by Nick Jones
‘Why didn’t you just divorce?’
He frowned. ‘Ugly business. No. We separated. And when I got drafted for Hibernation…’ He stopped his face going through a gamut of expressions before seeming to accept something difficult. ‘I was actually glad.’
‘But you broke the rules,’ Jen said sharply. ‘Your wife wanted to live longer than everyone else. To cheat the system.’
Jen walked the sterile room towards a mirror spanning the length of the wall. Behind it three men stood observing the interview. Jim McArthur (Intelligence officer, MI6), David Ravenscroft (Senior strategist, organised crime, MI5) and Jen’s immediate superior, Paul Richards (Chief Superintendent, Duality). They should be pleased. It could take hours to get information, to break a man down and weaken his spirit. Phillip Harvey had spilled his guts in just under thirty minutes.
‘We didn’t mean it,’ Harvey said, sucking a strand of snot creeping from his nostril. ‘I just wanted her to be happy. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry isn’t going to save you,’ Jen shouted. ‘You financed the operation, Phillip.’ She walked to him, her body language softening for just a moment, her voice calmer. ‘Tell me the name of the person who organised the operation and you might get out of this alive.’
He stared at the floor, visibly shaking, and replied slowly. ‘He never told me his name.’
‘Then where did you first hear of him? Where do you meet?
‘Victoria organised it all.’ He blurted the words, looking up but not meeting her eyes. ‘I just pay the bills. That’s all I ever did. I pay the bloody bills.’
Jen slid a picture of Marcus Aldridge – the victim – onto the table. The train had done its work; his contorted body was bloodied and mangled.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Mr Harvey sighed, his voice just above a whisper.
‘I’m afraid he can’t save you either.’ Jen pushed another gruesome reminder onto the table. This was a process she found tiresome. Always the same, so predictable. Why didn’t people realise the damage they’d done? Why did they need to see it? Part of her wanted to just kick the chair from underneath him, push him to the floor and get her knee into his jaw. Screw all this psychological shit.
Of course, she wouldn’t do that.
She would remain calm, in control. Part of the reason she’d run to work that morning was to shake some of the physical aggression out of her system – well, that and to forget that awful dream. Her routine was one of opposites, a kind of dual life. After Operation Penthouse went sideways, and that Friday night, she had spent the remainder of her weekend recharging, eating decent food, exercising and sleeping. Go to the edge, fall over, pick yourself back up. It kept her sane, made sure she didn’t burn out under the pressure. Plenty had, and it wasn’t just the police work. A world on the brink, accelerating climate change – it was a constant shadow hanging over everyone, like a global sword of Damocles. No. She needed to be smart, she needed to maintain balance, remain in control. So when she banged her fist on the table – the shock physically lifting Phillip Harvey from his seat – it wasn’t real anger. It was all for show.
She shouted, baring her teeth. ‘You traveled to Pretoria and you met a man!’
Harvey hungrily scanned the pictures on the table, rocking back and forth, eyes bulging, mumbling to himself.
Jen waited. Slowly, he placed a trembling finger onto one of the faces Jen had shown him earlier.
‘That’s him,’ he whispered, his heavy frame collapsing with relief.
‘That’s the man you met, the handler who organised the operation in South Africa? You’re sure?’
‘It’s him. I’m sure.’ He began to cry again, big gulps of air followed by long, shaking sobs.
The interrogation had been scheduled for two hours. Jen had gotten a positive identification in less than one. She pressed a small device on the table. It flashed red once.
‘Interview terminated by Sergeant Jennifer Logan. Wednesday 12 December 2091 at 12.53pm.’
‘What will happen to me?’ Harvey asked, his voice almost childlike.
Jen stood. ‘You’ll probably get ten years in the block.’
‘The block?’
‘Hibernation with ageing.’
He pursed his lips and nodded, a sorrowful gesture, an acceptance of his fate.
