by Rob Aspinall
The courtyard had a sawdust-stone floor, with four huge wooden vats in the centre. Like open barrels, only bigger and fatter, filled with soapy water.
A woman stood at one of them, wringing out a sheet.
Could it be?
It looked like her, but her long blonde hair was in the way. And I didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I moved in closer, all the time glancing around the courtyard for spying eyes.
But the guards roaming the high walls with rifles strapped to their backs didn’t seem to notice me. So I circled the woman, trying to get a better look as she bent over, squeezing the sheet.
Then she stood up and dumped the sheet in a large wicker basket next to the vat.
Crap, it was her.
The butterflies started raving in my stomach. My heart beating out of my chest.
Relief. Joy. Fear. Confusion. It all hit me at the same time.
What do I say? What do I do? Will she even remember me?
I tried to play it cool. I breathed out the nerves and approached slow and steady. Picked up a dirty sheet from a pile on the floor and dunked it in one of the vats.
The woman was singing to herself. Soft and sweet. A perma-smile welded to her face. Her skin tanned and the freckles on her nose all joined up. It made her eyes look far bluer than I remembered. A lot older too, without makeup. She looked at me and smiled some more.
I froze. Didn’t know what to say. The woman went back to her work, dunking in another sheet.
Come on Lorn, say something.
“Nice day for doing the washing,” I said.
“It is,” she said, eyes fixed on her work.
I went through the motions with the sheet, pushing it into the warm water. I checked my six. I was okay. No one had twigged. “Don’t you recognise me?” I asked in a hushed voice.
The woman turned and stared.
“It’s me, Mum.”
Mum cocked her head. Her forehead wrinkling.
“It’s Lorna, don’t you—”
Mum dropped her washing. She dried her hands on a towel. Touched my cheek with a hand rough from chores. “Of course I remember.”
“Oh, good,” I said, relieved.
“You were my birth-spring,” Mum continued. “From a previous spirit cycle.”
“Uh, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you seeking the Higher Light Plane?”
“Not exactly,” I said, scoping the courtyard. I talked under my breath. “I’ve come to bust you out.”
Mum tinkled with laughter. As if it was a joke. “What are you talking about?”
“The cult, Mum. You've done your stretch, now let's go.”
I dropped my sheet in the water and took Mum by the arm.
She shook me off. “Why would I want to leave?” she asked, as if it was the worst idea since socks and sandals.
“Because it’s Crackpot Central,” I said. “That's why.”
Mum’s face seemed locked in a serene daze. “Poor child. You only know the ways of the flesh-bound.”
“Have you heard yourself, Mum? They’ve brainwashed the bejesus out of you—”
“Lorna,” she said, with pitying eyes. Like I was a puppy who didn’t know what its own tail was for. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around for you.”
I started to well up as she talked.
“But it was time for me to move onto my next cycle,” she continued. “To discover my inner truth flame.” She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps it’s time you did the same.” She looked me up and down. “You’re a grown woman now. I think you’re ready.”
I clocked a bunch of people talking in the corner of the courtyard. Guards taking note. I didn’t have long before they sniffed me out.
I shook Mum by the shoulders. “You want a truth flame? How’s this for a truth flame? Your glorious leader is a delusional schizo nutball. He makes a bucketload of cash out of your so-called cycles. And you all act as his personal army of hippy slaves while he runs drugs all over America.”
“Who told you that?” Mum said.
“Oh, no one. Just the news, the internet, the FBI . . . “
Mum laughed and shook her head. “Damon does what's necessary to alleviate more minds. To introduce as many souls as possible to the Higher Light.”
“What? Washing your undies in a giant barrel? This just in, Mum—we’ve got washing machines and skinny jeans,” I said, pulling my dress at the hip. “You don’t need to live like this.”
Mum tutted and put on a sad smile. “Stay here a week, Lorna. Talk to Damon. You'll soon see the light.”
