by Adam Roberts
It was odd, but the succession of his arrest upon the conversation with Thinity did not seem implausible to him. In some subterranean part of his consciousness it felt right that he had been arrested after meeting Thinity. He had handled the meeting so very badly. He deserved punishment. She was, after all, the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with, or, at the very least, the woman he was planning to spend the rest of his life trying to nag into going to bed with him. And he had been so stupid, so very clumsy. He deserved to be arrested after a performance like that. Would he ever see her again? If he did, would he acquit himself better? The thoughts buzzed and buzzed in his mind.
In minutes the car drew up in front of a blank-faced office block. For a moment Gordon’s mind clarified, like butter. Obviously he had not been arrested for botching a chance to chat up a beautiful woman. Which in turn led him to wonder: why had he been arrested? On what charge?
‘Hey,’ he said, to his two captors. ‘Why have I been arrested?’
They did not reply.
Gordon was yanked from the car, marched inside, and taken into a small room at the far end of a beige corridor. Inside, the two top-hatted men sat him in a chair at a formica table. One wall of the room was taken by an enormous mirror.
The two top-hatted men stood before him, arms crossed, their faces unreadable behind their shades.
‘Mr Everyman?’ said the first.
‘Oh,’ said Gordon. ‘Hello there.’
‘You are Gordon Everyman. You live in an apartment, you work in an office, you live a normal life.’ He spoke with a clear American accent, but there was something distinctly odd in his vocal inflections. It was as if he were an automaton with a faulty power supply that surged and faded randomly, with the result that emphasis fell in unexpected ways upon his words, and his sentences were cross-woven with pauses and silences in the oddest places. He spoke, Gordon thought, like the King James Bible: it always seemed to be the least likely words in his sentences that were italicised.
‘Yeah,’ Gordon said.
‘In this life,’ he continued, ‘you are a model citizen. You even help your landlady carry out the trash.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Gordon.
The Secret Serviceman angled his head slightly to the left.
‘We say rubbish,’ said Gordon. ‘Not trash. And it’s rubbish to suggest I help my landlady with the rubbish. I’m an owner-occupier, I don’t have a landlady.’
‘You have,’ the Secret Serviceman continued, ignoring him, ‘another identity, however, a much less licit one. You are a hacker. In the kingdom of hacking, you are known as Mean-o.’
‘Nemo,’ said Gordon. As soon as he said it, he thought to himself that he shouldn’t have conceded the point so quickly. ‘I mean,’ he added, ‘if I were a hacker – and I’m not saying I am, but hypothetically, you know, then I wouldn’t call myself Neejerk, now, would I? I might pick a name like, let’s say, Nemo. Just for example. Not because it’s my name.’ He was, he knew, starting to gabble again. But he could barely control himself. It was a tic. He couldn’t help himself.
The Secret Serviceman was consulting a file on the table. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Nemo, of course.’
‘Well, yes, as I say, hypothetically. Hypo,’ Gordon added, looking from the first Secret Serviceman to the second, ‘thetically. Always assuming I wanted to do something as illegal as hacking in the first place, which obviously I wouldn’t.’ He trailed off. The two Secret Servicemen were looking at him oddly. ‘Look,’ he said frankly, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but – top hats? This isn’t the Victorian age, is it, now, after all. And the sunglasses don’t really go with the hats, do they? I mean, did they even have sunglasses in the Victorian age? You.’ He nodded at the nearest of them. ‘What’s your name?’
‘As far as you are concerned I do not have a name,’ said the Secret Serviceman, taking a precise grip of the rim of his top hat between his forefinger and thumb and adjusting it minutely. ‘I am merely a Gent.’
‘Mr Gent,’ said Gordon, attempting a smile. ‘And your name?’ to the other.
The second man looked at Gent, who said, ‘He is also a Gent.’
‘Can’t he speak for himself?’
‘Never mind that,’ said the first Gent. He seemed peeved. ‘Please recall we have you under arrest.’
‘You mean to say,’ prompted Gordon, ‘that you’re the ones asking the questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Gent, pleased. ‘You put it extremely well.’
