by Hocking, Ian
He was dangerously cold. His neck was stiff. It was difficult to breathe. There was a familiar pain in his chest. An old rowing injury. He raised his head. He was on a hillside. In the darkness he could see grass in every direction. The sky was grey-black. The bleating of sheep came from lower down the field.
He stood and the wind brushed the last traces of heat from his body. He was too cold to shiver. Deep inside his mind, where the cold had yet to penetrate, a voice said, Find shelter.
He staggered forward. His wrists were bleeding from the cuffs. The blood did not feel warm. The chains around his legs jingled like the bells on Santa’s sled. The ground became white. Was it snow beneath his feet? Could he hear children singing? Was it Christmas?
The voice said, Hallucinations. Your core temperature is dropping.
He raised his head to the wind and sniffed. Yes. There was...something. A clue in the air. It was not an odour. It was heat. Warmth.
He shuffled windward. Somewhere ahead of him, in the darkness, was shelter. There had to be.
What month was it? September? October? Perhaps it was even December. Christmas time. He smiled. The warmth of the fire. A good brandy in the right hand, TV remote control in the left. Funny paper hat on the head. King’s speech.
There was something white ahead. It was not a building or a sleigh. It shined; it was plastic. It jutted skyward.
Jingle-jingle, went his chains. Whose ghost was he? Bob Marley. That was it. The Dickens story. Bob Marley’s ghost.
He wanted to whistle that he had shot the sheriff, but his lips would not work. They were broken. If he was in Jamaica, he would be warm. He wouldn’t be able to even imagine the cold. It would be a hot night, the shirt stuck to his back, the buzz of mosquitoes, a rum and coke.
David tripped and seesawed over the glider’s fuselage. He regained his composure and, with a clearer mind, looked hard at the glider. It canted to one side because the design meant it would never stay upright while it was on the ground. David blinked, slowly, and examined the cockpit. It had some markings. Some letters. He tried to read them, but he could not. Interesting. His brain had become so cold that he could no longer read.
The voice in his head piped up: It says ‘rescue’. The word points to a handle. Now, pull the handle.
David did so. He did not pay any mind to who was telling who. He just did it, expecting the canopy to swing up like the boot of a car. It did not. Instead, it wobbled on a simple hinge like the door from his old Citroen 2CV. That had been a great little car. Real character.
Get in.
He tumbled into the dark interior and felt his slippered feet crunch some equipment. For a horrifying moment he wondered if there was room for him. There had been a computer in the crypt and instructions on the pink paper. Perhaps the cockpit was full of remote control equipment. But there was room on the bucket-style seat and he settled in gratefully. He closed the canopy. It did not close with a satisfying clunk. It clicked like the spring in a cheap pen. He hadn’t climbed into the glider as much as put it on. Worse, it was freezing inside. Removing the wind chill would not do enough to warm him up, to beat the hypothermia.
I’m going to die, he thought. But I’m tired. And then he thought: No. What am I going to tell Jennifer? She’ll kill me.
His hands, still cuffed, groped around the cockpit. It was utterly dark and tilted, stuck in a phantom turn. Some stray moonlight caught the canopy sideways and highlighted its imperfections, scratches, insect-pits. His fingers touched upon the control panel. Something sharp cut his finger. He swore, though he felt no pain.
There was a control lever, a group of circular dials and very little else. The glider had no engine. No warmth. A battery? Perhaps. He began to flick switches and press buttons, but soon gave up. They were all dead.
He was getting colder. But his cut finger had begun to throb with pain, and he was glad. It offered something to focus upon. And then he closed his eyes. Not to sleep, which was tempting, but to think. Whoever devised this plan would have anticipated this. Hypothermia in Scottish field at night was surely a likely contingency. What would be the best way to counter that?
“A flask of oxtail soup and a blanket wouldn’t go amiss,” he said. His voice startled him. It was slow. He sounded like a person who had experienced a stroke.
Hmm. Might he have had a stroke? He touched the left and right sides of his face. Each had about the same level of sensation. He waggled his fingers. They moved slowly. “OK, stroke’s unlikely.” he said. “Now about that soup.”
He raked his fingers around the foot well and felt a shiny, crinkly surface. He grabbed it and held it up to the moonlight. It was heavy. It shone brightly. In its surface he saw, or imagined, finishing marathon runners hugged by paramedics with great sheets of silver foil. A so-called ‘space blanket’. He unfurled it. “Nice one. Things are...”
He stopped. A metal flask had tumbled into his lap. David unscrewed the lid. He did it by sight because his fingers were numb. When the cap sprang off, a plume of steam rose up and fogged the glider’s canopy.
Oxtail soup. His favourite.
“...getting weird.”
The Missing Person
Friday, 15th September 2023
Saskia Brandt carefully opened her fridge. Some cheese. A little bread. Space. She closed it and the kitchen darkened. She hadn’t opened the curtains. Perhaps the neighbours would think she was in mourning. Perhaps not. It was an exclusive, isolated apartment block. She sipped her whisky.
She returned to the living room of the studio. Like the fridge, its signature was emptiness. She had not bought a single item since moving in. She felt like a burglar without the courtesy to leave.
