Birdkill

by Alexander McNabb

  ‘Mariam, please.’

  Robyn almost gasped. The slut! Two seconds ago she was spitting nails and now she’s purring at suave guy Simon like she wants to jump in his lap. She couldn’t believe Mariam was falling for this.

  Archer turned to her. ‘Robyn, I don’t know what to say. I’m just sorry this even happened. If you and Mariam would like to get on with your weekend, I’ll have a word with Lawrence and make sure this is all cleared up and you’re left alone. Sound like a deal?’

  Mariam was glaring at her but Robyn had no more fight left in her anyway. The image of a small teenager inviting her to slip into a pool full of glittering golden spinning lures was back with her and she was feeling shaky now the adrenaline high had passed. ‘Sure. Whatever. Thanks, Simon.’

  She let Mariam lead her away.

  Back in her apartment, Mariam poured glasses of wine while Robyn sat gazing out of the window and wishing she were a child again herself, free of the strangeness that was building around her. Free of the dreams. Especially the waking ones that were starting to make her truly doubt her sanity.

  ‘Here. It’s not clever or mature, but it makes the nasty sharp edges softer.’

  ‘That’s no reason to drink.’

  ‘Fuck, you need a reason?’

  Mariam’s mobile rang and she pulled it out of her pocket. She listened and nodded. ‘Okay, sure. Thanks.’ Her face was troubled and Robyn felt sorry for her. Mariam drained her glass. ‘Look, I have to go back. I’ve blown it with Hamilton anyway, he’s clearly not going to talk to me. Will you be okay? Stay here as my girl on the inside?’

  Have to be, I guess Robyn thought. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’ She felt guilty for being needy. Mariam was already too kind to her, she didn’t want to turn into one of those clingy friends who become a burden. And yet she desperately needed to find stability, to ground herself against something so the rushing waves wouldn’t take her into their violence.

  ‘Listen, babe. Don’t let your imagination make things worse, stay in the here and now. You’ve a brilliant mind in there, but it over-thinks things sometimes and takes you away to the clouds. Your head’s in them half the time as it is, which is one of the reasons you’re so sweet, but you need to get down to earth right now.’

  Robyn nodded. Mariam was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to work out how to put the advice into practice. Mariam washed her glass out in the sink. She scooped up her keys and bag. Robyn stood to embrace her.

  ‘Hang on!’ Mariam’s eyes sparkled as she hugged Robyn’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got it! Book yourself a track day!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A track day. There must be a track near here. You’ve got the weekend. Why not take that bloody machine of yours back on a track?’

  She was right, too. Robyn’s beloved TT and a decent track were a combination she had instantly loved when she’d first taken it out with an instructor beside her. Mariam had bought her that as a gift experience and track days had become her idea of a big treat ever since. If there was one way of clearing her mind and bringing her back into the real world that was it.

  She grinned at Mariam. ‘God, but you’re right. Go on, get back to London. I’ll get Googling. I’ll be fine, seriously. I’ll call you tonight.’

  Mariam bundled out of the door. Robyn opened her notebook and set about finding her a track where she could unleash her demons and put them all back under the bed where they belonged.

  Mariam parked her car and walked down the cobbled street towards the Thames. The clear day was turning to dusk and she buttoned her jacket against the cold. The ducks were making a racket as she turned right towards the Barmy Arms.

  Clive Warren seemed to come from nowhere. One minute she’d been looking forward to a drink, the next he materialised at her side and was walking her away from the pub down the towpath.

  ‘What about buying a girl a drink?’

  ‘What about keeping a clear head?’

  Mariam laughed. ‘Well, what about that?’

  They turned onto the pedestrian bridge to Eel Pie Island. Warren halted in the middle and they stood side by side looking across the Thames.

  ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘I left the Odin programme before they started using prisoners. I didn’t know about that. I left when it was clear to me that the programme was putting good troops in harm’s way. They were doing some mad shit, pumping guys with hormones and injecting their brains. The results got pretty scary. And that’s by the time I put in for a transfer.’

  ‘Were you in Beirut?’

