The Dead Boy

by Saunders, Craig

  Everyone had highways. Those made of memories, or emotions. Road that lead to people who touched their minds. O'Dell never touched George. Their connection was too weak. But he and Francis were close. Dangerously close, because O'Dell had been inside Francis' thoughts, and for George to travel there was a great risk.

  The road, from Francis to O'Dell, looked bright enough. Inviting, even. George understood though that bright did not mean safe. There would be mines along that path, and potholes, traps, blind bends.

  But I have to go. Because it isn't over. Now he's killed the world, what is there left but to remake it?

  And a man like O'Dell? What would his creation be?

  George forgot his body entirely. Francis' heartbeat became just a distant memory, like (rain on tin...) and he placed his left foot upon the road to O'Dell. His right foot followed and he moved, not walking, but so fast that the darkness growing either side of the road would not see him, could not find him.

  Dead hands along the road reached and clawed as he sped past, faster, and then faster still. Wind rose behind him in cloud of dust until even he could not see himself. All he could see was O'Dell, and O'Dell rushed toward him.

  *

  XVI.

  1962

  Kurt William O'Dell was nineteen years old in 1962, it was a warm June, and he had just finished his degree at Oxford University two years early. Smart and driven, far beyond the capabilities of even his brightly shining peers, and even as a young man O'Dell's mind was never at rest.

  Three days after his last exam O'Dell sat alone in a pub named The Eagle and Child, where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien once drank. Workmen hammered outside, knocking some part of the old pub around, but O'Dell wasn't bothered by the noise, not so much. He waited, nursing a pint of dark, thick and almost sickly ruby ale, for a rather well spoken man from the Government. A strange place for an interview, but at nineteen, O'Dell was full of confidence in the world and his abilities, and his great worth.

  Like plenty of pubs with old, unsure tables, there was a beer coaster beneath a table leg. This one read 'Courage'. The table was dark and scuffed, the beer inexpensive. Smoke was in the air, dry tobacco and wet, sweet pipe smoke. The pub hummed with gentle conversation. O'Dell was happy.

  The man he'd met the day before outside his campus ducked in, bending just at the neck to clear the low lintel. He nodded and smiled to O'Dell, like they were old friends, which they were not.

  'Mr. O'Dell,' said the man by way of greeting. The man wore a suit, fine cut. No hat, no glasses. His eyes were blue and intelligent.

  'Sir,' said O'Dell, who had yet to learn the man's name.

  'Another?'

  'Please,' said O'Dell. 'Just a bitter - Tetley? This is awful.'

  'Of course,' said the man. O'Dell watched for a second as the man walked to the bar, then shrugged and drank the dregs in his glass while he waited. No sense in sitting looking at the man's back.

  He returned with a pint of bitter for O'Dell, and a cup of tea for himself. Unapologetic about it, too. The man shrugged. 'Beer disagrees,' he explained, and that was that.

  'Thank you,' said O'Dell. 'Appreciate it.'

  He took the shallow head together with a healthy bite of the beer below while he waited for the man to get to the crux of it.

  'Well, shall we?' said the man after slowly adding a cube of sugar to his tea, and stirring. Sugar, no milk.

  Odd bird, thought O'Dell, but he inclined his head. A job offer before he even graduated was not to be sniffed at.

  'My name is Mr. Fenchurch. I work for a small, largely autonomous branch of her Majesty's Government. It's a rather secretive thing, I'm afraid, and I'm far from at liberty to divulge more than dusting of what we do. Would you be interested in working for the Government, O'Dell? Mostly desk work, very little footwork. Not, perhaps, for everyone...'

  'I'm not against the idea, Sir,' said O'Dell.

  'Good lad,' said Fenchurch. 'Remarkable aptitude for mathematics, haven't you?' He didn't wait for O'Dell to agree or disagree. 'The potential for growth in man's intellectual endeavours is exponential when the burden of analysis and storage is removed. Consider current systems, libraries, other, older and less efficient repositories of knowledge. The modern mainframe could serve in this capacity, and more, and as technology advances so too would the efficacy of computing.' You wrote that, O'Dell?'

