Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  Even with my eyes closed, the light was blinding. My head began to throb. I could tell he was looking at me, examining me carefully to see how much resistance was left, how much of Stevie remained to be disassembled.

  My eye started to twitch. I realized my mouth was open, a thin strand of drool hanging down, but I couldn’t seem to close it. My hands started clutching each other under the blanket.

  That wasn’t Daisy, I said to myself.

  Then who was it? You saw her, didn’t you? Stevie’s fucked off. He’s had enough of this lark. You’re the only one left. So it must be you that’s going mad.

  I opened my eyes, afraid that I’d been speaking aloud. I was sure Martindale must have heard me, but his face showed no reaction. He was still looking at me dispassionately, like I was some sort of bug under a microscope. I couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, afraid Daisy would be there with her poisoned gobstopper, but there was no one else in the room.

  That wasn’t Daisy.

  Who was it, then?

  Nobody.

  She wasn’t real, then?

  No.

  Funny – she seemed to think you were real. She must be seeing things. Maybe she’s gone mad.

  Yes.

  Not you, then?

  No. NO!

  I was sure I’d shouted, but there was still no reaction from Martindale. He was holding one of my eyes open with his thumb and forefinger, gazing into my pupil. Then he picked up one of my hands, held it for a moment, then let it go. It flopped back onto my lap, a dead thing. Satisfied, he pushed the stool back into the centre of the room and sat down again, looking at me thoughtfully. After a while he nodded to himself, apparently happy with what he saw.

  ‘I think you might be ready for a little experiment,’ he said. ‘Just to see how far along we are.’

  I knew what Martindale was trying to do. He was scrambling Stevie’s memories so he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. And if you can’t trust your memories, then you can’t be sure you are who you think you are. Stevie Nichols would cease to exist. Stevie Nichols, who’d never existed in the first place. I felt as if I’d once had a plan, a very clever plan, but now I’d forgotten what it was.

  ‘I want you to think back to – not so far back this time – let’s say a couple of years. Just pick an ordinary day.’

  Two years. Sarah and Joseph and me were a family then. An ordinary day.

  No!

  I wasn’t going to let him do this. I couldn’t let him do this. Not Sarah. Not Joseph. I needed Stevie. Come on, you stupid bastard, where are you? You can’t just fuck off out of it like this!

  A look of concern passed across Martindale’s face. He could see how tense I was, my body going rigid, all my muscles clenched. I tried to relax. I couldn’t let him see I was resisting.

  Come on, Stevie – I need you now!

  An image suddenly came into my head. I’m sitting in a narrow alley behind a shopping centre. My legs are in a filthy old sleeping bag, my knees curled up, just like I am now. I’ve got a bottle of brandy – a half bottle, but it’s almost full – the real stuff. I take a swig and let the liquor slowly burn down my throat. The taste is so sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good. I don’t remember where it came from or how I got it, and I don’t care. It’s mine and I’m going to drink the lot.

  Martindale could see from the way my eyelids were fluttering that I was remembering something. ‘What can you see?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got some brandy,’ I said. It was Stevie’s voice, not mine. ‘I’m just having a little drink, you know?’

  Martindale nodded. ‘That must be nice. All on your own.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in that alley behind the shops, you know?’ In my head I took another swig.

  ‘All right. I want you to do something for me now.’

  I wiped my hand across my mouth. ‘OK.’

  ‘I want you to look at yourself. Imagine you’re floating, just hovering right above yourself, looking down. Like a drone.’

  I tried that. There was Stevie in his filthy coat, his sleeping bag wrapped round his knees like an old lady feeling the cold, clutching a bottle of amber liquid.

  ‘Can you see yourself?’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK. Let’s pull back a bit further. You’re at the entrance to the alley now. You’re standing, watching. What can you see?’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘Bloke in the corner in a sleeping bag.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Drinking. He’s got a bottle. Brandy, it looks like.’