  ‘Yes, but that was only the start of the programme’s final phase.’

  ‘And you transferred out back in 2010.’

  ‘I left the army the year after. I’d sort of lost my taste for it.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Private security. Mostly for high net worth individuals. The food’s better.’

  ‘Did you know Hamilton used to experiment on the unborn children of single mothers?’

  Warren turned to face her. His features were impassive but his gaze flitted between her eyes. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘He did seem a little, well, absolute.’

  ‘And what about Parker.’

  Warren turned back to the river and regarded it bleakly. ‘You’re better off leaving that angle alone.’

  ‘What if I can’t? What if I need to find out more about him?’ Warren started to walk towards the island. Mariam caught him up. ‘Well?’

  ‘I told you, drop it.’

  The path wove its way through the houses of Eel Pie Island. Mariam struggled to keep up with Warren’s loping stride. ‘Why? Because he’ll have me ‘offed’ or something? Because he’s untouchable? Is he in the right, then? Or maybe just a really good guy who deserves a break? A stand-up kinda guy? Is that it?’

  He rounded on her. ‘Because he’s too powerful. Because you won’t outmanoeuvre him. Because you can maybe hit Hamilton, but Parker’s too big a target for you.’

  ‘And why do you give two fucks all of a sudden?’

  ‘Forget it.’ He headed back for the footbridge.

  Mariam ran to overtake him and blocked his path. ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘I went to see a guy I know who was on the Odin program. A subject.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. Just that.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s like trying to get blood from a stone. What did he say that changed your mind about helping us?’

  ‘Us? Who’s us?’

  ‘3shoof.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought about it as helping you, not any ‘us’. The Odin programme has hurt a lot of people. Not least the soldiers who volunteered to help and got used as guinea pigs.’

  ‘And you suddenly have a conscience?’

  ‘You know what, lady? Fuck you. Forget it.’

  Mariam cursed herself. He pushed past her. She struggled to keep up with his furious stride. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Hold up, will you? I take it back. I need your help. Get me to him, let me speak with him. Clive? Clive, come on, hold up a little. Give me a break. Clive!’

  She dropped back, out of breath. He powered across the bridge and, for all she knew, out of her life. She got her breath back and sauntered across the bridge, cursing her sharp tongue and stupidity.

  She slipped into the Barmy Arms and had that drink after all.

  Robyn came up with pure gold, a track just twenty miles away that not only offered race experiences but turned out to have a full hour free. She’d tried to negotiate track access with no instructor, but they’d insisted on an evaluation at least.

  She drove the TT almost dreamily through the winding, wooded road down to the town and stuck to the slow lane on the A road out. She felt the spring of the steering, the roads were dry and yet still the corners had little beds of packed damp brown leaves, limiting her line. She sat back and enjoyed the sensation of the wheel, alive at her fingertips, the sense of control her mach
ine gave her. After settling down into the engine’s tone and the whirr of the road, she smacked the on button for the sound system. Deadmau5, the track that was playing when she first drove into Hamilton’s gates restarted. She let the music live in her, her foot found the throttle. My pet coelacanth indeed. The road bit into the hillside. She let the car have its head, started to find her line through the curves and press the surface. The wheel bucked in her hands.

  Mariam had been right. This was living. This was the here and now.

  The raceway sign looked tatty, a second pointed left and she turned. It was more stock car than formula one, a disused airfield that had been extended to form a provincial raceway of sorts. It was hardly Silverstone. But she didn’t care. A track was a track.

  She pulled up outside the administration building, a single story affair. A stubby figure came out to meet her as she climbed out of the car.

  ‘Hi. I’m Paul Rhodes. I’m the instructor here at Polemouth. You’ve got from eleven until two if you want it.’

  ‘No problem. I can see the queues jostling for the next slot.’

  He smiled, a slightly queasy gesture. ‘Shall we go inside? I need to get you to sign a disclaimer.’

  ‘No problem. Do you have helmets?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re extra.’

  ‘I’m good.’

