by Ian Hocking
Her heart tapped at her ribs. The glasses skipped through a Euclidean deep-structure analysis of the sentence and returned a quote that was its nearest neighbour in a multi-dimensional semantic space:
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Shakespeare, thought Saskia. Macbeth. The play began with three witches, each an analogue of a Fate: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.
Spin, measure, snip. Her dream.
Surely the message had been written by Proctor. It was meant for her. He must have known, somehow, that she was tracking him and had, somehow again, happened upon a fragment of her past life—a memory that she could not yet fully recall. Plus, he knew she was German.
There was one last element to the graffiti: an arrow that pointed to a slab of masonry. Behind it, she discovered a fist-sized rock and, beneath that, a sealed plastic folder. Inside was a white envelope. It was impossible to tell how long the folder had lain there, waiting.
‘Are you alright, hen?’ called Jago from above. ‘Sit tight. I’m coming down.’
‘Don’t worry, Scotty. I’m on my way.’
She tucked the folder into her waistband, reattached her decelerator, and spun upwards.
Chapter Fifteen
David pulled into a narrow alleyway. He dug for the kickstand and eased his bike to a stable tilt. The glow of the display faded and the engine faltered and stopped. The suspension sighed.
It was nearly 6:00 p.m. That day, he had watched the sun climb. He had ridden through rain, seen a double rainbow, and swerved around road-kill. His shoulders and neck ached from the constant hunch. His kidneys, meanwhile, had been bruised by the vibration. Same story with his wrists.
‘Oi, gormless.’
David looked up. A middle-aged woman was leaning into the alley from her window. Her bosom rested on her white, folded forearms.
‘Aye, you. You can’t park that here.’
He opened his visor. ‘Firstly, I am not in any way gormless. Secondly, this bike will stay here, undisturbed by you, for the entire night. And if I find so much as a scratch in the morning, we can talk about it down the station.’
The woman moved back into silhouette. ‘Wor Barry would-’
David gave her a tired, tired look.
The single-glazed window slammed down. David sagged against the wall and tried to tune out the drumming in his ears. He slid his helmet upwards and ruffled his thinning hair. His neck had lost some movement but he resisted the urge to free the cartilage with a twist.
He emerged from the alley into a dusky street. Across the road was a pub called The Poor Players. Coloured lights pulsed in the windows. The music was a constant thump. Because it was an unlikely destination for a traveller as weary as him, he crossed the road. He reached to push the door when a voice said, ‘Yen’t a coppeh.’
A boy stood in the shadows. He wore a woollen cap, an Eskimo-style jacket with the hood down, jeans, and bright white trainers. He was bird-like in his movements. His eyes, when they caught the light, were red-ringed.
‘Sorry?’
David had no grip on the Northallerton accent. It sounded Geordie, but no doubt the boy would be offended by the comparison.
‘I heard what you said to old Taome. You aren’t a copper. On holiday, then?’
David shrugged as the words came into focus. His hand still hovered at the door. ‘Passing through. Yourself?’
‘Touting for business.’
Something in his voice spoke directly to David’s stomach. He felt nauseous. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Wannafuckman?’ asked the boy. He was relaxed but poised to run. David knew he had asked that question a thousand times and, with repetition, the meaning had worn out.
David’s hand dropped from the door. He reached for the boy and, with a gloved finger, turned his face. ‘You’re not a boy at all. You’re just a little girl.’
Suddenly he thought of Jennifer.
‘All right, you’ve touched the merchandise. Cash or plastic?’
~
They ate in McCabe’s Fish Palace. David let the girl sit facing the window. The palace was empty but for them and McCabe, a Turkish man who whistled over his glass battlement. The air was heavy with grease, the floor slippery with it. In silence, they unfurled their fish and chips.
‘Eat it before it gets cold,’ David said.
‘I’ll eat it when I fucking want.’
‘Who are you?’
‘What?’
‘Your name.’
‘Janine, like the singer.’ She took a chip. ‘What’s yours?’
‘David, like the king.’
‘Jew, are we?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hmm.’ She ate some more chips, then lifted the fish with two hands and tore a mouthful from the middle. David watched her. She chewed once, twice and swallowed. ‘You have a daughter, don’t you?’
‘Sort of. I sent her away.’
She took another bite. With her mouth full, she waved him on. ‘Out with it, then. You’re paying me to listen—and paying well—so get your money’s worth.’
‘My daughter is called Jennifer.’
‘Me and her would get on like a house on fire, right?’
‘Actually, I’m not sure if she’s your type.’
‘Why did you send her away?’
‘I could give you facts. She was a real genius. The schools in this country couldn’t do anything for her. I decided to send her to a school in New York for gifted children. Jennifer was twelve. That was eight years ago. I think she works for the American government now.’
‘New York. Fuck, you have money.’
He shrugged and watched, his mind idling, as a customer walked in and asked for battered cod. An old man in faded jeans. ‘Yes, you’re right. I have money.’
‘So what else could you give me?’
‘What?’
