The Eidolon

by Libby McGugan

  Excuse me? Did you hear me?

  “No, chest is clear. He must have had laryngospasm – he’s lucky...”

  TURN THAT LIGHT OUT!

  The light goes out.

  “Any family?”

  “Not with him.”

  The thing on my face pushes closer, digging into my cheeks, pinning me down. An alien thing attached to me... stopping me breathing... Oh, God, I’ll wake up and have one of them inside me, ready to burst out. How can you just stand there and watch this? I reach for the alien, pulling it from my face, but its tentacles grip my cheeks and it squeezes itself back on.

  “Calm down, Robert, it’s alright.”

  Calm down? It’s alright? What part of this is alright? There’s a plastic alien on my face! Whose side are you on?

  I struggle against the fist gripping my arm.

  “He’s already pulled one line out.”

  “I’d keep him sedated for now.”

  The blurs begin to fade and the will to fight washes away from me in a tide of indifference.

  I WAKE UP to the scent of Dettol and alcohol wipes, the stench of artificial cleanliness. The room is white and yellow, optimistic. White walls, yellow curtains, looking onto hills and a lake. A white wooden bedside cabinet sits to my left with a tall bulbous blue glass on top, next to a blue ceramic jug. A phone and two remote controllers sit on the cabinet. There’s a single white orchid in a slim white pot on the window sill. I can’t tell if it’s real or fake. If it weren’t for the observation chart hanging by a hook beneath the windowsill, I wouldn’t have said this was a hospital.

  “It’s good to see you awake, Mr Strong.” I turn towards the voice on my right.

  Victor Amos is sitting there, immaculate in his dark woollen coat and purple silk scarf, his hands clasped on his lap. “I’m encouraged to hear from your consultant that you’re making a full recovery. How are you feeling?”

  I sit up and the room spins. “I’m not sure, yet.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear of the accident.”

  “The pilot?”

  Amos shakes his head and averts his gaze. “I have launched a full enquiry into the incident. They’ve recovered the black box.”

  “Maybe you should start with your staff. Abrams, your aircraft engineer.”

  “I already have. He admits he may have failed to tighten the filler cap for the main rota gearbox.”

  “Sounds like a fairly fundamental oversight.”

  Amos nods. “Abrams was misguided. A frustrated engineer who felt he knew better. He found out about our intentions in CERN, and didn’t see eye to eye with our philosophy. It’s the reason we’re so strict about sharing information on a need-to know basis only. People make assumptions without being in possession of all the facts.”

  I stare at him. “He did it deliberately?”

  “Robert, you’re going to make a few enemies in this line of work. Very few people could ever understand the magnitude of what we’re facing and why we have to do this. It’s important that you realise that you’re acting in their best interest. But don’t expect them to thank you for it.”

  “What if Abrams blows the whistle?”

  “He won’t.”

  I’m about to ask why, but decide against it. I don’t have the stomach for it.

  He watches me for a moment. “You’re a very lucky man, Mr Strong. Someone must be looking out for you.”

  The thought makes me uncomfortable, reminding me of the dream. Perhaps Amos senses it as he frowns a little. “Do you remember much about the accident?”

  “Not really.”

  “Probably for the best. It’s been quite an ordeal.” He scrutinizes me and seems to be considering what to say next. “I think you’ve been through enough, Robert. I’m sure your father would be willing to work with whoever we send; I suggest we find someone else to take your worm to CERN.” His choice of words makes me shiver.

  I sit up and the room spins. “No. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s only been twelve hours since the crash, Robert.” He gets to his feet. “I think you should concentrate on recovering. You’ve already made a vital contribution to the project and I will see to it that your payment is delivered in full, as a mark of my apology.” He turns and walks towards the door.

  “Wait!” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the room swims about me. “I want to do this – I’ll be fine, really.” I’ll be fine, will I? I’m dizzy just sitting up. They say that the mind is a powerful thing. This must be what they mean, because right now, there’s no possibility of someone else taking my place on this – it’s too important. Besides, it leaves me cold to think of someone else meeting with Elliot Strong and working with him. No matter how rough I feel.

