As he opened his eyes, Gordon tried to figure out how long they had been closed. He was still standing up, so not long, he thought. Then he saw a figure, coming down the hill in the direction of the hut, so far away he could fit it in-between an outstretched thumb and forefinger. Blinking away the foggy feeling behind his eyes, he waited patiently for the figure to descend. If he were to make an assessment of the sight before him, Gordon would have noted the man’s resemblance to Father Christmas. The bushy white beard and hair was seemingly fighting for the sparse land on either end of his face, little white troops, marching slowly towards the goal of conquering the ultimate prize – a very red nose. His portly frame was encased in what appeared to be a jumper, the picture or pattern knitted into the front so faded that it was possible to stare at it for a lifetime and not decipher its origins. Defying all current and possible future trends he had tucked his jumper into his trousers and had secured the entire affair with a sturdy leather belt. It struck Gordon that should this antique fastener break, or ‘fail’, as he thought more appropriate, then all manner of inappropriate things might happen. His final thought, as the aged man addressed him, was that if he still knew him around Christmas time he would get him some braces as a gift.
“Hello there, young sir,” came a thickly rugged, jovial country accent. “Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing down ‘ere?” Gordon just shrugged, unable to think of a reply. “Well, I hav’s a job for you, don’t I?” he added loudly.
“Who are you?” Gordon asked.
“That, young sir, don’t really matter a good old-fashioned country mile, does it, now?” The man’s accent had begun to change, becoming less jovial and more unpleasant, bordering on metallic. Without warning, he grabbed Gordon’s shoulder with a strong hand and pulled him close. Gordon could feel the warmth of ‘Santa’s’ belly on his lower chest as thick arms wrapped around him. Gordon’s eyes were now only inches from the pockmarked, ruby nose. The white beard reeked of oily fish. Gordon squirmed in the vice-like grip, his head pulling away and to the side, neck straining.
“YOU, BOY, will go and dig up some money for us. You know where…” The voice sounded hollow and booming. Specks of warm fishy spit covered Gordon’s face. Then he fainted.
“Gordon, GORDON.”
Opening his eyes, he could just make out the outline of Bill’s very friendly-looking face. He sighed with relief.
“What’s going on?” Bill asked with concern. “I was walking down the hill and you were just standing there, in some kind of trance. Then you went and fainted.”
“We need to talk…” said Gordon, feeling drained.
“Come up to the house, I’ll fix you a steak. That’ll sort you out, and it’s about time for lunch.”
They walked slowly up to the house, Bill allowing Gordon time to stop every so often to cough loudly. Once inside the sparse kitchen, Bill silently set to work on preparing lunch. Gordon stood, trying his hardest to look useful.
“Grab that fat basher. It’s on the side over there.” Bill pointed vaguely to a heavy-looking implement on the kitchen sideboard.
“A fat basher?” Gordon replied, quizzically.
“Yeah, you know, a fat basher…for the meat.”
“Sounds more like a crime than a cooking utensil.”
“What? Just pass it here, will you.”
After the food was prepared, they sat down to the table to eat. Tucking into his giant slab of beef, Bill finally asked, “So what did you want to talk about?”
“It’s the chemicals,” Gordon said, chewing. “They’re doing things to me.”
“What’cha mean, lad?”
“I can’t stop coughing for a start. I think they’re dangerous. They might be what killed the Scientist.”
“Really?” Bill thought for a few moments. “Do you think we should stop using them?” His tone of voice suggested that this might not be an option.
“Nah… I think we just need to buy some protective equipment.”
“Not a problem. We’ll go this aft’noon. Can’t have my best worker catching the plague now, can I?” Bill added amiably, removing a piece of gristle from his mouth. “Besides… I’ve almost died twice this week. Best not to tempt fate…”
*
The room was dark with bare concrete walls; the only light came from a single bulb swinging from the low ceiling. The far wall was dominated by the reflective mirrored surface of 1-way glass. To the right, there was a small grey door and a tap. At its centre stood a flimsy metal table and 3 chairs. The chair facing the glass had arm and leg restraints and sat on top of a rusty grill. Carl and the Director walked into the room carrying a suitcase, a tea towel and a length of hosepipe. They sat down. The Director thumbed a number on her phone.