‘You said you could give me the facts. But that’s not the whole story. Am I right?’
David ripped a chip from its sticky pile. He pointed it at her. ‘You’re good. You could do this for a living.’
She nodded seriously. ‘Yes. Now what about the rest of the story?’
‘I…’ he began, and Christ if he wasn’t near crying. He felt a tingling in his throat and a juvenile sense of hopelessness. ‘Here we go: I am not a good parent. Some people could spend millions on a psychiatrist before they can say something like that.’
‘Who says you won’t? I’m not cheap.’
David laughed, thrown clear of his self-pity. ‘What about your own parents?’
‘Ah, the psychiatrist cannot talk about herself. It’s a rule.’
‘You have rules?’
‘Of course. Let’s be professional. What happened to her mother? Did she leave you?’
David’s smile folded. ‘Her mother was killed a few months after she was born. There was an accident where we both worked. She died in my arms.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘It’s true.’
She leaned forward. ‘Did she wake up just before she died?’
‘No. She died instantly.’
‘Murder?’
‘It’s not that simple.’ Inside, he was silent. His mind listened to his mouth. ‘She looked asleep. I tried to wake her but she wasn’t breathing. I remember…screaming. Later, someone led me from the building. I regret that I left her there alone.’
‘Regrets,’ Janine said. Her fish was nearly gone. His was hardly touched. ‘Did you work in the World Trade Center?’
‘So you remember that. No. It was later.’
‘Oh.’
‘You want some more fish?’
‘No, thanks.’
David took his own fish and plonked it on hers. ‘Here.’
‘What’s wrong with you? I don’t want your fucking leftovers.’
He smiled and watched her eat it. ‘Stop fucking smiling,’ she said, spitting fish.
‘Guess what?’ he said.
She stopped mid-chew. ‘Wha’?’
‘I’m on the run from the police. They want me for murder.’
‘They want me for shoplifting. Small fucking world.’
David said mildly, ‘It is.’
Janine resumed her chewing. ‘I don’t really do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Have sex with people for money.’
Something swept through David. Was it relief that he had been talking to the worst example of society’s failure, only to find that she had beaten him at his own game? She had played on his pity and eaten her meal.
And haven’t I done the same to her? Got what I wanted? A dry run at reconciliation?
‘So what do you do?’
‘I lure them in and take them somewhere. Back of The Players. Down to the canal. Or Blackboy Road. Somewhere. Then me mates grab them and we take their wallets.’ She stopped eating. ‘Sorry.’
David sighed and tried to push his chair from the table. It was stuck to the floor. He eased out and put on his gloves.
‘Back on the run?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning I’ll ride on.’ He leaned closer. ‘Janine, you want your money?’
She burped and nodded. ‘Aye. Make it five hundred.’ She said it casually, too casually, ready for David to protest. He did not.
‘Got a card?’
She had it ready and handed it over. He touched the two.
‘Can I ask you something without you getting angry or saying “fuck”?’
‘Maybe.’
He placed a gloved hand on her head. ‘Will you take care of yourself?’
‘That all depends.’
He walked out and felt Janine’s stare all the way.
Chapter Sixteen
In his room on the first floor of The Poor Players, David opened his rucksack and spilled the contents across the bed. Among the travel documents was a stun gun. He read its instructions while the live band, downstairs, played their final song. He continued through the travel documents and found an envelope. Smiled. Inside was what looked like a metallic card. The warmth of his fingertips woke it.
‘Hello, Ego.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Professor David Proctor, at your service.’
There was a beep as his voice was identified. ‘No, I am at yours.’
‘Oh, you.’ David removed the pip that had been taped into the back. ‘Switch to earpiece.’
‘Done,’ said the voice in his ear.
David slid Ego into his wallet. At the bottom of the envelope was a money clip, which he put into the inner pocket of his coat.
‘Do you have any instructions for me, Ego?’
‘Yes. Get to London Heathrow Terminal Five and open baggage locker J327.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
David walked into his bathroom and turned the taps. The pipes made a thumping noise and under-pressurised water fell into the tub. ‘Who arranged my escape?’
‘I have been instructed to withhold that information.’
He nodded. The Ego model used a neuronal network to encode its information. Knowledge was stored haphazardly in a great web. Thus, ‘cat’ had a connection to ‘dog’, but also to ‘paws’, ‘lion’ and ‘boat’. Even the most efficient computer operator would find it difficult to isolate information from all the routes that led to it. David set about probing the barricades.
‘Where were you yesterday?’
‘I was not active yesterday.’
‘Think of a name, randomly.’
‘Sam.’
‘Why did you think of that?’
‘I have no reason. That is what random means.’
‘Touché. Tell me about Heathrow.’
‘Heathrow Airport is the foremost centre for air travel in the United Kingdom.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘No. I am reading verbatim from their publicity material.’
‘Do you love?’
‘No.’
‘Are you alive?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to be alive?’
‘I neither want nor do not want.’
‘Do you have emotions?’
‘No.’
‘Who programmed you?’
