The Dreams of the Eternal City
Page 17
“No, that’ll be enough for the report.”
“What about the references?”
“Yeah, I could do with putting in the sources.”
“Right, the fire brigade cases are 1XT, forward slash, 1095 dash K12. There were a few of them but they were all investigated under one number. The symbols job is I409186D12.”
“Cheers.”
“Anything else? Warm your chair for you?”
“It would be nice.”
Mohammed laughed before going back to his work, shaking his head. Ethan stared at his screen. The information floated around his mind for the rest of the day, in the same way that one chews gum without conscious awareness of the movements of one’s jaw.
That afternoon, he received an e-mail to say that Security Support had received a package for an operation linked to him. Ethan immediately felt excited, as it was the first package he had received since he had been assigned to Hypnos. Usually, he would receive at least one a day.
He logged into his Security Support account and arranged for it to be delivered to his floor. All agents had access to the system and had to input which cases they were assigned to, verifiable by a unique reference number. All mail sent to the organisation had to be labelled with either the SDMA case number or operation name, which was checked before the porters delivered it to the relevant floor.
The system was designed to ensure that anyone dealing with the organisation could not identify a particular member of staff. Ethan thought that the officer had labelled the package in the specified manner without being told what to do. He must have dealt with us before. Nevertheless, he was annoyed with himself for the omission. Unlabelled mail or parcels were liable to be destroyed, and the organisation occasionally carried out disciplinary investigations against those who had failed to follow policy.
Items were conveyed to each floor every three hours, and by convention, agents would retrieve them ten minutes after delivery, so that they would not see the porters. Ethan constantly looked at the clock and paced around his workspace at five past.
He retrieved the department’s post from a space near the lift and gave the various packages to the other agents. The amount of mail they received was a good measure of how busy they were, as they should be having material from other agencies all the time. No one had more than a single item.
He opened his box like a child who has been waiting impatiently for their birthday for months, going to bed every night thinking about the toys they had been promised. It contained photocopies of various police statements, and the seized pamphlets, each separately wrapped in a transparent exhibit bag. The policeman was obviously experienced in these matters.
Ethan read the statements so greedily that he had to go over them again to grasp their meaning. They confirmed what DS Tomalin had told him in his initial e-mail about the suspect sleeping when they had arrested him. They were very detailed and well written, also giving information about the state of his bed, describing how the sheets were dirty and that there were no pyjamas in the bedroom. Ethan noted both facts in his investigative report, as they were common occurrences in hardened sleep offenders.
Each pamphlet had the Iklonian lightning symbol printed repeatedly around its edges. They criticised aspects of the Sleep Code, and argued in demagogic terms about the supposed difficulties it caused. They were very similar, and he had to place them side by side to see the differences in phrasing. After giving the central argument, the bottom of each leaflet gave statistics about the problems caused by lack of sleep.
After looking at them for several minutes, Ethan thought that they must have been designed for people working in different occupations. This is seriously well organised subversion. He noted the inference in his report.
There was already almost enough to prove a case of section one, subsection six: illegal sleep connected to other criminal activity. If any of the other agents had been assigned to the case, it would certainly have ended there. However, if his inference was correct, then there was a clear possibility of a section two, sub-section five: undermining fundamental law by encouraging Sleep Code breaches through use of extra-parliamentary measures.
He wrote up his reasoning in his report, then prepared a covering letter for the pamphlets to be examined by the SDMA’s forensic experts, recommending that fingerprints be taken, and for tests to be carried out to establish the origin of the paper and ink.
The final action he needed to complete before sending them on was to check the suspect in Mirror. When he saw that he was connected to over fifty records, Ethan ran a ‘lifestyle sweep’ to produce charts showing how they were connected, and bringing back information from other agencies in a format that would allow him to request further details if necessary. He resisted the temptation to read it now – there was no point when he would have to do so again when the pamphlets were returned, and wrote the system reference on his covering letter, before labelling the box containing the pamphlets and taking it to the space near the lift.
When he got back to his desk, Ethan thought that, given how professional the policeman had been, it was surprising that he had not thought to say whether there had been an alarm clock in the house and whether there had been any evidence of tampering if there was. He sent him an e-mail about it.
It felt surreal to be able to come and go as he wished, without a call to Aislin to justify what he was doing. He had sent her a message earlier in the day asking whether they had settled in, but on the basis of her comments from the weekend, he did not expect a reply until that evening.
He felt as alone as if he were looking out from a ship into the boundless waves of a storm. He remembered his first day at the SDMA, when Aislin was still at university. She had met him before work and could not stop adjusting his suit, saying how smart he looked. Some of his mystique had dissolved when she had started working for the organisation.
