by Gary Baker
The Major, slightly out of breath, glooped into the chair behind his desk, steepled his fingers once more and studied Roger.
What was all that about? Why repeat the PR blurb? He's making sure I'm on board. He needs me.
Roger felt the silence demanded he say something. 'The means justifies the end?' he offered.
'Quite.'
The Major continued to study Roger as if making his mind up about something. He broke the silence.
'The communications network you successfully modified,' said The Major, 'is one of three, practically identical networks.'
Roger sat forward with interest. 'That would make sense,' he said. 'Are the other two belt and braces backups?'
'Very nearly,' said The Major. 'The official line is almost exactly that. Two backup networks in two locations to cover multiple disaster scenarios. The reality is though, that one network is, indeed, a mirror of the one that you are familiar with. But the other network is far more interesting. More precisely: the information number three network carries is all level nine.'
Roger frowned, in the context of information carried on a network, a 'level nine' was MoD speak for as secret as it got. This was the Queen's real-income-secret, the PM's tax-liability-secret, or even, nuclear-launch-code-secret.
'Oh My God,' said Roger in alarm, 'you want me to get the nuclear launch codes for some submarine or other, then you can blackmail the government?'
'Mr Peerson,' said The Major, 'we already know the launch codes.'
Chapter 11
Jennifer sat cross-legged on the bed leafing through the comfortable familiarity of the manual. She was aware Roger was standing behind her.
'You haven't been back,' she said.
Roger looked down at his shoes.
'Have Julia and Harry just ceased to exist for you now?' Jennifer cattle-prodded Roger with her words.
'This next job's really serious,' Roger said, ignoring Jennifer's taunt. 'I know what it sounds like but I'm almost sure this will be the last time. After this it will be golden beaches, palm trees, a shack with a straw roof and slatted floors.'
'A shack?'
'Yes,' Roger said, 'from the film Road to Morocco or Road to Singapore, I'm not sure which, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby? I saw it when I was an impressionable youth and there's a scene where the two are staying in a shack by the beach living off the local fruit. Seemed like a definition of heaven to me. Back then.'
Jennifer closed the manual. 'So you came to ask my help again?' she said. 'Why on earth do you bother? You know I have zero choice in the matter!'
'I just want you to say it's all right. Give me your blessing, sort of thing.'
Jennifer turned and looked into Roger's eyes. 'Don't you think you'd be better off if you could remember these things without my help?'
Roger shuffled uneasily. 'I've tried.'
Jennifer sighed knowing it was useless to pursue the idea. 'It's your life.'
There was a long pause but Roger did not leave.
'Why do you think we're here?' Roger asked.
Jennifer knew it was a life, the universe and everything question. Roger was still prone to those.
'Does there have to be a reason?' Jennifer asked.
'Without a reason it's all meaningless.'
'Does it have to have meaning?'
'Then what's the point?'
'Does there have to be a point?'
'Isn't that very sad?' Roger asked.
'There's still fun, table tennis, farting, flowers, a child's laughter. All that good stuff just doesn't go away because it doesn't need to be there.'
'Farting?' asked Roger with a chuckle.
'See?' Jennifer said.
Roger smiled and left.
Jennifer looked at the closed door. If things ran true to form she'd be getting another visit from Loki on the benefits of co-operation. And sure enough. Here he was, filling her with dread, again.
Chapter 12
Back in his hotel room at The Sea View Hotel, Roger lay on his bed looking at the ceiling. There was the taste of copper in his mouth. It was the taste of tiredness. The revelation from The Major was careering around the wall of death in his head stopping him from sleeping.
They knew the launch codes! Was he serious? Was he bluffing? Why would he bluff? How did they get them? Did they steal them? Did they blackmail someone into giving them up? Did they torture someone? These were launch codes for goodness sake. Not someone's PIN number. Who knew the launch codes anyway? Not even the Captain of a nuclear submarine knew them until he opened the envelope. But what about the land based ICBM's; they used a different method. How high did you have to go to get them? Or how low. After all, a painter and decorator, proud and respected profession though it is, is a lowly character compared to the admiral of the fleet or the Prime Minister. But it's the painter and decorator who puts the finishing touches on the door frame into the most secret vault in Britain.