  She followed him into the building. It was quite a nice effort for what was clearly an out of the way track. There were F1 posters on the walls, a small retail area with suits and Ferrari accessories. A ¾ model of a race car was in the centre of the main space. A side room had lockers and slightly grubby looking suits.

  ‘We don’t need those, right? I’m using my own car.’

  ‘Yes, yes. They’re just if you’re using one of the trainers. We’ve got six Formula Ford cars with slicks.’

  His pride was absurd. Robyn had driven the things before, the sequential gearboxes were distressingly mechanical, like tractors. ‘Right. The form?’

  ‘Here. Sign here and here.’

  She signed. She didn’t even bother reading it. Rhodes raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine. Do you need a locker?’

  ‘Just a lid.’ She caught the faintest hint of nervousness in him. Wonderful, an anxious instructor.

  Facing the rack of helmets, Robyn pulled on the paper hood and then found a hat that looked right. She fastened the chinstrap. It’d do. Rhodes had pulled on his helmet, an air-brushed black number with skulls and lightning.

  She pulled open her visor. ‘Shall we?’

  Rhodes raised two gloved thumbs.

  Robyn was filled with quiet elation. Bless Mariam. Bless her little Lebanese cotton socks.

  They walked back to the TT. Robyn belted up. Rhodes reminded her of someone but she couldn’t place it. Chubby, almost charming but too nervous. Cleft chin covered in stubble that darkened into that little fleshy valley.

  ‘Okay, Robyn, we’ll go right down here to the track, which you’ll join to the right using the sliproad.’

  She guided the car onto the track. The road surface wasn’t bad, surprisingly. She took them down a centreline, easy on the speed, scoping the lie of the land and the way it snaked, dipped and rose. The first straight was long and glorious, but the right bend that ended it was a little bastard, too sharp and followed by a long, curving left, then a gentle ninety right. She guided the car along the backbone of the wide tarmac ribbon. The amateurish track layout was its own challenge.’

  ‘Try taking the car to the edge a little and cutting through the corners. It’s what we call taking a line.’ Rhodes ventured.

  She nodded and ignored him. Another nasty corner, uphill and with a reverse camber. She could see why this hadn’t been a popular track in its short heyday. A straight now, ending in an inglorious kink before breaking out into a long curve. They were on the home stretch, another little left to right combination, which made three in all. This last one was just right to power through on a straight line if you had a strong stomach and set it up just right. A few centimetres each way would mean trouble. Interesting, thought Robyn. Her mind was working ferociously on the layout of the track. She liked to get into the way a track’s designer was thinking, to try and guess what he was aiming for. She concluded this chap had just been doodling and come up with a nice shape. He must have been really fond of amoebae.

  ‘That’s good,’ Rhodes coaxed. ‘This next lap, let’s try and give her a little more throttle, shall we?’

  They passed the pits where they’d come onto the track and Robyn floored the TT’s accelerator. The car kicked with a joyful roar, surging forward with the urgency of an animal in flight. The corner rushed towards them and Robyn kept the throttle flat down, coasting to the left before slamming the car right across a perfect apex.

  Rhodes screamed ‘Brake! Brake!’ and she ignored him, keeping her line and the throttle down. The tyres screamed as they burst out of the corner into the long left. Robyn felt the wheel shuddering in her hands as the tyres skipped the rutted red and white boundary of the track. Rhodes’ hands were clenched tight, his eyes wide and his mouth working frantically.

  Robyn fired the car into the short straight and drifted it through the long bend before the second, uphill, kink came into sight, the car bucked as she set her line, slammed on the brakes, and coursed through the corners with her foot down. The engine whined like a turbo-charged mosquito as she rammed it through the double corner, screeching out into the long straight with a perfect line and banging up through the box again to make the most of the open road. Her line was perfect through the long corner and then a straight into the last bend which she used to top the TT out into the last short straight before that vicious final double bend. The wheel was like something alive in her grip, trembling and thrilling to the impetus from the tarmac surface and the hot rubber howling on the edge of losing its traction.