I grabbed her by the elbow again. “Please Mum, you’re all I’ve got.”
“You’ve got your friends . . . Becki, isn’t it?
“Well, we’re kind of not talking at the moment—”
“Well, what about Aunt Claire?” Mum said.
So as I suspected, my letter didn’t make it through. Like all the other ones. Maybe they’d already moved. Or maybe Damon Jacobs had someone read them and burn them. I’d spent ages coming up with a good story, as well. I mean, it’s not like you can say, ‘Hey Mum, your sister got kidnapped and killed by a secret agency. And all because I wouldn’t give them a list I found on a pair of contact lenses in a confession booth.’
No, you can’t say that.
So I said she’d slipped away peacefully in her sleep from a sudden and unexpected heart attack. I wasn’t about to tell her now.
The mention of Auntie Claire’s name brought instant flashbacks to that day in the Oslo barn.
And the penny dropped
I was doing it again. Putting my own happiness first.
“Are you okay, Lorna?” Mum said. “You look upset.”
I sucked up the tears and smiled. Two burly guys in flowing cotton robes were coming for me across the courtyard. I glanced around the high walls. Shooters on all four corners. The compound itself, perched high on the Bay Area hills.
It occurred to me that Mum, brainwashed or not, was happy. She was alive. And this was just about the safest place for her. In her mind, she had a good thing going. Who was I to ruin it for her?
I wanted to throw my arms around her. Squeeze her to death. Tell her—stuff.
But I couldn’t let on to Damon I was her only sprog. What if she was punished? Excluded? Worse?
So I backed off. “I’m gonna go now, Mum.”
“Goodbye Lorna,” Mum said. “Peace be with your spirit.”
“Yep, peace be with your spirit, too.”
The two men seized me by the arms.
“I’m going. I’m going,” I said, getting one last look at Mum over my shoulder. She was already back to her washing.
“Who are you?” one of the men asked me. A middle-aged guy who looked like could have been a CEO at a company retreat.
“Um, just a journo,” I said. “San Fran Globe.”
“There is no San Fran Globe,” he said.
“We’re small, irrelevant. No one reads the thing anyway.”
I let them march me into the main building, through a cool, rust-tiled hallway, all the way to the front door. It looked like an old mansion they’d commandeered. All the doors to the rooms closed apart from one. And out of that door stepped Damon Jacobs, the leader of New Horizon.
I recognised him from the website. He was short and wiry, with a trimmed greying beard, thick black hair and a California tan.
“Have you come to join, my child?” he asked in a deep, soft and hypnotic voice.
“No, she’s come to cause trouble,” the CEO-type said, opening the front door. “She’s a journalist.”
“It’s okay, you can let her go,” Damon said.
The two grunts released their grip on me. I looked at Jacobs and saw the man who’d taken Mum away. Put the burden on Auntie Claire. Convinced a hundred people to take their own lives, with absolutely nothing done about it. Just the same as Nathan. The same beady-eyed, two-faced evil.
“Oh really?” I said with a smile. “Well tell that to your balls.”
Damon looked confused. I kicked him hard in the danglies.
As he dropped to his knees in agony, I slipped out of the door, ran to the front gate and threw my dress off over my head.
Had to get out of there before I cried.
Once I'd pulled myself together, I took a tram ride along the steep streets of the city, all the way down to the bay. Many buildings still sported damage from the earthquake caused by the Spider’s Web. Some had been torn down completely. Giant cracks in the road had been filled in and patched over with tarmac. And the bay itself—still a disaster zone.
I stood and watched ferries transport traffic to and fro across the water. Boats and crews swarmed around the Golden Gate Bridge, the entire thing collapsed and twisted. The midsection was submerged and the supporting wires snapped, as if the legs gave way. I wondered how the hell they were gonna fix a mess like that. It'd take years. And the Golden Gate Bridge was the mere tip of the terror-berg. In some countries, they didn’t have the money to fix the devastation. Not even with charities chipping in.
