Children Of The Deterrent

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  I've just had a thought. Babies learn to smile within a few weeks because they mirror their parents. Abos smiled at me almost immediately. Was it because I was smiling at him? He's no baby, obviously. Obviously. But there is something unformed about him that reminds me of a tiny infant.

  I digress. Abos smiled at me. Then he said, "I learned more about how to speak from you than I did from your colleagues. You choose different words. Your vocabulary is wider."

  I looked down at the ABC book and wondered how useful it would be for a man who could already use the word 'vocabulary' correctly in a sentence.

  "Well, thank you, Abos."

  "And, I..." He seemed to search for a word for a moment - something I haven't seen him do before now. "I...like you, Cress."

  I've always, much to my embarrassment, been someone who readily blushes. It annoys me that my body can so easily betray me. After his admission, combined with that smile, I'm afraid I blushed from the roots of my hair to my fingertips. I fought a short, fierce internal battle to regain that neutrality.

  "Thank you, Abos, I like you too. Father said you want to learn how to read."

  "Very much. I am learning the two primary methods of communication through daily interactions with Professors Lofthouse, McKean and Sullivan, Mr Ainsleigh, Colonel Hopkins and personnel one to seventeen, but reading requires guidance if I am to master it quickly and precisely."

  I took a moment to review the sentence I had just heard. Two things stood out. I tackled the latter first.

  "What do you mean by 'personnel one to seventeen?'"

  A long pause, then, "I attribute no meaning to them."

  "Let me rephrase. To whom are you referring?"

  I'll stop mentioning the long silences. Every time I asked a question, everything ground to a halt for at least a minute. Sometimes longer. When it happened, Abos never appeared to be thinking, he looked at me, or around the room, blinked, scratched his nose. All normal-looking behaviour, apart from the fact that any other person would have answered the question. I soon learned that he would get there in the end if I gave him enough time. As the days went on, the pauses became much shorter, but they never stopped entirely.

  "I am referring to the personnel. Hopkins said that personnel would be allocated to guard my quarters, and I have met other personnel in the mess hall. Seventeen discrete personnels so far."

  He could use 'discrete' correctly but didn't know the plural of personnel. I was fascinated that he had accepted Hopkins' description of the soldiers and had not ascribed them the same status as individuals as he had with those he had named. I asked about the other thing was bothering me.

  "You spoke about two different primary methods of communication. What methods do you mean?"

  Silence, then, "Unconscious and conscious. Body and speech."

  I wondered if the order he'd placed them in was deliberate. I asked him to elaborate.

  "Most information comes from body communication. Speech adds detail, clarification."

  "But, surely, speech is more important than that. We use it in almost all communication."

  "No. Body communication is primary. You are unaware of the extent to which you communicate through your skins. The limbs, the hands, but mainly the face. Most words confirm what has already been communicated by your body."

  Father tells me Hopkins is expecting the military's top psychologist to join the team. He is not going to be short of material.

  Abos continued. "Sometimes, body communication and speech contradict. This is very interesting. I cannot learn this behaviour. I do not understand its value."

  I wasn't sure I did, either. But this was turning into a rabbit hole I don't have the expertise to explore. I reached for the books and opened the first one, moving my chair to sit alongside him.

  "A is for apple," I said, pointing to the letter then the picture.

  "A. Apple," he replied, dutifully. I turned the page.

  "B is for ball."

  "What is ball?"

  I was pleased that the book had prompted him to ask a question, but I began to see the challenge of using traditional picture books to teach reading to a creature who had never seen a ball. Or a car. Or a dog. Or an elephant.

  We raced through the books in a few hours despite this challenge. Abos is unlike any other student. He only needs to be told something once, so the repetition built into the books we were using was unnecessary. After I'd closed the last book in the pile, Abos made his request. Well, more of a demand, really. The tone wasn't demanding, but his intent was unambiguous.

  "I understand reading, but only language, only concepts. Now I must go outside."

  He stood up as if we were leaving immediately.

  I couldn't quite suppress a smile. I was already imagining Hopkins' reaction.

  But who was going to say 'no' to a seven-foot bulletproof god?

  I meant man. Freudian slip, dear diary, Freudian slip.

  16

  September 8th, 1978

  I didn't get to witness Hopkin's reaction. I was told to stay home Wednesday and Thursday and was only called back in early this morning. And when I say early, I mean to say the driver knocked on our door at 4:45 am.

  I was taken directly to the Colonel's office. Hopkins was furious. Furious. If this is what he's like after a couple of days to get used to the news, perhaps it's better that I didn't see him immediately afterwards.

  He didn't shout and bluster. That's not his style. Hopkins is the sort of man who never threatens. I've had plenty of time to observe him, and he displays no outward signs of anger. Inexpressive man at the best of times, the only indication that he is enraged is a state of physical immobility even more pronounced than usual.

  He didn't ask me to sit. He was standing when I entered, and—judging by the fact that he was ramrod-straight with his arms glued to his sides—I knew he was irate. He didn't even move his head as I entered the room and stood across the desk from him; his eyes swivelled in their sockets like a lizard's.

