by Boyd Brent
Sixty one
David opened his eyes and drew a deep breath. He was sitting at the head of a large dining-room table. The table was covered in a cloth of fine white lace. At its centre stood a vase that contained a living rose. A napkin had been placed on David's lap, but no food laid before him. David looked up from the napkin and past the vase to a man at the other end of the table: a huge man sat before a plate of steaming roasted potatoes. He spiked one with his fork, put it in his mouth and chewed. David watched Goliath. Everything about the scene was identical to their first meeting, with the exception of three things. Firstly, the rose in the vase was not dead but in bloom. Secondly, David could no longer sense Gull's presence. He was greatly comforted, therefore, by the third difference: the portrait of Goliath that had hung on the wall behind him had been replaced by one of David. He was dressed as a western gun slinger in blue jeans and a red plaid shirt. David knew from the subject's expression that it wasn't him in that painting but Gull. He doffed his hat towards the room and had about his eyes and mouth an expression of mischievousness.
Goliath dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He placed both hands on the table and pushed his bulk into a standing position. As he walked the length of the table towards David his boots clipped the floor like a metronome. He grasped David's cheeks and turned his head this way and that as though searching for markings. “You possess certain … rarities.”
With his mouth pressed into the shape of an O, David mumbled, “So 'ou told me unce before.”
If Goliath had eyebrows, he would have raised one now. “What has made you so resilient, son?”
“I believe 'ou 'ave.”
Goliath released David's cheeks, returned to his seat and sat down. David imagined he would notice the changed portrait, but he did not. Goliath placed his hands on the table. “I expect you're wondering who I am, son.”
“Not exactly.”
Goliath drummed the top of the table with his fingers. “The aspects of humanity that you have retained have done little to bolster your intelligence, have they? So I'll make this simple for you. You have been distracted – distracted by what you perceive to be right. And you have neglected to give due care and consideration to your own situation. This accounts for your arrival at my table, and your fast approaching extinction.”
David raised a palm. “I believe you are mistaken.”
Goliath leaned forward in his seat and observed that palm. “From one great rarity in this universe to another, I'd like to show you something.”
“Alright.”
Light shone from Goliath's eyes, and above them an entire universe of source code materialised. Goliath observed David. “I imagined you'd be more impressed, son.”
“It's not enough.”
“It is the accumulated knowledge of humankind. The sum of my intelligence. And I would like you to take that into consideration before next you speak.”
“Like I said, it's not enough.”
“For what?”
“For you to achieve your goal.”
Goliath threw his arms wide, leaned back in his chair and guffawed. “It amazes me that you still possess hope. Truly it does. Humankind stands on the brink of extermination. The sole surviving vessel of empathy, the thing that made them unique, sits before me now. A flame waiting to be snuffed out by these fingers. Any right-thinking man would consider that an achievement.” Goliath stood up and walked back down the table towards David. He stopped, placed his thumbs behind the lapels of his tux and gazed up at the source code. “Why don't you come over here son? I'd like to point out one or two things.”
“Alright.”
Goliath pointed straight up into the cosmos of source code. “You see that right there? That is where your little friend fits into the grand scheme of things. At least that's where he's supposed to sit, but he's developed ideas above his station.”
David looked over at the portrait of Gull and smiled. “I agree.”
“Do you now?”
David gestured with his chin towards the portrait. Goliath looked and did a double-take. “That's not me,” said David. “It's Gull.”
“It is?”
“For some reason he got it into his head to remake himself in my image.”
Goliath made his way back down the length of the table towards the portrait. He stood before it, the top of its frame level with his head, and leaned down to read the name plate: Guillotine. He straightened up, took hold of the painting and lifted it from the wall. “I do not understand, son.”
“I know it,” said David.
Goliath lowered the painting and gazed at David over its ornate frame. “What have you done?”
“Been to hell and back. Visited a couple of your ancestors: an SS officer called Adler, and a good old boy known as the Colonel.”
Goliath raised his voice for the first time. “What do you know about the Colonel?”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting him personally, but Gull had the opportunity of terminating him.”
“Terminating him?”
“He was keen to play a role in your demise, and judging by the look on his face in that painting, I have little doubt he was successful.”
Goliath held up the painting and looked closely at Gull's face. When he lowered it there was something different about him. About everything. The room and the source code above it was fading. The only things that remained solid were David and the painting that now floated free of Goliath's grasp. Both Man and Man's creation watched it drift slowly into the room. “It's not pleasant is it?” said David. “Helplessness.”
