The Lore of Prometheus

by Graham Austin-King

  The voice, when it came, was soft—almost tentative, and from a completely different direction.

  “Are you real?” it asked.

  “Yes!” she shouted her answer, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. “Yes, I’m real. I’m here.”

  There was no answer.

  She fell silent, concentrating on not making any sound that might drown the voice out. It had been louder than the distant shouting, loud enough that it could have been from the next room. Maybe it was.

  Her patience ran out. “Are you there?”

  No answer.

  “Hey!”

  Silence.

  “Hey, arsehole. Answer me!”

  “I thought I was dreaming again.”

  Was it a man’s voice? It was hard to tell through the thickness of the walls. He, if it was a he, sounded either delirious or stoned, or maybe he’d just lost his grip on reality. Any of these were equally plausible in a place like this. She was barely keeping it together as it was.

  “What’s your name?” she asked carefully, keeping her tone soft and level, as if speaking to a spooked horse.

  There was a long pause before he answered. As if he had to wrack his brain for the answer.

  “Armond. My name is Armond.”

  French then. Or maybe German? It didn’t really matter. “I’m Mackenzie. Do you know where we are?”

  He laughed then, the sound high and hysterical as it came through the concrete. “We’re in hell, Mackenzie. Hell on Earth.”

  Probably better to just ignore that one, she decided. “Are we still in Kabul?”

  “Where? No, but this room is dark most of the day, Mackenzie. I have no windows. I have no idea where we are.”

  “Were you in Kabul, too?”

  “Afghanistan? No. No, I was in Syria. In Damascus.”

  Damascus? Syria was the other side of Iraq. It was thousands of miles away from Kabul. Where the hell was she?

  He had a tone to his voice, an edge, like he was broken. It didn’t matter, it was enough that there was someone to talk to. Enough that she wasn’t alone. They spoke tentatively; like young lovers touching for the first time, each both excited and afraid of the other, but unable to stop themselves.

  He’d been in Syria, with Oxfam, when he was taken; an administrator for one of their regional projects.

  “How long were you there?” she asked.

  “Eight months,” he replied, before his voice drifted into silence. “Before. You know, before this.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “Iraq. Medecin sans Frontières for a couple of years. I don’t like going home so much these days. This job gets to you, and everyone at home just seems so blind to what they have.”

  She nodded, despite the fact nobody could see her. He was right. The last time she’d gone home to Brisbane for Christmas it had been almost painful. The food left on the table was more than the street children in Kabul saw in a month.

  Talking to Armond was hard work. He tended to fall silent for long periods, ignoring her when she called him, and she wondered if he was passing out. Or maybe he was being fed drugs. It wasn’t just that though. He was maddeningly guarded and refused to answer many of her questions about himself or what had happened to him.

  It was another two days before she thought to ask the most obvious questions. “How long have you been here, Armond? Have you seen anyone?”

  He’d fallen silent again and she forced herself to count to two hundred before she called out again. He was damaged, that much was obvious from his voice. Yelling at him would only make things worse.

  “They still come for me sometimes,” he said, when she’d just about given up on getting an answer. “Not so much as they used to. Sometimes I think they forget I’m here.”

  “What do they want?”

  He laughed; a bitter, splintered sound that barely made it through the wall. “They want miracles, Mackenzie.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, but Armond had fallen silent again.

  *

  By the end of what she thought was the first week, she was fatigued and listless. She blamed the diet. The gruel was enough to keep her alive, but it likely lacked a lot of essential nutrients. She slept often, though how much of that was down to boredom was anyone’s guess.

  Armond hadn’t spoken to her in days and in her weaker moments she wondered if he was still alive. She’d wondered more than once if he’d ever really been there in the first place. She marked the passing of time by the lights. Each time the spotlights blazed on, it was the beginning of another day. By her reckoning, she’d been in this prison for nine days.

  The door was built into the glass wall, fitted so closely that it was invisible in the shadows that wreathed that end of the room. She gaped at it as it opened, an impossible thing that made her bolt up against the restraints. The figures that emerged were dressed in white medical garb. A man and a woman. They did not look at her, busying themselves with erecting a small stand a few meters from her. It was some manner of clamp, designed to hold something in place.

  For the briefest moment she was bothered by her nakedness, a fleeting hangover from when she’d had a normal life.

  “Hey!” she managed, her voice croaking. “Let me out. Please?”

  The man glanced at her once. A plain, Middle Eastern man who could have come from anywhere. His eyes flickered over her bound form and then he turned back to the clamp, setting a large candle into it and lighting it before heading for the door.

  “Let me go!” she screamed after him.

  The door gave a pneumatic hiss, slid shut, and thunked back into place.

  “Mackenzie?” A voice broke into the room through unseen speakers. “You are well?”

  The question called for an answer, but it brought with it a realisation. They could hear her. The room must have a microphone in it somewhere. The thought that they had been able to hear her screaming for days on end, and just ignored it, passed quickly, smothered by the knowledge that they had probably heard every word she had shared with Armond. Somehow that was worse, and a spark of rage ignited in her chest.

