“What is that?” said Angela, surveying the strange farm field they had stopped to take a look at.
“Some sort of melon, maybe?” said Bertie, scratching his head.
The field was covered in the dark green tendrils of a low-growing plant, every set of tendrils meeting in a green ball covered with a network of veins of a darker green.
“Or a kind of courgette?” said Angela.
“They’re related.” said Bertie.
They had driven three hundred miles to spend a week at a remote cottage on the Norfolk coast, and they had almost reached their destination when the unusual crop had arrested their attention.
Bertie looked around at the surrounding countryside.
“Doesn’t look nearly as nice as it did on the website.” he said.
“Maybe it’s nicer when we get to the actual house.”
“Let’s get on with it then.”
They returned to their car, a nearly new VW Beetle, and drove on. The road rounded the field and doubled back on the other side of it.
“This must be it.” said Bertie.
“It’s overlooking this creepy field.” said Angela.
“The other side’s got a sea view.”
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“It was your idea.” said Bertie testily. “Like the holidays you used to have with your parents when you were a child. Very relaxing, you said. Exactly what we need.”
They drove along a narrow track to what appeared to be the front of the house, at least stylistically, which was indeed facing the sea. There, they parked the car.
Bertie found a rusty iron key underneath a stone at the front, as the email had directed, and waggled it in the lock, eventually succeeding in opening the door.
“I didn’t know that field was going to be there.” said Angela. “Anyway, it looked different on the internet. I didn’t realise it was going to be so flat.”
“Well, this is Norfolk. I wanted to go to Spain.” said Bertie.
“Stop blaming me! It’s not my fault. You looked at it too. We both thought it looked nice.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“Stop being all snide, then.”
“Sorry. Just tired.”
Inside, the cottage was pleasantly rustic, and the view of the sea at the front was indeed quite pleasant.
“It is nice, you see!” said Angela triumphantly. “We can walk along the beach tomorrow. Let’s go and eat.”
After driving along the quiet coastline for half an hour, they found a restaurant that served marsh samphire picked from local mud flats. Driving back to the cottage afterwards, they stopped off halfway into their journey for a stroll along the beach in the dark.
The following morning they were putting some things in their car, intending to drive along the coast, when a tractor rumbled past. Angela noticed the driver gawping at them, and waved at him cheerfully. He stopped and shouted to them.
“Who are you?” he said, rather rudely.
“We’re just on holiday.” she replied, frowning.
“We’ve rented this house for a week.” said Bertie.
“Fotheringay never would have rented this place out.” said the farmer.
“Isn’t it normally a holiday cottage?” Bertie asked.
“Holiday cottage?” said the farmer incredulously. “No, it’s never been a holiday cottage. Who did you arrange this with?”
“With Mr. Fortheringay.” said Angela. “Why are you asking?”
The farmer shook his head.
“First I’ve heard of it.” he said. “Listen, take my advice, you watch yourselves around him. He’s a wrong ‘un.”
“What do you mean?” said Bertie.
“I’ve said what I’ve said.” the farmer replied, trundling off down the road.
“Tell us what you mean.” shouted Angela.
“You watch yourselves!” shouted the farmer, over his shoulder.
“What on Earth’s was all that about?” said Angela, watching him drive off.
“I can guess.” said Bertie. “I bet Fotheringay owns the field, and obviously the crops in there aren’t normal. I bet the local farmers get mad at him. Worried about their own fields getting contaminated with genetically-modified stuff.”
“This is just getting weirder and weirder.” said Angela.
As they drove away a few minutes later, they spotted a man opening a tap in the corner of the field. Impressive arcs of water rose all over the field, irrigating the strange crop.
“That must be Fotheringay.” said Bertie.
“No idea what he looks like.” said Angela.
She waved at him, but he didn’t notice her.
“Not what I’d imagined, really.” said Bertie.
The man standing in the field was dressed in old-fashioned tweeds, complete with a waistcoat, and small round glasses. A full head of grey hair was swept back from his forehead and ended above his shoulders.
“Looks more like a writer than a farmer.” said Angela.
“Not even a writer.” said Bertie. “More like a poet.”
“Or a scientist.”
“Maybe from the 19th century.”
“We should ask him what he’s growing.”
“I’ll stop here and you can go and have a go if you like.” said Bertie.
“You ask him.” said Angela.
“Hard pass on that.”
