‘Failure!’ Campbell drove his fist into his palm. ‘There’s nothing in this world I hate more than failure, and people who perpetuate it. I refer to those people—’ He paused for dramatic emphasis. The crowd of DoorMen assembled outside the biochemistry lab leaned forward in anticipation. ‘As failures.’
The DoorMen nodded, impressed. Crowded together, they were an arresting sight. Most had fallen under Campbell’s sway to such a degree that they imitated his appearance. They had grown their hair out into long, straggly strands, and dressed in black army boots, three-quarter length shorts and black leather jackets. Those with light-coloured hair had dyed it black and their blond roots gleamed against their oily skulls.
‘Failure,’ Campbell continued, pacing before them like a drill sergeant. ‘The term comes from Old French: failler, meaning “to fail”. And that is what you’ve done. I didn’t ask for much. Just that you breed sponges and then extract and isolate a protein from them that increased human intelligence, transforming us into a new species, all while operating under conditions of absolute secrecy. But even in this simple task you have disappointed me.
‘You have failed to defend me from our enemies. Spies. Saboteurs. The police. Animal-welfare workers. The tax authorities and their lawyers. All have conspired against Project DoorWay. You were supposed to protect it from this scum. Instead you have conspired and collaborated with them. Oh, yes. There are those among us today who have had congress with these enemies of humanity.’
Nervous muttering amongst the DoorMen.
‘But despite your blunders and incompetence, I have prevailed. I produced a human dosage of DoorWay and tested it on a human subject. The only subject worthy of the honour.’
A gasp of hushed awe ran through the crowd. Campbell flashed them a victorious smile. ‘Yes. It was I. I alone. And I stand before you today, the first and only human to have subjected himself to the DoorWay drug, to tell you—’ He paused again and gave Danyl a forbidding glance. ‘I’m here to tell you the drug doesn’t work. It does nothing. Null result. No effect at all.’
Another hushed whisper ran through the crowd. Campbell tolerated it for several seconds and then barked, ‘Silence!’ The murmurs died. ‘In light of this new finding, I now announce the immediate closure of the DoorWay Project. And because I hold each person in this room individually and collectively responsible for this failure, you are all dismissed from my service, banished from this place from now until the crack of doom, or until I have need of you again as per the legally binding oaths you made. So go! Do not falter. Do not look back. Just leave. Now.’
The DoorMen exchanged glances, and Danyl expected them to respond with shocked denials, arguments, pleading. But instead they just turned and shuffled towards the exit door, whispering to one another in low, resigned tones. Danyl took a final look at Campbell, standing by the entrance to the lab, his head thrown back in a pose of imperious contempt, then shrugged and joined the queue.
‘Not you.’ Campbell’s voice rang out. Danyl turned. Campbell beckoned him forward and hissed, ‘No, writer. We still have much to discuss.’ He waited until the last DoorMan was out of earshot. ‘Those poor fools think that DoorWay was an abject failure but, sadly, you know better. You know it was worse than a failure. Follow me.’
He took his key from his pocket, unlocked the lab and waved Danyl inside. Danyl hesitated, curious. He glanced back at the DoorMen as they filed out and down the stairs. ‘I’m amazed they didn’t argue with you,’ he said. ‘All those months of work and they’re just leaving without a word.’
‘Oh, I dismiss them all the time. It’s a loyalty test. They wait outside the building for a few hours, or days, and eventually I let them back in. Not this time, though,’ he sighed.
‘So they’re just going to wait in the forecourt? In the rain? Because they think you’ll take them back?’
‘Some of them may wait for weeks. But that can’t be helped.’
‘Couldn’t you just tell them that this isn’t a test?’
‘Trust me, this is the best way.’
They entered the lab. Campbell crossed over to the freezers along the far wall and powered them all down, one by one, making a little note on his notepad as he did so. ‘This is my to-do list for the destruction of DoorWay,’ he explained. ‘Remind me to destroy it once we’re done. Now, writer. Do you know how to use an autoclave?’
