by Unknown
Tom felt colour flare in his cheeks and hoped that Mark hadn’t noticed.
“Oh,” he said. “Well . . . good. Good for you. Anyway—” He made a show of consulting his watch, momentarily forgetting about the wall clock. “Anyway, Mark, why don’t you get off? There’s nothing much left to do and Lisa and I can finish up. Since you’re the only one going anywhere tonight. . . .”
“Okay,” said Mark. “Cool. Have a great weekend, folks. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Mark grabbed his coat from the row of pegs near the door and shrugged it on as he left. Lisa went to the door and glanced out into the corridor. She walked back to Tom and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Can’t wait for tomorrow night, Mr Evans.”
“Me, neither,” said Tom. He placed a kiss on her nose, but as she tilted her head to bring her lips towards his, he pulled back, unwrapping her arms as he did so. “Wait until tomorrow, Miss Jones.”
Lisa folded her arms and pretended to pout. “I wish we could go out,” she said, “instead of having to skulk away as if we’re doing something wrong.”
Tom sighed. “We’ve been through this. We can’t risk being seen. Not until we’ve told Ross the Boss. It has to come from us, or from me anyway. If he were to hear about us from someone else. . . .” Tom shuddered.
Mr Ross was the headmaster of Penmawr Primary School. Sometimes jovial but more often crusty, he was a stickler for doing things the right way and it didn’t pay to get onto his wrong side. Having a relationship with one of his teaching assistants would, Tom reckoned, very much get him onto the wrong side of Ross.
“Then let’s tell him,” insisted Lisa. “Before the staff party. Then we can go to the party, and leave it, together.”
Tom grimaced. “The party’s just two weeks away.” He breathed out heavily. “Oh, cripes! Yeah, I’ll tell him next week.”
“Why not now?”
Tom didn’t have a good answer. Lisa was right: they weren’t doing anything wrong. They were both single, both adults in their twenties, Tom at twenty-seven Lisa’s senior by three years. They weren’t breaking any hard-and-fast rules, but he knew that Ross would frown upon a classroom relationship. He had seen Ross beetle his bushy brows and didn’t relish being on the receiving end.
He shrugged. “Next week? Please? I need to psych myself up.”
Lisa laughed. “Okay. I don’t think he’s all that bad, you know. Bark worse than his bite, I reckon.”
“He’ll still insist that you change classes.”
It was Lisa’s turn to shrug. “I know.” She glanced around the classroom. “I’ll miss the reception kids. . . .” She smiled. “Though not their little accidents. Still, most of them are toilet-trained now.” Her expression grew serious. “I’ll miss being with you throughout the day. But if it means we can be seen together the rest of the time . . . it’ll be worth it.”
Tom nodded. “Yes. It will.”
* * * * *
Troy Bishop dressed simply: canvas cargo shorts with deep pockets, tee-shirt and rubber deck shoes.
He stepped to the wall in his lounge, the exterior wall, made of solid brick and breeze block. He swung aside the print of Munch’s The Scream to reveal the sturdy-looking safe built into the wall. His hands shook a little as he spun the safe’s dial and he had to reset it and start again, forcing his breathing to slow down and his hands to steady.
This time he spun truly and the safe clicked open.
Bishop reached in and withdrew a silvery-metal canister that glinted in the moonlight entering his apartment through the uncurtained windows. In that pale, milky light, he imagined the canister to be a futuristic artillery shell for some sci-fi heavy-duty plasma weapon. In less fanciful moments, he thought it resembled a sleek thermos flask.
He carried it to his desk, holding it carefully like an overfilled glass that might spill. He set the canister down and sat before it, his bearing as tense as taut wire.
Quickly at first, then forcing his hands to slow, he reached for the top of the canister and unscrewed the lid. As it came loose, a pressure released with a low hiss and Bishop smelt an aroma, dark and sweet like scalding caramel.
