by Adam Roberts
‘No thank you,’ I said, and went back to my car.
For a long time I sat behind the wheel and stared ahead. A sense of doom was corroding the edge of my wellbeing. Frustration. But it existed. I’d hardly hallucinated the entire Institute. Quite apart from anything else, the car I was sitting in was proof of that. So, one more time, I started the motor and drove out of the village, and cruised the roads. Ten minutes turned into twenty. The songs being played by the radio became sarcastic in tone. ‘Up the Junction’, ‘Superstition’, ‘Stairway to Heaven’. As the opening strums of ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ came on I punched the radio off – and at that very moment I drove past a tree I recognised.
I stopped the car, laid my arm along the top of the passenger seat and looked over the ledge of it as I reversed. Definitely a familiar tree. A narrow roadway, discreetly hidden by two giant labia-like hedgerows. That was familiar too. I turned up the way. In two minutes I was arriving at the gates to the Institute, with a childlike buzz inside my chest, relief compounded with excitement.
The gates were closed. The layout was such that I had to get out of the car in order to press the intercom and so gain ingress.
No dice.
Bzzcht. ‘Hi: this is Charles Gardner. Could you let me in please?’
Static.
‘Hello?’
Crchzzt. ‘No entry, mate. Buzz off.’
‘What?’
‘Burze off.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I said, in my surprise. ‘Let me in please. I’m, eh, affiliated with the Institute. I’m Charles Gardner.’
‘I’ve got your name here, pal. It’s on a no entry list. You’re not getting in. I’m sending one of my guys to the gate now, and I should warn you for your own’ – shzzcht – ‘that our security guards are licensed by special’ – fzzzcht – ‘to carry firearms. Get in your car and drive away, would be my advice.’
I stood for a moment. I could say it took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I grasped instantly what was happening. Kos, on her own initiative or else taking orders from Peter, was freezing me out. A ridiculous rabbit-like panic gripped me. I wouldn’t see Irma! And then, almost at once, I felt rage. They had used me: a monkey’s paw to get to Roy. He told them it had to be me, and he wouldn’t budge; so they’d reeled me in, given me just enough to get me onside, used me, and now they were discarding me. I kicked the door.
‘Let me in!’ I yelled.
‘It’s on camera, pal,’ said the voice on the other end of the intercom. ‘We will prosecute criminal damage.’
I kicked the door again. ‘I demand to speak to Kostritsky!’
‘Word to the wise,’ said the voice. ‘That ain’t going to happen. They want you out of the way. You think they wouldn’t prefer you in prison? I’d say they would. They’ – fzzk – ‘contacts in the highest strata of law enforce’ – skrzz – ‘and security services. You want to give them an excuse to prosecute you? Go ahead. It’s all recorded’ – zzhsch – ‘camera, and the police will be here in minutes. If I were you I’d get going.’
I stood there. My rage drained through me, departing who knows where. Into the earth, perhaps. It was hopeless. But I couldn’t just give up!
‘I’m coming in,’ I told the intercom. ‘I want to talk to Kostritsky.’
And the voice replied: ‘No.’ The barest essence of negation.
I took three steps back and ran at the gate. Though it had been decades since I’d done anything more athletic than lug dustbins about, I nonetheless managed to get my hands to the top. And as I strained my arms to pull myself higher, the faceless voice at the far end of the intercom – I assume it was him – flicked the switch on the electrified strip that must have been embedded there. My palms took the shock directly, painfully, on their meat. My muscles – all of them seized. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground, hugging myself, my left ankle throbbing. It took some considerable willpower to get up and climb back into the car.
It was lucky the car was an automatic, because my left foot was too sore to pivot. Pranged the ankle falling from the gateway. The pain did not help mollify my rage. I drove slowly back down the lane, and then through the village, and towards the motorway. All the time I was thinking: three fucks. Not even proper fucks, three half fucks. Eight hundred quid, a car and three measly shags, and they had fooled me into doing their dirty work. And now I would never see Irma again.
