The Nemesis Touch

The Nemesis Touch Ludo Carstairs Supernatural Thrillers, Volume 1 F.R. Jameson Published by F.R. Jameson, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. THE NEMESIS TOUCH First edition. March 26, 2023. Copyright © 2023 F.R. Jameson. Written by F.R. Jameson. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Author’s Note About the Author About the Author To Vicky and Elise, with love, always... Prologue Alec McArthur-Shaw was aware he didn’t feel well, but he could never have comprehended the sheer monstrousness the next twenty minutes would inflict upon him. Having finished an interminable meeting in Mayfair, he’d hailed a black cab to take him to his office in Holborn, and was glad the driver didn’t feel the need to chat. Most days, McArthur-Shaw welcomed conversation with a cabbie. He spent the large proportion of his working hours, heads together with clients worried about the custody of their kids (or the custody of the money in their bank accounts). Otherwise, he was across conference tables from other lawyers (as he had been that morning), arguing the finer points of divorce law. With only a brief break later to gossip about more lawyers, all of whom were mutual acquaintances. So, normally McArthur-Shaw drew pleasure from the alteration of pace a cabbie offered. It was good to hear what he (or sometimes she) thought of the state of the world, or politics, or the latest bitcoin investment opportunities. (He had had exactly such a discussion with an ambitious young cabbie a few months ago.) Football too, was a rich topic. He was a lifelong fan of Norwich F.C., and loved to measure them against the London clubs. And since he’d moved to the capital, he’d also fallen in love with Surrey County Cricket Club, so that was a discussion option too. But today, he was appallingly out of sorts, so would have done anything to avoid a conversation. Fortunately, the cabbie – middle-aged, but strangely sallow and youthful – seemed of a similar mindset. He merely nodded in the direction of McArthur-Shaw, asked “Where to?” in his least chirpy tones, and headed off without whistling to himself. McArthur-Shaw stretched his arm across the backseat and reached into his briefcase to retrieve a clutch of papers. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, but this was prevention in case the cabbie changed his mind and threw in an opening gambit for some repartee. McArthur-Shaw was a slight man, whose taste for pinstripe suits made him appear all the thinner. He was balding with a severe, hawk nose; but his wrinkled features nevertheless lit up completely in moments of joy. When one of his kids came to visit, for example, there was a fleeting glimpse of the happy little boy he must have been fifty years ago. This morning though, he was as far from joy as an individual can look without being convulsed by sobs. The day so far had been stressful, as had the day before. Most of the week, in truth. Outside work, there were the now regular arguments with his wife; while his phone calls to his new friend were not proving fruitful. She was testing him, he knew that. Making him prove his devotion. But he hadn’t seen her in days, and being away from her for mere hours wrenched his heart. There were reasons he was feeling so wretched. From first thing, he’d been trapped in a room with a Viking giant of a man named Wilber Jennings. Another lawyer, but one who’d been an arsehole every time McArthur-Shaw had met him. Pedantic, smug and always with a twisted view of the best interests of his client. (He was one of those lawyers who seemed to believe the quality of his service was based on how much he was paid. As such, he would find new problems at every turn, with the result being more zeroes ending up on the bill.) Actually, McArthur-Shaw’s stress was the result of more than simply an unsatisfactory meeting. If he’d hated meetings where nothing was settled and the sandwiches had too much butter, then he’d have quit matrimonial law a long time back. It was more than that. His life, for so long a near straight line, had of late become wavy and twisted and impossible to smooth out. He loved these new sensations, had discovered parts of himself he’d never been aware existed, but he knew how bad they made him feel at the same time. Already sweaty and cramped, he found his stomach roiled. McArthur-Shaw’s body twisted into a series of angles which had been jammed together, leaving sharp and jagged edges. Through blurred vision, he contemplated the papers on his lap and slowly began to suspect they were the wrong ones. They were important certainly, but he wasn’t sure anymore if they were the correct batch. These sheets almost certainly related to the Klepenberg divorce, but they weren’t the papers he wanted. Honestly, it was difficult for him to be certain, as the words were swimming. Feeling dizzy, he lifted his head and gazed through the window at the passing London populace, trying to blink a return of his good eyesight. His breath was short and his brow clammy, and he wondered whether – when today’s meetings were done – he shouldn’t crawl into bed and not remove the sheets for an eternity. Except he had given himself plans