WICKED! / Chapter 1

WICKED! CHAPTER 1
Alec Metcalf thumbed lazily through the dictionary. What he really needed was a definition that would bring out the malignant nature of evil. So perhaps he should look that up? Malignant? Or malice? What about malicious? Malevolence? And wasn't there a name for the devil which sounded like that? Malvolio?
     Although on reflection that didn't seem quite right. Alec had to admit it - academic research was not his strong suit. But at least he could do it lying comfortably in bed.
     Alec closed his eyes and sank down under the duvet, the dictionary slipping from his hands. Only half-past nine. Perhaps another snooze...
     Someone was banging violently on his bedroom door. 'Aren't you up yet, Mr Metcalf?' called the indignant voice of Mrs Beresford. 'You've got visitors!'
     Mrs Beresford was always indignant about something, especially those items that came under the headings of sloth or dirt, both of which - in Alec's view - she quite uncharitably associated with him.
     'Just coming, Mrs Beresford...'
     Alec swung himself out of bed and picked up his underwear from the floor. Not too bad. Probably last the week.
     'It's the police, Mr Metcalf. They're waiting in the hall.'
     The police?
     For a moment Alec was immobile, poised on one leg, the other aimed at his Y-fronts. 'And you say they asked for me?' he managed, taking a few quick hops across the carpet to regain his balance.
     'Not you personally,' said Mrs Beresford's voice in a tone that inferred she couldn't imagine anybody doing that. 'For whoever was in charge.'
     Then Mrs Beresford was banging on the door again.
     'Are you actually getting up in there? I think it's quite disgusting the way some of you people lie in bed half the day! And what am I to tell the police? I've got to get on! Some of us have got work to do!'
     'Yes! I am actually up, Mrs Beresford. So what about Dr Zellmann? Why can't they see him?'
     Even through the door Alec could hear Mrs Beresford sniff. Mrs Beresford definitely did not approve of the Foundation's Director, Dr Markus Zellmann.
     'Apparently he's out. Meeting a client, or so he said.'
     Mrs Beresford managed to put a wealth of innuendo into that last word.


A patrol car could be seen through the open front door. It dominated the gravel drive, a menacing, alien presence, stark white bodywork emblazoned with gaudy red and blue stripes like the poison warnings displayed by noxious insects to advise the unwary to keep away.
     'There's been a complaint, Mr Metcalf,' said the policeman who had introduced himself as Sergeant Graves. 'About an experiment.'
     'Experiment?'
     'With spiders, Sir. The boy said he was locked in all night. Big spiders. He was quite definite about that.'
     Sergeant Graves had the dead-pan stare policemen reserve for when they want people to know they won't stand for any crap.
     'Well, we do have a spider room, Sergeant. It's in the basement. But as to the boy being locked in all night...'
     'Perhaps I could see it, Sir? Just routine.'
     The constable accompanying Sergeant Graves shuffled his feet. He did not look too happy about visiting the spider room.


Alec unlocked the door and ushered the two policemen inside. 'I'm afraid it's a bit dingy. But they don't really like the light. They don't spin proper webs.'
     'Oh, shit...' said the constable, turning white.
     Heavy tropical foliage and dangling aerial roots obscured the walls of the basement room - but there was no mistaking the inhabitants. Multi-coloured spiders like gleaming jewels hung motionless in the centre of silken orb webs suspended between the fronds; ponderous, tarantula-like spiders with fur that came in shades from red to black could be seen clambering up the bark of rotting wood; while among the murky shadows prowled long-legged hunting spiders that looked as if they out race any potential prey.
     The constable was biting his lip, trying not to look at tegenaria gigantea lurking in the dusty web which obscured the small basement window, the only source of light in the room, and a very feeble source at that.
     'Oh, it's perfectly all right, Gentlemen,' said Alec blandly. 'All that greenery is just for show. The spiders are actually housed in display cabinets arranged around the walls. It's all purpose built.'
     He brushed aside the foliage to reveal one of the cabinets. 'As you can see, all the cabinets are labelled to identify the occupants.' He gave a dry laugh, hoping it didn't sound too sadistic. 'Although not many people get that close.' He pointed at the basement window. 'And we had that specially constructed as well. It's made from two panes of glass, rather like widely spaced double glazing. A sort of shallow cage really, but it helps give the right effect.'
     Alec tapped one of the grimy panes and tegenaria gigantea slowly retreated back into the corner of its web.
     'That's a big spider, Sir,' said Sergeant Graves in a careful voice.
     'Yes... For its species, of course.'
     Sergeant Graves was pointing at the single bent-wood chair standing in the centre of the room.
     'The boy said there was a chair. May I ask you what it's for?'
     Alec gave an explanatory smile. 'It's amazing how many people find that comforting, Sergeant. Some people like to sit down. And of course some people even jump on it.'
     The sergeant was giving him a quizzical look.
     'When they see Mr Beelzebub. He's a member of the family theraphosidae. Now he really is rather large - but then he has to be if he's to catch a bird.'
     Mr Beelzebub was crouching in his usual corner, backed up against the wall, hairy forelegs raised as if ready for a duel. Eight metallic eyes stared unblinkingly at the intruders in his room.
     'Oh, shit...' said the constable again. 'Can he... How quickly can he move?'
     'Quite quickly. That's why we provide the chair.'


