The Very Last Days of Mr Grey

by Jack Worr

  “That the kid?” the officer interrogating a man in his early twenties asked.

  Mason and the two agents stopped in the doorway.

  The agents looked at Mason, then back to the officer.

  “No,” the officer said, “guess not. Where you fella’s from?”

  “Ministry of Defense.”

  The cop frowned, getting up. He made a gesture, and another officer appeared behind them moments later.

  “Let’s see some ID then,” the cop in the interrogation room said.

  The agents looked behind them, and seemed disgusted. They looked at Mason as though it were his fault, saying, “This is pointless.”

  They showed the officers their IDs however.

  The cop looked at the IDs, nodded, then handed them to the uniformed officer. “Frank?”

  The officer apparently named Frank examined them, nodding as well. “Ministry?” he questioned, “your badges say department.”

  “Leave the feds alone, Frank.” The other cop was already sitting back down across from the suspect, who seemed both confused and happy.

  Frank grinned, leaned in, “DoD wouldn’t be handling cases inside the States. You must be MI:5, right? Your accent’s good, but just slightly off.” He frowned. “Or is it MI:6? What’s the difference?”

  “All right, Frank, get back out there and finish the paperwork. I wanna get this guy booked.”

  “I want an attorney, man.”

  “See what you gone and did Frank?” the cop asked, exhaling loudly.

  Frank pressed his lips together in a tight grin and shook his head. “Duty calls. You can use six. Room six that is.” He pointed. “Nice and quiet. Very well insulated.” He looked at Mason as he had said this. Mason didn’t gulp.

  And then Mason had been led to this very room, where they had handcuffed him in his current position, then left him.

  Now, he was alone, waiting, and this much at least he expected from movies. The “let him stew” scene; there so the criminal could contemplate what he’d done wrong.

  But Mason hadn’t committed any crimes, and so instead he wondered about Sera. He worried about Emily. How would he explain to her that he couldn’t make it to her birthday tonight because he was in custody? Or worse, jail.

  He wouldn’t worry her like that. Best to let her wonder, a voice said. Best to let her suffer.

  “Shut up.” Mason became acutely aware that the room he was in was likely bugged. He resisted the urge to cover his mouth. This all felt like a dream, like the day after having way too much caffeine, the nights spent downing those blue Rockstars, waking up early the next day, then that night, getting the pulsating sense of wrongness, in the center of his head, the unreal sense of being in a world that didn’t exist, or that simply didn’t matter.

  Soon, the door opened, preceding a man into the room. It was one of the ones who’d brought him in, the ones he’d previously successfully gotten away from in just the same manner: by jumping out a window. Only this time, instead of falling into a place where they couldn’t follow, he’d fallen into some bushes just below the window, and where they followed with all too much ease. He had been so close to freedom, that now having it snatched away was all the worse. All the things he could have done were all he could think of. If he’d just done this or that differently—And it wasn’t even that abstract. If he’d just avoided the hospital, just drank the tequila in the freezer, just not sought out Sera again, just stayed with Emily, slept just a little bit longer and not gotten hit in his car, none of this would have happened, and he’d be safe, somewhere.

  But he was here, looking at a man who Mason had seen do something impossible. Sure, Mason had jumped out of the window—accidentally—and seemed no worse off for it—not even his stitches split this time—but that man, what he’d seen him do, was something else entirely. He’d not just jumped, but seemed to have flown out the window, and landed if not on his feet, then at least in an imposing pose. And now here one of them was, to question him.

  Mason had at first thought it was the one who jumped, but he saw the pant leg was unmarred. This made him realize how he paid more attention to their suits and other details of their appearance than their faces, and how odd this was that it should be so. Mason made an effort to look at the man’s face.

  He sat down across from Mason, and looked at him for a moment. Then he spoke. “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Grey.”

  Mason stared.

  “Mr Grey, we need your help.”

  Mason remained silent. He’d already asked for an attorney, inspired by the kid whose interrogation they’d interrupted, and none was provided to him. When he’d made this request, they’d looked at each other, then at him like he was mad.

  “You can help us, Mr Grey. You could help us a great deal by telling us where you are.”

  “Where I am?” Mason blurted out before he could stop himself.

  “Yes. Exactly.” The man leaned in, hungry. “Is it the asylum? Is that where you are?” He leaned back. “It would make sense.”

  It was as though they were trying to get him an insanity plea, which made no sense. But, hey, what did he know? “I’m in a police station,” Mason answered, confused.

  The agent looked disappointed. “You are causing my partner and I a great deal of work.”

  At this point, as if called in, likely definitely called in given where they were, his partner entered, looked at him, nodded.

  The questioning agent stood, walking around to Mason’s side of the table. “It would be easier on all of us if you just told us.”

  Mason looked at him. “What?”

  His newly arrived partner shut the interrogation-room door and joined him next to Mason. “Pay attention! Where!” he screamed. “Are you in Joffrey Columns? You are, aren’t you? That’s where you are. You’re a Builder gone bad.”

  “I think it is,” his partner said. “Or maybe he’s a rotten Dreamer.”