  Through a spinning blur, I see Amos glance back. “I admire your commitment to the task, Robert, but we don’t have much time.”

  “I said I’m fine.” I slump back down onto the mattress and the room stops moving as Amos returns to the seat.

  “I know your father would be very proud of you.”

  He lifts a brown envelope from the floor beside him and lays it carefully on the bed. A replacement for the one Dana gave me. “Inside is the memory stick programmed with your worm.” There’s that word again.

  “It’s Mr Y’s worm, really.”

  “I think you should take the credit for the idea, Robert. Mr Y is a genius in his field, but this is your brainchild.”

  I open the envelope and find a USB stick attached to a nylon cord, presumably so that I can wear it around my neck. “Our engineers will know when it’s released – they have made a little modification that keeps them informed of your progress.” I put the stick back and take out an electronic notebook.

  “For essential communication purposes only. Mr Lambert will be your contact – his email particulars are already programmed for you along with some of the CERN software, to continue your familiarisation. You’ll also find a plane ticket to Geneva, a UK passport, your security documents for CERN, details of your Swiss bank account and enough funds to make your trip more than comfortable.” He pauses. “The only thing outstanding is security access to the Operator’s Room in the Computer Centre. I understand that is where you will embed the worm?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. There’s only one person on duty there at any one time. Less chance of attracting attention.”

  “A wise choice. Your father will help you with access, once you are established.”

  Anticipation ripples through me. I am going to meet him – this is real.

  Looking back into the envelope, I retrieve the small maroon book that confirms who I am, with hands that are shaking like they’re someone else’s. “Passport? How did you get hold of my passport?”

  He smiles. “I had a new one made for you.”

  I open it and see my face staring back, I place the book aside and reach into the envelope again. My fingers touch something metallic that clinks as I lift it out.

  “Keys for the apartment I have arranged for you in Geneva. I believe it has a wonderful view of the Jura Mountains. The address is inside, as is the security code to let you into the building.”

  “How long I am going to be there?”

  “There are only a few days left before the launch. You can stay as long as you wish, but you may not want to linger too long in the aftermath.”

  I peer down into the envelope again, pushing aside the memory stick and the uneasy feeling it gives me.

  “You will be collected at Geneva airport, as your motorcycle will not be delivered until later.”

  “Motorcycle?”

  “Yes. I understand your most recent model was a BSA Lightning. I thought you might enjoy having one again.” He raises his eyebrows. “But if you would prefer a car, it can be arranged, quite easily...”

  “No, no. That’s great. I just didn’t expect all this.” But I’m warming to it and the dizziness seems to be subsidi
ng. “I’d prefer the bike. I planned to get another one. How did you know?”

  Amos smiles like a gentleman. “I have a talent for anticipating desires. No, the truth is that I have asked a lot of you, Mr Strong. I just want to make this as easy as possible.”

  I pull out a thick bundle of euros in a clear plastic bag and the plane ticket. “What’s the date?”

  “The fourteenth.”

  My eyes flick back to his face. “This flight’s today.”

  “Yes. A car will be waiting outside in an hour to take you to the airport. I appreciate that air travel may not be your first choice, after what happened, but as we are short of time...”

  “No, that’s okay. But my clothes...”

  “Your clothes were cut off during your resuscitation, and the staff kept them in a bag for you, which you’ll find inside your bedside cupboard, should you wish to keep them. I took the liberty of arranging some new garments.” He gestures towards a neat pile of clothes folded on a shelf, next to a new black rucksack.

  He’s thought of everything. A place to live, transport, clothes, money. The plan is all mapped out even before I’ve caught up with myself. I glance out of the window to the unfamiliar hill. “Where exactly am I?”

