Million Eyes

by C. R. Berry

“Those lengths.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Princess Diana’s death. I ordered it.”

  Her heart stopped. “What!”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. This isn’t the first time Million Eyes has had to orchestrate something like this. Diana had information she shouldn’t have had and was on her way back to the UK to hand it over to the Queen.”

  This was huge. Massive. It sounded like Future Erica was hardened to things like this, the way she was minimising it. And clearly there was a good reason – that wasn’t the issue. It was the scale of it.

  “Erica, say something,” said her future self.

  Miss Morgan realised she’d been silent for several moments. “I’m just trying to process what I’m hearing… Are you telling me you’ve changed the timeline? That Princess Diana was never supposed to die?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then uncomplicate it.”

  “There isn’t time. The reason I’m calling you is to make you aware of what we’ve done so that you can protect us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Diana was well-loved by the nation, the whole world in fact. She was one of the most highly publicised figures ever. As you are probably already aware, the outpouring of public grief following her death was unprecedented. The public became obsessed with her. Everyone speculated. Everyone looked for someone to blame. And everyone cooked up their own little conspiracy theory. Erica, it’s your job to make sure that none of those theories and speculations get traced back to Million Eyes. You must observe the public and the authorities carefully and make sure our backs are covered. I’m handling the rest.”

  “I understand, but –”

  “I have to go. Just listen to me when I say that the Mission is more important than ever. We can’t let anyone threaten it. You’re a good person, Erica, but don’t hesitate to take extreme measures when you need to.”

  “Wait – is that it? Is that all you’re going to give me?”

  “Yes. If I tell you any more, I’ll corrupt the timeline. And I’ve had quite enough of that for one night.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let’s just say there’s been an incident. This phone call we’re having right now is going to put an end to it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, Erica. You will.”

  Future Erica hung up.

  Miss Morgan took some deep breaths, waited for her thumping heart to slow, then slipped her phone into her handbag and click-clacked back to the restaurant. A television in the bar area was showing the news and a bald Sky News presenter was giving the latest on Princess Diana’s death, “Tests reveal that the man who drove Princess Diana to her death was more than three times over the French drink-drive legal limit…”

  She shivered, but it wasn’t the cold. It was the intimidating prospect that one day she would arrange the death of the most famous woman in the world.

  She rejoined Arthur Pell. Their champagne had already arrived – she wished it was vodka. As she seated herself, the waiter came with their starters: scallops for Pell and chargrilled octopus for her.

  “Problem?” Pell asked.

  Her priority was this meeting. Future Erica had confirmed how important it was. She couldn’t let herself be distracted, not now. She re-donned her flirtatious facade, all provocative grins and heavy-lidded eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Arthur,” she replied. “No, no problem. Just a little urgent business, but now I’m all yours.”

  He smirked, creepily, “Glad to hear it.”

  Miss Morgan tucked into her octopus. “So, where were we? Ah, yes. You want to know why Million Eyes is going to change the world.”

  26

  October 13th 2021

  Having reburied her feelings for the second time that day, Jennifer went back downstairs. She unfortunately had to pass the Million Eyes TV – or METV – still sitting in its box in her hallway. If Toasty hadn’t paid a probably extortionate amount for it, she’d be tempted to take it upstairs and toss it out of the window, or stamp on it with the highest heels she could find, or find a hammer and bash the bloody thing to pieces.

  But no, she kept her anger and distaste confined to a wordless glare as she passed it, softening her expression as she went into the kitchen. Toasty was making lasagne, or attempting to, for their dinner with Sarah. A wok of mince and vegetables was bubbling on the hob next to the pan of white sauce Toasty was stirring. Normally Jennifer would make a joke about her sketchy culinary skills right about now, but their fight earlier made that a risky move.

  So instead, “Smells good, babe.”

  No reply. She was still upset. Jennifer walked over to her and slipped her arms around her waist. She didn’t respond, just continued stirring.

  “Toasty, I’m really sorry,” said Jennifer. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Toasty muttered. “It’s a TV, for fuck’s sake.”