  "You are here at The Asset's request. Against my better judgement, Miss Lofthouse."

  No time for 'hello,' then.

  "The Asset is under the protection and supervision of Her Majesty's armed forces. Specifically, he falls under my command, as head of Station."

  Oh. "Under my command." There was so much I wanted to say, but I'm not that empty-headed.

  "As do you, Miss Lofthouse, so rather than waste more of my time, here are your orders for this morning."

  I bristled at that word but, strictly speaking, he was right. I have been seconded to the military, and Hopkins is in command. I am supposed to follow orders. His moustache moved as he spoke, every hair trimmed at precisely the same length as its neighbour.

  "You will accompany The Asset on his trip outside this facility. The exercise will last one hour. You will be driven to Finsbury Circus, then on to your residence, after which, you will return here for a debrief."

  I stood there like a lemon for a moment, then realised what he'd said.

  "He's coming to my house?"

  "Correct. He wants to see how people live. McKean trained as a medical doctor. He will accompany you. Major Harris will be in command. Dismissed."

  He pulled a cardboard file towards him, opened it and started to read. I was so flummoxed by what he'd said, that it was all I could do not to salute. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked out of his office.

  A short woman in army uniform was waiting for me outside.

  "Ms Lofthouse? I'm Major Harris. Good to meet you. Are you ready?"

  She put out her hand, and I shook it, dazed.

  "But...you're a woman," I said. Station was so patriarchal that the presence of a female senior officer had, apparently, rendered me temporarily witless.

  "No, Ms Lofthouse, I'm a soldier."

  She led me to the lift where McKean and Abos were waiting for us.

  The car journey was short but memorable.

  I had been watching Harris in the lift, and
I have to say, I was impressed by her self-control. She may have already spent a little time with Abos. I've been away for a few days, so I don't know when she arrived. She showed no overt signs of interest in him at all. She's about five foot five, a little shorter than me, and Abos towers over her, but she maintained her composure as if she sees physical specimens like him every day.

  Perhaps her insistence on pretending he was nothing out of the ordinary led to the problem with the car.

  I'm not interested in cars so I couldn't say what make it was, but it was very big, shiny, dark grey and luxurious. The driver held open the back door for Abos and waited until he was seated before closing it. At that point, it got farcical for a few minutes, and I had to stifle an inappropriate bout of giggling.

  Major Harris directed McKean to get into the back first, then indicated that I was next. But no one had allowed for the fact that Abos was so much bigger than most people. When McKean got in, he found that Abos had only fitted in at all by turning sideways and putting one foot on the seat and the other in the footwell. With a great deal of effort, McKean managed to squeeze himself into the space remaining, but there was no way I could follow. Harris stuck her head through the open door and asked Abos and McKean to move various limbs this way and that in an attempt to make it work. It was when McKean's foot appeared out of the passenger window that I had to turn away to stop myself laughing.

  Fortunately, Harris is a practical woman. She'd obviously been given orders about the seating arrangements - the glass in the rear windows was dark and would conceal the car's occupants. When she realised it would not work, she sighed and made a decision.

  "Okay, McKean, stay where you are. Ms Lofthouse and I will join you in the back. Mr—"

  She stopped abruptly. If she had been briefed by Hopkins, she had probably been about to call him 'Mister Asset'. There was an awkward silence until Abos spoke.

  "Abos."

  "Mr Abos, please come and sit in the front."

  Even then, the front seat had to be pushed so far back that Harris was pinioned in place. The driver started the car, two soldiers lifted the barrier to the car park, and we drove out as the sun began to rise.

  Abos spent the first minute or so watching the movements the driver made to control the vehicle. After he had seen enough, he looked away and out of the window. The early morning sun was painting the dirty buildings with that magical light that makes everything it touches temporarily beautiful.

  There was barely another car on the streets. No one spoke as we drove. I watched this newborn man greet his first dawn, his perfect face expressionless as he drank in the sight.

  In a few minutes, we reached Finsbury Circus. A circular green area on the site of one of London's first parks. I've often sat on the benches there or listened to a concert in the bandstand on a sunny afternoon.

  Abos unfolded himself from the car and stood at the edge of the park. When the driver shut the door, there was a sudden explosion of sound as a dozen pigeons, woken by the noise, took flight from the nearest tree. Abos watched as they circled the park before returning to the same branches and settling again. He turned to me.

  "Peter and Jane are feeding the pigeons."

  I nodded, wondering if it was just luck that he'd picked the right species of bird.

  "Yes. Excellent."

  He walked into the park, squatting on the grass and running the backs of his hands along it, before looking at the dew on his fingers. Then he stood and went to the nearest tree.

  "Squirrel," he said as the curious creature he was walking towards sprang for the trunk and disappeared into the upper branches.

  Abos put his hand on the bark, feeling its contours and examining it. I watched him for a moment, then caught something out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see Harris speaking into a radio handset. She had an earpiece, the wire curling down to her collar. She was speaking softly and glancing up at the roof of one of the surrounding buildings.