As the M4 junction approached I saw a giant shoebox chain hotel, part of the Way Inn franchise. I was in no condition to drive, so I decided to check in. I slouched like a wounded soldier from the car park and into reception, booked myself a room – my cash caused the receptionist to raise one charcoal eyebrow, but she took my money. I asked for some ice to be sent up to my room. Then I rode the elevator to my floor staring, aghast, at the broken tramp-like figure hunched in the wall-high mirror inside the compartment. What could a woman as beautiful as Irma ever have seen in me? Why would she ever have slept with me, except that she had been instructed to?
In my room I sat on the bed to rest my throbbing ankle, and stared at the blank TV screen opposite. Ice was delivered and I wrapped a clutch of cubes in a towel and applied it. What was I going to do? It was not acceptable that I be denied entrance. I would not stand for it. They had made promises. They had made a commitment to me. They could not simply toss me aside.
Irma.
I needed to think strategically. No good just turning up at the gate again. I needed to find a way of contacting them and applying pressure. I could threaten to go public – tell the press, post what I knew online. Even as I thought this, I could see their reaction (sure, go ahead, nobody cares, nobody will believe you). Or should I beg? Plead? Promise them something? They needed me, in order to be able to liaise with Roy! They would shrug. My self-esteem crumbled further: I would promise them anything. I would say that there were things about my encounter in Antarctica that they didn’t know and needed to know, stuff I’d kept to myself. Stuff I would have to make up, of course, from whole cloth; but which might be enough to get me through the gates again.
I ordered a packet of Nurofen from room service, and took two. Then, with an inward squelch of self-disgust, I snaffled two tiny whisky bottles from the minibar and drank them both straight down.
I dozed.
Then: the strangest part of the whole experience.
When I woke it was dusk. The sound of the motorway was faintly audible, like a distant Niagara. I was chilly. My ankle gave a tweak of pain, and I reached out to it to – I don’t know, rub it, clasp it, something – and there was the ghost-boy.
I hadn’t seen him for months: in his rags and his near-skeleton frame and his egg-nog-pale skin and the scarred half of his face. Not since my dentist trip, in fact. But this wasn’t a dream. This was real. He was standing only feet from me. He was looking right at me. It was dim in the room, but there was no mistaking what I could see.
My heart paced with glolloping repeated convulsions. I breathed hard. My breath was visible, like ectoplasm.
Very slowly, as if fearful of scaring the lad away, I swung my legs, one good, one bad, over the side of the bed. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Look,’ I said.
I don’t know why I said those two words.
The boy was looking right at me. My hand was on the bedside light switch, and I turned it on.
It wasn’t the ghost-boy. It was Roy, standing in front of me. He was maybe three inches taller than the boy – not that big a difference, really – and dressed not in rags but in the clothes I had seen him in the day before. But there was no confusing the two. What I mean is: I didn’t mistake Roy, in the murky quarter-light, for the ghost-boy. I definitely saw the ghost-boy. And he definitely changed into Roy when I turned on the light.
‘Jesus crap,’ I shrilled, actually startled by the abruptness of the transition.
Roy smiled his weird reptilian smile. His left sleeve was tie-dyed black a
t the cuff. He put a finger to his lips.
I stood up, quickly, and my ankle squeaked and jagged and complained. But at least now my head was higher than his. ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘Creeping in here. How did you get here and how did you get in here?’
He was real. It didn’t occur me to me to think he might be a hallucination or a dream-state confusion. He was as real as Marley’s ghost.
‘Oh but they’re squeamish,’ he said, and I knew at once he was talking about the Institute. ‘A different set of people would have just killed you, you know. They’re squeamish, or cautious – or maybe they think they’ll need you again. I don’t know. Maybe they think I’ll demand to see you again. That’s a distinct possibility, in their minds I mean. They may think they’re holding you in reserve, and if they do need you they can use their previous bait to reel you back in. Woman, was it?’
‘Christ’s sake, Roy. They let you out of Broadmoor? Did the Institute wangle that? How did you know I was even here?’
He lifted his finger to his lips again. ‘It’s a bit,’ he said, and looked to the side. ‘Chaotic over there, right now.’ He looked at me again. Hindsight tells me he was debating with himself whether to kill me, or to leave me well alone. Still, he was an Englishman, and the nature of our national character is compromise.
There was sharp, horrid pain in my leg. I staggered back, against the bed. A bristle appeared through the fabric of my trousers, and grew suddenly longer. And my whole left side was agonised, as if boiling water were being poured down the hollow tubules of all its nerves, and I slipped, and nearly fell completely, propped by the mattress. My face was, doubtless, a picture. That may have been what Roy was going for, now that I come to think of it: my facial expression.
