your discretion in this matter. I am keen to share my discovery with the world, but being a private man I need to keep certain details to myself. Therefore I ask, if it is possible, that you should not divulge the specifics of this letter to a third party.
I have the honour to be, sir,
your obedient servant,
Reginald C. Mather
I read it through a second time. Unlike most of the letters I received, it was intriguing. I had a hunch that Mather’s claim was genuine, and that there could be an exciting story lurking behind it. At the very least it could mean a day out of the office. I read it again, then made up my mind to talk to Derek. I was about to go and see him when a scrunched-up ball of paper hit the back of my neck.
‘Ow!’
‘Hey, Ash.’ It was Gina. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, I was just going to have a word with Derek about whether to follow this up or not.’ I held up the letter.
‘Anything good?’ She sat on the corner of my desk, her close proximity already making me nervous, and took the letter. While she read it I tried not to stare up at her face. Sometimes I thought she liked me too, but it was never clear if she liked me enough.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, handing back the letter. ‘You should go.’
‘Yes. There’s a chance he could be another crackpot though.’
‘That’s what makes it so interesting.’ She grinned.
‘I don’t know. Some of these people are dangerous.’
‘Don’t be so paranoid. Besides, you should jump at the chance of a nice day out.’
‘I know. I just—’
‘Where does this guy live anyway?’
‘It’s, er . . .’ I picked up the envelope and read out the address written on the back.
‘The Lake District?’ Gina’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh come on, how can you not go? If you don’t then I will.’
I nodded. She had a point. I’d never been to the Lake District, but I’d always planned to visit.
‘I suppose I should check out train times.’
‘You do that,’ Gina said, patting me on the back. She slipped off the desk and started to walk away.
‘Right.’ I looked towards Derek’s office to see if he was on the phone. ‘But listen,’ I called out to Gina’s retreating back, ‘if he does turn out to be a nutter, I’m blaming you.’
‘Would I ever lead you astray?’ She sat down at her desk and began leafing through a pile of photographs.
‘No, I suppose not,’ I replied, getting to my feet. I went and knocked on Derek’s door.
I might have known how he would react. He preferred the sort of story that could be researched and written in a couple of hours. This one was likely to take up the rest of that day and quite possibly the next. When I walked in he was looking out of the window, and seemed lost in thought.
‘Hi, Derek.’
‘What? Oh,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Sorry. I was . . .’
‘Are you OK?’ I closed the door behind me.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just concerned about a friend of mine. We worked on a magazine together years ago. He’s been missing since last week. It’s a bit worrying.’
‘Oh, I hope he’s all right.’
‘Yes, me too.’ He sat down behind his cluttered desk. ‘Anyway,’ he said, putting the matter aside, ‘what can I do for you?’
I showed him the letter. When he’d finished reading it he asked me a few questions about what sort of article I could make out of it. He often did this, just to make sure I was already thinking ahead. ‘Is it really worth the trip though?’
I had the feeling that he’d already answered this question himself. Nevertheless, I tried to assure him of the story’s potential.
‘This guy,’ he said, his eyebrows arched in doubt, ‘he sounds like a scientist or something. Has he written in before.’
‘Not to my knowledge, but he sounds like he’s on the level, which makes a nice change. He doesn’t say what his profession is in the letter.’