Ethan scared himself on his way home, as he became so lost in reverie that he thought he had fallen asleep. The strain of everything that had happened that day: the hard work, the subterfuge with Mo, the intensity with which Ethan had thought about Aislin, was such that he felt as if he were sinking into his chair.
When he got back, he opened the door to find a thick wedge of post on the floor, as if he had just returned after a fortnight long holiday. He put it on a window ledge before yawning and putting his bag in his bedroom. Ethan was hungry but did not feel like cooking. He put insurance renewal letters into a pile for later. He thought that he had found something interesting when he saw a multi-coloured envelope, but it was only coupons from the local supermarket.
At the bottom of the pile was an A5-sized parcel. It was so light that it seemed to be empty and he had to shake it several times before a black rose fell out. He rubbed a petal between his thumb and forefinger; it felt thick and rubbery, as if it had been spray painted, but when he checked his fingers, nothing had come off. There were two pieces of notepaper inside. The same handwriting was used on both of them, so neat and perfectly spaced that he at first mistook it for typeface. On one piece of paper were the words ‘Iklonian Five’, underneath which was written an address and Wednesday’s date, followed by ‘six o’clock’. On the other was written ‘Aislin Doherty’, her home address, the address where she was staying in Ireland, her mobile and home numbers, date of birth, and a sort code and account number.
Reading the notes made Ethan feel what it had to be like to be driving and see another car swerve in front of him, giving him a moment to realise that he was going to crash. This is it then. They know my address now. I’ll never get away. One mistake and they have you. How the hell did they even find out that I’d fallen asleep that night? I’d been worked into the floor, how was it my fault? For a moment, he was consumed with childish rage and wanted to tear up the note and kick something; he would have enjoyed smashing the MV and hurting himself so as to have something else to concentrate on.
Will Ash still want to know me? It seemed unlikely. She would lose her job for sure, but it was more than that. For the first time, he realised the dishonesty that his sleep problems had induced, this whole aspect of his life that he had kept from her. When he thought about how much better they had got on lately, he had to stop himself from crying.
He stood perfectly still, looking out the window. The inclusion of Aislin’s phone numbers had to be only a threat, as she would have contacted him had they rung her. Ethan did not recognise the sort code but had no doubt that it related to one of her accounts. Neither side would ever let him go. Someone with his knowledge who had been shown to associate with Icks would be considered a high priority for the rest of his life. If he was lucky, he would be put into some covert DIA operation to infiltrate an Ick safe house; if unlucky, he would be charged in a DIA court and be sentenced to indefinite detention in DIA custody under whichever provision of the Subversion Act proved most convenient. He was depressed that the Iklonians had found him first.
Eight
He did not get to sleep until very late, constantly going over all the injustices he had been subject to and the unfairness of everything that had happened. When he woke reluctantly into darkness, he turned over in a confusion of groggy miasma. He lay still, imagining that he would soon fall back asleep. However, he was too unsettled, his worries retuning within a few moments of consciousness. Ethan got up to see that it was three in the morning.
His stomach rumbled and he ate a packet of crisps in the dark, not wanting to put the lights on and give away to the street the fact that he was up so late. The food barely dented his hunger, and he remembered that he had not had any dinner the previous night. After searching through the cupboards with his fingertips, he found some soup. Ethan lit the room with his mobile and listlessly watched the red glow of the hob.
He ate in front of the MV, continually going back to the kitchen to get more bread until he had eaten half a loaf. Ethan lay on his back and flicked through the channels, allowing the mixture of advertisements, repeated news reports with jaded presenters, and pornography, to wash over him. He switched on the holographic projector and watched two naked women for a few seconds, their vacant eyes being no more real in three dimensions than in two.
His stomach felt distended. He knew what he was doing was stupid, and yet another risk, as the SDMA sometimes checked patterns of electricity and gas usage with United Power when investigating a suspected SC breach or Iklonian agent. A high usage early in the morning often identified sleep problems and therefore a vulnerability to subversion. Ethan could not be bothered to justify to himself what he was doing, so caught up was he in his suffering. He was sore all over, felt that he had no control over anything, and that there was no way out. It was unfair.
Although he soon started to feel tired again, he could not bring himself to stand until five in the morning, when his stomach gurgled. He had barely noticed the room starting to lighten and felt out of alignment with time, that he should be doing anything other than what he was doing. His intense exhaustion felt like having two black eyes, and his legs tingled, a feeling that would not go away no matter how many times he rubbed or shook them. Just under an hour and a half of sleep before he would have to get up. He debated with himself as to whether he would feel better by staying up all night, before deciding that at least his stomach might calm down if he had a nap before leaving for work.
He spent his time in bed turning, stretching, listening to his stomach, then catching a few moments sleep before waking with the feeling that his alarm clock had gone off, then realising that the house was silent. The nightmarish intensity made him acutely aware of the fact that he was alone in the darkness, that everyone except him and the SC criminals were enjoying their rest.
