by Mark Reece
“Okay.”
Mohammed looked into the air for a moment then leant across the desk as far as he could go. He glanced around again, making himself appear very suspicious. “Be careful. With all that stuff going on about the infiltrators, you know how paranoid they are at the moment. I’ve heard that they’re looking for any excuse to sack people so that the organisation will be easier to sell to whoever puts a bid in for it.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s—”
“Just be careful, mate. Whatever you’re doing, be careful.”
Ethan felt a twinge of annoyance at the implied allegation and wanted to ask him what he meant, but was oppressed by the silence of the room and did not know whether their colleagues were listening. Although there were no rules about partners whispering to each other, he was aware of how suspect they would look if someone walked past. He gritted his teeth when giving his blood sample, wanting to punch the screen when the pain in his finger did not ebb.
It felt strange to start typing at almost ten o’clock, as he had usually carried out several enquiries or been immersed in research for hours by that point.
He had only written a few sentences when Peter walked past his desk. Peter paused and glanced at Ethan in a very obvious way. Christ. It’s a good job he’s never done any fieldwork or actually had to talk to a member of the public.
Peter walked past several more times until awareness of what he was doing made Ethan so irritated that he could not concentrate and rested his head in his hands.
When Peter next appeared, Ethan asked, “Looking for someone?”
Peter stepped into their space and tried to look anywhere but at Ethan, until his steady gaze eventually forced Peter to meet his eyes. Peter rested his hands on the back of Mohammed’s chair, making him turn around. Peter pulled back.
“Hi, Ethan. Yeah, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“Can it wait ’cos I’m really busy at the moment?”
“Well… no, I need to go through it now.”
“Right.”
Ethan smiled a strained smile. He wanted Peter to go ahead but he only stood there, and Ethan felt the stares of his colleagues on his back as he went to his office.
When they reached it, Peter picked up a policy manual and put it on a windowsill. Ethan felt himself becoming more and more angry. Just get on with it you idiot. He tried to temper his feelings, not wanting to make trouble for himself, but as he sat waiting for him to stop messing around, he knew that he was not going to be able to force himself to be polite.
Eventually, Peter sat before him and crossed his legs. “I just wanted to say first, thanks for all the work you’ve done lately, it’s been noticed by a lot of people and it’s been appreciated.”
“Yep.”
How can he say that? He doesn’t know what work I do. He doesn’t know the first thing about what goes on in the department.
“So this isn’t about you. You mustn’t think that. But there is a policy about lateness and it says that I’ve got to fill in a report.”
“I know what the policy is, I wrote the policy. I’ve enforced the policy more than once.”
Peter winced at the reference to the fact that Daniel had chosen Ethan as the representative for their section to the SDMA disciplinary board, which meant that he had updated the guidance for supervisors around disciplinary and performance issues. He was the only person of his rank at the monthly meetings, Daniel having evidently not trusted Peter with the task. After he had presented various case studies of investigations that had shown that lateness to work was often an early sign of sleep disorder, the policy around attendance had become harsher, and required all supervisors to complete a red report (so called because of the colour of the form), whenever anyone was more than half an hour late, to be sent to the local DIA attaché. Failure to comply with the policy was a disciplinary offence.
“You know what needs to happen then. What were you doing this morning, Ethan?”
“This is the intrusive questioning then, is it?” he asked, referring to one of the requirements of the policy, “… It was personal stuff. There’s nothing wrong.”
“Okay, but you know I can’t put that. What personal stuff?”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking to you about it. Put in the report if you want and I’ll speak to the DIA. I will say one thing though. You know what it says about extenuating circumstances. Well, what would happen if I mentioned about the hundred hours I’ve got on my card? I’ve never put all my hours on overtime. Perhaps I should, then we’ll see what happens to the budget.”
“That’s a separate issue.”
“Oh right, a separate issue. When we’ve finished here then, I’ll go over my time owing card and put in overtime for all the occasions I’ve stayed over. Strangely enough, I don’t seem to remember anyone else staying with me. But we’ll see what happens when Dan finds out that I’ve been taken off Hypnos, shall we? Perhaps you can carry on with it. There might be a question or two raised about the lack of supervision around some of the jobs as well. Have we done here then, or did you have more to say?”
Peter looked at the ceiling, and for a moment, Ethan thought he was going to reply, but he only shook his head. As he left the office, Ethan could not help thinking that he was displaying all the classic signs of someone with a sleep disorder; even the speech Ethan had just made was partly quoted from a subject of one of the case studies he had researched when updating the disciplinary policies. He was safe on that point, of course, because there was no way that Peter would have read it, or remembered it if he had.
He squeezed past Mohammed and stared sullenly at his screen. Ethan knew that he would not be able to get away with saying nothing about what had happened but did not want to initiate a conversation.
“What did he want?” Mohammed asked in a low voice.
“Just a load of shit. Let’s talk about it later, I can’t be arsed to go through it now. How are you anyway, is Hasna getting on all right?”
“Yeah, fine, thanks for asking.” Mohammed looked around the screen to grin at him.
