Experiment With Destiny by Stephen Carr Page A

closer and was sure he could see a dark stain spreading across the floor from the back of the man’s head. Marcus dropped the truncheon, stolen from a nearby exhibit on 20th century policing, and shuddered with revulsion. He was about to walk back to the picnic basket and his partner in crime when he spotted the brace of keys on the watchman’s belt. Realising he had given little thought to how he would make his exit, he crouched down and attempted to relieve the watchman of them. After a minute or two of anxious fumbling he realised he could not detach them from the man’s belt and the smell of blood was starting to turn his stomach.
    “Thou shalt not kill,” he remembered. Marcus ignored the voice in his head and rolled the body onto its side to release the belt. Concerned that he should not waste any more time, Marcus lifted the belt free and clipped it around his own waist and returned to his prized treasure.
     
    Marcus was sweating profusely with the effort of dragging the picnic basket and the mannequin through the exit turn-styles to the heavy wooden doors. The keys slipped between his fingers as he paused, panting, and tried to locate the one that would open the main lock. If they had not been secured to the belt he would have dropped them countless times in haste and frustration. “Thou shalt not kill,” the voice repeated. Marcus tried to shut it out. Eventually he found the right key and slipped it into the lock. It twisted and clicked reassuringly. He gave the door an ambitious tug but it refused to budge. Then he spotted the twin bolts, top and bottom. Releasing them, he tugged again and instantly felt the force of the storm. Collecting the basket and figure, he fought the wind and stinging rain to struggle down the steps, his chest wheezing with the exertion. He had managed just a few paces when the straw boated was ripped viciously from his head. He watched it skip and bounce back inside the museum but quickly resigned himself to its loss and continued labouring toward the waiting van.
    The traffic was light and there were few people around. Most had the sense to seek shelter and delay their homeward exodus until the worst of it passed. He crossed the road, getting drenched in muddy, oily water as a passing bread lorry ploughed through one of the larger potholes. Nobody paid him the slightest attention as he opened the rear doors of the maintenance van and wrestled both the basket and the mannequin into the back. Relieved and satisfied, he slammed the doors closed again and leaned his soaking head against the cold metal. A vision of the night watchman, bloodied and dead, flashed through his mind. “Thou shalt not kill,” intoned the stern voice.
    “Leave me alone!” he insisted aloud. “God is dead!”
    “Excuse me…” Marcus spun to meet the voice, an altogether different one to that in his head. “Off to a fancy dress party?” The police officer’s tone held a note of sarcasm. “Only I wasn’t aware the museum did fancy dress hire.” Her eyes studied him as she edged closer. Marcus glanced back to the museum, his mind spinning. He had come so far. His task was nearly done. To be stopped now…
                  “Leave me alone,” he repeated, as if to nobody in particular.
                  “Please open the door and step away from the van,” urged the policewoman, her black raincoat glistening in the rain. Marcus simply stared at her, the cold stinging his face, whipping his body, the flannel trousers and blazer sagging with the weight of the rain. He was tired. He wanted to be away from here, alone with his treasures. Marcus smiled.
                  “I’m going to fly through time,” he announced.
     
                  A shrill ringing sound from across the street snatched her attention. Marcus followed her anxious gaze to the steps of the museum. It was an alarm. A figure appeared, staggering through the blackness of the open door. It