The Cairo Pulse

by B. B. Kindred

  Since the return, it seemed like all my senses were turned up. Things so familiar they’d barely attracted notice cracked like flags in the wind; the creak of a floorboard in the upstairs hallway, the jostling masses hunting outside the house, the smell of soap and clean washing, ripe peaches, cupboard spices, waxed wood on fingertips, tingling skin, an icy breeze from the open fridge. The clamouring, clattering workings of my own brain as it searched for the elusive purpose. I’d intermittently spy on the multitude through a crack in the curtains from my bedroom, praying for them to be engulfed by mist and drizzle. They all had the same look, the same way of moving; a cold and predatory demeanour that was a cross between Bentley and a pack of hyenas. I’d periodically imagine ways of tormenting them, like hose pipes and flashing lights, or twenty-four-hour blaring rock music just so they could get a flavour of invasion. Bitterness, confusion and nausea were an exhausting cocktail and I flopped on the bed in defeat.

  It was late in the afternoon when I woke to find Gizmo lying next to me, which she was prone to do at times of stress. “What’s up?” I said.

  “What do you think happened to Gabriel, Cairo?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’d never seen Gizmo respond to a man the way she responded to Gabriel. She’d been seriously screwed up at the hands of a brutal father, but Gabriel seemed to soothe her.

  “Do you think they have him?”

  “Why would they? How would they know he was the centre of it all?” Or did they? How could they?

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe he’s lost in the system.” Gizmo said. “You know, like a file that disappears in the computer. Just not any system we understand, maybe that’s why people think they’ve seen him. Or like a crash, a hardware exception that can’t be handled, or loss of internal self-consistency.”

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. After an invitation, Joe walked cautiously in and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve remembered.” He said.

  “What is it?”

  “When he was a little boy, he used to know things about people.”

  Joe had the same hands as Gabriel, the same smile, the same frown of concentration.

  “What do you mean, know things?”

  “He knew where people had been, what they’d been doing, even what they’d been thinking, things he couldn’t have known. Me and his mam used to make a joke of it, but it gave folk the collywobbles. It stopped after she died. I asked him about it once, he’d be about six, asked him how he knew those things. He said the Monkey God told him.”

  Like when we were in Pop’s Deli and he told me about being in Arlo’s memory. Could the capacity be something lost and found, could it relate to all the unusual activity in his brain?

  I patted Joe’s arm. “I guess he’s always been special, then. Do you know what he meant by the Monkey God?”

  “No. Just put it down to imagination, you know what kids are like. Now I wish I’d paid more mind to it.”

  “We’re all wise in retrospect, Joe, me included. Tell me anything that comes to you, doesn’t matter how daft it seems.”

  He clasped his hands together. “I was wondering. Only I am here, aren’t I? I feel a fool saying it. I mean, if things were like before the beach, I wouldn’t know, would I? Even if I asked you, I might just make your answer up.”

  I put my hand over his. “You’re here, Joe. It’s all real. I promise.”

  Vikram arrived with a tray of tea and joined the impromptu sleepover.

  Joe pointed at him. “You used to be Indian.”

  “Indeed, I did, Joe.” He flipped into Vik mode. “I like to think I can become the best of both of us, Mr Joe.”

  I wondered what might happen to Vikram now. The fair-weather friends and colleagues who’d disappeared like flies in winter might be more amenable to his presence now he was Vikram again. He hadn’t mentioned his family yet, occasional, uncomfortable visitors who stayed for their brief ordeal before beating a hasty retreat. And Joe, we were all he had now. Might there be others who cared? I knew so little about him, about Gabriel. I shuddered at the thought of a small child who could see things that must have been incomprehensible.

  “We need to get out of here.” I said. “We’ll never get shot of the media, the powers that be will be back, probably with a group trauma counsellor and the shit could hit the fan if we trip ourselves up. Whichever way you slice it, we’re in trouble. We need to know if they’ve got Gabriel, or work out what happened, or see if we can find him. And we need to fathom what they’ve got. Gizmo, can you do the honours?”

