by Anthony Ergo
Blake focuses on the seam running down the sleeve of my hoodie, which I'm wearing inside-out. He must think I'm crazy. In fairness, most people would.
"I'm afraid you'll be put into temporary care until your father fully recovers. All for your mental well-being, of course."
"But Katalina can look after me. I don't want to go into care!"
"I'm sorry, Miss Hunter. Katalina cannot accept this kind of responsibility for you. Although there is another option…"
He pulls an expensive looking gold pen from his inside breast pocket and starts to click it, toying with it like he's toying with me. The thought of a mental hospital makes me shudder. Anything has to be better than that.
"Well? What is it?"
"Oh," he says, surprised that I'm interested. "Miss Hunter, your father works for my Agency and his good health is of the utmost importance to us, as is yours. At this time of great distress, we can provide lodgings at our headquarters until your father fully recovers."
"And what about seeing Dad?"
"Anytime you wish."
I thrust my hand into my pocket and shuffle with the cursed paper making sure it hasn't unfolded. I have to get to The Agency headquarters, find some guy called Gordon and give him the hangman game. Maybe this is my chance? Menzies whatshisname notices my hesitancy. He stands up and smoothes out the creases on his white overcoat.
"Well, if you're not sure then maybe I should ask the Psychiatrist to come in―"
"No. I'll do it."
"Good," he replies with a final click of the pen. "I'll arrange a car to take you home and pack a bag. Here's my card. If you need anything, anytime, call me."
When I glance down at the business card something unusual strikes me. The number next to the phone symbol looks nothing like a telephone number. It's a binary-like row of 1s and 0s with a 13 at the end. My heart sinks as I absorb the significance of this number and even though I agree to go with him, I will never trust him.
"You'll find it works exactly like a normal number," says Blake smugly, reading my confusion. "I picked it myself; thirteen is my favourite number."
Blake offers a sardonic smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. The irony isn't lost on me. I don't trust anyone who actually likes the number thirteen. I bet Blake is the kind of guy who thinks nothing of walking under a ladder or opening an umbrella indoors. I tuck the card into my pocket, behind the hangman game, and head toward the exit.
Menzies Blake escorts me outside the hospital to a waiting black Mercedes four-wheel drive car; its windows tinted black and its bodywork armour plated. It's chauffeured by a large man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. He gives me a long, cold stare which penetrates his shades. His shaven head is flecked with scars, which give him a hard and uncompromising appearance, revealing every gnarl and crevice in his skull. He couldn't look more like a James Bond baddie if he tried.
As I climb into the luxury 4x4 I'm amazed to find a small drinks cabinet and a flat-screen TV built into the back of the driver's seat. Unlike my journey to the hospital in Katalina's old VW Beetle, I am being driven home in style. The black car has a cold feel, closer to a hearse than a celebrity limousine; more RIP than VIP. Menzies Blake ushers me in, closes the door, then leans down to speak through the half open window.
"My driver, Ludvig, will take you home and then onto The Agency headquarters. It's a long drive, so please help yourself to the on-board facilities and entertainment. Any questions?"
I have hundreds and Blake knows it. I'm half-tempted to ask about Gordon, but decide that it's better to find out for myself. Don't trust anyone, Dad warned me, so I swallow the curiosity rising up in my throat.
"No thanks, Mr Blake."
"Please, call me Menzies. And remember, should you need anything, anytime, call me."
Before I can reply the blacked-out window slides up and the car pulls off.
+ + +
When we arrive at my house the driver leaves the engine running as I go to pack a bag. It's probably his way of telling me to hurry up. Ludvig is a man of few words. In fact, he's a man of no words at all. He didn't speak to me at all on the way home. I thought chauffeurs are supposed to be nice and polite? Ludvig is about as friendly as a prison guard. Maybe he's foreign? It all seems to add to the mystery that is The Agency.