  Rhodes screamed ‘Fuck fuck fuck’ as the car hit top, the last kink flying towards them. They launched into the double bend perfectly, taking a line that cut through it to take them out to the long straight perfectly set up to cross the line at 160. The uneven surface in the corner rocked the car from side to side, the motion making the wheels lose grip. Robyn understood the danger a fraction too late, the TT drifting because it had been tricked into losing its grip by the changing camber. She floored it when all instinct screamed brake. The tyres bit and they breasted the corner with inches to spare to disaster, driving up the straight like they wanted to break gravity. Approaching the pits, Robyn hit the brakes, spinning them into a beautifully executed double doughnut to come to a rest facing up the track the wrong way. The car’s engine rumbled, hot metal and rubber sighing. Rhodes was moaning softly, his sweaty skin porridge-grey.

  ‘If you’d rather sit the next one out, I’m perfectly happy to drive alone for the next couple of hours. It’s really no trouble,’ Robyn smiled at him sweetly.

  His helmet bobbed assent, his eyes flickering as he scrabbled sightlessly for the door handle. Right then, going insane or not, she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Turning up for work on Monday, Mariam was puzzled to find police squad cars outside. The scene confronting her upstairs explained everything. 3shoof’s offices had always been an unusual workplace, few horizontal surfaces were free of piles of papers or old lumps of dusty technology. The vertical ones were scrawled with graffiti, daubed with slogans or pasted with stickers and photos. Mariam had thought, walking into the room that first day, it looked like a bomb had hit it.

  Only now it truly did look that way. Desks had been upended, screens smashed and shelving units brought down. Glass crunched underfoot, there were pools of water, coffee, paint, anything liquid soaking into the carpet tiles. Pot plants spilled their soil, wiring had been torn up and thrown like grey spaghetti.

  The gleaming white box in the middle of the room, the server that held the copy of Buddy’s archives they were all working on, was gone. Kelly and Duprez were huddled together, Kelly with his hands in his sparse hair. Ad
el Ibrahim was berating an indifferent-looking police officer. ‘…clearly a systematic attempt to suppress us by the intelligence community.’

  ‘It’s just vandalism, sir. Some school kids have got in over the weekend.’

  Mariam caught Kelly’s eye. He glanced theatrically out of the room, pulling on Duprez’ sleeve to bring him along with them.

  They stole down the stairs and out into the street. A few doors up there was a faded little Lebanese coffee shop. They piled out of the cold and into the smell of aniseed-strong coffee.

  Three Turkish coffees, medium sugar, arrived. They’d been coming here all week and were all known to the hooded-eyed proprietor, Jamal.

  ‘So that’s that. We’re rightly in the shit,’ Kelly gazed morosely into his little cup, raising it to sniff at the vapour.

  ‘Not so fast. We still have the archive.’

  Mariam held up a memory key. ‘I have two copies. One’s here, the original. The other copy’s on Google docs. An account not in my name. I’ll invite you both in. We can work on that copy.’

  Duprez was morose. ‘That’s hardly secure.’

  ‘If you got a better idea, hotshot, let’s have it. You can log into it through Tor.’

  Kelly shrugged. ‘It’s better than nothing. What triggered this, though? I’m working on a line of political funding scandals. Embarrassing alright, but it hardly merits the heavy gang. Matt?’

  ‘I got a whole load of cables between Saddam, Gaddafi, Assad and people who were supposed to be nicer than that. I got a load of links between US aid to Iraq and attacks on the Kurds. But it’s hardly current. Embarrassing, but not monstrous.’

  ‘It’s me.’ Mariam almost enjoyed the way they both zoned in on her. Duprez was hawk-like, hard eyes focusing on her with an almost scary precision. Kelly was slower, less dramatic. His mild gaze wandered across the room and alighted on her.

  ‘Why you, love?’

  ‘This battlefield enhancement program, Odin. It went horribly wrong and was a major cover-up. Remember Lawrence Hamilton, Kelly? From your archive? It was a really big research into human augmentation, funded by the US and backed by a former three-star general called Tom Parker. I got thrown out of Hamilton’s office at the weekend.’