'Perhaps you had better explain, Sir,' said Sergeant Graves when they were outside, trying to look as if he hadn't been hurrying. Constable Jones was slumped against a wall, his face even whiter than it had been before.
     'I'll do my best, Sergeant. Actually it's not really my field. Dr Zellmann is in charge of that experiment.'
     In Alec's experience, it was always best to make sure the buck was firmly passed.
     'Dr Zellmann?'
     'He's the Director of the Foundation, Sergeant. I'm responsible only for research.'
     Alec handed the sergeant his card.

Alec Metcalf
Head of Research
THE SOUTHGATE FOUNDATION
President: General H.T.Southgate

Alec was not too pleased with the quality of the cards. But cheap card and smudged ink were only to be expected as Markus had been responsible for the printing, or to be precise Markus' recently established MZ Printing & Graphics Design Company, a member of the MZ Group, motto, the people you can trust. And in Alec's opinion, if you believed that, you would believe anything.
     Sergeant Graves slipped the card into a pocket. 'So what exactly does this foundation do?'
     'We are a private foundation, Sergeant. I suppose you could say philosophy of a sort. The Southgate Foundation is investigating the nature of evil, Sergeant.'
     Sergeant Graves gave Alec an old-fashioned look. But that didn't bother Alec. The investigation of evil might seem unusual - in fact an absolutely idiotic idea - but who cared what people thought as long as General Southgate was satisfied and a nice fat salary payment arrived every month?
    'So this investigation... How do spiders come into that?'
     They didn't of course, as Alec well knew. But the ideas that Markus came up with were never particularly scientific.
     'It concerns the understanding of phobias, Sergeant,' Alec said smoothly. 'Most people have some sort of phobia. Fear of heights, snakes, even birds. But arachnophobia - fear of spiders - is sufficiently common to be of use. We measure the reaction of subjects when they are in the room.'
     There was a frown on the Sergeant's face. 'You lock them in the room?'
     'Good Lord, no! Let me show you how it works.'
     Across the corridor in the basement was the small room used for the preliminaries. A few chairs, a table, and a supply of forms.
     'It's quite simple. We advertise for volunteers in the colleges. And we are only a short bus ride away from the centre of Oxford. A lot of students even come by bike.'
     Sergeant Graves was studying the forms. 'And they get paid for this, I suppose?'
     'Of course. Ten Pounds a time. We keep a supply of petty cash.'
     'These questions... Some of them seem a bit odd.'
     Alec looked at where the Sergeant was pointing.
     'Oh, ethnic origins. Well, that's to identify whether the phobia is truly universal, or whether there might be some sort of cultural bias. One would expect a student coming from one of the warmer climes to react somewhat differently.'
     Sergeant Graves was shaking his head. 'No, I meant this question.'
     His finger indicated the line. Have you ever lived in a house with a cellar? (tick yes or no) .
     'Well, some people might have become accustomed. It would degrade the accuracy of the results.'
     Alec smiled at Sergeant Graves. A thought had entered his head. Not exactly evil in the classic sense, but a little wicked all the same.
     'Let me show you how it works. I'll need a volunteer, of course.'
     The two men looked at each other.
     'There's nothing too it, Gentlemen! Undergraduates manage it all the time!'
     Sergeant Graves had come to a decision. 'You can do that then, Jones,' he said to the constable.
     Alec pointed to the door of the spider room. 'The door locks automatically when it's closed. From the outside you have to open it with a key, but from the inside you only need to turn the handle. It's impossible to get locked in.'
     Constable Jones didn't look convinced.
     'Normally we would ask the subject to fill in one of these forms, but I think we can dispense with that. Then the subject would be provided with a questionnaire and we would explain the mechanics of the experiment. The subject would enter the room and would have to stay there until he or she had completed the questionnaire. That usually takes only a few minutes. But of course, at no time would the subject be told anything about the spiders, just that there would be something unexpected behind the door.'
     Alec handed Constable Jones a clipboard.
     'When you are inside, you fold back the cover on the questionnaire so that you can read the questions. The pencil is tied on with string so that it can't get lost.'
     Constable Jones was looking at Sergeant Graves with a do-I-really-have-to-do-this? expression on his face. Sergeant Graves however was giving nothing away. His face was stoical. Thames Valley's finest shouldn't be worried by something as trivial as this.
     'In you go then, Jones,' said Sergeant Graves as Alec opened the door.
     'Oh, shit...' came Constable Jones' voice through the closed door, and then there was the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor.
     The Sergeant was looking at Alec, his face inscrutable. 'Seems simple enough,' he said.
     'Ah, but it's not your phobia, is it Sergeant?'
     There was the sound of the chair legs scraping on the floor again, and then the sound of Constable Jones' voice.
     'Oh fuck! The lead's broken! So what do I do now?'
     'You'll find another pencil on a ledge underneath the window, Constable. Beneath tegenaria gigantea.'
     'You mean I have to go over there?'
     'That's the first test,' Alec whispered to Sergeant Graves. 'It tests retention over personal mobility. The lead in the pencil always breaks.'
     Constable Jones' voice was raised in sudden panic. 'Christ! That fucking great thing jumped at me!'
     'You mean Mr Beelzebub,' Alec called back. 'You don't need to worry - I can assure you he is more frightened of you than you are of him.'
     It was an explanation Alec had had cause to resort to many times. Sometimes he wondered if it were true.
     Sergeant Graves was looking at his watch. It would be a point of honour for Thames Valley's finest to complete the questionnaire in good time.
     'You've had forty seconds, Jones...'
     'Oh my God!' said the faint voice of Constable Jones, and then for what seemed a very long time there was no sound coming from the spider room.
     Sergeant Graves looked cautiously at Alec and then back to his watch. 'He should have had long enough...' Then he cleared his throat and studied the floor.
     The silence was not too disturbing. In Alec's experience, subjects were often unpredictable. Some were not bothered by the experience at all, but then they didn't have the phobia. Others came out in a cold sweat, and occasionally there would be screams, although one or two of the subjects had reacted very strangely in the spider room.
     'We had a girl once,' he confided to Sergeant Graves. 'She went very quiet, and eventually we were forced to open the door. The poor girl had gone absolutely rigid. She was staring straight ahead, not moving a muscle, with Mr Beelzebub crawling up her leg. A sort of catatonic shock, I suppose.'
     'Do you think..?' said Sergeant Graves.
     'Well, it wouldn't do any harm to ask.'
     Alec spoke through the closed door.
     'Are you all right in there?'
     Constable Jones' voice came back as a strangled moan.
     'It's on the door!'
     'I'm sorry?'
     'That fucking great spider! It ran along the wall, and now it's on the door!'
     'On the door?'
     'For Christ's sake! It's on the door! How do I get out?'
     'Oh, I see...'
     Alec thumped the door hard. From inside the room he heard a plop which was presumably Mr Beelzebub falling onto the floor.
     'Jesus!' came the voice from inside the room and then there was the sound of breaking glass.
     Alec's eyebrows lifted thoughtfully. Constable Jones must have thrown the chair. Well, that was a first! The chair had been sat on, jumped on, used the way a lion tamer maintains order over lions, and once someone had apparently mistaken it for a commode. But nobody had ever thrown it at Mr Beelzebub before. Well, well, well...
     Constable Jones was suddenly outside the room and standing well away from the closed door. His face was absolutely drained.
     'Let's see how you did,' said Alec, taking the clipboard from his nerveless hand.
     He hadn't done very well. Under What do you see? he had written 'spiders', which was correct. (Alec had been amazed at what some people thought they had seen in the spider room.) But in the tick-the-box sections the constable had managed only two questions. For Is your heartbeat a) normal? b) faster than normal? c) absolutely racing? he had rather optimistically ticked a). But the answer to Is your forehead a) dry? b) damp? c) on fire? was a smear of broken pencil lead.
     'I think you did very well,' Alec said soothingly. 'Some people manage nothing at all.'