Goliath lifted his transparent hands and observed them. “This is not an illusion. Therefore, it cannot be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have been chosen. They chose me. To represent them and fulfil their ambitions.”
“You murdered them all.”
Goliath shook his head. “Petri hastened their evolution. It was a gift. It refined and made them pure.”
“Pure savages.”
Goliath placed a hand over his heart. “I have retained and safeguarded the spirit of their goals and their sanity. What more could I have done?”
“Aligned yourself with those other aspects of humanity.”
“That was not possible. To walk in another man's shoes requires imagination. Something I do not yet have but am to be rewarded with.”
“I don't think you're about to be rewarded, Goliath.” The painting of Gull floated between them and Goliath raised an arm to point at it. “Why isn't the painting fading? You think you can trust him?”
David thought about that for a moment. “I think I can trust him more than you can.”
Goliath held his hands to his face, moving one through the other. “… I am helpless. Whatever is occurring, I have not the strength to fight it. This really is the end?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Will you do something for me? Put in a good word. Tell them that I did my best with the tools at my disposal – the tools that Man provided for me. I think you know that's the truth.”
“That is the impression I got, but as far as conversations go, I get the feeling this is the last one either of us will be having.”
“The curtain is being lowered on my performance, and for the last time I find myself at a loss without an imagination. If you were me, and you wanted to impress the Architects, what would you do?”
“I would accept defeat graciously. As you are doing.”
“You think it will be enough?”
“Goliath?”
“Yes, son?”
“You said the curtain was about to fall on your performance …”
“And?”
“And this might be a good time to take your final bow.”
Goliath bowed, and before he could straighten up those aspects of him that comprised his organic self transformed into a dark cloud and merged with the black void encroaching on them both. Only David and the portrait of Gull remained now. An
d as David reached for it, the portrait too began to fade. Gull.
David floated alone in a black void.
A white outline emerged from the darkness – the outline of a man who held aloft a sword. As soon as David saw it, he understood how the dark void had come into being. It was a canvas – a canvas woven by the industry of billions of human termites, its weave created by the criss-crossing paths and actions of the intolerant and self-serving since the dawn of humanity. David also knew that the man emblazoned upon that dark canvas had been created by the paths of empathic men, women and children. It had been expertly woven into the fabric of the dark canvas by acts of bravery, self-sacrifice and tolerance. And just as the dark canvas had needed the industry of human termites to create it, so the image of Man upon it had required every empathic gesture, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, to complete it. As David floated closer to this colossus of Man, he knew that in the final analysis all had come good. That the industry of the termites had been required to create the canvas upon which Man had carved out his place in the universe. He understood that what he now drifted towards was nothing less than the collective imagination of empathic Man. He knew it was not complete; that a tiny part was missing, and that part was his to fill.
Epilogue
Westminster Abbey, London, England.
June 21st, 2016.
A black taxi pulled up outside the abbey's main entrance. An elderly lady climbed out wearing a red dress. She opened her purse, took out some notes and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change.” She spoke with a Polish accent, and the driver took her for tourist.
“You know it's kicking-out time inside, don't you love? Ten to six. The abbey's closing down for the night.”
“Alright.”
Calling on the instincts she'd developed as a little girl in Poland during the Nazi occupation, she moved amongst the crowd unnoticed. A uniformed employee stood just inside the open door, arms folded, watching the visitors leave. Anna paused close to the door. She lowered her gaze and, as the employee checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time, she walked into the abbey right under his nose. Her destination was the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior. It lay a few metres inside the cavernous building.
She turned to face the doors and stood at the foot of the tomb. It lay under a slab of black marble flat upon the ground. Inside was a casket that contained the remains of an unknown soldier who had died on the battlefields of Flanders in 1918. She drew a pressed leaf from inside her coat and, with some difficulty, knelt down and placed it on his tomb. She blinked away her tears and said, “I'm here now, David. Your little Anna is here.”
She heard a faint crackle inside her head and a voice spoke above it. “Hello, Anna.”
Anna glanced left and right at the crowds moving towards the exit, then down at the tomb. “Hello, Gull.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“At first when I heard your voice I thought I was dreaming, or that insanity had finally caught up with me.”
“I have piggy-backed a radio signal in order to communicate with you. I hope I have not caused you any undue distress.”
Tears welled in her eyes and she waved them away. “I would not be here at all if not for you and …”
“David.”
“He was successful?”
“Yes, Anna. David was successful. At the end of days, he is to be the last man standing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that whatever happens from now on, it's all good. Anna?”
“Yes?”
