by Gary Baker
'Harry?'
The engine continued to scream but Roger couldn't find the ignition key to turn the damn thing off. Nothing's where it should be.
A stream of brightly coloured Yu-Gi-Oh cards flowed from somewhere above. They gathered on the sun roof below. Now blood, pooling in the sun roof. That will ruin his cards.
The engine coughed and was silent.
'Harry?!'
Roger struggled, wriggled, kicked against the restraining steering wheel and belts and managed to free himself enough so he could see onto the back seat. With one elbow in his beautiful son's blood, Roger saw that Harry had been crushed between the collapsed roof and his seat.
*
Aching metal creaked and pinged, and blood dripped.
Roger counted one hundred and eighty-one drips before strong hands pulled at him and lay him on hard ground. Voices talked. He heard himself respond. He was breathalysed, driven somewhere, talked to. There was a hand on his shoulder, then he was left to sit alone.
*
The police had dropped Roger off at his home. Roger assured them he was okay, waved them off standing in front of his red front door. He'd turned. Key in hand. And something started to grow in his stomach. Something big and green and it hurt. And it rose through his chest pushing air and malice and hate and evil and despair and pain, such pain. It rose and burst from Roger in a gasping, gagging moan. The pain will kill me, please, let it kill me.
Then his mind wiped itself. Swept those vile stinking turds pretending to be memories away and out and replaced them with something he could survive with. This mind had walked Roger, still sobbing, from his home in Barton to the Salvation Army building in Darlington.
*
Roger sat up on the couch, put his head in his hands and sobbed. Roger C sobbed. Jennifer sobbed. Roger B said, 'There, there.' Numb.
*
Julia sat forward, raised her hand to touch Roger then drew it back and wiped away a tear. She had known Roger for ten years. Met him two years after his wife had died.
Julia worked for the Ministry of Defence. She was not a code breaker but worked with people who were. Many very talented code breakers had personality and psychological issues. Some could multiply two five digit numbers instantly in their head or detect algorithmic sequences in pages and pages of seemingly random numbers but looked with puzzlement at their shoes when asked to put their best foot forward. Julia helped them get the best out of themselves in a variety of ways including hypnosis, life coaching and simply listening. She had gravitated to working with Autistic Savants and written many well received papers on nurturing and harnessing the extraordinary powers some exhibited.
Roger was an extreme rarity. A Savant with no debilitating Autistic problems. A freak who could 'see' the original message in data encrypted with a hundred and twenty eight digit security codes and read it out like everyone else reads an edition of The Times.
On the surface Roger was normal, if geeky. He owned a computer company which designed, wrote and marketed software. One of his products, the strangely named Tree-Baker, attracted the attention of the security guys during a routine test to see if they could use the product internally. Tree-Baker was a three dimensional telecommuting environment. Users could log in and see three dimensional representations of others in their group; could spin, move and travel through spaces and regions seeing their colleagues at work as if they were in the same office; could interact visually, by voice or just by text chatting. It made telecommuting, working from home, a reality by removing the key barriers of feeling alone or excluded.
Like any other large organisation, the MoD wanted to find out if this product could help them streamline and save money. During their tests they discovered something unique.
They couldn't crack the code. They could not break into the communications between users. They put their best people and computers onto the problem and still it would not yield its secrets.
This was extraordinary indeed. You have the originating message. You have the program that scrambles it. You have the intermediate scrambled message. You have the program that unscrambles it back to its original form. And still you can't work out how it's done.
They contacted Roger, the designer who turned out to be the programmer too, and found he could translate the scrambled data back to its original form in just a few minutes. In his head.
They had to have him. Roger was too big an asset to leave lying around for someone else to pick up. He was a national resource. Like North Sea Gas, Roger had to be exploited.
And Julia was given the job of looking after him. Making sure Roger 'got with the program' and stayed with it. So for the last ten years Roger had been Julia's career.
