Reviver: A Novel

by Seth Patrick

  You have to believe people are better than that, Jonah.

  I want to, Annabel. But I don’t think they are. She wondered if his response had been partly aimed at her, if the plan to keep Jonah at arm’s length had worked too well. She thought of the look in his eyes when she’d boasted of using him to see Andreas. The memory made her stomach knot.

  That was the problem. The plan may have worked on Jonah, but it didn’t seem to have worked on her.

  She walked to her car and left.

  26

  He told Never everything. Almost.

  When he’d called Never the day after seeing Sam, Never had clearly been anxious to know what had been going on. He arrived at Jonah’s apartment so soon it was like he’d teleported there, eager for the explanations Jonah had promised.

  Those explanations left out the awkward detail of Daniel Harker’s remnant, of course. If Never knew about that, Jonah feared it would be impossible to stop him from telling Graves or Hugo; at the very least he would put pressure on Jonah to do so. Instead, Jonah said that Annabel had sought his help, hoping Never wouldn’t question the lie.

  Jonah gave him Annabel’s original folder of documents, Never wincing as he went through the photographs from the scene of the inferno.

  ‘Shit,’ Never said. ‘Did they ever unpick which lump of charcoal was which?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yarrow and Peter Welsh – the one Harker called Ginger – were the only two I know they had for sure. They still haven’t gone public, even now, so maybe they haven’t sorted it out yet. I can’t help but think of their friends and family. Hannerman had a sister. He was her only living relative, and he died like that. In agony. In disgrace.’

  Jonah told him about Vernet and about Eldridge; abridged versions, glossing over the deep fear that had nestled in the pit of Jonah’s stomach at the time. Something long dead. Something not human.

  Finally, he reached Andreas and Sam, seeing Never’s face fall as Jonah told him the truth that the ghost story was intended to distract from.

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Never, and beer was duly provided.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jonah asked.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been kept quiet so long.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘You want me to say how outraged I am? Well, damn yes. Of course I am. But face it – are you surprised the military would do shit like this? That they’d plumb every depth possible, in the blink of an eye? There’s a saying that for good people to do evil things, it takes religion. But I reckon national security does the job just as well.’

  ‘Not just the military, Never. If this idea was out there, don’t you think the FRS would be under pressure to use it?’

  ‘You don’t really think that’s possible, though? Do you?’

  ‘From what I read, it didn’t even sound difficult. I think most revivers could do it. And there’s bound to be someone who thinks it’s a great idea.’

  ‘Jonah, there’ll always be fuckwits with terrible plans, but I can’t believe it’d be tolerated.’

  They sat and drank their beers in silence for several minutes, Never finally breaking it.

  ‘You know what else I can’t believe? Annabel Harker. I mean, Annabel Harker?’ He paused, looking at Jonah.

  Jonah stared back, thinking his lie – about Annabel having come to him – had failed to convince; that he would have no option but to reveal the truth about Daniel’s remnant. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is that even legal?’

  Jonah closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, Never. It’s not like that.’

  ‘A little out of your comfort zone, but that’s not a bad thing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She likes you. I can tell, because she spoke to you more than once. Well, that’s the rule I’ve always gone by.’ He grinned, then dropped it when he saw Jonah’s expression. ‘OK, sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.’

  ‘But what about Sam, Never? Aren’t you angry with him?’

  ‘Sam’s a good man,’ Never said, soft but serious. Jonah tilted his head, about to interrupt, but Never held up his hand. ‘Hear me out. Sam’s a good man. You know it. Things were different back then. Some of what he did was for good reasons. And the rest? He’s ashamed of it. You can’t ask any more of him, Jonah.’

  Jonah hung his head. What good were heroes if you couldn’t look up to them?

  * * *

  With Friday’s symposium only a few days away. Jonah struggled more and more with the talk he was due to present, unsure if he could go ahead with it. Respect for the dead. He was going to stand before an audience and tell them that for a reviver, respecting the subject was paramount. Whatever your feelings for the subject, and for what they may have done, the subject had to have the benefit of the doubt. Those who claimed that an aggressive revival worked were just wrong. He had collected figures that helped demonstrate his point.

