by Molly Flatt
‘And this happened early last year?’
‘March. The twentieth of March was the day we met.’
Watching Dughlas’s neck flare, Alex found it all too easy to imagine: the excruciatingly shy teenage bookworm, a mediocre Reader who knew that he was considered a charity case, a joke. How strong he would have felt, how special, coming across the beautiful woman with the tragic past. A woman who had spent her life amongst whispers and stares. A woman who seemed to have eyes only for him.
As for Freya, perhaps Dughlas had reminded her of Tom, her long-lost young lover. Or perhaps her booze-cunning had simply recognized someone who would worship rather than judge her. Someone who would help her romanticize the shitty mess she had become.
Harry, she suddenly thought. Forgive me. Forgive me what you’re going through.
‘But Taran – Professor MacGill – found out about the letters?’ MacBrian prompted.
Dughlas shifted in the chair. ‘At first he was furious, said he’d get me banned. But two days after that he summoned me again and said he’d talked to Freya and he understood now that we were friends. He said that Director MacCalum was going to try out a new Reading technique that could help Freya and other people like her, people with particularly resistant root Memories. A secret technique.’ He glanced up with a flash of defiance. ‘They needed my help. Director MacCalum needed time in the Stacks, time that he wasn’t going to be hassled about. So Professor MacGill asked if I was willing to give up my shift.’
‘And you were to keep this secret? Keep the rota unchanged?’
Back to Alex’s chin. ‘Professor MacGill said you’d try to stop us, if you found out. He said’ – the slightest hint of relish crept into his voice – ‘you’d never understand what we were trying to do. He said you didn’t have the imagination.’
With an invisibly fast reflex, Iain smacked Dughlas round the back of the head. Dughlas yelped.
‘But you didn’t talk to Director MacCalum himself?’ MacBrian asked. ‘About the arrangement?’
Rubbing the back of his neck resentfully, Dughlas shook his head. ‘Professor MacGill said the Director wanted to keep as much distance between me and him as possible, so no-one would suspect. He was grateful, though. The Professor told me he was, and I could see it, too. He pretended not to notice me when he was passing through the archives, but it was there in his eyes. Professor MacGill said that the Director was going to make me his official assistant, once they’d proved their idea worked and got approval from the Board.’
‘But we questioned you in February, after Director MacCalum’s accident. You didn’t say then that Professor MacGill had been involved in arranging the shifts, did you, Dughlas?’
‘He said it was for the best,’ Dughlas said miserably. ‘He said that they had been really close to refining the technique, when the Director died, and if the Council found out that Professor MacGill was involved, they’d force him to stop. Then the Director’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.’
MacBrian turned to Alex. ‘Of course we re-questioned Dughlas last Wednesday, on his return to Iskeull. That’s when we found out all the extra details about Taran’s involvement.’ She swivelled back to Dughlas. ‘And you told us then that you did talk to Director MacCalum in person after all, didn’t you, Dughlas? Just once, the evening he died?’
Dughlas nodded. ‘He came to the house.’
‘Professor MacGill’s house.’
‘Yes.’ A note of pride, now. ‘The Professor let me spend my shifts there with Freya. She loved having me in her room, showing me her planes. He had told me not to answer the door to anyone, but when I saw it was Director MacCalum, I knew it would be alright. But then when I did open it, the Director seemed very upset. He asked me where Professor MacGill was, and I told him that I didn’t exactly know. I said I’d assumed he was in the archives, but that maybe if he wasn’t there, he might be trying out stuff in our Stack. The Director got this funny look on his face and asked me to remind him which Stack was our Stack. I didn’t understand why he would ask that, but he was getting really angry by then, so I just told him. I-537.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Nothing. I stayed with Freya until fourth bell, then went home. I only found out what had happened to the Director the next morning.’
‘When Professor MacGill visited you?’