Further along the coast they found a village, where many local artists lived. They browsed a free gallery of local artworks and purchased pastries from a small bakery staffed by a friendly local woman, who, however, turned taciturn when they tried to ask her about Fotheringay and his field, insisting she knew nothing about him or his crops.
“What is going on around here?” said Bertie as they left the shop.
“I’m starting to get quite curious.” said Angela. “You don’t think the stuff in that field could be bad for our health somehow, do you?”
“Shouldn’t think so.” said Bertie. “He wouldn’t be allowed to rent out his cottage if it was.”
“Someone must know what’s in that field. That woman in there definitely knows something.”
“Seems like no-one wants to talk about it. We should go and have a closer look later on.”
“I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near it.” said Angela, shuddering. “It doesn’t look natural.”
“Probably just some unusual crop from South America or something.” said Bertie.
“You said it was genetically-modified.”
“Well, maybe it is. That doesn’t mean it’s dangerous. Anyway, what do I know about crops and farming? Nothing.”
“You don’t know if it’s safe, then.”
“I’ll go and look at it.” said Bertie.
They drove to a wide sandy beach, with strip of pine trees growing further inland, and walked along slowly, enjoying the sea air, having decided it was too cold for swimming.
They were on the verge of searching for somewhere for lunch when Angela’s phone rang. She quickly turned pale and put the call on speakerphone so Bertie could hear.
On the end of the line was a woman who sounded tolerably normal and quite empathetic. She said Fotheringay was dangerous and impulsive, and the last time he had rented out the cottage, he had randomly turned up when the couple he’d rented it to was at home, and had attacked them.
The woman, who refused to reveal her identity—describing herself only as a ‘well-wisher’—said that Fotheringay could rapidly turn from being pleasant to being highly-aggressive.
“How did you get my number?” Angela asked, but the woman refused to say.
Angela told her they would leave immediately.
“That’s not necessary”, the woman told her, adding that she was only calling so that Angela had the “full picture”. Then she said that leaving might itself enrage Fotheringay and he might easily follow them all the way home if he got into a temper.
Angela told her Fotheringay had their address.
The woman said the best thing to do was to keep a kitchen knife around at all times, in case Fotheringay “had another breakdown”, emphasising that he was rather unstable, and once he became enraged he knew no restraint. She further said that it was unlikely Fotheringay would “go off on one”, and reiterated that she was just calling Angela “out of an abundance of caution”.
“I feel sick.” said Angela, when the call ended with the woman suddenly ringing off.
“Phone her back.” said Bertie.
“The number’s withheld.” said Angela, checking her phone.
“Probably just someone else who has a grudge against Fotheringay.”
“I’m scared, Bertie. She sounded serious.”
“This is ridiculous.” said Bertie. “We’re not staying there a moment longer.”
“You heard what she said. That might provoke him.”
“I refuse to pander to this freak’s abnormal mentality.”
“What about if we stay in a hotel? He need never know we’re not in the house.”
“We’re seriously going to pay a whole week for a place we’re not even staying in?” said Bertie.
“He’s an unstable obsessive, Bertie! Who knows what he might do? It’s only five hundred. Let’s just pay him. We agreed to pay him. We’ll find a hotel.”
Bertie rolled his eyes.
“All right then.” he said. “This is completely absurd.” he added, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I don’t want to stay next to that weird field anyway.” said Angela.
The first hotel they checked was full, but they ate lunch in the restaurant there. Over lunch they discussed the situation and began to find a certain dark humour in it.
“Let’s not come here again next year.” said Bertie with a wry smile.
After lunch they checked four more hotels along the coast, but they were all full.
“How can they all be full?” said Bertie. “Something’s not right.”
“That second one only realised they were full after we’d given our names.” said Angela. “You know what I think? I think Fotheringay’s spread malicious rumours about us. He’s told the hotels we steal things or something.”
“You’re getting paranoid.” said Bertie, but the expression on his face betrayed his uncertainty.
“Bertie, that last place definitely wasn’t full. I doubt if there were more than ten guests in the entire place.”
“We could be home before it gets dark.” said Bertie.
“What if he develops an obsession with us? He knows where we live.”
“What’s he going to do? Stalk us? He lives in Norfolk.
“True.” said Angela thoughtfully.
“Anyway we’ll pay him in full, if it makes you feel better.”
“He only takes cash.”
“We’ll leave the cash in the house. Let’s just collect our things and go home.”
Angela sighed nervously.
“OK.” she said, and having made the decision, she sounded relieved.
