by Hocking, Ian
Somebody said, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”
She took another step.
She replied, “The witches, the Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she determines its length. Atropos, she cuts it.”
The space was vast. Her shoes rapped to an echo.
Her torch caught something reflective. She approached and saw that it was a shop mannequin covered in a transparent sheet. It looked at her with dead eyes. She sighed with relief. She had thought, maybe, it was alive.
The mannequin moved.
She ran. She couldn’t hold the torch steady and she tumbled over barely-seen, shadowed objects, unidentifiable things, upturned chairs, tables. She fell through a door.
She was in a small office. There were bodies hanging on the wall. Her co-workers. They were all dead. There could be no rescue. They had been impaled on the wall with long pieces of metal that extended from their necks. Each of them wore an impression of absolute horror. At the end of the gallery was an empty skewer.
Behind her, she heard a single footstep.
She turned and saw the murderer in the doorway. It stood tall, languid, dressed in black. Its head was nothing more than a skullish silhouette. A bony finger reached and pointed towards the empty skewer at the end of the row of bodies. As she watched, the finger became darker, grew hairs of muscle, which knitted, smoothed and grew skin. It was like watching a time-lapse film. A fingernail sprouted from the end. It was red with varnish.
It pointed at the empty skewer. A greater darkness fell.
The Light of Day
On the Monday night, David was transferred to a small police station in a town called Whitburn, some miles to the east of the research centre. He was led to a cell and locked in. The police did not interview him. He saw no lawyer, no bail and no cigarettes. He wore orange paper overalls. His toilet folded from the wall. On the second night, he was given a mattress for good behaviour. He exercised for two hours a day: he watched the rain from the corner of a concrete forecourt without a cigarette.
Opposite his cell there was a man who screamed for his wife. Constantly. Elsewhere – left or right, he couldn’t tell – there were singers, drug addicts, and a darts player from Glasgow who had thrown his darts at the crowd. All the while, David sat on his mattress and drummed his fingers. He drummed prime numbers, re-invented Morse code and listened to perfect guitar concertos in his head.
They came for him on the morning of the third day.
The shutter opened. “Stand facing the back of the cell. Place your palms on the wall and cross your legs.”
David did so and felt the cold air on his slippered feet. He heard footsteps. His hands were locked in shackles that closed like stocks. From the middle of the cuffs, a chain was looped around his knees and tied to another set of cuffs around his ankles.
He turned around. There were only two people. One was a short, attractive WPC carrying a telescopic truncheon and CS gas. No gun. The other, who had spoken to him, wore a civilian version of the same uniform. He was a jailer. The only weapon on his belt was a can of CS. He had a chain with a huge number of keys. “Shall we, sir?”
The politeness was baffling. It had been three days since David had had a conversation. “Shall we what?”
“Shall we go?”
As they walked out, the WPC said, “I’m Mary. This is Jonathon.”
“Hi Mary. Hi Jonathon. Sorry if I don’t shake your hands.”
His captors led him to the front of the police station where a van was waiting. David had guessed that he would be loaded from a secure courtyard, but the scene was the utterly mundane West Main Street. Twenty years ago, he had lived on an estate less than a mile away. He watched the cars, the shops, children led by their parents, the cold Scottish sunshine, the hubbub of life. He felt saddened.
He had been denied his phone call or email. He had been under the tightest security. The police at the station had no idea what crime he had committed. He was certain of that, because he had seen the sergeant’s charge sheet. His name was not on it.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday. Step into the van, please, sir.”
Awkwardly, David clambered inside. It was warm and smelled of diesel. He imagined his autopsy report. Suspect falls awkwardly: dies from crushed windpipe. Suspect enters van: dies from accidental exposure to exhaust gases. Mary and Jonathon got in too. “Shit, stinks in here,” Mary said. The spell of fear was broken.
There were two benches running each side of the van. David sat down and they fed his leg chain through a study hook in the floor. It seemed to be connected to the chassis.
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Ten minutes?” she asked Jonathon. He nodded and fastened his seatbelt.
“Sorry?” David had assumed they would cross into England. Down to a court in London. He closed his eyes but still saw them leading him into the woods, telling him to take a piss, loading their guns, blowing his brains out, burying the body.
“The church. Five or six miles away, I reckon.”
“Sorry, church?”
“Yes, for the funeral.”
“Whose funeral?” he asked carefully.
Mary gave him a wry smile. “I can’t remember what the bloke was called. He died in a climbing accident. I think there was a special request from his family that you should attend. Shoda?”
“Shaida, I think,” offered Jonathon.
“Shimoda? Bruce Shimoda?” asked David. “Died in a climbing accident?”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “Did he or didn’t he? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Mary...” said Jonathon.
“Well, there can’t be any harm in asking.”
“Yes, there bloody can, lassie,” Jonathon warned.
She turned to David, who was thinking hard. “What are you then, a spy? Did you get caught?”
Do I look like a spy? he thought. “Give me a cigarette.”