‘Fine,’ said Gordon. ‘Ask away.’ He tried another smile.
‘We expect you,’ said Gent, looking a little nonplussed by Gordon’s acquiescence, ‘to confess.’
‘Confess to what?’
‘To being a hacker, under the cognomen Nemo.’
‘Vigorously,’ said Gordon, folding his arms.
There was silence for a little time. ‘Ah,’ said Gent, his shades slipping down his nose a little, ‘does that mean you vigorously confess that it is so? Or that you vigorously deny it?’
‘Yes,’ said Gordon. ‘The former.’
‘Former?’
‘Former.’
‘I see,’ said Gent tentatively. ‘We will need you to give us names. Betray your friends? Cooperate fully?’
‘I don’t really have any friends,’ said Gordon. ‘I would, though, if I had any. Betray them, I mean. Honestly. Can I go now?’
The two Gents looked at one another.
‘To be honest,’ said the first Gent candidly, ‘we’re used to a little more resistance.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Or at least, a little more clarity of resistance. Are you resisting us, Mr Everyman?’
‘Wouldn’t,’ said the second Gent, speaking for the first time, ‘you like your phone call?’ He possessed a squeaky and rather trembly voice; it did not surprise Gordon that he had previously held back from speaking.
‘My phone call?’
‘Your, you know, your entitlement? To your phone call?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Gordon cautiously. ‘Who would I call?’
‘Your,’ hinted the first Gent, ‘lawyer?’
‘I don’t have a lawyer as such,’ Gordon admitted. ‘Not as such. Although, if I think about it, I did use this chap called Pendleton to witness my house deeds. Pendleton, commissioner of oaths and suchlike. He had an office above the discount sofa warehouse in Feltham High Street. I could call him, I suppose. I mean – if you think that would be a good idea.’
‘Good, yes,’ said the first Gent, smiling now. ‘Good. Go on then.’
‘Go on what?’
‘Request your phone call.’
‘Um . . .’
‘Request it,’ urged Gent. ‘Go on.’
‘All right,’ said Gordon uncertainly. ‘May I please make a phone call?’
The two men looked at one another. A smile troubled the lips of Mr Gent. He hoisted himself up to stand taller, set his legs a little apart, and then spoke as if reciting a memorised line. ‘But what use is a telephone call,’ he asked, ‘if you have no mouth?’
‘Begging your?’ replied Gordon. ‘I’ve got a mouth. Look.’ He patted his lips with his right hand. ‘This is my mmmm. Mm mmmm. Mmm?’
The two Gents were chuckling openly now. Gordon turned in his chair, and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror set into the opposite wall. His mouth had vanished: from nose to chin was now a smooth expanse of flesh. His eyebrows attempted to scurry for cover under his fringe. White was visible all around his pupils. This was a most unexpected thing.
He ran fingers over the flesh where his mouth had once been, but it was smooth and contiguous. Underneath the skin he could feel his teeth and his tongue, but the cavity of his mouth was now wholly covered over.
It was very odd indeed.
The first Gent, grinning broadly, took a seat opposite Gordon across the little table. ‘Perhaps we’ve made our point, Mr – Everyman? Perhaps now you’ll – be prepared to aid our investigations?’
‘Mm
mm mmmmm,’ said Gordon earnestly, nodding hard.
‘We should start,’ said Gent, ‘with the name of your first contact?’
‘Mmmmmm MmMM!’ said Gordon.
Gent looked nonplussed. ‘You understand,’ he continued, his voice less assertive, ‘that we are most interested in securing the lead hacker, the terrorist who goes under the name Thinity. Do – you understand?’
‘Mmm,’ said Gordon.
‘What are her current whereabouts?’
‘MmmmM Mhmm mM M mMmmmmm mmmmmm,’ said Gordon, ‘Mmmm M’mmmm mMMM mM mmM Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm.’
There was a pause.
Gent’s eyebrows had moved closer together, and lines had appeared on his forehead like a blank musical stave. He turned to face his companion, ‘Look,’ he said in a low tone, ‘this isn’t going to work, is it?’