He pulled the lid aside—it remained attached to the body of the canister by a length of black polymer plastic. They had not been permitted to open the canisters before now so as to avoid the risk of contaminating and harming the efficacy of the contents; this was the first glimpse he’d had of the interior of the canister.
There wasn’t a great deal to see. Just below the lip of the canister’s exposed neck lay a silvery disc that filled the gap. Set into the disc were two shallow grooves, forming a raised portion between them that could be gripped by thumb and forefinger. On the smooth metallic surface on either side of the grooves was engraved in small but clear block capitals:
CAUTION: KEEP UPRIGHT AND OPEN ONLY IN CALM, DRY CONDITIONS.
Bishop did not feel calm—excitement bubbled below the surface like a geyser readying to spout—but he guessed the engraved admonishment referred to the environment in which the canister was being opened, not to the condition of the person opening it.
He reached forward, grasping the raised portion of the disc with his right thumb and forefinger. With his left hand he tightly gripped the canister, the surface cold and smooth against his palm. He twisted the disc.
It turned with surprising ease, like a freshly-oiled wing-nut. Three complete turns and another hiss of releasing pressure. Another waft of sweet darkness. Half a turn more and he was able to lift the disc away. He placed it carefully to one side and pulled the canister closer until, by craning forward, he could peer inside.
Bishop’s apartment was equipped with all modern conveniences including, of course, electric lighting, but he rarely turned the lights on at night. He was therefore accustomed to darkness and had developed a highly-tuned night vision. The ambient moonlight amply illuminated the interior of the canister for him to clearly see what it contained.
Earlier versions of the canister had been replaced every few years as their contents were upgraded. This canister had been in his possession, locked away in the safe, for around eighteen months. During that time, the contents had settled and their surface now lay about an inch below where the disc had been.
That surface resembled a smooth circular expanse of creamy-white chalk. If the person gazing in didn’t know better, he would think that the contents were solid and could be coaxed out of the canister, by turning it upside down and tapping its base, in a cylindrical rod. But Bishop knew better.
He slowly lowered his right index finger into the canister until it met the creamy surface . . . and continued through it. He pressed his finger down for maybe an inch, then withdrew it. The top of his finger down to the second knuckle was coated in a creamy powder, so fine it was almost translucent, each grain too minuscule to be identified individually.
Bishop turned his finger, admiring the silkiness of the powdery coating, able to make out the cuticle of his nail through it.
He grinned once more, his tongue lolling out to wet his lips, almost slavering. That and the moonlight combined to make him appear more lupine than ever.
Bishop moved his hand over the canister and used his thumb to flake away the powder on his finger. It came away easily, like chalk dust, and fell back into the canister in a fine drizzle.
Abruptly he stood. He strode into the kitchen and extracted a large sandwich bag from a drawer: a polythene bag, the type that self-seals. He unsealed the bag and shook it, making it billow as it filled with air, before moving back to the desk. Forcing himself to move deliberately, he turned the bag and placed its open end over the top of the canister. Carefully—he didn’t want to waste any—he slowly upended the canister, keeping the bag in close contact with the canister’s smooth sides. Gently, oh so gently, he shook the canister to discharge the creamy powder into the bag. When he judged that the bag was three-quarters full, he righted the canister, making s
ure that the bag also remained upright as it slid off the canister.
Placing the canister carefully to one side, he expelled the remaining air from the bag and sealed the opening. Next came the most risky part of the process; the part where, if he acted hastily or impatiently, the bag might tear.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eased the bag into the front left-hand pocket of his cargo shorts. Tapping gently at the sides of the bag with his left hand, while maintaining a sure grip on it with his right, he was able to ease the bag in without mishap. He heaved a long sigh. As he had been careful about not overfilling it, the bag fitted inside the pocket comfortably, not making any strange bulges that might attract unwanted attention.
Around half of the canister’s contents had been transferred to the bag. Bishop replaced the disc into the neck of the canister and fastened it tightly. Then he added the lid and screwed that on firmly, too.