The sound of his alarm clock hit him like a punch to the nose. Just lately, he knew whether he was going to have a good day seconds after waking. His limbs would not move in the way he wanted them to; getting up seemed no longer within his power, so he remained where he was, being beaten by the sound. By the time he was able to stand, Ethan struggled to his alarm clock to see that he had been lying in bed for twenty minutes.
He felt that he should be rushing around to try to make up the time, but did not have the energy.
After being unable to fit slices of bread into the toaster, he angrily scrunched them up then rested his arms on a worktop with his head bowed, stupefied by the pettiness of his actions. He closed his eyes, and for a moment felt the comforting embrace of semi-consciousness. Ethan had an urge to lie on the floor and sleep where he was. Perhaps I should. I’m bound to get caught sooner or later, so why not sooner? None of it made any sense. Even assuming that he had not slept after going back to bed, he had still had five hours the previous day, which was longer than normal. Why did people have illegal sleep if it made no difference? The more you have, the more you need, like a drug.
He had to drive because he had missed his usual train. As he was leaving his street, the shapes around him seemed to move closer then further away and he stopped to rub his eyes. When he had recovered, he found that he was in the middle of a road, so close to a parked car that he had to wind his window down to see whether he had hit it. Multiple red lights flashed on the dashboard. This is so dangerous. It demonstrated the truth of the warnings against tired driving: every hour less than the recommended quantity of sleep was the equivalent of five units of alcohol.
He steeled himself before setting off again, and by a supreme act of concentration, he remained aware of everything around him, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other. However, when he became caught in a traffic jam and relaxed, he blacked out for a moment and jumped when a car horn sounded behind him, finding himself resting his head on the steering wheel, his arms lolling down his sides as if he were dead. He was too frightened to look around to see whether anyone had seen what had happened. He turned around and drove to the train station.
Fear kept him alert throughout the journey; he constantly checked the makes and models of cars around him to see whether he was being followed. He did not think he was.
“There were five instances of harsh breaking during your last journey. Your insurance company has been informed.”
Ethan stared at the graph on the safety display, which demonstrated that the car’s fuel efficiency had reduced significantly during the last two weeks. He chewed the inside of his cheeks. No wonder the premium went up. Something else I’ve ruined.
He was already half an hour late by the time he arrived in the city. As he stumbled along the pavement, Ethan felt his exhaustion like a terrible, wearying drubbing, as if all the negative feelings he had ever experienced had combined into a moment. The events of the previous night had wiped out his recent happiness with Aislin, to the extent that he hardly remembered her.
He found walking as difficult as driving and had to promise himself that he could rest when he reached an alleyway. When he got there, he pushed against a wall to stretch his arms. From his angle, irregularly laid cobblestones seemed anachronistic under the shadows of the skyscrapers and wide glass structures that dominated the city. The alleyway was near the entrance to one of the old high streets from the time before the cities had merged, the battered shops unfamiliar despite him walking within a few metres of them every day. They were mere backdrops to reality, desperately clinging to their meagre existence without ever actually disappearing.
Ethan remained there for several minutes, knowing that there was nowhere else he could stop before reaching the SDMA building. He ignored his mobile buzzing in his pocket and took a deep breath before willing himself onwards.
None of the guards challenged o
r even acknowledged him. When he reached his office, people glanced up as he passed them. He stumbled over the carpet and Mohammed looked at him from over their divide before ducking down. Ethan felt instant annoyance, knowing that he was going to have to explain himself.
“All right?” he asked, as casually as he could.
“Hi.”
His throat was very tight.
“Did you get my message?” Mohammed asked.
“Oh, was that you? I thought I heard my phone go off but I was rushing.”
He checked his mobile. The message read:
Hi you okay? Dweeb asking about you.
“Right. What’s his problem?”
“He didn’t say much, he was just walking backwards and forwards, and after about the fifth time, he asked if I’d seen you today.”
“What did you say?”
“Just that I hadn’t. He flapped about a bit then went away.”
“That’s strange. What’s made him come out of his cage? When’s the last time he was interested in what’s going on?”
“It had to happen sometime I suppose. Perhaps he felt guilty. You know, with all that money he makes for doing not a lot.” Mohammed typed loudly for a few seconds while Ethan stretched and looked at his keyboard. “Anyway, were you okay this morning? I was worried for a minute.”
Mohammed peered around his computer to focus on him.
“Yeah fine, just… just a bit of a family crisis. Aislin rang early and woke me up; she’s been upset with some of the things going on with her dad. To be honest, it’s been hard work lately. You know what he’s like, I’m fed up with it all now.”
“What’s been going on?”
“I don’t want to go through it all again now. Sorry… Thanks for asking but I’ve had hours of it this morning.”