Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  After half an hour, someone knocks loudly at the apartment’s entrance. All of the agents reach for their handguns. One of them peers through my spyhole and then opens the door. Natalie, followed by half a dozen uniformed agents, marches to where I recline on my sofa. She grabs the collar of my shirt with two hands and I am wrenched to my feet. She pushes me sideways and I am slammed against the glass sliding doors of the balcony. They rattle in their frames.

  “What the fuck did you do?” she yells.

  “Be more specific,” I respond, the material of my shirt cutting into my underarms as she continues to pull the material upward. I haven’t seen her this angry before.

  “Be smart,” she hisses. “Keep being smart and see what happens.”

  “Any statement I make right now will be made under duress.”

  “We have footage of you in Brannagh’s apartment foyer. What was in that fucking suitcase?” she asks, releasing the material of my shirt, but still pinning me against the glass.

  “It was an empty suitcase,” I say, calmly. “It was a gift from Marty that he gave me about six months ago. I was returning it to him as a symbolic gesture of my rejection of his professional services… and his friendship.”

  “Tell me the truth,” says Natalie, her voice now cold and threatening. I don’t say anything. “Did you take arachnids into his apartment?” she probes.

  “That’s absurd,” I say.

  “His injuries are consistent with arachnid bites.”

  “Does it seem likely that I could trap two arachnids in a suitcase and sneak them into his apartment?”

  “Unlikely,” says Natalie. “But nothing would surprise me.”

  “Were there arachnids in his apartment?” I ask.

  Natalie releases me and takes a step back. She studies me intently. “I didn’t say there were two arachnids.”

  My lover thinks she has caught me out, but I’m deliberately dropping information. I think some credit is due. I give a bashful response. “He could have evaded one arachnid. I assumed there were two because if I had been planning to assassinate him, you would take two arachnids. You know, for insurance.”

  Natalie just stares into my face, trying to read me. She knows I’m guilty but it may be a difficult thing for her to prove, particularly because arachnids do sometimes sneak into people’s homes and kill them.

  “How did you escape the agents?” asks Natalie. “We found them unconscious on the side of the road.”

  “I was put in a government vehicle alongside your incredibly competent staff… and was then hijacked by one of your incredibly competent staff.”

  Natalie huffs. “We’re investigating how McCarthy managed to be in that vehicle. We found him dead. Did you kill him?”

  “I don’t have much of a recollection of what happened,” I say. “I may still be in shock.”

  “He was covered in drugs. That would implicate you.”

  “Is it possible he hijacked the vehicle, got really high and then crushed his own throat?”

  “I didn’t say his throat was crushed,” Natalie replies.

  “I just assumed. That’s how most people die.”

  “Is it really?” asks Natalie, her patience clearly depleted. She then turns and addresses the room. “Everybody leave. I want some alone time with Jack. Wait outside.”

  “But agent—” says one of the men.

  “That is an order!” she barks. The men share a deflated glance and meekly file out. She turns her attention back to me. “Tell me what happened, Jack,” her voice calm. “Off the record.”

  “I’m not saying any more,” I sigh. “Arrest me for something or leave me alone.”

  “If we find arachnid DNA in that suitcase then there’s not a lot I can do to keep you from being charged with murder.”

  “If one single charge is laid on me I will never tell you what you want to know about who I am.”

  “Really? How do you respond to torture?” asks Natalie, her full lips forming a smug expression.

  “I respond rather positively. You, more than anyone, should know that,” I reply, confident that the peace-mongering governments of this planet would never harm me.

  Natalie steps close to me. “I have trusted you,” she says. “You have no idea how far I have stuck my neck out for you. When I was working undercover, I was risking my life every day to protect your identity. So just give me some fucking answers.”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “Did you kill Brannagh?”

  “The arachnids killed Brannagh.”

  “But why?”

  “He deserved to die,” I shrug.

  “That’s not how things work here,” says Natalie.

  “I know,” I say. “Hence my decision to exact justice.”

  “Did you kill McCarthy?”

  “Yes, but that was self-defense.”

  “How did you capture two arachnids? We know you drove out to the industrial district because there is a satellite-tracking device in the jeep. Did you go looking for them?”

  “I didn’t have to go looking. I know where some live.”

  Natalie’s eyes dart back and forth between my own, looking for any minute twitch that might suggest I’m lying. “How did you capture them?”

  “I politely asked two of them to come with me.”

  Natalie grimaces and sighs deeply. “You’re trying to tell me you can communicate with arachnids?”

  “We don’t have lengthy conversations, but we seem to have… a mutual respect.”

  “Are you going to tell us about your home planet?”

  “Sure, I’m happy to share.”

  “Good,” says Natalie. “Our motivation is only to obtain more knowledge about you and your culture. Your arrival here is the most monumental thing to happen to our species.”

  “Mine too.”

