‘GO THROUGH THE DOOR,’ Pete shouts.
‘Not James though,’ Jacob says stiffly. ‘He’s clearly not suitable…LEAVE JAMES WHERE HE IS…’
A pause, a hesitancy. Bodies everywhere. Dead and broken. Zara exhales slowly, lifting her eyebrows, confused as hell, jarred and lost but looking at Bear and seeing a strange quiet calm about him that in no way suggests he just killed over a dozen men with his bare hands. She should be terrified of him, of what she just saw but it seems to fit this place, whatever this place is. She died twice in the circuit. Once on the first drop. She was screaming and panicking too much to pull the cord and died on impact. The second time she pulled it too late and broke both her legs then drowned. Those were awful experiences, deeply terrifying but to do it a few hundred times is beyond anything she can comprehend. ‘I guess we go through then,’ she says, looking from Bear to Thomas.
‘Okay,’ Bear says amiably.
‘Sure,’ Thomas whispers. ‘Why not…’
13
‘Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice,’ Zara mutters, staring round with a look of mild distaste at the small room laid with bare floorboards. The walls scuffed and marked with a single grimy opaque window. A scarred and battered table propped against the wall on which rests a thin paper folder.
‘What’s that from?’ Thomas asks.
‘Alice in Wonderland…’
‘How do you remember that?’ he asks. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘Context.’
‘Context?’ he asks, watching Bear close the door behind them, both men blinking and looking at each other when it simply ceases to exist.
‘You need context to remember,’ Zara says. ‘Like in the diner when Allie told us what Discovery is and you remembered that movie with the pills. You had context.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Context.’
‘Window,’ Zara says, pointing at the window. ‘What does that make you think of?’
‘Curtains?’ he says after a second.
‘Or,’ she says slowly. ‘A computer operating system…Windows? Anyway, I suppose we’ve got to read that folder. It’s filthy in here…stinks too…and that last place was grim. You’d think they’d clean up a bit. Right…what have we got here?’ she goes quiet, picking the single sheet of paper out to turn and then looks back in the folder. ‘Just one sheet…shall I read it out? Yes?’
‘You should read it out,’ Bear says.
‘Totally read it out,’ Thomas says, the pair earning a quick look from Zara before she focusses back on the sheet and clears her throat.
‘Operatives Scenario Training…that’s capitalised at the top…’
‘Ninja!’ Thomas blurts.
‘What is?’ Zara asks, looking over the top of the sheet.
‘Bear…with the,’ he says, making small karate chops with his hands. ‘Out there…ninja…context?’
‘Oh,’ Zara says. ‘Right. Got it.’
‘Just popped in my head,’ Thomas says, looking from her to Bear.
‘No, it’s…er…great stuff,’ she says, ‘shall I read this? I’ll read this…Operatives Scenario Training…Jacob said it takes years to become an operative? Why are we doing this?’
‘Taster session?’ Thomas suggests as Bear nods in agreement.
‘Good thinking,’ Zara says. ‘Anyway…I’ll read it out…Operatives must be able to respond quickly with limited information and use their wits to achieve the objective. Your orders: Frank Delaney must not meet Gordon Berkowitz for lunch at 12:30 at the German Deli on twenty-eighth and seventh…return here on completion.’
‘Okay,’ Thomas says. ‘And?’
‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘Seems simple enough. What’s the time now?’
‘Er,’ Thomas checks his wrists while Bear looks round at the bare walls.
‘No clock,’ Zara says, ‘well, there’s only one door out so it seems obvious to me. Shall we? Bear, you go first.’
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Might be a trap or something…’
‘Right,’ he says.
‘Well. You know. You have already died a few hundred times…’
‘Oh, right, yes of course…I’ll go first then.’
Another simple wooden door with a round twist knob that squeaks faintly when he turns it. He can even feel the grind of the latch pulling back and the point when the door swings free on the hinges that gives way to an alley strewn with litter, newspapers, cans and tins, split bags of rubbish and rotten food all giving a weirdly sweet foul stench. A high brick wall topped with rusting coils of razor wire on the right and on the left he watches yellow cabs driving by on the main road full of people and noise.