Roger's hair was still thick and brown when they first met. He was a little shy, obviously loved his baby son, was attractive, brown eyed and tall. He quickly relaxed with her and, yes, she was attracted to him. He was normal and funny and sometimes witty and sometimes silly but always he held back. Julia could sometimes feel Roger take a breath to step forward and then stop himself.
Julia felt she knew Roger well. She had talked him through illnesses with Harry, school problems, self doubt and one very bad love affair.
Roger had a fairly normal problem addressing groups of people. A pretty standard failing. But to make the most of his talents he needed to be able to stand up in front of a crowd and lecture, discuss, teach, argue.
Julia helped Roger overcome his inhibitions. She used hypnosis. And it was there, under hypnosis, that she met Roger's dead wife, Jennifer. The Jennifer personality had become the keeper of Roger's special knowledge. Jennifer had grown from the strangely independent Savant section of Roger's brain to help him bear the agony of her loss.
Roger never mentioned Jennifer to Julia though she knew he talked to her. They communed on some level inaccessible to Julia.
For ten years Julia had supported Roger. It hardly seemed like ten months to her. His capacity to solve problems and come up with solutions seemed infinite. More and more work was thrown at him. Pressures grew. At one point Roger rebelled and demanded he work only nine thirty to six pm Mondays to Fridays instead of every single hour of every single day.
Julia spent her evenings and weekends collating Roger's daily output and collecting the next day's challenges and Roger lived an almost normal existence taking Harry to school in the mornings, picking him up from the childminder in the evenings, spending weekends cooking and playing football.
Julia had spent ten years watching Harry grow into a fine young boy and watching Roger grow into a fine father.
Now Harry was dead and his fine father was dripping tears and snot onto her beech-effect laminate flooring.
The beautiful brown eyed boy with a mania for some incomprehensible cards was a bloody mush and the powers that be were asking when his father would be 'productive' once more.
Julia had listened in horror to the crash on her mobile phone. Listened as Roger called to Harry. Listened as Roger had begged for mercy from a God he didn't believe in. Listened to Roger screaming threats and curses at that same God. Listened to Roger's pain.
Julia reached forward once more. Lay a gentle hand on Roger's shoulder. She could feel the heat of his skin through the cotton pyjama. Roger felt hot and damp. Too hot.
Julia barely breathed his name. 'Roger?' Her eyes pricked with tears once more as Roger began to rock, holding his stomach, holding the pain. She slid over and sat on the couch beside him. Held him. He turned and buried his head into her chest. Held her tight around the waste. She held on to his shaking body. Hot and damp.
After a few minutes the sobbing subsided. Roger straightened up. Julia held his face, wiped the tears away with her thumbs. Kissed his cheeks. Kissed his lips.
Roger pulled away. Held Julia at arm's length. His eyes cold. 'I want to be alone for a while,' he said. 'Come and get me at four.'
Roger stood and left the room and Julia listened as he went upstairs and closed the bedroom door. The fl
oor above her creaked as Roger got back into bed.
Julia's mobile chirruped on the desk. They'd be wanting an update no doubt.
*
Naked and in a place devoid of colour, Jennifer and Roger stood and hugged each other. No tears. Just sadness.
'I'm sorry,' Roger said. 'I'm sorry for mistreating you. I'm sorry I had your head shaved and beat you and made you live in hell. I'm sorry.'
'I know,' Jennifer said.
'I'm sorry I patronised you with a silly dress and dinner,' Roger said.
'Actually, I quite enjoyed the dinner,' Jennifer said, smiling.
'I'm sorry I killed Harry,' Roger said. 'I'm sorry I blamed you for everything and got mad at you for leaving me and … '
Jennifer looked serious again. 'I know,' she said.
They stood apart.
'We have to complete the plan,' Roger said.
'I know,' said Jennifer raising her chin.
Roger gripped Jennifer's neck with both hands and squeezed.
Chapter 18
Julia took some of Roger's clothes into him at ten minutes to four. He was not asleep.
'There's a towel, comb and toothbrush for you in the bathroom,' she said.
Julia went back downstairs and sat on her straight-backed leather chair, crossed her ankles, placed her hands on her lap and waited for Roger.
