Deep in the basement of the building, Tim lined up the sights of his handgun with the target’s head, relaxed his arms and held his breath. A gentle squeeze of the trigger brought a muffled roar in his ears and his arm moved quickly backwards.
A particle of light from the target’s head moved in an instant down towards Tim’s eye, excited and full of energy. Perspective being what it is and giving the particle a conscience, time would have moved around it in a treacly, creamy malaise. It would have narrowly missed the bullet spinning on its axis, trailing a distorted path in the air molecules behind it. In front, a wave of sound, viewed like a perfectly round bubble belligerently trying to escape thick liquid. Over time, the accelerating silvery tip of the bullet pierced the slower-moving sound and broke away leaving a ragged outlet, resembling a hole poked through stretched clear plastic. Then a face, fixed and still, a 3-dimensional picture made up of tiny points of light. Created by my friends on their equally speedy journey in the opposite direction to me. Then I see it, my bliss, my rapture, paradise… The retina. A black misty abyss drawing it seductively onwards passed its blue-y grey outer circle, positioned like ethereal landing lights forcing a direct hit on the centre of the cornea. Chemical changes created trigger nerve impulses, controlled explosions of activity down protein rods and cones, burrowing rapidly into the brain. Its interpretation was lost on Tim as his memory cells were sparking a different tune, making their own symphony. For today was Grace’s birthday and, however fleetingly, he was 12 years old again…
Tim, or Timmy as he was known back then, was hiding from the rain in his usual place, a rarely-used bus shelter. He was sat with his best friend, Walter, a chunky fresh-faced lad with a shock of ginger hair and clothes that were clearly 2 sizes too small for him. They made an unusual coupling, borne out of necessity rather than any common interests: Walter protected Timmy from the bigger boys being, at 14, 2 years older, while Timmy provided friendship in return. The 2 boys were loners, with no other friends to speak of. The estate they lived on didn’t offer much fun either. Run-down, dilapidated and hopeless described it best. It had been built many years ago as a futuristic, concrete utopia for the masses. Now, it housed the mainly jobless and disillusioned, those unable to escape, imprisoned inside identically-shaped rooms.
Most of Timmy and Walter’s conversations revolved around leaving the estate in some way with talk of dream jobs and money never far from their lips. They were joined in their dry haven by a middle-aged man who was holding a newspaper over his head in an attempt to fend off the rain. They assumed he was waiting for a bus until after a few minutes he spoke to them in a polite accentless voice.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Why what you done?” sniggered Walter, childishly.
“I was wondering if you could tell me who that young lady was. She just got out of that red car, just over there.” The man pointed down the street to a car owned by 1 of Tim’s sister’s many friends.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I could give you this fiver…” The 2 sat in silence for a moment, looking at the man with some suspicion.
“Of course I know who she is. She’s my sister,” said Tim, holding out his hand.
“Really...” said the man triumphantly, seemingly deep in thought for a moment. He handed over the note. “…How would you like to earn some more money? Let’s say, 50 pounds.”
“My mam always told me not to talk to strange men. Come on, Timmy. Let’s go to the shops.”
“Hold up, Walter. What would we have to do for 50 quid?” asked Tim, boldly. “We ain’t going anywhere with you.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” said the man mildly with a wave of his hand. “All I want you to do is find something for me. That woman, your sister, took something of mine and I want it back. Easy money for you, I’m sure.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. All I will tell you is that it’s got the initials SNJ on it somewhere and it’s quite small. The rest you will have to figure out yourself.”
“Sounds stupid, why can’t you tell us?”
“Put simply, I don’t want you to know what it is, should you not find it. If you do find it, phone this number and leave a message, just a time, nothing else. I will meet you here with the money. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, I suppose 50 quid each is worth it…” replied Tim with a cheeky glint in his eye.
“I never said each.”
“Well I’m sure you can find someone else.” Tim turned to walk away.
“Okay, okay. Hold up… 50 each it is, but not a word to anyone.” And with that he had vanished down the street into the rain.
“What a waste of time. We don’t even know what he wants us to find for him,” said Walter angrily.
Tim gazed thoughtfully at the ground. “Nah, it’s not that hard. Think about it. Grace stole it off him, but he can’t go to the police. Why?”
“Dunno.”
“He don’t want anyone to find out it’s gone missing. It’s small, valuable, with some initials on it; probably his, if he got it stole off him…” Lost in thought, for a few minutes, Tim wandered round the bus shelter until, finally, he came to a stop, looking directly at Walter with an air of triumphant arrogance. “I bet you that fiver it’s his wedding ring.”
“How’d you figure that?”
“Simple, ain’t it?”
As soon as Tim got home, he waited until his sister had gone out before he carefully and silently set about burgling her room. It was too easy; in the top draw of her dresser he removed a small wooden music box. What was inside, however, surprised him momentarily and set his mind racing. Glinting in the light of his small bicycle lamp were about 30 wedding rings, all men’s. Quickly searching through them he found 1 bearing the initials SNJ and retreated to his room with his prize.