And all in one afternoon. With one click of a button. That’s what JPAC were capable of. And it seemed hopeless to resist them. Whatever you did came to nothing. They kept shifting, adapting, always three or four moves ahead.
And how long before they launched the next assault? It’s not like they’d have given up their little plan of global destruction.
I mean, the Spider’s Web was only the appetiser. A test run. Nathan and Teddy Tucker said so themselves.
But someone had to try. And with my plans for a Mother-Daughter road trip all up in smoke, it’s not like I was doing anything else. Well, other than staying off the intelligence grid.
Besides, I figured there was at least a one percent chance Philippe was alive. Doing JPAC time in some hole somewhere. Taking a beating in a dingy little jail cell. Who knew . . . Would he have given up on me like I’d given up on him?
I mean, one percent was still a chance, right?
I took out my phone and called the only number it came with. The phone I said I wouldn’t need, but had been told to take anyway.
So I’d taken it. And now I was glad I had.
I waited for an answer.
A familiar voice picked up. “Hello?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said.
“I thought you would,” Inge said. “Where are you now?”
“San Fran.”
“How soon can you get on a plane?” Inge said.
“Depends. Where am I headed?”
“Delaware,” she said.
“Dela-where?” I said.
7
Daylight Robbery
I was at a crossroads. Literally. Sitting in a bright yellow Dodge Charger with the engine chugging. Parked up against the kerb where I could see all four ways.
I stared at a giant billboard across the street. Get Your Hog On, it said. Exploding Pigs now on DreamPlay.
A teenage boy played the game in wraparound glasses. They had headphones on the arms and a DreamPlay logo on the side.
There was a girl on the poster too, on her phone playing a stripped-down version of the same game. Exploding Pigs was the latest craze the world had gone mental over. DreamPlay was the latest big gaming thing. It was a portable virtual reality tech that synced with an app on your smartphone. It turned your body into a giant game controller, without the need for a bulky headset or attachments. They’d sold out in days over Christmas, with people fighting each other in the shopping aisles for the last pair.
Ling played a game of her own on her phone, slouched in the passenger seat of the car. She wore black leggings and a zipped-up leather jacket. White hi-top trainers resting on the dash.
“What’s the big obsession with that game?” I said, shaking my head at the billboard. “I mean, you throw a pig. It explodes. Big woo.”
Ling shrugged, locked into her own virtual reality.
“What are you playing?” I asked, craning my neck to see.
“Slicing fruit,” she said.
“Fruit Ninja?” I asked.
“Uh,” Ling said.
It was the game where you sliced fruit with a sword.
“What’s the point in that?” I asked.
Ling blew a bubble of pink gum through her lips and let it pop. She sucked the gum back in and carried on chewing.
I shook my head. “You talk too much, you know that?”
I looked to my left through the side window. I watched the entrance to the AMX Bank, further down the street. A Charger identical to ours, even down to the plates, hugged the kerb outside.
“What’s taking so long?” I said, getting edgy. Right leg jigging. Bladder alarm starting to whoop.
Ling didn’t answer.
Quelle surprise.
I sighed and changed the channel on the radio. Started to sing along.
Then a traditional alarm bell rung out through the air. The tinted glass doors to the bank flew open. Inge and Bilal, the guy from Uzbekistan, ran out with big black bags over their shoulders. They threw them in the back and jumped in the car. Inge in the passenger seat. Bilal in the rear. The car sped away from the kerb in a swirl of tyre smoke, a mystery guy at the wheel.
The Dodge tore up the street to the crossroads. The lights turned green. The car slid sideways into a right hand turn, police cars appearing in the distance in pursuit.
I put the Charger in gear and revved the 450bhp engine. I let Team A blast past us. Saw them make a super-hard left into an alley off the main drag.
“Team B, you’re up,” Inge said over comms.