Roger came down at precisely four o'clock.
He walked into the room and lay down on the couch, crossed his ankles, knitted his fingers together across his stomach and took a deep breath.
'Jennifer's gone,' he said. 'I've killed her. I'm useless to you.' The rest of his breath expelled the words. Made sure they left him.
This was the first time Roger had said Jennifer's name to Julia while not under hypnosis.
'Test me,' said Roger.
Julia knew what Roger meant. Under hypnosis Roger would not be able to keep the truth from her.
Julia said the words. She felt light headed, elated and hoped her excitement would not impede the soothing balm of her voice.
And there he was. Laid out like a dissected crow.
'Hello Roger', said Julia.
'Hello Doctor Julia,' said Roger.
'Can I talk to Jennifer, please?'
'Jennifer's dead. He killed her. Are you wearing stockings?'
'You know Jennifer isn't really dead don't you,' said Julia.
'Oh she's dead all right. Dead as a door-nail. Ask me go on ask me.'
'All right, Roger,' said Julia. 'What's the cube root of 5678?'
'Don't know,' said Roger. 'Don't care. Are you wearing stockings?'
Julia pushed Roger further. Talked to all of him. They weren't lying. She knew with mounting excitement that somehow Roger had purged himself of the gift that had become his gift.
Julia started composing her report even before the session was finished: The subject, Roger Peerson, has suffered enormous psychological damage due to the loss of his only son and his Savant gifts are no longer …
The powers that be would argue of course. Are you sure? How can this be after ten years? Can we replace him? Is he now a liability?
Yes I'm sure; the human mind is a fragile thing; perhaps; no, he is not a threat.
Julia brought Roger out of hypnosis.
'Satisfied?' said Roger sitting up.
'Yes,' said Julia.
Roger stood and walked to her desk and scribbled something on two pieces of yellow post-it. Handing them to Julia he said, 'Send these emails to these addresses, please.'
Roger walked to the door, stopped and turned.
'Roger … ' said Julia.
'Exactly as it's written,' said Roger.
'Yes,' said Julia.
*
West Cemetery, Darlington, County Durham.
Roger stood looking down at a plain, black granite headstone with gilt lettering. Lettering he couldn't bring himself to read.
'Harry will be joining you soon,' he said. 'You'll have to shift over a bit.'
Jennifer Penrose, thought Roger, how sweet you are.
Even when she became Mrs Jennifer Peerson, Roger always thought of her as Jennifer Penrose. He remembered the first time they had met: Roger interviewed her for a job as a computer programmer. He'd pointed out that her surname was an anagram of Peerson. His own surname. And she had laughed nervously. And it was that damn laugh that did it. A husky chuckle ending with a little piggy snort that made her put her hand over her mouth. And then she'd admitted that yes, she had noticed too. And laughed again and little piggy snorted and Roger was hooked.
Roger moved a leaf with his foot. 'I love you,' he said.
'How fucking sweet is that,' said a gravely voice behind him. It took Roger a moment to realise it was Lenny.
'You survived,' said Roger. 'I thought you might.'
'Inde-fucking-structable me,' said Lenny. 'You did well yourself, mind. That was a long fucking way down.'
Roger turned round. Lenny was pointing a small silenced hand gun at his chest. 'You got the message then,' said Roger.
'Oh, yes,' said Lenny. 'But now,' Lenny waved the pistol back towards the cemetery gates, 'your presence is required elsewhere.'
'I'm not coming,' said Roger.
'Don't be -' Lenny's warning was cut off by Roger lunging forward and grabbing the gun. Roger's grip was like steel and Lenny felt Roger's thumb move over his trigger finger and squeeze.
Roger smiled and saw three figures over Lenny's shoulder. He saw himself and Jennifer stood either side of Harry, holding his hands. And the figure that was him was the three melded together. And Harry and Jennifer and he three smiled at him.
Chuck.
So that's what it feels like, thought Roger. Out loud he said, 'They're going to really fuck you now, Lenny.'
Roger's knees gave way and he fell face down onto the grass.
