by Gordon Brown
I open my eyes and look at the TV. Lorraine is in one room. Charlie is in the other.
‘So,’ Lendl continues. ‘A bit of deductive reasoning leads me to wonder what triggers your little incidents and – and this is key – who takes the fall. For only some seem to succumb to your abilities.’
Lorraine doesn’t look well. She’s ghostly pale and a bandage covers most of the right side of her face. Charlie has his head down. I can’t see his face.
‘I have a theory.’ Lendl is in lecture mode now. ‘Stop me if you think I’m going astray. Let’s take all the incidents that we know of. Iraq 2003, Iraq this week, the plane, our offices, the bus and the senator. Did I miss any?’
At least they’re not omnipresent – the Days Inn duo are missing.
‘So what do they all have in common? Well the real clue was in the mess that you left in our offices. Twenty-one wounded, two dead but, when you break it down, each one was attacked by someone they knew. No stranger-on-stranger action. And then you begin to see the picture. Your two buddies in Iraq. Mr Taylor and his on/off girlfriend. The bus – well they were all old friends of a sort – and then we have the senator and his aide. She has been working for him for a few years.’
Lorraine twists her neck and looks up at the camera.
‘But friends aren’t enough.’ Lendl continues. ‘Why would friends let loose on each other? I’ll put a few bucks on the fact that buried deep in most friendships is something that isn’t so friendly. Something that wants to get out into the open, but the friendship stops it rising to the surface. I think that’s what you set free, Mr McIntyre.’
Lorraine lies down, curling into a ball.
Lendl keeps his foot down. ‘So we have friends as a common denominator. Friends with something dark in their communal cupboard. What else do we have? What is the trigger? What sets it all off? What sets you off? I’m guessing a little stress might work, but I’m also wondering about the times you were out for the count. They’re harder to figure. In every case you were under some form of stress during or not long before the incidents.’
Charlie lifts his head. The bruises on his face suggest he didn’t come quietly.
‘Here’s the rub, Mr McIntyre. I need to give my hypothesis a test. Run it up the flagpole as I used to say in the old days. As you see, we have your wife in one room and in room two your friendly neighborhood barman. I know they know each other and I understand that Charlie has a thing for your wife. So let’s see if there’s something else buried in there. Let’s see if you can unlock a little secret or two, shall we?’
‘You can fuck off,’ I shout. ‘Let them go and I’ll help you.’
‘Time is against me and I need some answers now. So we’ll play by my rules. Put the barman in with the woman.’
A door opens in Charlie’s room. A man with a gun enters – a partner covering his back. Charlie is ushered out. A door in Lorraine’s room opens. Charlie flies in, landing against the far wall. Lorraine stands up.
Lendl starts up again. ‘I need to know if proximity is an issue so we’ll start this on a remote basis first.’
I hear someone walk in.
They stick a knife into the back of my hand.
I scream.
They push the knife down and through the bone and into the table beyond.
Hot lead runs up my arm. It feels like someone is dipping my hand in boiling water. I scream.
They pull the knife out and drop a pad on the wound to stem the blood flow.
For a good minute I do nothing but writhe in the restraints. Above me, Lorraine and Charlie are talking.
‘Nothing.’ Lendl sounds pissed off. ‘Again.’
Same hole, same knife, only this time it’s twisted as it goes in.
More screaming from me and no reaction from Lorraine and Charlie.
‘Zip,’ says Lendl. ‘OK, pull up the grill.’
There’s a grinding sound. Lorraine’s voice is in the room. ‘Craig. Oh, Craig.’
‘Lorraine?’ I try and turn to see her.
‘Craig, what are they doing?’
The pain in my hand is acting like Prozac. I have no focus – no sense of what to do for the good. ‘Lorraine, stay away from Charlie. Charlie, stay away from Lorraine.’
‘Craig.’ Her voice is followed by a gasp as the man in my room takes the knife and clips off the top of the index finger on my injured hand. This is like no pain that I have ever felt before. This is new. This is something on a different level and my scream is primeval.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Lorraine is shouting.
Charlie joins in. ‘What the hell do you want?’
The kernel deep in my head cracks and, despite everything, I’m aware that this is bad news. I try to shout a warning. It comes out as a hoarse cry. The headache trumps the clipped finger. I nearly pass out.
I look up at the monitor. I see Charlie lift his head and stare at the camera. He looks at me. Not at the camera but through the camera, right at me.
I scream ‘No!’ as he turns to Lorraine. ‘Stop him!’ My shout is extreme.
Charlie grabs Lorraine by the hair. The hair I so love to touch. He takes a handful, before jumping into the air. His knees curl up as he raises Lorraine’s head high. I can see the first signs of realization from Lorraine as Charlie fails to overcome gravity and starts back down to earth. At the same time, he wrenches his arm down – taking Lorraine’s head with him. The combination of his fall and the pull snaps her head forward.
I’m still shouting.
At the last possible moment Charlie twists his arm and body to the left. He directs Lorraine’s head towards the edge of the bed. The metal-rimmed edge of the bed.