Grabbing his keys, he almost bolted from the apartment, only pausing to lock the door securely behind him. In the lift on the way down to the lobby, he reached into his pocket and undid the seal on the sandwich bag sufficiently so that he could dip his fingers in.
* * * * *
The morning rush hour was in full swing in downtown Los Angeles as Diane Heidler shrugged the knapsack onto her back. It didn’t contain much: a change of clothes, a bottle of water and a few toiletries. She could buy whatever else she needed on her travels. Money wouldn’t be a problem.
She paused at the doorway and glanced back at the apartment. The laptop stood, screen open, on the desk. Diane had no further use for it. She had deleted the message from Milandra and her response, and disabled the internet connection. If a neighbour wandered in and wanted to take it, they were welcome to it and anything else she was leaving behind. She turned her back on the apartment and walked out, leaving the door wide open behind her.
Diane caught a bus uptown to her bank. She grabbed a coffee from a nearby Starbucks while she waited for the branch to open. If there was one vice Diane possessed, it was an over-fondness for coffee. However, caffeine did not stimulate her. On the contrary, she found it had a soporific effect, calming her thoughts, dampening her emotions, making existence more bearable.
She was the first customer through the doors of the bank when it opened.
First, she approached the cashing desk where she arranged to transfer all funds from her savings account to her checking account.
“Expecting some major expenditure, Miss Heidler?” the cashier enquired.
“Mmm, something like that,” she replied in what she hoped was a non-committal tone that would discourage further chat.
Second, Diane cashed a cheque for twenty-thousand dollars. The cashier raised one eyebrow but made no comment. Diane stuffed the bills into her knapsack.
Third, she arranged to close her safety deposit box. She was shown into the room off the rear of the banking hall that contained small curtained cubicles where deposit boxes could be opened in privacy. Her box was brought to her by a smiling clerk who placed it on the table in a cubicle and drew the curtain closed as he left her alone.
Diane withdrew a small brass key from a pocket of her jeans and inserted it into the lock on the front of the box. She turned it and lifted the lid.
There was only one item inside: a silvery, metallic canister, a little like a thermos flask.
Diane hefted the canister in one hand, considering its weight. About the same as a bag of sugar, she guessed. Then she placed it in her knapsack on top of the money, turned and walked out.
She didn’t bother closing the lid of the safety deposit box or removing the key.
* * * * *
Similar scenarios played themselves out in almost five thousand towns and cities throughout the world. From Reykjavik to Wellington, Beijing to Cape Town, St Petersburg to Mumbai, an e-mail was received and replied to. The recipients recovered from their places of safe-keeping silvery metallic canisters resembling thermos flasks. Then, canisters or just their creamy, powdery contents in their possession, the recipients left their places of abode and went to work.
All except one.
Chapter Three
In a village west of Cardiff, at the edge of the South Wales coal field, less than five miles from the village where Tom Evans was tidying his classroom ready for the weekend, a mobile phone played a jingle that signified the receipt of an e-mail.
The phone sat on top of an old oak dresser in the main living area of the tiny miner’s cottage. Two doorways led off the living area: the peeling front door that opened directly onto the street; a curtained doorway at the rear that led into a small kitchenette. A ramshackle staircase led from the living area to the basic bathroom and bedroom large enough for a single bed and slim wardrobe.
Aside from the dresser, the only other furniture in the downstairs living area was a threadbare two-seater settee, a basic television stand and, upon it, an incongruous, state-of-the-art 36-inch plasma television.
Peter Ronstadt, who occupied the sagging settee, could afford something—almost anything—much grander, but the cottage suited him. He had rented it three months previously complete with furniture. The only change he had made was to add the television and satellite box that sat on the lower shelf of the TV stand.
He picked up the remote lying on the settee next to him and switched off the television. He had been enjoying an afternoon quiz show, but forgot about it the moment the phone sounded.