Red leaves rained as the wind blew into the face of the church. A blue sign read:
A warm welcome to a Congregation of the Church of Scotland. All here are a part of the Presbyterian familly of the World-Wide Church of Jesus Christ. We have a history stretching back to 1658, and we’re confident of God’s Blessing for the next 300 years!
There were some community notices underneath it. The day was dull. The van had stopped in a large gravel car park outside the churchyard proper. It had taken twenty minutes, the last five up a steep hill through a collection of lovely houses, each more postcard perfect than the last.
“Can I take the chains off?” David asked.
“Sorry, mate,” replied Jonathon. “They need to stay on while you’re walking about. Orders are orders.”
David took a breath and span in a circle. High trees rose on three sides. Their leaves were red, bleeding in heaps. To the left, the valley wided. He looked up. Something moved in the air. For a moment, he thought he saw a pterodactyl. But it was a man-made glider, riding the thermals in increasing circles.
They walked inside. It was gloomy. An organ played. The foyer was carpeted red. Wooden panelling appeared here and there, almost at random, decades old. An elderly Asian gentleman was resting on a cane and dabbing his brow with a red handkerchief. As David shuffled in, the old man turned myopically in his direction and gestured that he should come forward.
Jonathon and Mary stepped quietly into the background.
“David. David Proctor.”
David did not know what to say. He could not meet his gaze. He muttered a Japanese greeting. “Shimoda-sama.”
The man bowed. “I asked the Japanese ambassador to arrange for you to attend. I am pleased he succeeded Did you kill Bruce?”
“Yes.”
Keiseke Shimoda considered this. “I loved my son, David. I did not always agree with his choice of profession. You remember the arguments we had. It appears we will have no more. That is sad.” He paused. “In my countr
y, in our past, we had the ritual seppuku.”
“Ritual suicide,” David said. He wanted – needed – to say something more, but he knew that nothing would work. There were no words that could communicate his grief or assuage that of Bruce’s father. Language had its limits.
“Ah, suicide. That is the word. Seppuku is a brave death, David. Do you understand? It takes great courage to disembowel oneself. My father did so this way in 1945, following the surrender of Japan. He felt it was his duty. It is often the case that a relative will stand by, with a sword, and complete the death if one’s strength fails. For my father, my mother stood by. For Bruce, you stood by.”
“I...” David felt a dryness in his throat and desperately wanted to reach out to this man. But the other’s body language was quite closed.
“I would not have my father dead, David, or my son. I would have them alive, and perhaps we could share a drink and a meal. That will never happen. I do not believe that my son should have killed himself, but he did, and I am glad you ended his suffering cleanly, and with courage. Your chains are your distinction. You must wear them proudly.”
The old man bowed and did no more. David could not speak. It was time to go inside. Other mourners were queued behind him. David wondered what he would say to each. He entered the church.
Saskia was rocked left and right as the tram wended through the streets of Brussels. She studied the passengers. She wondered what secrets they had. She watched the streets flicker past. The sky was overcast and, though it was early afternoon, the light already had a dusky quality. She thought of sunsets. She could not remember having seen one.
She wandered around the district for an hour or more. She drank coffee, read the news, tried on clothes and, finally, found herself in an internet café staring at a blank computer screen. It was an old ray-tube box that flickered. She located a search engine and typed saskia brandt.
The computer searched the internet. It found over two million pages. She checked through the first fifty. Nothing. Next, she typed, bonn AND prison. The computer found the official prison webpage. Jobanique had said that the prison had held her the previous week, but the public webpage unhelpful.
She dropped her fists on the table. What could she do? Her mind seemed to jam. She couldn’t think of the next step. Maybe whoever had programmed her brain had, after wiping her memories, inserted a safeguard. Maybe she would never be able to investigate herself.
She couldn’t breathe.
She fell from the café. One or two passers-by stared at her. A tall man regarded her with interest. She walked away selfconsciously. She soon reached Fauçon and took the steps to the upper city. The streets were simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. She crossed the street and ascended the ramp that led to the Palais de Justice. Though its ornate entrance was inviting, she did not enter. She could see its huge foyer. It was not huge enough to accommodate her claustrophobia.
“Be careful, Saskia,” said a man.
She made a fist and turned. Her nails scored her palm. With the pain, she focused and became more calm. She remembered her revolver in its holster.
It was the man who had stared at her outside the cyber café. From his mode of dress and his expression, she guessed he was English. “Relax, Saskia,” he said. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”
“In a previous life, perhaps.”
The man laughed and the ritual was complete. This was another of Jobanique’s agents. He was intimidatingly attractive and tall. His shoulders bulged under his coat, but his eyes were gentle. The eyes swept across her and then to a piece of paper in his hand. Saskia guessed he was checking a photograph. He nodded.
This was her. Then his gentle eyes glanced around the street.
Keeping to German, he said: “Cigarette?”
“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“You did until last Friday.”
His statement found its way into her head and exploded. She faltered, as though ready to faint, and, when the man thrust the cigarette in her face, she was confused enough to accept. It was already lit.
