“Home. Let’s go home so I can think.”
Klaus turned the key without a word, and the car reversed quickly across the car park. I looked in the rear view mirror, watching the door to the pub and expecting racists to pour out waving pitchforks and flaming torches, carrying the beaten and unconscious body of their compatriot aloft in indignant rage… it didn’t happen. The match was still going on, after all. I suspected that our mutual friend might be in that cubicle for some time. The bonds of their brotherhood, it seemed, were even weaker than I’d thought. Even so, I still breathed a sigh of… not quite relief. I would not feel true relief again for a very long time. I put my head back on the seat, trying to ignore the pain in my ankle, and my mind went blank as Klaus drove.
But Klaus didn’t drive me home.
***
Chapter Five: Protocols And A New Schedule, A Much Needed Cosmetic Overhaul, Key Advice From An Experienced Mentor, and An Exciting Breakthrough
***
I’ve thought about killing myself a lot over the last decade. Don’t misunderstand; as I said, I don’t feel real guilt, in as much as I know I was put in an impossible position. I know I could have handled things a lot better—even though saying that sounds like I’m talking about a bad business decision or an argument with a fiancé’s family, and not the murder of another human being—and I have a lot of regrets. But I don’t think I deserve to die for it. That’s my point. I’m not a bad person. I’m just someone who tried to do the best he could, but I’ve known ever since that actually, I could have done a lot better. Hindsight is not a wonderful thing. It’s a dirty son of a bitch.
But no, I thought about killing myself because, for a long time, I could barely breathe or get out of bed in the morning. And again, I wonder: the same people that can fight at the drop of a hat, who can take a beating and brush off the mental side effects as if they were nothing. Soldiers, or at least the ones that don’t get PTSD. There are executioners in the American states where they still have the death penalty and it’s part of their job to administer it. And they, presumably, all sleep fine at night.
When people hear about others who have committed terrible crimes, their response is often something like:
I’d kill them. Give me a gun and I’d do it myself. I’d pull the lever. I’d flick the switch.
Perhaps you’ve even said it yourself.
Try looking into the eyes of the people you’re killing as you do it. Try watching the light in there dim as they go to a place they can never come back from. Try seeing everything they ever were, everything they are, and everything they never will be disappearing into nothing, nothing, nothing, and watch as they realize it’s happening and watch while you know that you are the reason it’s happening.
Watch, even if they deserve it.
Then try to sleep.
***
Klaus pulled the car over, and I came out of my trance. There was no way we could have driven home yet, surely? I looked around us. I was right.
He’d stopped the car on some residential street that I didn’t recognize. It was nice, with lots of detached and semi-detached houses, and cars of medium-level expense on private driveways.
You could bust in the door and kill anyone inside those houses. Then all this would all be over.
“What’s happening?” I asked, feeling very confused and a little afraid. Klaus apparently knew something I didn’t, and I wasn’t certain whether or not I was in trouble. I suddenly felt very foolish for operating under the assumption that the rules they’d given me were all there was to worry about. Were they men of their word? Why would I believe the statements of a white-suited lunatic who apparently worked for an even bigger lunatic?
Klaus got out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car to my side. I froze. For a moment I thought about running, but I knew that would be pointless. I could barely walk. Klaus then opened the passenger door and squatted down, still outside the car. He extended a gloved finger and pointed at my injured foot. I didn’t know what to say for a second.
“Yeah,” I said, sounding as uncertain as I felt. “That one. It really hurts.” Klaus’ fingers flicked inward in a come-hither gesture. Feeling like a child, I extended my foot towards him, my leg now poking out of the car.
Does Klaus have medical training? I wondered. He didn’t seem too thrown at all by what you said about field medicine. Face it. You know absolutely nothing about the guy.