  Jennifer stepped back, unlooping her arms from her waist and standing next to her at the worksurface. “Yes, but I’ve told you I don’t like Million Eyes tech” – she felt her voice and temper rise – “and you don’t listen.”

  Damn. This was escalating again. Jennifer wasn’t sure how to stop it.

  “Fucking hell, Vicks,” Toasty snapped. “You need to get your head out of your arse. Million Eyes is everywhere.”

  A chill knifed through her as she remembered Erica Morgan’s words from earlier.

  “Everyone uses Million Eyes devices these days,” Toasty continued.

  Jennifer couldn’t help but counter, “Willow’s doesn’t. We’ve got Uzu laptops and an Uzu TV in the staffroom.”

  “That’s ’cause the guy lives in the past. Nobody rates Uzu anymore.”

  “I do.”

  Toasty huffed. Her cheeks were reddening. “You’re so fucking stubborn. Does it not matter that I might want a METV? Or is it all about what you want?”

  She deserved that. Where could she go next? The Uzu TV in their lounge was past its prime. The picture had never been great and now there was a weird shadow in the corner of the screen. She wanted another Uzu TV but it was – she had to admit – a dying brand. Now that Toasty was playing the selfish card, she needed a new reason for not getting a METV. She just didn’t like them wasn’t going to cut it.

  Money. That was the only thing she could think of. METVs were still a lot more expensive than Uzus. If they stuck with their Uzu for now, they could spend the money on a holiday or something.

  But she didn’t get a chance to make the point because Toasty veered the conversation onto an even more contentious subject. “Is this to do with the baby thing? Is that why you’re so uptight? Because you’re freaking out?”

  It wasn’t, but it didn’t help. “No. It’s not.”

  “If you’re that scared of the possibility of having a baby with me, I wish you’d fucking come out and say it.”

  Oh, how she wished she could.

  “I’m not scared. I just –”

  Saved by the bell. The doorbell rang before Jennifer was able to formulate an answer, which was good, because there wasn’t one. Not one that would satisfy Toasty, anyway.

  Jennifer glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. If it was Sarah, she was fifteen minutes early. It was a bit of a mixed blessing. It saved Jennifer from a conversation she wasn’t ready to have, but it also meant that Sarah was arriving right in the middle of a row.

  Jennifer took a deep breath and tried to bring the conversation to a simmer. “That’s probably Sarah. Look, Toasty, I love you, okay. I’m sorry for being a bitch and I promise we’ll talk about everything later, when Sarah’s gone. Okay? Let’s just try and have a nice evening with our friend.”

  Toasty shrugged and did her fine, I’ll be civil but I’m not happy face. That would have to do. Jennifer went to open the front door.

  “Hey… you alright?” said Sarah. She had that wide-eyed, flat-smiled look of hers,
suggesting that she’d heard some of their argument but wasn’t going to pry (even though she secretly wanted to).

  “Hey,” said Jennifer brightly. “Fine. All good. Come in.”

  Eyebrows wilting in acceptance that she wasn’t going to get the gossip there and then, Sarah came in. She was in a thin blue-grey cardigan and a mottled green, roll neck jumper dress over navy leggings and had two bottles of Pinot Grigio, one in each hand. It was their go-to tipple when they all got smashed together.

  “I thought you might need these,” said Sarah, now with a sympathetic look, handing the bottles to Jennifer and taking off her shoes. She was obviously referring to earlier at Willow’s.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” said Jennifer, smiling.

  “And yeah I know I’m early. Gloria came round again, shouting her mouth off at me. Just had to get out the house.”

  “What have you done this time?”

  “Apparently I’m letting my cat poop on her chrysanthemums.”

  “Er – you don’t have a cat.”

  “I know! The woman is batshit insane.”

  Jennifer laughed, gesturing with the bottles of wine, “Sounds like you need these as well.”

  As they started towards the kitchen, Sarah noticed the METV on the floor in the hallway. “You got a METV?” she said. “Thought you hated Million Eyes?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Jennifer quickly. “Just don’t ask.”

