The Mandrake Effect

London, unsurprisingly, is raining. Harry spends the cab journey from the airport, sleeping. Now, as he enters the white stone-pillared building, housing the City of London Archive, his head is aching. He takes the lift to the fourth floor to the reception, and smiles at the attractive woman receptionist.

She recognises him and smiles back, ‘Mr. Mandrake, how nice, we haven’t seen you for ages. It’s all ready, Mr. Hamon will be your attendant today.’

‘Don’t need him this time, Brenda, just a quickie… an in and out visit.’ He takes out his buttonhole and places it on her desk. ‘For you.’

She picks the violet blossom up and sniffs it, smiles and hands it back, ‘You better put this back, you don’t look right without it… Sorry, Harry, you know the rules.’ She stands and ushers Harry into a small, badly lit, room. A scrawny, middle-aged Mr. Hamon enters, awkwardly carrying a large metal box under his arm. He nods his head to Brenda as she leaves, then he turns and scowls at Harry fiddling with his lapel.

Harry eyes the box, ‘Ha ha. The old Ark of the Covenant.’

‘None of your lip, young Mandrake, I haven’t got all day to waste on your rubbish. What do you want first? Make haste!’

Harry shuts the door and, unseen by Hamon, takes a small glass phial from his pocket, passes it behind his back and drips a few droplets of fluid onto the floor behind him.

‘Do apologise, Hamon, I had the most fearful vindaloo last night… didn’t sit too well with the old champers.’

Hamon looks puzzled, then shakes his head dismissively and places the box, still locked, onto the table. He stands back and fiddles for his key, then reacts to a rising smell. He gives Harry a very suspicious, damning look.

‘The old Derby Kelly… bit upset,’ says Harry, sheepishly, ‘Do you see?’

‘Yes, unfortunately, I do see. And if you don’t mind I’ll step outside for a minute.’

The moment Hamon is gone, Harry picks at the lock of the box with a bunch of wire keys. It opens and he rifles the interior, taking two ancient-looking spools of film, a bunch of papers, and two sealed bottles. He replaces them with his own, look-alike spools, papers and bottles. He closes the box, locks it, and then backs away.

After a moment Hamon returns, sniffing the air and eyeing Harry accusingly, ‘Are you going to be long, Mandrake, I have other, important, things to do?’

Harry, with one hand on his stomach the other hand behind his back, drips a few more drops of the ghastly fluid from the glass file onto the floor.

‘Don’t think I’d better go on, Hamon… don’t feel at all well… bit stuffy in here… the old collie-wobbles, I do apologise. Another day. Perhaps tomorrow.’

Hamon, catching the smell again, grabs the box and starts to hurry out. Harry just manages to flick a few drops of the evil fluid onto the back of the departing coattail. He can hardly contain his mirth as Hamon hurries out, past Brenda, muttering to himself. After a few moments Harry walks out, briefcase in hand, up to Brenda. By the look on her face, she’s obviously smelled Hamon on his way past.

‘I think Hamon’s getting too old for this job, Brenda,’ says Harry, smirking, ‘See you next time… Goodbye.’

An assortment of cheap costume-jewellery pass under Harry’s meticulous eye as he makes his choices. The attractive, Ratner’s shop assistant, boxes, wraps, and charges the whole to his account – no mention of the unpaid bill, none offered. She smiles dutifully and hands the bag and a docket. Harry signs, takes the bag and smiles back, winks and leaves.

On the Edinburgh-bound aircraft, Harry fumbles through the pages he has stolen. After a few moments, he puts them away and looks out of the aircraft window. London, far below, is still raining. Mercifully the dismal metropolis disappears as the aircraft gains altitude, heralding a brief, glorious burst of sunlight. Then cloud again: the sky towards Scotland looking dark and ominous. Harry is bored, his attention easily diverts to the attractive hostess. They exchange smiles as she brings him his drink. He flirts.

Further along the aircraft a small wavy-haired man sits furtively watching. The man studies Harry intently, ducking down and hiding his face surreptitiously every time Harry looks up or passes by to the toilet.

Moving past the wavy-haired man to the last window, out through the tensile glass and into the cloudy thin air, then on into the stratosphere, and onwards and upwards, into the total blackness of space, closing on EarthlabOne. The space station emerges from a dot of light: Big and shapeless, a jumble of cylinders, pipes, and gantries. Four tethered SBS hang from long, squid-like tentacles. Passing through these obstacles, into the heart of the craft, the internal structure gives way to a network of passageways. Along the main passage, three men escort a woman. She is wearing a restraint jacket and has a pained, sickly pallor. In the claustrophobic surroundings, they lope, in manufactured quarter-Earth gravity, with effortless gait.