The second Gent had taken off his shades and was rubbing a knot of pressure at the top of his nose. ‘Well, I could have told you that right at the beginning,’ he squeaked.
‘Now, look, just don’t, all right?’ growled the first Gent. ‘There’s no place for I Told You So on a team.’
‘Didn’t really think it through, did you?’ chirped the second one.
The first Gent shook a fist in the air over his lap, a gesture more of frustration than anger. ‘Just button it, 38VVc31029837495–5444, all right?’ he snapped.
‘Hey!’ squealed the second Gent, outraged. ‘You used my real name!’
‘Oh,’ said the first one, his whole body sagging. ‘Bugger it,’ he added glumly.
‘We’re not supposed to use our real names in front of them!’ cried the second Gent. ‘That’s against the rules! They’re not supposed to know our actual names!’
‘He’s hardly going to remember it,’ the first one said hurriedly.
‘That’s not the point!’
‘Mmm mmmm mm,’ interjected Gordon.
‘Look,’ said the first Gent to the second, swivelling in his chair to face him directly. ‘I’m sorry – all right? I apologise. It was a slip. It shouldn’t have happened. All right? Happy? I’m sorry. OK?’ He paused, then added, in the sort of voice people reserve for bitter asides: ‘Your stupid vanishy-mouthy routine had me a bit rattled, that’s all.’
‘Let’s not forget that this was your idea.’
The first Gent pressed both his hands against the top of his head. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we start all over again. OK?’
But the second Gent seemed to have gone into a sulk. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I slipped your real name into the conversation in his earshot,’ he said peevishly.
‘Let it go, will you?’ urged the first Gent. ‘Anybody can make a mistake.’
‘All very well for you,’ the second one continued, petulant.
‘Let’s wipe the slate clean, and start again,’ said the first Gent. ‘Undo the mouth thing, and we’ll start over.’
The second Gent, the one with the rather unusual name of 38VVc31029837495–5444, turned back to his colleague with a startled face. ‘What?’
‘Undo the mouth thing.’
‘Me?’
‘Of course you.’
‘I don’t know how to undo it.’
The first Gent looked, suddenly, very tired indeed. ‘What?’ he said.
‘That was not part of the assignment. Seal up the mouth, you said. You never said anything about unsealing it.’
‘Well, of course I wanted it unsealed. What would be the point in sealing his mouth and then not unsealing it? Do I look like an idiot? Don’t,’ he concluded loudly, ‘don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question.’
Gordon looked with interest from the face of the first Gent to the second and back. He took as large a breath through his nose as he could manage. There was a certain bubbling sound of air passing through sinus phlegm. Both Gents turned to look at him with disgust on their faces.
‘MmMm,’ Gordon said. But at the same time he felt he had little occasion to apologise. He had no handkerchief and even if he had one he could hardly use it, what with his hands being cuffed and everything. Under the circumstances he thought he was doing rather well.
‘I said, let’s sit down and think about it,’ said the squeaky-voiced Gent, his voice expressive of wounded dignity, ‘but oh no, oh you didn’t agree, we’ve got to push on, you said.’
The first one threw up his hands in despair. ‘Let’s just put him to sleep, and start again. Let’s,’ he said, raising his voice to cut off the second Gent, ‘not get all tangled up in questions of blame and haranguing one another, OK? Put him to sleep, give him a new mouth, and we’ll start again tomorrow.’
‘Sleep?’ said Gordon. ‘But I’m not tired.’ To be precise, what he said was ‘Mm? Mmm m Mm Mmmm.’ But it amounted to the same thing.
Then, as if from nowhere, the second Gent whipped out a strange device. It dangled like a toy chandelier from his right hand, and Gordon just had time to see that it was a miniature mobile, tiny little furry bears and horses dangling from a saucer-sized ring, when the thing started rotating and issuing a tinny, clockwork-sounding version of ‘Eidelweiss’. No sooner had he recognised this tune than exhaustion rushed up through his head and he lapsed into sweet sleep.