‘I’m not going to autoclave anything.’ It was time to be firm. Danyl stood in the door and folded his arms. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, steel in his voice. ‘I’m a writer, not an autoclaver, and I’ve been trapped in your maze for most of the evening. I’m sorry your project didn’t work out but I need to sleep. So if you have something to say to me, say it now. Otherwise I’m leaving.’
‘Very well, then.’ Campbell’s black eyes gleamed. He made another note. ‘Let us be frank with each other. You heard me tell my DoorMen that the DoorWay drug has no effect, and that is what the world must believe. But you know that the drug works, and that it has a terrible consequence.’
‘What consequence?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Surely you can tell me. I’m your bard.’
‘I dare not tell anyone. You, least of all. Everything you’ve seen here tonight and everything you know about the drug must remain secret.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Ah, writer. You know more than you think.’
‘Then you’d better tell me, because if I don’t know what I know then I can’t keep it secret.’
‘That’s the tragedy. You can never know what it is that you know. But you must swear never to reveal it.’
Danyl opened his mouth to dispute the logic, then lost interest and replied, ‘Fine. Great. I swear I’ll keep your secret, whatever it is.’
Campbell nodded sternly. ‘See that you do. If you are true to your word I will reward you. Conversely, if you fail I will destroy you.’
‘Reward me? How?’
‘In exchange for your silence you will not be destroyed.’
‘Oh. OK.’
‘Then we have a deal?’
‘Sure. Can I go now?’
‘Splendid.’ Campbell made an ostentatious tick on his notepad. ‘Our business together is almost done. All that remains is for you to take me to your archive, help me destroy the remaining notes and drafts of your book, and then we can part ways.’
Danyl had anticipated this. ‘Don’t worry about the archive. I’ll take care of it.’
‘Take care of it? What does that mean?’
‘It means I’ll go through my notes and remove every reference to DoorWay.’
Campbell shook his head. ‘The entire archive needs to go. Immediately. This is non-negotiable.’
‘It is non-negotiable,’ Danyl agreed. ‘Because I’m not destroying my book.’
‘It is not your book.’
‘I wrote it.’
‘But I own it. We need to eradicate all traces,’ Campbell snapped. ‘No one must suspect I helped synthesise an hallucinogenic drug.’
‘What?’
‘Fool!’ Campbell rebuked himself. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Did you say hallucinogenic? Did you go on a trip? What did you see?’
‘Disregard everything you heard,’ Campbell commanded. ‘It was of no importance. No, that’s no good.’ He bit his lip, thinking hard. ‘I’m sorry, writer, but you know too much to be released back into human society. You will have to stay here in this tower, in indefinite quarantine. I’ll reimburse you, of course.’
‘I’m going to go now.’ Danyl backed away, heading for the door at speed. ‘Goodbye, Campbell.’
‘Writer,’ Campbell hissed. ‘Stand your ground. You are not dismissed.’
Danyl wanted to say something but he found it difficult to walk backwards while keeping one eye on C
ampbell while simultaneously glancing over his shoulder to see the path to the door. He said, ‘Dismissed? Why, I—’ And then he backed into a lab bench.
Campbell sprang towards him, his red-rimmed eyes boiling with madness, a glass jar in one hand and a fistful of paper towels in the other. Ether, Danyl realised. He’s trying to sedate me.
He gripped the strap of his satchel, slid it down his arm and swung it in a wide arc. It connected with the side of Campbell’s head. Campbell gave a great bellow and threw up his arms which tangled with the strap. He fell sideways, landing on a stainless-steel tray which toppled over with a discordant crash. He sprawled on the ground, wrestling with the satchel which was entangled around his neck.
Danyl ran.
He reached the exit door, expecting to hear Campbell’s footsteps hard behind him, but heard nothing. He ran on. Down the stairs, through the foyer, passing under the bleary-eyed gaze of the gigantic nude Winston Churchill, and through the main doorway to the tower. He stumbled out into the night.