Dughlas visibly cringed. ‘He was so angry with me for talking to the Director. I thought he was going to—’ He realized what he was about to say, and stopped. ‘After a while he calmed down a bit and told me there might be a way to make up for it, if I kept my mouth shut. He told me that if I did exactly what he said, we might be able to hide what really happened in the Stack that morning.’
‘And what,’ Alex said coldly, ‘was that?’
Dughlas’s Adam apple started careering up and down again. Unexpectedly, Alex saw two bright rims of moisture collect on his downcast lashes. ‘I killed him,’ he whispered.
Alex looked wildly round at MacBrian. ‘He killed Egan MacCalum?’
‘Wait.’ MacBrian held up a hand. ‘Go on, Dughlas.’
‘Professor MacGill said he’d taken the shift that night.’ His voice was barely decipherable now, gravel mixed with glue. ‘He said he thought that Director MacCalum had been working too hard, what with his official duties on top of the experiments. So he’d decided to give him a break. He said that he was Reading a really stubborn Storyline, one that was fighting their new technique, when Director MacCalum came in and disturbed him. He’d jerked out of the Reading and somehow the root Memory had let out this blast of energy and hit the Director, right in the chest.’
Dughlas stopped snuffling then and looked fiercely at Alex. For a moment she saw how he could have done it; how he could have invented a Storyline where he became some sort of jihadi warrior – defending against the evil Outsider – and set out to gun her down.
‘And Taran told you to keep all this yourself?’ MacBrian asked.
‘He warned me that you’d come and see me, to ask questions about that night. He told me what to tell you. He even made me rehearse it. Then he told me to stay quiet, to take time off work, not to come to the house. He said he needed time to work out what to do.’
‘Until two weeks ago. When we found the right Dorothy Moore.’
‘He said it was the only way I could make up for what I’d done. He said I had to destroy her evil Story.’
‘So you came to London and tried to kill me,’ Alex said. ‘Twice. But you screwed up, didn’t you, Dughlas? Got your arse whipped by a couple of city kids. Lurked outside a restaurant’ – oh, Harry, forgive me – ‘in broad daylight. Let the homesickness drive you nuts.’
Dughlas glared at her, twisting his hands, no doubt imagining her neck.
‘After he was arrested, the police drove him to a local station,’ MacBrian said. ‘By that time he was ranting about all kinds of strange things they took to be delusions, thankfully. And despite the accusations of this’ – she checked her notebook – ‘jewellery designer? there was no real evidence of a crime. They transferred him to a drug rehabilitation unit in’ – she glanced down again – ‘Uxbridge? By this time he was in a very bad way, but the unit wasn’t particularly secure. Dughlas managed to escape and, using Taran’s credit card, found his way back to Kirkwall, where we were tipped off.’
‘Tipped off?’
MacBrian looked at Iain. ‘We get the odd problem with islanders on leave: people trying to travel too far, youngsters testing their strength. For such purposes we maintain a number of . . . contacts around Orkney and Scotland. Nothing official. No governments. Just hand-picked individuals, contacted anonymously and compensated handsomely. Associates.’
‘Oh.’ Alex raised her eyebrows. ‘Associates.’
‘Anyway,’ MacBrian continued briskly, ‘Iain’s team picked Dughlas up in Kirkwall, at which point he begged them to take him back to the island in exchange for everything he knew.’
‘I could
n’t help it,’ Dughlas muttered, his skin flaming. ‘The homesickness – it’s torture. It feels like you’re being ripped apart inside.’
‘You know what, Dughlas?’ Alex said. ‘I know exactly how that feels.’
Dughlas looked back at the Memory. Panic crossed his face. ‘He never told me they’d hurt you,’ he stammered. ‘He never said anything about – that. He said it was all your fault. That there was something wrong with your Story. That it was built wrong. That it was . . . That you were—’
‘Sa il-onaidh,’ Iain said succinctly. Dughlas shut up.
‘Take him out, Iain, please,’ MacBrian said wearily. ‘And find out what’s happened to Finn.’
