The Colour of Death
by
Michael Cordy
BANTAM PRESS
LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND JOHANNESBURG
Also by Michael Cordy
The Messiah Code
The Crime Code
The Lucifer Code
The Venus Conspiracy
The Source
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First published in Great Britain
in 2011 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Michael Cordy 2011
Michael Cordy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact,
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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9789593060674 (tpb)
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Contents
Epigraphs
Prologue
Part One – A Dying Memory
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Two – The Last Echo
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part Three – A Dying Memory
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part Four – Beyond Indigo
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
Dedication
Also by…
Copyright
About the Author
Synaesthesia: (Origin — Greek syn = together + aisthesis = perception)
In its simplest form it is best described as a ‘union of the senses’ whereby two or more of the five senses that are normally experienced separately are involuntarily and automatically joined together. Some synaesthetes experience color when they hear sounds or read words. Others experience tastes, smells, shapes or touches in almost any combination. These sensations are automatic and cannot be turned on or off. Synaesthesia isn’t a disease or illness and is not at all harmful. In fact, the vast majority of synaesthetes couldn’t imagine life without it.
—The Synaesthesia Society
Synergy: (Origin — Greek sunergos = working together)
Cooperation of two or more things to produce a combined effect that is greater than the sum of their separate effects.
—Oxford English Dictionary
Prologue
Portland, Oregon
Sitting with his sister in the back of their parents’ hired station wagon, the boy doesn’t realize how close he is to death. His mind is preoccupied with thoughts of his eleventh birthday party in two days’ time and how much he loves family holidays with his American aunt and uncle in Oregon. Everything about America’s North Pacific coast seems more glamorous than England: the summers hotter, the beaches whiter, the cars bigger, the skies bluer. The giant sequoias his parents took him to see today dwarf the mightiest oak trees back home in Cornwall. Only his teenage sister interrupts his reverie, when she starts pinching her right forearm.
“Stop it, Ali,” he pleads. She gives a bored smile, pushes her forearm closer to his face and pinches harder. Sometimes he hates his big sister and wishes he could make her disappear.
“She’s pinching her arm.”
“It’s my arm. He doesn’t have to look.”
“Stop it, Alice. You know how it affects your brother.” His mother smiles at him. “Don’t look at her, Nathan.”
“We need some petrol,” his father says.
“We’re coming into Portland, Richard. Surely we’ve got enough gas to get back to Samantha and Howard’s?” Nathan loves the way his mother says gas instead of petrol. He sometimes wishes his father were American too, then they would live here all the time.
“I don’t want to risk it, Jenny. It’s getting late.” His father points to a Chevron garage. “We’ll fill up there, use the phone and tell them when to expect us back.” He pulls into the forecourt then looks over his shoulder. “You two stay in the car.”
“I want to get out. It’s so boring in here,” groans Alice, as if boredom is the worst thing in the world.
“Let’s all get out,” says his mother. “Stretch our legs, use the restroom.”
The little bell on the kiosk door rings as they go inside. Nathan’s father stays by the car while his mother uses the phone in the corner and Alice uses the toilet out back. Nathan flicks happily through the rack of comic books until he finds a Superman issue he hasn’t yet read. The bell on
the door rings again as his father comes in to pay for the petrol. Nathan keeps on reading and is so lost in the book that he doesn’t notice his sister return, or the doorbell ring for a third time. Only when his mother grips his arm and pulls him toward her does he look up and register the fear in her eyes and the stony expression on his father’s face. Alice is pale as their father gestures for them to move closer together. Something is wrong.
Then he sees the two men and a cold queasy lump forms in his belly. Both wear sinister black coats with hoods that obscure their faces. He watches as one pulls a pistol from under his coat, the other a sawn-off shotgun. They ignore Nathan and his family and focus on the Asian clerk behind the counter. Pistol points at the cash register, revealing a tattoo on his right forearm: a cobra coiled round the shaft of a strange-shaped crucifix, topped with an oval loop instead of a vertical bar. “Hey, Jackie Chan, empty the register.” The clerk nods nervously and reaches down below the counter.
There is a moment of eerie calm.