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Stevie.’

  ‘Whose brandy is it?’

  ‘I . . . what?’

  ‘It’s yours, isn’t it? A whole bottle. All yours. And he took it. Look, he’s drinking it now. The rate he’s going, soon there won’t be any left. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Thieving cunt,’ I said, without thinking.

  Martindale was nodding encouragingly. ‘Yes! You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘He’s a cunt. Nobody likes him. He makes shit up all the time.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’

  ‘Get my fucking bottle back.’

  I walked quickly down the alley, stepping over a pool of piss. Stevie was just raising the bottle to his mouth when I kicked him in the legs, hard. He squealed and dropped the bottle. It smashed on the concrete, the yellow liquid mixing with the filth to make a dark puddle.

  ‘You stupid fucking bastard!’ I shouted, kicking him again. He rolled up into a ball, his hands covering his face. I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could and then again, until I heard something crack. He rolled back over, his hands clutching his side, moaning, and I thought, Right, I’m going to fucking do you now, and I took a couple of steps back, like I was about to take a penalty, and—

  ‘Enough!’

  My eyes snapped open. Martindale was leaning over me. ‘We can leave him now.’

  I was breathing hard. Despite the cold, I could feel sweat gathering on my forehead and trickling down the back of my neck. ‘OK.’

  He stroked his stubble thoughtfully. ‘That was good. Very good. I think you might almost be ready.’

  I lay down, exhausted, my head resting on my hand.

  After a while I opened my eyes. The room was pitch-black. Martindale had gone. I slowly crawled round the room, feeling the walls, the stool, the buckets. One of them was now empty, the other full with water again. I did another careful circuit, stopping every now and then to listen. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t hiding in a corner, holding his breath.

  Eventually I was satisfied: all clear.

  I took a scoop of water and swilled it round my mouth before spitting it out. I did that twice more until the taste of the brandy was completely gone, then had a drink. There was no food. Unless Martindale had brought some and I’d forgotten. I couldn’t tell if I was hungry or not.

  But I felt better now. Calmer. I’d managed to keep Martindale from fucking with my memories. Stevie had come up trumps. I just needed to keep going. I’d try and do a few stretches, then go back to the cup finals routine.

  Actually, maybe not. I didn’t want Daisy coming back.

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Stupid bloody game.’

  I kept my eyes shut for as long as I could, my heart hammering, but I couldn’t keep it up forever. I opened my eyes and there was Lucy, standing in front of the door in her raincoat, looking very tall. Her hair was wet and she was holding her phone to her ear.

  ‘Terrible reception down here, you know.’

  I felt helpless. There was nothing I could do to make her go away. I breathed in and out a few times. Might as well just go with the flow, I thought.

  ‘Two minds with a single thought,’ she said, putting her phone in her pocket with a frown. ‘“Go with the flow.” That was what I had in mind, until you stepped in. Didn’t he say there was a river down here? One of
the lost rivers of London, I suppose. Like the Fleet. How romantic!’

  I made myself look at her. ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ I said.

  She cocked her head to one side. Water dripped from her hair and onto the floor. ‘What?’

  ‘Those people – when you got into the car, after we met at that diner – who were they?’

  ‘What people? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I saw you. There were three of them. Two men in the front and then a woman in the back.’

  She took a step back. ‘I got the tube home that night. You’re imagining things. I think you’ve been in this place too long. If you think back, you’ll remember, you saw me walk to the end of the road, then you followed me all the way to the station. You do remember that now, don’t you?’

  I closed my eyes. I could see her. She kept walking. There was no car. No one stopped. She kept going until she reached the end of the road.

  ‘Stop it!’ I shouted, clamping my hands over my eyes. ‘Stop it!’

  Silence. I kept my hands where they were. I listened, my eyes tight shut. Nothing. I waited for as long as I could, then opened them.

  ‘Hello.’

  It was Sarah. Oh God, please no. Please not that.

