by Mark Lingane
“Oh, I see.” Reaper sounded a bit lost. In the pause, static once again obscured the line. “I see you’ve done very well. I never trusted them. Lucky I got you onto the case. OK, I’m going to call them and cancel the deal. Yes, you’ve done very well. Look, I’m currently about three hours out of town, flying by. I’ll land, and I want to pay you on the way through, as it were. Yes, you deserve everything you've got coming.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s OK. Yes, it really is. Just meet me at runway four at the airport in three hours. Yes, you’ve done very well. I’ll see you then.”
The man sounded visibly shaken and seemed to be losing his way a little, but Joshua reasoned that it was because Reaper had just been told of his imminent murder. He decided to go for a walk to settle his nerves.
He wandered out onto the deserted streets. There was a noise from a shadow and Joshua whirled around. He stared into the gloom for what seemed like an eternity. There was dead silence broken by the occasional passing traffic. The night revealed nothing more than the noises from a nearby drainpipe. He felt too jumpy; his nerves were playing up on him. He needed a drink. He reached for his hipflask, but it offered little in sustenance. He stomped off, knowing he would be unable to get a serious drink for eight hours.
The shadows moved. A light flared and there was a deep intake of air and a red point glowed in the darkness. Then it was gone.
Joshua decided to walk to the airport. It would take hours but he had nothing else to do in the meantime. The time passed slowly, and on the way he rewrote the world’s greatest speeches, pretended to be an HMV DJ, and did anything he could come up with to stop himself from thinking about murder.
He was finally approaching the runway and expectation was filling him to the brim.
He watched the plane land as he walked through the airport grounds and he could now see the plane at the end of the runway. It was a simple twin-jet model, completely white and very sleek. A vehicle for the executive on the go. The stairway was down, but there was no sign of David Reaper.
[]~$mkdir alt.reality
As he drew closer to the jet he noticed a small movement behind one of the wheels that would only be detectable, predictably, to a detective. There was a slight movement, a flash of steel in the light and a gunshot. Joshua dived to the ground in an effort to avoid the inevitable. He wasn’t quick enough. The bullet passed through his head and he died instantly and alone on the tarmac.
11
[]~$DEL HISTORY
[]~$reality reboot
Joshua shook his head again. He checked himself. He was upright, breathing and, thankfully, alive. He quickly scanned the area but saw no one. Not even anyone hiding.
As he drew closer to the jet he saw a crumpled shape by one of the wheels. It was moving. He suddenly had a sinking feeling in his heart. He ran forward. As he approached he could see it was a body. It was lying in an expanding pool of blood. He knelt next to the prone form. It was dressed in a smart dark suit, Italian if he was any judge, and the eyes were hidden by exceedingly dark wraparound sunglasses. He reached out and removed them. The man’s eyes had glazed over. The body was breathing, but it wasn’t going to last long.
In the man’s hand was a gun. Joshua tried to take the weapon, but the body resisted.
“Noooooooooooo,” it said.
The word was thin and drawn, but Joshua recognized David Reaper’s voice. He tried to take the weapon again and this time there was no resistance. Joshua was at a loss for what to do. He searched the corpse and found nothing except his pay. It was in an envelope addressed to him so he felt right in taking it, but terrible about the fact that he had to.
There was a bullet hole in Reaper’s stomach. Looking around, Joshua had no idea where the bullet could have come from. Maybe an expert sniper with all the latest high-tech gear could have shot him from the hanger, the closest of which was over three hundred yards away, but what kind of probability would that involve?
A quick frisk of the rest of the body showed there was nothing else about his person. No identification or anything. That was odd. You would expect an executive to carry a wallet full of credit cards, but Reaper had nothing.
Joshua decided to look inside the sleek white jet. Inside there was little to give any clues. Nothing gave a hint to who Reaper was. No registration papers. No licenses. Nothing. Except for the phone. He couldn’t put off the inevitable. He picked it up and put it down again. He rushed outside and looked at the craft. He slapped himself in the forehead in dramatic fashion and went back inside and called the police.
When the police arrived Joshua and Harman continued their eternal dance.
“What do you mean, Richards, that he was shaken? He was so shaken that he shot himself?” Harman hollered.
“Oh yes, that makes sense, doesn’t it,” Joshua hollered back. “Oh dear, someone’s going to kill me so I’d better shoot myself.”
“Hey, he’s your friend, and any friend of yours is a weirdo by definition.”
“Harman, you know zero by definition so don’t push it. Look, I’ve given you all the details. Check them out and see for yourself. I’m going home. I get better conversation out of my sofa.” He turned to leave.
“Hang on, Richards. Where’s the money then?”
“What?”
“Where’s the money?”
Joshua paused. “What money?”
“Your commission for the work you did. You need to be here for a reason.”
“I don’t know to what you are referring.”
“You’re here. He landed here. It was either so he could shoot himself with you as a witness, which is unlikely, or he landed so he could pay you. So where’s the money? You’ve had two clients involved in cash deals—and don’t get me started about that—and they’re both dead and, suspiciously, without the cash. So, Richards, where is it?”