  'My University application? Sir? Is this to do with my studies?'

  'Your field, O'Dell. Fairly broad, but our research encompasses technology, yes. Artificial Intelligence, O'Dell...outlandish concept, but then so was space flight. Adelson-Velsky, a very clever bastard, Russian, or Israeli, something like that, published some new method of organising data in March...people are looking at leaps in storage capacity, new algorithms, programming languages...the cusp of a new era. But I'm getting ahead.'

  'AVL tree? I read the paper.'

  'In Russian?'

  'Sir.'

  'Well, then one-nil to you young, my friend. Let's just say it's a job doing clever stuff. I think I'm outgunned,' said Fenchurch. He took his tea in a fist, ignoring the small handle, rather than drinking with a pinky sticking out like a toff. 'Nothing sordid, mind you. Nothing like that.'

  'Sir?'

  'MI6 and the like, O'Dell. We are not the cloak and dagger type.'

  'Sir,' said O'Dell, now halfway through his pint, 'I'm not entirely sure I understand what the job is.'

  'Good,' said Fenchurch with a smile. 'I shouldn't think so. The thing is, there is a small...cadre? Yes, cadre. Gifted, Mr. O'Dell. A number of men just like yourself will be attending a short interview. A test, of sorts. Tomorrow at ten in the morning. We have a modest office near Marble Arch. I'm am simply offering the opportunity to apply for the job. The test is a step along the path to a new career. Shall I put you down for it?'

  'Sir? I'm still slightly unclear as to the nature of the job I would be applying, or testing, for.'

  'I am aware of that, and please understand that an element of wooliness is quite essential at this early stage of affairs.'

  The man passed over a ticket for the train, from Oxford station to London, along with several notes. 'Travel expenses,' he explained. 'For a sandwich or a cup of tea or something,' said Fenchurch. He placed a type written note, folded, alongside the money and the ticket.

  'Directions. Easy enough to find.'

  O'Dell picked up the paper and glanced. A hand drawn map beneath a simple set of typed directions and the address.

  'I'll expect you along tomorrow, Mr. O'Dell,' said Fenchurch, rising. As though O'Dell's attendance was a foregone conclusion.

  'Sir,' said O'Dell. Fenchurch and O'Dell shook.

  They met again at precisely ten in the morning on the following day.

  *

  The train ride was entirely forgettable. O'Dell reached an unassuming grey stone building after the long ride to London, and then the short ride on the central line to Marble Arch.

  He rang on a doorbell press beside the tall black door, but didn't hear anything. There was a knocker, brass - a lion's head with a thick, heavy ring hanging from its mouth. He waited for thirty seconds or so, unwilling to seem overly eager, but because he was English and patient and polite, too. After thirty seconds and a simple, single knock of the heavy ring, the door opened.

  A woman answered. Her hair was worn tight against her head. She was older, maybe forty at a guess. Her white shirt and her black skirt were both sensible.

  'Mr. O'Dell,' she said without a smile, but not quite curt. 'Please. Come in.'

  'Thank you,' he said.

  'The others are waiting. Up the stairs, the larger room on the left.'

  O'Dell needed the toilet, but he didn't feel like he should ask where the lavatory was on arrival. He elected to wait.

  'Ma'am,' he said, and took the stairs up. She returned to whatever business she had - whether she was a receptionist, or an aid, or a lady butler of some sort, he had no idea. He put it from his mind and
entered the larger of the two rooms on the left. It was easy enough to find - the door stood open and he could see three young men, around his age or a shade older. Mr. Fenchurch was seated behind a large desk. The three men were seated facing him. There was no one else.

  The stairs, marble banister, the old wainscoting. Red carpet, paintings of old dead people in gold-painted frames on the walls. Everything spoke of money, of old school charm. O'Dell did not come from money, but he had spent two years in Oxford - he knew the smell of money.