He laughed again. “Pretend you know me. Keep the fag in your mouth when you talk. It’ll make it harder for them to read our lips.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know precisely. I can see three or four possibilities. Don’t look now. The woman by the tree wearing the long coat. The black bloke over there talking into his phone. We need to move.”
Saskia drew on the cigarette. She held her breath and let her grateful blood soak up the nicotine. She felt good. She felt normal. “OK. Thanks for the cigarette.”
“We need to get moving.”
“Moving where?”
“A park. Somewhere with people. On foot but near.”
Saskia did not consciously decide to go to the Place Poelart, but go there she did; she was surprised, but not surprised, to see the panoramic view of the downtown area, and the telescopes available to search it, and the children playing and the dogs barking. She sky was larger here. She followed her feet through the subway under the rue de la Regence. She turned into the British memorial garden, but he grabbed her arm. “Too quiet,” he said.
She took them past the memorial. They walked downhill. A gradual sense of her position had begun to emerge. It was as though she had walked these streets in a past life. They passed through the wrought iron gates of Place du Petit Sablon. It was busy with tourists. He nodded. The park was a combined recreational space and monument. Countless bronze statues stood on columns: caricatures of The Carpenter, The Baker, The Fish Monger and forgotten trades from the medieval guilds. In the centre was a statue of two noble-looking gentlemen.
Autumn leaves of gold, red and brown blew across the wet grass. A bored-looking civic employee supervised a dozen insectile robots, painted autumnal tones, as each collected the leaves in a hopper strapped to its back.
Near the gate, the man bought two croquettes and handed one to Saskia. “Don’t eat it till we reach the statue.”
They wandered slowly. The path was gravel. It crunched under their feet. He did a full circle of the plinth with his fingers running along the edges. Saskia took the opportunity to read the inscription. The noble gentlemen were the Counts Egmont and Hornes. They had been executed by Spanish oppressors in 1568. Saskia looked at their faces until the man walked into her line of sight. He said, “Go on, eat your croquette.”
She bit into the cheese snack and burned her mouth. “Ow.”
“That’s right, act natural,” he said. He stuffed his mouth with food and managed to say, “Always talk with your mouth full.” He winked.
“Fine. So what’s going on? Why did you walk around the statue?”
“Checking for bugs,” he replied, spitting cheese. “I have a little gadget in the palm of my glove. Just a little home-made electromagnet and a battery. If it detects an electrical field – even the weak one from a listening device – it makes a buzzing sound. It’s not so good here. Radio interference from the litter robots.”
Saskia began to relax. “Who are you and want do you want?”
He gobbled some more croquette, “My name is Fang Hoe.”
“What?”
He tossed the croquette from one side of his mouth to another and made little gasping sounds. “Sorry. It’s hot. Frank Stone. I am an agent for J. I’m stationed in Moscow. I’m on leave.”
“Jobanique.”
“Call him J. I’m the guy he sent to search your apartment on the Saturday afternoon. I found the woman in your fridge...”
“Hang on. J said as much when he first briefed me on Sunday, but that was before I’d found out...the true identity of the murderer. You were part of the backstory. You didn’t have to actually be there.”
“Yes, I did. You see, J was concerned that your previous self would have planted clues, even though you killed that woman under a form of mind control.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I mean, your past self could have made it really easy for
your future self by, say, writing a note and concealing it somewhere. Like a note saying ‘It was you what did it!’ Of course, that was expressly against J’s instructions, but not everybody follows orders, do they? Especially when greater things are at stake.” He winked again. “I was called in to clean the place, make sure that no obvious clues were lying about. Not tamper with evidence. Clean.”
Saskia finished her croquette and threw the paper on the floor. A robot scampered over and grabbed the ball before it had stopped moving and tossed it into its hopper. Then it ran away to find more leaves.
“You didn’t go to this trouble to tell me that.”
Frank ate the last of his croquette. He put the paper in his pocket and retrieved his cigarettes. He lit two and gave one to Saskia. “You should have this.”
She looked at the little stick. Her hand, quite independently, took it. “Yes, I think I should.”
Frank sat on the edge of the plinth and stared into the sky. “Here’s my story. One year ago, I found out that I was...a fraud. I had been working cases for ten years – or so I thought. In fact I had been working as a detective in Moscow for about two months. Before that, I was a bit of a naughty boy. I guess that J told you what you were, didn’t he? About his unconventional recruiting methods?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, when he told me, he must have had my memory wiped again. I thought I was a detective and always had been. Then I had a big wake-up call. This summer I was on holiday in Poland and I was practically lynched.”
“By who?”
“Who do you think?” His cigarette wagged. “It was a father fishing with his two sons. He took one look at me and practically had a heart attack. I had no clue. He went after me with the rod. Finally he managed to get it across to his sons – his grown-up sons – that I was the bastard who had killed his wife – their mother
– last year during a bank robbery. Can you believe that shit?” Saskia was rapt. “That you were a bank robber, or that you were recognised?”