Iain stood and Douglas lurched back to his feet without having to be asked. He shot a final horrified glance at Alex’s Memory, then followed Iain out.
‘So,’ MacBrian said.
They both looked, again, at the Memory.
‘Can I touch it?’ Alex asked.
‘I don’t see there’s much harm. Iain carried it here, after all.’
Alex leaned across the table and picked up the Ryman’s pot, then almost dropped it. The thin polyethylene tube felt as heavy as lead. She rearranged her grip, then almost dropped it again, as the Memory began to dart around inside like a deranged insect.
It recognizes me, she thought, holding it up to the light. She felt a sudden, unlocatable jab of pain, somewhere between a gunshot and grief. What are you? she begged. What terrible secret do you hide? ‘So I was just a lab rat, then?’ she asked out loud. ‘A test subject for this Editing thing?’ She thought of the statue, so beautiful, so lofty, reaching out towards the Library. ‘Your glorious Director ripped out part of my soul because he thought it would – how did you put it – serve the majority?’
‘No,’ said Finn.
25
Finn looked ten years older and exhausted. There was a bandage turbaned round his head and a purple bulge above one of his eyes. Alex wanted to jump forward and hug him, like he’d hugged her when she’d arrived back from the tomb. But he didn’t look like he’d want anyone to touch him for a while.
‘Can I . . . ?’
‘Careful. It’s heavy.’
He received the Ryman’s pot as carefully and reverentially as if it were a newborn. As soon as it transferred hands, the Memory stopped rocketing and hung tranquilly in the centre of the cylinder again. Iain returned, closing the door behind him. After a while MacBrian said, as gently as Alex had ever heard her say anything, ‘Finn?’
‘He seemed pleased to see me,’ Finn said. ‘He actually seemed pleased to see me. He said that he wanted me to try to understand. I think he believes he’s done the right thing, even now. I think he’s proud.’
After a few more moments he handed the pot back to Alex and went and sat in Dughlas’s vacant chair. He threw his head back and watched the rain slide down the dome. ‘Dughlas doesn’t know the full story,’ he said. ‘My father did discover how to Edit, that part’s right. But he didn’t hurt you, Alex. He never touched your Story. Taran was the one who took your Memory out.’
‘Taran?’ MacBrian pinched her temples. ‘Dear Library, Taran? How?’
Alex put the pot back on the table. The Memory stabilized.
‘It began early last March,’ Finn said, his voice distant, his face Reading-still. ‘The day my father told the Council he’d decided to stop Reading after all. Taran found himself summoned here, to this room, shortly after second bell. My father was pacing around, still in his damp Reading clothes, obviously upset. He told Taran to shut the door and swore him to secrecy, then explained that he had just beaten his personal Reading best. Four hundred Stories in six hours, without a single feint. He said he felt like he’d reached a new level of connection with the Library. What he called a pure state of flow.’ Finn paused. ‘Towards the end of the session my father had come across a Storyline with a particularly tough root Memory. He did what he always did, what any good Reader would do. He waited, breathed through it, gave it space – and after a while he felt it yield. The meaning of the Storyline gushed out, as usual. But just before it broke apart, he felt something detach. And then, while the other Memories rushed back into the Story, he saw that one of them was still there. On his fingertip.’
The slap and plish of old rain, sliding over the glass.
‘I don’t understand,’ MacBrian said slowly. ‘He must have done something different. Something unusual. Something new.’
‘My father said not. He told Taran that he’d asked himself the same question, over and over. Yet he was certain he hadn’t done anything different from the last thousand Reads, or the thousand before that.’
MacBrian spread her palms. ‘So you’re telling us this Memory simply Edited itself?’
‘Apparently my father thought it had happened simply because he Read so much. You all know the numbers. He’d Read millions of Stories over the years. He’d taken multiple shifts when he was young, more than anyone else on record. He told Taran that he believed he’d reached some kind of – and these were his exact words – tipping point. He reached a whole new level of integration with the Library, which allowed that Memory to simply – let go.’