Then shotgun shouts, “The fuckin’ gook’s hitting the alarm,” steps forward and fires both barrels. Nathan squeezes his eyes shut just in time. When he opens them again the clerk has disappeared behind the counter. Blood drips like crimson treacle off a stack of cartons behind where he had stood.
“What do we go now?” Pistol says, agitated, pumped.
Shotgun leans across and empties the cash register. “Get out of here, I guess.” As shotgun moves for the door Nathan notices he has the same tattoo on his arm: a cobra coiled round a strange crucifix.
“What about them?” Pistol says, turning suddenly to Nathan and his family, who are standing in a line: Mum first, then Dad, Alice and him — a firing squad in reverse.
Shotgun shrugs as he opens the door. “Killed one pig, may as well kill ’em all. I’ll get the car running.” As Pistol raises the gun and flexes the muscle in his forearm Nathan watches the coiled cobra tattoo writhe into life.
“You don’t need to do this,” Nathan’s father pleads with an urgent calm. “I’m a doctor. I might be able to save the clerk—”
Pistol’s hand shakes, making the cobra dance. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls. “You can’t save anyone. You’re not worth a fart in hell. You’re not chosen. You’re not one of us. You’re all pigs.” At that moment Pistol looks directly at the boy. Despite his hood, the angle of the light catches the dilated pupils of the man’s bloodshot eyes and Nathan knows he is going to kill them. As Nathan’s numb fingers drop the comic book to the floor his last instinct is to turn to his mother—
The first shot rings out.
The boy feels the bullet hit him.
Followed by searing, unbearable pain.
Then nothing.
Until Nathan becomes conscious of a young cop kneeling over him. The brass badge on his navy uniform says Portland Police. “C’mon, son. Let her go now. We’ll take care of this. Come with me.”
As if in a hideous dream Nathan looks down and realizes he is cradling Alice in his lap. Her eyes stare up at him but they are as lifeless as a doll’s. There is a bullet hole in her chest, a well of blood so deep and dark it looks black. He remembers their argument in the car and feels sick. “She’s my sister,” he says numbly.
He turns to his parents but the cop pulls him to his feet. “Don’t look, son. No good can come of that.” As the boy stands, the policeman examines him. He is covered in blood but none of it is his. “You weren’t hit. Why weren’t you hit?” He detects an almost accusing tone in the cop’s disbelief. Nathan feels no relief at being unharmed, only confusion.
How can he still be alive?
“Come with me,” the policeman says. “There’s nothing you can do for your folks, but you’re safe now.” The cop opens the door and the boy flinches when the doorbell rings one more time. There’s a small crowd outside and police cars with bright flashing lights. He squints, dazzled and dazed. He hears his name being called and turns in the direction of the familiar voice. In his confusion, watching her run toward him, he thinks for one blissful second that his mother has survived. Then he realizes it’s her sister, Aunt Samantha, and the sweet illusion disappears forever. She sweeps him up in her arms and squeezes him to her.
“You’re OK now,” she says. “We’ll look after you.” Over her shoulder Nathan sees his uncle Howard. His face is white with shock and he looks angry.
The cop leans in close. “What exactly happened in there, son?”
The boy buries his face in his aunt’s coat. Her perfume reminds him of his mother. “I don’t know,” he says. “Two men came in with guns. They killed the clerk but I don’t know what happened after that. I can’t remember.” He starts crying, big painful sobs. “I can't remember anything.”
“It’s OK, Nathan,” his aunt soothes. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is you’re safe.”
But she’s wrong. It does matter. Knowing how his parents and sister died, and understanding why he didn’t die with them, matters more to him than anything else in the entire world.
Part One
A Memory of Dying
Chapter 1
Portland, Oregon — Nineteen years later
It was June, summer in the city, and the night breeze felt cool on her skin as the young woman hurried through the quiet streets. An ambulance siren rang out and she could see its wailing sound unfurl before her eyes: a ribbon of reds and blues that flared across the dark sky. The alien city teemed with unfamiliar sounds, smells and sights that threatened to overwhelm her senses. Clouds obscured the moon and stars but the sodium street lamps held back the velvet darkness, revealing ghosts flickering in her peripheral vision. To keep them at bay, she looked straight ahead and walked down the middle of the sidewalk. Clutching the heart-shaped locket at her neck with one nervous hand, she stroked her cropped hair with the other, unconsciously feeling for the missing blond curls she’d cut off to alter her appearance. Despite everything that had happened she yearned to forget the last few days and return to a state of blissful ignorance, homesick for the once-idyllic world she had fled.