  “Is that what you are, huh!?” He slapped the table.

  Mason looked between his two captors. “Who are you!”

  The agent looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “My name, is Consul Ehd.”

  Mason, shocked at the change in tone and that he’d gotten an answer, asked, “What’s a consul?”

  The agent—consul—wore a slight grin. “You can think of us as investigators.”

  “I’m Investigator Ehd, and this is Investigator Fredriks.”

  “Ed? Your name is Ed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, Mr Ed?”

  “Consul Ehd.”

  “I thought you said investigator?”

  He punched Mason in the face. “I’m sorry, what was your question?”

  “Ow.”

  They let him recover for a minute.

  Mason twitched his nose several times. It was numb, but didn’t seem to be bleeding or broken.

  “Now, Mr Grey,” the one called Fredriks said at length, “just tell us where you are and this can all be over. We all get to go home. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mason shouted nasally. Except, that wasn’t entirely true. He remem—

  The fist moved fast, but Mason saw it coming this time. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to avoid it, and it slammed into his already bruised face, on the cheekbone.

  He felt the stitches in his torso stretch as he was nearly knocked out of his chair.

  The agent (for Mason had no idea what a consul was, and investigator seemed too quaint, and so they would forever be agents to him) leaned over and calmly whispered into Mason’s ear, “Just tell us, and this will all be over. It can stop right now, it’s up to you. You’re in control here.”

  “Hey,” his partner said.

  The agent stood and straightened himself, running a hand over his hair.

  Mason struggled to focus on their faces. He didn’t see the fist coming this time. But something was different. He was so tired, in so much pain.
He just wanted this to stop. And as the fist connected with his face, a connection formed in his mind, of another fight, another fist. In Mason’s mind, the word appeared, large and bold: STOP.

  His neck locked and the movement of his head halted, all the momentum being thrown back, straight into the fist.

  “Shit!” Ehd shook his hand.

  Fredriks looked quizzically at him. Mason knew this even without raising his head to confirm with his eyesight what his mind had seen. The partner looked back and forth between them once. “What?”

  Ehd just stared at Mason. “Think you’re clever, getting around our block, do you?” He leaned in close. “This may be your dream, but it’s our rules.”

  The blow landed in Mason’s stomach before he knew what was happening. He let out a breath, then vomited bile onto the table. There was blood in it.

  Ehd leaned back, seemed to shake himself, as if to let the wrinkles out of his suit, then swiped a hand over his hair, smoothing the clump that had fallen over his forehead back into place.

  They didn’t hit him again after that. Maybe they were worried he’d die. Maybe it was something else.

  That didn’t mean they went easy on him though. They worked on him for several hours more. Asking him where Blackburn was (Mason didn’t know what Blackburn was), who was in the Guile (again, Mason didn’t know what this was either), and many other questions that would not make sense to him for quite a long time. But just then, there was nothing for him to tell, and so nothing was what they got.

  Eventually, they left him there, sore and chained and tired.

  The one called Fredriks looked at his partner, shook his head once, stood, then left.

  Ehd stared at him for a moment across the metal table. “This isn’t doing you any good. You should just tell us.”

  When Mason didn’t respond, he too shook his head and left. He paused at the door, turned his head down and to the side, not quite far enough to catch Mason’s eye. “Before we have to take you somewhere and force you out.”

  The door shut. Mason would have gotten up and tried to open it, but he was still handcuffed to the table. And the floor.

  Instead, he looked around the room. There was a camera, there was a large mirror.

  Who was watching him now? Was anyone?

  There was a theory in psychology to describe this phenomenon, of thinking someone was watching you, thinking you were more important than you were. What was the name?

  Then he remembered, The Spotlight Effect. And with the term, came a flood of memories. He pushed them away.

  And anyway, just because there was a theory, that didn’t mean it applied to you.

  As he dosed off, a purplish creature almost as tall as the ceiling appeared in one corner and tilted its head at him.

  Then Mason was asleep.

  33

  Then - 20 Years Old

  In the front of the class, a boy of nineteen sits, usually slouched. He focuses on his work, the teacher, the projected images and slides, the movie ideas that flit through his mind. And nothing else.

  In the back row, high above due to the stadium seating, sits a girl of eighteen. She sits straight, occasionally talking with the girl on her right and boy on her left, who sometimes switch seats. She watches the slides, takes occasional notes on pad with pen, more often tapping on the keyboard of her laptop. Some days she listens to music, mostly on days when there’s a test, but also when she is bored, or thinking of someone else.

  These two people, never meet. Not once in the whole quarter do they arrive at the same time, nor take different seats than those they have now. Not once do both arrive early and be forced to wait outside until the classroom door is unlocked. Not once do either arrive late enough that they draw undue attention as they are taking their seats. Not once does the boy finish a test before the girl and leave before her. Not once, except for today.

  Today is the final day of the class, and not coincidentally, the day of the final. The boy, who on the test he now turns in has written the name Mason Grey, walks up the steps, taking in the seated class as he climbs, amazed that for once he is the first one to finish. He wonders at what a difference reading the assigned material makes, versus just half-paying attention in class.