Thanks to Katalina, the house has been restored to its usual organised décor like nothing had ever happened. My asthma medication has been packed into a small paper bag, which is nice of her. But it's also a strange thing for her to do, like she knew I'd be going away. Maybe Menzies Blake had already told her before he told me? It doesn't surprise me; I'm always the last to know. Kat has also left a note to say goodbye, not to worry and to call her if I need to. I feel bad for not confiding in her when I had the chance. She's been so good to Dad and I over the last year; she deserves my trust.
The car engine revs outside; it's a not-so-subtle hint to hurry me along. My first priority is the knife, which I retrieve from my bedside cabinet. I quickly pack a rucksack with enough clothes for a few days, which makes me wonder exactly how long I'll be away. I decide I'll stay as long as I need to find Gordon then get the hell out of there, wherever "there" is. Last of all I pick up a framed picture from my bedside table; a photograph of Mum and Dad with me squeezed in between. A thin crack in the glass runs between Dad and I, an unpleasant reflection of our fractured relationship. I place the picture carefully between two layers of clothes and zip my bag shut.
As I walk into the bathroom to pack some toiletries I notice that the air feels humid. The mirror is steamed up, like someone has recently taken a hot bath or a shower. I run the tap to wash my face only to find the water scorching hot in both taps. Something weird is going on, but my head has just about had enough thinking for one day.
I stare at myself in the mirror; my eyes have their crimson glint which is a sign of my inner edginess. As I try to tame my crazy long dark hair, something makes me drop the brush and recoil backward. Two words have been traced shakily in the steamed-up mirror. Words that were not there a few seconds earlier:
I react instinctively, wiping the words from the mirror with the palm of my hand. Then I wish I hadn't. Behind my reflection, blurred by the coating of steam, I can make out another shape. I spin to check behind me; I'm alone in the bathroom, yet the image in the mirror remains; the hazy figure of a man, walking torward me as if down a long corridor, making for the glass that covers its end. Over his head he wears a hood with two eye-holes; the mask of a hangman. Horrified, I wonder what he'll do when he reaches the mirror that seems to act as a barrier between my world and his. I'm not staying to find out. I begin to back away, until a hand covers my mouth from behind.
"Don't scream," says a male voice. "I just want to talk."
The hand turns me slowly until I'm facing him.
"Promise you won't scream?" asks Aaron.
I nod and he removes his hand. My fear is replaced by anger. I'm seething.
"How dare you?" I whisper shout, pushing him in the chest. "Since you've shown up my life has been turned upside down. My house was broken into, Dad was attacked and now I have to deal with this!"
I point to the mirror where the writing is. Or rather, was.
"I can help you," says Aaron. "But you need to trust me."
"I don't trust anyone," I reply, quoting Dad's last words to me.
"Sasha, there are things you need to know about The Agency. I'm sure this wasn't what your Dad planned. I'm worried about you."
A car horn blares.
"You don't have the right to be worried about me," I snap. "You don't even know me. My Dad told me all I need to know."
I shove past Aaron and this time he makes no attempt to stop me. Ludvig doesn't seem to care that I come running out of the house looking agitated. The second the car door slams shut, he pulls off into the bleak autumn evening. I glance out of the rear window to see Aaron watching me disappear. I hope it's the last time I see him.
The drive takes us
on a motorway for a couple of hours, then along darker country lanes. I try talking to Ludvig by asking obvious questions, like: "Where are we going?" "How long will it take?" and "Where are you from?" Each question is met with an unflinching lack of response. I begin to wonder whether I'm doing the right thing, sitting in the back of a car driven god knows where by a scary-looking foreigner.
I slump back into the seat with my hands in my pockets, a hand resting on the hangman game and Menzies Blake's business card. I think about Dad, lying in the hospital bed. Then my thoughts drift to the Hangman Ghost and the vision in the bathroom mirror. I try to take my mind off things by helping myself to a cold bottle of water from the drinks cabinet and flicking on the TV. A news report talks about the rise of "Dystopia Dementia"; I switch it off immediately. I don't know why I bother; the government controls all TV programming.
