by Jeff Kamen
The tall figure turned in his seat, beaming. ‘Hi!’ he said, stretching out a hand, ‘I’m Ischmann. Good to meet you.’
Moth shook hands with him weakly. ‘But you’re … but I don’t … but …’
The man grinned. ‘You must be Matthëus. I’ve heard all about you. In fact I was just hoping you’d ...’
Ischmann broke off to face the door as someone else appeared.
‘Mothy! There you are!’
Tearing his hand away, Moth turned to see the chunky and welcome form of Stoeckl, the blond man nervously scratching at his quiff. ‘Stoeckl!’ he cried, bewildered, ‘it’s … but you’re … he’s … he’s not —’
‘You’re needed downstairs, Mothy. Come on, we’re a man short.’
‘Stoeckl? Hi, I’m Ischmann. Good to meet you.’
‘But I don’t …’
‘Now, Mothy.’
‘Why don’t you both sit down a minute? It’s so good to meet you together like this. It really is.’
‘Sorry, we’ve got to go. We’re in the finals.’
‘You can stay a minute, can’t you? Hey, Mattheüs, why don’t you stay a minute?’
Moth went queasily to the door. Stoeckl was smiling but there was something in his eyes that told him to get out while he could. With a garbled apology he fled the room with Ischmann still calling after them and followed his friend at a trot down the corridor.
They crossed to the far side of the obs bay, where he suggested to Stoeckl they go to the repairs room. They sat themselves among the broken chairs and cracked monitors and spoke tentatively, flicking glances at the door.
When he asked Stoeckl what he knew about recent events, Stoeckl informed him that he’d just returned from the City. He described a futile hunt trying to locate Lütt-Ebbins there, or even people that knew him. ‘I came north as soon as I could,’ he said, at which point Moth told him what he’d discovered in Lütt-Ebbins’ room, adding that there was no sign of him anywhere on the base. He asked Stoeckl if he’d attended the meeting in the hall, and he confirmed that he had. For a while they sat discussing the search and its possible repercussions.
After a few moments of reflection, Stoeckl nodded soberly. ‘So that’s it, there’s no doubt,’ he said. ‘He’s gone, been arrested, simple as that.’
‘And Derring,’ Moth said helplessly, and went on to relay the details of his phone call to the DH’s office. They talked through everything at length, then sat in silence, contemplating the grimness of the situation.
Stoeckl sat swivelling in his chair. ‘I can’t believe Lütt’s a terrorist,’ he said. ‘I really can’t. It’s just not like him.’
Moth shrugged, thinking of the diagrams he’d seen on Lütt-Ebbins’ desk; then he cancelled the thought from his mind. It occurred to him that the less he knew, or believed he knew, the better. ‘What can we do?’ he whined, but Stoeckl had only another question: ‘Why a fuel tanker, in any case? It doesn’t make any sense. You’d have to be mad to do something like that.’
Moth swallowed awkwardly. ‘You mean the note? Ah, I’m not sure he was talking about —’
‘It’d be sheer suicide. And why do it anyway? I can’t see Lütt doing anything like that ... unless …’
‘Ah … unless what?’
Stoeckl snapped his fingers, brightening. ‘Of course. Of course, that’s it. Unless they were going to destroy the station.’
‘The station? But why would Lütt want to —’
‘Yes, first they’d destroy it, then maybe kidnap someone … hold some kind of siege.’
‘You ... you really think he’d do that?’
‘Well, that way, they’d have time to organise themselves. To stop the troops piling in after them.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what we need to work on. Maybe they were going to do it to make a point, to show they could do more if they wanted to.’ Stoeckl’s eyes narrowed fiendishly. ‘I mean, think about it. A couple of well-placed charges around the place, then bang! There’d be chaos, absolute chaos …’
Moth sat with his clap-claps hanging at his sides, imagining Lütt-Ebbins blowing up the station, then running away, then having to blow everything up again to get through the rubble. A man on the run with nowhere left to run to, struggling through the wreckage simply to hide himself in the tunnel, perhaps for just a few days, with everything behind him on fire. It seemed inconceivable.