For a few moments he sat where he was. In the silence created by switching off the television, other noises started to intrude: chattering children walking past the window on their way home from school; car engines straining as they climbed the steep hill; the drip drip drip of the kitchen tap; the sizzle and crack of the log fire in the grate opposite the settee.
Peter didn’t leap to his feet to read the e-mail. He knew who it was from—only one person knew his telephone number—and he had a fair idea what it would say. His gaze flickered involuntarily to the ceiling. Above, crammed under his bed, was a battered suitcase. Inside the case, wrapped in an old flannelette shirt, was a silvery canister.
It was already growing dark. The neighbouring houses in the street were larger and more modern than the cottage Peter now occupied. The other cottages that had once also lined the road were long-gone, along with the mining industry that they had serviced. Peter had no idea why his cottage had been allowed to remain, set slightly away from the bigger houses like a disgraced child. He had meant to discover the cottage’s history, to give himself something to do as much as anything, but hadn’t yet got around to it. He didn’t suppose it mattered now.
Soon the other houses would light up as their owners switched on the fairy lights that adorned the Christmas trees standing proudly in front windows and porches, as candle arches were illuminated, as blue and white plastic icicles dangling from eaves and window sills were turned on.
Peter sighed heavily and rose slowly to his feet. He took two or three steps to the dresser, reached for the phone and read the message. A little unsteady on his feet, he stepped back to the settee and sank into it.
He had known this moment would come. He had known, when it came, that he would have to decide. Rather, he had already made the decision, deep inside where his true convictions nestled, but had put off admitting it to himself. He could delay no longer.
“No,” he murmured. Then, a little louder: “No. I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”
He looked down at the phone in his hand and frowned. He deleted Milandra’s message, then turned the phone over. Grunting a little with concentration, he fiddled at the plastic cover with his fingernails until he managed to remove it. Again with a little effort—his fingernails weren’t long enough to easily fit into tight spaces—he prised up the battery and placed it on the settee. Clutching the phone, he rose once more to his feet. This time there was no trace of unsteadiness.
He crossed quickly to the hearth and flung the phone into the flames.
* * * * *
&
nbsp; Troy Bishop had entered the lift and descended to the lobby of the apartment block, powder in pocket, within thirty minutes of receiving Milandra’s message. As he walked out of the lift, he almost collided with the man waiting to get in. It was someone he vaguely recognised: another tenant who lived in one of the cheaper apartments on one of the floors below Bishop’s.
Ordinarily, Bishop would not have favoured him with a second glance. But tonight was different. Bishop stopped outside the lift entrance, blocking the man’s path, and regarded him. The man was in his early thirties. His lower eyelids looked heavy and dark, his expression a little vague. He returned Bishop’s gaze with no sign of interest.
“All right, mate?” Bishop said.
“Hmm? Um, yes, suppose so.” The man tried a smile, but it seemed half-hearted and quickly faded.
Bishop thrust his left hand into his pocket and poked his middle finger into the powder.
“Hey, mate,” he said, withdrawing his hand and holding it, middle finger extended, to the man’s face. “Take a whiff of that. It’s a new talc I just had from my girlfriend. It’s kind of different, you know?” Bishop moved his finger until it was under the man’s nose. He nodded his head and smiled encouragingly.
If the man felt any alarm or unease, nothing showed in his expression. If he wondered why Bishop should be walking around with talc in his pocket, he didn’t express it. If anything, his eyes had grown more hooded and he looked ready to fall asleep where he stood. As though barely aware of his actions, the man inhaled quickly through his nose in a somnambulistic snort.
“Ngh!” he muttered. “Toffee.”
Bishop nodded and grinned. “That’s right, mate. Toffee!” He stepped aside to allow the man to enter the lift and clapped him on the shoulder as he shuffled past. Bishop watched the lift door close, the grin never leaving his face or reaching his eyes.