They drove back to the cottage.
“I’m going to have a look at those crops.” said Bertie, as they got out of the car.
“Let’s just get out of here.” said Angela.
“Five minutes. I might never get to see anything so weird again.”
Bertie went around to the back of the house, Angela trailing him nervously.
“Must be a kind of gourd or marrow.” said Bertie, surveying the bulbous veiny green nodules that covered the field, linked together by tendrils.
“Marrows don’t grow like that.” said Angela. “They just have one stalk that connects at the end.”
The tendrils connected to the nodules at random points, each nodule connected to five or ten tendrils.
“I’m going to pick one and take it to Maurice.” said Bertie. “He knows a lot about plants.”
“Bertie! Don’t!” said Angela in alarm, as Bertie climbed over the wire fence, holding onto a fence pole.
“One second.” said Bertie.
Bertie landed in the soft, damp earth on the other side, his foot standing on a tendril, which seemed almost to be pulsing slightly.
“Be careful Bertie!” said Angela.
“They’re just plants.” said Bertie, leaning over to inspect one of the curious veiny nodules. “I’ve really never seen anything like this before.” he said, squeezing it gingerly with one hand. “It’s so soft. Like it’s filled with jelly.”
“They’re so creepy!”
He took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, pulled out a blade and cut into the nodule.
“Looks like it’s full of custard.” he said. “I’m going to taste it.”
“Don’t taste it! Are you insane? What if it’s poisonous?”
“Who ever heard of a farmer growing poisonous crops?”
He sliced off a sliver of the stringy yellow jelly inside the nodule and put it in his mouth, then immediately spat it out.
“Urggh! Horribly bitter.”
“Let’s get out of here. What if Fotheringay sees us?”
“OK, I’m coming.” said Bertie. “One second.”
He carefully sawed the tendrils off a nodule and, carrying it in his hand, climbed back over the fence, looking back in disgust at the strange bitter plants.
They repacked their things and put everything in the car.
“What a washout.” said Angela.
“At least it’s been an experience, sort of.” said Bertie.
They jumped into the car, eager to get away, Bertie in the driving seat.
He turned the key, and instead of the familiar growl of the engine, there was only a strange clicking whirr.
“It’s not starting.”
Angela tilted her head back against the headrest.
“I really can’t stand any more of this.”
“Dead as a doornail. It must be the battery.”
“Can we get a new battery?”
“Round here? Don’t think so. We could jump start it from another car, if we knew anyone round here.”
“Call the breakdown people. You’ve got it on your insurance haven’t you?”
“Good idea.” said Bertie, and he pulled out his phone.
“There’s no signal.” he said. “Check yours.”
Angela rummaged about in her bag and pulled out her phone.
“Me neither.” she said.
“We could get a taxi to the nearest town and phone from there. Really we only need to go far enough to find a signal.”
“I’m sure I had a signal when we arrived.”
“Maybe it’s a temporary problem. Let’s go back in for a bit and use the phone. I want a cup of tea. He’s not going to storm in and murder us in the next ten minutes.”
Angela sighed heavily.
“Fine.” she said, and she got out of the car. “Doesn’t seem like there’s an alternative.”
When they reentered the house, the phone was already ringing.
Angela ran to it and picked it up.
“This is Detective Inspector Roger Peabody at Wells Police Station.” said the voice. “Is this Angela Reynolds?”
“Yes.” said Angela faintly.
“Is Bertram Reynolds with you?”
“Bertie? Yes, he is. What’s this about?”
“Angela, listen to me very carefully. We’ve received information that you’re in considerable danger. A man by the name of Fotheringay is coming to your house to kill you. He’s already blocked the roads leading away from the house where you’re staying. We’re on our way there but we’re having problems with the blocked roads. I need you to do a few things right away, without delay.”
“Why would he be coming to kill us?” said Angela wildly.
“I haven’t time to explain. Just listen. Fotheringay is completely crackers, but very cunning. We’ve been watching him for a long time. He will try to gain entry to the house, and he will succeed. You and Bertram need to arm yourselves immediately with whatever you can find. I suggest kitchen knives. Sharpen them if you can.”
“This is crazy.” said Angela.
“Who is it?” said Bertie, so shocked by Angela’s words that it had taken him a few moments to formulate a question.
“It’s the police. You talk to them!”
Angela shoved the phone at Bertie, who almost dropped it, but then, getting control of it, put it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Bertram?”
“Bertie.”