  It is because of this commitment to studiousness that he sees the girl for the first time. She is pretty, and for that reason alone his eyes stop on her. But that is all she is. Her clothes aren’t exceptional, nor is her hair. She writes quickly, hunched over the test, but this is the final, and she did arrive late.

  And yet, as he gets closer, he feels a flutter, a twinge of familiarity in his chest.

  But of course, they are in the same class, so that is not so odd.

  But as he passes her, he turns back. It is more than that. He exits the classroom, assuming he must have seen her in another class, or maybe at a party.

  If he turned back just a second sooner, he might have seen her looking up at him, seen the recognition on her face. But by the time he did, she already realized that she didn’t have much time left to finish the test, and put her head back down to work and get the A she needs for a 4.0 this quarter, for which her reward will be a car of her choosing.

  He leaves the classroom that day with the nagging sense that he is missing something. Someone. He knows the girl from somewhere, he just knows it. But he can’t place her, and he’s unable to get the thought of her out of his mind, until he receives a text from Lily telling him she will be by tonight, and that he should be ready.

  He is.

  34

  Mason squinted at the sunlight as he was led outside the interrogation room and into the main station, what with its huge windows.

  He couldn’t believe it was day out. It was like coming out of a dark movie theater into the daylight and being shocked because every other time you’d left a theater it had been night. You somehow forgot that it was day when you entered.

  And so Mason had forgotten his life before this one now. The screenplays he had to write, that were due… He didn’t even know when. The date he had with a woman whose name he also couldn’t remember. Didn’t know what day the date was on or even what day it was now. “What day is it?”

  But no one answered.

  He wondered if this was a dream. How had he gotten here? Sera. Then a car accident, hospital, then Sera, fight, hospital—crap, he was Sisyphus.

  He could try to become Bill Murray. But just now, he couldn’t remember how that had turned out for old Bill.

  As they escorted him from the police station, no one seemed to pay much attention. “Who are you?” Mason wondered aloud. “Who do you work for exactly?” He didn’t think it was actually the Department of Defense. That cop had been right, their accents were just slightly off. Mason hadn’t noticed, but then again, he’d been more focused on getting away from them.

  Why do you run, that annoying voice asked. Ever since… When? The accident? No, the Naerdaxine. It was like a reverse antidepressant: instead of flat-lining his emotions and taking away his creativity, it had supercharged his imagination and put voices in his head.

  The irony was that he didn’t even know if it worked for sleep yet, since he’d been so pumped full of other drugs since the day he’d first taken it.

  “Quiet,” the agent ahead of him—Fredriks—said. “You had your chance to talk.”

  The one walking behind him—Ehd—leaned in close. “You know, Mr Grey. You know who we are, deep down. Just tell us where, and this will all be over. You can come home.”

  Mason turned slightly to look at the man, but Ehd leaned back and fell in behind Mason again. Mason wondered what he’d meant by that. ‘Come home’, not ‘go home’, as though they lived in the same building, the same house.

  In the parking lot, they put him in a nondescript car, a Ford. There was no divider between the back seat and the front, and the instrument panel looked odd, with levers and knobs and gears that were wholly out of place in a car, especially a Ford.

  “What
’s wrong with your car?”

  The agent in the driver’s seat—Ehd—shut his door, then looked back at Mason. He smiled, shook his head. “You can’t fool us, Mr Grey.”

  Fredriks got in. “Let’s go. I want out of this place.”

  Ehd turned, started the car using a lever that he pulled down on several times, then quickly backed out and exited the lot.

  Mason began to worry when they got on the freeway. “Where are you taking me? I have rights.”

  They ignored him.

  “Hey!” Hands cuffed behind him, he kicked the driver’s seat, and was surprised when it went forward far enough to slam Ehd, with an audible thunk, into the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve into the vehicle next to them, which in turn caused it to careen off the road, where it exploded in a cloud of glass and dust against a tree.

  Fredriks turned and pointed a gun at Mason as his partner got the car under control. “You should thank the Crown that someone wants badly to find you. But do not do that again.”

  “Aren’t you going to help them!”

  The agent turned back, stowing his gun. “Nice try, but the only person you can harm is yourself.”

  “What? Didn’t you see that car? They need help.”

  “Of course they do.” He looked at Mason. “As do you, Mr Grey. Clearly, you’re not getting it wherever you are.”

  Mason struggled to turn and look at the car they were rapidly speeding away from.

  It wasn’t on fire. That was good. He saw other cars stopped—most, in fact. A few had continued on though. One seemed to be gaining on them fast. Great, except whoever it was would try to stop Agents Ehd and Fredriks, or call the police on them, only to find out they were the police.

  He felt sorry for the person following them. Maybe it was because they drove the same model car as him. Or maybe it’s because you know the truth of the situation.

  He faced forward, leaned his head back, and stared at the headliner for a moment. He tried not to think of death, of steering columns becoming spikes. Then he closed his eyes.