But we didn’t have time to rehearse our stories.
Even as we’d been dragged clear of the fire, even amongst the exhilarated, grateful thanks that we were alive, there had also been the recriminations.
Why had we gone off like that, rather than keeping in line like we were supposed to?
Didn’t we think that everyone would be worried?
Didn’t we realise the danger we were putting the fire crew in, or anyone else who might have come searching for us?
Didn’t we know how lucky we’d been that no one had been injured or killed?
Didn’t we know that the chances of a fire blowing a hole in a wall without causing a terrifying backdraft – a sudden surge of oxygen causing the flames to explode in an almost sun-like intensity – were, as a fire officer put it, ‘beyond all reasonable belief.’
If it hadn’t been for that incredible stroke of luck, he’d added, we’d probably both be dead.
Only Pat and I know better, of course.
It wasn’t luck.
It was the angel.
*
Even though we hadn’t co-ordinated our stories, both Pat and I had enough sense to stay clear of mentioning the angel to anyone.
Besides, at first Pat hadn’t been wholly sure what he’d seen.
It could have been nothing more than some form of mirage. Something conjured up by his dazed state.
‘It couldn’t have been an angel,’ he said to me afterwards.
‘What else could it be?’ I ask. ‘We were trapped down there, remember? How do you think we got out?’
‘I dunno,’ he admits, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘Some sort of International Rescue?’
‘Yeah, like they exist, right?’
He smiles, shrugs. A shrug that says, Yeah, okay, you got me!
‘There was something odd about him.’
‘Odd? Something odd about an angel?’
‘No, no; I mean the humming. Didn’t you hear the humming?’
I’m just about to point out that the humming was probably nothing more than a buzzing in his ears caused by his fainting when I realise he’s right; there had been a constant humming hanging around us.
A relaxing, musical humming.
‘Like a chanting you mean?’
‘That’s right; like monks. You know the way they chant?’
‘Suppose that makes sense; monks, angels. Go together like a horse and carriage, don’t they?’
Pat grimaces doubtfully, rubbing his neck like he’s perplexed.
‘Yeah; or like angels and people who aren’t quite right in their heads go together.’
*
The school’s closed once again.
‘To give everyone a chance to come to terms with what could have been another tragedy,’ as Miss Pollitt explained it to the newspapers.
You’d think that I’d at least get some thanks for this, if everyone seriously believes I’m working hand in hand with Death.
But no.
No one calls round, except Pat.
No one makes out they even recognise me when I’m out on the streets.
They all shy away from me. Like even being close to me is an invitation to Death to come calling.
Jeezus.
As I’ve got nothing better to do, I settle down at my laptop with the intention of working out the meaning behind the number one-hundred and fifty-three.
Even the answer provided by the angel had been less than helpful.
I mean, ‘Blessed are the first one-hundred and fifty-three’?
And all that about Jasmines?
What was all that about?
Looking at the rough notes I’ve made on the passage containing the scientific formulae, one-hundred and fifty-three could have anything to do with frequency, memory or quantum mechanics.
Or perhaps none of them at all.
There doesn’t seem to be any obvious links to the notes I made after finding the highlighted Biblical passage; the Measure of the Fish, the ‘vesica piscis’, the ratio of one-hundred and fifty-three to two-hundred and sixty-five.
The thing is, no matter how weird the angel’s answer was, at least it demonstrated a connection between him and the number one-hundred and fifty-three.
There was also that strange, Gregorian-chant like humming, which I suppose also gives us a link to frequency.
And a ratio is linked to harmonies, right?
It’s not much to go on; but it’s all I’ve got.
Frequency is measured in Hertzs, so I google ‘153hz’.
Nothing.
Well, nothing that seems immediately relevant to whatever it is I’m searching for anyway.
Though as I don’t really know what I’m searching for, that makes it pretty difficult to know what I should be looking for, doesn’t it?
So, what about the second part of that ratio, 153: 265?
I google ‘265hz’.
Ah! There’s something about ‘Music of the Spheres’; and didn’t Pat say that the ‘vesica piscis’ is created by the overlapping of the physical and spiritual worlds?
When I click on the link, however, it seems to be another dead end; one of those situations where the web search has become curiously confused, because the frequency referred to here is 256 Hz, not 265 Hz.
Back on the google page, there’s a link entitled ‘Honeybee Neurobiology and behaviour.’
Bee’s apparently respond to vibrations of 265 Hz. It’s interesting, but I can’t see any relevance.
When you double a ratio, it’s still the same. So instead of 153: 265, that gives me 303:530.
‘303hz’ brings up ‘Chakra Balance’, which seems promising until I click on the link and discover it’s a music album.
‘530hz’ gives me ‘Neutron star with spin frequency of 530 Hz’. That might be a good lead if it ever turns out I’m dealing with an alien invasion here.
They’re all dead ends, as far as I can see.
Am I trying to complicate things here?
Is the frequency I’m looking for just a part of a musical scale, one linked with the angelic humming?
