The Night of the Mosquito by Max China

Dismounting, he waited, looking at his watch. The barrier lights were off. Were they always off? He couldn’t think. The train that usually rattled past at 9:37 a.m. didn’t show. He got back on his mountain bike and cycled home, deep in thought.
    Whatever had caused the failure wasn’t limited to his house.
    Laying the bike down outside, he collected the things he’d left on the table before the rain and carried them inside. He placed the tray in the sink, and muttering to himself, dried the chromium that surrounded the magnifier, polished the lens, and then checked his phone.
    Still nothing.
    He’d reset the switches on the fuse board before he went out, ready for the power coming back on. It was quite safe, he convinced himself. If there were a problem with the circuitry, it would trip out. His efforts to trace the source of the odour that had permeated every room had proved impossible. It’s going to be all right, he told himself. Relax. Anderson picked up his book, tucked it under his arm, and wandering into the conservatory, immersed himself in Ryan’s words once more.
     
    What fascinated me, over and above Vera’s clairvoyance, was what I’d gleaned from her medical notes. Born on April 16, 1954, it was a Good Friday. I attach no particular significance to it, other than to note that according to folklore, children born on that day are considered unlucky. She was the thirteenth child. The last of seven to survive. The six previous children had died, either at birth, or a short time afterwards. A sickly baby, she’d been baptized on Easter Sunday, a measure taken by her parents that perhaps led the fates to smile on her.
    At age thirteen, she’d almost succumbed to a fever. The family doctor had recorded extremely high temperatures. Her mother had refused hospital treatment, under the notion that, if it were God’s will, she would survive. The girl pulled through. But she was never the same again, developing what David had assumed was a psychosomatic illness. However, it was at that time her clairvoyant episodes began. Her family tragically perished in a fire. The girl had left the house earlier in the night. Suspicions were raised. Now an orphan, her aunt took her in. The episodes continued. The predictions she made came true. Her aunt began to fear her.
     
    Deep in thought, Anderson fingered the lump on his eyelid. He’d started to put things together. Ryan had already said she changed the course of his life. How many others? Intrigued, he checked his watch and read on.
     
    Her aunt thwarted my plans to study her, handing her over to the Catholic Church, who had her whisked off to Rome. They’d seen something in her they wanted for themselves.
    Part of me knew I was destined to see her again. She’d told me so, and unlikely as it might seem, when we crossed paths a few years later, in Brighton, it only served to confirm my earlier thoughts. She was the real McCoy.
     
    Anderson checked the light switch, flipped it on and off. Still no electricity. Outside, the sky had turned dull. He could have done with the power coming back. For the past hour, distant bells had rung out a continuous clanging loop of sound. The pattern permeated his consciousness. The church at St Michael’s. The place had been closed for years, the bell tower crumbling. Who would risk their lives to ring them? He shrugged and continued to read. Darkness gathered outside; he screwed his eyes tight, trying to focus. There’s going to be another storm. The pages. Something’s wrong. Cream, yellow, green, shades of blue. You’re hallucinating, old boy. He glanced up at the dark skies. Phantasms of green shimmering light rippled in the vastness as if unseen hands flicked gigantic silken sheets, teasing the folds and creases from them. Northern Lights? During the day, and this far south?
    ‘Christ,’ he said aloud. ‘The bells. Someone’s ringing out a warning.’

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 13
     
    Copse Hall. 9:36 a.m.
     
    Kotlas