  Gizmo, being wired into the world of hackers and technical genii, knew all manner of people who could arrange anything, anytime, anywhere.

  “No problem.” She said. “But how do we get past the dregs at the front door?”

  “Don’t worry, I have a plan. Realistically, we can only take our laptops and the headset.”

  “What do we need the headset for?”

  “I don’t know, but it was part of what happened, so we might need it. We’ll have to trash anything we leave, sorry. Vik, you’ll have to stay and hold the fort. Joe, we need your help. It’s not what you’d want, but I can’t see any other way. Stick to the amnesia story, no matter what. We’ll need transport – Gizmo, the lane by Palfrey’s farm after dark.”

  I’d never seen Gizmo cry before, but she cried after she ran back from the lab with my favourite broad-brimmed straw hat pulled down over her eyes; a zig-zagging mercenary trying to avoid enemy flash guns. “It’s all gone. The headset, everything.”

  Locating a tissue, I handed it to her. “Who do you think it was?” She said. “They knew what they wanted. Do you think it was the government – MI5 or whoever handles this kind of thing?”

  “Could be. More likely one of the big pharmaceuticals, they were chasing Gabriel before… When the cat’s away. You know, I actually hope it was, they’ll have different motivations that shouldn’t be a trouble to us just now.”

  “When I find out who it was, I’m going to take every bit of information they’ve got and put it through a virtual shredder. And I can do it.” She blew her nose, then smirked. “Is it still there?”

  “Yes, it’s still there.”

  We never stored any files that mattered in the lab, but routinely kept them on one of Gizmo’s super hard drives. It being silver and the bread bin stainless steel and roughly the same size, we’d simply placed it beneath. The best place to hide anything is in plain sight.

  “Come on, we’ll get it sorted. Let’s eat. I have a hankering for cheese. We need to be out of here at eleven p.m. precisely.”

  Tabitha Shore had once more come up trumps. The ambulance arrived at ten fifty-five, dancing up the lane with all sirens blazing. The reporters parted like the dead sea as it rumbled to the entrance of the house and two men got out, warning the panting hyenas not to step any further.

  Hiding behind the door as I opened it, a battery of flashes lit up the porch. “You know what to do.” I said. They retrieved a wheelchair from the back of the van and brought it into the house. As they took Joe out covered in a red blanket, I squeezed his hand. “You remember anything else, just tell Vik and he’ll tell us.” Then I said my goodbyes to Vikram.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “Vikram Joshi has one of the finest legal minds in the country. I’ll run rings around them.”

  We sneaked out the back way. It was pitch black without the outside lights on, but we were aided by the gadget-loving Gizmo’s infrared goggles. We made it down to the lane that led to Palfrey’s farm, where a shadowy MPV was waiting. Gizmo found the keys tucked inside the front left wheel as instructed. I had to yank her from the boot space as she became increasingly engrossed in the equipment that had been stashed there. We climbed inside and crawled away, wobbling like jellies on the cobbles. Aided only by the night vision set, we slunk up and down a series of
unlit, former cart tracks familiar only to locals. It took us two and a half hours to travel twenty miles to the moors above the Calder Valley near Halifax. We found the safe house nestling in a deep hollow, a few yards in any direction and it disappeared. The exterior was a seriously run-down version of my own home, periodically used by hackers of Gizmo’s acquaintance when they needed to lay low. She rolled her eyes in the most condescending manner when I asked if it had internet.

  We emerged from the car like sailors looking for our land legs, peering down at the fairy tale lights of Hebden Bridge that shimmered in the valley below. The moors were littered with ancient villages that settled like fluff in the Pennine belly buttons. Most had become commuter havens, their dilapidated mills and stone houses transformed and enhanced, centres crammed with independent outlets, their industrial canals and winding rivers, weekend leisure pursuits. Amongst these, the delightful Hebden Bridge had become the go to place for all things organic, bespoke and right on.