“Is he here yet?” asked her shrill voice. “Well, show him up then…What?...He has bodyguards…Well remind them who we are working for…Yes him…They will understand…Yes…He authorised it himself…Okay, bring him up.”
Carl let out a high-pitched snigger and placed the suitcase on the table. He opened it and removed a full syringe. A few minutes later the door opened and Michael was pushed unceremoniously inside, the door slamming shut behind him.
“What the hell’s going on?” Michael exclaimed loudly. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke. Sit down over there,” the Director said as calmly as her high-pitched voice allowed.
“I bloody well will not. Not till you tell me what you want.”
“Carl,” the Director said impatiently. Carl took out a baton from his belt and limped slowly towards Michael.
“What are you doing? Okay, I’ll sit.” His voice wavered, thickening with fear.
“Bind his arms.”
“Shall I stick him with the needle?”
“Yes, it will save time.”
The colour drained from Michael’s face as he surrendered control of the situation and became partially aware of what was going to happen to him. Days, months and years later, all he could recall was screaming and pleading with them to stop, followed by a sort of eerie calm, a separation from the inside of his mind, floating without a care or worry. Then pain again, suffocation, drowning - over and over again. He could never remember what he said to them.
Transcript of interrogation 38717.1
14:12 Initial, aut. ALL – S. Pentothal
Int.1:What is your name?
Sub.:Unintelligible
Int.1:What is your name?
Sub.:Michael
Int.1:How old are you?
Sub.:40…47
Int.1:40
Sub.:47
Int.1:Have you ever stolen money from the print?
Sub.:No
Int.2:You’re lying
Sub.:No
Int.1:Have you ever printed too much money?
Sub.:Yes, b-but
Int.2:Told you he was lying
Int.1:Maybe
Int.2:He’s lying
Int.1:Did you ever tell anyone you printed too much money?
Sub.:Yes, check
Int.1:What do you mean by check?
Sub.:Checked, all the time
Int.1:Have you ever altered the number of notes to be printed?
Sub.:No, never ever, wrong
Int.2:This ain’t working
………………………Break………………………
14:36 Cont, aut. ALL – S. Pentothal +WB
Int.2:Will you tell me now?
Sub.:Yes, yes
Int.2:You stole from the print. Say yes. It will stop
Sub.:No
………………………Break………………………
14:48 Cont, aut. ALL – S. Pentothal +WB
Int.2:Did you steal from the print?
Sub.:No
Int.1:This isn’t working. Longer this time
………………………Break………………………
15:07 Cont, aut. ALL – S. Pentothal +WB
Int.2:If you want it to stop you just need to
say yes
Int.1:Let me. Did you steal money from your place of work?
Sub.:No, no. Watched
Int.1:By who
Sub.:Cameras. All day long
Int.1:Did you check the cameras?
Int.2:Didn’t know about em
Int.1:Unintelligible
Int.2:Unintelligible
………………………Break………………………
15:09 End, aut. ALL
*
Back in the Director’s office the man known as ‘Sir’ had finished reading through the transcript.
“You did this? Let me get this clear in my mind.” The man shook his head in disbelief. “You interrogated the only person in the country who has enough skill to produce our banknotes? With threats of violence and sodium pentothal?” He slumped into a nearby chair, seemingly contemplating their stupidity.
“We used water too, but it didn’t work,” Carl said matter-of-factly. ‘Sir’ stared blankly at the floor, absently scratching his nose. After some time, he stood up and spoke: “Carl… Go and fetch Michael.”
Michael was brought through into the room. He looked dishevelled, spaced-out and scared. Carl stood him against the wall by the door and took a seat.
“Get up Carl… oh, and give me your gun.”
Carl responded obediently with a knowing smile and the man put the gun into his jacket pocket.
“Would you like a seat Michael?”