I winced as he took my foot in his hand, but he did so with such surprising gentleness that I didn’t feel any difference in the pain. He felt gingerly around my ankle with his other hand and turned my foot very carefully. It hurt at one point, I let out a gasp, and he stopped. His finger then went straight to a particular spot and pressed lightly. That hurt a lot more, and I let him know about it. Klaus nodded, placed my foot back inside the car, and stood up. He then closed the passenger-side door and made his way back to the driver’s side.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked, as Klaus settled his bulk back into the driver’s seat. Of course, he didn’t say a word in response, but surprised me by taking an iPhone out of his jacket pocket. He unlocked it and began tapping away.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I asked, the fear returning, but again there was only silence. After about a minute, Klaus placed the phone in his lap, its screen locked, and then stared straight ahead through the windscreen. Fear got the better of me and, as if making up for its shameful performance from earlier, managed to turn into anger, albeit about half an hour after it would have been fucking useful.
“I asked you a question!” I snapped. “Yes, yes, I get it, the enigmatic silent routine, whatever! It’s gotten old! It doesn’t make you cool. It just makes you annoying! And rude! What the hell is going on now?” No answer. He just kept looking straight ahead. I wanted to kill the guy. I looked at my watch. 2:15 pm. Olivia’s arm was coming off in forty-five minutes. “If you’re putting me on the clock, and you’ve taken me here when I didn’t even want to come here, then stop the fucking clock! Stop the clock! This is bullshit! Stop the clock!” I was yelling now; my hands balled into impotent fists.
Then the phone on Klaus’ lap started to ring. It was a Facetime call—video—and I could see a name onscreen:
JOHN DOE WOULD LIKE FACETIME…
I had a sinking feeling that I knew who John Doe was. Klaus accepted the call and picked up the phone, turning the screen to face me and revealing a smile that I already knew would be there. I will always remember that moment. I felt the small hairs on my neck stand up and my spine went cold. I mean it was as if someone had poured water down the back of my jacket. I’d never experienced that before and never have since.
“Chris, Chris, hi,” the Man in White said, his face lit solely by the glow of his own phone’s screen. The lights were off in the room behind him, presumably to give away nothing about where he was. It gave the overall effect that he was talking to me from a cave. His sunglasses and grin seemed to bulge onscreen, and for a horrible moment, it felt like I was talking to a troll in its lair. “Didn’t think we’d be talking so soon. I hope you’re doing ok, you know…” His finger came into view and tapped the side of his forehead, and I noticed that wherever he was, he wasn’t wearing his gloves. “I can only imagine what an unsettling experience this must be for you. Just try and remember why you’re doing it. That’s what I always tell our Participants. Focus on that.”
“What’s happening?” I asked, my mouth dry. I had, however, taken some strange sense of relief from his words. If he was giving me encouragement on how to better handle the situation, it meant that my own situation was not, for wont of a better phrase, coming to a blunt end. “Why am I talking to you? It’s something to do with my ankle, isn’t it?” The Man in White raised his eyebrows and shrugged in a gesture that said I’m afraid so.
“Yes, we’d rather that wasn’t the case but, that’s it. I gather you’ve taken a bad knock on the foot, as well as a few to the old visage. Klaus, a
s you would have him be, tried to help, but he was a little slow on the ball. I think maybe he’s getting old.” He raised his voice when he spoke next. “You getting old, Klausy? Heh heh.” I looked at Klaus, who was looking away from me and out of the driver’s side window.
“Well, I’m hurt because of you. It’s your fucking fault,” I snapped, but there was no energy in it. I felt exhausted. The Man in White shrugged again.
“Well, if you mean the overall picture here, then yes, I can’t really disagree with you,” he said. “But with regard to you getting physically hurt…” He sighed and paused, as if he were choosing his next words very carefully. “There are certain protocols in place with this,” he said, finally. “Things that we don’t like to tell our Participants about so they can’t try and game the system, as they say.”
“What protocols?” I asked, feeling a glimmer of hope. Game the system? I could game the system? “Klaus came and helped me. That was one of them, wasn’t it?” The Man in White paused for a second, his expression inscrutable behind those insect-like shades.
