by Anthony Ergo
Blake looks suspiciously torward Zara who is now the one staring at me. Something strikes me about the look she casts. It's almost as if she suddenly recognises me or knows my name. Blake hovers over my shoulder, the smell of expensive after-shave invading my personal space.
"We've got lots to do. Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Gordon."
I flash a look back torward Zara. So she is Gordon, the person my dad told me to find? I have to act normal in front of Blake and buy some time.
"I'm not finished breakfast yet, can you come back in ten minutes?"
Blake glances down at my empty cereal bowl.
"Sorry Miss Hunter, but it's very important. Now, follow me please."
I slide my chair back reluctantly and stand up to leave.
"Nice to meet you, Sasha," says Zara as Blake leads me out of the kitchen. "I'll see you again, I'm sure."
How did she know my first name? She's picked up on something, I know it. But so has Blake. This game just got a whole lot more complicated.
Chapter 9
Tuesday 17 September 9.31am
Blake leads me out of the kitchen, then turns on his heels abruptly. His false smile has been replaced with a scowl.
"I thought I told you not to disturb anyone?"
I refuse to feel like a chastised child, so I smack my hand to my forehead and say, "I forgot, sorry."
Unfortunately, my playful sarcasm doesn't have the desired effect; Blake quickly regains composure and his fake smile returns.
"Allow me to give you a brief guided tour before we get down to business."
"What kind of business?" I ask.
"The kitchen and dining room are located at the rear of the building," he says, ignoring my question. "The ground floor has two other main rooms. This is the library."
He swings open a door to reveal a room full of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all crammed with books. It's a wall of leather-bound spines; nothing like the high street bookstores with shelves of colourful and eye-catching books. If I was locked in this room for the rest of my life I still wouldn't have the time to read every book here. Nor would I want to.
"What has your father told you about what we do here at The Agency?"
Blake tries to act casual but that's clearly not his style. I shrug, loathe to tell him anything. He clears his throat, enjoying the opportunity to educate me.
"We deal with the kind of things most people don't believe in, such as─"
"Ghosts," I say, finishing his sentence, unable to resist the chance to impose myself.
Blake smiles, an oily smile. "Very good," he says in a patronising tone. "The Agency exists to neutralise such threats. We are a secret government organisation. Knowledge is power and the information in this library is crucial to our business. Many of the books here date back to more than a century ago."
I feel like a work experience girl on the first day of a new job. Blake steps back into the corridor and opens another door on the opposite side. A long table surrounded by a dozen chairs dominates the centre of the room. At the far end is a flat screen TV and a dry-wipe board. It feels like a corporate meeting room. Blake idles up to an ornate framed mirror and checks his appearance, clearly pleased with what he sees.
"This is our Debriefing Room. What is said in this room is confidential and must stay in this room. You see, what we do is highly secretive yet vital for the safety of the general public. Do you remember the Day of Dystopia a few years ago?"
Blake looks at me expectantly. How could I forget? I shrug in response.
"Dystopia Day, and its aftermath, is a reminder of what could happen if our society breaks down. We deal with threats of unimaginable proportions, where man-made weapons count for nothing."
Blake paints a bleak picture, made even creepier by his casual delivery. I don't know if he thinks I'll be impressed or bored. I don't even know why he brought me here or why he's giving me this guided tour. All I know is that Dad told me to come here and find Gordon. Now that I've identified her, I need to play along with Blake until I get the chance to speak to Zara again.
We exit the room and descend the old, creaking stairs to the basement of the building. Blake seems to be enjoying his role of tour guide.
"On this level we have the Gymnasium, the Armoury and the Laboratory."
My mind starts to make loose connections. Aaron, the boy who works with Dad, had the physique of a gym instructor. I wonder if this is where he exercises. Ludvig also looked like someone who is no stranger to lifting weights. But my Dad is hardly the gym-type, and Zara Gordon had a slight frame. As for Blake, his double chin suggests that he consumes way more calories than he burns. The diversity among the Agents is confusing, but then, it's not like there's a blueprint for fighting the supernatural.
Blake is happy for me to have a good look at the Gymnasium but doesn't allow me inside the Armoury. The steel-plated door seems out of place and the thought of what's behind it worries me.
"Sorry, but this room is restricted. Access is for Agents only."
What kind of weapons and armour would a Paranormal Agent use? I recall the strange electrical devices I found in Dad's attic room, none of which looked particularly dangerous. I run my hand over the shape of the small knife in my back pocket and wonder if it will be of any use against whatever weapons are behind the steel door.
"The lab is the next door along," continues Blake. "But I wouldn't want us to disturb anyone there."
I build a mental picture of what is required to be an Agent: physical prowess, an aptitude for specialist weapons and the brainpower of a scientist. I possess none of these. As Blake starts to climb the stairs I notice another door further along the corridor, one he hadn't referred to.
"What's down there, at the far end?" I ask, thumbing over my shoulder.
"It's the Crypt," says Blake, matter-of-factly. "Again, access is restricted."
Fine. Like I'd ever want to go in there.