‘How’s it looking?’ Zara asks from the room.
‘Fine. I think we’re in New York.’ Bear says, pointing a fighting stick down the alley towards the road. ‘Yellow taxis.’
‘Cali has yellow cabs,’ Thomas says, having stepped out to look down at the road.
‘Cali?’ Zara asks.
‘Wow dude,’ Thomas mumbles, shaking his head. ‘California…I didn’t know I knew that…’
‘I told you,’ Zara tells him. ‘Context.’
‘Early nineteen-hundreds, a car salesman had too many cars left so he painted them yellow to stand out and started a taxi company…’ Thomas says, his eyes widening as he speaks. ‘But yellow cabs have been in use for years before that…and there was a study that determined yellow was the colour that stood out the most…holy shit! I know stuff…’
They reach the busy wide road packed with traffic in a view that makes Bear think of the few steps he took with Roshi after visiting the coffee shop. He wasn’t in a fit state to pay attention then, but it feels the same, the same vibe and ambience. High rise buildings on both sides and it’s hot and close. Summer in the city and the back of his neck feels dirty and gritty. Deja vu passes through, jarring his mind once more.
‘Twenty-eighth and seventh,’ Zara says, staring round as a steady flow of people walk by. All of them so human, so normal, so individually massed in the way of city folk. Everything so real, so utterly detailed and flawed with the imperfections that make up life.
‘It’s a grid system isn’t it? Thomas?’ Zara asks.
‘Huh?’
‘The roads, aren’t they a grid system?’
‘Er, yeah, the numbers are on the intersections.’
‘You mean the junctions? Where the roads meet?’
‘Yeah, intersections,’ he says.
‘Okay,’ she bites her bottom lip, staring left then right to work out which is closest. ‘This way.’
She sets off at a brisk pace, striding confidently along in blue coveralls and black boots with Bear and Thomas jogging to catch up.
‘There are no signs,’ she states on reaching the junction, giving Thomas a look that conveys this is his responsibility.
‘Why are looking at me?’ he asks.
‘You’re American,’ she says. ‘Excuse me…’ she calls out to a man passing by, ‘what road is this?’
The man replies, talking fast and loud in a language none of them know.
‘Hey buddy,’ Thomas says, stepping towards another man. ‘What road we on?’
‘Fifth.’
‘Fifth Avenue?’
‘No fifth fucking city, you dumbass,’ the man shouts.
‘I think we’re on Fifth Avenue,’ Thomas says.
‘What about the side streets? Which one is that? Which way do they go?’
‘I don’t know,’ Thomas says at the onslaught of questions from Zara.
‘Right, we’ll keep going then.’
She strides across an intersection as the other two run after her, dodging and weaving round pedestrians, street vendors and people carrying goods in from trucks and vans. Sirens fill the air as a small flotilla of police cars go screaming by.
‘Twenty,’ Zara says, reaching the next junction. ‘So, this is Fifth and Twenty?’
‘Yeah,’ Thomas says. ‘We
need Seventh and Twenty-Eight…’
‘We’ve got fifteen minutes,’ Bear adds, nodding towards the shop window behind them displaying clocks and watches, all showing the time at 12:15.
They push on to the next junction, then curse and about turn on realising it’s Nineteenth street. Then they start jogging, going past Twenty and Twenty-first. The crowds and intersections slow them down. Making them veer and weave as Zara and Thomas start breathing harder, their legs becoming heavy with sweat beading on their faces.
‘Down there,’ Bear says, pointing ahead to Twenty-Eighth street. They take the junction at speed with cars sounding horns and drivers leaning from windows to yell angrily.
‘Shit,’ Zara gasps, coming to a hard stop to about turn. ‘Other way…this is Fourth Avenue.’
Back across the junction to a chorus of honks and yells. Running faster now with glimpses of clocks in shop windows.
‘There,’ Bear says, spotting the colours of the German flag painted on the signboard of the delicatessen window opposite them on a section of street that looks strangely empty of people save for one bulky man in an ill-fitting grey suit walking towards the deli.
‘FRANK!’ Zara shouts, making the guy start and look round. ‘Are you Frank?’
