Free The Hand of the Devil by Dean Vincent Carter

vague tales of encounters with her. None, however, supplied any supporting proof.’
    ‘There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask . . .’
    ‘Hmm?’
    ‘Yes, it’s been nagging me since you mentioned Zaire.’
    ‘Ah, yes, it’s the Democratic Republic of Congo now. But some people still refer to it as Zaire.’
    ‘Oh yes, I know. That’s not what was bothering me. It’s about the Ganges river . . .’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well, it’s in India, isn’t it?’
    ‘That’s right.’ My host had relaxed considerably since I’d found him wading around in the water earlier on. Perhaps talking about his favourite subject had done it.
    ‘So why is it called the Ganges Red?’
    ‘Well’ – Mather faced the tank again – ‘the first sighting of her, albeit unsubstantiated, was near the city of Varanasi on the left bank of the Ganges over eighteen hundred years ago. There are indications, however, that she was around even before that.’
    ‘You mean the species was around then, surely,’ I tried again, still wondering who he was trying to fool.
    ‘Well, I don’t tend to focus too much on the details. After all, this is a myth we’re talking about. Myths have been around since the dawn of man, and have always been exaggerated to produce a greater and greater effect. Whether it was the Lady here who was seen eighteen hundred years ago or not, she’s still a magnificent specimen.’
    I let it go. ‘So are there any other stories you can tell me?’
    ‘There have been numerous alleged appearances all over the globe. The more modern sightings are the most important ones. In the late nineteenth century she was seen in various locations along the Ganges, but then she seemed to keep out of sight until nineteen thirty-one, when a missionary stationed in Kabalo, in the heart of Zaire, found a small boy washed up on the banks of the Lukuga river with horrific wounds all over his body. The missionary claimed that he himself was then attacked, but luckily left unscathed, by a huge red monster. He was something of an insect specialist apparently, and despite the size of the creature, he maintained it could be nothing other than a mosquito. The sightings continued, but not with great regularity until recently.’
    ‘Right,’ I said. ‘But couldn’t there still be more Ganges Reds out there?’
    ‘Freaks of nature aren’t always unique, it’s true. Such accidents can be repeated. However, I have a gut feeling that she may indeed be one of a kind, as amazing as that sounds. As for her lifespan, well . . . who knows?’
    Mather seemed sincere, which bothered me a little. How could he even entertain the notion that this creature had been around for centuries – him being a doctor and man of science? It just didn’t make sense. I made up my mind to write the article without any of Mather’s wild claims. They would just jeopardize the article’s integrity. I would make a reference to it being the only living example of its kind, but I would say nothing of its supposed longevity. After all, a photograph of the thing would be enough to captivate the magazine’s readers. There was no need to use myths and legends to decorate the story. I wanted to be thorough, however; I wanted to get as much out of Mather as possible in case I was asked to do a follow-up article. Derek was unpredictable at the best of times. If he asked me to write a second story focusing on the background of the mosquito and the tales it had inspired, it would be good to have the information to hand.
    ‘Tell me more about the legend,’ I directed.
    Without warning, Mr Hopkins, who was still sitting outside the window, began hissing. His attention was now intensely focused on the mosquito. The cat shrank back from the window, so much so that he nearly fell off the ledge. As he flattened his ears to his head and bared his teeth, I had the strange impression that a battle of wills was taking place between the cat and the insect. I looked from the