I took my foot off the brake and stepped on the accelerator. We set off like a rocket, tyres screeching as I drove for the lights.
They turned green. We flew across the crossroads as a pair of wailing black and whites caught up to us. They skidded into a left turn and latched onto our tail.
Wilmington was a city in the US state of Delaware. The state was on the East Coast, down from Pennsylvania. I'd found out on Wikipedia that the city was known as a tax haven for corporate mega-giants. Not to mention all kinds of shady investors. JPAC included, whose local bank of choice just happened to have been robbed by Inge and Bilal.
I cut through the mid-morning traffic. The day still hazy. The city small by US standards,
Reassuringly dubbed, ‘Murder Town USA’.
It was a cluster of high-rise office blocks in the centre. Smaller old-school suburbs around that and long, wide stretches of water.
I figured it would be easier once we broke out of the finance district. The centre of the city was busy and tight on space. We soon ran into a solid line of traffic. Slamming on the brakes, I mounted the kerb to escape those black and whites. Thumping the horn and flashing my lights. People darting left and right out of the way.
I swung back out onto a clear stretch of road. Checked the sat nav screen. It told me to take a right at an intersection. I was late braking. The car on two wheels, almost tipping over. Ling didn’t blink. She carried on slicing melons and pineapples on that stupid game, not even watching the road.
Soon we had three police cars up our behind. And a chopper in the sky—black, with a white underbelly. Not that it was hard to keep track of a bright yellow muscle car overtaking everything on the road.
Inge had chosen the colour for that exact reason.
I spoke over comms. “Remind me again why I’m the one with the cops on my tail?”
“Because you’re the best driver,” Inge said.
“I thought it was because she’s the youngest,” Bilal said.
“I thought you said she was the most expendable,” Roni said, in her New Jersey accent.
Remember the surly chick with the punk hair in Texas? Yeah, that's her.
I slid the car across an intersection. The sat nav told me I was
off-track and re-routed me down a tight alley between graffiti-sprayed walls. The squad cars followed us in, sirens wailing in chorus.
A bag lady pushing a trolley ran out of the way. I missed her by a whisker. Turned up the radio and sang.
“Can you stop singing over comms?” Roni said. “You’re breaking my concentration.”
“I’m breaking your—? Look, I’m the decoy. Decoys get to sing.”
“Stop singing,” Inge said. “And turn down the radio.”
I wheeled the dial to zero. “You’re not the boss of me,” I said under my breath, braking hard at the end of the alley.
I yanked the handbrake halfway. We slid to the left, across traffic onto a wide carriageway heading out of the city centre and over a river.
I weaved between slower-moving cars. Glanced over at Ling. Still slicing fruit. Blowing bubbles. Feet on the dash as if chilling at home.
Well, at least she trusts me.
Further up the road, with five black and whites giving chase and a grey news chopper joining the fun, we stumbled across a problem. The road was light on traffic. But we’d soon run into a string of red lights, with a heavy flow of cars and trucks streaming left and right across our path.
“A little help here?” I said.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Roni said. “Give me a second.”
“I haven’t got a second. I’m about to hit the first red.”
“There,” Roni said. “Happy now?”
The first light turned green. The crossing traffic thinned. I blasted through the lights and swerved around a straggling white box truck.
Roni had eyes on the whole city thanks to a hack into traffic cameras and the GPS tracker on the Dodge. She must have switched the lights again, because the traffic snarled up all ways to Sunday behind me.
Unfortunately, three of the squad cars made it through. I punched it to the next set. Red turned to green, but it was another close call.
“Just give me green all the way.” I said.
“Yeah, like it’s that easy,” Roni said.
I could see Roni was gonna be another Millie Beauchamp, all over again.
“Do it,” Inge told her.
Trusting that she would, I put the pedal to the metal. And ding, ding, ding, they all switched from red to green. The traffic cleared, then snagged up behind me, the last remaining squad car torpedoed by a black SUV.