I try ‘music scale’.
Wikipedia comes up with a list of scales; different cultures, different types of music, different periods.
Great. I could be here all day searching through that lot.
I need something more focused.
We’re talking angels here, right?
I add the word mystical and google ‘mystical music scale’.
There’s a link to Chakra again, this time the actual types of chants. But when I click through, I can’t see how they could be of any use to me.
Damn.
Wait; how about ‘angelic music scale’?
Is there such a thing?
Probably not, but I might as well – well, whaddya know?
Second down on the list; ‘Solfeggio System – Sounds of Wonder.’ And in the passage just beneath, there’s a listing of frequencies.
I click through.
Oh no!
It’s just another list of links!
Lots of them!
It could be any one of them that I need!
Or none of them!
But wait a minute: ‘DNA and Solfeggio.’
Didn’t the number one-hundred and fifty-three have a connection with DNA?
Oh yeah; it was the chances of a DNA molecule forming. Ten to the power of one-hundred and fifty-three.
Come to think of it, DNA is also the perfect form of memory storage, isn’t it?
What the heck; I click on the link.
A pdf starts loading up.
Oh oh; too much info!
Where do I start?
I start by quickly scrolling through it, hoping something catches my eye – and yes, thankfully it does!
A chart of some kind, containing frequency figures.
Across the top, there’s a number of different music scales once again.
Down the side, there’s a list of a va
riety of things linked to or affected by the scales and their frequencies.
One of these is DNA. I run my finger along the row.
Two frequencies immediately next to each other grab my eye; 528 Hz and 531 Hz. That’s just either side of 530 Hz.
I run my finger up the columns to the scales listed above.
528 Hz is in the Earthly Scale. 531 Hz is in the Divine Scale.
That’s it!
530 Hz lies between the intersecting physical and spiritual worlds, the earthly and the divine!
Which means…
Nothing, actually.
But it’s the nearest I’ve got to an answer so far.
Okay, one last try.
So, if we’re talking of an Earthly Scale, what happens if I google ‘Dna 528hz’?
Oh my…
‘Can 528 Hz frequency heal your DNA?’
And it’s just about a whole page of links like that!
Even more amazingly, we’re talking real scientists here too, rather than pseudo-scientists and crackpots.
That’s got to be it, the link I’ve been searching for, hasn’t it?
Or has it?
Wasn’t I really trying to find out how one-hundred and fifty-three was connected to the deaths, the murders?
How is healthy DNA connected to someone being killed?
Eradicating faulty DNA?
*
Chapter 16
As a reason for murdering someone, eradicating faulty DNA doesn’t really make much sense.
Even so, I try and find what I can about each police officer’s medical history.
Sure, I realise I’m not going to come across their medical records. But I might be able to find the odd reference to any illness they might have suffered in the various newspaper articles featuring interviews with their relatives.
There’s a surprising amount of information about them
Jane in particular comes across as a really genuine, take-me-as-you-find-me-because-I’m-great sort of person.
Like she hinted to me, she was the bright kid at school who went off the rails for a while. Because she didn’t feel she was being challenged.
She got herself back in order. Saw it as her purpose in life to help other kids who might permanently go astray if there’s no one around to put them straight.
If Jane were still around, you know what? I could have really liked her.
Provided, that is, I’d actually got to know her.
And, truth is, I’ve only started to get to know her because she’s no longer around.
Because she’s dead.
Odd that, don’t you think?
We only know so much about these people now because they’re no longer alive.
If they’d still been around, the newspapers wouldn’t have seen it as their role to find out so much about them, would they?
And we wouldn’t have wanted to waste our time reading it even if they had, would we?
Even amongst everything I can now find out about Jane and Gerry, though, I can’t find anything close to what I’m looking for: any indication of illness, of problems, either physical or mental; any sign that could be interpreted as even a hint that faulty genes might be involved.
They both seem to have been reasonably healthy.
Gerry was struggling to keep his weight down. But if someone’s got a master-plan to go around killing people like that, we’re in real trouble, aren’t we?
Ironically, any mention of illness in the articles isn’t linked to the victims but to the accused.
PC Brian’s son was terminally ill. As was the youngest daughter of Erin Walters, the woman who’d held up the school bus on the level crossing.
You could say that involves faulty genes.
But they weren’t the ones who were killed.
They’re the ones who are still missing.
So even after all this hard work, I’m not sure I’m really getting anywhere.
I’m tempted to give up. Pat’s the music expert; I’ll have to get him involved.
Me, I need a rest.
Well, just after a little more research into DNA anyway.
I mean, it’s really interesting, isn’t it? Like the fact that less than ten percent of your DNA actually carries the genetic code. And the rest of it is all just junk.
Bit like my research so far, basically.
Only that’s one-hundred and fifty-three percent junk.
*
‘You might be on to something.’
Pat’s surprisingly reassuring when I speak to him on my mobile, telling him everything I’ve found out so far.