  “Lesbian capital of the north.” Gizmo said. “Oh, what fun. But I guess I won’t be taking advantage on this occasion.”

  Once inside, it was clear that the appearance of dereliction without disguised the ultra-hip accommodation within. The proverbial clean, modern lines were a little too clean and modern for my tastes, but I wasn’t there to assess the décor, just glad I hadn’t landed anywhere manky and dilapidated. Gizmo made for the tech space which she described as ‘reasonable’, which in Gizmo lingo meant fantastic. She couldn’t resist it, of course and it was the last word I got out of her.

  I lay down to sleep between the cool sheets of a king-sized bed, grateful that the person who’d chose them, like me, preferred creased cotton to smooth polyester. I entertained pathetic fantasies about Gabriel sharing the creased cotton with me, or holding my hand as we strode across the windswept moor, or exchanging romantic presents at Christmas, surrounded by glitter and tinsel. Really, I knew it from the moment I set eyes on him at the hospital, just as he’d known it, too, but it was the sort of knowing you only see in retrospect, a fateful intertwining of something greater than yourself. Now, it seemed I was destined to wallow in the fancy of might have been like a heartbroken teenager. My sleep was tormented by dreams that weaved upon the waking fantasies until the grey dawn signalled I should give in and get up.

  Gizmo, surrounded by islands of empty plates and cups, gleamed with achievement.

  “Have you slept at all?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Right, I’ve created back channels for Vik and Tabitha and for all our emails, just in case anything of interest comes through, no-one will be able to see them. I’ve downloaded anything I can find that might be of relevance, you’ll have to do a lot of scouring. There’s plenty of food in if you want anything. All your favourites. Absolutely no phone calls under any circumstances.” She pointed backwards to a computer on the opposite side. “You can use that one. I’m going for a kip, then here be serious hacking.”

  I looked through the downloads until my eyes bled. There was plenty of information and footage about the storm, its nature and the havoc it had wreaked, but none of it was any help. Even if we could have understood how and why it happened, it didn’t necessarily mean it would be useful. There were a few lunatic fringe theories about Gabriel being a terrorist or hoaxer or alien, but the numbers of people speculating he was the new Messiah were increasing by the minute. I sifted through more accounts of people who’d claimed to have seen him. I couldn’t put my finger on what they reminded me of.

  Gizmo reappeared and handed me a bacon muffin. “Eat, drink and be merry, for this afternoon we hack.”

  *

  Gizmo’s work was usually punctuated by creative use of expletives and insults. About two hours in, the manifestation of prolonged silence unnerved me. Turning my chair around, I said. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Face me and tell me what it is.”

  She spun slowly, not meeting my eyes.

  “What is it, Gizmo?”

  “I hacked the records from the hospital. There’s no easy way to say this, Cairo.”

  I tried to prepare myself; confirmation of Gabriel’s death or confirmation that they had him. “Then just bloody well say it.”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “What?”

  The irony of the pregnant pause. I was relieved for a moment, on account of the puking which I’d put down to anxiety, but nursed nagging doubts about radiation or electro-magnetic bursts, nevertheless. Then fear followed by disbelief, then I knew it was true. Then a series of images that related to cigarettes and wine and junk food and God knows what else. By the time my thoughts had finished running away with me, I was largely a vessel for toxic waste. She followed my hands as they fell over my abdomen.

  “But he was infertile, Gizmo.”

  “I presume you’re talking about Gabriel.”

  I offered the same withering look she’d presented to me when I asked about the internet connection. “Okay,” I said, “I guess low sperm count doesn’t mean no sperm count. How pregnant am I?”

  “Just over three months.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, I mean anyone. There are a million reasons why.”

  “Look where we are, who would I tell?”

  It wasn’t easy to get my head around the fact that, technically speaking, I’d become three months pregnant in five days. But it did put an end to paranoid thoughts like I’d volunteered for a weird false memory experiment, or I was delusional and in the psych ward.