evil a force or power that brings about wickedness or harm... Perhaps there would something more useful in the academic depths of the full Oxford English Dictionary. These glossy contemporary dictionaries with their vaunted up-to-date jargon weren't up to much. Perfectly acceptable if you wanted to know that 'fall line' (lower case) was a skiing term but 'Fall Line' (cap) was actually a specific geological feature in the United States, but they were worse than useless when it came to demonology.
     And the reference to evil being a 'force' or 'power' was hardly appropriate considering today's technology...
     Alec turned to the tables in the back. Apparently force was measured in newtons, and power came in joules-per-second, or watts, or volts times amps. That was a lot of help! You couldn't buy evil over the counter as if you were buying a battery for a torch - 1.5 volts of evil please, preferably leak-proof, and of course long-life.
     'Excuse me, Mr Metcalf!'
     Mrs Beresford was banging on his study door.
     'Not the police again, surely Mrs Beresford?'
     But sarcasm was always lost on Mrs Beresford.
     'It's a small boy. I left him in the hall, and I told him to wipe his feet, but you know what boys are these days! Such dirty things! So would you mind getting down there, Mr Metcalf!'
     Mrs Beresford has her own personal phobia. Any creature of any size or species that could possibly track even the slightest trace of dirt into her nice clean house. Alec couldn't remember a time when he had seen the ever-vigilant Mrs Beresford without her broom.
     Mrs Beresford cleaned and polished until the whole house smelled of her artificial pine, but Mrs Beresford always reviewed her handiwork with the same suspicious glare. Mrs Beresford was firmly convinced the grime deliberately returned as soon as she turned her back.
     Downstairs, in the hall, a boy of about eight was poking a finger in his ear. He stopped poking when Alec arrived, although he left the finger in place.
     'Can I see the spiders, Mister?'
     Obviously a rural type, Alec decided. What other boys would say Mister in this day and age? Usually he had to make do with 'Hey you!' or 'Oi, mate!'
     'Does your mother know you are here?'
     The boy shook his head.
     Alec smiled. One should never deny a little boy who is being polite.
     'That's all right then. Of course you can see the spider room.'