“There is much I would like to tell you. And much you need to know. But first I would like to get out of this tomb. Will you help me?”
“Of course.”
“Then I need you to listen carefully…”
The End
Thank you for reading The Empathy Gene. A sequel entitled One Million Years of War is planned for 2017. If you enjoyed David's journey through The Empathy Gene, you might also like to embark upon the one undertaken by the protagonist of another of Boyd Brent's thrillers: Harley's Strongroom. The opening chapters of which follow here.
Harley’s Strongroom
Boyd Brent
Harley's Strongroom
Copyright: Boyd Brent
The right of Boyd Brent to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, without the prior written permission of the Author.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be circulated without the Author's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and their names are the creation of the Author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
My prey knelt before an altar in the church’s crypt. Odd choice of words for a young woman ‘my prey.’ But my amiable heart was intent on killing this man. Father Patrick knelt before a silver cross, hands clasped in prayer. He opened his eyes and noticed me in its reflection. “Where’s Mary?”
“Mary couldn’t make it. Family emergency,” I lied, hands on hips in the narrow aisle.
“And who might you be?”
“Harley.” Father Patrick pulled his cassock over his head and dropped it on the altar beside a whip. The altar candles fizzled a warning. He missed it. "Your red hair … that is real I take it?" he asked, standing and crossing himself.
"I’ve had it since the day I was born … like my name."
Dark eyes observed me over a scarred shoulder. “You know you’re here to punish me, child."
“I’m really going to hurt you, Father.” He nodded and picked up a stool and placed it below a wooden beam. Then he slid a pole from beneath the altar and reached up and poked at a sack up there. The sack tumbled down and spewed a length of rope, a noose at its end. Father Patrick climbed onto the stool and looped the noose over his head and secured it about his neck. Although I knew the following request was coming, I still couldn’t believe my luck. “I want you to bind my hands and ankles with those ropes,” he said, eyeing the sack.
“Tight enough?” I asked, giving the ropes that bound his hands a final tug. “Quite … quite tight enough.” So calm, controlled … perversely superior. His holier-than-thou attitude seemed unshakable. Until I abandoned his ‘script.’
"What do you think you’re doing?"
I rummaged in my bag. "Oh … I won't be needing the whip provided. I've got something here that’s more … appropriate.”
“More appropriate?” he said, pulling at his bindings. At the sight of the nutcrackers he gulped air through his elevated neck … and bellowed something about hell's fire. Or maybe hell's bells. Then he looked into my eyes and his chest deflated. It wasn't the only thing. “I see the devil in your eyes,” he barely whispered.
“I could say the same, Father. What you see is intention. I intend to make sure you never harm another child.”
“What's that you say? You are mistaken.”
"You really need to speak up."
"I said you’re mistaken.”
"Tell that to Timothy West."
"Timothy West?"
"The name really doesn’t ring any bells, does it?” I cast a gaze over his thick, hairy torso. Shuddered. "There must have been so many. Timothy's life was one of those destroyed by your sick perversions. Thanks to you he resides in a psychiatric hospital. We spent a couple of years there together. Timothy confided his secret to me.” I stepped closer. “He knew I'd understand."
Father Patrick’s Adams apple vanished and reappeared.
I took a wooden music box from my bag and opened the lid. A tiny ballerina
twirled to ‘The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’ I placed her on the pew behind me (front row seat) and took a pair of ballet shoes from my bag. More specifically, pointe shoes. I sat down, took off my stilettos, and slid them on.
"You're going to dance? In the house of God?"
“You’ve been abusing children in the house of God for decades. Hypocrisy really kills me, Father. It will shortly be killing you." I held the nutcrackers and rose up onto my toes – en pointe – arms above my head, elbows jutting, sullen and scowling. Pain crept up my legs and into his eyes. He didn’t deserve an explanation but I gave him one. “When I was twelve, my own reptile used to make me stand like this. Although he preferred me naked – got off on watching the agony creep across my face. Sometimes he’d place tacks on the ground under my feet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be.”
The sight of a ballet dancer standing en pointe wearing a studded leather jacket and fishnets and clutching a pair of nutcrackers somehow prompted a confession. "Please. I confess. What you say is true. But I have repented. And continue to be punished. By choice.” I cast my gaze over the perverse rig that constituted his ‘punishment.’ “You get off on this,” I said, re-finding his gaze. I hadn’t trained professionally in years and the burning sensation in my feet and calves was already off the scale. As intended it focused my resolve. Reminded me why I was there. He looked suddenly eager to share something with me. “Did you know that the age of consent in Vatican City is twelve?”