“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” he said. “Because I have to tell you, the protocols are actually there for your protection. If I to tell you about them, then they’re cancelled. They won’t apply for the reason I mentioned above. We don’t like potential loopholes.”
I hesitated. It was pretty obvious that Klaus had intervened to protect me. I didn’t need that fact to be confirmed, and it was something useful to have in the back pocket… potentially. And that was the Man in White’s point: if I couldn’t be completely certain that Klaus would back me up in a tight spot, then I couldn’t ever bank on it. Therefore, I couldn’t plan to use that knowledge. And from what he was saying, it appeared that if I asked for clarification one way or another, then I would definitely lose Klaus’ help. That was something I didn’t want.
“Just tell me this then,” I said, deciding on a response. “Clarify this because I need to know. I wasn’t trying to kill anyone in the pub. Klaus helped me, fine, whatever the reason may be, you clearly know why. It could have been an attack of conscience; maybe it was a protocol; maybe he even just likes me,” I couldn’t resist a glance at Klaus as I said this, but he was still looking out of the window. “I don’t need that clarifying, especially if it means I lose whatever potential safety net I might have. But I need to know about a different situation. Yes, I got into a fight at the pub just now, one that could have hindered my ability to complete the task. Fine. But I need to know about the actual moment when I try and kill someone. What if… what if it goes wrong… like, if I get overpowered or something… Klaus isn’t allowed to help me then, is he? I didn’t think he would but after the pub, I want to know. Just to… well, know. And I think it’s only fair that you do tell me that. Surely telling me that doesn’t change anything.”
The Man in White’s face went blank again. The grinning, genial tone was something that seemed real, and yet he had mastered the ability to just shut his face down utterly when he needed to. I remember thinking that the guy must be one hell of a poker player.
“Let me just double check whether we can tell you that, Chris,” he said. “Hold on a moment, please?” The sound went dead on his end and his hand covered the camera. There was silence for about a minute. I stared dumbly at the screen. This was just bizarre. It was like being on the other end of my usual call centre job, except the Man in White was the one saying to me I’d better just check with the supervisor. I half expected him to come back on the line and say Hello? I’ve got Mr. Big on the line here. He’s going to take your enquiry further. The sound kicked back in, and the Man in White’s hand came away, revealing his now-grinning face once more.
“Sorry about that, Chris,” he said, “I thought it’d be ok, but I just had to double check. I’m sure you understand. Yes, I can tell you the truth on that one. We don’t normally announce this as it’s usually not in question—and is fairly self-evident—but after what’s happened today I should clarify: Klaus would not intervene during the process of elimination. That’s on your shoulders if you screw it up, so I would choose the subject and the manner of processing very carefully in that regard. No three hundred pounders! You know what I’m saying?” he chuckled, smiling warmly.
Subject? Elimination? He sounds like he’s talking about laboratory mice.
“…okay,” I said.
“Good, okay. Now that’s cleared up, let’s get to the reason I called. Klaus tells me there’s an issue with your ankle. He suspects that you’ve suffered some ligament damage, or possibly, a very small fracture.” He stopped talking, and I realized that he was waiting for a response.
“Well… it hurts…” I said, wondering where this was going.
“Okay,” the Man in White said, as if this were confirmation enough. “Well, Klaus is no doctor, but he knows well enough what to look for and we hold his judgement in the highest esteem. We take his word for it, basically. That means that you’re not—for at least a few days at least—going to be operating at a reasonable capacity to do what needs to be done. And believe it or not Chris, we do believe in playing fair. Without going into all the details, we don’t want our Participants getting hurt. That isn’t the point of the exercise.”
“Then what is the point?” I blurted out, but the Man in White held up a hand. Outside of the gloves, his fingers were thin and long.
