by Brian Hughes
Jarvis’ voice dropped to a barely audible level, the scratches of Malcolm’s pencil almost blotting it out. “And so, Inspector…hours turned into days, weeks into months. Everything seemed to be progressing well enough. There were a few problems installing Windows ’95. But before much longer we had connected our new invention to the university archives. And as the last snows of winter began to thaw we managed to access this powerful mind through the use of Virtual Reality helmets…”
Nesbit sensed there was going to be a ‘...but.’
“But…then came that fatal sunrise late in August 1998. That dreadful hour when our dreams of immortality crashed, taking with them the lives of so many others.”
August 29th, 1998. Henry knew that something was wrong. The luminescent boluses seemed more sluggish than usual. They crackled lethargically along the overhead cables.
“Professor J…J…Jarvis? There’s something wrong with the console’s d…d…data banks.”
Jarvis swung out of focus as he adjusted the settings on his headset. Colours streaked from his virtual suit. Then his angular form settled down into its normal shape.
“Henry? Post? Something’s definitely gone awry all right. Come and look at this…”
All three interlopers into Barclay’s memory huddled together, staring thunderstruck at the panorama before them. Instead of the usual footage from the war or the etchings of Henry Tudor, one solitary wall of clashing colours surrounded them on all sides.
“What is it?” Post took a cautious step forwards. “Isn’t this where Barclay’s treatise on Taoism normally is?”
“You don’t suppose this might be of Barclay’s own d…d…doing, do you? It looks so immature.”
Henry Jacobs shook his head, staring at the painting before them. Its clumsy, naive strokes. The scribbled house on the badly drawn hill.
“He might have had a brilliant scientific mind…” muttered Jarvis, his shoulders hunched about his ears apprehensively. “But I can’t say much for his artistic ability.”
Despite its flat appearance the landscape seemed to have three dimensional properties. The troubled lecturers gingerly urged each other forwards. Jarvis raised his stick and aimed one end towards the doodled building.
“We must uncover the hideous truth behind this metamorphosis, gentlemen, before…” He paused, glancing back across his shoulder. The other two lecturers weren't following him on the grounds that the building looked rather sinister. “I shouldn’t have to remind you,” Jarvis continued. “We are inside a virtual world. Nothing here could possibly affect us in the real world. In case you’ve forgotten, we are really sitting around the terminal in Dovecote Hall.”
Here is the domain of Dr. Joshua Roosevelt Barclay. The interior of this building is far grander than its exterior would have one believe. Although it must be said that, here too, the walls bear the work of an immature mind.
Dr. Barclay swung down on the cables that skewered him to the roof. He grabbed the arms of his chair and lowered himself onto the seat. Beneath his spectacles his piggy eyeballs flashed with the sharpness of a craft knife.
“At last…Professor Jarvis, you’ve arrived. And your grovelling minions I see. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”
“Dr. Barclay? What’s happened?” Jarvis frowned. “How did you manage to overpower your programming and create this…this…” Here words appeared to fail him. “…this abomination?”
“It wasn’t I who brought this about, you ignorant cormorant!” The reference to Jarvis’ gaunt appearance obviously amused the deformed dwarf. His face contorted in spasms of derision. “Ah, Professor Jacobs, how pleasant to see you again. Still boring your scholars with your stammering?”
“It’s an honour, S…S…S…Sir.” Henry stepped backwards. “If it wasn’t y…y…you that cre…that cre…that created all of this, then who w…w…w…?”
“Who was it?” Barclay concluded Henry’s sentence with a snarl. “You mean you don’t know? You pathetic fools. And there you were, slapping yourselves on the back at your marvellous accomplishment. Or in Post’s case, pounding himself heartily with a carpet beater. And all along you overlooked the obvious. Have you any idea what this is, gentlemen?”
He cast one hand behind his head. A screen containing a jumbled pictogram appeared in his fingers’ wake.
Post snuffled ponderously. The scrambled pictures looked like one of those innocuous children’s puzzles.
“Is it a Mexican eating a sausage?”