‘Dr Nagarajan.’
‘Sing me a song.’
‘Which song?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Just a moment.’ There was a beep and David heard a crackle. The earpiece was picking up Ego’s attempt to access the Internet via the wireless telecommunications network.
‘Alright, forget it.’
He returned to the bedroom and stowed the passport in the rucksack. Then he removed his clothes and brushed his teeth. Finally, he sank into the bath and felt the heat permeate his extremities. His genitals began to thaw and assume a respectable size. He considered washing his hair but could not bring himself to encourage the wag who had written the copy for the free sachets: Rinse and Shine at The Poor Players!
‘Ego, can you monitor local police frequencies?’
‘Yes. However, their transmissions are encrypted. The key changes each day at midnight. I could not decode today’s transmissions until tomorrow morning.’
‘You are well informed.’
‘Yes, I am.’
David belched. The brownish water washed over his stomach and lapped around his neck. He looked again at his stomach. In all the excitement, he was losing weight. ‘Ego, if I make a voice call, can I be traced?’
‘I have been given instructions to dissuade you from communicating with anybody until you have reached Heathrow Terminal Five and opened locker J327.’
David slapped the surface of the water. Whom would he call, anyway? He had some friends at the university, family in Wales, and one or two old, good friends near London. Undoubtedly, his small circle would be under surveillance. He had some academic acquaintances in Europe and America. He could contact them anonymously, but what could they do from such a distance?
‘Ego, summarise all the news stories filed about my escape in the last twenty-four hours.’
‘That analysis will take approximately two minutes.’
‘Do it.’
He stared at the patches of mould on the ceiling. He wondered what he would next say to Jennifer, and what she would say back. His mind drifted. With his eyes closed, there was nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the pub: the lub-dub of hot water, footsteps, the rumble of conversation, the occasional cough, a car pulling up outside.
There was a knock at the ground-floor entrance used by overnight guests. David opened his eyes. Answering footsteps travelled across the hallway. He heard two men speaking. Only the low, unintelligible register reached his ears.
One spoke slowly and seriously. A policeman? The other responded quickly and made affirmative sounds. The voice of a sycophant: the landlord.
He remembered the thrill of his confession to Janine that he was on the run. He had felt that excitement when he had ridden from Scotland and he had felt it in the chip shop. But he had not felt it during the initial bike chase and he did not feel it now. This was excitement at another level; a surging energy that was difficult to contain.
David stepped from the bath and towelled himself roughly. He pulled on his clothes, then opened the rucksack and poured every loose object into the main compartment. He did not examine what he packed. He simply checked that the room was empty when he finished. Then he collected his toiletries from the bathroom.
David crossed to the window. As he had guessed, a police car was parked outside. The six-metre drop was sheer. No escape that way. Across the street, a uniformed officer emerged from a flat, touched his cap at the owner and walked on.
So the local police were carrying out house-to-house enquiries in pairs. The officer in David’s pub was still checking.
Silently, he turned off the light. With the darkness came a taste of safe
ty. The moment ended when footsteps stopped on the landing outside and he heard the landlord say, ‘There’s one in here. Bit of a character. Popped out with a Dodger not more than half an hour ago. Under-aged.’
Another voice: ‘Come back, did he?’
The landlord: ‘Oh, yes. Came right back.’
‘Did he.’
David could not move. He needed a plan. The window was not an option. The fall would hurt him badly. He had to think of something else.
His thoughts jammed.
Think, think.
Get out, get out.
The policeman knocked. David had anticipated it, but he drew a sharp breath. He sank to a crouch. Would it make him more difficult to see? Would it provide a moment’s advantage?
‘This is the police, sir. Open up.’
David reached into his jacket pocket.
The landlord said, ‘I’ve got the master key.’
The policeman, quieter: ‘Go on, then. Unlock it. Just unlock it and step back. Understood?’
David drew the stun gun.
In his ear, Ego said, ‘The latest story was filed at the BBC—’
‘Ego, shut up.’
‘Understood.’
Silence beyond the door.
‘Do you hear something?’ asked the landlord.
‘Only you, Sam. Hurry up.’
David imagined the two of them standing there, wondering what lay before them, what the fugitive would do when cornered. He looked down and saw their shadows move in the gap of light.
A key turned in the lock.
David raised the stun gun. The laser-sight put a red dot on the door. His finger tightened. If he squeezed hard enough, two barbed darts would fire at the speed of air-rifle pellets. Each would trail a conducting filament. On contact with the chest, they would lodge under the skin and unleash 50, 000 volts. The leaflet had been quite specific.
The shadows paused.
Suddenly, a third voice erupted: ‘Delta Two from Delta Three, over.’
‘Go ahead Three, over,’ said the policeman. It took David long seconds to realise that the new voice had come from the policeman’s radio.
‘Report of a six-four in progress, end of Main Street. Request assistance, over.’
‘Three, I’m assisting, over.’
David froze in his marksman’s crouch. The landlord asked, ‘Aren’t we going in?’