  “You’re in a private facility in southwest England that offers the best medical care in the country. I arranged for your transfer here as soon as I heard. After what happened, it’s the least I could do.”

  I stare down at the envelope. “Has anyone been to see me?”

  “Your mother knows that you will be out of the country on business, but I thought it unwise to worry her unnecessarily.”

  Unnecessarily?

  He must read my face, because he adds, “The doctors were confident of your recovery. Had they predicted otherwise, I would, of course, have made sure she saw you.”

  “Have there been any calls?”

  “No-one knows you are here, Robert, not even Miss Cora Martin. Visitors would only complicate matters.”

  I reach into the cabinet beside the bed and pull out the orange bag with my belongings, feeling for something other than cloth. I find Cora’s ring on its cord. Maybe she called my mobile.

  “I’m afraid your phone was not on you when you arrived. A replacement is in the inside pocket of your coat.”

  “Oh.”

  Amos gets to his feet and it strikes me just how tall he is. It’s not just his stature; he has a presence that seems to fill the whole room. Some people have that. I remember a teacher I had at school who never raised his voice – he didn’t have to. Fletcher, his name was. He wasn’t that old, although at the time I thought he was – maybe in his forties – tall, greying hair, but there was something about the way he held himself that made you look at him, and listen to whatever he had to say. An unspoken command. Amos is like that. A roomful of bickering politicians would fall silent if he walked in, just by the way he did it.

  “I often pass through Geneva on business, so no doubt I will see you again soon.” He extends a hand towards me. “I wish you all the very best of luck, Robert. With your track record, that is a considerable amount of good fortune.”

  Chapter Nine

  WHATEVER VICTOR AMOS thought about my recovery, the hospital staff doesn’t seem to share his optimism. I’m standing dressed in a new pair of jeans, a Ralph Lauren T-shirt and grey coat, feeling slightly odd. It’s more than the residue of dizziness, it’s the clothes. The leather of my boots is still new and stiff but comfortable. Everything fits perfectly, it all feels good – there’s nothing wrong with the clothes at all; they just feel like they belong to someone else. The orange plastic bin bag which holds the remnants of my clothes from before is tucked away in the rucksack, along with the electronic notebook and the documents. The plane ticket and passport sit inside the breast pocket of my coat, beside my new phone. Cora’s silver ring on its leather cord is in my jeans’ pocket.

  “You’re not well enough, Mr Strong. Please.” The doctor, who’s in his mid-thirties and wearing blue scrubs, looks like he’s taking my decision to discharge myself personally. Does he really care or is he just worried that I’ll sue him if I collapse in the car park?

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Please, it’s only been thirteen hours, Mr Strong. Your heart stopped beating. Do you understand that? It stopped. You died.”

  “Only for a little bit.”

  “All I’m saying is that you should be monitored for at least another twenty-four hours.”

  “I appreciate your concern, doctor, I really do. But I’m fine. I’m happy to take responsibility for anything that might happen, if that makes you feel better.” I pick up the suitcase.

  “Well, this isn’t a prison. But I’ll need you to sign here.” He presents me with a piece of paper stating that it’s all my fault if I go home and die. I put down the suitcase and sign it without hesitating.

  “Get some medical attention if you feel anything wrong. Anything at all.”

  I hesitate, considering asking him about the nightmares, but decide against it. Now’s not the time. “You’ve got my word.” I lift the suitcase and walk out.

  THE AIRPORT CHECK-IN line shuffles forward. I watch the people around me, but I’m detached, as though the experience belongs to someone else. A couple are in line before me. The man is in his forties in a loose linen suit and brown loafers. His wife wears a lot of gold. She’s watching the grungy backpacker in front of her, failing to hide the disdain on her face. Dreadlocks and patchwork trousers mustn’t be her thing.

  “Passport, please,” says the check-in assistant when I get to the front of the queue. An orange silk neck tie is knotted in a bow over her throat. She doesn’t look at me as I hand over the document.