Roger shook his head. His thoughts were flying at tangents. Where the hell had painters and decorators come from?
Assume they do have the launch codes. Assume they could somehow be sent to activate a missile. Then what? Blow up part of China? Hold the world to ransom?
Roger rose and sat on the edge of the bed.
He should phone Julia. Listen to a sane voice. Maybe speak to Harry. What would he say about where he's been?
Roger picked up the phone. What was the number? Roger hit zero and the rest just came to his fingers. It was ringing. There was that strange feeling behind his sternum again.
The ringing stopped. A pause. Wrong number? Was there something wrong with the phone?
'Hello?' It was Julia.
'Hi.'
'Roger?'
'Yes.'
'Roger, where are you?'
'I'm … '
'Roger, tell me where you are and I'll come and get you.'
'No. I just thought I'd let you know I was still alive.' God, that sounded lame.
'I'm glad you called, Roger. I was worried about you.'
'Yes.'
'You know I was worried about you, don't you Roger.'
'Yes.' She does sound worried, but is she going to use my name in every sentence?
'Good. Now tell me where you are and I'll come and get you.'
'No. I can't.'
'Roger,' there was a long pause from Julia, 'why did you call me?'
'I told you.'
'There's another reason, isn't there, Roger.'
'I'd like to talk to Harry. Is Harry there?'
'You can't talk to Harry, Roger.'
'When will he be there, I'll call back.'
'Roger, you know you can't talk to Harry. Now tell me where you are, I'll come and get you and we'll have a nice chat. Maybe a drink of that spicy green tea you like so much.'
'No. I … '
'What is it, Roger?'
Roger's mind started to tumble. Tunnel vision threatened.
'Roger? Are you all right?'
'Do I really like spicy green tea?'
'Yes, Roger. Spicy green tea and Jasmine green tea. Don't you remember?'
'I'm … I'm having trouble with my memory.'
'That's understandable, Roger. Do you know where you are?'
'Of course. Yes. Look, put Harry on right now. This is not fair.'
'Roger, I can't. Now calm down. Just relax. Give me your phone number and I'll call you back.'
'I don't know what it is. Just dial 1471.'
'The number has been withheld, Roger. Why can't you tell me where you are?'
'How do you know that?'
'How do I know what, Roger?'
'How do you know the number has been withheld?'
'I have one of those little machines which display the caller's number, Roger.'
'When did you get that? And why do you keep saying my name?'
'I've had it for ages, Roger. Listen, I'm worried about you. Please, tell me where you are.'
'I can't and besides … I wanted
to ask you something but it doesn't make sense right now.'
'Ask me anything, Roger. You know I'll always listen. You know I care about you.'
There was a loud knock on the door. 'Maid service,' said a voice from outside.
'I have to go,' said Roger. He could hear Julia's voice, sounding tinny now it was away from his ear, calling his name as he replaced the receiver.
'Come in,' he called.
*
Roger sat in the passenger seat of the black Jaguar recently allocated to him. Mr Auxiliary seemed to enjoy driving it, accelerating with gusto and turning the steering wheel with the palm of one hand. They had left the hotel two minutes before and were heading south to the underground complex near Lytham St Anne's and a meeting with The Major.
Mr Auxiliary clicked on the radio. A woman was talking about a hospice she founded and ran. She was a nun of some kind, gathered Roger. The hospice was for children with terminal illnesses. The children went there to die. She was invited by the hostess of the program to select a piece of music to be played. She picked a song from 1985. Walking In The Air sung by Aled Jones; a young Welsh lad with the voice of an angel.
A very ill young boy, who the nun had looked after, played Walking In The Air over and over. It was his favourite piece of music.
They had played it at his funeral.
Then the music came on. 'We're walking in the air'
Tears welled up in Roger's eyes. The nun cared so much. Cared so deeply.