She swapped her whisky for her gun. It was a heavy little revolver. She relished its weight. She wandered back into her bedroom and stared at the full length mirror.
She was naked. She had found clothes in the wardrobe but couldn’t wear them. Whose clothes were they? Who had they been bought for? Had the real Saskia Brandt been murdered and this impostor – there she was, in the mirror – inserted in her place?
She jumped into a firing position. Nobody had taught her. She just knew. She aimed at her scowling, determined face. It was quite beautiful. So beautiful on the outside, so ugly within.
She put pressure on the trigger. The barrel turned and the hammer yawned. She increased the pressure. The barrel offered a new chamber and the hammer snapped home. There was nothing but the sound of a firing pin on dead metal. It sounded like a sculptor tapping a chunk from his masterpiece.
Saskia growled. She put the gun to her temple. Pulled the trigger. Snick.
Back to the woman in the mirror. Pulled the trigger. Snick.
Head. Snick.
Mirror.
The mirror exploded. There was a thumping sensation in her shoulders. Her palm stung. A blue wisp drifted into her eyes, making them water, and when the tears left the mirror had gone. She looked at the shards on the floor. A thousand of them. Not safety glass. But the mirror-Saskia had not been killed at all. She stared back at the real Saskia with a thousand eyes.
Saskia went back to her bedroom and collapsed on the bed. She wept hysterically and wished that Simon, her English boyfriend, would put a hand on her shoulder, lie next to her and promise to help her.
But Simon was fiction. Romantic fiction.
She fell asleep.
In her dream, she saw three witches.
The witches, the Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she determines its length. Atropos, she cuts it.
Spin, measure, snip.
“Saskia, wake up, Saskia, Saskia, wake up –”
“Wha...who’s there?”
“This is your apartment computer,” said a female voice. “You have not yet given me a name. Shall we give me a name?”
“Fuck off.”
There was a pause. Saskia opened one eyelid. Through a crack in the curtains she could see daylight outside. She had not slept long. She s
tretched and found that the revolver was still in her hand, pointing to her chin.
“Saskia, you have a call.”
“Who is it?”
“It is Jobanique. I have the authority to wake you if Jobanique calls. If you wish to review your authority list, you may do so at any time.”
“Fuck off.”
The computer paused again. “Shall I tell him to call back?”
“No, tell him,” she paused, smiled, “to fuck off.”
There was a non-compliant buzz. A man’s voice said, “Your computer has blocked access to the following potentially unsafe statement: ‘Jobanique, Ms Brandt would like you to fuck off’. For more information concerning expletives, call for Help.”
Saskia said, “Tell him I’ll call back.”
She donned a black trouser-suit with a white shirt. She upturned the collar. She brushed her shoulder-length hair until it assumed a reasonable shape. She applied some eye shadow. Put on some nice shoes she had found in the wardrobe. They fitted perfectly. She applied a little more makeup: lip gloss, red nail varnish. She looked at her nails and remembered her Russian nickname. The Angel of Death.
She opened the curtains around the apartment and the windows too. The gloom left with a bow.
“Computer, call Jobanique.”
“Certainly.”
The apartment rattled with the sound of ‘Greensleeves’ played on a mouth organ. After ten seconds, a voice said, “Jobanique can speak to you now,” and her boss appeared on her white, bare wall. The computer drew some curtains to enhance the image.
Saskia said, “Hello.”
Jobanique said, “Hello.”
“I like your ‘hold’ music.”
“Why thank you.”
“Shall we?”
“Lets,” he said. Then his head turned, like a newsreader moving on to a new story. “A man has escaped custody. He is a wanted criminal. A murderer. It is a matter of global security. I have been asked to handle this case personally.”
“I see.”
“My assistant has completed its meta-analysis. It’s trawled through years of information, picked up impressions here, guesses there, the occasional fact. It has produced a psychological profile based on the frequency of certain trait-based behaviours and put them into a model.” He shrugged. “I find them useful sometimes.”
“Go on.”
Jobanique put the lid on his pen. “His name is David Proctor. Look at the photo. This was taken in Oxford, England. It was published five years ago in the local newspaper. His hair is whiter now. Some background, then: our man is born in France in 1971 to Amelie Lombard, a language student, and Duncan Proctor, a student of human nature and alcohol, in the middle of Duncan’s year abroad. Duncan and Amelie have known each other for over three hours when David is conceived. Duncan panics. He goes back to university to complete the final year of his degree. We don’t know what he studied. Both Amelie and Duncan are nineteen at the time.
“That Christmas, Duncan flies back to France, finds Amelie and proposes to her. There is no clear reason for his change of mind. Amelie’s parents are disgusted and oppose the marriage, but Amelie is adamant. She wants him. They return to England and marry. For the next ten years, both of them fall in and out of various jobs. There is no evidence to suggest the home was unhappy. The young David’s school reports are average. They move house almost constantly. Duncan Proctor manages to hold down a job with a computer company in Reading as a marketing assistant.