Blake leads us up several flights of uneven stairs to the top floor of the mansion. The corridor is lined with two-pronged fake candle holders; their bulbs flickering menacingly as we pass by. The wooden floorboards groan beneath my feet regardless of where I step on them.
"The first and second floors are offices and bedrooms," explains Blake. "Most of our Agents are working away on assignments, some of which can take weeks or even months. Our work is time consuming and for some of our Agents this mansion is their permanent home."
I couldn't think of anything worse than living in a creepy old house like this. With all the locked doors and restricted access areas, it feels more like a jail. As we turn a corner, I notice the hulking figure of Ludvig standing protectively outside a door at the end of the corridor. His arms are locked behind his back and his muscled chest strains the buttons of his suit. As Blake approaches, Ludvig opens the door without making eye contact with either of us.
"Ensure that we're not disturbed," orders Blake.
Inside the room, large glass windows offer an impressive panoramic of The Agency grounds; its overgrown gardens backing onto a vast, dense forest. The room itself is expensively decorated, with dark oak furniture. A reclining hypnotherapy chair instantly makes me feel uncomfortable.
Blake smiles and eases himself into a pea green leather seat behind an antique desk. At first he stares at me in silence. I stare back, unflinching. Seconds pass and it becomes uncomfortable, which I'm sure is what he wants. He eyes me up and down, scrutinising every inch of my appearance.
"This is my office. Nice view, don't you think?"
"Ideal for keeping an eye on the world, I suppose."
Blake laughs; it sounds so false that somebody could have pulled a cord at the back of his head.
"Consider this your welcome meeting. Now, I notice you met one of the Agents over breakfast."
"You mean Zara, the sugar addict?"
I do my best to sound completely disinterested in her and hope that my eyes don't give me away.
"Miss Gordon is a fine Agent. W
e are a select few, but each member of my team possesses a special talent."
"What kind of special talent?" I ask.
"The kind that people generally don't believe exists."
Confused, I screw up my face and Blake clearly takes the hint.
"Allow me to give you the idiot's guide," he says in a not-so-veiled insult. "Most people have powers beyond the usual five senses of sight, hear, smell, taste and touch. Have you ever experienced the feeling of déjà vous; that you've been somewhere before?"
I shrug, unsure of where this is going.
"Everyone has felt that feeling."
"And have you ever had a hunch about something? A gut feeling that something will happen before it actually does? Well, imagine that you could control those feelings and harness their power. All of our Agents have a heightened sense. Zara Gordon is what we call a Precog; she has a precognitive ability to see certain future events."
I take a moment to process this information. Now I understand how Zara had predicted that Blake would enter the kitchen before he did.
"I happened to notice you met another of our Agents at the hospital. Aaron Hart is very fond of your father. He is what we call an Empath; he has psychometric abilities which allow him to draw feelings based on touch."
This explained why Aaron knew how I felt when I brushed his hand when we first met. I wonder what inherent ability my dad has, but it's not something I want to get into with this guy. Instead, I decide to put him on the spot.
"And what about you? What special talent do you have?"
"I'm what is known historically as a Necromancer." Blake beams, clearly proud of this title. "I have the ability to summon spirits."
"Of course," I say, as if this would be somehow self-evident. "Sounds a bit creepy to me."
His proud smile contorts like he has just tasted something unpleasant. He clears his throat and composes himself once more.
"Aren't you interested to know what secret powers you have, Sasha? The Agency's education programme and career prospects are first class. You have seen how impressive our facilities are here. We have access to much more information than the average civilian. I can even arrange for a new I.D. card to override the curfew law. This could all be yours, if you want it."
Blake clearly doesn't know me well at all. I'm a loner; I'd be out of place here just as I am everywhere else.
"I'm superstitious, asthmatic and afraid of the dark. So I don't think I'm cut-out for all this spooky stuff. Why don't you just let me get out of here? I don't need to tell the police about any of this if you let me leave now."
Blake laughs out loud at my attempt to threaten him. He examines his fingernails carefully, like that's more important right now.
"Oh, you're quite free to leave whenever you wish. But please remember, you're already considered mentally unstable. Do you really think anyone will believe you?"
Blake is right. I'd be sent straight to the nearest mental asylum and treated like all the other D-Day Dementia cases. His words create a pressure inside my head, like he is squeezing my brain with his manicured hands. His eyes are cold and calculating; always assessing, always working out his next six moves. Now he has me right where he wants me: a willing prisoner.
"I thought this was a good place," I say. "A safe place."
"I don't expect you to understand the ways of The Agency, Sasha. What we do here is vital for the protection of humanity. Can you imagine the outbreak of chaos if everyone knew of a parallel world where ghosts really exist?"
The noise of a loud chime makes me jump. I relax when I realise that it's only a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Blake seems mildly amused. If we're playing another of his mental games, then I'm losing.
"Don't worry, Sasha, you'll be fine here. Everything will be just fine."
I believe little of what comes out of Blake's mouth, least of all this.