Jen left the room without looking back. The trick now was to forget him, to disconnect. Chief Superintendent Paul Richards joined her in the corridor, a tall wiry man whose appearance was made paler by cropped jet-black hair. It sat atop his long face like a nail-brush. He was always immaculate, uniform pressed, the lines on his trousers like blades. Jen couldn’t remember a time she’d seen him in civvies. They walked together, his mood buoyant. After the grilling he’d given the team that morning, Jen wasn’t really in the mood for the nice version now.
‘Good work, Logan.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We got him.’
Jen fought the urge to question his use of the word we. In her opinion, he had been over-promoted, a yes-man given too much power. Her view didn’t count for much though. Richards was a political animal, something she would never be.
‘They’re going to make an example of the wife,’ he continued happily.
Any high-profile case that could scare the shit out of people was good for the cause, which in turn was good for Richards. He seemed to be glowing with pride. Jen presumed his insight into the potential sentencing made him feel somehow closer to the power.
‘I wanted to be sure you understood.’ Richards eyeballed her. ‘She might get the death penalty.’
Logan hid her surprise, forcing a calm nod. She hadn’t expected the sentencing to be so aggressive.
He continued in his best condescending tone. ‘I know how that conscience of yours can let you down sometimes.’
‘It’s her own fault.’ Jen said, managing to suppress the anger boiling up at his last comment. She took a breath and continued, ‘The law is clear. Sir.’
‘Yes it is. Swap job and now murder. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.’
Jen observed him coldly. He seemed entertained, as if this were a sideshow. They faced each other in awkward silence. Richards was clearly trying to think of something he could give her to do, a job to keep her busy.
‘That report,’ he said finally, ‘the Lady of Mercy bombings?’
Jen nodded. It had been an interesting case initially, a group of religious extremists planning to blow up a Hibernation centre. They were common targets, and well protected. Unfortunately for the group – and the twenty-two innocent civilians in the adjacent building – they managed to blow both themselves and their secret hideout to bits. It became a case no one wanted, the main players in the terrorist group dead, every lead as cold as the bodies in the morgue. Jen was left picking up the pieces, so to speak.
‘I’ll have it on your desk Wednesday morning,’ she replied.
‘Oh, and Logan – speak to Peter Callaghan, would you? I talked to him this morning but he didn’t seem himself.’ His eyes darted around in thought. ‘We’re going to need him to be pin-sharp when Penthouse goes to trial.’
Richards walked away, muttering something under his breath. He was, at his core, a good policeman. She respected him, but he could be an arse.
No mistake.
Chapter 12
Jen was back in her running gear, through security and out onto the street by early evening. Clock watching wasn’t her style, but the interrogation had left her feeling mentally exhausted. She couldn’t wait to be free of the place.
She glanced up at the tall glass building, home of Duality and various other agencies and departments. The Government had known the move towards Hibernation, or transition as it had become known, wouldn’t be easy. This building had been imagined as a kind of hub. The idea – an emphasis on communication and sharing – was sound enough, but departments sharing information? For the greater good? That never worked as well as it should, same building or not.
She ran, the evening chill ensur
ing a good pace, her feet beating out a reassuring rhythm. In the distance, Christmas lights and decorations reminded her the holiday season was looming. Not her favourite time of year. Above her, silver and red flashes of light cut across the sky, the latest transport for those who could afford it. She passed other runners and cyclists, many of them tuned into something, listening to music or the news. Jen preferred to be disconnected, to stay in the moment, to focus inward. Running was a form of meditation for her, of solitude, of being.
She cut across Fenchurch Street and paused. There was a Hibernation block ahead, but it wasn’t purpose-built like the one in Shepherd’s Bush. In the UK, population had reached one hundred million and Hibernation targets were aggressive. In the next three years, eighty million would join the Hibernation programme and Fenchurch was part of a new initiative to repurpose existing dwellings and speed up the process.
Jen considered her route and decided the possibility of streets free from traffic was too good to pass up. Even if it was a little eerie.