  A decision is made to cancel the final shows of Big Bang Theory’s world tour. I feel like I’m letting down the fans that bought tickets to the twelve remaining arena dates, but it’s out of my hands. Natalie assures me there is no way I can finish the tour. I owe the government an immediate opportunity to interrogate me.

  I am instructed to tell Amelia that I have seen a doctor and have strained my vocal cords. I have also developed nodules. If I want to avoid surgery, I need to rest. No performing for at least six months. Amelia, after stressing that she wants a second and third opinion, eventually believes the lie and goes about deconstructing our tour.

  The band is sitting with me in my living room. I decide to tell them about the cancellation myself. Emerson and Cohen are incredibly disappointed, but Emerson is also philosophical.

  “You can’t put a price on your health,” says Emerson. “If you fuck up your voice now, you might never sing again.”

  “Absolutely true,” I say. “It’s not worth risking it. I’ll take it very easy. No partying. Nothing outlandish. I’m going to go somewhere remote, on my own, and just work on writing some new songs. It’s time to detox my soul.”

  Dylan is very quiet. Unusually so. Normally he voices an opinion on everything, no matter how inane. But now he sits silently on the sofa, his eyes on the muted television. We’re waiting for Amelia to arrive. She told me that we all need to sit down together and work out the future plans of the band. Should be an interesting discussion. I’m watching Dylan. He’s distant. Distracted. Depressed. I would normally assume he’s on drugs but he rarely takes downers. Which is unfortunate when you consider his hyperactive personality.

  There’s a knock at my door and Cohen answers it. When he opens my apartment, Amelia throws her arms around him and begins sobbing uncontrollably. We all lurch to our feet, amazed at Amelia’s state. I’ve never seen her display such emotion.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Cohen, looking back at us with a worried expression.

  “It’s Martin,” says Amelia, still gripping Cohen tightly. “He’s had a heart attack. They’ve found him in his apartment… he’s dead.”

  “What?
” asks Emerson, almost accusingly. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “What do you mean he’s dead?” I ask, putting in an award-worthy performance. “You must have heard wrong…?”

  Dylan stares at Amelia, his expression blank. He really loved Brannagh. He was a father figure, of sorts. This is not the inconsolable response I expected from him.

  “It’s already on television,” says Amelia, between sobs.

  Emerson grabs my remote control from the coffee table and turns the sound on, flicking until he finds the news channels. There is a live report. Words across the bottom of the screen say, “Endurance Records owner and art gallery entrepreneur Martin Brannagh found dead of suspected heart attack.” There is live footage of a body under a white sheet being wheeled from the foyer of his building and into an ambulance. I know that it can’t possibly be Brannagh’s body, as he has been dead for two days. There is a picture of Brannagh’s smiling face in the top right corner of the screen. A woman reporter’s voice explains that the owner of our record label is deceased and that authorities are releasing very little information. At this stage, his death is not being treated as suspicious.

  The room is silent as we stand and stare at the screen. I try very hard to appear shocked. Cohen walks to the screen and drops to his knees, just staring. Dismayed.

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” says Emerson.

  When I look up at Dylan we make eye contact. He conveys something to me. A silent message. Then he speaks.

  “Can’t you do something about this?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?” I answer.

  “We were all on that yacht,” says Dylan. “We watched you bring someone back to life.”

  “That’s rubbish,” I say, shaking my head. “That girl was not dead. She was unconscious.”

  “She wasn’t breathing,” says Dylan. “We all saw it.”

  “She had shallow breathing,” I say, my voice terse. “We’re all shocked by this Dylan, but I can’t be having such a pointless conversation right now.”

  “Fuck!” yells Dylan. He storms from my apartment, slamming the door. I stare after him, my mind ticking over.

  “It’s okay,” says Emerson. “He needs to cool off. He’s not going to take this very well.”

  “I won’t put up with him turning his anger on me,” I say.

  “He’s not mad at you,” says Emerson. “He was just very close to Marty.”

  “Is that so?” I ask in a condescending tone.

  “You’re damn right it is,” replies Emerson.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Natalie steps into my apartment and shuts the door. I’m watching television. It’s a report on the plight of child soldiers. Some aid workers have intervened. They’ve encouraged the children to lay down their arms and go to school. They’ll be given asylum in another country with foster families. They’ll be cared for. A peaceful resolution.

  Natalie joins me on the sofa. “Are you packed?” she asks.

  “My luggage is in the bedroom.”

  Natalie leans into me, curling her body against mine. “So they’re not going to take any action about Brannagh’s death,” she says, casually.

  “Really?” I ask, a little surprised.

  “It’s on the condition that you co-operate completely. They want full disclosure when you’re questioned. Tell them everything. How you came to have the arachnids and why you took them to Brannagh’s apartment.”

  “If I, hypothetically, discuss the circumstances of Marty’s death, what guarantee do I have that I won’t be punished?”

  “You just have to trust me.”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “Yes, but I hope you will trust me anyway,” grins Natalie. “What are you watching?”

