Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [28]
Then the incredible thing happened.
The breeze shot right past him and kept going.
Across the room Russell cried out in terror. The breeze was sweeping around him, flapping his baggy white shirt. He lurched away from the wall where he was leaning.
Creed realized that he hadn’t seen Russell move an inch since the ‘seance’ had begun. He had been hoping that the wind wouldn’t notice him. Like a child crossing its fingers and holding its breath. He had been terrified that he would be chosen.
Now his worst fear had come true and he couldn’t handle it.
‘No, man, no. Please,’ Russell cried. He stood in the middle of the room, the breeze dancing around him like a dog who’d caught in intruder. Everyone was staring at him. The Mayan brothers had both taken out guns and were wearing identical expressions of disgust.
Creed had seen people tear themselves up on acid trips, wrenching their own minds apart with panic. But where did that panic come from? Why didn’t it happen to everyone? Creed believed that deep down inside themselves, some people must want to have a bad trip. In some way they needed it. Programmed to self‐destruct. Drugs only brought out what was within the individual.
And Creed had also known suspects who confessed to crimes they had never committed. Again, some fundamental psychological weakness left them vulnerable. Perhaps it was self‐hatred, lack of self‐confidence, a willingness to believe anything bad about themselves. Some of these people even ended up believing that they’d committed the crimes.
Now this strange warlock wind had singled Russell out. It was marking him for a crime he’d never committed. And Russell was crumbling. He knew he wasn’t guilty but somehow that didn’t help. Russell was too accustomed to being the scapegoat. He saw himself in that light. Now he was drawing the warlock phenomenon to him like a shark to blood.
Russell was a boot‐licker. He had always taken the blame for things he hadn’t done, apologized for mistakes that weren’t his. Somewhere deep in his childhood, links of association had been forged and Russell had come to believe he would be rewarded for a certain kind of behaviour. For crawling.
Now he was going to die for it.
Russell was on his knees. ‘It’s not me. You got it wrong.’ But his whining must have sounded insincere even to himself, because he shut up and began to sob. Creed guessed that he’d been waiting all his life for this sort of ultimate calamity, to be crucified for something he hadn’t done. His whole life had been shaped into a self‐fulfilling prophecy. Russell was reaping the whirlwind after sowing years of self‐hatred and inauthentic behaviour.
‘I knew it. I never trusted him,’ said the younger Mayan softly.
‘My God. It worked. You found him.’ Larner sounded as if he could hardly believe it.
‘Warlock found him.’
Russell tried to whimper a denial but they ignored him.
Creed was shaking with relief. The emotion was so strong he was afraid he might attract the attention of warlock again. Fortunately his excitement was hidden in the general thrill. The others were certain they’d found the traitor. The swirling temperature flow in the room had gathered itself and was blowing steadily in one direction.
It was as if Russell was standing in front of an invisible window that someone had opened. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the room, a breeze was blowing into his face. His hair twisted and writhed. His face was pinched with fear, eyes squeezed shut as though he was leaning into an Arctic gale.
‘I’m not a cop,’ he said. ‘It’s not me.’ But his voice was hardly a whisper. Russell had given up already. He didn’t expect anyone to believe him.
Despite himself, Creed felt contempt for the kid. That was safer than pity or sympathy. Safer than any emotion which might draw warlock back to himself.
‘Well I guess our seance worked,’ said the younger Mayan. He looked at his brother. ‘Now we’ve got to get rid of him.’