“Meanwhile, young David’s school marks imrpove. In 1982 he scores a maximum mark on his primary school leaving test. There is a dramatic scene at the school: the headmaster calls him a cheat in front of David’s parents. The headmaster is verbally and physically assaulted by Duncan. David then wins a scholarship to a school for gifted students called Two Trees. The school is in Kent and he refuses to go. David and his father have the first in a series of serious arguments. In the event, Amelie convinces David that he should go. He does. Diary entries indicate that David was extremely unhappy in his first year.”
“You read his diaries?”
“And his report card. He was a troublemaker in that first year. It was only in the second year that he began to improve, following the mentorship of a maths teacher. He excelled in the sciences, particularly physics. He learned Latin and Persian. According to his physical education teacher, he had poor hand-eye coordination, frequent bouts of asthma, though none serious. However, there are some reports that he entered the cross-country team in his final year and won an inter-school medal.”
“Is this relevant?”
“In 1987, he left Two Trees for a university course in artificial intelligence at Durham. He married Helen Cassidy in his second year. They were both aged eighteen. They made repeated attempts at children –”
“Artificial intelligence?”
“The development of virtual or physical machines designed to display behaviours consistent with human intelligence in the solution of particular, well-defined problems. For more radical researchers, a long-term goal is to reproduce the human mind within a man-made machine.”
“I see. Back to the children.”
“There were none for several years. Aged twenty-one, David left to complete a PhD in artificial life systems at Dartmouth College, North-East United States. The degree was completed in three years. He did not like America or his career direction. He returned to England in the summer of 1994 and began a medical degree. He dropped out after three years and took a junior psychology lectureship at Durham. Then, one year later, he moved to Scotland.”
“To do what?”
“The following information was difficult to obtain. It was procured using the USA’s Freedom of Information Act. There is no such act in Britain, but America had a certain interest in the affairs surrounding David Proctor.”
“What affairs?”
“The West Lothian Centre. So code-named. A classified research institute. It was a public-private scientific think-tank funded mostly by the British government, partly by the American government, partly by John Hartfield.”
“Who?”
“Third richest man in the world. The aim of this complex was to investigate scientific ideas and applications deemed too radical for the academic environment. Such projects also had strong military ties. All were classified and still are. David remained at the research centre until 2003, when it was bombed by persons unknown. Suspects ranged from the Real IRA to remnants of the al-Qaida network. David was also under suspicion.”
“Why?”
“The bombers had inside information. The kind of information that David Proctor would have known. The centre of the blast was very close to David’s laboratory – he, and all other personnel, were at a musical recital when the bomb detonated. Additionally, in several memos, David spoke about concerns over the nature of his project.”
“Concerns?”
“About its application.”
“Would he have felt strong enough to destroy his own project like that?”
“It’s not clear. It counts in David’s defence that his wife was killed in the explosion. In the formal enquiry that followed, David was exonerated.”
“Tell me more about his wife.”
“Helen Cassidy. Born 1971. A research scientist. One child. Helen died May 14th 2003 from head injuries. No resources on this individual without another meta-analysis.”
“One child?”
“Just one. Jennifer Proctor, aged twenty. Born February 2003. Raised by her father following her mother’s death. A few years ago she was sent to a New York school for gifted children. Most information sources indicate that they were close before this happened, but they have since become estranged. There are no records of any communications in the past few months, except for one email last Sunday.”
“What was in that email?”
“You can get these details from the West Lothian and Borders police liaison office.”
“Where is Jennifer now?”
/> “There are no current records of her whereabouts. This is quite unusual. It is likely that she is involved with people who can conceal her identity from the US government.”
“Like who?”
“The US government.”
“Back to David. What are we chasing him for?”
“Police records indicate he is wanted for the murders of Caroline Saunders, a sergeant in the British army, and Dr Bruce Shimoda, a scientist. He is also wanted on several charges of terrorism. He is presumed dangerous.”
“Does he have access to a passport?”
“His accounts and credit cards have been frozen. His documents, both physical and electronic, have been confiscated.
His house in Oxford is occupied and under surveillance. Several of his close friends in Oxford are also under surveillance.”
“How did he escape?”
“Plucked from the ground by a glider while attending the funeral of a colleague.”
“Colleague?”
“Dr Bruce Shimoda. Proctor is charged with his murder. They worked together in the West Lothian Centre. Equal partners. Seventeen joint publications in scientific journals produced by the Ministry of Defence. All classified.”
“OK. I have enough of a feel for the man. I need to see the crime scene.”
“Do you feel that?”
“What?”
Jobanique leaned towards the camera. “The thrill of the chase.”
It was dawn when he awoke. His face, the only part not covered by the foil, was incredibly cold. His breath condensed in clouds. His legs were twisted and numb. His hands were tense balls of bone and sinew.
“And he’s alive,” David croaked.
At length, he struggled from the glider and collapsed upon the wet grass. The sky was overcast. It pressed on the hills. David managed to discern three or four farmhouses. Was he still in Scotland? How far had the glider taken him?
The closest house was about five miles away. Its owner probably owned the field as well. But more interesting was the wooden hut barely twenty metres away. It had been rotten luck to miss it the night before. The nose of the glider was pointed at its door. He pulled the space blanket closer around his shoulders and held it tight by his midriff.