by Andy Ritchie
Ambassador Tukaal - 'You shouldn’t refer to the Researcher as ‘it’. He was a tri-male, so you should refer to him as ‘him’.'
Mendelssohn - 'What...? Look, I don’t really give a shit. Just answer the goddam question, will you.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Your summary is not entirely correct. There is someone who knows why the postponement was requested.'
Mendelssohn - 'Who?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'You.'
Mendelssohn - 'Meaning what?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Oh please, Patrick, now you are insulting my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I mean. The reason he sought the postponement is obviously the same reason you wanted to prevent him from meeting me. It’s the same reason you want to know if I know.'
Mendelssohn appears to think about this for a few moments.
Mendelssohn - 'So what happens now, regarding the death of the Researcher?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Well, because it was an ‘unnatural’ death, paragraph 1133 of the First Contact Protocol requires me to request the Secretariat to undertake an Extraordinary Event Investigation. It’s usually a token investigation, just to dot the I’s and cross the T’s as you say, and also ensure a compensation payment to his family can be authorised, I’m then obliged to take whatever recommendations come out of that investigation into account during my work on First Contact, but it will probably only require me to issue a Safe Practice Re-inforcement Notification to all Researchers regarding the dangers associated with motorised vehicles and their drivers.'
Mendelssohn - 'And the Postponement Request?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Paragraph 1132 states that, if the Resolution Meeting cannot take place, which obviously is now the case, then the Ambassador has to unilaterally decide what to do next. Normally, I would have sought to assure myself that there had been no cataclysmic events or any such thing as that, which I might add I have been able to confirm during the couple of days I have been here, whereupon I would have simply concluded that whatever it was the Researcher had discovered could be dealt with whilst First Contact was ongoing. As such, I would have just re-scheduled my visit to Washington DC and proceeded as otherwise planned.'
Mendelssohn - 'A sensible coming [I sense a ‘but’ coming].'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Indeed, Patrick. You see, paragraph 1132 also permits me to, and I quote, ‘examine whatever research materials are available or can be obtained pertaining to the Postponement Request’. Note the term ‘or can be obtained’. This can be interpreted as providing me with some lee-way with regard to going out and trying to find some of the Researcher’s materials...which I am now very much inclined to do, given the obvious interest you have shown in what the Researcher has discovered, and your eagerness to prevent him from sharing it with anyone else.'
Mendelssohn - 'And what could you do with those research materials, should you find them?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Sadly, paragraph 1132 still constrains the use of research material just to helping reach one of the conclusions available under paragraph 1130, which amount to either re-planning the First Contact completely, re-scheduling what is already planned, or pressing on with current timescales, which unfortunately is no longer an option.'
Mendelssohn - 'And that’s it? That’s all you can do?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'The section of the Protocol relating to Postponements is very prescriptive.'
Mendelssohn - 'Well, that’s something of a relief. If there’s only going to be there is talk of [this token] investigation of the Researcher’s death, and with the Protocol limiting what you can do with any research material you may find, though I doubt there will be any...'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I anticipated as much.'
Mendelssohn ignoring the interruption - '...then, once you are back to concentrating on your First Contact, we will have put this whole unfortunate incident behind us.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I’m glad that things appear to have worked out so well for you, Patrick, I really am, although I can’t help thinking that we could have avoided this ‘unfortunate incident’ as you call it if you had been so much less...how can I phrase it...heavy-handed.'
Mendelssohn - 'Well, Ambassador, as the cliché goes - no hard feelings, eh?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'None whatsoever, Patrick, though I will say this to you. It was a mistake to lock me up. I want you to understand that.'
Mendelssohn - 'Of course, and I apologise once more for that. Now, there is one loose end that I will need to tie up...I suppose it’s a way of making sure that you’re not hiding anything from me about your meeting with the Researcher.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'And what would that be?'
Mendelssohn - 'Jet throw postal date [Jethro Postlethwaite]. We have him in custody as well. He was seen close to the body of the Researcher just after it...sorry, he was hit by the bus. Maybe he knows something that could be of use to me.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I doubt he will be able to tell you anything.'
Mendelssohn - 'Maybe, maybe not. But I think we should at least explore the possibility, don’t you?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'As you wish.'
Mendelssohn laughing - 'It’s a nice attempt to feign indifference, Ambassador, but I suspect that is just a little note of concern I hear in your voice.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Not really. Jethro Postlethwaite just happened to be the first human I met when I arrived. Once I had made the decision to divert to meet the Researcher, I had to find somewhere remote to be set down...after all, the Type 56 Starbird isn’t equipped with cloaking equipment because its entire raison d’etre is to make a dramatic entrance! So, I had the pilot drop me off on some high scrubland where there was just a single human with transportation...it just happened to be Jethro Postlethwaite. Single life-forms are easy to deal with, you see. It’s when there is a group of them that it can get a bit complicated.'