  'Good morning, Mr. O'Dell,' said Fenchurch. He didn't rise from his chair, simply motioned to the only free chair in the room. 'Please.'

  O'Dell nodded to the other men in the room, then took a seat furthest from the door. The woman he met downstairs appeared at the door.

  'Will you need anything, Mr. Fenchurch?'

  'No, Elsie. Thank you. Close the door.'

  No please, no thank you. It was 1962, and the woman worked for a man who was comfortable behind an old dark wood desk wearing a good, tailored suit.

  'Well, gentlemen. Rather an odd situation, this. A test of sorts. Those who pass will move into the career of a lifetime. Those who fail will, I am sure, find gainful employment elsewhere. To fail is no shame. Only the best are expected to excel here. Each of you is gifted and intelligent. We, however, are looking for a higher degree of excellence. Now, I will need you to sign a short document, and then we may proceed. Our activities here are matters you will not disclose. Your signature on this document will be your consent to this simple term. I assume none have any objection?'

  No one did, though the other three young men did not seem entirely certain. Fenchurch no doubt did not expect questions. He did not offer the chance, and they did not take it.

  O'Dell signed the document that Fenchurch passed to the front of the desk, with his own pen. Each of them had brought a pen, at least, expecting the kind of test they were used to.

  This was not that kind of test.

  'Gentlemen,' said Fenchurch, glancing at each paper in turn. 'Shall we? Please, follow me.'

  *

  In turn, each young man was led to a private room and told by Mr. Fenchurch that someone would be along shortly to explain the next step.

  O'Dell listened to the men's names as each was dismissed, but for some reason he could not hear their names, as though Mr. Fenchurch was somehow masking his voice as they headed along the corridor.

  It was a strange sensation.

  'Mr. O'Dell,' said Fenchurch as they reached his room last. 'Someone will be along shortly. Please make yourself comfortable. You will take lunch in your room after the first test. There is a toilet adjacent to the room, should you need it. Good luck.'

  Shortly after, O'Dell sat in a comfortable chair. A man came into the room and passed O'Dell a stack of papers, and a plain sheet for O'Dell to write on, along with a board so that he could rest the paper somewhere. There was no desk.

  'Read the papers. Write down your analysis and thoughts on the subject matter. You will be given one hour to read and complete the test. I will return with sandwiches and tea. How will you take your tea?'

  'White, please. No sugar.'

  The man nodded and passed O'Dell a handkerchief.

  'Your nose is bleeding, young man.'

  O'Dell wiped the handkerchief beneath his nose and saw that the man was telling the truth. Bright red blood from a burst capillary inside his nose.

  'Thank you,' he said.

  Strange. O'Dell had never suffered a nosebleed before.

  He looked up, and saw that while he wondered about his bloody nose, the man had gone and the sheet on the board was full of his own handwriting, a small drop of blood in the bottom right corner.

  I don't remember writing any of this, he thought, staring at his tight, neat script. He read some, and still had no recollection of either reading the material or writing his analysis.

  He looked up and saw the man who had originally give him the test taking the papers from him. In place of those papers, the man gave O'Dell a tray. The tray was silver, the cup and saucer with tea was china. There was a china plate, too, with a sandwich. Pink salmon. To one side was a cherry tomato and a glass of water and beside the water were three pills, each of different colours and sizes.

  'Sir?'

  'Your consent form is already signed, Mr. O'Dell. Please, enjoy your sandwich and tea and make sure to take the medication.'

  'Is this part of the test?'

  'It is. No further questions, please. I will return for your tray in ten minutes and the second part of the test will commence. Sir.'

  The man left. After O'Dell ate the sandwich and drank the tea, he took the pills with a sip of water for each tablet. They were chalky, and coated his mouth.

  In seconds, he found he could get no moisture in his mouth. His tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth. When the man returned to take his tray, O'Dell's nose was a torrent of blood and he could barely see.

  The man took O'Dell's pulse, nodded, and then handed O'Dell an even thicker stack of papers. Readouts, data, some schematics. Maps and news reports from various newspapers, photographs of men and women that O'Dell did not know, and a few that he did.