  Aggression. Disdain. These made revivals less successful.

  Honesty. Respect. These made revivals more successful.

  Jonah hadn’t found any cases where aggressive revival had led to a result he thought couldn’t have been achieved or exceeded with a respectful approach.

  Aggressive revival didn’t work. That was what he would stand up and say.

  What a joke.

  No, he told himself. The figures were genuine. It was a worthy hope that people like Shepperton would see the numbers and change their methods. Aggression was inferior.

  If aggression was as far as it went.

  But take it further, like Kendrick, and you discover that there comes a point where respectful questioning cannot compete. That you can rip the truth from the heart of your subject, regardless of the morality. But it takes more than aggression. It takes terror.

  Respect on one side. Terror on the other. And he had used them both.

  So, he chipped away at the task at hand, improving the speech without enthusiasm.

  Jonah’s interim appraisals by Jennifer Early had come and gone. It wouldn’t be until after his next session with Stephanie Graves that he could be given any idea of when he’d be allowed to revive again, and that session was over a week away. There had been no hint of intrusion from Daniel Harker since he had helped spot Xavier Vernet’s name, and Jonah was still putting off taking the rest of the pills Graves had given him. He was beginning to think Harker was gone for good, and that there would be no need to take them at all.

  He still carried them with him, just in case.

  * * *

  By the time Friday arrived, Jonah woke with the level of confidence he’d been expecting; he felt sick with anxiety. He got ready, the nausea persisting, then stood on the street outside his apartment building waiting for Never to give him a ride, holding the folder that contained the notes for his talk.

  ‘All set?’ Never asked as Jonah shut the car door.

  ‘All set,’ said Jonah, and that was the full extent of their conversation until they arrived at the conference venue, Jonah reading over his notes and trying to decide if he was really able to do this.

  They parked, then headed around to the main entrance, through the security checks and into the hotel foyer. It was early, another forty minutes before the opening address, but the foyer was already filling up and a dozen or so huddles of people had formed. Jonah looked around. Revivers abounded in the hotel, many he recognized, some he knew. Almost all were forensic revivers, but there were a handful of renowned private revivers as well. His mind went back to Tess, oozing money and amused by Jonah’s indifference to it. He wondered where she was now, then tried to push thoughts of her out of his head, still unsure how he felt about the way things had gone.

  ‘Do you people have permission to be here?’ said a stern voice. Jonah looked to his right to see Ray Johnson smiling at them.

  ‘Detective Johnson,’ said Never, grinning. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Here to sit and listen, then eat the buffet lunch. Bob was asked to send a representative, and
he picked me. I think they want us to give a talk next year and Bob’s wanting me to do it rather than him. There’s an officer from NYC doing one today. I’m going to pick her brains and see if she’s as cute as I’ve heard.’

  ‘The perils of making the news, I guess,’ said Never. ‘For a moment I thought they’d drafted you in as extra security.’

  Johnson looked around and shrugged. ‘Happy to be a civilian for the day. Besides, they have enough without me. Not just hired staff, either. Plenty of officers on duty, if you look. But I’ll see you guys later. I have a cop to charm.’

  As Ray Johnson left them to it, Jonah looked around. The thick-necked private security guards were all he could see, but he took Johnson’s word for it.

  A few people waved to him; Jonah nodded back as he and Never joined the short line at the registration desk.

  While Never finished signing in, Jonah read over the schedule for the day. The various talks were split across three function rooms; the smallest of the three was upstairs, his own talk scheduled there for 11 a.m. Seeing it in ink flooded him with anxiety.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Never.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Once it’s over I’ll buy you a drink.’

  He couldn’t suppress the thought of beer slopping around in his stomach. ‘Not helping.’

  ‘Sorry. But I do plan on getting you royally drunk this evening, one way or another.’