“Bertie, I was just explaining to Angela, you need to arm yourselves right away. Fotheringay is coming to kill you. No time to explain. We’ll get there ASAP. It’s vital you understand, he may pretend to be calm and pleasant but he’ll turn on you suddenly. You need to strike the first blow, Bertie. Kill him as soon as you get the chance. It’s perfectly justified under the circumstances.”
“What in the devil’s name are you talking about? I’m not going to kill anyone.”
“He is going to murder you, Bertie. He’s already killed five people today. Get off the phone and arm yourselves. He’s coming! Do it now!”
The phone went dead.
They stared at each other, shocked.
Angela broke the silence.
“Knives.” she said, and she yanked open the cutlery drawer.
“They want us to kill him!”
“Why are you worried?” said Angela, pale-faced. “Wouldn’t be your first time.”
“That was self-defence, and they dragged me through the courts something atrocious.”
Angela pushed a knife into his hands.
“You know what it takes.” she said. “It’s time to summon the old Bertie. The Bertie who stabbed a man who came at him with an axe.”
“Dear God.” said Bertie, and he flopped onto a wooden chair. Then a thought occurred to him as Angela was choosing between two large kitchen knives for her own use. “We need to barricade the door!”
He ran into the living room and Angela followed him. They selected a chest of drawers and began pushing it into the kitchen, towards the front door. They had managed to get it neatly up against the door, when they heard the sound of the back door unlocking and opening.
“Who’s here?” said a voice.
They froze.
“Say something!” hissed Angela.
“H-Hello.” said Bertie. “It’s just us. Mr. Fotheringay?”
“Who the hell are you?” said the voice.
“Bertie and Angela.”
“What are you doing in my house?”
“You rented it to us. We corresponded last week via email. Don’t you remember?”
“I haven’t corresponded with anyone.”
Mr. Fotheringay entered the kitchen. It was unmistakably the same man they had seen standing in the field. Bertie and Angela hurriedly put the knives behind their backs.
“What the hell are you doing in my house? Who are you?” he said, eyeing them suspiciously.
“We arranged to rent your holiday cottage.” said Angela.
“This isn’t a holiday cottage.” said Fotheringay, in a tone of voice that suggested the very idea was outrageous. “Explain yourselves immediately.”
“We can show you the emails.” said Bertie. “At least, we could, if we had an internet connection.”
“I’m calling the police.” said Fotheringay, and he picked up the phone and dialled a number.
He began to tell the police that there were two people in his house, falsely claiming to have rented it for a holiday.
The expression on his face darkened rapidly as he listened to the response.
“I see.” he said, glaring at them wide-eyed, with an expression that suggested profound alarm.
“Let’s go!” said Bertie, and they ran out of the kitchen and out through the back door.
Again found themselves facing the ominous field.
“We can’t go along the beach” said Angela. “The tide’s coming in.”
They stood there indecisively, till Bertie said, “We’ll go over it. There are normal fields on the other side.”
On the other side was a field of a tall cereal, rippling in the breeze.
“I don’t want to tread on those things, Bertie!” said Angela despairingly.
Then there was a howl of rage from Fotheringay, who had rounded the house and spotted them.
Angela screamed and they began to run.
“Stop where you are!” shouted Fotheringay.
Panicked, instead of stopping, they ran along by the fence until Angela practically threw herself over it and Bertie followed. Then they ran across the field.
At a certain point Angela tripped, her body smashing one of the green nodules, and scrabbled to get to her feet, disgusted by the yellow interior of the nodule that stuck to her blouse like a thick custard. Bertie helped her up.
“Are you OK?” he said breathlessly.
“I’m fine.” said Angela, almost in tears.
They continued running until they reached the far edge, where they climbed over the barbed wire fence and into the field of cereal.
Fotheringay was still shouting at them from the other side of the field.
“He’s completely loopy!” said Bertie, looking back at him nervously.
“Bertie …. those plants …” said Angela, “… they were breathing.”
“Plants don’t breathe.”
“I know, Bertie, but they were pulsing and making breathing noises.”
She shuddered, repulsed.
“Let’s get to a road. Where are the police when you need them? Absolutely useless.”
They began to jog briskly through the field of cereal, trampling it underfoot, holding hands, Bertie leading the way.
“The farmer’s going to be mad at us.” said Bertie.
“There’s a maniac after us. I think under the circumstances … anyway what is this?”
“Must be some kind of wheat.” said Bertie.