The next day, phoning the number and leaving a message, the 2 boys had met with the mysterious man and, without a word being spoken in explanation, received their reward. 1 of Tim’s lasting memories of the ‘Case of the Missing Ring’, as Walter had termed it, occurred later that evening around the dinner table. Seated on mismatched chairs in their concrete palace, sat Tim, Grace and their mom and dad. After finishing supper, a weekly treat of fish and chips, Grace declared to the room that she was off out.
“You’re going out again?” exclaimed their dad, loudly.
“That’s nearly every night this week,” chirped in mom. “I just don’t know where you find the money.”
Grace’s nocturnal wanderings, though, were now as clear to Tim as that fancy bottled water they sold down the shops. His new knowledge, bubbling just under the surface of his mind, was forced out with the arrogance and innocence of youth: “Don’t you get it? It’s so obvious?”
“What’s so obvious?” Without waiting for a reply their mother turned to Grace, “You going down that night club again?”
“It’s none of your business, mom. I can go where I please.” Grace’s face betrayed her though, but only Tim could see it: for a split second, before she went back to being angry, he caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes.
“It is when you’re living under our roof. Isn’t that…”
Before their mom could finish her sentence and start with another lecture, Tim had stood up from the table, almost on autopilot, and blurted out the truth. “She’s a prostitute. Don’t you get it?”
Instantly, their father had risen from the table, grabbing Tim’s arm, dragging him into the hall, all the while shouting incoherently at him. Crying, Tim was sent to his room.
He didn’t know what happened that night, or what was said, but the next day his sister moved out of the family home and, to the best of his knowledge, his parents never spoke of her, or to her, ever again. Years later, while employed in his first job as a policeman, he found out about her. She had apparently never gone back to her previous line of work and lived in a dingy flat, finding employment as a hairdresser, dreaming a
ll the while of travelling the world. He found all this out – unbeknownst to his sister – by briefly dating her best friend. Born partly of guilt and, in no small part love, he had concocted a plan. With all the money he had saved and, taking a loan for the rest, he purchased an all-expenses paid trip round the world. Disguising it in such a way as to make it seem like she had won a competition, he sent the tickets to his sister. Watching her from a distance at the airport, he had never seen her smile so much in all his life. That was the last he ever saw of her.
*
On autopilot, Tim couldn’t remember firing the last 4 shots. Gazing down the range, he could see that the target’s head had several neat holes in its centre. A hand lightly touched Tim’s shoulder; he removed his ear protectors and holstered his gun before turning round to face the man who touched him.
“Well done, sir. A perfect score.”
“I thought I would be out of practice,” said Tim, modestly.
“It’s just like riding a bike. You never lose the knack. I just wish they were all as competent as you.”
“Are there any more tests?”
“That was the last 1. I will send a copy of your renewed gun licence upstairs to personnel. Excuse me, sir. I think I hear the telephone.”
While Tim admired his paper target with its neat cluster of bullet holes, the range master came back out of his office and walked quickly over to Tim. “That was the Director’s office on the phone, sir. They want you up there as soon as possible.”
Tim nodded and swiftly walked to the elevator. He hated talking to the Director but it did mean he was getting a new case, and that meant getting out of the office.
The elevator ride took Tim from basement level 2, the gun range, upwards past basement level 1. Only 2 people worked on this floor: the engineers who looked after the computer containing the 2 most important numbers in the country. To the best of Tim’s knowledge the number had never been wrong since the system was put online about 20 years ago, when he had first joined the MSD and, with security laxer, he had snuck down to catch a glimpse of the computer. It was a shock; he had expected a whole floor filled with computers. In reality, it was just a large computer monitor attached to a wall in a smallish office. He watched the numbers for a while, mesmerised, expecting them to change. The larger number did, but not by much.
The 1st floor contained the financial records of almost everyone in the country, either electronically stored or, for the older records, on paper. Every transaction, every tax receipt and more, stored for use in analysis and investigations. The majority of the MSD workforce were housed in this vast library, human ants stacking and restacking, collating and sorting vast quantities of numbers. The 2nd floor held all the staff recreation facilities, the canteen, swimming pool and gym, etc. The MSD didn’t want a high turnover of staff as that would encourage incompetence, so they paid well and had good benefits. The 3rd and 4th floor were given over to the Investigations Department. It looked like a cross between a police station and a bank, only with better carpet. The 5th floor, where Tim was heading, contained the offices of the directors of each Sub-Department. He had no idea what was on the top 2 floors of the MSD building. People worked up there but no-one he knew had any clue as to what they did.
Tim departed the lift and made his way to the office of the director of investigations. After speaking briefly to her secretary, he entered her office. The Director was a bit of a running joke in the MSD for her terrible sense of dress. She, of course, knew nothing of this, as no-one would be stupid enough to tell her. Today, Tim noted that she was wearing a bright blue almost ball-gown affair with a green silk scarf. He smiled inside, careful not to let it show on his face.
“Ahh, Tim,” the Director exclaimed in her shrill voice. “Sit down.” Once Tim was sat down the Director stood up. “I take it you have seen the news today?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have,” Tim replied militarily.