  A shout of ‘Geary!’ from across the foyer caught their attention. It was J. J. Metah and the rest of the FRS team who were attending – Pru Dryden and Jason Shepperton the reviver contingent, J. J. being the other tech representative. Jonah and Never headed over.

  ‘Good luck with the presentation, Jonah,’ Pru said. ‘It was my turn last year.’

  ‘You lot up for drinks later?’ asked Never.

  ‘Can’t,’ said Pru. ‘My mom’s babysitting Elsa, I promised I’d get back. But I’d put money on these two being up for it.’

  Shepperton laughed. ‘Face it, listening to talks the whole day will make us all want a drink.’

  ‘Uh, actually,’ said Jonah, ‘can everyone just skip mine? I’m really nervous, it’d be a big help.’ And I couldn’t do it if Jason was in the audience.

  As they all promised to steer clear, Jonah heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Morning,’ said Sam.

  Jonah turned, unable to keep the discomfort he still felt off his face.

  ‘Jonah,’ Sam said. ‘I wondered if you and I could –’

  Jonah turned away from Sam and spoke to the others. ‘I’m going to go and read over my notes,’ he said, striding off without looking back.

  * * *

  Jonah stood alone outside the main hall doors as the time for Sam’s opening address approached. He snatched glimpses of Sam preparing at the lectern and chatting to Never and the others, who’d all taken seats at the front. The thought of doing his own presentation was nothing compared with how he felt watching Sam now, wondering if things between them would ever be repaired. With the address about to start, the hall doors were closed. Jonah stood where he was for a few minutes, before setting off upstairs on his own.

  As he climbed the stairs, he found himself scanning faces in the still-busy foyer below. It felt like he was looking for something specific, and the feeling baffled him. The security guards were a constant presence, low-key but unmistakable, their practised eyes looking everywhere without seeming to. Checking for trouble, Jonah acknowledged. Maybe that was what he’d been doing too.

  The hall upstairs was a third of the size of the main hall. Jonah sat through the talk before his own, to get used to the room. He paid little attention to what was being said, looking over his own notes and trying to focus.

  All too soon, the talk finished, most of the audience filing out. He took his place at the lectern up front, arranged his notes, and was taken through some sound checks. Then all he could do was wait.

  With five minutes to go, and the audience growing, Never appeared at the door and walked over to him.

  ‘I know it’s against orders,’ said Never, ‘but I wanted to wish you luck.’

  Jonah smiled. ‘Thanks. You still have to get out of here, though.’

  The grin that appeared on Never’s face was wide and welcome, the only thing so far that had made Jonah feel in any way better about the prospect. ‘Fucking off now,’ said Never. ‘Come find me when you’re done, right?’

  Jonah nodded. One of the organizers prompted him that it was almost time. He shooed Never towards the exit, grin and all, and as the door shut behind his friend the lights dimmed. Jonah took a sip from the glass of water left out for him, his mouth suddenly dry with fear.

  Too late to back out.

  * * *

  ‘My name is Jonah Miller,’ he said. Uneasy; halting. Hell, he’d been reading that, reading his own name, and still his voice was cracking. The hall was half full, the audience spread out across the seats with the front row empty. He knew that if he’d been in that audience, right now he’d have started to feel uncomfortable on behalf of the poor bastard choking in front of them all. He took another drink and leaned closer to the mike. ‘When I…’ Too close. Too loud. Feedback howled. He took another drink and a long breath. He cleared his throat. He felt a wave of nausea. Worse than before a revival, he thought. ‘When I started in forensic revival seven years ago, I knew I’d found something that I was good at. Something that made a difference. I saw the effect a well-handled, respectful revival had on the family of the subject; I saw the results it had for the investigation.’ He paused again, another breath, another drink. His eyes locked onto his notes and stayed there, not wanting to look up. ‘Respect should always be a priority. For the private reviver, that’s what their job is. For the rest of us, it’s what we should aspire to.’