At the middle of the passage, the group stops and enters the main control-deck: a circular gallery where Rose, Major and Cameron, and four technicians await. Major holds a computer printout in his hand. As the party enters, he attempts to read it to the restrained woman. He hesitates and turns to Rose.

‘What the hell do I call her?’ Rose stares daggers back. Major looks at the rest of the group.

‘Call her Rosette,’ offers Cameron, half joking.

‘You kidding me?’ says Major.

‘No, I’m not – if you have a better idea…’

Major shrugs, ‘How about, Rose Two?’

‘Christ’s sake!’ yells Rose, slamming the clipboard she is holding down onto the desk. The noise echoes around the room. She snatches the report out of Major’s hand. ‘Can we get damn well on with it?’

‘Okay Rose, calm down.’

Rose gives Major a damming look, then turns her back on him and speaks directly to the woman, ‘Whoever, whatever you are… Rosette… you have no spleen and a malformed lymph node disorder. After vigorous tests, we’ve identified a rogue cell structure. We’ve tried to isolate it, but you need expert consultation. Other than that you are an exact duplicate of me, except for slight DNA and RNA anomalies.’

‘So… ?’ shrugs Rosette, indifferently.

‘So, that’s it! We’re taking you down – we can’t do any more for you up here. If I had my way I’d dam’well jettison you right here in space.’ Rose takes a step towards the woman, glaring into her eyes with malice.

Major steps between them, ‘That’ll do, Rose. This is difficult enough without that.’

Rosette gives a chilling half-smile, ‘Thank you, Major.’

Major ignores her, and speaks again to Rose. ‘How are we doing in England? Did you manage to contact the boys? When will they be back?’

Rose breaks from her icy stare. ‘What? … Oh, a couple of days. Rex and Hamish will be here early Sunday morning. The Brits won’t play, they’re sticking to the embargo on all Mandrake data, but I think we’ve overcome it. It’s imperative we get that material. As to Henry Mandrake, we need him desperately.’

‘I want them back earlier. Is that a problem?’

Rose shakes her head, ‘Yeah, I think so. But I’ll try.’ Still angry she turns and walks through to the transit bay.

Major and the rest of the party follow through an airlock marked, ‘SBS ORION’, for the journey back to Earth. A few minutes later the shuttle detaches and slowly eases away from the main structure. In a controlled gas-jet glide it enters Earthbound trajectory and on into thin atmosphere, then dense cloud, and then through to wispy vapour.

At the same time, halfway across the world, Harry’s Aircraft is approaching Edinburgh Airport.

An hour after landing Harry enters his apartment, to Alfred’s icy greeting. Pleasantries and unpleasantries exchange, then Alfred grudgingly makes the tea. Harry moves to his study and busies himself at his desk with bits of gold wire and electronic equipment. After completing two electric circuit boards, he takes a small metal box from his desk and carefully opens it. It’s full of inch-long, coral-coloured pellets wrapped in cotton wool. He takes four and carefully links two to each of the two devices. Alfred brings in the tray of tea, pours two cups and sits alongside Harry.

’Wot the ‘ell are you up to, faffin about with wires and bits of Tom-bleedin’-foolery?’

Harry gives a puzzled look. ‘Tomfoolery?’

‘Jewellery!’ qualifies Alfred, curtly.

‘It’s not jewellery.’

‘Well it looks like faffin jewellery, bloody beads an’ gold wires. Anyway, wot you making?’

‘Guess who I saw today, Alfie?’ says Harry, ignoring the question.

‘Surprise me.’

‘Our little curly-haired friend… he was on the plane.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Of course, he saw me, he’s bloodywell following me isn’t he for Christ sake!’

‘Okay, Mr. Smart-arse… only asking. Did he see you see him, that’s wot I meant?’

‘Sorry. No, he didn’t. I haven’t seen him for ages. Three Americans in two days… puts the price up, wouldn’t you say?’

‘How’d you find out Curly’s a Yank?’

‘Heard him ask the hostess for a Scutch.’

‘And you still don’t know who he is? ’

‘Nope!’

‘And you’re still not worried?’

‘Nope! I have bigger things to worry about.’

Harry hands Alfred a package marked Ratner’s. ‘Oh, and stick these in the old Scrubs ammonia bottle, Alfie… age them up a tad before I go.’

‘I don’t like it, Harry. I promised your uncle I’d watch out for you. I can’t do that if you won’t tell me where you’ll be, can I?’

‘Where do you think the old man is, Alfie? Do you think he’s still alive?’

‘No, unfortunately, I do not! – How many more times? I’d know if he was alive. For my money, he’s definitely brown-bread. But wherever he is, alive or dead, you can bet there’s bloody trouble, where there’s a Mandrake there’s always bloody trouble.’

‘Give it a rest, Alfie. I’m going to have an hour’s kip, as you call it, then I’m off.’

Alfred rolls his eyes and walks off into the kitchen.