“The matter will need immediate investigation. It has been designated the highest priority. I want you to drop anything you are
currently working on. Here.” She handed Tim a dossier. “We are in the process of arresting all the directors of Shure Stock. The one that is of most interest to us is subject 6741. Open to page 16.” Another of her quirks, Tim had noticed, was that she never used the full name of anyone who was to be interrogated. Page 16 contained a photo of Richard.
“I want you to arrest him and question him. He is in a medical facility at the moment but I’ve just got off the phone with his doctor and convinced him that it was in his best interests to release him with a clean bill of mental health.” Tim inwardly shuddered at the ruthlessness beneath the Director’s badly-clothed exterior.
“I will get to it at once, ma’am,” Tim stated, readying himself to leave.
“1 more thing. You won’t be working alone on this case. I have brought in Carl from upstairs.” She pointed to the ceiling when she said this and a thin malicious-looking smile played on her lips.
“Is that truly necessary?” asked Tim, made bold by the fact he had worked with Carl before and truly hated him.
“Do you have a problem with him?” she smiled, thinly.
“No, ma’am. It’s just that this investigation may require a certain amount of…delicacy, for want of a better word.”
“I can be delicate,” came a rough deep voice from just behind Tim. Tim jumped and looked instinctively around.
“Hello, Carl,” said Tim, in his most neutral voice.
“Now you 2 run along. You have a lot of work to do,” said the Director. As if dismissed by the headmistress, the 2 men stood up wordlessly and left the office.
*
Tim and Carl didn’t speak 1 word to each other all the way to Dullstand Psychiatric Hospital. The silence was broken occasionally by Carl sniggering to himself; it was a strange high-pitched noise that Tim figured was an uncontrollable phonic tic of some kind. Once inside, Carl followed Tim until they had located a doctor and then Richard’s room. He then turned to Tim and said, “I will deal with the posh boy,” and swiftly walked into Richard’s room and dragged him out by 1 of his legs.
“EASY! Can’t you see he’s doped up to the eyeballs? Stand him up over here,” Tim ordered Carl, pointing to a nearby desk. Carl roughly hoisted Richard up by his shirt and leant him up against the desk, keeping 1 firm hand on his shoulder.
“Get him cuffed and read him his rights - if you can do that without causing him any physical harm,” Tim sarcastically told Carl in a superior tone.
“Rights?” came the response, after another high-pitched snigger. As he manhandled Richard into the handcuffs, the loud clattering sound of high heels on a marble-effect floor crescendoed from a distant corridor. Both men turned as an out-of-breath young woman ran up to them.
“What’s going on? Where are you taking him?” asked the woman, breathlessly. She looked past both of them to Richard and motioned with her head. Tim glanced in Richard’s direction, the cogs in his head shifting gears.
“Who are you?” Tim asked, inquisitively.
“I’m his fiancée,” came the breathless reply.
“We’re taking him to the MSD for questioning.” Tim looked over to Carl and pointed in the direction of the car outside and, to his surprise, Carl just walked his prisoner outside to the car without any mafia theatrics. Tim looked back to the woman. His investigating eyes told him she was in her late 20s. Her salon-styled hair and expensive attire alerted him to the fact that she was no stranger to spending her fiancé’s money. He thought that she must be the corporate equivalent of a footballer’s wife.
“You can contact the MSD for further information,” Tim said, handing her his card just before a large man in a lab coat grabbed her and twisted her around. The man said something to her and forcefully but gently escorted her from the room. Tim watched her thoughtfully as they left, thinking that he may need to question her further.
“Bugger,” he thought suddenly, “I’ve left Carl alone with the
prisoner.”
6
“When we hang the capitalists they will sell us the rope we use.”
Joseph Stalin
It was getting dark as Tim and Carl made their way back to the MSD building and, after a brief argument in the lobby, it was decided to question Richard in Tim’s office and not in the cells. Tim figured it would help put Richard at ease; Carl, on the other hand, had no such issue with prisoner welfare.
*
Richard’s fiancée got off the bus and made her way to the MSD building. Shuddering from the cold, she stepped quickly inside, missing Tim and Carl’s entrance by at least half an hour. The interior lobby was well-lit but not in the least bit welcoming. After giving her details to the desk sergeant, she was instructed to take a seat and wait, but for how long she wouldn’t say.
*
For everyone else on the farm it was a day like any other apart from Bill had promised to buy everyone a drink in the local to celebrate the first ever advert for the Carrot Corporation™ on national television, starring Bill himself. As the workers wearily made their ways out of the main gate, a sad-looking middle-aged man was waiting, apparently for Bill.
“Hello there. What can I do for you?” asked Bill cheerily as the man approached.
“Erm…I don’t really know where to start with all this…Well, my name is Pete. My wife invested a lot of money into your farm...” said Pete shakily.
“Good for you, sonny. A sound investment, I can tell you that much.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Pete started waving his hands. “We lost a lot of money in your farm.”
“I don’t understand. The farm is doing good business. The share price is going up,” stated Bill, puzzled.
“We invested it through the Shure Stock Company.”
The Shift of Numbers Page 6