Lenny staggered back in disbelief. Pushed a hand through his hair. Roger lay still.
'Get the fuck up!' Lenny shouted. He pushed at Roger with his foot. Nothing. 'Oh, Christ,' he said.
Chapter 19
Meadhill sat looking at a computer screen in an anonymous hotel suite that could have existed practically anywhere in England and decided it was time for a coffee. Things were looking bad and there were going to be serious repercussions.
On the way to the kitchen area he caught sight of himself in a wall mirror and stopped to admire his reflection. Meadhill had washed out the black hair dye the previous evening. He looked approvingly at this new, naturally mature reflection. Grey, almost white hair, dark eyebrows, dark brown eyes, all nicely accentuated by the black suit and black shirt covering his tall, trim, athletic figure. He narrowed his eyes. Made them smile back. Made his mouth smile to show his gold upper left lateral incisor. Classy.
Meadhill pursed his lips ever so slightly. Not bad. Though there was a tiny, irritating sprinkle of dandruff on his shoulders.
He turned away from his image - watching for as long as he could - and continued on to the kitchen area where a coffee machine waited for his light touch.
Standing on a shelf near the coffee machine, a pale tired purple tulip, looking sad among its haughty companions, bowed its head wearily. Meadhill pushed its stem back into the crystal vase; back into the water.
He pressed the cup symbol on the coffee machine. Nothing happened.
Meadhill cursed and brought the side of his fist down hard on the shiny stainless steel top of the coffee machine with a crash that made the shelf shudder and the vase of tulips wobble dangerously. He hit the machine again, even harder, before realising he had forgotten to select which coffee he wanted. He pressed the label marked 'Latté' as the tulip vase thudded without breaking onto the deep pile carpet. The contents spilled out - tulip stems suddenly naked, glistening.
The door buzzer sounded as he pressed the coffee cup symbol once more.
Coffee machine or door? Door.
Meadhill turned, grinding fresh wet crisp tulips into the carpet with his immacul
ate black shoes and made a mental note to have someone clean this shit up.
He stood to one side of the door. 'Who is it?' he said.
'It's … me,' said a breathless voice Meadhill recognised immediately as The Major's.
'It's open,' said Meadhill turning and moving back to the coffee machine. Behind him, the door sprung opened fully, thumping into the doorstop. The coffee machine dripped the last bubbly-beige testicles of foam into the cup as Meadhill reached it. He ignored the freshly poured latté and turned to his visitor.
Only The Major's stomach had made it into the room. Large and round and covered in one of Savile Row's finest pinstriped suits, The Belly heaved gently as its owner prepared to follow it through the doorway.
Meadhill smirked to himself, even more conscious of his own athletic build. Hands behind back. Chin up. Shoulders back. Stomach in. Stand tall. No expression.
The Major puffed into the room, jowls quivering. 'I should not have to come and see you,' he blustered. 'This is bloody ridiculous.'
Meadhill watched impassively as The Major swerved towards an armchair and wheezed himself down into a sitting position. A dark suited goon, The Major's bodyguard, mirrored Meadhill's stance in the doorway.
The Major took out a white handkerchief and wiped his upper lip. 'I am deeply unhappy,' he said, 'and extremely disappointed.'
Meadhill remained impassive. He knew why The Major was unhappy. Roger Peerson's clever little software bunnies were causing chaos with The KOPALDA's finances. They were hopping around and stomping where it really hurt. Somehow, money was being transferred to and from hundreds of accounts, leaking away like sand through a colander and The KOPALDA was helpless. As well as being technically unable to do anything, they were hindered by the potential publicity value of the problem.
'Still you have failed to locate this one individual who is at the root of our problems,' said The Major.
When it became obvious Meadhill was not going to respond or defend himself against the accusation The Major struggled to his feet and, red faced at the effort, barrelled towards Meadhill. 'Do you need more resources?' Spittle from The Major speckled Meadhill's immaculate suit. He prodded a bulge near Meadhill's armpit. 'Or are you just too bloody stupid?'