‘Who are you?’ the man asks in a thick New York accent, scowling at three sweaty people in blue coveralls running across the road at him.
‘You can’t go in there,’ Zara says between ragged breaths, pointing at the deli behind him.
‘Who the hell are you? What the hell is this?’ he backs away with a glance at the stick held in Bear’s hand. ‘Fuck off before I call the cops…’
‘No, no,’ Zara says, reaching for his arm.
‘GET THE FUCK OFF ME.’
‘You’re not real,’ Zara tells him. ‘You’re a robot thing in this…this messed up construct toaster bloody whatever…I’m so hot,’ she adds, fanning her face while nodding at him.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you? Get the fuck away from me. Fucking crazy…you’re fucking loopy…’ he yanks a phone from a pocket, flipping it open. ‘Callin’ the goddam cops…’
Across the road, at a table behind the plate glass window of the diner, Pete winces while Jacob gives a smug grin. ‘Not so good now are they old chap,’ he says with obvious relish.
‘Is first time,’ Pete says.
‘Rather looks like he is telephoning the police to me,’ Jacob says.
‘Do not phone the police,’ Zara snaps, pointing at Frank.
‘You’re fucking crazy, lady…’ Frank says, backing into the wall of the deli as he thumbs three numbers on his keypad.
‘We’ve passed right?’ Zara asks. ‘What now? Where’s Pete and Jacob?’
‘GET ME THE DAMN COPS,’ Frank bellows.
‘Shit,’ Thomas feels the situation worsening and scans the street and the windows spotting a hygiene certificate giving a rating of the premises stuck on the inside of the door.
‘City Health Department,’ he says quickly, glancing from the certificate to Frank. ‘Gordon called us…Mr Berkowitz, right? You’re meeting him here? He found a rat in his food…’
‘What?’ Frank asks, pulling the phone an inch from his ear.
‘Rushed him to hospital,’ Thomas says. ‘For er…for eating the dead rat…burger…thing…he’s sick man, really sick. We’re here to close the joint down. Goddam disgrace. Goddam rats in burgers man,’ he adds, glowering at Zara and Bear.
‘Very disgusting,’ Zara says, clearing her throat.
‘Don’t waste police time,’ Thomas says, nodding at Frank’s phone. ‘We’ve got this now. Get down to see Gordon. He’s not looking good…’
‘What?’ Frank gasps.
‘He’s gonna die man,’ Thomas says urgently. ‘Rat poisoning. The dead rat had eaten rat poison…HE’S DYING MAN!’
‘Shit, Gordon?’ Frank asks, closing the phone.
‘We need to get in there,’ Thomas says deeply with a steely eyed look at the deli. ‘Goddam rat burgers…not on my watch. Get to Gordon, Frank. You have a nice day now.’
‘Poor Gordon…’ Frank whimpers, rushing off to hail a cab.
‘Ah,’ Pete says, watching Frank rush off down the street. ‘Thomas yes? That was good thinking.’
‘That was luck and nothing more,’ Jacob replies stiffly. ‘And the first one is hardly what you’d call testing by any degree.’
‘This is an interesting day is it not my old friend?’
‘It’s something alright…’
‘Oh, my god,’ Zara says quietly, staring after Frank. ‘That was so good, Tom.’
‘Brilliant, mate,’ Bear says, grinning at him.
‘I saw the health certificate,’ Thomas says, ‘on the door…context, right?’ he bursts out laughing, shaking his head and bending over to rest his hands on his knees. ‘I can’t believe that worked.’
‘I think I was just scaring him,’ Zara says with a rueful look.
‘You think?’ Bear asks.
‘You’re a robot in a toaster,’ Thomas says, bursting out laughing again.
‘I never said it like that,’ she says pointedly.
‘You did,’ Bear says.
‘I bloody did not. Anyway, when you’ve finished mocking me perhaps we can go back.’
Pete sighs, sitting back in his chair to sip from his mug of coffee. ‘What’s next?’ he asks, watching Jacob rifling through sheets of papers as the noise around them increases sharply from a waitress striding through with a birthday cake held in both hands set with candles flaming on top. A sudden chorus of Happy Birthday to you from the staff ripples round with patrons and families joining in. A young boy in the next booth claps his hands in glee, standing on the chair to watch the cake coming towards his table.