They talked through a few more scenarios, then finally their musings came to an end.
‘Actually,’ Stoeckl added, and Moth saw a look of discomfort on his face as he took a vid from his overalls. ‘I ought to show you this.’
He squinted. The label read, Labours of Love. ‘What is it?’
‘I found it in a drawer. I, um … had a quick peek at it before I went on leave. It’s definitely Lütt’s.’
He looked on blankly as Stoeckl went to a console and fired it up. When a menu appeared, he inserted the tape and pressed play. ‘Have a look, then tell me what you think,’ he said, then returned to his seat.
The picture cleared moments later to reveal a brightly-lit gym with some weightlifting equipment. Exercise mats were set out across a polished floor. It appeared to be deserted, but when the camera panned aside, it featured a full-chested woman jumping up and down on a trampoline, grinning broadly. The shot widened to include an onlooker at the back of the gym, a weasly-man dressed as a sports instructor. As the man watched her, eyeing her approvingly, he began to unzip his top.
He turned to find Stoeckl gazing sadly at the images, his cheeks indented with a slight grimace of distaste. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Keep watching.’
The couple were soon locked in an embrace. Shortly afterwards they were joined by someone dressed in a skintight Älterwurm costume, with a tight-fitting hood stretched over the tapered head. The film continued with a close-up of the couple’s lips pressed together while a grunting noise arose behind them. The grunting and the kissing grew louder.
‘See what I mean?’
‘I, ah … I-I don’t think …’ Moth croaked, watching as the wurmlike figure leapt on top of the couple. He felt sick of it, sick of everything. ‘I don’t think I want ...’
‘I mean, I’m not judging him or anything. Just that … well, I think it’s a shame. Shows you never really know someone. Even the best of them. I’ve worked with him for years, never guessed a thing.’
Moth shook his head hazily. So lost …
Stoeckl watched the screen a few moments longer, then turned away, swivelling slowly. His gaze seemed to pass beyond the room as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘Poor Lütt,’ he said, ‘I’m going to miss him. We’ll have to visit him or something. You know, see how he’s getting on.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ Moth whispered, nodding uncertainly.
The wurmlike figure was chasing the couple around the gymnasium, beating them with a stick. Suddenly, the footage cut to a worktop on which lay a pack of tape-wrapped explosives. A gloved hand appeared, with a finger pointing along a length of piping.
He sat upright, blinking. ‘Ah , Stoeckl, ah … are you sure this …?’
There was a cut in the pipe. The finger illustrated the wires it protected, then pointed to an identical set of wires nested inside a timing device.
‘Ah, Stoeckl, I think ...’
‘You know what?’ Stoeckl said airily, still staring away, ‘there’s a few things I wouldn’t mind blowing up myself. I’m serious. That water tank above my room for starters.’
The footage cut to digits on a countdown from five.
‘Stoeckl, look!’
‘I mean it, Mothy. Every sodding night this week …’
As the sound of an explosion blasted from the screen, the door swung open behind them, crashing back against the wall. They turned to see a young female officer enter the room, flanked by four armed guards. It was the speaker from the hall.
‘What the …?’ Stoeckl gasped.
‘Enough,�
�� she snapped, sending the guards forward. ‘Take them to the lifts.’
Chapter 17 — In Fever
They were slowing, coming to a terraced hillside where it appeared that some kind of ceremony or gathering was taking place.
Go carefully, came a whisper, as a bell rang out black and solemn behind the unlit cottages. When the cart came out of the bend the pair of them looked up to find a rocky slope of heaped and jumbled tombs where figures roved in the halflight paying homage to the dead. Figures with lamps and trembling candlesticks. Feral cats prowled thin and crooked among desiccated wreaths and small biers of glass or polished stone. Beside these relics people were kneeling down and weeping, muttering in prayer or hallowed evocation. They drove on slowly, not wanting to disturb these attendants with their passage, and yet they did not pass unnoticed. A hooded figure, dark blue in the light, turned to watch them clatter on. It cupped a dim flare that threw awry the shapes of the headstones before drawing them back again, preserving them in a sulphurous glow. The scene remained intact until, like a flame thrown up in offering, the lamp seemed to detach itself and hung tremulous and faint on the receding trail, rising steadily into the darkness as they turned away, soon to overlook the twilit and ambivalent coastline ...