  ‘It’s OK, Logan. It’s all right. This is really me.’

  I breathed out. I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to believe her.

  ‘Come on, you can look at me,’ she said gently.

  I looked up, into her eyes. She was smiling.

  ‘It’ll be all right. You’re strong. And you’ve got me and Joseph. You can get through this.’

  ‘I’m a bit fucked up, Sarah,’ I said.

  ‘Not where it counts,’ she said. ‘Where it counts you’re all right.’

  I reached out my hand. I so wanted to touch her.

  She pulled away. ‘You know we can’t do that, Logan.’

  I nodded. ‘I know. It’s just . . . I need something to hold on to. Something real.’

  ‘Just think why you’re doing this,’ she said. ‘That’s real.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s enough,’ I said. ‘I’m scared.’

  She looked at me sadly, then blew me a kiss. I felt a gentle waft of air against my cheek. And then she was gone.

  42

  I slept after that. I didn’t have any bad dreams, and when I woke up I felt better. Still woozy and a bit hypo; my bones ached and my limbs felt weak – but my head felt OK. Well, maybe not OK exactly. But at least when I opened my eyes, I wasn’t terrified of what I was going to see.

  Now it was just a case of waiting for Martindale to make an appearance. All I had to do was keep my shit together until then. He seemed to think Stevie was ready for the next stage of the process. I was really hoping it would take place somewhere that didn’t smell of shit and vomit, somewhere with central heating and running water, even. A place that didn’t make you feel as if you’d been buried alive.

  That was the thing at the back of my mind that was starting to nag at me. What if Stevie had actually failed the audition? What if Martindale wasn’t coming back, but was just going to leave me here? I had most of a bucket of water. How long could I last after that ran out? Without some more calories, the cold would get me fairly soon as well. It was just a question of whether hypothermia or dehydration did for me first. Freezing to death would be preferable, I guessed. They say you actually start to feel quite warm towards the end. Dying of thirst I really didn’t fancy. Those seemed to be the choices. Unless I decided to top myself before it got to that point. If I managed to get the handle off the bucket, maybe I could sharpen an end against the wall, then open a vein. Drowning wasn’t an option, which was a relief; I’d never fancied that. I never understood why anyone would choose to go that way, when you could just swallow a few pills . . .

  Shit. Better stop that train of thought before it gets started. My out-of-control thoughts were taking me places I really didn’t want to go.

  What to do? I didn’t have the energy to crawl around the cell, let alone walk. The idea of doing sit-ups was a fucking joke. I didn’t think I had the strength to even play memory games. There was nothing to do but just sit still and conserve what little energy I had. Try not to think too much. Try not to do anything. And just hope that if I had any more hallucinations, Sarah would come and help me out. That was a funny thought: if I started seeing things, my dead wife would put a stop to it. I had a good chuckle at that one.

  Counting. I could always do that, to help keep things on an even keel. Start at zero and keep going for as long as I could and if I forgot where I’d got to, just start again from the beginning. Out loud? No, that felt like too much of an effort. Just in my head. OK, here goes.

  I got to 212 before I got stuck. Something about that number just stopped me in my tracks. What the hell was it? I couldn’t say the next number, even in my head. I started from zero again and the same thing happened. What the fuck? Then it hit me: it was a house number. The little house where we used to live before Sarah and Joseph were killed. 212 Garden Close. Shit. What could be more neutral than numbers? What could be safer? It seemed like memories were everywhere, just waiting to ambush you. Never mind. You can deal with it. Get to 212 again, say a little prayer, and then move on. Easy.

  I’d lost count of how many times I’d had to start over, but I was somewhere in the nine hundred and somethings when I heard the sound of footsteps. Good. Martindale wasn’t just going to leave me here, then. The door opened. A figure entered, dressed in a pale monk’s robe, with the cowl pulled down over their face. Was it Martindale? For a moment I wondered if maybe he’d sent someone else to finish me off. He must have seen the look on my face because he pulled back the cowl to show himself.