‘Sweet Library!’ MacBrian murmured. ‘So much for Taran’s elaborate calculations and models. When all you have to do is keep Reading. Read enough.’
‘What did he do with it?’ Alex asked. ‘The Memory?’
‘The Story was still in its dock in the wall, still open, still regathering its Memories, in preparation for its return to the Library. So my father simply climbed up the wall and dropped the detached Memory back in. The Story simply closed over and vanished, as normal, into the energy behind the wall.’
MacBrian leaned forward. ‘But why didn’t he tell the Council, Finn? The Board? Your father may have been frustrated with the politics at times, but I can’t believe he would have hidden a discovery of that magnitude.’
‘Taran couldn’t believe it, either. He told my father he should be thrilled.’
Finn looked round at them then, and the grief that cracked through his mask made Alex long to reach across the table and take his hand. ‘Of course my father loved being loved,’ he said. ‘He loved being a star. But the real reason he loved Reading was because it allowed him to become part of something bigger than himself.’ He looked at MacBrian. ‘I know you think he was selfish. Vain. But I saw what it really meant to him, whenever he talked about Reading, to my mother and me. He told Taran that when that Memory came away in his hand, it felt wrong. He said it felt dangerous, being able to force someone like that. Taking away their choice. He said it felt like he’d stepped outside the Library, rather than gone deeper in. He said it felt cold.’
Finn stood and walked over to the empty spaces on the wall where his father’s pictures had once hung, faced the empty shelves that had once groaned with his father’s Outside trinkets and books. The rain had started again, whispering insistently on the glass. ‘He said he never wanted to feel it again, and he didn’t think that anyone else should, either.’
‘Let me guess,’ MacBrian said. ‘Taran disagreed.’
‘Taran thought he was a coward. Taran said that the Library had shown him the path to the future and it would be irresponsible of him not to take it.’
MacBrian made a grim sound in the back of her throat. ‘And did Taran tell you how your father responded to that?’
‘He said he was going to stop Reading altogether, from that night on. He told Taran he wasn’t to speak a word about what had happened, and that he never wanted to discuss it again. Taran told me his exact words. Just because something is possible, that doesn’t mean it’s right.’
In its plastic tube, the Memory danced.
‘Taran said,’ Finn went on, after a moment, ‘that I wasn’t to feel ashamed of my father. He said that people who were successful in the present were always afraid of change. He said that sometimes’ – a beat – ‘for new growth to come through’ – a beat – ‘the de
ad heather has to burn.’
‘Finn.’ Unable to resist any longer, Alex crossed the room and placed her hands on Finn’s shoulder blades. He twitched, like a horse with a fly, but he didn’t turn round.
‘He kept saying,’ he said, ‘that the thing people never understand is that free will isn’t free will if you don’t have self-control.’
‘I bet he did,’ Alex said. ‘It’s like he told Dughlas. This whole shit-show is about Freya, essentially?’
Finn turned. ‘Freya?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The guy’s your classic geek, a kid who lived his life through sci-fi books while his hot mate aced sports day and got all the girls. And then the only person he ever really loved, who ever really loved him, fell for the wrong guy. She let one stubborn Storyline destroy the rest of her life, and probably quite a big chunk of his, too. And so he went back to his books with even more fervour, desperate to believe that if he just found the right theory, he could bring the whole world under his control.’
She threw up her hands. ‘Jesus! I mean, Taran’s been waiting his whole life for something like this to come along. Imagine how frustrated he must have been when this “breakthrough” passed him by, for all his cleverness. Instead it went to his perfect friend, simply because he got on and did it. And imagine how angry he must have been when Egan rejected the treasure that had fallen into his lap.’
Finn was staring at her. She shrugged. ‘Two thousand three hundred quid’s worth of therapy. It had to come in useful sometime.’
‘And did he tell you what really happened that night, Finn?’ MacBrian asked. ‘On the seventeenth?’