  I moved closer.

  "Understood," she said. "Stand ready."

  Her body language had changed. She was tense, her eyes flicking across to the far side of the park, then back to Abos, who was now peeling the bark away from the trunk and examining the insects he had found there.

  I looked at the far entrance to the park. There was a flashing orange light as a bin lorry made its way along the huge Edwardian terrace opposite, the muffled thump of each refuse bag hitting the inside of the lorry carrying clearly across the space. I couldn't see anything amiss. I looked back at Harris, who was listening intently to her earpiece.

  "Dammit," she said. Then I heard the sirens. Far off. Difficult to tell which direction they were coming from as the sound bounced off the city's buildings. A few seconds later and it was obvious that they were heading our way.

  Harris was speaking into her handset again.

  "Understood. Is there any way we can divert—no, just monitor the situation. I will protect The Asset."

  She moved then, joining Abos, who was looking up at the rapidly lightening sky, watching clouds scud across the skyline.

  "Sir, er, Abos?"

  He turned towards her.

  "We have a situation. A police pursuit is underway and is likely to pass nearby. There is nothing to be concerned about, please remain calm."

  Abos, as always, looked calm. We hadn't really covered high-speed pursuits in Peter and Jane Go Shopping.

  The sirens were loud now, and I could hear the screech of tyres on the dawn-wet tarmac. Seconds later, on the far side of the park, headlights appeared, and a large car came round the corner so fast that its rear end swiped a lamppost, smashing the vehicle's indicator. There was something about the eerie dawn calm which made this noisy intrusion even more shocking.

  Then I saw him. A binman, halfway across the road, frozen in a moment of indecision, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He dropped the sack he was carrying, but as he looked up towards the oncoming car, it was obvious that he wasn't going to be able to avoid it.

  At the last second, the poor man threw his arms in front of his face as if to avoid seeing his own death.

  I turned away, and heard the sound of a brief skid, followed by two distinct noises. The first— like a sudden gust of wind—quiet compared to the smash that followed. Then all I could hear was sirens. After a few more seconds, they fell silent, and everything was still.

  I realised I had closed my eyes. I opened them to the lazy blue flashes of the police car's lights strobing on the path at my feet. I didn't want to see the inevitable result of the crash, so I looked towards the tree where Harris had been standing with Abos.

  Harris was there, looking stunned, all composure lost, her eyes fixed on the scene of the accident.

  Abos had gone.

  I turned my head and followed Harris's gaze.

  The source of the second, louder crash was immediately apparent. The car fleeing the police had driven straight into the back of the bin lorry. The skid I had heard may have slowed their speed a little, but not enough to prevent the front half of the car folding up, the bonnet crumpling like cardboard. One wheel had, somehow, been dislodged, and was bouncing down the road like a child's toy.

  I was squinting at the occupants of the car, checking that they were moving (they were) when I saw him. Abos was standing on the far side of the square, holding the arm of the bin man I had seen a split second before the car hit him. The car that, even given the rudimentary knowledge I possess about the laws of physics, must have hit him. The car that was now bent around a lorry, its engine smoking as the first drops of a rain shower began to fall.

  Abos had covered the distance, which was at least a fifty yards, in the time it took me to turn my head about four inches to the side. I watched numbly as he said something to the man whose life he had just saved, nodded at the police officers who were exiting the two pursuit cars, then turned and walked back towards us.

  Without turning her head away from the scene, Harris whispered, "What do you thin
k he is, Ms Lofthouse?"

  I thought for a moment before replying, as Abos get closer, his physique dwarfing anyone nearby. Behind him, the man who'd avoided death jabbered something at a police officer, pointing at the man who saved him.

  "And do you think he's on our side?"

  I turned to look at Harris, but she continued to watch Abos approaching.

  "I don't think he'd have the faintest idea what that question means."

  Harris's eyes flicked to the left, and she swore under her breath.

  "What? What is it?"

  In answer she grabbed my arm and headed for the car, waving Abos over as we walked.

  "Press," she hissed. I looked back and saw a figure slide off the seat of a scooter, one hand reaching into a jacket pocket and pulling out a notebook.

  Uh-oh.

  We were hustled away quickly, Harris trying to shield Abos's body with her own so that the reporter wouldn't see him. A good idea in theory, I suppose, but as he's the best part of two feet taller than her, not very effective in practice.

  In the car, McKean, who is the least talkative man I've ever known, couldn't shut up. He fired question after question at Abos, none of which seemed to be answered to his satisfaction. Next, he speculated about possible answers to his own questions in a slightly manic monologue which, although annoying, did at least give me time to get my breathing back to normal. Harris's first question had reminded me of that which I still, somehow, keep conveniently forgetting.

  "What do you think he is?"

  I couldn't answer that.

  McKean, meanwhile, seemed to have come up with a theory that, at last, stopped him jabbering away like a four-year-old.

  "The most telling piece of evidence is, surely, that the clothes would have been ripped from your body if you had run across the park. At that speed, it's simple physics."