The wind and rain beat down on him. Danyl zipped up his jacket and took stock. He had lost his latest draft: months of work. He had lost his ending. But he was free of Campbell and free of his lair.
The cold and wet was a welcome tonic after hours, months, a whole year trapped in the dead air of the tower of the Campbell Walker.
The DoorMen were assembled outside in the forecourt. They looked like statues, standing in the rain, staring up at the dark and crumbling tower. Danyl wound his way between them, stepping over the broken fragments of his laptop littering the concrete.
He reached the driveway: cars sped by on Aro Street lighting up shafts of spray. A lone figure stood at the end, silhouetted by the waves. It was Verity.
She was talking on her phone but when she saw Danyl she slipped it into her jacket pocket. Danyl hurried towards her, his mind filled with questions. Where had she been? Had the sale on the house gone through? Where did she get the money to buy it? Was the electricity on in the house on yet? Hot water? Could he go home and take a warm bath? He really felt like a bath. And why did she tell him to run away when Campbell was in his DoorWay-induced coma?
But as he drew closer to Verity and saw her brush back her damp hair and smile, he decided that none of these questions were important. Wherever she had been, whatever she knew, or saw, it was in the past—and the past was an over-complex story, incomplete and meaningless. Only their future together mattered.
Danyl walked towards Verity, empty-handed, exhausted, ready to go home.
Danyl crawled towards the exit, hidden and hurt and alone.
The cultists were over by the elevator. Danyl heard snatches of their conversation. They were tired and angry, eager to catch the intruder—fat or not, there seemed to be some confusion—and make an example of him. ‘You stay by the shaft,’ Danyl heard one of them say, ‘in case he abseils down it.’ He smiled bleakly. Abseil? He couldn’t even stand.
He crawled out of the cage and over to the wall opposite the elevator, using the piles of rubbish strewn around the basement as cover. He headed for the base of the ramp, dragging his lame leg behind him, gritting his teeth at the pain. He still wore his stolen cultist robe and—full credit—it was excellent attire for crawling silently through the darkness. The thick black cloth kept him hidden and protected his knees as he scrabbled through the broken concrete void.
His mind kept returning to the empty campervan. What did it mean? Why did Campbell keep an empty van locked away in his basement? Why did Stasia warn him not to look inside it? Why did his leg spontaneously resprain itself when he did? Was it because she was just a faith healer, a charlatan, and he had lost his faith? That must be it. He had been duped, but now he saw the truth.
A cold rage blew through him. He would expose these secrets, he vowed. And when he did, Campbell and Stasia would pay.
He crawled on, moving into a region of graded light. The dawn trickled into the basement through the grilles around the walls and poured down the ramp leading to the courtyard, the ramp Danyl had to crawl up without being seen. He dragged himself towards the radiance.
This was the moment of greatest danger. All it took was a single cultist to glance his way and see him silhouetted against the red sky, and he was doomed. But his luck held. He reached the top and crawled out into the crisp air of the dawn, and made his slow, agonising way along the side of the building, then across the courtyard to the wall.
The gate was in sight. He was nearly there, nearly free.
The sun climbed above the hills: its light lay about the high slopes of the valley and gleamed in the windows of the distant houses. It slid down the vertical lines of the tower, down towards Danyl as he wriggled and cowered in the darkness below.
There were eyes in the tower, he knew. Watching for him. He had seconds to reach the gate before the cruel sunrise dissolved the last deep shadows of the night and exposed him for all the cultists to see. He pressed his cheek against the cool ground. He could walk if he stood and leaned against the wall. It was his only hope.
He climbed to his feet, stumbled, caught himself and hopped towards the gate, racing the sun. After all he had been through, his fate now depended on the rotation of the Earth, a fickle mechanism that had always betrayed Danyl in the past. But he was halfway there now. Joy bubbled up through the pain. He was going to make it.
Then the sun rose above the wall, golden and blinding and malign, casting Danyl’s shadow vast across the courtyard, and immediately he heard cries from above and the sound of footsteps echoing from the basement.