He was saying something, but I couldn’t really focus on his words, what with the searing pain and my own screams. It may have been ‘for old times’ sake’. Or it may have been something in German. I neither know what he said at that juncture, nor care.
The bristle was a cord, a fishing line, a cable down which pain was being syphoned into my body. It grew longer and longer and then it came free and snaked through the air. I don’t know what happened to it then. Maybe Roy pocketed it, as a kind of souvenir. It was the tendon from my lower left leg, drawn up past the top of my kneecap, yanked in a single smooth motion right out of my body. Finally I fell right over, and lay weeping and screaming on the carpet beside the bed.
Roy had gone.
6
A Solid Gold Penny
Limitation
MY NAME is Thos Firmin. I was born in Somer’s Towne, neare London, &d did live my early years, such as I remamber not by virtue of my infancy, in that place.
WHEEREAS for several years I did labour under the guidance of Mast. John Cornelius tarring Barrells &d aiding the loading of Barrells from the storeroome onto carts, whence I was sold unto Mast. Samuel Newbolt aet. twelve, &d apprenticed to the Lemmon trading. My duties were to handle the Lemmons, casting out such as were rotten, &d painting or smearing the fair with wax made from whal-blubber that they might not fall into corruption. I worked for Mast. Newbolt for three year, whence I lived in the house of goodman Usher Serjent, &d slept in the Kitchen; which pleased me much, for the Stove theerein was alway lit, &d the roome accordingly warme. At the end of my living with Usher Serjent, Mast. Newbolt took me into his own house. But heere I was obliged to sleep in the Outhouse, wheere I was greatly troubled with Rats &d other Crawling things, which Prayer &d Begging to my Lord Jesus in no wise discouraged. At this time I was also poorly used by Censor Morum James Newbolt, being the brother of Mast. Newbolt the Lemmon merchant. He visited his brother variously, &d took to calling on his brother’s house when Mast. Newbolt was elsewheere upon business, wheereupon the maid would admitt him. One time he came even into the Kitchen, wheere I was scrubbing the Pots, &d I was fearful lest his Judge’s Robes be touched with grease. But he sat at Table &d was greatly merry, jesting with me on many scores. Before going he Handled me, &d I was greatly afraid, but he told me not to Care, or Speak of it, for it was below speaking of. Then he called me chuck, &d red-robin, &d give me sixpence, the which frighted me the more, for wheere would I claim to have earned a silver sixpence? I would be thought to have stoln it.
I SPOKE to Mistress Ive, who commanded the lower scullers &d kitchen, but she tushed &d talked grandly of Judge Newbolts wife, a goodly woman, &d his three children, &d wheerefore should he be interested in a lad suchane myself? &d, truthly, I did wonder somewhat as to the event, doubting that my senses did not play me false. For, as I admonished myself, if it were another apprentice who attested such things &d I heard of this, would I believe it of him? &d, not doing so, how do I believe it of myself? Am I so proud as to advance myself in God’s estimation over another?
Mast. Newbolt thought well of me for my waxing of the Lemmons, &d I enjoy’d this work; for the odour of the day was clean upon me, &d I found my skinn, that had prior given out in Rashes, Botches &d suchlike Boils, did improve under the efficacion of Lemmon vapour &d Lemmon-water. But His broth.r, Judge Newbolt, did persuade my master to release me into his servitude, for (claim’d the Judge) he needed a boy with nimble Hands such as mine, to deal with his stitching &d Judicial Gouns, &d as all affirmed I was dextrous indeed with the needell. On the day my mast.r acquainted me with the news of my Removal from him &d my Placement in his brother’s house, I confess I fell to the floor &d wept upon his very shoes, ev’n unto staining the velvet with my water. I cried to my master that I had been happy under Him, &d earnestly requested him to keep me in his Lemmon-service. My Mast.r seemed caught upon an awkwardness, &d handld his Kerchief, &d meerly left the Warehouse without speaking one worde.