  At dinner, Toasty put on a front for Sarah. They had a few laughs – the wine helped. It didn’t get awkward until Toasty decided to talk Million Eyes with Sarah. Sarah, like many people, had a METV, a MEc, a MEphone, and a MEye – those virtual home automation assistants that everyone was obsessed with. She also had a MEcar X7, a sporty green driverless hatchback outfitted with Million Eyes software and the first car with a nitrogen- and oxygen-powered fuel cell. It ran on air, basically. Sarah mentioned how she hated using the Uzu laptops at work, how slow and inflexible they were next to Million Eyes – which didn’t much help Jennifer with her argument. And Toasty kept talking about how Jennifer was refusing to give Million Eyes a go, as if she was goading her or something. It got to the point where Jennifer had to kick her under the table to shut her up, at which point you could cut the tension in the room with a machete.

  “Sorry about tonight,” Jennifer said quietly to Sarah after dinner. She was washing up and Sarah was drying. Toasty, now just trying to avoid Jennifer, was in the lounge watching TV.

  Sarah smiled. “Don’t worry about it, sweet. I’ve been stuck in the middle of worse domestics than that, trust me.”

  “Some of it’s to do with, you know, the baby issue.”

  Sarah nodded. “I guessed that.”

  “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

  “Yeah. But do it sober.”

  Very good advice.

  Sarah then said, “By the way, you can talk to me, you know.”

  Talking about it more with Sarah wasn’t going to help Jennifer come to a conclusion, not when she could only talk about a fraction of what the real problem was. “Thanks. I know. But don’t worry, we’ll sort it.” Somehow.

  “No, I mean about earlier. We didn’t get a chance to talk about, you know, when you got upset at the shop.”

  Ah. Jennifer knew Sarah would ask about that at some point. “Oh. No, I’m fine, absolutely fine.” She forged a smile.

  “Well like I said, you can talk to me, if you need to. You know I’m a damn good listener and talking’s always better than bottling things up.”

  Not in this scenario it wasn’t. In this scenario, Jennifer was the best bottler ever.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Jennifer said, “but it’s not really something I like to talk about, you know? I dealt with it a long time ago and I guess I like to avoid dredging stuff back up. Just had a bit of a wobble earlier.”

  “I totally understand.”

  “Thanks for the offer though.”

  “Any time.”

  Sarah made herself scarce shortly after that. The uncomfortable atmosphere was hardly guest-friendly and Sarah probably thought she ought to give Jennifer and Toasty a chance to talk.

  Not that Sarah’s exit made a squat of difference to the lingering silence between them. Admittedly Jennifer didn’t really try too hard to engage Toasty in conversation – not knowing what to say – but Toasty just stared glumly at the TV, not laughing once at A Little Bit of Sick even though it was her favourite show, which meant her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

  Jennifer was just starting to fall asleep on the other sofa when her phone vibrated. She tugged it from her pocket.

  A text message from Sarah. Vicky, we need to talk. Urgently.

  Jennifer blinked away her sleepiness and texted back. It was just gone 10pm. What’s up? Everything okay?

  An instant reply. No. You need to come round. Now. And please don’t tell Toasty.

  Jennifer felt her heart rate start to climb. Sarah, what the fuck’s going on? And why can’t I tell Toasty?

  Because there’s something you need to know about her. Something I’ve literally just found out myself.

  Sarah, you’re scaring me.

  Just come round, Vicks. You need to know the truth.

  27

  Jennifer told Toasty she was going for a walk to the seafront for some air and got a quiet “K,” Toasty’s eyes not leaving the TV. Jennifer threw on a hoody and headed out, shivering as a cold blast of air swirled around her. She probably should’ve worn a coat as well, but it was only a five-minute walk to Sarah’s, if that. She lived on Berkeley Way, a few roads down from Trafalgar Rise, in a two-bed terrace a bit smaller than Jennifer and Toasty’s. Unlike Jennifer and Toasty, who were renting, Sarah owned hers and paid a mortgage, although her parents had covered most of the deposit.

  Jennifer had this continually tightening knot in her stomach as she walked. Sarah had learned something about Toasty and Jennifer couldn’t help but think it was to do with Million Eyes.