The SSS had sighted their prey.
He reached the gate and lurched through it and along the narrow passageway leading back to the EZ Wellness Heal U Centre—but it was too late, too late. The cultists were almost upon him. He looked back as a mob of them burst through the gate like floodwaters. Colin, the trusting apprentice he had tricked and locked in the wardrobe, was in the lead, his face calm and pitiless, his eyes locked on Danyl, gleaming with hate.
Escape was impossible, so Danyl dropped to the ground and curled into the foetal position, his arms over his head, a panther, majestic and dying, bought low by a pack of jackals. Something red flickered in the corner of his vision. Danyl closed his eyes and braced for the pain.
Then a howl of agony rent the silence of the Aro Valley dawn, the cry of an animal in extreme torment. Danyl opened his eyes, surprised that the sound did not come from him. He peeked out between his forearms.
Colin lay beside him on the path, prone. His eyes were glassy; blood oozed from his nose and ears. Then something dragged him out of Danyl’s field of vision, something with enormous strength. He heard another cry of pain, so he rolled over and sat up. Stasia stood above him, resplendent in red silk, a violent fearlessness in her eyes, a single strand of hair fallen over her face. She held the semi-conscious Colin by his leg, and as the other cultists charged she pivoted, swung and hurled Colin through the air. He crashed into his brethren with a horrible organic sound: the collision and tearing of meat and bone. More screams rent the dawn. More robed figures burst through the gate, but when Stasia advanced on them they took in the sight of their fallen comrades, cowered, turned and ran.
Danyl collapsed. He was exhausted. Stasia knelt beside him and said, ‘You are safe now.’
He couldn’t reply. Her face blurred and fell away, and the last thing he saw were the trees overhead, their twining branches forming black mathematical patterns against the violet sky.
29
The story of the story of Koschei the Deathless
Danyl opened his eyes.
He lay on a narrow bed, still clad in the stolen wizard robe, which was covered in grime, fragments of broken glass and dried egg-yolk. He rolled onto his side. He was in a clean, bare room. The space was dimly lit; a curtain covered the only window. It was familiar, and after a few seconds of disorientation he recognised it. S
tasia’s bedroom.
How did he get here? He remembered crawling out of the tower, stumbling along the path, falling, and then . . . nothing. He propped himself up and looked around, starting and clutching the blanket to his chest when he saw Stasia seated on the floor in an effortless lotus position. Her eyes were closed. He opened his mouth to speak and her eyes flicked open.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Zdrástvujte.’
Danyl rubbed his eyes. ‘How long was I unconscious?’
‘Many hours. Is late in day.’
‘What happened? How did I get here?’
‘Answers later. First, take off foul robe.’ She floated to her feet, clapped her hands and tugged on Danyl’s sleeves. He was groggy and sleepily obedient, so he held up his arms while Stasia peeled the filthy, sweat-drenched robe from his body, leaving him stretched out on her bed, pink and half-naked.
He winced when he moved his leg: his ankle was bloated, unmovable. Danyl frowned. He remembered injuring it again, but didn’t remember how.
Stasia glanced at it. ‘I will see to wound. But first I dispose of this.’ She pinched his robe between her thumb and forefinger and with her other hand she stroked his hair and whispered, ‘You stay here. Rest, crippled hero. You are safe.’
Hero? Stasia left the room, closing the door behind her. Danyl lay back. He was a hero? That was reassuring. Something nagged at the back of his mind: a thought, a memory, a distant alarm urging him to wake, that he wasn’t safe here. But he was exhausted, and the room was dark and cool. He put it out of his mind and nestled into the crisp, clean sheets—then something sharp pricked his back. He yelped and sat up.
It was a shard of broken glass. It must have been trapped within the folds of his robe. He picked it up and examined it. The glass was opaque. One side was black, the other covered with painted white letters and swirling, red and black lines. Danyl turned it around. The letters spelled ‘UARA’. The lines around them formed a picture of a fire.
Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley Page 29