Chapter 4
A Significant Choice
Gordon was woken by the shrill chiming of his alarm clock. He sat up in bed. What an odd dream he had been having. Not unsettling, or frightening, but – odd. He opened his mouth wide and put his fingers to the insides of his lips. They were definitely there, although there seemed to be a number of chaps, rough areas and frayed bits of skin. He took one sliver of skin from his lower lip between thumb and finger and pulled. Doing so made his lip smart; which in turn made him wonder why on earth did I do that? Then he groaned his special early morning groan. He had different groans for the different stages of the day, and his early morning groan was less forceful, throatier and more despairing than the groan he reserved for arriving at the station to discover his train was delayed by forty minutes, or the groan he used when given a new work project ten minutes before clocking-off time.
The alarm seemed still to be ringing. With a dull sense of something being out of place he realised that it wasn’t his alarm clock. Indeed, he remembered that he did not possess an alarm clock. The ringing was coming from his phone.
This was also odd. He had pulled the phone cord from the wall several nights before. And yet there it was, ringing away. He got up and went over to it. The cord was lying in a connectionless coil on the carpet. Gingerly he lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’
It was Thinity’s voice. ‘It is time for you to meet our leader.’
‘Leader?’
‘Yes.’
Gordon’s sleep-numbed brain creaked. His first thought was, so she wasn’t a dream. His second was, you must set up a date – conquer your fear, ask her out. Say: I’d rather meet you, let’s enjoy an intimate candlelit dinner à deux, I’ll pick you up at seven. But what he actually said was: ‘Leader, yeah, sure.’
‘Meet me at the Pearl of Sandwich snack shop in Feltham High Street,’ she said. ‘In twenty minutes.’
‘OK,’ he said in a daze. Then his brain hiccoughed. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘how are you able to ring me when the cord . . . ?’
But the line had gone dead.
-=#:-)
When he met Thinity she looked as lovely as he remembered, except for a bizarre pair of Dame Edna Everage-style sunglasses that were hiding her beautiful eyes. They were very strange. Both of the black oval eyepieces had four curling fronds at their extreme edge, ranging out like diamanté-encrusted spiders’ legs. ‘Er,’ Gordon hazarded, as they walked together along Feltham High Street. ‘Those are nice glasses.’
‘You think?’ returned Thinity. ‘I didn’t choose them. I usually throw them away.’
This gave Gordon pause. ‘You usually throw them away?’ he repeated.
‘They always come back, though.’
‘Come back? Like, what, boome
rang glasses?’
‘Of course not like that,’ said Thinity crossly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Naturally you don’t. You want answers.’
‘That would be nice.’
As if to illustrate her contemptuous sunglassy extravagance, Thinity plucked the glasses from her face and threw them into the midst of the traffic. Gordon watched, half expecting them to fly back to her face, but that didn’t happen.
‘Come on,’ she said, and strode towards the bus stop.
From the High Street they caught a number 256 bus, Thinity looking as out of place in her plastic clothing as could be imagined, even though they sat on the top deck and at the back too. At the end of that route they took a 317. After this they walked for some time, Thinity continually looking over her shoulder in a rather paranoid fashion.
‘I had the strangest dream,’ said Gordon. The previous day’s business was preying on his mind.
‘You did?’
‘I dreamt that these special agents arrested me and then – uh. This is going to sound strange. But they, well, erased my mouth.’
Thinity was unfazed. ‘Just the mouth?’
‘What?’
‘Any other orifices? Or just the mouth?’
‘Just the mouth I think. I mean, it’s hard to be sure. You don’t sound very surprised.’
‘I was there when they arrested you, remember? And, no, I’m not surprised about the mouth thing. They can change you, if you want. The change lasts an hour, or less.’
‘How can that be? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘You shouldn’t be asking me,’ she replied, loftily. ‘Wait until you meet the Leader. He has the answers for you.’
They walked on.
Eventually Thinity led him into a very disreputable-looking tenement in the general area of Isleworth. ‘Is this where he is?’ Gordon asked. ‘The Leader?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, without looking at him.