The Mandrake Effect– ONE– by P J Searle
Chapter Ten

The only comparison between Harry’s Agency-allotted New York apartment and his home in Edinburgh is the collection of ancient and modern IT peripheral – and of course a few mandrake pot-plants. These, scattered around the ultra-modern décor, are his only concession to the antique, an ancient roll-top oak desk, at which he now sits working busily making what resembles a shoulder holster out of a leather camera-case. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Finished he takes two large flat-handled dental syringes and a huge bottle labeled, Novocaine, illicitly acquired from the Bronx dentist, from a drawer. The three-inch long needles rupture, one after, the other through the cork of the bottle filling the two glass barrels, totally ignoring the dosage lines, with the cloudy yellow fluid. He then fits them, suspended by the plungers, into the leather contraption. He puts it on as if it was a pistol shoulder holster, makes an adjustment, then runs a loop through his belt and adjusts again. He puts on his jacket and turns to face a big gold-framed mirror. His hand deftly grabs in-and-out of his jacket. The hand is now holding one of the syringes at arms length, like a fencing foil. He challenges his reflection:

‘I say, old chap, are you damnwell addressing to me?’ The reflection snarls. He squirts a small amount of the liquid into his mirror image. The face contorts and snarls back, decidedly nonplussed. It is now the decidedly nonplussed face of Nathan staring back at him, the same man from the vagrants’ rave. Hands on hips, he stands behind a counter awaiting Harry’s order – Harry having just entered Nathan Detroit’s bar.

Harry winces at the loud jazzy music as he stares back at the huge black man. Nathan gestures to him with a strange pout of his lips and a raised eyebrow that interprets, ‘What’s your poison?’

‘I’m looking for dis guy called Aldo Fremick,’ says Harry, again proffering his New York accent, ‘I understand he waza member here?’

Nathan, in spite of his size and villainous look, is, unashamedly homosexual. He looks at Harry in mock amazement, ‘Let me see if I understand you, my man – one, you don’t want to buy no liquor, and two you don’t want to buy no information?’

‘Oh… double brandy and keep the change,’ says Harry, passing a twenty-dollar bill, ‘Now… ?’

Nathan pouts again, pours the drink, rings up the till and pockets the change. ‘I just love your accent. Bring your drink and follow me.’ He ducks nimbly under the bar then nods for Harry to pursue. Harry downs the brandy and follows as Nathan effectively waltzes off in the direction of the washrooms.

Nathan turns, smiling, talking as they walk, ‘This way, Sire… past the little boy’s room… right to the end. I’ll announce you. And if Aldo doesn’t do the job, you come right back and see me, Mr.... do we have a name?’

‘Harry.’

‘How nice… Mr. Harry.’ He stops at the door, taps affectedly with his knuckle and sings out, ‘Al,do, are you indecent? Harry’s here.’

Harry stops and looks over his shoulder. Two men have followed them down the passage.

‘Enter, Sire,’ says Nathan, pushing it open with an exaggerated swish of his butt, ‘Your pleasure awaits,’ a shaft of light falls dimly into the passage. Nathan’s hand extends in welcoming gesture, ‘Voilà!’

Harry’s hand finds the opening of his jacket. As he walks past Nathan’s outstretched hand he gets a glimpse of steps leading downwards. He stops and tries to turn, but the two men are on him. One, of whom, is resurrected, Cameron. Harry turns to face the first man, who grabs him in a vice-like bear hug. Nathan pulls the door wide open, allowing Cameron to shove the struggling duo down the stairs. They tumble over and over, ending up in a heap at the bottom with Harry on top, locked in the deadly embrace. Cameron turns and walks off. Nathan remains at the top of the stairs to oversee.

Harry, winded and gasping for breath, is staring into a face inches from his own, which now proceeds to exude fluid from nose, ears, and eyes. The mouth sags open expelling a stream of bloody slime. A woman’s high-heeled shoes now step into the widening slime-pool, stopping inches from Harry’s nose. He looks up. It is Rosette – there is no mistaking the soulless look in her eyes. The man’s bear-hug grip slackens and Harry rolls free. He immediately leaps to his feet, grabs the remaining syringe and holds it at arm’s length. The other syringe is sticking out of the putrefying man’s chest. Rosette eyes it, acknowledging its destructive quality. In lightening speed, she whips an arm across Harry’s body. With his schoolboy fencing skills, he just manages to parry the blow and offer an inquartata lunge with the syringe. The needle penetrates, but before he can deliver the full dose Rosette recoils, snapping the needle and sending the jet of novocaine into the air. She grabs at her arm shrieking in agony, then backs off into the shadows, dangling the stricken limb by her side.

Terrified, Harry flees into the near darkness of the cellar that is stacked full of crates and boxes. Nathan follows close behind. Harry comes to a dead end in a corridor of beer cases. Nathan stands menacingly the other end, blocking Harry’s escape. He backs up against the wall and in panic, desperation and hysteria, hammers at the whitewash with the heels of his clenched fists, one of which still holding the broken syringe. To his amazement and joy the flimsy partition wall cracks and splits. Harry leaps through, disregarding life or limb. Nathan follows close behind.

The other side of the wall is an identical storeroom: more cans, bottles, and cases. Harry dashes through yelling incoherently at the top of his voice. Another wall looms, he hurls himself shoulder first in the forlorn hope that it is similar to the other – it is not. It is solid brick. He rebounds from it like a squash ball, smack into his pursuer, sending Nathan crashing heavily onto his back. Harry rolls clear and is up and running again, Nathan close behind. A slapstick pursuit ensues through the alleys of stacked beer and liquor boxes.

Harry, now a few corridors of boxes and beer cases ahead, stops for a desperately needed breather. He carefully sits on a case of cans, all the time listening. He takes up one of the cold cans of beer and rolls it around his sweating forehead, then, covering the can top with his handkerchief, gingerly opens it to a dull hiss. Nathan, oblivious, continues searching. Harry drinks off half the beer then places the can, slowly and noiselessly, on the floor. After a few moments he slowly starts to stand, taking great care not to disrupt the box he’s sitting on. He gradually and most carefully takes a step… straight onto the can, he’s just placed, knocking it flying.

‘Bugger!’

The chase is on again. Harry passes through the hole he had made earlier, Nathan, two-dozen steps behind, follows. Harry sees an open service lift. In ten steps he makes it inside and hits the control button… Nothing! He hammers hysterically at the button. The doors slowly start to move, then mercifully close.

– A crash!

The doors open again. Nathan’s hands have plied them apart as if they were made of paper, his head and shoulders now wedge between, hardly out of breath.

‘Harry, Honey… m’ main man… going so soon?’

Instinctively, Harry hooks a punch at the head, hardly realizing the syringe is still held firmly in his sweating fist. The half-inch stub needle, the glass body and the residue of the novocaine shatter and rupture into the soft tissue of Nathan’s temple. The huge head shudders, eyes bulge and the mouth drools with blood and slime as the doors open and shut again. Harry is gone, vaulting the dissembling Nathan and off into the darkness. Leaving the head wedged into the lift, which now starts its belated journey upwards, detaching putrefying head from putrefying shoulders.

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