I hear the crack. Feel the crack. Sense the crack. Bone losing out to steel. The thin layer of flesh no barrier. There is a grunt from Lorraine. A last noise from my wife? I don’t want to watch but I can’t stop. Her head rocks back on the top of her spine. She drops to the floor.
‘Very good.’ A new voice in the room. I look at my wife. Motionless on the floor.
The monitor above me flashes and dies. The grinding sound returns. No matter how hard I shout there’s no response from the next room. I’m back on my own.
‘Very good indeed,’ says the new voice.
‘Bastards.’ My voice is losing power. My vocal chords scraped and worn.
‘Well, Mr McIntyre,’ says Lendl. ‘It seems there might be some history between your wife and the barman that you don’t know about.’
‘Bastards,’ I shout but my voice is down to a hoarse croak. ‘I’ll kill you. All of you. Every fucking one of you.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The new voice is back. Smug, southern. I recognize it.
‘Tampoline. You murdering bastard.’
‘I don’t think so.’
The word ‘so’ is drawn out to sound like sow.
Tampoline sounds calm. ‘I would say that you’re the murderer. You might not see it that way but think about it. All those dead people and you’re the one at the centre each time.’
‘My wife. You killed my wife.’
‘Wrong again. Your friend did or was it you? Hard to say but I never thought it would work quite as well – you performed like a Trojan. Her blood is on your hands. Not mine.’
I can’t think what to say. What to do. The headache is still growing. There is no sign of the blue world. My vision is blurring. Sounds are fading.
Chapter 30
I come round. My ties have gone. I’m in a new room but the headache is too much. Too painful.
*
I come round again. A cool, calm, peaceful blue world. The lights are out but, with the night vision, I can see clearly. I sit up and the death of my wife is somehow distant. A thing that happened a long time ago or maybe something that never really happened.
I walk over to the door. There’s no handle. I push at it but it has no intention of moving. The rest of the room is a metal cube. Bare steel floor, no wall coverings – a single panel i
n the ceiling that no doubt supplies the light.
I return to the bed.
The light flicks on.
‘Good morning, Mr McIntyre.’ In the blue world the voice races forward and then slows. ‘Good morning’ took a few seconds to roll out of Lendl’s mouth, while my name was an express train. ‘I need a few more answers.’
‘I need to use the toilet,’ I say.
‘Feel free.’
‘Where?’
‘On the floor. We don’t mind.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Mr McIntyre, given your talents I have no intention of letting you out until I know how to control you. ‘til then you’ll pee on the floor.’
‘What about food?’
‘There’s a bottle of water under the bed. You don’t need to eat.’
‘What about my rights? You know, the Constitution. The Bill of Rights. The rest of the amendments. US law.’
‘As was once said by Mr Spock, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.’
‘What?’
‘I have a duty to protect the citizens of this country and you are a threat. A clear and present danger. That changes things. Think of this as Guantanamo Bay. Think of your stay here as you being a guest of this fine country.’
‘What do you mean a guest. I’m a fucking US citizen. It’s my country as well.’
‘As you say. Anyway to work.’
There’s a hiss and I begin to cough. A cloud passes over my eyes. I try to fight the gas. I collapse onto the bed. Then I’m gone.
*
I’m back in the restraints. TV monitor above my head. Two rooms. Two people. No Lorraine this time. Charlie. Sharon. The blue world has gone. My finger hurts like an open wound being fed salt.
A voice crackles from a speaker. ‘Ok, Mr McIntyre, let’s see if we can dispense with the knife.’ Lendl is enjoying this. ‘Pay a bit of attention. I want you to concentrate on the barman and his girlfriend. Do whatever it is that you do and we’ll have made some progress.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You need a new vocabulary.’
I look at my bandaged hand. Neat and tidy. Must have been done when I was out of it.
‘Simple really, Mr McIntyre – I don’t want to send someone in with a knife.’
‘Then don’t.’
‘It would make things a lot easier if you were to co-operate.’
The grinding sound of the grill rolling back rings out. Charlie is led into the room with Sharon. Charlie looks cool. A man who didn’t murder my wife. Sharon looks confused. A woman not aware of what’s bearing down on her.
I close my eyes.
‘Craig?’ Sharon’s voice.
‘Craig?’ Charlie’s voice.
Rising rage at Charlie’s actions builds in my gut. He killed my wife. Took her head in his hands and dropped her like a fresh egg.
There’s a small beep.
‘At least you’re trying,’ says Lendl.
‘Craig, why are you tied up?’ Sharon is shrill.
‘Craig, where the hell?’ Charlie’s voice stops with a slap. On the monitor two suits have entered the room and Charlie is now lying on the floor.
‘I’d appreciate some quiet,’ says Lendl.
‘I swear…’ but I have no more words.
‘You were doing well. Raised heartbeat. Good vitals.’
I must be wired up to something.
‘We benchmarked you yesterday, Mr McIntyre. Heart rate one-seventy. BP elevated by ten points. Hit that again and we’ll see what we will see.’
I breathe deeply. Calming myself. Fixing my head on a grass-covered hill. Looking down on a lush valley. A few white clouds dotting a perfect blue sky. Seventy-five in the shade.