  'Same test, Mr. O'Dell. One hour, then you may return to your business.'

  O'Dell's vision wavered while he read over the information.

  As he read, he began to see things.

  A boy with a scarred scalp only sparsely covered by hair.

  Barbaric, he thought. He didn't recognise the boy, but other images he did. Trains on fire in some Asian country he could not place - China or Japan, perhaps. A church on fire in America, the president of the United States of America with blood on his face, the Beatles, a ship burning and sinking into the sea, men and women with serious faces in Government rooms, none of whom he recognised though while these pictures were in his head his hand moved, constantly, over the sheet of paper. His handwriting was far from neat this time, but a hurried scrawl.

  The boy with the scars on his head peered over his shoulder, looking at what he wrote.

  I know this. I've heard of this. It's called acid. They gave me acid. I'm hallucinating.

  'The test is over, Mr. O'Dell. You are free to go. I suggest you clean up before you leave.'

  O'Dell glanced at the notes he had written. Page after page of insane ramblings, drawings, graphs, pictures which were mostly dark and simple - doodles of men burning, or blown apart, or screaming figures dying.

  'What...'

  'Good day,' said the man and swept the papers up.

  O'Dell did not hear from anyone again until January, 1964.

  *

  People make millions of memories in a lifetime, if not more. A cup of tea every morning for decades, or more. Cigarettes smoked, magazines read on toilets in different houses, winters and summers and storms and time spent in the garden, or in a pub, family weddings, a funeral, good dinners, bad dinners. Among those memories, a few will make people who they are. A few, like pins that hold a soul together, to which the memory returns. A single moment, or ten, but things that affect each individual powerfully enough to mark them.

  For George, his memory was short - just a boy, still. As he grew, he would remember a place called the Mill. He would never forget his friend Francis. Other people's faces would pass. In a year, his father's face would be no more than a blur. The men on this very rig would mean nothing to him, their names, their faces, simply gone.

  For Edgar, the moment he met his wife, and the moment she died.

  For Francis, of all her memories, she returned time and time again to the one that made her happiest - the sound of rain on a tin roof.

  O'Dell's core memory was 1962 and it would not let go.

  O'Dell shuddered, hundreds of miles distant, his nose bloodied. On a rig battered by storms far out to the North Sea, George and Francis held hands, still. George's too-large jumper was awash with red. Francis' nose gushed across the table top. She jittered in her seat, her eyes w
hite, her feet kicking out. Like a woman having a seizure. Her tongue bled from her snapping teeth.

  George could feel her distress, deep inside O'Dell's mind, but when he tried to place a foot on that dark highway and run from O'Dell, to return to Francis, to set her free, he found it impossible to leave. The pull of O'Dell, the lure of 1962, was far, far too strong.

  In a pub, again. The Eagle and Child.

  George felt O'Dell's confusion as the man walked toward them - he and O'Dell both, George peering, hidden within.

  'Hello again, Kurt.'

  'Please excuse me, but I think you have to wrong man, Sir,' said O'Dell, and George felt his confusion.

  'Mr. Fenchurch, Mr. O'Dell. You remember me. Of course you do.'

  'Have we met before?'

  'Certainly. We met last year.'

  'Last year? I don't...Sir? Were you one of the lecturers?

  'Mr. O'Dell, you graduated in 1962. It is 1964.'

  'Sir?'

  'Please, Mr. O'Dell. Not here. Shall we walk a while? It is a beautiful day.'

  George had no choice but to follow. Outside, it did indeed to prove a beautiful day. The sun was warm. George was deep enough within O'Dell's mind to feel the warmth, and to forget a frozen oil rig.

  'Mr. Fenchurch,' said O'Dell, walking beside the man, through the town and toward the river. 'I'm sorry, but I honestly have no idea who you are.'

  'Understandable, Kurt. Understandable. In June 1962 you were the subject of a test. Experiment, perhaps.'