Chameleon

Chapter 3

Denby Lodge.

Everybody called it the Big House. It was as ugly as sin. An architectural mongrel with a sway-backed roof, an ivy choked façade and a pair of crumbling stone lions to guard the main entrance. An annexe, all white paint and steel window frames had been attached to the side of the house like a strange organ transplant that the body of the house had rejected.

Not that it mattered much. Few people ever saw the Big House these days. Sitting in five acres of ground, surrounded by trees and a high brick wall, it kept itself to itself. Those with long memories could remember it being a country retreat for some distant relative of royalty and, very briefly, a private school. For many years the house was empty. Then, in the late 1940's, a fleet of unmarked vans arrived and a small army of workmen began extensive renovations.

From that day to this, no one ever really found out what went on at the Big House. Overactive imaginations pondered long and pontificated loudly, but no one ever really knew. The few local people who were employed there became strangely tight-lipped. Adventurous youths who scaled the walls on a dare, intent on some petty larceny, soon found themselves confronted by large, dark-uniformed men and salivating German shepherd dogs. No charges were ever pressed, but repeat offenders were unheard of. In this way, the Big House had acquired a mysterious and fearful reputation.

In the main reception area of the Denby Lodge annexe sat an automated console containing video monitors, telephones, a switchboard and various emergency buttons. Sammy Pierce called it Mission Control. It looked hi-tech and sophisticated, but then, Sammy thought a transistor radio was hi-tech as long as it had enough buttons to press and knobs to twiddle.

The reception was dimly lit to save on energy. Brown leather chairs and withered pot plants struggled to give it an air of commercialism, but no one was fooled. The public never set foot in this place. No sales rep ever rested his briefcase on the scratched coffee table or stubbed out his cigarette in the roots of a dying aspidistra. Visitors were few. Those that did arrive were ushered quickly through the double doors behind the desk and whisked away into the sterile heart of the Big House.

Now Sammy Pierce sat in what he always regarded as the seat of power behind the Mission Control desk. Bob Sadler stood nervously to one side, chewing on a ragged fingernail. Sally Parker stood centre stage and pulled the halter top away from her body.

'You'll have to pay for this,' she threatened. 'Just look at it.' Sammy looked and felt sweat break out on his upper lip. A greasy mark was smeared across the crimson material. More of the same was smudged across Sally's cheeks and forehead.

'And these.' Sally pointed to her stockings, now torn through at the knees.

'Okay, okay,' Sammy muttered. 'It's no big deal.'

'No big deal!' Sally rounded on him. 'You try being shut up in a bloody car boot for half an hour and see how you like it!'

'Calm down, calm down.' Sammy made placating gestures with his hands. 'I'll pay for them, all right?'

'You'd bloody well better!'

Sally stopped grumbling about her indignities and took in her surroundings for the first time.

'What is this place, anyway?' she asked.

Sammy grinned at her. 'They call it a Genetic Research Facility.' He leaned closer and leered at her in the half-light. 'But you can call it Heaven.'