  She flicks it open and glances up with lidded eyes. “Did you pack all your belongings yourself?”

  Do you need a chisel to take off your make-up at night?

  “Yes.”

  “Could anyone have had access to your belongings without you knowing it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you carrying any sharps, flammable substances, or liquids?”

  No, but I’m carrying a memory stick that will shut down six billion pounds’ worth of engineering. Does that count? “No.”

  “Gate nine, boarding in twenty minutes.” She hands over the passport and boarding card.

  I lift my rucksack and smile broadly. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

  I fall in line with the jostling queue making its way onto the escalator. It glides up to the next level, past an oversized poster of a man displaying a watch against a backdrop of a city skyline at night. The man has a look in his eyes that approaches wisdom, as though he has overcome all of life’s tribulations now that he has his watch. What a lot of shit.

  I go into the washroom and splash cold water on my face. The face looking back at me in the mirror is in need of some sun and a sharp razor. Will he recognise me, after all this time? I stare at the blue eyes, slightly puffy with sleep deprivation – coma isn’t sleep, and neither is sedation – at the flecks of black in the irises. I feel a cool breeze trickling over my skin and I freeze. A woman is standing behind me: blonde, slim, unblinking. She raises her hand towards me and I spin round.

  There’s the noise of flushing and a toilet door opens. An old man in a baseball cap shuffles out and washes his hands. He looks a little uncomfortable, and I realise I’m staring at him. I drop my head, scooping handfuls of cold water onto my face.

  What the hell was that? Is she messing with my head when I’m awake now? It wasn’t a dream – I know I’m not sleeping. Drugs. That’s what it will be; the drugs they pumped into me at the hospital. A bad trip.

  I dry my face on the hard paper towels and leave, avoiding the mirror.

  THE FLIGHT BOARDS on time. I have two seats to myself, overlooking the wet tarmac, far enough away from the headache-inducing perfume of the hostess, which wafts over every time she clumps past.

  After takeoff, I take out the elect
ronic notebook. I open the folder containing the software data and begin to read. I can’t concentrate. Something is squirming in my gut at the thought of meeting him. What if he doesn’t want to see me? Maybe everything Amos said was bullshit and he left because he didn’t want to be there. It happens to lots of men. They can’t deal with the reality of being a father because all it does is remind them of their unfulfilled dreams.

  After forty minutes, I close the computer and look out at the sunlight over the swathe of clouds. White candy floss on a summer’s day.

  I take out a pen and paper and sketch absentmindedly.

  “Would you like any tea or coffee, sir?” I jump at the voice. The hostess smiles down at me.

  “Eh... no, thanks.”

  “That’s an unusual picture,” she says, inclining her head to get a better look. “What are those?”

  I stare down. I’ve drawn a dark circle at the top and some stick-like things at the bottom.

  She frowns at my trembling hand. “Are you alright, sir?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” By the looks of it, she doesn’t believe me. I see her glance back as she walks up the aisle and whisper to her colleague. I can guess what she’s saying. Watch out for the weirdo in seat 42F.

  WHEN I REACH the arrivals lounge in Geneva airport, my name is on a white board. Holding the placard is a man in his twenties, medium height with dark hair and complexion, and a broad face that looks accustomed to smiling. He’s wearing a faded red shirt, hanging loosely over his jeans and a pair of scruffy trainers. A student, or someone reluctant to make the transition to anything beyond student. He raises his eyebrows as I approach. “Monsieur Strong?” His accent is heavily French.

  “Yes.”

  “Rene Valmont.” He grins and holds out his hand, grasping mine with a firm grip. “You flight, it was okay?”

  “Fine.It was fine, thanks.” Better than the last one. Landing on tarmac is always a bonus.

  “It’s good you made it. I’m parked not far from here.” He leads the way through the crowds to the exit, and onwards to the second floor of the dimly lit car park, stopping in front of a small blue Peugeot. There are patches of rust on the doors and a large dent above one wheel arch.