He shakes her again. ‘Jaala.’
She groans, twisting away, then sits up violently.
‘Shit,’ she breathes, finding his silhouette before her as she stares around herself. She draws the hair from her face where it has clung to her in sleep’s travails. ‘Oh, shit, I was …’
‘Here. Have some water.’
She takes it weakly. ‘Thanks,’ she says. She sips at the flask and then sips again, washing the strange images away with each lukewarm swallow.
‘Okay?’ he whispers, kissing her.
‘Yes, I’m … I’m okay. Just a silly dream.’
‘You need some air, girl,’ he says, and moves away. There is a quiet clack of pots and soon he is back at her side, cupping a steaming bowl of soup. She squeezes his arm. He sets down the soup, his eyes like the forest, dark hair hanging around a pensive smile.
‘You’re here,’ she says.
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll pass.’
‘I didn’t know if you were hungry. But you should eat anyway.’
‘I’m always hungry. You should know that.’
‘Yes, I should. I should know that.’
She smiles.
He bends to kiss her. Warm lips upon her brow, the side of her mouth. She places his hand on her cheek and holds it there. Their eyes meet and linger. Then he reaches down and produces a little garland of clover and chickweed. He slides it over her wrist, leaving it to hang as a slender bracelet of white and green. She smiles, feeling its coolness there, its absence of weight.
‘I missed you,’ he says, and as he kisses her again she feels the world returning. She can hear children playing outside, the leathery call of roosters. Everything looming in and out: colours and light, the click of an axe somewhere. The sounds of people talking, working. Just beyond her door a day was being lived.
‘I missed you too,’ she says, easing back again. ‘A lot.’
He strokes her hair.
‘You smell of something. What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
She watches him with a tired smile. ‘Nothing,’ she says, ‘okay. How long have I been like this, anyway?’
‘A couple of days.’
‘A couple of days?’
‘That’s right. I was here yesterday. Anya … she said she was coming this morning.’ He looks off towards the stove. ‘Your plates are gone. I suppose she came.’
‘Shit. I’m supposed to be helping her. She’s busy at the moment.’
‘You have. You’ve been helping her a lot.’
‘Not by being here.’
‘Well. You can’t help being ill, can you?’
‘No,’ she sighs. ‘No, I suppose I can’t.’
When they’ve both eaten, she tells him he looks tired and persuades him to lie with her. He joins her in bed for a while, then stirs from a light sleep and apologises, explaining that he has to go.
‘Really?’ she says, stroking his hair. ‘Do you have to?’
He regards her steadily. She spots a strand of yellow lichen in his beard and plucks it out. ‘You really have to go?’
‘Yes. But I’ll see you tonight,’ he says, and gets up to dress. Before he goes, he feeds the stove with wood. ‘Some kids from your class were asking after you,’ he says, looking back at her.
‘Were they? Bless them. What did you say?’
‘I said you had a bad headache. But it was going.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it. All of it.’
He continues to look at her, seems almost to be staring, and she smiles at him sadly, unable to explain her dissolution. It feels like he is back to being the man she’d spied on from the well that day: solitary, composed and self-assured. One with the look of someone different, like herself; a man who’d not been born as such, but had leapt from the woods one night in an explosion of leaves and splintered bark.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says, and heads outside, whistling quietly.
Yes, she thinks, looking exactly as he had on that path. As if they were both supposed to be there at that moment, the two of them and no others; as if there was no other way it could be.
Chapter 18 — Interrogation
Moth he scare, he lost, want to pow-pow the guards, want to blow out the top of the lift and climb away, want to —
‘Stop snivelling,’ said a guard, and he backed against the wall as the lift continued its descent. At his feet lay the unconscious form of Stoeckl. He tried to nudge the body to check on him but was prevented by a thick hand, the guard smiling the smile of someone well aware his deeds were sanctioned by the law.