+ + +
The next few hours are agonizing. I spend most of the day under Blake's close supervision in his office. I'm made to sit in what resembles a dental chair, and I get the same feeling of dread from it. Blake insists that I undergo a series of physical and psychological tests, everything from interpreting shapes on cards he holds up to analysing my reflexes. Ludvig makes an occasional appearance, standing in the corner like a terrible reminder of how much worse things can get. His icy cold eyes and red raw hands make me shudder. I feel like a rodent in some sort of laboratory experiment, and I know exactly how things end for those lab-rats.
I want to scream, but I hold it all in. Beating down my rising anger, I remind myself that I'm here for one reason only: to speak to Zara Gordon. I need to find her, but I'll have to play Blake's game for as long as it takes. Whenever I object Blake simply offers to have me driven to the mental institute, if that's what I'd prefer. The final straw is when he asks me to take a short nap while hooked up to a machine with circular pads stuck to my temples.
"I can't sleep on demand!" I sit up and pull the sticky pads from my head. "Why do I have to do all these tests anyway?"
Blake sighs, leaning back in his chair to switch off the machine which continues to print out blank paper.
"Look, I'll be honest with you, Sasha…"
I don't like the way he's started to use my first name, or the way it sounds in his mouth. I'd prefer to keep things formal between us.
"Haven't you been honest with me so far?"
He ignores my jibe.
"Your father has a serious medical condition. We are concerned that it is hereditary and that you may be suffering from the same illness."
"What's wrong with Dad? What's wrong with me?"
"Your condition is… abnormal."
The last word makes me sit up straight, as rigid as the chair beneath me.
"Abnormal or paranormal?"
His pupils grow as soon as I mention the word. He pulls his chair closer and leans in, the overhead light reflecting off his well moisturised cheeks.
"Sasha, I can help you and your father. But we need to work together. Now, is there anything you'd like to tell me, anything at all?"
I thumb the folded-up hangman game in my jeans pocket. Sometimes it pays to be paranoid and superstitious, I remind myself. A digitized classical music theme suddenly rings out.
"Do excuse me," says Blake, taking his mobile phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. I'm not sure whether he wants me to leave the room while he takes the call. I decide it will bother him more if I stay. "The target is eliminated? Good work."
I've heard this conversation before. It's the same one Dad had when I hid in his attic, which means that he must have been reporting in to Blake that day.
"Permission to move onto the next target… not granted, Miss Gordon."
Blake is on the phone to Zara Gordon. He casts me a sideways glance; he must have seen a flicker of recognition in my crimson eyes.
"I'm taking you off field duty, Gordon," Blake continues. "Report back to HQ immediately."
Blake looks directly at me as he speaks to Zara. Does he somehow know that I want to speak to her so badly?
"Thank you," he says, ending the call.
He stares at me searchingly for what is an uncomfortably long time.
"That was Zara Gordon, who you met in the kitchen earlier."
"Oh, right."
I try to sound disinterested.
"Miss Gordon is one of The Agency's brightest talents. She graduated from university with a first class psychology degree and her special skills are unrivalled. In fact, I can't find a fault in anything she's done during her time here. The only problem is that her mother is ─ how shall I put it ─ permanently detained by the authorities. Which is why I don't trust her."
Why is he telling me this? Is he trying to influence my opinion of Zara Gordon, even though I barely have one? I put on my best poker face and try to give nothing away, even though I've never played poker.
Blake leans forward and his tone changes. "You are both the victims of your pa
rent's misfortune." He has this irritating habit of emphasizing one particular word in each sentence. "I am sorry about what happened to your father, Sasha."
"It wasn't your fault, was it?"
Blake opens a drawer in his desk, taking out a cardboard folder and ignoring the question. He walks around the desk and perches on it, his fingers curled around the edge. He has a horrible knack of invading my personal space.
"I am also sorry that your mother disappeared. It can't have been easy these last few years, growing up without a mother."
I feel a lump form in my throat and try to swallow to make it go away. Hearing him mention my mum makes my chest hurt for a second, like someone has squeezed it in a vice. Blake slides the folder across the desk.
"I know she disappeared on the Day of Dystopia three years ago. I can't bring your mother back, Sasha, but I can give you some answers."
He turns the folder over. It has a name typed on the front and a black and white photograph of a face I long to see:
ASHLEIGH HUNTER
"Mum!" I cry, but as I reach to grab the folder Blake whisks it away.
"Not so fast."
His voice is cold and sharp, like thin ice cracking. If he was playing the role of a good cop before, he's most certainly playing the bad cop now.
"You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Tell me what you know, tell me everything, and you can have the answers you seek."
Tears well in my eyes as I fight to hold them back. For years I've longed to know why Mum disappeared. All I have to do is hand over the hangman game. Blake nods at the folder with Mum's name on the front.
"My offer is on the table, literally. I don't expect you to make a decision right now. Think it over."
He strolls casually past me and opens the door. Ludvig steps into the office, heavy-footed.
"Escort Sasha back to her room," Blake instructs the giant Russian. "Then go and find Agent Gordon and bring her here."
As I leave the room Blake clears his throat to speak again.
"I'll call for you soon, Sasha, and we can finalise our agreement."