Mr Auxiliary slowed the Jaguar as the long black nose of a hearse pulled slowly onto the road ahead of them. The hearse carried a coffin trimmed with shining brass handles.
Two long Limousines followed close behind. There were no flowers with the coffin and no mourners in the Limousines. The procession was on its way to pick up the family and friends of the corpse in the coffin. Someone's mother or father, sister or brother, daughter or son. Dead meat in a box. An ex-person. A broken computer. Perhaps a young boy. Gone.
Aled Jones' still sang out, '… Taken by surprise'
No, thought Roger. That person has not gone. Their life will always be there, embedded in the space-time of this universe. No matter what happens, they have existed. That time, those events, their life, will always have been. No matter what. That will never change.
If one imagined the entire existence of the universe in time as a hard-boiled chicken's egg; the blunt end is the beginning, it expands quickly then starts to diminish to a sharper end. There's a tiny, thin slice through that egg in which I exist, thought Roger. When you stand back and look at the egg, you'll be looking at me too. And every other life that ever existed will be there as well. Immortalised in egg-yolk. All of your deeds and thoughts - and misdeeds - on display for those who can see, to see. To be seen, and perhaps, to be judged. So thinking about our lives as finite and consequence free could be a big, big mistake.
But I have been the cause of people's deaths, thought Roger. If it was not for my actions there would be a good chance that some of those killed the other day would still be alive.
'We're walking in the air'
Just because I didn't actually pull the trigger; does that make me innocent? No. I condoned those actions. I was in a place, a mental place, where no one else's lives mattered. People's lives do matter. Whoever they are. We're all embedded in the same universe.
So is it the fear of judgement that's caused me to change my mind? Or the genuine belief that I must live my life such that my selfish activities do not cause distress to others?
Roger searched his mind for the answer. There was nothing. Just the question.
'But did it matter? Yes it did matter.'
The Jaguar was underground and parked. The radio was off. Roger became aware that Mr Auxiliary was staring at him. Roger had voiced the last question and answer out loud.
Chapter 13
Roger stood in front of The Major's desk trying to rock discretely on the balls of his feet. The office was stuffy and he could feel sweat running down his back. He held his hands together in front of his genitals.
'You are well?' asked the Major gesturing for Roger to sit down.
Roger sat, grateful for the chance to take the weight from his legs. The only way to stop them shaking was to rock slightly. A trick he had learned when lecturing Applied Mechanics at Ealing University. Where had that memory come from?
When Roger didn't reply The Major took it upon himself to continue, 'I can understand if you're getting a little, shall we say, impatient. But never fear, arrangements are almost complete.'
Roger hoped his beating heart couldn't be heard in his voice. 'I can't do it,' he said. His dry mouth clicked against his teeth.
A cold stillness descended on The Major and his office. Roger tensed even more making his head dither ever so slightly.
'I don't think The KOPALDA and its philosophy is for me,' said Roger. 'With your permission I'd like to go home, please.'
Piggy eyes stared at Roger for thirty long uncomfortable seconds. This was not good.
'If I had not heard it for myself,' said The Major, 'I would not have believed such naivety existed.'
The Major raised himself from his seat with a grunt. 'Get out!' he bellowed. Roger stood in alarm. 'Get out and do your job before I have you painfully removed from the face of this planet!' White foamy spittle speckled the Major's lips. 'Get Out!'
Roger left hastily on bent legs with his hands slightly ahead of him as if ready to dodge a thrown brick.
That was not good.
*
Roger sat on his hotel bed and picked up the phone. Was it safe? Probably more prudent to use the phones in the hotel lobby. Roger replaced the phone, stood, picked his jacket from the chair back and headed out of room. Mr Auxiliary joined him as he stood waiting for the elevator.
The lift doors opened and Roger stood back to let Mr Auxiliary in first. Mr Auxiliary didn't move.
'Very well,' said Roger getting into the lift. He pressed the button marked 'G' for ground floor.