  ‘You’re wondering why I’m not dressed as usual? I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m dressed for a ceremony, a very solemn religious ceremony.’

  I felt my eyelid fluttering. ‘What . . .?’

  ‘A funeral.’

  I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. A funeral? He was holding the lamp in his left hand, but his right was hidden in the sleeve of his robe. Was he holding some sort of weapon? Not so long ago, I would have been able to disarm him easily, but now? I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stand up if I tried.

  He reached forward and I saw he was holding an energy bar in a bright-red wrapper.

  ‘Here. Take it.’

  I looked at it, and instantly felt a dribble of saliva running out of the corner of my mouth. But something stopped me from grabbing it. Could it be poisoned? That would definitely be the easiest way to do it. No fuss, no mess. I felt like a sailor marooned on a raft with no water, deciding whether to just dip his hand into the sea . . . It looked so good, and after all, what was the alternative: starving to death?

  I took it and started fumbling with the wrapper.

  ‘Let me help you.’ He tore it open and shook the bar into my palm. I took a bite, trying to chew slowly so I didn’t choke. My jaw ached with the unfamiliar effort, and the taste of sugar was so strong it almost made me gag, but eventually I managed to get it down. The rush of glucose into my bloodstream was instantaneous.

  ‘Have some water.’ He brought over the bucket and I put my face down to it and drank until I started to feel sick. ‘Not too much,’ he said, taking it away.

  He put the bucket down, positioned the lamp so it cast a gentle glow across the wall behind him and sat down on the stool. I wiped a hand across my face and leaned back.

  ‘You remember that down and out who stole your brandy?’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Stevie.’

  ‘Stevie. That’s it. Can you picture him now? I think he’s in the same place we left him.’

  I closed my eyes. Stevie was curled up in his sleeping bag. He’d pulled it right up to cover his face, but it wasn’t long enough, and while he slept, he’d straightened his le
gs and pulled it down, so now his head was resting on the ground. His mouth was open and his breath was coming in short little gasps. His face was smeared with dirt but you could still see his skin was very pale.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Martindale asked.

  ‘Sleeping,’ I said.

  ‘Can you see him breathing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All right. Now I want you to imagine his heart. It doesn’t look right, does it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘It looks funny.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s black. It’s full of this black stuff. It’s all sticky, like it’s clogged up.’

  ‘That must make it hard for it to keep beating. Is it still beating?’

  ‘Yeah . . . just.’

  ‘It’s going to stop soon, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is it stopping now?’ His voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Yeah, yeah it is.’ I watched Stevie’s shrunken, fucked-up heart twitch once, twice, then no more.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I think so, yeah.’

  Martindale crossed himself. ‘He’s at peace now.’

  I nodded. I felt a weird calm passing through me.

  ‘We can’t leave him, though, can we?’ Martindale said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ashes to ashes. We must commit his body to the flames. Have you got that bottle and the lighter?’

  ‘Yes.’ I had. I was holding them in my hands. If I’d looked down I would have seen them.

  ‘Do it, then.’

  I shook the bottle over the sleeping bag, saving a last splash for his head, the spirit soaking into his hair. Then I flicked the lighter and held it to the end of the sleeping bag until it caught. Soon the whole thing was engulfed in flames. I watched Stevie’s skin crinkle and blacken under his fiery halo. I stood back. Soon I heard his bones begin to crack. He seemed to jerk inside the sleeping bag, as if he’d briefly come alive again, but it was only the snap, crackle and pop of his body disintegrating in the intense heat, like dry twigs on a bonfire. The fire raged even more fiercely, and in a few minutes, there was nothing left but a heap of ashes dancing in the air as the breeze took them. Then the wind got stronger, swirling the ashes away, more and more, until there was nothing left but a long grey smear on the concrete.