“I, I, erm…” Michael’s eyes darted around the room not really comprehending the question.
“Take a seat. Go on. It’s okay. Tim, would you fetch this gentleman a cup of sweet tea, please?”
“Yes, sir.” Tim left swiftly - leaving the room in silence. A moment later he returned with a cup and passed it to Michael. Sensing something wasn’t right, Michael placed it on the floor.
“It’s okay. It’s just tea.” He got up, picked up the cup and took a sip. “See…”
Michael took the cup from him and took a tentative slurp. To his surprise, it tasted just like tea.
“Now, Michael. First, I would like to begin by offering my sincerest apologies for the actions of my colleagues. Secondly, I would ask you to please put your fingers in your ears.”
“What?” He choked as tea went down the wrong way.
“Put your fingers in your ears. It’s not a trick, I promise.” He said this in his most calming voice. Moments later Michael put his fingers into his ears.
“Now… you 2, stand over here.” He pointed at the Director and Carl, then to the floor next to his chair, his voice shifting gears into tones that should be listened to and obeyed without question. They shuffled over to where he had pointed, like naughty children. In 1 fluid motion he drew the gun and fired off 2 shots. Tim stared in disbelief as a smoke-filled hole appeared in Carl’s ‘good’ foot, then another in the toe of the Director’s petite high-heeled shoe.
Smoke and the smell of spent ammunition filled the small room. His eyes noticed blood spatter on the floor and creeping up the wall. Next came the noises, at first barely audible over the ringing in his ears. A muffed thud, Michael had fainted, screams of incredulity and pain, then crying, a door banging, men with guns shouting.
“Put your guns away, please. And get an ambulance for those 2.” He pointed to where the screaming came from and the men at the door immediately holstered their weapons. “Tim, would you be so kind as to pick up Michael and take him home?” He paused despondently, deep in thought. “You go home too, Tim. We can start afresh in the morning.”
Tim could take a guess that he would be wearing a more sombre tie tomorrow.
Back at home, Tim slouched into his ample sofa and flicked the remote control. A wide-screen TV, half the size of the wall, came to life. Another press of a button and the lights dimmed to a lazy warm glow. As he put his feet up on the couch, his eyes grew heavy almost immediately, and he drifted in and out of a welcome sleep, catching small fragments of news.
“Good evening and welcome to the 9 o’clock news with me, Pelexia Brown. Tonight’s top stories: the death toll rises to 4 in what is being described as the worst power failure since the war. With 100s injured, hospitals are struggling to cope. The cause of the power cut has yet to be identified, but government officials, yesterday, were quick to dismiss rumours of a terrorist attack.
“We will be focusing, in our top story tonight - with eyewitness accounts - on a report direct from Mercy General Hospital and an interview with Sub-Commander Johnson, in charge of homeland security. First, outside Mercy General, we have Aldrich. Hello. What can you tell us about conditions inside the hospital?”
“Good evening. As you have already mentioned, all the hospitals in the city have been inundated with patients, none more so than Mercy General. Doctors and nursing staff are literally swamped, with reports of people being put on temporary beds in corridors and simply left to fend for themselves.”
A woman interviewee spoke: “My Jack was left for 9 hours in the corridor with a towel wrapped around his leg. All he needed was a few stitches. It’s unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable!”
A middle-aged man commented next: “Dad is over 70 and no one paid him any attention whatsoever…”
“These are just a couple of examples of…”
Tim drifted off to sleep, images of talking cartoon cats filling his mind.
“…to what effect?”
“We simply don’t know, but the doctors are urging people with minor ailments to stay at home or book an appointment with their GP.”
“Now, live via video phone is Sub-Commander Johnson. Good evening, sir. What reassurances can you give the public over last night’s power failure?”
Tim opened his weary eyes and saw the bronze, ageing face of the Sub-Commander, his long grey hair combed over a thinning scalp, his pristine uniform and shiny medals on show, for all to see.