“And because you have been hurt,” he said, continuing as if I hadn’t spoken, “it’s more likely, given your current level of mobility, that it will happen again during elimination. So the good news is, for a few days at least, you’re being given a time-out.” He paused again, waiting, and I had nothing to say. A time-out? I felt a faint sense of hope that it meant I was being let off.
“Are you… does this mean it’s over? I don’t…” I swallowed before saying the next words, scared to say them as if the possibility of their truth might shatter if I did. “…I don’t have to do it?”
The Man in White laughed, a short, genuinely amused bark.
“Ha! Oh, no, of course not! A-ha, Chris, heh heh…” He waved his hand dismissively, as if he were saying I’m only kidding. “No, no, of course, you still have to do it. You know what time-out means Chris! All we’re doing is stopping the clock for a while.”
“…oh.”
It’s more time. You’re being given more—
“Now, of course, we will be taking the necessary steps to ensure that you aren’t being given more time, so to speak. You know, to stop you from working on plans while in time-out, as that wouldn’t be fair.”
…shit.
“The initial period of time-out will be two days, well, three if you include the rest of today. Then we’ll check you with some pain killers and an ankle support; see how you’re doing, you know? Klaus will be the judge of the situation, and he’ll decide if you need a bit longer. If it’s a fracture, even a small one, you’ll need a lot longer, but Klaus isn’t sure if that’s the case.”
I looked at Klaus and jumped slightly in my seat when I saw that he was now staring impassively at me. I suddenly wondered how many people Klaus had witnessed being murdered. How many he’d killed himself. What would that do to someone’s mind?
“Now, you’ll have to surrender your phone and laptop to Klaus. You’re banned from using any kind of electronic device to do any research. Obviously, we can’t read your mind so you can do any planning you like in there, and that’s the side of this that just can’t be helped. But you’ll remain bugged with the camera and microphone, so you can’t have any conversations that sound like planning, Chris. Obviously, there will be a penalty in that, and the girls will have to deal with it. With me so far?”
I was. I couldn’t really process his words and assess the news, but rules? Those I could at least understand. They were stopping the clock and putting things in place to prevent me from using the extra time to prepare. Well, as much as they could anyway. Check. Got it. Whatever you say.
“Yes. Yes, I�
�m with you so far.”
“Ok, the other thing is that we want you to be busy. We can’t have you lying around convalescing and using all that time to plan. Obviously, that wouldn’t be fair either.” The second use of the word fair triggered something in my head.
“Fair?” I shouted. “Are you fucking kidding me?” The hand came up again, but no laughter now, just solemn nodding.
“All right, all right, poor choice of words. My apologies. I meant fair to the other people who have been in your situation. They didn’t get extra planning time.”
“Fuck them!”
“Your insightful opinion aside, we want you to be busy. So, bugged and tagged and everything as I say, you’ll be going into work.”
“… what?”
“You’ll be going into work, Chris. Into the call centre. You’re not due back in until Monday anyway, but we know they’re short-staffed and will be happy to have you do a Sunday shift if you call today and ask. Obviously, we’ll be able to see your screen, and we can monitor it remotely even if we couldn’t see it through your pin camera. We’ll be able to tell if… well, I don’t like to say it… if you try and tip anybody off. And as I said before, even if we suspect it… well. You know. Ok?”
I didn’t say anything.
“If anybody asks what happened to your face, which I think will look a lot better by tomorrow anyway, once Christine has worked on you– “
“Who?”
“Well, she’s not part of any protocol, but we do like to keep her secret until we have to,” the Man in White said, making a see-saw motion with his hand. “She’s our touch-up girl. We play fair Chris, as I say. Your face is a little banged up. That will bring questions, and hey, that’s not something we want either.”
I was stunned. A woman involved in this? Call me sexist, but the idea of a woman aiding the capture and amputation of other innocent women was just… is that sexist? I don’t know. Somehow imagining a group of men doing all this was, and is, easier to think of. Maybe that’s sexist.
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