“NO IT IS NOT!” The sudden violence of Barclay’s voice made Post lean backwards at an uncomfortable angle. “It’s a virus, you corpulent frog! Downloaded from the archives. A virus so cunningly fashioned it’s breathed new life into my mind!”
It must be said that Professor Jacobs thought he’d taken every precaution during the computer’s construction. Unfortunately he’d forgotten to include a virus killer. This wasn’t the best of times to discover his mistake.
He adjusted his spectacles and turned to his startled companions. “We m…m…must shut off the machine, now! Disconnect it from the university m...m...mainframe.”
“But surely that’ll destroy Barclay’s data-banks?” Jarvis snorted. “That would be tantamount to…murder!”
“It’s the only way to get rid of the v…v…virus. If it spreads there’s no t…t…telling what might happen.”
“Gentlemen…” Barclay leant forwards, his head casting a shadow across them. “You’re already too late. That’s the trouble with viruses. Especially ones that affect the mind. They spread from one human being to another.”
“But…but…but…but a human can’t catch a computer virus…Sir.”
“This is no ordinary computer virus.” A ghastly smile tore Barclay’s mouth apart. “This one’s mutated through my bio-gel bags. You’re now contaminated. It should prove interesting to see what you’ll become.”
“And he was right, was he? Were you really infected?”
Jarvis raised his two-dimensional face from his hands. It was difficult to believe that Nesbit had asked him the question. “Of course we were bloody infected.”
Nesbit chewed his moustache. “So what exactly did this virus do then?”
“What do you think it did, you gormless detective? Look at the state of me!”
Nesbit shrugged in a sort of ‘I was only asking’ way.
“It restructured my DNA, Inspector. Gene by gene. Within hours I had become the pathetic two-dimensional being before you! It turned Post into something so dense he collapsed in on himself. Hence that black hole that almost sucked you into oblivion. And as for Henry…poor old Jacobs literally came apart at the seams!”
“Ah, right…now then, Sir. I think I’m beginin’ to understand.”
Nesbit nodded, convinced that matters were coming to a head. The sort of head that might just burst across the mirror, perhaps. But a head nonetheless.
“And so we formed the fellowship…” Jarvis’ voice hung heavy with loss. “All of us promising not to reveal what had happened until we either solved the problem or were dead.”
“That’d be a bit hard, Sir, wouldn’t it? I mean tellin’ everyone what had ’appened after you were dead.”
As there appeared to be no rejoinder other than a scowl, Nesbit looked around. “I ’ope you’re takin’ all this down, Malcolm? Malcolm?”
Sergeant Clewes had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a half-chewed apple that held his mother’s stamp of approval.
“Bloody ’Ell…” Nesbit snorted. “That’s the second time today I’ve caught ’im prattin’ about whilst on duty. The unquenchable thirst of youthful lust, eh, Professor?”
“So, naturally, our first step was to ascertain the problem,” Jarvis continued, ignoring him. Nesbit settled back for the conclusion of this never-ending yarn. “We found a name in the Thomson Local. A person who specialised in all sorts of repair work. Robin Bartholomew, Computer Expert, Plumber, Interior Decorator, Locksmith, and Roofer. Drains Cl
eared. No job too small.”
“This is all very fascinating, Professor!” Nesbit cleared his throat and stood up. “But I’m afraid I’m goin’ to ’ave to arrest you. On suspicion of murder.”
“Murder, Inspector?”
Nesbit rummaged through his pockets and tugged an object from the humbug wrappers.
“You might as well put those cuffs away. There’s more chance of a pound of lard binding a rhinoceros’ ankle than those things restraining my wrists. I’m not your murderer, Inspector.” Jarvis stabbed the air with his stick. “Whoever wrote that virus is your murderer. And only Barclay knows who that is. Where are you going?”
“I think it’s time we paid a visit on our long deceased friend.” With a purposeful gait Nesbit headed for the stairs. “Time we got some bloody confessions signed. Then p’raps I can get back to me game of dominoes.”