‘Hit him,’ Lendl orders.
A hand grabs me from behind. I wait on the knife. A jab in my arm tells me that this is a new approach. My heart starts to race. I feel a rush. A solid wave of good-time rolls in. I want to talk.
So I talk. ‘My mother once told me that the only way to tell a good man from a bad one is to ask him when he last told his mother he loved her. Bet you haven’t told your mother that in a long while.’
I want to rant. ‘I love the mother thing. I want the mother thing. Mother gone. Do you know that? Gone. Real gone. Not coming back. Whoah I need a drink. Water. Now. Can I? Would you? Dead. She’s dead. Not me. Not me. Was it me? Was it? Tell me.’
My heart is flying. A trip hammer fed by whatever they’ve injected me with. I want up. Away from the bed. In the sky. Somewhere that isn’t here.
I look at the monitor. Charlie is standing over Sharon. She isn’t moving.
‘Good.’ Lendl’s voice sounds smug. The grill vanishes. The monitor dies. Another needle and lights out.
*
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out. I’m not sure how often I’ve been back with real time. More than once. More than twice. Much more? Much less? Hard to tell. Hard to know. A strobe goes off in my memory. A flashbulb followed by a flashbulb followed by a flashbulb. Each one less distinct. Further away. Softer. Less important.
Needles are the norm. Needles to perk me up. Needles to calm me down. Needles to make me sleep. Needles to change my mood. My arm is not so much a pin cushion, as a collection of tiny little access tunnels to my ever-changing world. Liquid flowing in. Bubbling beneath my skin. Entering my bloodstream. Another delivery. Another mystery to be revealed.
The TV monitors and the restraints are no more. A soft chair sitting in front of a small stage is my world. People are brought out for someone else’s entertainment and I am the catalyst. Such a good word. Catalyst. Has real grit while being round at the edges.
Tests are run. People die. Not always but most times. My chair is moved to another room but they seem unhappy with the results and I am back in front of the stage. Proximity is a variable. So I’m told.
I don’t know the people they bring. No more Charlie, and of course no more Lorraine. I want to care but the drugs never let me. I sleep the sleep of the innocent. But I’m not innocent.
The days draw out. Merge into a strip cartoon with Craig McIntyre as the central character. Never involved in the action. Never part of the story but always there. I hold sway over the world. A king upon a poor throne, dispensing my kingly duties to the tune of another.
Once there was a cast of thousands on the small stage. Too many bodies to count. But the play was cut short. The carnage too great to control. I was given an injection well before the curtain came down.
I know I’m being used to bring pain and suffering to others. I know I’m being primed like a pump. Ready for something in the future. I know they are working out the kinks. Finding out ways to make me jump through the right hoops at the right time. Tuning in to me. Creating a cocktail of drugs and instructions that will act as a remote control when they require it. Press Play for the action. Pause to check things are going their way. Stop to put me away for another day.
I never see the same person twice, not on the stage, not in the wings. Faces are random. The suits are the most random. I’m sure they must be running out of new people to administer the drugs.
They’re careful. The restraints are released in stages. Each time testing that I have no influence over the suits. Once, a suit tried to inject another suit. Now they only come alone. It seems that in my world two is the magic number. Solo and I’m no threat.
Friends, acquaintances, knowing. These are variables as well. Lendl says that proximity and friendship are key. The prime variables. The two locks I have the key for. Close and personal. A deadly combination. Don’t underestimate what I can do if I’m in the right mood and the victims know each other.
There is a third variable. Lendl hitting another home run. Moments in the past that run sour in the good blood of friends, sometimes hidden, rarely talked about – but always there.
Moments that need out and want out. And, one day, even without me there, they would have leaked. A drunken argument. A slurred set of wo
rds dredging the river the cohorts swim in. A minor indiscretion or maybe a major one. Something from the past spilling out into the daylight. The friendship taking up the strain. Often surviving but never as it was before. Maybe weaker, maybe stronger. Never the same though. I just nudge things along. Amplify it. Give it permission to breathe. Then it stretches its rotten wings and people die. Sharon. Lorraine. People.
The tests continue.
There is no day. There is no night. There is but pre, during and post needle. I need the needle. I can feel it calling in the morning. I desire its few milliliters of liquid. Wish them into my system. I adore the rush. Crave the world in overdrive. I book an appointment in my head each time for the next time. For the upper, for the downer, for the sleeper. Three needles. Three points in my life to look forward to.
The stage is long since gone. They now take me outside. Never the same people. Often more than one, but they don’t know each other. It’s essential in my drugged-up new universe. I walk among others, ripping inhibition from their souls. Exposing old wounds.
We drive through the suburbs of Tampa. Fights break out as I pass. Road rage makes Eyewitness News. I’m harder to control in the open. They experiment with new drugs. Looking for the switch. On and off. It’s all they want.
Then they find it. A rush and I am live. A fall and I am neutral. I suspect I am more artificial, synthesized fluid than plasma now. You could sell me to the junkies downtown and they would auction off my blood. I don’t know what they are giving me. Nor do I care. I just want more and they’re happy to oblige.