Perk of the job Jen, and by God, there aren’t many.
She passed through a checkpoint and ran the empty streets, glancing up at the shadowy outlines of sentry droids patrolling the layered corridors, their glowing red pulse on every floor. It was strange knowing that inside thousands of people were hibernating. Weird to think that in just over two months they would return, Beta year would become Alpha, life would resume and Fenchurch Street would be a bustling community once more. As she passed the centre’s main entrance, an armed droid approached. It was humanoid in form but featureless, its body moving in a smooth, yet menacing fashion. Jen saw her reflection in its black outer shell as it scanned her.
‘Clearance approved. Move along, Sergeant Logan.’ It retreated back into the shadows, guarding the sleepers. It was the same in other cities, towns and villages across the world. Hibernators were kept safe, casualties nonexistent.
She was about to resume her run when she was interrupted by a call.
The name ‘Peter Callaghan’ flashed up on her retinal display. She berated herself for forgetting to call him, took a breath, smiled and answered.
‘Peter. I meant to call you today.’ Her attempt to appear upbeat combined with breathlessness made her sound slightly manic. ‘How is Mrs Harvey?’
‘She’s stable now,’ he said. ‘I did my best to contain the splintering, but she doesn’t remember much about the incident.’
Hearing the train murder called an incident sent a shiver through her. His emphasis of the word made it sound like an unfortunate thing, an embarrassment even. Whilst it was typical of Peter to be clinical, there followed a long silence, and that was unlike him. Richards was right, Callaghan was not his usual self; normally she wouldn’t get a word in.
‘The boss thinks you might be asked to testify,’ she offered, hoping the chance of a court appearance might improve his mood. He did love an audience.
Another pause, this time with rustling in the background.
‘Are you okay, Peter?’
A new alert appeared. < Secure line request. >
She accepted and switched to the encrypted channel.
Callaghan spoke quickly. ‘Where are you? You sound out of breath.’
‘Sorry, I was running home,’ she replied. ‘Peter, what’s wrong? Why the secure channel?’
‘Are you recording this?’ he said shakily.
‘No, Why?’
‘Jen, you need to trust me.’ His voice was trembling. ‘You could be in danger. We could both be in danger.’
His obvious panic forced her to make a couple of quick calculations.
Home. Fifteen minutes run, about five in a taxi.
‘Can you come to the house, tonight?’ he asked.
‘You need to tell me what’s going on first.’
‘Come to the house. I will tell you everything. Just trust me.’
He disconnected.
Jen didn’t like that call one bit, it was clear this day wasn’t getting better any time soon. She looked around and instantly wanted out of the Hibernation block. She started running, her pace faster than before, her mind racing.
* * *
An hour later, Jen arrived at Callaghan’s house, the low rumble of her bike cutting through the silence of the leafy suburban street. She dismounted and looked up to see him standing just inside the front door. The wait had obviously been agonising for him.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he whispered nervously, peering up and down the street. ‘Your augmentation and comms – they’re turned off, right?’ He tapped his head.
‘Yes, I’m off-duty and offline.’ She did her best to hide a shiver of nervousness bursting over her back. He looked gaunt, almost skeletal, and his fear seemed to be catching. Callaghan stole one more look outside before shuffling inside, gesturing for her to follow. Jen hadn’t visited the house since his divorce, over two years ago. Back then it had seemed warm and homey; now it smelt stale, a bittersweet smell she associated with a lack of attention. In the hallway a cluster of family photographs still clung to the walls. Jen paused and studied them. Peter looked impossibly young and confident, taller even, and she realised how much he had changed over the last few years.
‘I do miss her.’ He was smiling, trying to conceal his obvious sadness.