  He turned a page and reached for his glass, surprised to find it empty. He refilled the glass from the jug next to it, eyes locked on the task, avoiding seeing past to the restless audience. His hand was shaky enough to spill some water over his notes. He wiped it off. ‘But there are those who take a different approach and say it works. Sometimes we all feel that way. Many of us have revived a subject suspected of terrible things. A father in a murder-suicide. A drunk driver wiping out a family.’ Another drink. He coughed, regretting the reference to Pritchard. He couldn’t stop the image of the two-year-old boy with half a face from coming to him; the sound of Pritchard screaming in his mind.

  He took another drink and realized he’d finished the glass again.

  Realized how thirsty he felt.

  Why was he so desperate not to look up? His heart was loud in his ear; adrenaline was magnifying the nausea. He breathed slowly and made himself look.

  At the back of the bright hall was an incongruous patch of deep shadow. Daniel Harker was standing in it.

  Jonah snapped his eyes down and tried to find his place again. ‘Many of us have … and…’ Where is it? ‘And … and we’ve treated them with contempt. It may have felt just, but we all need to recognize something…’

  He looked up again. The shadow had moved across the back of the hall towards the doors. As he watched, Harker raised one arm, pointing to the exit.

  Jonah coughed. He went to refill the glass again, but his hands were trembling too much.

  ‘We need to recognize…’ Jonah closed his eyes, wanting to be anywhere but there. He looked up. Harker was at the door now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the audience. He stepped down from the lectern and strode to the back of the hall, murmurs from the audience growing as he went, his face reddening. He felt the beginnings of panic but managed to hold on. Ahead, Harker had gone.

  He burst through the hall exit into the corridor outside and walked to the balcony overlooking the busy foyer. A cool breeze hit him. He stopped, leaning on the metal railing, watching the crowd below.

  Jonah closed his eyes, the fresh air just what he needed. He breathed deep, waiting for the panic to subside.

&nbs
p; And as it did, and Jonah found himself able to think again, one question struck him.

  What did Harker want?

  He opened his eyes and found himself scanning faces once more, not knowing why he was doing it. Then he saw, in shadow at the far corner, Daniel Harker standing with his head bowed.

  Harker’s arm raised slowly. The hand was bloated, skin sloughed away. He was pointing into the drifting mass of people in the foyer.

  Jonah stared at Harker and followed the line of the arm. He couldn’t see. ‘What, Daniel?’

  And then:

  A face. Short beard, gaunt. Glasses. Hair extremely short. Black shirt and black jeans. Press pass pinned to the shirt. The man was unrecognizable, at least from the photographs the police had used, even though Harker’s description during the revival had made it clear how much thinner the man had become. Jonah, though, knew that gaunt face. Knew it from Daniel Harker’s memories.

  Felix Hannerman. Alive. Here.

  How he was alive was a question for later. Why he was here, that was far more important. They suspected this was a target, he thought. It still is.

  His mind whirled with adrenaline. Should he follow? He had good sight of him now. If Hannerman moved, he might lose him as he descended the stairs. He took his phone and dialled. No signal.

  Jonah watched Hannerman, whose eyes were scanning the crowd with a hungry expectation. A desperation, almost. He’s planning something.

  Then Hannerman stopped looking around and started moving with purpose, Jonah unable to tell what it was Hannerman had seen.

  Jonah hesitated, then knew he had to follow. Down through an enclosed stairwell, emerging into the crowded foyer, trying to look calm, trying to spot Hannerman again. He couldn’t see him.

  ‘Shit.’ He looked around, then jumped as Harker was there again at the far wall, pointing from shadows. Jonah walked in the direction Harker was indicating. He moved faster with each step, knowing he couldn’t risk breaking into a run.

  Round past the reception. A glass corridor leading to a walled garden area at the back of the hotel, a scattering of people walking along it. Hannerman was just entering. Ahead of Hannerman, Jonah saw Sam with Jason Shepperton and Pru Dryden, strolling in the same direction halfway down the corridor.