I hate it when he gets like this, when he can’t say what he wants because he thinks it’ll upset people.
“Right. Better get going on this then I suppose, I’ve got a million and one things to do before Friday.”
They did not speak again that morning.
Ethan could not stop yawning. The first time it happened, he felt embarrassed, but after surreptitiously holding still and flicking his eyes from left to right, he satisfied himself that no one had noticed. It struck him as ridiculous that he was sitting in the SDMA headquarters and no one had identified that anything was wrong. On the other hand, knowing his colleagues as he did, that was hardly surprising.
He thought about the whispered conversation he had had with Mo before being called into Peter’s office that morning. He knew that Mo would keep his secret as long as he was able, up until the point where he fell asleep in front of him.
When he yawned particularly loudly, Ethan sunk into his seat. However, after that, he became blasé, thinking that he was working himself up over nothing. After all, there was nothing specific against yawning in policy, it was only his belief about the discipline that an SDMA agent should possess, which was a voluntary code he had imposed on himself that anyone else would have laughed at if he had told them.
He was able to work for an hour before exhaustion rose in his chest, eroding his concentration until he had to stop and turn around. The city took on a gothic, sepulchral air through the blacked-out windows, every building seeming elongated, every roof a spire. The security glass turned the city into a patchwork of shadows, a place of ubiquitous suspicion, which was amplified by the feeling behind his eyes.
He yawned then stretched his arms until they hurt, before forcing himself to concentrate, until the feeling returned a few minutes later. Ethan worried
that his last redoubt from exhaustion, his workplace, had been breached.
When he went to the other side of the office to do some photocopying later that day, he heard Alfie telling Jo that Simon was not ill after all but had been seconded to the DIA. Ethan made several copies of the same pages to have an excuse to continue listening. Alfie said that Simon was enjoying himself so much that he was using any excuse to stay there. Jo asked him how he knew and Alfie said that he just did in a serious tone that Ethan had never heard him use before. Although he could not be sure that it was true, the thought that someone who had worked with him might now be DIA added to his anxiety.
Jo delivered a box to his desk that afternoon, pouting at him when meeting his eyes. When he opened it, he was amazed to see the pamphlets from Operation Amber 518, together with the forensic analysis report. The fastest he had ever previously got a medium priority case back was a month. The report identified eleven sets of fingerprints on each pamphlet, and described the type of paper and ink used. Most significantly, there was a reference number with ‘90% hit’ written beside it. That meant that they had matched the combined paper and ink to a Mirror record. Paper and ink would most likely be linked to a safehouse where propaganda was produced.
Ethan opened Mirror and typed in the reference number. A warning message filled the screen:
‘This is a restricted record. Your attempt to access this record has been logged. A security access form is required to view this record’.
Ethan scratched the back of his head. He had never heard of restricted records before. After all, the amount of people who could access Mirror was very small, and if any agents could not be trusted to view anything stored there then they should be thrown out of the organisation.
He logged into the secure intranet and searched it for ‘security access’. He found the form, filled it in, and sent it to the e-mail specified. He looked at his screen for several minutes afterwards, feeling an inexplicable sense of dread. It was as if he had thrown a stone off the roof of a tall building and was watching it fall with the sudden realisation that it could kill anyone who happened to be walking past.
When he had recovered enough to be able to move again, Ethan realised that the policeman had not replied to his request to confirm whether there had been any alarm clocks in the house. He sent him another e-mail. His mobile went off, making him jump. It was an automated message from the SDMA, giving performance figures for SC cases in his area, which his research had shown were entirely unreliable.
Strangely, Peter was one of the last to go that day, and paused at the edge of his workspace before leaving. However, he did not say anything and went a moment later.
What’s he up to? He doesn’t have enough work during his normal hours, never mind staying late. Ethan’s curiosity was such that he had to talk himself out of breaking into Peter’s office and searching his drawers.
Being on his own, typing in the darkness after all the lights had gone out except those in his space, made Ethan’s exhaustion move from his eyes and settle over his skin, like a fine powder he could not brush off. He was always aware of it but could struggle on, in the same way that one can ignore a dull pain but not an acute one. His concentration was only broken when his mobile buzzed, which made him stop, as only Aislin would contact him at that time. The message read:
Settled in now after all that lot thank God! How you?Missing me?
He smiled at the screen and was thinking about how to reply when the feeling behind his eyes returned, more severe than ever.
Ethan stood and lights in the walkway flashed. Shadows flitted between empty workspaces and darkened windows. His heart leapt and, for a moment, he imagined someone sitting at one of the desks, staring at him. There was no one there, and as he moved along the walkway to stretch his legs, lights lit up three steps ahead of him in whichever direction he turned. His feet hurt as if he had trod on spikes and he had to hold a divider to stop himself from doubling over. With a supreme effort, staggering as if he had been stabbed in the stomach, he managed to get back to his desk and lay his head on it. There was no struggle this time against the urge; it had been all he could manage to stop himself from collapsing on the floor.