Jen smelled the faint odour of whiskey on his breath and noted his growth of pepper-white stubble. She remembered the split: Callaghan always working, his wife leaving him for a man who showed her some attention. After the Harveys’ depressing tales of doomed marriage and infidelity, it appeared to be this month’s theme. All very predictable and sadly poignant, with Christmas just around the corner. During the silence that hung between them, Jen noticed the layers of dust covering most surfaces. She probably could have done more, checked in on him maybe.
‘At times I hate her for leaving.’ He stared blankly at the wall representing his past, eyes glassy, tone defeated. ‘But I don’t blame her.’
‘Peter.’ Jen asked gently, ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Yes… yes, of course.’ He seemed to physically shake the memories from his mind as he looked her dead in the eyes for the first time that evening. ‘Follow me.’
He continued down the hallway, stopping at an undersized door and gripping the handle. After an audible beep, the lock opened. On hearing the familiar sound, a large ginger cat appeared and proceeded to swirl and weave between Callaghan’s legs, purring loudly. He shushed it away, raising his eyebrows and smiling awkwardly before opening the cellar door and stepping through. Jen followed, instinctively placing a hand on her sidearm.
They descended dusty stone steps, lit poorly from above, the smell of oil and boot polish mixed with earth. At the base of the steps was another door, this one much larger and made of steel. Callaghan turned to face her, his eyes shining like black marbles in the half-light.
‘I need your help.’ He paused. ‘But what I am about to tell you could put you in further danger.’ He waited to be sure she understood the importance of those words.
‘I understand, Peter. You can trust me.’
The damp smell, wet ash and freshly dug earth, was more intense now and conjured memories. Jen recalled her childhood, the wine cellar at Brook Mill Farm, and felt a strangely familiar sensation, as though they had skipped a few seconds of time. She was struck with a sudden, undeniable certainty. She couldn’t explain how, but she knew whatever secrets were hidden behind this door would have deep significance for her.
‘I know I can trust you.’ He leant in close, eyes tightening. ‘But it’s not you I’m worried about.’
Chapter 13
The basement was a functioning laboratory, filled with expensive equipment and odd items of antique furniture, scattered without any sense of taste or consideration. This was a man’s den, a refuge, and Jen wondered if she might be the first women to set foot down here. She also suspected it might have played a part in his divorce. Too easy to come down here and hide. T
here were various machines, cooling fans whirring, data running down displays like rain. Callaghan closed the door, pulled two small leather chairs together and offered her a seat. Jen sat. He walked to an ornate wooden bureau, poured himself a whiskey and held another empty glass, raising his eyebrows at her. She declined his silent offer.
‘This room is completely secure,’ he said, sitting opposite her, his mood a little brighter.
She figured by secure he meant from surveillance, that they could talk freely. She observed him, his eyes a little bloodshot. He wasn’t drunk, though, he was using the whiskey to calm his nerves.
‘Okay, Peter,’ Jen said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
Callaghan licked his lips and swallowed, a click in his throat followed by a deep breath. He looked at her twice, seemingly unable to start talking. He smiled limply.
‘It’s alright,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘Start at the beginning.’
He rubbed his hands down his face and nodded, finally managing to get words to leave his mouth by staring at the floor and blinking.
‘I found things during my research into splintering, anomalies in brain patterns. Things that aren’t…’ He took a sip of his whiskey, wincing as it burned his throat.
‘Aren’t what?’
He replied reluctantly without looking up. ‘Aren’t. Right.’
‘Go on.’ Jen leant forward, placing her hand gently on his arm. ‘Tell me everything.’
He looked up briefly and smiled. ‘I ran some tests on our recent cases, using a new algorithm, something deeper. That’s when I found them.’ His right leg was jangling like a trapped eel. ‘The discrepancies.’
‘In English, Peter.’
‘I’m still trying to figure it out,’ he snapped, clearly frustrated, but then frowned, sighing. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, reaching for his hand. ‘You found discrepancies in brain patterns?’
‘Yes, they exist, like scars on top of memories.’ He held her gaze with a sudden intensity, his confidence returning. ‘But they don’t have an origination signature – they look like search echoes.’