When the lift stopped, the lead officer unlocked a panel he’d not noticed before. She pressed a button and locked the panel and the lift descended with a mechanical whirring sound, as if lowered by a winch. At the bottom the door grated open and he was escorted outside, the guards pausing a moment to take in their surroundings. They’d entered a narrow stone passageway lit dimly by fluoros. The air was cold and stale and a couple of the guards coughed as if in reaction to it. ‘It’s filtered, don’t worry,’ the officer said, taking out a flashlight as she marched ahead, adding, ‘watch him,’ without looking back. As they gripped his arms, Moth yelped in pain.
The passage led them to a small stone circus where a series of other passages branched away into the darkness. The officer marched across the worn flagstones, and as the guards followed her, switching on their own torches, they entered one of the passages and began a steep descent into the living rock. By the light of electric beams he saw the stumps of black iron claws jutting from the crumbling walls, where once flames had spat their fuels and prisoners such as he had been dragged away screaming and starved and bound in ropes, their wretched lives terminated in fear and barbarous obscurity.
The walls grew dark and powdered. Pockmarked. Crooked and bowed. As if with each gradient of descent they were passing down through earlier ages. Each time he slowed to mark his surroundings, heavy hands clamped his shoulders and shoved him on. A sneaked glance behind him revealed a vertically held Stoeckl being dragged along with his shoes scuffing the floor.
Eventually the passage levelled out. The guards maintained their silence and there was only the sound of them marching. They took one turning after another until he had no idea which way they’d gone. The air down here was laced with a sharp and clinical smell which, in a series of small jolts, brought to his mind the image of tiled laboratories, harsh lighting, steel dishes splashed with blood. In another passage they passed rows of concrete-reinforced jail cells. Doors hung open to reveal fungus-patched floors, clotted pools of water. He saw broken chairs, a pair of discarded workboots. Random bits of clothing, soiled and rotting. He spotted a jacket, a mask without
its tube, a sodden cap with its badge torn out like some fibrous eye of accusation. He thought he knew then exactly what kind of trouble he was in, and his head dropped in despair. He was surrendering internally to whatever ills might come his way when he was pulled to a halt.
They’d come to a dark and anonymous door underlined with a dull yellow light. The officer knocked smartly.
A muffled voice cut short. The room fell silent.
She knocked again.
A terse male voice said, ‘Identify yourself.’
‘This is Officer Tilsen,’ she said tightly, and cleared her throat. ‘From the Inspectorate. I have something for you.’
Seeing the faint smile on her lips, Moth tried to pull himself free, but was held rigidly in place.
‘Agent Vonal? We’ve had some progress with the terrorist report. Good progress, sir. Two new arrests.’
‘Arrests?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have them here?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re here with me now.’
‘All right, Tilsen. Very good. Bring them inside.’
Keys turned and the door was pulled open by an unshaven man in his forties with thinning, slicked-back hair. He gave a nod to the officer, then left the guards to haul the prisoners inside while he returned to his seat at a large desk that dominated the austere room they’d entered. On it was a large monitor and stacks of papers, jaundiced-looking under the desklight.
Moth was clouted towards the desk and stood before it like a man at trial while Stoeckl was dumped on the floor at his feet. He was then pulled back a step, and looked on shakily as Tilsen placed a wurmhaut case on the desk, embossed with the initials TT. There seemed no point in fighting the guards, no point in complaining. He would wait for his turn to be interrogated and plead for his life the best he could.
‘Well, Tilsen,’ Vonal said, as she unclipped her case. ‘This is a surprise. Who are these two?’
‘Stoeckl and Matthëus, sir.’
‘Stoeckl and Matthëus,’ he mused, sitting back. ‘Stoeckl and Matthëus.’ His rugged features were without expression, but as he surveyed what had been brought in front of him, he rolled up his shirtsleeves with grim purpose. ‘Which is which?’