I rest my head against the car window and stare out at the passing trees. I can't help but feel angry torward Aaron, even though he offered to help me. But at the same time, he is clearly someone Dad works closely with. Maybe I should have listened to him rather than storming off? I'm not always convinced I make the best decisions under pressure and I hope this won't be one I'll regret.
The smooth motion of the car makes my eyes heavy. I'll close them, only for a few minutes…
+ + +
I wake up inside the dark car. The engine is switched off. It takes a few seconds to ask myself where I am and who I'm with. I'm not able to answer either question. Ludvig has taken me to the middle of nowhere outside a lonely building which looks like a deserted country pub. I'm aware of smoke rising from the driver's seat.
"You know, you shouldn't smoke with passengers in here. You shouldn't smoke at all, really."
So now I'm giving lifestyle advice to a sinister chauffeur: way to go, Sasha.
Ludvig twists in the seat to face me and I realise that he hasn't been smoking at all. What I thought was smoke was actually steam, rising from two glowing handprints where Ludvig had just been holding the wheel. The steering wheel is bizarre looking, like it's made of a heat-resistant material. I blink several times, hoping that things will suddenly make sense in the milliseconds that my eyes are closed. That horrible feeling that something isn't quite right starts to rise up within me.
"So are we. . . here?"
I'm not hopeful of a reply.
Ludvig fixes me with two of the most piercing pale blue eyes I've ever seen. I wait for him to speak, but instead he pulls a white envelope from his inside pocket and hands it over. I tear it open to find a single page letter written in immaculate handwriting.
Sasha,
As you read this you will be outside The Coach House Inn. Unfortunately, your accommodation at The Agency is not available and as such I have arranged alternative lodgings here for tonight only. I apologise for the short notice.
You will find the main guest room fully prepared for your stay. I have also arranged a light snack in the kitchen.
Ludvig will pick you up at 8am tomorrow morning and you will proceed to The Agency HQ. As ever, if you need anything, anytime, call me.
Have a pleasant evening.
Kind regards,
Menzies Blake
Ps. You have the entire place to yourself, so do make yourself at home.
"Why didn't Blake tell me this at the hospital?"
Ludvig ignores the question and simply hands over a bunch of keys. They are still hot from his touch when he passes them to me. This guy feels like he's on fire. Ludvig juts his chin torward The Coach House Inn. A weak-bulbed lantern illuminates the doorway of the black-and-white half-timbered building which looks about as welcoming as the gates of Hell.
"Is this it? I mean, you expect me to stay here on my own?"
Ludvig rolls his icy blue eyes, then pulls back a cuff to look at his wrist-watch, clearly bored with his babysitting duties. It's obviously his way of saying "hurry up".
"Fine. Nice speaking to you."
I grab my bag and slam the door behind me as I climb out of the car. A biting wind sways the trees lining the country lane and the old inn appears even more foreboding than it did from the safety of the car. The sound of rusty hinges on The Coach House Inn sign is replaced by the revving of the Mercedes' engine. I spin in time to catch Ludvig's pale blue eyes before he fixes them on the road ahead. As he pulls off into the night I'm sure he has the hint of a smile on his lips.
And now I'm all alone, in the dark.
Chapter 7
Monday 16 September 8:59pm
I'm only human, and much like any young woman I don't like being alone in the dark. When you live in a big city like London, you never really get to see true darkness. Even at night, the orange glow of distant lights illuminates the darkest of skies. But in the country, in the middle of nowhere, you experience total darkness. It reminds me of Dystopia Day and it gives me the exact same chills.
Dad always told me not to be afraid of the dark. But I am. I'm terrified. Once my eyes adjust I can make out the different shapes around me in shades of dark blue and purple: hedgerows, a winding lane, tall yew trees. The only light source is the lantern next to the doorway of The Coach House Inn and I find myself attracted to it like a moth.