I was carried to Judge Newbolt’s house with the Delivery Boy’s cart, for it was in IslingTown, &d it was a Great building, with a wall’d-Garden before &d an Acre of gardens behind, tall as a Castle. My lodgings were up with the sparrows, &d the white-spatter’d roof-tyles, in a roome by myself. When I first came inn, &d was shewn my Roome &d afterwards the Kitchen, the maid-of-works spoke angry to me, of how surprizing a Thing it was to see a mere Stitching-Boy obtain a roome of his own; but I own’d to being frighten’d &d made to weep upon her bosom. But she, a tall &d bovie maiden, had none of it, &d chided me with my lack of manliness, calling me My Lord’s Bully-boy &d trowser-wife &d many other names beside. This woman was nam’d Anne, &d I had many dealings with her in the months that came upon me. She was hard of countenance, &d spared no kind feelings for me, for (as she said) The Lord hath forsaken you, &d wheerefore should I coddle ye? In the darkest houres of the night, I in truth was perswaded by her wordes, for the light had dwindled so fully that it seemed no more than the furthest starre in heaven, &d I was left shivering on my bed. This Anne had the charge of bringing me food, which she oftentimes ate herself, or sold on, or gave me half-portions. She also had the charge of bringing me my lord Judge’s gouns &d cloaks to be darned, stitched, hemm’d, or otherwise tailor’d. But, divers times she brought me other materials to be stitched, &d I had no place to gainsay the goods she gave me to work upon, for theere was none to hear me. This way, I do believe, I spouted much money direct into mistr.s Anne’s purse, &d she needful of doing nothing more than watching the kettle boil by itself. But on another occasion, to speak fairly of Mistress Anne, she came into my roome late at night much tearful, &d hugged me to her bosom, &d call’d me her poor boy &d evilly-used lad &d dearest &d called on God to rescue me from the ways of the evil one. The next day I, hoping but meekly that Mistr.s Anne was now my friend, looked onto her face in the kitchen as I stirred the porridge, but she would not greet my eye, &d she scowled so that I slunk off. This was the sole time she spoke kindly to me, that night, &d after she was hard againe.
I worked for three days &d slept three nights unmolested, for my Lord the Judge was away at Tonbridge on some royal business. But on the fourth day theere was much business as the house was made ready for him to return, &d I grew fea
rful. At two hours past lunchtime, Judge Newbolt returned to the house with a retinue of three men, &d he was greatly merry. He called forth all the servants of the house, &d we ranged ourselves in the hallway, eleven in all, tho four were day-servants only, come to clean &d odd-job from time-a-time. To these men, the Judge paid threepence each &d bid them cheerily away. The rest he greeted singly, &d came to me with a grin &d said For you my ladde, I have a rare gift, to welcome you to my service. Will you do me faithful service, young buck?
I being scared said nought, but Mistress Anne standing aside me spoke up that I was a good boy, &d would do as I was bid, &d be an honourable servant.
At which my new master laught, &d bid me take a coin, a solid gold penny, as rare a gift as a servant ever took on starting life with a new master, he said, &d only offered because my brother has spoke so good of you.
I tried to thank my Lord the Judge, &d held the penny in my Hand tight, but no wordes would issue.
After, in the pantry, whilst the cook &d the two maids prepared an afternoon feast, Mistr.s Anne chid me, &d struck me on the head, so that my forehead knocked againste the wood of the doorway &d blood started, &d ran down between my eyes. She took the penny from me, for safe-keeping she said, &d bad me go to the garden &d wash my face in the pond. &d you need not mourn your loss, she said, for it is but a Penny.
That night, despite my fearing it, my Lord the Judge did not visit me in my roome, tho I lay awake most of the night with the pain in my head, &d with anticipating. But the next day Judge Newbolt sent Anne to call me to his Librarie, wheere I was to wait on his pleasure.
The Librarie walls were covered with Bookes as a Serpent is with scales, in greene, blacke &d red leather (&d leather is but skinn, as ye know well): &d Bookes were balanced in the shevles so high that no man might reach, lest it be on a scaffold or with a ladder. My Lord the Judge told me that a pane of Glass was missing from his study-window heere, &d that the weather being November did send spouts of cold air through the gap like ice-water to chill him in his reading. I examined the pane, &d one of the twelve was gone complete; but I had too little knowledge of Glasing-skills, &d was fearful to tell my lord so. As I waited by the window, my Lord approached me.