SYSTEM RESET

An Interview with the Man

There were no such sensual pleasures for Mike Throckmorton. Instead he slept fitfully in a lonely bed, woken occasionally by lurid and highly erotic dreams in which he was an impotent and enraged observer hanging from the ceiling watching Lucy, Imogen and John Pendle locked in impossibly passionate sexual positions which roused him to such an extent that he was twice obliged to go into the bathroom and jerk himself off. Around six thirty in the morning he was woken by something else; the now familiar sound of a helicopter landing on the helipad at the back of the Hall. He got out of bed and peered through the curtains. There was nothing to see. It was still that expectant darkness which precedes the first light of dawn. There was no obvious activity outside, though he could just see the reflected glow of the landing lights which had been switched on to illuminate the helipad.

He debated whether to go back to bed and decided instead to get dressed and investigate whatever was going on in the Hall. Mike was becoming increasingly alarmed. At the back of his mind was a more than nagging uncertainty about what he was actually dealing with. And there was now that constant subliminal hiss in his head, as though his brain had somehow tuned into the ragged edge of another cerebral frequency in which distant voices were tantalisingly inaudible. The icy Caroline had talked about being like vampires. What was this disease she had given him? He began to wonder whether, like Jonathan Harker in Castle Dracula, he had fallen into a nest of voluptuous undead whores who would eventually suck out his blood and steal his soul. Yeah, vampires, or witches, creatures of the night. They had done something to him, these irresistibly seductive women. They had changed him in some way that he could not yet fathom. It both frightened and enticed him. Maybe their poison had already worked its magic on him. He wanted to be like them. To be fully admitted into this mysterious Circle.

But the legacy of the Lutheran upbringing he had so enthusiastically jettisoned with his first delirious back seat bang was returning to haunt him. For the first time since childhood he began to think about the difference between right and wrong. What had they done to him? And had it made him better, or worse? Where did he belong? What exactly had happened in that extraordinary sexual cartwheel? Had he really killed someone? If so, who was it? His limited imagination, like Pendle's intellect, was running in hyperdrive. The need for answers at any cost was becoming irresistible. Never mind his mission. Never mind the professorial Wavell Meredith, never mind the Corporate Intelligence Service, never mind the fucking CIA. Mike Throckmorton now feared for himself.

Before dressing Mike surveyed his fine physique in the full length mirror on the front of the antique wardrobe. He had to admit that his body was damn near perfect. Maybe a bit hairy in some places, compared with those luscious witches whose smooth skinned bodies and bushless pussies had been revealed in that naked circle, but that was down to his swarthy complexion. He revelled in his broad shoulders, amazing pecs and six pack, his slim hips, tiny bottom, and a big swinging dick. Jesus H. Christ; he sure was better than most girls deserved. Fragments of his nocturnal dreams flickered into erectile life. He got dressed quickly, before he needed another trip to bathroom.

The corridor outside his room was dark and empty except for a small black cat which peered at him curiously then ran off and disappeared round the first corner. He walked slowly and quietly after it, following it down the staircase to the first floor. The cat continued down towards the ground floor and the kitchen, leaving Mike on the first floor peeking into the great drawing room which was deserted. He closed the door and padded on down the corridor until he came to the study, the door of which was invitingly ajar. If he could get his hands on that goddam book he might be on the way to understanding what was happening.

The room was in darkness. He hesitated before reaching for a light switch. He was a guest in this house. Was it impolite to wander round first thing in the morning poking his nose into other people's business? Probably, but what the hell. He could always say he had gotten up early because he couldn't sleep, it was true after all, and had gone to the study to find something to read.