  “Just a news update. Some current affairs.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “It’s all interesting,” I say.

  The next story is about the closure of the planet’s last caged poultry farm.

  “I suppose everything you see here must be… a wonder,” says Natalie.

  “I feel like I was never really looking. I wasn’t paying proper attention to everything around me,” I say, watching fields of happy chickens bobbing about and pecking at the ground. “When all this is over,” I ask. “Will you still want to see me?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Natalie.

  “Will you still… show an interest?”

  I look at her and she smiles. “I want to spend more time with you. Out of character.”

  Her response knots my stomach. “We should get going,” I say, reaching down and squeezing the top of Natalie’s thigh.

  She kisses me.

  “It must have been around here,” says Natalie. She is holding a GPS device. In her other hand is a black folder, which she opens to reveal a series of photos. The first images are of the exact stretch of beach we’re now standing on. Pictures of footprints in the sand. The marks I left when I landed here almost five years ago.

  “We found the raft about three hundred steps up the shore,” says Natalie, pointing ahead. She then finds an image of the beached vessel.

  “It was very dark when I landed,” I say, glancing back at the armed guards that follow fifty metres behind us. There are more men at the tree line, walking in parallel. Two helicopters flutter overhead. Navy boats wait offshore. “I left the raft and headed up towards those trees.”

  “And you found your way to the graveyard and the church?”

  I nod.

  “You walked almost a straight line,” says Natalie, glancing back at the GPS.

  “I had a compass. It happened to work.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I arrived at the gates of the graveyard and… something chased me. Something big.”

  “Really?” asks Natalie. “What did it look like?”

  “I didn’t see much of it. But out of the corner of my eye I could see it had black fur with patches of yellow. It was taller than me. It made a high, piercing noise. I just… bolted.”

  “It definitely had fur?”

  “I’m confident, yes.”

  “Big claws?”

  “Most definitely. It left marks in the door of the little shed I hid in. I bet they’re still there.”

  Natalie is quiet. She stops walking and so do I. She looks up at the trees. I admire Natalie’s beauty. Her hair, which has grown almost to her shoulder, is pulled up in a ponytail. Her white blouse and grey pants hug the firm curves of her body, as her clothing has a tendency to do. Her shiny black shoes are caked in sand. I’m mesmerised by her. Natalie is a rare beauty. A creature of potent sexuality. Someone you would step over your dying mother to penetrate. Something brought her to me. A force that stretches the cosmos, bridging the vastness of space and time. Her body, her mind and her soul are crucial to my salvation.

  Still looking at the trees, Natalie says, “It sounds like a Guardian.”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “They don’t exist,” she adds.

  “Are you sure?”

  “They are ancient beings. They’re supposed to protect us. Every person supposedly has one that watches out for them. That keeps them safe.”

  “Sounds like a nice idea.”

  “Everyone’s Guardian looks slightly different, but they’re all a variation on the same theme.”

  “The creature that chased me didn’t give the vibe that it wanted to protect me.”

  “Perhaps something is here,” Natalie suggests, her eyes scanning the trees. “We are on a very old island. Besides the church and the cemetery, this place is untouched.”

  I sit on the cooling sand. Natalie does too. The suns’ arc is nearing the refuge of the horizon.

  “So what happens now?” I ask.

  “We’d like to retrace your steps. With your help, of course.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ll go to the facility,” says Natalie.

  “The one in
the desert?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happens there?”

  “We’re going to study you. You’ll be looked after, I promise.”

  “Are you going to dissect me?”

  “Of course not,” says Natalie. “We’re not monsters. We will use non-intrusive medical procedures to create a biological map of your body. Then we can begin the psychological evaluations. We want to create a peaceful and fluid dialogue with you, to find out as much as we can about your planet.”

  “You say ‘we’ a lot,” I say, looking out at the naval ships.

  “I’m referring to our research team.”

  “Right.” There’s a pause before I add, “When this is all over, I’d like to get to know more about you. The real you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll like the real me as much as my... persona. I don’t want to shatter the mystery.”

  “Do you have a family?” I ask.

  Natalie looks out at the fading ocean, clearly deciding how to answer. “I… don’t, no,” she says with a slight shake of her head. “I never knew my father and my mother died when I was young.”

  “I’m sad to hear that,” I say.

  “Don’t be. It’s all in the past. Can’t be undone.”

  “Were you an only child?”

  “I had a half sister, but she drowned when I was a teenager.”

  I put my arm around Natalie. After a moment’s silence, I say, “Life moves on, doesn’t it.”

  “I suppose it does. But what about you? You must have left someone behind?”

  “I did,” I reply. “A long time ago though. Before I left Earth.”

  “Oh,” says Natalie, clearly wanting to probe further.

  “So what happens after all of this,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “What happens when they’ve learned all they can from me? What happens to you and me?”

  “You should be allowed to continue with your music,” smiles Natalie.

  “And you go back to being a super spy?”