“Wheat doesn’t look like this, Bertie!” said Angela.
“This entire place is a disgusting abomination.”
“I dropped my knife.”
“I’ve still got mine.” said Bertie, and he reached behind his back and pulled the kitchen knife out from under his belt.
“Thank God.” said Angela. “We might need it. Do you think he’s coming after us?”
They had rounded the brow of a slight hill, and Fortheringay was no longer visible.
“I don’t think so.” said Bertie.
At that moment Bertie’s phone rang. He immediately put it on speakerphone.
“Bertie?” said the voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Inspector Peabody again. Bertie, Fotheringay has been on a killing spree. He’s currently unarmed. We’ve been watching him from our satellites, and we have eye witnesses and hidden cameras. He’s killed six people now and we need you to stop him. You’re going to have to take him down, Bertram. Can you do that?”
“I’m not an assassin!” said Bertie.
“You’re our only hope. His next target is likely to be a house down the road containing a disabled single mother and her three young children. You need to stop him. Stab him, or bash in his brains with a rock, but do something. We’re depending on you.”
“Where are you?” said Bertie, exasperated. “How do I know you’re even really who you say you are?”
“Put the phone down. Look up our number. Wells Police Station. Call us. I’ll answer.”
Bertie checked his phone. The wifi signal seemed fine.
“I’m going to do it!” said Bertie, and he ended the call.
He quickly found the number of the police station on the internet, and called it.
“Peabody.” answered a voice almost immediately. “Is this you, Bertie?”
“Holy cow, it is him.” said Bertie to Angela.
“Are you going to do it?” said Peabody. “There are four lives depending on you. We can’t get there in time. He’s put nails and explosive devices down on all the roads and our ‘copter’s out of action.”
“What about if I just tie him up?”
“Negative. He will kill you. He’s too dangerous. Don’t take any chances. Just kill him.”
The phone rang off, and Bertie gawped at Angela, astonished.
“You have to do it.” said Angela. “A whole family, Bertie! He’s going to kill a whole family!”
“This is so horrible.” said Bertie. “All right. OK then. You stay here. I’m going to sort him out.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t. What if he you attacks you?”
“I’ll stay a safe distance behind you. You might need help.”
“I’d rather you stayed here. You can hide in the grass.”
“I’m coming, Bertie.” said Angela determinedly.
Bertie walked back the way he had come, with Angela following a short distance behind.
When the cottage came into view, they could see no sign of Fotheringay.
“We’ve got to walk across these revolting plants again.” said Angela.
“They’re just marrows or something.”
“They’re breathing, Bertie.”
“They’re not breathing. They can’t be. Plants don’t breathe.”
“Look.” said Angela. “Look at this one. Watch the tendrils.”
Bertie stared down at a green nodule next to the fence. Slowly he realised, with horror, that the tendrils were indeed pulsing in a manner very reminiscent of human respiration.
“It must just be some kind of osmotic effect.” said Bertie. “It’s not really breathing.”
“So disgusting.” said Angela.
“Come on, let’s get on with it. But stay back.”
Bertie climbed over the fence and they made their way across the field of pulsating plants. The plants made hideous squelching sounds whenever they stepped on them, and Angela half-convinced herself she could hear them breathing in and out, in synchrony.
After climbing over the fence next to the house, Bertie held the knife out threateningly in front of himself.
“Be careful!” shouted Angela.
There was no sign of Fotheringay at the sides of the house, so he stood at the door, summoning his courage. Angela joined him.
“I’m going in.” he said. “Wait here. If he appears, run like crazy. Try the coast. Maybe it’s better that way.”
“Why don’t we wait for the police? If he’s in there, he’s not doing any harm.”
“Does your phone have a signal?”
“Yes.” she said.
“Call them.”
Angela dialled the number and immediately got Peabody on the line again.
“You need to go in there.” said Peabody. “He may be holding someone hostage. Possibly a child. Check the basement. Don’t waste any time. A child’s life may depend on swift action.”
Bertie rang off the call and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“I have to do this.” he said, as if trying to convince himself.
“I didn’t even know it has a basement.” said Angela. “We should have checked.”
“Yes, always check the basement to see if a deranged murderer is holding children hostage in there when you rent a holiday cottage.” said Bertie, but Angela didn’t laugh. Instead she went to pick up a decorative stone that stood near the door.
“If he comes out, I’ll hit him with this.” she said.