“Unfortunately, I am not in a position to offer reassurances at this time. Our initial dismissal of a terrorist attack may well have been premature. I would like to read a short statement from the Commander-in-Chief: ‘In accordance with procedure, the general alert level has been raised and as a result you will see more enforcement officers on the street. This is a move designed to reassure the public that we are doing all in our power to safeguard liberty and freedom from those who seek to take it away from us. We will stop those cowardly people who choose to attack us, and those responsible will be brought to justice.’”
Tim, now wide awake, began pacing round the room. If he had continued viewing he would have seen Pelexia shuffling paper around her desk, completely thrown off guard by the turn of events. She finally thought of a meaningful question. Johnson had only replied that more news would be made available in due course, and spent the remainder of the interview trying to play down the threat. He was aware that it would only serve the opposite reaction and churn out fear. But Tim knew this already.
“It’s started!” Tim said out loud. “He’s laying the groundwork.” By the time he had stopped pacing round the sofa, muttering to himself, and had sat back down, the news was almost at an end. He knew that he could probably turn to any other news channel and it would be playing again, being dissected and pondered over.
A slightly flustered-looking Pelexia Brown turned to the camera. “…And finally, carrots. Once hyped as the ‘cure-all’ for poor eyesight, the ‘orange medicine’ goes under the spotlight again, as top scientists reject medicinal claims made on carrots’ behalf. More on this and our main story at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning. Goodnight.” And with the usual wink from her sparkling brown eyes, Pelexia was gone.
9
"I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered."
George Best
It had been nearly a week since Gordon had requested the safety equipment from Bill and, true to his word, they had gone to a laboratory supplier that afternoon. The interior of the small hut now looked very different: a fume cupboard took up most of t
he far wall; lab coats, goggles and facemasks hung neatly from hooks by the door; new glassware, with safety lids, gleamed and shone through the window of the sterilisation unit. Gordon stood in the doorway, complete with thick rubber gloves and lab coat, surveying his new domain. He smiled. It had been nearly 2 days since his last coughing fit. I must be getting better…
Then his hands began to tingle, like pins and needles. Ripping off the gloves as quickly as possible, he gazed at his palms. Minutely examining each square centimetre of exposed flesh under the bright fluorescent light, he watched intently as he lost the feeling in the tips of each finger. He could feel the cold, icy numbness move down towards his palms, shards of thin, invisible ice penetrating each vein. He clenched his fists a couple of times; at least he thought he did, but nothing moved. His stomach churned with fear as he let his gaze move past the tips of his fingers. What he saw terrified him. Everything was numbers. Every edge, glint of light, wall, piece of glassware, was made up of rows of numbers. As he turned, his mind processed something that was out of place, that didn’t conform to the pattern. At first it was just a dark blob of normal light; then, as he tried to focus, horror gripped him. It was sat down, cross-legged, sporting a manic grin across its white-bearded face. The figure blurred against the background as it moved from the seat to within inches of Gordon, all in the space of a heartbeat. He tried to raise his numb hands to protect himself but they just flopped around on the ends of his arms helplessly.
“Ha HA HAAA.” The bearded face erupted in sound, which then slowed down like a bad audiotape. The mouth, wide open, spewed forth wet, fishy vapours. Gordon watched, transfixed, as the face moved left, then right, faster and faster, until it was a blur, vibrating uncontrollably. Gordon’s eyelids closed slowly as he felt himself losing consciousness.
“NO YOU DON’T. You ain’t gettin’ away so easy this time.” The voice penetrated his skull, slapping him awake. “I is only tryin’ to help us. Why can’t you sees it?” Gordon, now fully awake, stared into the motionless face. “Go and get that money.”
He barely felt himself moving out of the hut and across the field. His mind seemed disconnected from everything about him. The ground looked spongy and transparent with millions of numbers swirling, like stage-show smoke around his feet. He felt he might sink into them at any moment. Time moved out of conscious thought as he reached Bill’s garden, the spade already in his hand, wheelbarrow to his left. He patted down the soil, just as he found it, wheeling the barrow full of money down the hill towards the hut.
The Shift of Numbers Page 10