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“My, my, she is excited.”
“I’m so sorry,” replied her mother, smiling, lifting Christina off Harry’s knee. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”
“Don’t worry about it,” scoffed Harry, wiping his neck with a handkerchief. As he inspected the piece of cloth, he noticed a speck of blood. The girl must have scratched him.
Harry stood up to straighten out his robe. He was sweating. With the heat and the lights and Christina jumping around, he’d grown weary.
Christina’s mother strolled away, the girl holding her hand, gazing up at her. She clutched both of her presents tightly to her chest with her other arm. Christina’s mother was talking to her, smiling. They glanced back at Harry. He watched, continuing to wipe sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck.
Harry started to shake. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Checking his watch, he realized it had been sixteen hours since he’d last eaten. It was high time he paid the canteen a visit. As Harry was about to move, his pulse raced. His heart was pounding, as though it was too big for his body. He also noticed his breathing had changed. He had to sit down. He’d gone longer without food in the past. It must have been all the alcohol.
Harry sat on his sleigh. His breathing quickened, making his vision blurred around the edges. The pressure inside his head was slowly building, as though his skull was shrinking. Then the pins and needles started. His toes, his fingers, his arms; even inside his head. Within seconds, the pain grew more severe, red-hot needles on the inside of his skin.
Harry managed to stand up. One of the elves approached and asked if he was all right.
Harry’s breathing was so erratic he couldn’t calm himself down enough to reply. He opened his mouth, but the sound that came out was a restricted gurgle. He heard the elf shout for assistance.
Another two quickly appeared. They all fussed around Harry, asking stupid questions he couldn’t answer. Concerned customers had now gathered at the entrance to the marquee, their curiosity mounting.
Harry staggered blindly around the grotto-like Frankenstein’s monster, clutching his chest. His entire body felt as if it was on fire. Searing pain raced through every muscle. His nerve endings tingled. He slumped to his knees, his hands gripping the sides of his head, his eyes screwed tightly shut.
Harry suddenly bellowed. His deep, guttural roar startled curious shoppers. Women and children screamed hysterically. Mothers pulled at their offspring, covering their eyes. The elves scattered in all directions. “Oh, Jesus! For Christ’s sake, help me!”
Harry raised himself to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw the pizza-faced manager pushing his way through the crowd. Harry thought he was going to explode. Blood charged around his body like an express train. He trembled violently and lost the use of his legs again. He was aware of Pizza-face talking to him, shaking his hands and pointing his finger. He then tried to shield Harry from the shoppers with the flaps of his jacket.
Harry had passed the caring stage. The tremors in his body were now so savage he could neither see nor hear the manager.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Gardener heard the near hysteria as he entered the store. What should have been a happy throng of Christmas shoppers was more like a mob of extras in a disaster film. Two mothers ran past him, clutching their crying children, their faces a mask of confusion. A well-dressed woman smashed into a nearby display of crockery in a frenzied attempt to escape.
As Gardener quickened his pace, he could see a man dressed as Father Christmas on his knees in the middle of the grotto. He’d covered his face with his hands, and he was screaming. At his side, a man dressed in a suit glanced round anxiously. Gardener climbed the steps into the grotto, flashed his warrant card. “Stewart Gardener, Major Crime Team. What’s happening? Who are you? Who’s he?”
He stared down at the man in the Santa suit, hoping, praying it wasn’t Harry Clayton.
“I’m Andy Farlow, store manager. This is Harry Clayton. I’ve no idea what’s wrong him.”
Gardener leaned down to help the man. The Santa’s screaming reached a pitch of uncontrollable terror.
He gripped Clayton’s arms and tried to talk to him. His words were drowned out by Clayton’s hysterical shrieks.
Clayton’s hands flew outwards suddenly and seized Gardener’s jacket. As Clayton screamed, Gardener almost gagged. He’d smelled it before, but never in the early stages. He twisted his face away from Clayton, staring at Farlow, his expression complete bewilderment.
“How long has he been like this?” shouted Gardener. Farlow didn’t reply.
A sound emanated from Clayton’s throat, a cross between a burp and a gurgle. Unable to contain the mounting pressure, Clayton’s body started to disintegrate. His eyes went first, forced out of their sockets. A dirty brown liquid gushed outward, down Clayton’s face, into his mouth.
Horrified, Gardener let go, but he wasn’t quick enough. Clayton vomited, splashing Gardener’s jeans, and a little of his shirt. Gardener fell backward and scrambled to his feet, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as every orifice of Clayton’s body leaked the black and brown sludge. Clayton eventually fell to the floor of the grotto, twitching, screaming, gurgling – totally debilitated.
Gardener turned. Andy Farlow stood behind the nearest pine. Helpless, he examined the crowd, hoping to spot someone he recognized from their investigation, someone he suspected. He flipped open his mobile, called the station, requesting every available officer, SOCOs, the Home Office pathologist, and an ambulance.
When he was finished, Gardener dragged Andy Farlow from behind the pine. “I appreciate you’re not well, but this is a crime scene. I want every member of your staff to help maintain the crowd and keep them as far away from this grotto as possible. Lock all the doors and don’t let anyone leave, or let anyone in except my officers. Do you have a first aider on site?”
The manager nodded weakly. Gardener was about to ask whom when a man appeared. He was short, fat, and bald, and carried the first aid box
with him. Gardener doubted that would help in the slightest. He pointed to Clayton, and the man immediately responded.
At the back of the grotto, Gardener noticed an opening in the curtain behind the sleigh. Beyond the curtain, a corridor led to the toilets. He found them empty. Other than a cleaning closet, there was nothing else. Despite the panic in the store, his footsteps echoed in the empty, silent passage. As he approached the rear of the grotto, a syringe dangling in the curtain caught his eye. A wave of cold fear passed through him. His throat dried almost instantly.