  “I’m tied up, you sick fuck! How the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

  “Tell me about the fire, Mackenzie.”

  “What?” She frowned at the glass wall across the room. “What fire?”

  “You were nine years old, I believe?”

  She stiffened against the frame, biting down the gorge that rose in her throat. “Fuck you.”

  The voice ignored her, continuing in a calm voice. “The fire burned out your apartment complex in Brisbane. It completely destroyed everything above the third floor. What floor were you on, Mackenzie?”

  “Go to hell!” She’d worked long and hard to bury that memory. It was why she’d left home in the first place. Tears pooled in her eyes despite herself, and she swore she’d cut the bastard if she ever got out of these restraints.

  “But your apartment was different, wasn’t it? In the living room was a clear area. A circle untouched by the heat and the flames. That is where they found you, isn’t it, Mackenzie? But it was only you, wasn’t it? Your mother and father were killed, even your sister, died in those flames. How long did you spend in care homes, Mackenzie? How long was it before you were finally adopted? Was it until every child worth having had already gone?”

  She bit down on her shaking lip, tasting blood. She’d be damned if she would answer him. The story had spread throughout the local news. It had followed her through counselling and into foster care, and then to two different schools when the bullying and name-calling had driven her out. They’d called her a freak. They’d thrown lit matches at her, and set her hair on fire, laughing as they told her to put them out.

  “I believe it was you who held back those flames, Mackenzie.” The voice was relentless, droning on despite her tears and clenched fists.

  “What do you want from me?” she grated from between clenched teeth. Maybe if she offered the
m something, they would leave her alone.

  “Show me how you did it. Put out the candle.”

  “What?”

  “Put out the candle, Mackenzie.”

  She stared blankly at the glass. What was this? “How? I can’t reach it, you idiot.”

  The voice turned hard. “Do not play with me, Mackenzie. Put out the candle and you will be treated well.”

  The threat hung in the air, unspoken, but she heard it anyway.

  She tried blowing, though she was easily three meters away from it. The best she managed was to make it flicker.

  “I can’t,” she said, sagging back against the frame.

  “Put out the candle, Mackenzie. Don’t blow it. Put it out.”

  “I don’t know how,” she admitted.

  “You do. You have tamed fire before. Put out the candle.”

  She was going to die. The knowledge came slowly, creeping in like fog over a field. They wanted the impossible from her. Armond was right. They wanted miracles, and she had nothing to give them.

  “I don’t know how I did it,” she called out again, pleading and hating herself for the weakness in her voice. “I don’t even know if it was me.”

  “Put out the candle.”

  The voice nagged and demanded for what felt like hours, repeating the order as the candle burned down, and wax dripped onto the floor. Eventually it fell silent, ignoring her protests as they turned to begging pleas.

  She remembered so little of it. She’d been so young and what she could recall had a vague, dream-like quality to it. Sensations were all she could really remember.

  The heat on her skin, and the roar of the flames in her ears.

  She remembered the fear, so strong that it overrode everything else as she’d curled into a ball and pressed her eyes to her knees. Beyond that, it was just memories of the aftermath. The feel of the fireman’s jacket as she was carried out; rough and yet smooth on the hi-vis stripes. The smell of the smoke, and the way everyone looked at her—wonder mingling with a sympathy so sharp it cut into her.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t know…”

  She let her voice trail off. They weren’t listening. They were going to kill her. It might take months, but eventually, when they grew tired of her failure, they would kill her. She let the thought grow, the certainty growing with it, until it overwhelmed her and the tears began again.

  “Give them what they want.”

  She looked up, tossing her head to throw her dark hair back from her face. “Armond?”

  “It’s better to just give them what they want, Mackenzie,” he repeated. He sounded calmer than usual, more lucid.

  “I can’t,” she said. “They want a miracle and I didn’t bring any with me.”

  She snorted a laugh then, tears still fresh on her face. It started as a giggle and built until she couldn’t stop even if she’d wanted to. She laughed until her stomach hurt and it left her gasping. She’d been drugged and abducted, chained up in this room by mad men, and told to perform wonders or die. The whole situation was so absurd that it seemed like there was nothing else to do but laugh.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Patrolling has more functions than most people think. It’s not just about spotting someone climbing over a wall. To be honest, it’s more about deterrence. They’re far more likely to spot you, than you are them—they are the ones hiding, after all.

  Not only that, patrolling keeps you moving, keeps you alert. Standing guard in one place, especially at night or in the early morning, doesn’t give you much to look at. Standing leads to leaning, leaning leads to dozing; and then you might as well not be there.

  I walked the perimeter, taking my time to learn where the shadows fell most deeply, and the best places to try and breach the razor-wire. I seriously doubted anyone would actually bother. If you were going to attack this compound, the best way would be right through the ridiculous front gate. Or just blow a hole in the wall.

  I passed the other guard, Samir, at the back of the compound, and gave him a nod and a thumbs up. He wasn’t much more than a kid—twenty-something at best, but he was following instructions, taking his time. Him, I could work with, and probably make something of. I wasn’t so sure about the others.