Both men watched the blue number above the doors counting down. Roger couldn't resist a sneak peek at Mr Auxiliary. What must life be like without a tongue? What does he sound like when he speaks? Roger looked quickly back at the numbers when Mr Auxiliary turned as he felt Roger looking at him.
The lift stopped with a gentle bounce and the doors opened with a ping and a sigh. The lobby buzzed with busy people.
'Oh, hang on,' said Roger, as they were heading for the double glass doors which led to the street, 'I just need to make a call.' Roger spun on his heel and made for a row of three white telephones, each with a small privacy hood attached to the wall. He took the first from its cradle.
A steady tone was interrupted by a woman's voice, 'Which number, please?'
'Oh,' Roger had expected a dial-tone. He was reluctant to give up the number. But you've dialled it from your room already, said Roger B. Roger patted his jacket theatrically. 'I'm sorry,' he said into the phone, 'I seem to have misplaced the number.' He hung up.
Mr Auxiliary looked at Roger impassively, framed large and dark by the bright light coming through the double glass doorway.
Roger walked towards him, continuing the charade. 'I've lost the number,' he said pretending to go thorough his pockets. 'Never mind, I'll call later.'
Over Mr Auxiliary's shoulder, also framed against the bright light, Roger saw a familiar female figure. Good God, it's Julia!
Something in Roger stopped him reacting in front of Mr Auxiliary.
Julia mouthed and motioned Roger to head off to his left. She obviously knew something was amiss and she had to be discrete. Somehow she seemed to know that it would be best if Mr Auxiliary didn't know she was there. Roger glanced to his left and saw the signs to the toilets.
'Back in a sec,' said Roger turning towards the toilets. Mr Auxiliary nodded and started to follow slowly.
Roger headed to the gentlemen's door which was still closing behind someone.
Inside, one of the rows
of cubicles was occupied. Roger picked one next to it, entered and closed the door. He pulled out some sheets of paper from the dispenser and wiped the toilet seat before sitting down. On the back of the door was scrawled: 'Kev has a tiny prick' in blue biro. Following straight on, in red scrawl, was, 'of a mate called Lee.' Roger felt a moment of embarrassment at being a man as he wondered what was on the back of Julia's door.
He waited not knowing what to do next.
A folded piece of paper appeared from under the neighbouring cubicle. Roger took it gingerly. He unfolded it and read, 'fun house', scrawled in thick black crayon or eyeliner. More likely eyeliner. Julia would be more likely to be carrying eyeliner than crayons. Brilliant deduction, thought Roger B.
Roger stood, dropped the paper into the toilet basin and flushed.
Mr Auxiliary stood waiting for him by the basins where Roger washed his hands. His heart was pounding. He felt surprisingly exhilarated.
'It's a beautiful day outside,' said Roger drying his hands. 'I was just going for a stroll along the promenade. Perhaps as far as the pleasure beach?' Mr Auxiliary shrugged noncommittally.
Roger left the hotel and crossed over towards the beach. A green and cream tram was just about to pull away as Roger jumped aboard holding the doors open for Mr Auxiliary.
'It's been a while since I've been on one of these,' said Roger, not expecting and not getting a reply. 'We can walk back.'
A short ride south and Roger and Mr Auxiliary were crossing back across the road towards the huge permanent fun-fare known as the pleasure beach.
'Ah, the pleasure beach,' said Roger. 'Built when “pleasure” meant something.'
Mr Auxiliary frowned.
'Don't worry,' said Roger, 'I don't know what I'm talking about either. I'm just in a … strange mood. Let's go and hook some ducks.'
Roger and Mr auxiliary joined the crowds and strolled round the flamboyantly painted stalls and rides. All the while Roger steered them towards the rear of the site where he knew the fun house was situated. Roger headed them into busy sections between candy-floss stores and win-a-goldfish stands. At one point, seeing Mr Auxiliary was occupied negotiating a twin pram tied with balloons, Roger ducked behind a hook-a-duck store and came upon Mr Auxiliary from behind.