When he woke into darkness, he heard a click and the light above him turned on, making him wince. He felt as sluggish as if he had slept for a lifetime, and had to press his hands against his desk to stop himself from putting his head down again, knowing that he would return to sleep if he did. He fumbled in his pockets for his mobile as if he were drunk, eventually finding it to see that it was one in the morning.
“Shit.”
His arm brushed against his keyboard and the screen glowed as harshly as the light. He saw the time again in the bottom right corner.
His mind roved over his problems, unable to focus. Will I be able to get out of the building at this time? Do the security cameras cover my desk and will they be able to pick me out in the dark? What other security measures are there? Even if I can leave, will the guards think it suspicious that I was still in the building? Will leaving activate a security alert? How am I going to get home? The last train left hours ago.
“Shit.”
His feeling of compulsion, of wanting to lay down his head, was as strong as before, although he was able to resist now, making him despair of his previous weakness. However, there was no time to think about that. Ethan picked his landline up and was about to ring for a taxi, when he thought that that would be too easy to trace. Even easier than sleeping on my desk.
What can I do, other than walk out of the building and hope for the best? He had momentarily considered going back to sleep and setting an alarm on his mobile for five o’clock, so as to pretend that he had got there early, but that seemed to be tempting fate, even for him.
Lights flashed on before him, and from the corner of his vision, he saw them flickering off behind him as he went. When he walked along the corridor, posters on noticeboards fluttered without evident cause, and there were red dots on every door leading to other sections. He did not know whether they were from security cameras or the edges of his imagination.
The lip-shaped security barrier made a sucking sound as he scanned his identity card and was cool to the touch. Ethan paused in the lobby, scrutinizing the poorly lit circular counter, before realising that a guard in its centre was staring at him. Feeling his fingers clench, Ethan nodded at him and muttered ‘night’ before hurrying to the door, expecting to be called back any moment. He was peppered with dots of light.
There was a line of guards outside, all muscular and looking outwards, their uniforms scruffy. None of them paid any attention to him and Ethan wondered whether there were always that many on duty at night.
As soon as he was out of their sight, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose when remembering the feeble way he had spoken to their supervisor. Of course there would be someone there, of course they wouldn’t leave the building undefended. Why didn’t I just act naturally?
He had not been out so late since childhood, and felt a certain professional interest mixed with giddy excitement at the wantonness of the night, lit as it was by sensually twinkling stars. Most companies operating in Central Zone could afford only the most basic holographic projectors, making their advertisements blink rapidly. There was degeneracy evident on the faces of the drug-addled sleep offenders who rested against walls and lamp posts, their vacant stares seeming to pierce him, their eyes distended by the rings underneath them. Ethan was careful to look through everyone he saw.
The only way he knew to get home at that time was the taxis behind the train station. Most of the drivers plied their trade illegally without a night-shift licence, meaning that using them probably made him party to a crime, but doing so was hardly more dangerous than everything else he had done that night.
Although the jewellery shop was shuttered, he crossed the road to avoid it. Ethan had investigat
ed the activities that took place in areas like this many times, but had never before seen firsthand the prostitutes dressed in red, the colour chosen to attract the attention of the sleep deprived. Many of the men walking the streets were painfully thin and limped with their heads down. Those involved in the night-time economy of drugs, weapons, and women had become implicated in SC breaches soon after the Sleep Code was introduced, with drug dealers trading in counterfeit night-shift licences to allow their clients to legitimise their lifestyles.
It was likely that nine out of ten people around him were sleep criminals of one description or another; the performance problems he had identified in Hypnos meant that in the inner cities, SC breaches and other crimes were carried out more or less openly.
The world at night was slow moving, with things always shifting in the corners of his eyes. Several times, Ethan saw, or thought he saw, people nodding at each other, handing over packages, then slinking into alleyways. Lights flashed across windows and glistened over the city. He felt very vulnerable, painfully aware of his status as an SDMA agent. Whenever anyone seemed about to talk to him, he increased his pace until all he could hear were the rhythmical thumps of his shoes against the floor.
The taxi rank was quieter than when he passed it during the day, with only a dozen or so cars in the concrete space that was once designated for an expansion of the train station. A group of Asian men watched him while smoking, the pleasure they took from their cigarettes evident in the way they relaxed and stretched their arms after every few drags.
Ethan approached one of the taxis and knocked on its window. No one answered so he knocked again, and the driver pointed to the cab at the head of the line. When he knocked on the window of the lead taxi, the doors unlocked and he got inside. He told the driver his address and he drove off wordlessly.
There was a sweet smell inside, like incense, and Ethan rested his eyes for a few seconds before feeling himself going drowsy. He pinched the top of his legs venomously, leaving a persistent dull sting. He could not tell whether the driver had seen him. In any case, it was unlikely that he would have cared. Taxi drivers were notorious for facilitating SC breaches. Ethan was more concerned with the cost of the fare, as the ticker facing him, white on oblong black like an old fashioned alarm clock, increased by ten pence every few seconds.