Mendelssohn - 'But you did go back to his house, stay with him for a few nights, even went shopping at since buries [Sainsburys] with him...?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I was in no rush. The earliest the Starbird can come back is 2/ 1 purple, [Collator’s Note: About a week] so I thought I’d take it easy, increase my knowledge of human culture, society, you know...by the way, I’m impressed that you could track me. I was always under the impression that the URGs were engineered so they couldn’t be tracked, yet you appear to be able to do it, even when the power cells have been taken out...'
Mendelssohn - 'Actually, it’s not the URG we can track, it’s the active power cells. When those cells come within a few feet of something connected to the electricity grid, we can pick them up...'
Mendelssohn stops suddenly and smiles, but it is a cold smile.
Mendelssohn - 'Very good, Ambassador, very good indeed. I let down my guard for just a moment, and you strike. You are indeed a most able and persuasive negotiator.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Does that mean we will have some hard feelings after all?'
Mendelssohn - 'It means that you have given me something of a headache. You see, I was going to let you go so that I could track your neural net energy cells and see whether you would have more luck than we did at finding the Researcher’s notes. Unfortunately, I can’t do that now because the first thing you’ll do when you’re out of here is to get rid of those energy cells, which will make tracking you very difficult indeed. You’re cutting my options down.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I’m not really sure what options you have left, Patrick. You can’t keep me locked up indefinitely, you can’t kill me...I presume you understand the consequences of doing that, not to mention the fact that it would leave you with one further unanswered question?'
Mendelssohn - 'It would?'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Oh, yes. You see, although you seem content to believe that I know nothing of what the Researcher has seen, there is the possibility that I do. If that were the case, there is also the possibility that I have already contacted the Confederation and told them all about wh
at the Researcher told me.'
Mendelssohn stares at Tukaal for a long time, trying to weigh him up.
Mendelssohn - 'I think you’re booking [bluffing].'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'I could well be bluffing about whether or not I know anything about the Researcher’s discoveries. I could also be bluffing about whether or not I’ve already told the Confederation. The problem is that you can’t be entirely sure either way, can you? All that stress and worry I’m causing you...'
Mendelssohn - 'Indeed. All that stress and worry...'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'One of the things I’ve learnt since I arrived here is that a nice cup of tea helps with stress and worry...but I don’t suppose I’ll be getting that now, will I?'
Mendelssohn smiles again.
Mendelssohn - 'I’ll get you your tea, and some biscuits too. In the meantime, I think I’ll pay a visit to your friend missed her postal date [Mr Postlethwaite], see if he knows anything which may be of help...and the great thing is, I don’t need to worry about whether he ends up dead!'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Any chance of getting the rest of these restraints removed, Patrick. I could do with having a stretch.'
Mendelssohn - 'I think not, Ambassador.'
Ambassador Tukaal - 'Well, I guess I will just have to make do with the tea and biscuits.'
Mendelssohn -'Yes, I guess you will.'
Mendelssohn closes the laptop, picks it up and walks to the door. He knocks twice and the door opens. Mendelssohn leans towards the guard. It is possible to hear the following being whispered:
‘Get him some tea, and some biscuits if you have them...’
‘I want you stationed in the room...I don’t trust him...not sure what he’s capable of...’
‘On no account are you to engage in conversation with him...he can be...persuasive...’
Mendelssohn and the guard then leave and the door is locked behind them. Their muffled footsteps echo into the distance.
Then there is silence.
[Collator’s note: JP has written one thing at the end of the transcript. It is a number. 1394.]
-----
Diary Entry 9
[Collator’s Note: This was written in JP’s notebook. It’s interesting that it wasn’t typed up on the CD like the rest of description of what happened on Tuesday 14th September. Maybe, at the time, it was just too painful to recall. From where it appears in his notebook, it could be that he finally summoned the strength to come to terms with it all and document it on one of the lonely evenings that came later. Alternatively, it could have been as a result of waking from a nightmare.Either way, I’ve inserted it here because I believe this is the point in the narrative where it is the most relevant. Note that it is written in the present tense.There is a rawness to what he has written here, a real sense of utter terror and bewilderment. For me, it is one of the most uncomfortable parts of the diary.]
Scared.
So fucking scared.
Not sure how long I’ve been out. A minute, an hour, a week.
For a moment, when I came round, I felt relief — at least I’m not dead, I told myself.
But now the realisation has hit me.
My eyes are open, but I can’t see anything, it’s just blackness, all around...no, wait, I can see a glow, through fabric, a single bulb, somewhere above me.
Shit, there’s a bag on my head.
A bag on my head!!!
Suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe, feel as if the bag is suffocating me.
I start to panic, start to thrash about...
But I can’t move my head — there’s a strap across my temple, holding me in place. It’s tight; I can feel the leather digging into my skin, even through the fabric, and the buckle is pressing hard against the bone, just above my right eye.