‘The Solfeggio was the scale used in Gregorian chants,’ he continues. ‘We use a different scale in modern music.’
‘Wow, really? How did you know that?’
‘Same way you find out your facts; I just googled it while you were speaking.’
‘Does that help us in any way?’
‘Well, all that chanting, it was a way of reaching up to God, wasn’t it? Contacting his angels, that sort of thing.’
‘But what’s that got to do with the murders?’
‘Ask him.’
‘Ask who? Brian? They’ve all vanished.’
‘No, not him! I mean your guardian angel; ask him!’
‘What, ask him out for a coffee at X-Presso you mean, so we can have a nice chat?’
‘You could try a Gregorian chant or two,’ he replies, breaking into song: ‘Why we…re they murrrr…durrrr…edddd.’
‘That’s pretty sick, you know that Pat?’
‘Tonally, it was perfect.’
‘Tonally, it was lacking in taste.’
‘Look, he’s your guardian angel; can’t you threaten to throw yourself off a bridge or something? Won’t he show up then?’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘I could write a song about it. It could be a Country and Western hit.’
‘I’m not going to risk my life just to–’
BLLLLLAAAAAARRRRRRR!
A car horn!
I whirl around.
No; a bus horn.
And I’ve stepped out into the road right in front of it!
*
I’m frozen.
I can’t move.
With a screech of brakes, the bus strikes me brutally.
I know it does – it’s far too close for me to avoid, even if I could move.
It’s far too close for the driver to swerve to one side.
Besides, I know it hits me because I feel the intense pressure on my body as God-knows how many tons of metal strike me head on.
*
Chapter 17
I’m shrouded in mottled light.
A mix of wavering, intermingling dark shade and bright light.
Am I dead?
No; I’m standing in the thick cover of a copse of large bushes and small trees off to the side of the road.
Through the overhanging branches and leaves, I can see the bus continuing on its way.
But I can smell the burning rubber of urgently braked tyres.
Horns are blaring. Drivers are shouting angrily. Like they can’t understand why the bus suddenly screeched to a halt like that.
What’s going through the bus driver’s mind? Did I suddenly vanish?
Does he wonder why he suddenly braked like that?
Whatever he’s thinking, he’s moving again.
‘Thankfully, even those who saw anything are confused; they’re telling themselves they must have imagined that a stupid girl was standing out in the road.’
It’s the angel. He’s alongside me.
‘Jaz, Jaz! What’s happening? I heard a horn, a screech!’
Pat’s voice is muted, squeaky, anxious. My mobile’s still on.
I lift it up to my ear.
‘Pat? I’ll speak to you later. Something urgent’s just come up; sorry.’
I turn towards the angel.
‘You can do that? Make everyone think they imagin
ed it?’
‘Everything happened so quickly, no one’s really sure what they saw. That’s the nature of accidents, yes?’ He looks at me with the nearest I’ve seen so far to an admonishing expression. ‘I presume it was an accident? You realise it isn’t right to test me in this way?’
‘Test? What do you mean, test?’
‘Did you deliberately put yourself in harm’s way? Unnecessarily putting yourself in danger?’
‘Of course I didn’t! I wasn’t even sure you’d show up if I did! How did you do it anyway? Rescue me, I mean. I’m sure I felt the bus hit me.’
‘You felt the bus striking the protective shield I cast around you. If the bus had struck you, it would have been a far more brutal result, I assure you.’
‘Why? Why do you keep on rescuing me?’
‘As I have explained, you are destined to provide us with the Book. The Book that contains all knowledge.’
He tips his head back slightly, closes his eyes, like he’s concentrating, slipping into a trance.
‘Yes, yes; I sense that you have already circulated the Book! Good, good!’
‘Circulated it? I haven’t even found it yet! I don’t even know what it is!’
‘And yet you have recognised it, and you have set in motion its circulation.’
It’s the benevolent smile again. It’s creepy, but it’s better than the admonishing glare.
Then, like Alice in Wonderland’s beaming Cheshire cat, he vanishes once again.
*
‘Have you ever thought of writing a book?’ Pat asks me as we walk towards his house. ‘I mean, any type of book?’
‘He’s says it’s already out there; already circulating.’
‘Circulating around in your head maybe?’
‘Well, I have always wondered if, using something like mathematical game theory, I could write a book covering just about everything; you now, giving advice on how to approach any situation you might face.’
‘Wow, mathematical game theory; nothing ambitious then, eh?’
‘It’s crazy, I know; but you’d be surprised how it’s been used to predict how people will probably behave when faced with a problem.’
‘So, to find out if I’ll finally get a date with the girl of my dreams, I just have to call my looks Y, her looks X, and how much money I’ve got Z, right? Takes the romance out of it all, though, doesn’t it?’
‘There’s definitely a formula that predicts when I finally get around to hitting you for being such a smart ass!’
He chuckles.
‘So this is the book you’re thinking of writing? A book of formulas?’