Resting my bag on the ground, I thumb through the half-dozen keys in the paltry light, trying to find one which matches the small bronze lock. A shrill noise behind makes me drop the keys. It sounds like a howl. Maybe it's only the wind? At the worst possible moment the lantern starts to flicker. I drop to my knees to find the keys in the strobe light, praying that the bulb won't go out altogether. Safety is on the other side of the door; I have to get inside.
Another noise, this time more of a low growl. A fox, probably. Or maybe a wolf. Do wolves even exist in England? Either way, I'd sooner be inside than out here. I palm the damp ground for the keys until I find them covered in mud. Worse still, the keys are all the same size so I'll have to use trial and error to find the right one. As ever, my luck is out.
The first key slides into the lock, but won't move.
The second key is bent and won't go in at all.
A violent rustling noise shakes the bushes behind me.
My hand trembles as I try the third key without success.
Another low, guttural growl, unlike any animal I've ever heard. I dare to glance over my shoulder. What I see sends a bolt of terror through my whole body: two fiery red eyes are staring out from the bushes behind me. I open my mouth to scream, but no noise comes out. I give up on the idea of screaming and frantically try another key. Just as I am about to make a run for it, the key twists in the lock and the door opens. I fall inside, slam the heavy door shut behind me and sit with my back against it, sucking in a large dose of my inhaler.
I'm calling Blake and getting out of here. As I hold his card in my trembling left hand, I rummage for my mobile in my bag. Being sent to a mental asylum can't be worse than this. But that's not the only reason I'm here, putting myself through all this. Dad told me to go to The Agency and find someone called Gordon. If I give up now, what will happen to Dad? And what will happen to me? The image of Dad lying in a hospital bed flashes through my mind, waking me up as if a bucket of cold water is thrown into my face.
I force myself to calm down and assess exactly what happened. I heard some animal noises and saw two eyes. I'm in the country, after all. For god's sake, Sasha, get a grip. I pick myself up off the stone floor and use the light from my mobile phone as a torch. I manage to find an electrical box and after flicking a few switches the place lights up. It's the same feeling of relief as when I switch on the Christmas tree lights each year with crossed fingers.
I find myself in an oak-panelled bar room which looks like it hasn't served anyone for years. A loud noise makes me jump. It's nothing more than a jukebox firing up. An old love song comes on; it sounds like Elvis. Who knows how old this place is? Elvis was probably in the charts the last time anyone came here. There's something reassuring about old music and I begin to
calm down. Time for some normality: find the kitchen and get some food. Having something to do would distract me, and I could do with a distraction right now.
I tiptoe my way around the bar and into the kitchen. Why am I tiptoeing? Nobody is here, except me. At least, I hope nobody else is here. The light in the kitchen doesn't work, but I can see the fridge at the far end of the room, humming comfortingly. As I open the fridge door its light displays the contents: a bottle of milk, a large jar of pickled onions, a plate wrapped in cellophane and a tin of beans. Who keeps beans in the fridge? No matter. The light snack I was promised has to be on the plate, unless Blake expects me to rustle something up with milk, pickled onions and beans.
I open the milk and drink straight from the bottle. If Dad could see me he'd tell me off for my bad manners. It tastes great, even if it's so cold it makes my teeth ache. I pick up the jar of pickled onions to move them out of the way as Elvis works his way up to a crescendo. As I hold the jar in one hand, I realise that they're not onions. I gag and drop the jar which smashes and spills the contents all over the linoleum floor. A dozen eyeballs roll around my feet. I hear a sickening squelch as I tread on one or two in a panicked dash to get out of the kitchen.
Elvis croons away as I cling onto the bar to stop my legs from collapsing under me. I gag some more, then cry, then get really, really angry.
"What the hell is going on?" I scream at the top of my voice.
Enough is enough. I pull the business card out of my pocket and dial the number. Surprisingly, it works and starts to ring. I'm pumped up and ready to unleash until I hear…
"Hello, this is the voicemail of Menzies Blake. I'm not available at the moment, but—"