  We stood at the front gate, speaking softly as the dawn approached. I sent Mujib and Samir on the next patrol, and stood at the gate alone. I didn’t like it, but there was only the three of us to manage the whole compound. That was another thing that needed changing. Three men weren’t enough. Eventually it led to someone being on their own, and that would lead to trouble one way or another.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to stand in the middle of the entry way. Instead, I kept to the shadows by the wall. Anyone trying to come in at this time of night wasn’t likely be here on friendly business and I had no desire to end up with any more holes in me than I already had.

  Four men came to relieve us at 6am, leaving us to get the car ready for Gharfour. Government offices in Kabul were open from 7:30am to 4:30pm, Wednesday to Saturday. It takes a bit of getting used to.

  I went into the residence to escort Gharfour to the vehicle. The car surprised me; a fully armoured Toyota Land Cruiser—I’d been expecting a Mercedes or something. I rode in the front beside Mujib, with Gharfour in the back. I was relaxing already; this was a quality car, and the door had that heavy thunk that you only got with a fully armoured vehicle.

  I reviewed Gharfour’s schedule as Mujib drove; a day of meetings and various appointments. Easy enough in terms of work for me, but it meant a day of standing outside his door. Today didn’t promise to be a bundle of laughs but then, that’s one of the reasons why the pay was so good.

  The day dragged. I was out of practice at standing around doing nothing. Mujib made a few attempts at conversation but I wasn’t in the mood for small-talk. Talking on a job distracts you. It’s not a good idea.

  I glanced at my watch more than I should have, aware that my meeting with Artemis was creeping closer. At two o’clock I made my excuses, telling Mujib to escort Gharfour home if I wasn’t back in time. He wasn’t happy about it, and Gharfour wouldn’t be either, but I needed to find out what Artemis wanted. Her line about credible threats was probably bullshit—a carrot to entice me to meet her. But an excuse like that works both ways, and I could feed Gharfour the same carrot if need be.

  The Bird Market was actually quite close to the Ministry of Public Health, but twelve minutes by car in Kabul was easily forty-five minutes on foot. I did it in thirty. Making sure I knew the back-alleys of Waj’zir Akhbar Khan was one of the first things I’d done when I started working here with the SRR. Learning how to blend in was something I’d been trained in before I ever stepped foot in this place. Walking around alone in combat gear in Kabul is just about as clever as it once was in Belfast—you just don’t do it.

  Kabul goes to the dogs the second you step out of the diplomatic district, where the security is tightest and where most of the money is. The second you step beyond this, the extravagant compounds become crumbling homes, pockmarked with bullets and shrapnel, pressed tight together in an effort to stay upright.

  I’d grabbed a loose thobe and a pakol from the Ministry, which went over my other clothes easily enough. Clearly this wasn’t the first time someone had needed to be inconspicuous. The slit I discovered inside one pocket that allowed easy access to my handgun if I needed it raised an eyebrow though.

  The streets were busy and the heat reflected back from the concrete, doing its best to cook me inside my clothes and make me miserable. I moved at an easy pace, fitting in with the crowds as I made my way south towards the river. It felt good to be doing this again. Like climbing into an old pair of jeans. This is what I’d trained for, what I knew and loved. It sounds crazy, but I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks.

  The Ka Froshi Bird Market was nestled in a long alleyway and a few adjacent small streets tucked away behind one of the larger mosques. Mud-walled shops and market stalls wer
e clustered close together, pressed against the walls, their brightly coloured canopies yellowed and muted by dust.

  Afghans take a great delight in birds, and the alleyway was filled with the sound of finches, larks, and canaries, somehow managing to be heard over the squawk of the fighting cocks and partridges. It was impossible to move with any speed through the Market. Stacked straw cages and small aviaries crowded the pathway, surrounded by groups of haggling men. Despite all of this, the street had a relaxed atmosphere—as if the tensions of this wearied nation were forbidden to set foot in the Bird Market.

  I picked my way through the throng, all but invisible in my pakol and thobe. I hadn’t shaved since I left London, and my stubble was long enough to cover my cheeks. Clean-shaven men are rare in Afghanistan, and the last thing I needed was to stand out.

  I moved casually, just another man enjoying the sights of the Market. My eyes scanned the crowd, never settling on any one thing for too long, trusting my instincts to pick up anything out of the ordinary.

  She’d find me, Artemis had said. Perverse though it was, I didn’t want to make it too easy for her. That said, I didn’t particularly fancy spending all afternoon in the Bird Market either. It might be a haven for the locals but after eight hours or more in the heat, the place was choking on its own dust and the smell of the birds; which, oddly, smelled an awful lot like their own shit.

  I made my way along the narrow street and stood near a circle of men watching a kowk-fight. I glanced around, trusting the clamour of the crowd to hide the fact that I wasn’t watching. They were making more than enough noise as they threw down money, betting on the partridges. Wherever Artemis was, she was late.

  Nearby, a woman in a blue burqa haggled with an old market-trader over the price of birdfeed. I watched her for a moment with a tight smile, before turning back to the street. I resisted the urge to check my watch. The woman paid the shopkeeper and made her way along the alley. I joined the flow of people and followed her. It didn’t take me long to catch up.