Fallada said: “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to go?”
Carlsen ignored him. He did as she asked, brutally draining her energy as if intent on destroying her. He felt the glow of her body as she writhed against him, and the pressure of her arms almost stifled his breath. Her thighs and hips ground against him. Then her grip relaxed, and her knees buckled. Suddenly, her mind was no longer closed.
Fallada helped him to prevent her from falling. Carlsen picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. There was a pink-shaded lamp, and the bedsheets were turned back. He laid her on the bed. Fallada, standing in the doorway, said: “That is the first time I have ever known a woman to reach orgasm in the upright position. Kinsey would have been fascinated.”
Carlsen pulled the bedclothes over her. Tendrils of hair were plastered over her forehead with perspiration. A dribble of saliva was running down the side of her mouth. He switched off the light and backed quietly out of the bedroom.
It was starting to rain as they left the house, a fine drizzle blown on the wind that came from the moorland. The air had the sweet smell of broom and heather. Carlsen was startled by the sensation of delight that ran through his body like electricity. And then, as if cut off by a switch, it stopped. He was puzzled, but a moment later had forgotten it.
Fallada said: “And you still didn’t find out what you wanted to know.”
“I found out enough.”
The lawn was now in darkness; they could see the shape of the Grasshopper, outlined by its phosphorescent paint. From the row of long, low buildings opposite, a man crossed the lawn towards them. Armstrong’s voice said: “Is everything satisfactory?”
Carlsen said: “Fine, thanks.”
“Your sergeant has decided to retire to bed. You’re over there, by the way, the three end rooms.” He pointed to the lighted buildings.
He inserted a key and opened the front door; the hall was now lit only by a blue night light. Heseltine was walking up and down the room. He said: “Good, I was beginning to worry.” He told Armstrong: “There’s been an awful racket coming from upstairs — someone screaming.”
Armstrong said imperturbably: “Many of the inmates suffer from nightmares.”
Carlsen said: “If I described one of the inmates to you, do you think you could tell me who it is?”
“Probably. If I couldn’t, the chief nurse could.”
“This is a big man — over six feet. He has a large nose — rather beaky — and red hair with a bald spot. . .”
Armstrong interrupteed. “I know him. That’s Reeves — Jeff Reeves.”
Fallada said: “The child killer?”
“That’s the man.”
Carlsen said: “Could you tell me about him?”
Armstrong said: “Well. . . he’s been in here for, oh, five years. He’s rather subnormal — I.Q. of a child of ten. And he committed most of his crimes at the time of the full moon — four murders and about twenty sexual assaults. It took them two years to catch him — his mother was shielding him.”
Fallada said: “If I remember rightly, he claimed he was possessed by the devil.”
“Or some kind of demon.” Armstrong turned to Carlsen. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get his description?”
“From the nurse — Ellen Donaldson.”
“Couldn’t she tell you his name?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
Armstrong shrugged; Carlsen sensed his suspicion that they were keeping something from him.
Heseltine asked: “Is this man with the other prisoners?”
“Not at the moment. He becomes violent at the full moon. And since it’s the full moon tomorrow, he’s in a cell of his own at the moment.”
Heseltine asked Carlsen: “Do you want to see him tonight?”
Carlsen shook his head. “It’s best to wait until tomorrow. They’re less active during the daytime.”
Armstrong said: “Would you like me to send for Lamson, the head nurse? He might be able to tell us whether Reeves has shown any signs of. . . vampirism.” The irony was scarcely perceptible.
Carlsen said: “There’s no need. He wouldn’t have noticed anything — except, possibly, that Reeves is slightly less stupid than usual.”
Armstrong said: “Then by all means let us ask. I’m intensely curious.”
Carlsen shrugged. Armstrong interpreted this as permission, and pressed a button on the I.C.S. He said: “Lamson, would you mind coming over here?”
They sat in silence for a moment. Heseltine said: “I still don’t understand why this alien should choose a subnormal criminal. Surely she. . . it. . . could choose anybody?”