Pete looks round, smiling at the view then notices Jacob saying something and leans closer. ‘I cannot hear you,’ Pete says, motioning at his ear.
Jacob scowls and tries again, talking louder but more voices join in the singing, drowning him out while Pete laughs in pleasure at his irritation.
‘ENOUGH!’ Jacob snaps. Like a mute button pressed on a television and instant silence is given with people going on about their business without a single noise created.
‘You are getting old and grumpy,’ Pete chides.
‘Couldn’t hear myself think,’ Jacob grumbles. ‘I said how about we do the zoo next?’
‘The zoo?’ Pete asks. ‘That is not the next one. The zoo is later, you know this, Jacob,’ he leans forward again, resting his elbows on the table to fix his old friend with a studied look. ‘It is not fair to punish them for Roshi’s infractions.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jacob says, sitting back and holding his hands out. ‘You’re probably right, they wouldn’t cope with it this soon. We’ll do Mrs Jones.’
‘I never said they wouldn’t cope,’ Pete says, pushing up from the table and leaning over the low partition wall to push a finger through the frosting on the birthday cake being served in absolute silence. ‘Do you want a slice?’ he asks with mouthful.
‘No, I do not want a bloody slice,’ Jacob says with a tut before pausing. ‘Is it vanilla again?’
‘It is always vanilla, and it will always be vanilla…unless of course we change it. Maybe chocolate next time, oui? I think Mrs Jones is the same as Frank Delaney. Do the zoo, oui, yes…I think so. Do the zoo.’
‘The zoo it is.’
14
‘Jimmy McConville is going to The Central Park Zoo with his mother to watch the sea lions being fed at 13:30 hours. He must not watch the feeding take place. There’s a bit more…Operatives must maintain hyper-vigilance during incursions into the real-world and be able to self-extract while minimising contamination of other time-lines…This doesn’t feel right you know,’ Zara says with a frown, reading the sheet again. ‘It’s like the terminology is aimed at people who know what they’re doing…self-extract? What does that even mean?’
‘Get out?’ Bear suggests.
‘How would I know?’ he asks then blanches. ‘Fifth Avenue,’ he adds, surprised at himself for knowing something he didn’t know.
‘We were on Fifth Avenue,’ Bear says.
‘They’ve obviously kept it local to make it easier,’ Zara says. ‘Shall we then? Bear, you go first again, please.’
‘You sound like a teacher,’ Bear says, crossing to the door.
‘Do I? Maybe I was? Do I look like a teacher?’
He pauses at the door, taking in her dark eyes and hair cut short on the sides and back but longer on top with tight afro curls. Elegant eyebrows, high cheekbones that all combine to imbue a sharpness with an obvious intelligence radiating with natural confidence.
‘Could be…or a lawyer,’ he says.
‘I’d rather be a lawyer than a teacher,’ she says. ‘Right, come on…let’s get it done. Do we have a lunch break? We should have a lunch break. I’m hungry. Are you hungry, Tom?’
From the alley to Fifth Avenue where Zara stands frowning for a few seconds with her hands on her hips trying to decide which way to go before Thomas asks a passer-by.
‘We don’t even know what Jimmy McConville looks like,’ Zara says, power-walking along Fifth Avenue. Smaller and shorter than Bear and Thomas but still generating a speed that makes them rush to keep up. ‘How do we know what he looks like?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bear says.
‘We’ll have to do it outside the zoo,’ she says after another minute, raising her voice over the noise of the traffic. ‘Zoo’s always have admission fees and we don’t have any money to get in…so we can’t stop them inside the zoo…If we go near a mother and child dressed like this we’ll get arrested…and this is America so we’ll probably just get shot.’
‘That’s racist,’ Thomas blurts.
‘Excuse me?’ she snaps, coming to a sudden stop with her hands on her hips. ‘It’s not racist…’
‘I didn’t mean racist…I meant…’
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ she says, powering on. ‘But it’s not racist.’
A Town Called Discovery Page 14