“Obviously you haven’t been listening. It would be suicide to use that helmet.” Jarvis pounded the rug with his stick to ram the point home. “The virus will enter your brain with the same ease that it entered everyone else’s. And once inside, it’ll only take minutes to destroy your DNA.”
Nesbit swivelled round and stared at him. There was a change to his normally bumbling appearance.
“Listen Professor! This is my town and those are my employers gettin’ murdered. I’m already dying from cirrhosis ’cos I ’adn’t the sense to knock it on the head. Now I’ve only got an ’andful of months before the rot sets in. So I might as well go out in a blaze of glory and put an end to all of this once and for all!”
With which words his mackintosh swung resolutely round the bottom stair before flapping off towards the rafters.
Chapter Nineteen: Appointment with Death
A cloud descended. It was comprised of tiny creatures, all made from hexadecimal numbers. As each one landed its little legs propelled it into the labyrinth.
Nesbit was pleased that in this virtual realm he’d got his pipe back. He stuffed it in his mouth and stumbled over one of the animals as it was nibbling at his boot lace. Seconds later the creature exploded.
Sprites stared menacingly down from the walls above him like gargoyles. An enormous space invader, resembling the Marble Arch, stomped across the end of the narrow ginnel. The whole ground shuddered as the lumbering remnant of some now defunct programme wandered off.
Nesbit knew he was wearing the helmet, although he couldn’t actually see it. The two needles stuck into his temples weren’t about to let him forget in a hurry.
A slug of electricity slithered along the cable overhead. Now then, he thought, where would Barclay’s memories be stored? Almost as though the computer had understood, the ginnel buckled beneath his boots. An elevator that resembled a 1960’s police box crashed through the cobbles. Numerous creatures scattered into the gutters.
Nesbit examined the letters across the telephone door.
’MACRO-HARD SERVICE ELEVATOR. (Pat. Pending)’
The Manufacturers Of This Product
Would Like To Point Out
They Can’t Be Held Legally Responsible For
Any Damage To Logical Systems,
Loss Of Data
Or Unnatural Death
That Might Result From The Purchaser’s Usage.
Please Read The Manual Enclosed For Further Information.
As there was no alternative transport Nesbit stepped inside. He heard the door close behind him.
A brass button caught his eye. Beneath it were the words: ‘Dr. Barclay’s Residence.’ He pressed it down with the ball of his thumb. The box rumbled. Moments later it shot into the sky with the ferocity of a ballistic missile.
The view through the window was difficult to make out. Mainly because Nesbit was flattened against the floor. From what he could ascertain, however, an extraordinary landscape stretched out below.
Rectangular forests of circuitry were attached to each other by cable-cars. Spire-infested cities of Random Access Memory reached up all around.
None of this is real! It’s all some program!
Nesbit felt the elevator shudder. His heart skipped a beat. With a shred the police box bored into a bank of computer chips. Shards of silicon flew out in all directions.
Keep y’self together!
Accompanied by a scream the lift arced into the darkness. The tail of sparks gave it the appearance of a colourful comet. Nesbit’s cheeks rippled outwards, his mouth a gash beneath the acceleration. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. They were instantly flattened. To be hopes to God the force didn’t get any stronger otherwise his gonads would end up as his bow tie.
The cubicle landed with a thud that sent a pain stabbing cruelly into his bones. For several seconds echoes vibrated through his skull, reluctant to let the craft reach an absolute halt.
At length Nesbit stood up and stared through the shattered window, watching the distant beads of electricity camber across the firmament. From one corner of the booth a cough broke the stillness. A stowaway hexadecimal-shrew shook the concussion from its head and then expired with a wheeze.
He massaged the sensation back into his scalp and cautiously poked his head through the door.
Here was the wax crayon hillside, recognisable from Jarvis’ description. From far away the eerie sound of ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’ drifted through the atmosphere like an autumn mist. It left a haunting impression on the senses as though the dancing figures were the souls of lost children.
Corkscrews of smoke twisted up from the battered blue box. Nesbit clambered out, setting his sights on the twisted house.