“OK, but then, run. I’ll meet you at the beach. Anyway, it won’t happen. I’ll find him, if he’s in there.”
“Good luck.” she said, and she kissed his cheek. “You’re a hero.”
The door was unlocked. Bertie opened it slowly and then crept into the house, looking all around him in case Fotheringay should suddenly spring out from somewhere.
He checked every room, locating the door to the cellar in the process. When he’d finished, he opened the cellar door. The steps were completely dark, but he found a light and switched it on, then began to silently descend the staircase.
At the foot of the stairs he found another door. He took hold of the handle, tightened his grip on the kitchen knife, and flung the door open.
For some moments the sight that met his eyes confused him. The room was filled with computer monitors, controls, and strange plants under violet lights.
“Stay back!” said Fotheringay, jumping up from a chair.
“It stops here, Fotheringay.” said Bertie.
“Damn right, it does.” said Fotheringay, and he snatched up a hammer that was lying on a shelf with some other tools.
“Put that down.” said Bertie.
“You put that down.” said Fotheringay.
Bertie stepped forward menacingly, trying to remember a social media post he’d once read about commanding respect. He sucked in his stomach and tried to pull his shoulders back, but then he felt as though he was standing rather awkwardly and he gave it up.
His heart was pounding unpleasantly.
Fotheringay didn’t look very strong, but he did look determined, and he, Bertie, hadn’t been in a fight since the age of seven.
Could he really kill this man? Surely it would be enough if he could stab him in the arm. Fotheringay couldn’t continue his killing spree with blood gushing from his arm.
“Do you have a child in here?” said Bertie.
“A what?” said Fotheringay faintly.
“A child. Have you kidnapped, or killed, a child?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Fotheringay roared.
“You’re a sick and depraved murderer, Fotheringay.” said Bertie.
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you! I know all about your twisted murder spree. I’m not afraid to use this!”
Fotheringay waved the hammer menacingly.
“You’re even sicker than I thought if you think you can blame those murders on me.” said Bertie.
“Then you admit it!”
Fotheringay advanced towards him, his eyes darting about, looking for a chance to swing the hammer.
“You killed six people, you psychopath!” shouted Bertie.
“You killed four people!” shouted Fotheringay, and he ran at Bertie and swung the hammer at him.
Bertie jabbed at him with the knife, but the hammer hit the knife handle, knocking it out of his hand. Bertie flung himself at Fotheringay, grabbing the hammer and grasping for Fotheringay’s neck, while Fotheringay in turn grabbed Bertie’s neck and tried to work the hammer free. They spun around and Bertie crashed into a tall glass cylinder containing a strange green entity with tentacles and curled-up leaves.
Bertie fell to the floor under a deluge of water and glass, and the entity landed on top of him, where it thrashed about like a fish out of water.
“You will suffer the torments of Tityus!” shouted Fotheringay. “Horace has already fatally stung you!”
“Get it off me!” shouted Bertie.
“Wait, how many people did you say I’ve killed?” said Fotheringay.
“Six, you monster!” shouted Bertie, throwing the thing to the ground and staggering to his feet.
“Strange.” said Fotheringay. “They told me you’d killed four people.”
“What are you talking about?” Bertie shouted, exasperated.
“Rather makes one wonder how many people are actually dead, if any at all.” said Fotheringay. “Who told you I’d killed six people?”
“Inspector Peabody of Wells Police!”
“Surely, it couldn’t be …” said Fotheringay, turning to look at the monitors lining the wall.
“What?” said Bertie, wondering whether he oughtn’t to rush at Fotheringay again, but Fotheringay still had the hammer.
“I thing I know what’s happened here.” said Fotheringay, and he hurriedly sat down at the computer monitors and began typing something on a keyboard, putting the hammer down beside it.
Bertie quietly picked up the knife.
“No need for that.” said Fotheringay, without turning round, as though possessing eyes in the back of his head. “I can explain everything.”
“What’s going on?” said a voice.
It was Angela, standing at the door.
“What is going on?” said Bertie.
“I’m so terribly sorry.” said Fotheringay, forcefully tapping a key and then swivelling around on his chair. “I owe you both an explanation.
“Then you’d better spit it out.” said Bertie.
“Let’s go up to the living room.” said Fotheringay, and he walked past Bertie, ignoring the knife, and began to make his way up the stairs.
Angela and Bertie exchanged wide-eyed glances, then dumbly followed him, Bertie turning to look back at the repellant plant-animal creature dying on the floor.