Heading for the bus station, she passed houses with trees and yards, and began to relax. It was less enclosed here and quieter, as if everyone save her was asleep. Even the ghosts. She looked up at the sky and realized it would be dawn in a few hours. She smiled with relief and her face — sun-freckled, with razor-sharp cheekbones and pale haunted eyes — lit up. Perhaps she could survive out here among the children of men. She’d take a bus down the coast to California, to the place she’d been born, and start again. Her mother had said it was beautiful, that you could reinvent yourself down there and become whoever you wanted to be.
A police car approached, the sound of its engine a symphony of greens. Panicked, she gripped the locket tighter and backed into the side alley of the nearest house, hiding in the shadows. As the car disappeared into the night she sighed and leaned against the wall. Suddenly, she arched her back and jumped away, as if scalded by the red brick. The dark, silent house looked no different to the others — two stories, shuttered windows and a red-tiled roof — but she had learned how deceptive appearances could be. Tentatively, she rested her palm flat against the wall, like a doctor placing a stethoscope on a patient’s chest. Her face was sickly pale now, as white as the moon that made a sudden appearance through the dark scudding clouds. Every instinct screamed at her to get far away from here, as fast as she could. But a small internal voice counseled her to conquer her fear and make it flee. Using her hand like a divining rod she let it lead her along the wall. All the time her terror grew — along with the certainty that she couldn’t turn back. The night was still but she could hear things, terrible things, and she could see…
She squeezed her eyelids shut but was unable to close her mind’s eye. Looking down at the clear stone path, she stepped over something visible only to her, and then came to a solid wooden door. It was locked. Sick and frantic, she knew this was the moment of no return. Fight or flight. Run away or break dow
n that door. Looking around in panic, she noticed a truck in the large carport. Beside it was a pile of logs. And an axe.
As if in a trance she picked it up and tested the keenness of the blade. Her father would have scolded her for letting it get so blunt but it would suffice. The thought of him converted her fear to rage and hardened her resolve. Wielding the axe, she braced herself, took a deep breath and swung it as hard as she could. She slammed the blade into the door with practiced, powerful blows that belied her slender frame. With each impact she willed the sound of rending wood to drown out the screaming in her head. Stepping through the splintered door she found herself at the top of mildewed stone steps, which led down into the dark underbelly of the house. She shivered, despite her exertions and the warm night.
More cries, some angry, some fearful, echoed in the dark but it was hard to know if they were real or coming from inside her own head. At the bottom of the stairs a dank passageway greeted her, illuminated by an infernal red glow. Like a lost soul entering hell, she walked toward its source, the sounds growing louder with each step. She passed a generator flanked by two cans of kerosene and a red wall light, then the corridor widened into a room walled with vertical wooden slats. It took a second to realize she was surrounded by cages, occupied by hollow-eyed young women. As they turned to her, half in terror, half in hope, she saw they were even younger than she was, little more than girls. She raised her axe and smashed the slatted, padlocked doors to tinder. “Run,” she shouted, as she dragged them out of the cages and pushed them to the exit. “Get out of here.”
Shepherding the last dazed girls down the corridor, she heard guttural male voices cut angrily through the screams. She turned to see two men running toward her. The nearest was bald, stocky and breathing hard, his face contorted with rage. In the far gloom two more men were descending a stairway from the house above. All carried guns and spoke a language she didn’t understand. Their unfamiliar sounds tasted strange on her tongue. She dropped the heavy axe and ran for the exit. The sound of the first gunshot flashed crimson before her eyes, like a blood vessel bursting. The second shot hit her, grazing her temple and spinning her against the concrete wall of the narrow passage. Dazed and gritting her teeth against the pain, she got to her feet and stumbled past the generator. The impact of the third shot sounded — and looked — different: metallic.