“Maybe he was going to fax it to me.”
“You know this doesn’t look too good for you, so it would help if you’d cooperate. You’re a witness, or suspect, in two murders.”
“Rack off, Harman,” Joshua said, turning to leave.
Harman turned to a couple of idle officers. “Officers!”
A couple of young policemen turned toward Harman to see what he wanted.
“All right,” said Joshua, “I’ve got it, but it’s mine. It’s even got my name on it, so back off. You’re not getting your greedy hands on it.”
“That’s police property. It’s ours.”
“You’re just greedy. So it doesn’t exist. OK?” Joshua turned to leave.
Harman’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Richards, you know more than you’re telling. What’s going on?”
Joshua’s hand came up and grabbed Harman’s wrist and squeezed. “Harman, our conversation is over. I have nothing else to say.”
“Look, I’ll drag you screaming to jail if I find out you’re keeping information from the police.”
“I don’t know anything, Harman.” Joshua pulled the policeman’s hand off his coat and flung it back to him. “Can’t you work out anything? I’m not a part of this. But there’s more going on than meets the observant eye. Learn to read the facts.”
Again Joshua turned to leave.
Again Harman’s hand shot out again and grabbed his sleeve.
“Whatcha talking about?”
Joshua wrenched himself free and turned to face Harman one final time. “Harman, this is how little you know. Look at the plane,” he said, pointing toward the front of the craft, “and tell me what’s wrong with it.”
Harman turned slowly to face the aircraft. He turned back. “Nothing. Looks perfectly fine to me. Not a scratch on it.”
“You see? You can’t even see the obvious. Where’s the registration number on the jet? Every single aircraft that takes off or lands here must have a registration number in a visible location on the nose or tail of the aircraft. Where is it, Harman? Where’s the registration number?
And once you’ve found it, tell me where it departed from. No airport in this country would have allowed the man to take off without that number on his goddamn jet. Then tell me where his identification is. Something else illegal. Then tell me how he was killed. Harman, just go and arrest some jaywalkers.” His rant over, Joshua quickly walked away from the scene.
Harman watched Joshua storm away, so lost in rage that he tripped and nearly collapsed over a wheel chock. He turned back to his officers and yelled, “You two,” indicating the two furthest away from him. “Get that … that body to Clipper on the double. I don’t know how long it’ll last like that.”
“What? You mean, like, dead, sir?” said one, looking hesitantly at the still body.
“Shut up.”
“What the hell’s going on? Why isn’t he dead?” shouted one figure in the darkness.
“We don’t know. Moments arise and something changes. He comes out alive, and one of us is dead. He’s surrounded and shrouded by a mist of probability. Nothing happens for certain until something in that mist decides it. There’s something in the mist protecting him. And we can neither see it or control it,” replied another.
“This is getting serious, and it has to end. He has to end. Is this a legacy from his days as the head?” said the first.
“I think so.”
“Well, you know what to do.”
“OK, I’ll get onto it.”
“Good, because I don’t know about you but I don’t want to die.”
In the gloom of the room the two stared at each other, illuminated by the letter “D”. They both turned and left the room in silence.
There was a small flare of light from the darkest depths of the corner of the room. A figure stepped forward out of the impenetrable darkness, the face illuminated by the red iridescent glow of a cigarette. The serpent would be difficult to deal with. It had already ruined eternity once before.
Eventually the phone rang. He reached over from his bed and picked up the receiver.
“H’lfr!” he said, half asleep.
“Richards, what the hell are you talking about?” shouted a voice. “Not one of these names checked out anywhere. Richards, are you listening to me?”
It was Harman.
“Wha’ you say?” Joshua’s brain wasn’t fully working yet. Harman sounded livid.
“Richards, all those names you gave us, including the business name, all fail to appear on any records anywhere. Start explaining.”
“What are you talking about? Only a few days ago I got all the details from the Bureau. They have to be there.”
“Well, they’re not.”
“Look, I’ll go down back to that office and source some stuff and I’ll—”
“Already way ahead of you there, Richards. I sent some boys down there earlier. They just called in saying there’s nothing there.”
“What? They haven’t opened up yet?”
“No. There’s nothing there. It’s all empty offices. Any bright ideas, Einstein?”
“Look, Harman, I don’t have any answers for you. Five hours ago all these things were solid and existed. I don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but you need to stop it. I’ll look tomorrow or today, whatever, and carry out further investigations. If I find anything I’ll let you know. For now I’m going to sleep. Goodbye.”
With that Joshua hung up, with the continuing rampage of Inspector Harman fading into the distance. He picked up the receiver and dropped it on the floor. He was too tired to deal with the outside world, and it felt like he hadn’t had proper rest for days. Everything could wait for a few hours.