  Gizmo winked. “Bet he was like a tramp into a meat pie, wasn’t he?”

  We both laughed, then I cried for a minute and blew my nose. It was no time to come over all girly.

  *

  Two significant communications came through while Gizmo continued the web plunder. The first one was from Vikram.

  My lovely friends, how are you? Quite interesting here. Joe was returned after a plausible interval. Speculation about his condition is, of course, rife. Things were quiet overnight, but come the morning, the authorities arrived and were a little taken aback by your absence. They saw the ambulance affair on the news, it’s only a matter of time until they find out Joe never actually went to the hospital, I trust the path leading to the culprit is untraceable. Fear not, we stuck to our amnesia guns, quite frankly, they were more concerned about your disappearance than anything Joe or I had to say. Joe does a convincing mild dementia, which is quite remarkable considering he doesn’t remember what he was like when he had it. And I, of course, am expected to be one sandwich short of a picnic, which confuses them when I’m not, but it’s entirely plausible that trauma could have returned my memory. We told them that you went out early this morning and hadn’t yet returned, but we’d keep them posted. They were not amused and will probably put two and two together soon enough, just not as soon as you or I might. I hinted at my knowledge regarding the legal aspects of our situation, which I believe was unsettling enough to keep them off our backs, but I’m expecting bigger fish. Keep an eye out for them trying to section us, will you? I don’t want to go through all that again. Reporters still camped outside, their numbers swollen by all manner of humanity with banners about Gabriel being a messenger from God, the second or third or fourth coming, whatever, people in robes, people in wheelchairs, people who look like they haven’t washed their hair for several years. I suppose that makes us the disciples. I’ve never experienced a siege before, they’re talking about moving us to a safe house. Look at the media if you want to see it. They’re calling it the Mancepiphany, seems there’s been an outbreak of goodwill among the population. Will do my best to keep in touch. Love, Vikram.

  The second communication was from Tabitha.

  In truth, I question the wisdom of my actions, but choose to trust you in this matter, do please let me know that you are okay. I knew you were holding back. Seeing you trapped in that terrible
event had me reliving the partial seizures you experienced after the accident – what is epilepsy but a kind of electro-magnetic storm in the brain? It was like witnessing an outer manifestation of events that usually happen on the inside. Interesting that the term brainstorm is in common use. You always said there was a particular smell before you had a seizure and we eventually worked out it was privet flower, do you remember? Funny, skinny little girl you were. After you regained consciousness, you used to say you’d heard and experienced all kinds of things, not unusual in such cases, of course. You once said you’d met the Angel Gabriel. I thought I should let you know, even though it’s probably coincidental. It’s just that you’ve always seemed to have strange knowledge. All my years as a neurologist have taught me that there are more things in heaven and earth etcetera.

  You seem to be getting into the habit of making trouble for me, but as you’ve never done it before, not even in adolescence, I’ll forgive you. Please return as soon as possible.

  Love, Mum.

  “Turn around, Cairo.”

  I set my chair to face Gizmo, biting my lip. “What now?”

  “They haven’t got him – Gabriel, I mean. They haven’t got him.”

  I felt high with relief before I realised what it might mean.

  “They think it might be a weapon.”

  “What?”

  “The electro-magnetic storm. They think we might have unwittingly created a weapon. In the circumstances, they don’t think we did it deliberately, but they’re concerned about the implications. Boy, they’re really not going to be happy about us disappearing.”

  “Maybe they did take all the gear, then.”

  “This is serious. They’re going to be looking for us. Oh, that headset was a work of art, the fuckers.”

  The headset, of course. “I knew it was familiar, it’s the sensed presence experience. That’s what all these people are reporting. It’s the same thing we created in the lab with the pulses, they even use the same language to describe it. That’s why people are saying Gabriel’s a Messiah. It could be a message, the only way he could let us know he’s still – around and to tell us that’s how we find him.”