Carlsen said: “No. To choose a criminal — particularly a criminal psychopath — is almost like moving into an empty house. Besides, this man already believed he was possessed by a devil. He wouldn’t find anything strange in being possessed by a vampire.”
“But what about this nurse — Donaldson? I presume she’s not a criminal?”
“It’s not a matter of criminality so much as of a split personality.”
Fallada nodded. “That’s an axiom of psychology. Anyone who is at the mercy of powerful subconscious urges has a feeling of being two people.”
Armstrong said smoothly: “If you’re suggesting that Ellen Donaldson is suffering from severe personality dissociation, I can only say that I’ve never noticed it.”
As Fallada started to reply, Carlsen said: “It didn’t have to be a severe personality disorder. She’s sexually frustrated. She has strong sexual drives and no husband. She also feels that she’s no longer able to attract males. So when this creature satisfies her deepest sexual urges, she asks no questions. . .”
There was a knock at the door. Armstrong opened it. A powerful man with the build of a weight lifter came in. His eyes gleamed with interest and recognition as he saw Fallada and Carlsen.
Armstrong laid a hand on his shoulder. His voice was caressing as he said: “This is my invaluable aide and chief assistant, Fred Lamson. Fred, these gentlemen are interested in Reeves.” Lamson nodded; he was obviously hoping to be introduced, but Armstrong had no intention of prolonging the interview more than necessary. Carlsen noted with amusement how Armstrong’s attempt at camaraderie was spoiled by impatience and snobbery. “Tell me, Fred, have you noticed anything different about Reeves in the past few weeks?”
Lamson shook his head slowly. “No.”
Armstrong smiled. “Nothing at all? Thank you, Fred.”
Lamson refused to be hurried. “I was going to say, not in the past few weeks. But in the past couple of days, he’s not been his usual self.”
“In what way?” Armstrong was unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.
“Oh, I couldn’t really put my finger on it –”
Carlsen said: “Did he strike you as more alert?”
Lamson massaged his close-cropped hair. “I suppose that’s it. . . I’ll tell you one thing. The others are a bit inclined to bully him when he’s quiet. But I notice they’ve been keeping out of his way for the past couple of days.”
Armstrong said: “But that’s because it’s getting close to the full moon.”
Lamson shook his head stubbornly. “No. I’ve seen that plenty of times. He gets all tense and nervous near the full moon. But he’s different this time. It’s like this gentleman says — he seems more alert.”
Fallada said: “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“Can’t say I have. They’re more likely to go the other way.”
Armstrong said: “But he’s in solitary now?”
“Well, yes, because we always put him in solitary at this time. But in my opinion, he didn’t really need it this time. He just didn’t strike me as. . . as. . .”
As he groped for words, Armstrong cut in peremptorily: “Thank you, Fred. That’s all we wanted to know. You can go now.”
Observing the big man’s suppressed irritation, Carlsen said: “You’ve been very helpful indeed. Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir.” Lamson smiled at them and went out.
Carlsen said: “A point worth noticing. The alien doesn’t wish to attract attention. But it doesn’t realise that a psycopath’s personality changes at the time of the full moon. And so it attracts attention, after all.”
Fallada asked Armstrong: “Are you beginning to find it easier to believe in vampires?”
Armstrong said evasively: “It’s strange. . . very strange.”
Carlsen yawned and stood up. “I think I’d like to go to bed.” Under normal circumstances, he would have been slightly overawed by Armstrong; now, able to perceive directly the underlying meanness of spirit, the vanity combined with a craving for admiration, he felt unable to control his distaste.
“Won’t you have a nightcap first?”
Heseltine followed Carlsen’s lead. “We’re all tired. We ought to get to bed.”
Carlsen said: “This man Reeves. What time does he eat breakfast?”
“At about eight o’clock, usually.”
“Would it be possible to dose his food with a tranquilliser — a mild sedative?”