He woke about lunchtime feeling like insects had been crawling in his mouth. He got up off his bed and straightened his tie. He then remembered. It felt like his soul had been dragged to another planet. He went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. As he was rinsing he looked at himself in the mirror. The water was dripping off his dispassionate face. It was a hard face, but not one of a killer. There were people out there who had such a face, and they most probably looked into their reflection every morning without any remorse. Perhaps they had no mirrors. How could anyone put such a low value on a human life? What kind of person was that? It was enough to make others give up in despair, but Joshua was determined. He was going to get to the bottom of this Reaper case.
He went back to his office–bedroom and picked up the phone’s receiver.
He tried exactly the same sources he had tried a day before. All records had been erased, although erased was the wrong word. It was like they had never existed. No backing up of files or retrieved archived tapes could locate any of the names involved. He even checked his own records to make sure it wasn’t one big hoax on behalf of the Bureau pretending to do some work.
He rose from his desk, picked up his jacket and left to check out the office of True Shot, which, until yesterday, was a thriving small business.
He looked forlornly around the empty office building. The walls and carpets were the same, but that was about it. Every little detail had been taken away or, from Harman’s point of view, had never existed. He went across the road and into the derelict building he had used as a spy room. It still had traces of his stakeout less than twelve hours ago. Then something caught his eye. Scattered around the place were freshly extinguished cigarette butts. He knelt down, picked one up and examined the crushed butt. It was fresh, less than a day old. Someone had an interest in his activities.
He scouted around downstairs but all he found were more of the same kind of cigarette ends. They didn’t mean much at the moment but might add up to something later.
A thought struck him as he left. He went back into the offices of True Shot and looked around the wall skirting. He found what he was looking for in the main office. Small holes. Harman would most probably say something like, “There we go, then; that proves it was murder, that does,” but Joshua knew a little better. The holes were fresh and they signified a phone plug had been here recently. He thought The Phone Company might know a little something about how recently that was.
It was just before sunset when he returned to his office and the gray light of the fading sun was threatening to leave him in a dark and unworkable coolness. On his desk Joshua fiddled absentmindedly with the many pens that didn’t work, and remonstrated into his phone. He made a lunge for the light switch without the effort of leaving his seat and failed. His hand slapped against the wall a good half-foot below the light fitting.
Outside, the streets were quiet. At this time of day, this time of the week, they always were. People flocked home to watch Simpsons reruns. Headlights of the occasional car flicked through his window, highlighting the fact that he needed to turn a light on. He checked his desk clock without moving his head and aimlessly watched the second hand tick around the face. He was getting information but it wasn’t helping.
“Yes, the phone line was set up for testing, but was not hired out to anyone or any company. It was being tested for internal records only,” the customer services officer said.
“How long was it under test?”
“A period of forty-eight hours. That’s the standard period of duration.”
He saw Jeff Na’hash’s card lying on the table. Jesus, he thought. It had slipped his mind completely, and it had been urgent too. He picked up his receiver and dialed the number on the card.
He swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window while the phone was ringing. The clouds were thick and low. The lights were bouncing off them, giving an orange glow to the sky, accentuated by the final rays of red, purple and yellow from the setting sun.
12
JEFF NA’HASH WAS AN executive. He was also a jeweler and a quietly spoken man, which made Joshua feel even worse. He wore a small set of half-glasses that he spent most of the time looking over. His eyes were showing the telltale signs of age and so was his cardigan. Joshua apologized until he was sick and verging on embarrassing.
The story was straightforward
. Jeff Na’hash was sure someone was trying to steal his produce and he wanted it sorted out.
Joshua had decided he should get on to Jeff Na’hash’s case before it slipped through his fingers. The only way to keep on top of his life was to keep working, and for once life was giving him enough to do. In a world that had always given him one at a time, as though someone was considerately drip-feeding him. Strange, that.
Jeff’s little office was four blocks east along Half Moon Avenue. Certainly a nice, if somewhat suspect, part of town. It was a place where big respectable money discussed less respectable deals. He had paused to remove his hat and brush back his hair then he knocked on Na’hash’s second-floor office door at precisely seven o’clock.
He was struck by the impressiveness and expense of the office. It was red and velvety and frilly. It hovered on the edge of being totally tasteless without going over the edge. Experts had toiled to craft a general impression that this was a place of great value, and the visitor, in infinite inadequateness, was not worthy of being there. Joshua could feel the implied derision of his clothes being grubby, his teeth not white enough, his hair unkempt, and his enunciation unclear. He felt humbled.
“I’m sorry you had to see the place like this,” said Na’hash, “but today is the secretary’s day off and the place gets into such a mess when she’s not here. Can I take your coat, Mr. Richards?”
Only if you’re going to wash it, Joshua thought. “No. I like to keep it close to me at all times.”
“Even when you sleep?” asked Na’hash.
“No.” He felt something more was needed. “It’s got important things in it,” he volunteered.
Jeff Na’hash sorted out some papers on his extremely well-organized oak desk. He put a few errant diamonds into a little felt bag and tightened the drawstring. He moved to his safe and pointed to the edge of it. Joshua leaned over and squinted at what he hoped Na’hash was pointing to.