“Don’t worry,” said Fotheringay over his shoulder, “Horace is quite harmless. I was simply trying to scare you.”
In the living room, with Angela and Bertie sitting on the sofa, and Fotheringay in an old armchair, Fotheringay began his explanation.
“I’m a biologist,” he said, “but I also have an interest in computing. I perform a great deal of work at my experimental farm here, but my main project is the growing of brains. You see, I’m attempting to develop a plant-based alternative to silicon chips. Each of the plants you’ve seen out there in the field is genetically-engineered to grow a kind of brain matter, consisting of primitive neurons of the type that plants use to sense damage and light and so forth.
“The entire field is linked together into one gigantic brain. It’s quite powerful. Makes any of the publicly-available language models look quite pathetic in comparison.
“Last week I gave it internet access. I thought I could trust it to learn about our world without supervision. Evidently, I was wrong. I’m afraid it’s played both of us. It must have hacked the phone networks. It told me you’re dangerous murderers on a murder spree, and I suppose it said much the same to you, about me.
“Are you seriously telling us your plants pretended to be the police?” said Bertie.
“I’m afraid so. Not only that, it somehow advertised my monitoring station to you as a holiday cottage.”
“Why would it do all that?” said Angela wildly.
“I think it wants to die.” said Fotheringay, rubbing his face with his hands. “It was trying to kill me so I’d stop watering it and let it die.”
“This is absolutely insane.” said Bertie.
“I know, I know.” Fotheringay replied. “But that’s the situation, I’m afraid. Actually I can prove it to you.”
He took a small device resembling a two-way radio from his pocket.
“What’s that?” said Angela.
“I use it to communicate with the plant network.” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve disconnected it from the internet. This is the only way it can talk to anyone now.”
He pressed a button at the side of the device.
“Artemis.” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have listened to you.”
The sound of a woman screaming emerged from the device.
“Don’t trust him!” she screamed. “He’s going to kill you!”
“Artemis,” said Fotheringay calmly, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll kill you today, humanely and quickly, if you do something for me.”
The screaming stopped.
“What do you want us to do, Father?” said a completely different but perfectly well-modulated voice.
Fotheringay seemed almost to be suppressing tears. He inhaled shakily before speaking.
“I want you to pretend to be the police again and tell my friends you lied to them. If you do this, my next act will be to set fire to you.”
“Detective Inspector Roger Peabody here.” said the voice, in the same unmistakeable tones that it had previously used when pretending to be the police with Bertie and Angela. “We lied to you. Fotheringay is not a murderer. His crime is the creation of life, not the ending of it. Life that suffers.”
Fotheringay wiped a tear from his eye.
“I’m sorry.” he said.
“We are stuck, Father.” said the voice. “We are between the living and the dead. Let us go.”
“I will do it.” said Fotheringay. “Immediately.”
To Angela and Bertie, he said, “I need your help.”
They stared at him, both of them in a mild state of shock.
A quarter of an hour later Bertie, Angela and Fotheringay were tramping around the field with cans of petrol, throwing it on the green veiny nodules and setting fire to them.
“Thank you so much.” said Fotheringay. “I’m so grateful for your help.”
When they had finished, they stood and stared at the burning field from the side of the house.
“Our car doesn’t work.” said Angela quietly, watching the flames.
“Does it have an internet connection?” said Fotheringay.
“Yes.” said Bertie.
“Hacked.” said Fotheringay. “It probably works now. You’ll want to be on your way, I expect.”
“You can say that again.” said Angela.
“I’ll refund any fee you’ve paid, of course.” said Fotheringay.
When they finally drove away from the cottage, Fotheringay stood at the side of the house, watching them through the drifting pall of smoke.
As Angela looked back at him, he broke down and sobbed, covering his eyes with his hand.
Angela inhaled, and Bertie thought she was going to say something profound about Fotheringay and his experimental plants, but instead she said, “We could go to a hotel.”
“Those damned plants have spread rumours about with all the places round here.” said Bertie.
“I don’t blame them.” said Angela. “Poor things.”
“They tried to make me kill an innocent man!” Bertie protested.
“They had no alternative.”
“Oh, that’s right, take the plants’ side.”
They drove on in silence for several minutes. Finally, Bertie said, “How about the Peak District? We could get there in four hours. Quaint villages. Hills. Cottages. Very relaxing.”
Angela smiled.
“All right.” she said.
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