My wrists and ankles ache and burn as I struggle in vain against the straps that lash them tightly to the chair on which I’m seated.
There’s a strap around my chest as well, really tight, painfully tight. I’m struggling to breath, unable to take the long, shuddering breaths I desperately need to try to calm myself down, to try to...what?
Relax?
Focus?
Find my inner Jason Bourne?
Bullshit.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
I’m terrified to my core.
That’s the truth of it.
There are no sounds, nothing at all, except my short, frightened breaths and the pounding of my heart, deafening me in the silence.
Christ, I’m scared.
My mouth and throat are dry. My tongue feels swollen and uncomfortable.
A minute passes in the semi-blackness.
Then another...and another...
And with each passing minute the realisation grows, realisation of where I am...and with it, the realisation of what may lie in store for me...
Suddenly my mind is awash with images, all manner of images, none of them welcome. Blades, knives, saws, things to punch holes with, table after table of surgical instruments and tools of torture, all neatly laid out on pieces of green cloth, waiting to be used, waiting to do their worst on my eyes, my ears, my fingernails, my balls, slicing, twisting, stabbing, skewering, pulling, yanking, each one worse than the last...
I call out, if only to try to dispel the images...
‘Hello!’
‘Anyone?’
My voice echoes back at me, around the room, again and again, fading, fading.
Then there is just the oppressive silence once more, and the manic beating of my heart.
The images regroup...a needle now, searing hot from the time it has spent in the heat of the Bunsen flame, moving closer and closer to my eyeball...closer...closer, the red-hot tip getting bigger and bigger, the eye trying so hard to close but held open by clamps, desperate to blink, surface drying, hurting, blistering...I can feel the heat, the needle so close now, so blurred, but consuming my vision, getting closer and closer until, at last, it touches the pupil and the lens starts to sizzle and I start to scream...
‘Hello!!!’ I shout again, closing my eyes, trying to shake away the images that do not want to leave.
But there is no reply.
No-one is here.
There is only the silence. Gaunt, lifeless, unyielding.
And then another terrible thought hits me.
What if no-one is coming?
What if the intention is not to torture me at all. What if the intention is simply to let me rot. What if I’m not even important enough to warrant the attentions of a psychopath?
What if it is my destiny to die, slowly, over days, racked by thirst, trapped in an aching body, desperate to move, longing for one final stretch, to scratch one final itch...
‘Please, is anyone there?’ The pitch of my voice is higher, more desperate.
‘PLEASE!!!’
The tortured cry echoes for what seems like an eternity, a wailing banshee fading into the darkness...
...fading...
...fading...
And I feel so very, very alone.
-
Ten minutes?
An hour?
I’m not sure.
I guess I could have counted my heartbeats, but the way my heart is racing, it would be difficult to keep up.
I could have counted the number of times I sobbed, the number of tears which rolled down my cheeks, the number of times I held my breath and willed my heart to stop so I could listen, hoping desperately to hear a sound, any sound, just something that could convince me that there was...what?
Hope?
If there was a sound, it probably means someone is coming.
If someone is coming, it probably means they are coming to find out what I know.
If they want to know what I know, that probably means persuading me to talk...and that probably means blades, hot needles and the return of the instruments of torture.
But at least it would mean I hadn’t been abandoned!
At least it
would mean that I hadn’t be left to die...alone.
-
Another ten minutes?
Another hour?
I’ve been crying quite a lot. Not shrieking like a girl or anything, just weeping, softly, almost absent-mindedly.
I’m not quite sure why I’m crying.
I’m still scared, of course, but it isn’t that.
It’s not the fear, but the memories.
I haven’t gone looking for them. In reality, I don’t want them around. But like unwelcome relatives at Christmas, they turn up anyway, crowding into my mind, jostling for attention, pushing to be noticed, scrambling to be remembered.
-
Why the fuck should Chipper Morgan’s freckly face appear now, wearing that same expression that it always seem to hold, an expression which simply asked:
‘Why do they always pick on me?’
I know he used to hide in the toilets and cry sometimes, just like I’m crying now. I can still hear his voice, pleading and begging to be left alone.
Maybe we were all responsible for what he did to himself, not just those who used to chase him and hit him and steal his bag and blazer, but those who simply stood by and allowed it all to happen.
-
I see a face made old before its time.
It’s a regret so many of us fear we may end up with.
Never having been there to say goodbye.
Dad.
I’m so sorry.
-
Now I can see our neighbour, Mr O’Flynn, standing at the door of the house, talking to my mum. As I try to slip upstairs unnoticed, he glances over her shoulder towards me...and in those old, time-worn eyes I can see that he knows it was me who threw the stone that broke his bathroom window.
Maybe it was fear, or guilt, or both, that made me react so angrily to the accusation he levelled at me.
Such teenage insolence, such awful disrespect...and such shock in his expression, mixed with a sad disappointment; they were there every time I saw him after that, right up until the day he died.