Catacombs of Terror! by Stanley Donwood Page B

happening. I had a peculiar feeling that I was being watched. Not surprising, after ‘interviewing’ a surveillance company. Okay. But it was a more visceral feeling than that. An animal sense. It started as something vague, like a forgotten errand. But by the time I was halfway down the street that led to my office it had coalesced into a certainty. I was being followed. I stopped and inspected the windows of a bike shop. I wasn’t going to do anything as stupid as look back. But I considered my options. If I went to my office now . . . . No. I wanted to stay on top of this. Hell, I needed to stay on top. Time was running out.
    I darted across the road, through the usual slow-moving Saturday traffic jam. Making a bit more of car-avoiding than was really necessary, I ducked into a pub and shook the water off. I stood just inside the door and waited. My tail was just under one minute behind me. Smartly dressed. Pretty expensive clothes, and formal enough to look just a little out of place in this particular pub on a Saturday. He was a very big man, I thought. I’d turned to the bar, waiting to get served. He scanned the pub, quickly and efficiently. Okay. I wasn’t trying to hide. I was just an honest journalist, having a drink after a bit of weekend work. Fair enough? Bet your life. I was covered. And very glad I hadn’t gone straight back to the office, past the brass plaque by the door. That might have been something of a giveaway.
    I got a pint and moved away from the bar, taking care to appear not to notice my unwelcome companion. He checked me out, seemed to come to the conclusion I was legit. He did some kind of ‘my friend isn’t here after all’ mime and left. I found a seat and pulled out my cigarettes. I’d been a convincing reporter, I thought. I’d had a press pass. I’d been fairly predictable. A bit stupid. I didn’t think I’d asked any of those ‘wrong’ questions that Colin had been so keen for me to avoid. Why had the Council, or, more likely, ScryTech/KHS thought it necessary to have me tailed?
    I finished my pint. Scurried out into the rain after checking there was no nosey smart dressed man hanging around. I’d gone fifteen yards when a car pulled up next to me. Expensive. Shiny. The tinted passenger window rolled down electrically and a voice said, “Get in.”
    I leant down to look in at the speaker, but before I could open my mouth, one of the back doors opened, someone from behind manhandled me into the back seat, shoved themselves in after me and there I was, sandwiched between two huge guys. It was like the one who’d tailed me had a twin or something. It was expertly done, and I fought back a scream as it happened. The car started moving immediately, and we were heading out of the city before I could speak.
    “
What the fuck is this?
” I spluttered.
    “Be quiet. Do not speak until you’re asked to,” said the guy in the passenger seat. He had a very even voice. No emotion at all. He didn’t turn round. Everyone in the car was looking straight ahead. They wore dark clothes, not suits, but pretty smart all the same. What was this type of clothing called? Oh yeah, ‘smart casual.’ Everything looked new. And very, very normal. Very respectable. The car, their clothes, everything. There wasn’t even any scuffing on the shoes of the two apes I was squashed between. I considered my options. There didn’t seem to be any. So I considered them again. Still nothing.
    “You ask the questions, right?” I said. A huge elbow drove into my stomach and I shut up very fast. I was too busy gasping. Tears squeezed up behind my eyes. We were out on the main road heading north, moving fast, when I got my breath back. Nobody spoke. We pulled off the road in a lay-by next to the junction with the motorway. One of the gorillas opened his door and I was persuaded with little difficulty to get out with them. The passenger door opened and the only one who’d spoken got out, too. He was quite a