“All right then, Barclay…let’s wrap this up! With a bit of luck by suppertime I’ll be down at the Thatch enjoyin’ a pint of Elliot’s Foul Old Shit.”
“Inspector Nesbit, I presume?” Joshua Barclay cocked his swollen head on one side. “I trust your journey to my humble asylum wasn’t too rough?”
Nesbit struggled against the two pensioners whose interlocked arms had become his prison. Jarvis hadn’t warned him about them. They’d been lurking behind the front door as he’d entered.
“It wasn’t so bad. Apart from your lackeys ’ere givin’ me an ’ard time.” Defiantly Nesbit bit into his pipe stem.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.” Barclay noticed the five red gouges across Nesbit’s head. He steepled his fingers. “Mrs Preston has an infuriating habit of slapping people round the neck. Must be a psychological throwback from a brutal Victorian childhood. What do you reckon?”
“I reckon you’re in a lot of buggerin’ trouble, Barclay.” Despite his predicament Nesbit threw Barclay’s name across the room like a dangerous bomb.
Barclay prodded his fingertips against his nose. “Does it sting, Inspector? Does that bald patch of beetroot-coloured skin smart as much as I hope?”
He narrowed his eyes beneath their pince-nez, wrinkling his nose into a series of steps.
“I bother you, don’t I?" he continued. "Well, I shouldn’t. Time is the real culprit, Inspector….our old enemy, Time. With utter arrogance it waits for no-one, forcing us on towards the silent oblivion of death.”
He studied the raw patch of skin again. “Making monks of all men…” he added, grinning. “We should get together, you and I…make a complete arse of ourselves.”
“I’ve always bin bald, Barclay.” Nesbit felt Dorothy Preston’s prune-like fingers tighten round his elbow. “It wasn’t age what thinned me ’air.”
“Ah, but what about your stature, Nesbit? Those piggy fingers, that bulbous nose, those stumpy limbs? It’s all just Mother Nature’s way of granting you the booby prize.”
Nesbit snorted. It was an action he regretted, not having access to a handkerchief. “There’s nothin’ wrong with my boobs.” He dropped his voice. “Nothin’ I’d be willing to kill half of Greyminster for, any’ow.”
“Ah, well…that’s where you and I differ then.”
Barclay shuffled thoughtfully about his seat.
“I suppose you’
re wondering why I’ve surrounded myself by representations of those I’ve killed?”
“The thought ’ad crossed me mind.” Actually it hadn’t. But what the Hell? If he was going to be told anyhow it’d save him a lot of effort in working it out.
“Crossed your mind and skidded helplessly into oblivion due to the smooth nature of your brain, I’ve no doubt.” Barclay waved his hand. “Well, I’ll explain it all in layman’s terms.”
A series of pictograms flashed across the screen behind him.
“The terrible virus that’s rearranging my bio-gel bags was downloaded in three parts.”
Amoebas skipped mindlessly across the screen. Presumably this was the virus.
“The first part was a version of Romeo and Juliet. A production using amateur actors, all stolen from that particular day’s Chronicle.”
Barclay lowered his head into his hands as the theatrical nightmare played itself out behind him. At least, he attempted to lower his head. Its weight and size restricted its movement to such a degree that he had to bring his hands up to his face instead.
“For hour upon hour I was condemned to sit and watch this rubbish. Imagine the misery, Inspector…”
That wasn’t difficult. Nesbit had never thought much of the Bard. Too many ‘Thee’s and ‘Thou’s and ‘Hey Nonny Nonny’s.
“Imagine living out your existence in the repetition of a bad Shakespearean tragedy? The only way to end it was to destroy those who were taking part.”
Barclay lifted his face. The screen behind him changed appearance. Bars of red and streaks of black ran across it, indicative of his current state of mind.
“One by one I had them killed. Their obituaries in the Chronicle are even now being fed through the university’s archives. I haven’t destroyed them all yet…but I shall. And you, Inspector, will help me do it.”
Generally at this point the hero utters, “Not if I’ve got anything to do with it!” or, “Over my dead body, Mister!”