  Jennifer trusted Toasty. It had taken a while but she did – implicitly. Had that trust been misplaced? Should she have stuck with her solitary life? Was trusting people again a mistake?

  A low thrum of voices and music wafted from the Sticky Frog pub on St James’s Street – otherwise the roads were dark and still. Jennifer was almost trembling, but not with cold, by the time she got to Berkeley Way.

  She reached Sarah’s house and walked up the short path to the front door.

  Shit.

  The door was open. It wasn’t obvious from the street, but she could see now that it wasn’t latched and hung slightly ajar. Sarah wouldn’t have left her door open. She was OCD when it came to security.

  Jennifer pushed the door gently and stepped onto the recessed coir doormat. Weak orange light limped around the hallway and up the stairs from a single low-energy lamp. She called softly, “Sarah?”

  No answer.

  She went further into Sarah’s hallway, turned around the bottom of the stairs and saw the lounge at the end of the hall – pitch-dark. She passed the kitchen, also dark.

  A moment later, voices. Jennifer was nearly at the lounge and heard muffled voices beneath her, coming from the basement. She listened for a moment, couldn’t make anything out, but at least discerned that there were two voices. A woman and a man, judging by their pitch.

  Sarah had a male visitor. Could this man be the source of the information about Toasty? Who could he be?

  Anxiety pressing down on her belly, she started towards the basement.

  Wait a minute…

  Jennifer noticed that the door between the downstairs toilet and lounge was open. It was the only door Sarah hadn’t opened when Jennifer first came round and got a tour of the house. Sarah just said it was a storage cupboard, which Jennifer thought was odd because it had a lock on it.

  “Don’t ask me,” Sarah had said when Jennifer asked about the lock. “Maybe the previous owner was a serial killer and kept pieces of his victims in there!”

/>   Jennifer laughed, “I presume you’ve checked for body parts?”

  Sarah replied, “Yup. All clear. Just the hoover and boxes of Christmas decs in there now.”

  Now that the door was open, Jennifer could see inside.

  And it wasn’t a cupboard.

  Confused, Jennifer stepped lightly towards the door, urged to take a closer look. The muffled voices continued below her, apparently oblivious to her presence.

  She pushed the door wider and eased into what was clearly a whole other room, windowless and swathed in darkness, barely touched by the dim hallway light.

  She stroked the wall for a light switch, found it and flicked it on. A much brighter bulb burst into light and made Jennifer squint. When her eyes adjusted, she looked around.

  The room was being used for storage, just not the kind of storage Sarah had led Jennifer to believe. No hoover or Christmas decorations in sight. Shelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor and divided the middle of the room into a couple of narrow aisles. Each shelf was stacked with white boxes, all neatly placed, labels stamped in exactly the same place on every box – an eerie and uniform display. Jennifer tiptoed across old floorboards that could give her away at any moment. She scanned the boxes, read the labels. Chronodes. Chronophones. Disruptors.

  She saw one labelled Chronozine. The third one with the chrono- prefix. Something to do with time, but it sounded like medicine.

  She reached for the chronozine box and slid it off the shelf, breaking the symmetry of the room’s lines and squares. It wasn’t heavy. She set it down gently on the floor and crouched over it, lifting the lid. All the time her body was on high alert: muscles taut, eyes darting back and forth to the door, ears homed in on the voices in the basement, listening for any change in their location.

  Inside the box was a batch of small plastic medicine bottles, all labelled Chronozine. Jennifer picked one out. It rattled – there were pills inside, or something like them. She unscrewed the cap and tipped the contents into her hand. Yep. Small, capsule-shaped, red pills.

  Red pills.

  A memory pushed its way to the front of her mind with a jolt. The deathbed confession of charcoal burner Purkis, saying that the man who killed William II had taken a red stone from a pot, swallowed it, then vanished before his eyes. The journal of Sir Lionel Frensham, detailing an encounter between Edward IV and an intruder with a pot of strange red pills. The woman who met with Gregory Ferro, told him about the man she saw disposing of a white Fiat Uno in the woods on the night of Princess Diana’s death, a man who took a pill and disappeared.