Then she sat upright in the bed and stopped chewing and looked down at me, her face looking drained. One of her hands stroked her other wrist and forearm, where the old marks were. She got out of the bed and took the sticky mess that was all that was left of the Sugar Cherry out of her mouth and threw it into the waste bin. She started to dress.
I asked her what was wrong.
She didn’t answer. She just shook her head. I could tell that she was crying. I kept on asking her what was wrong but she would not reply and left soon afterwards.
We were never intimate again and she refused to engage in any proper conversation thereafter, not quite ignoring me but treating me very coldly.
Had I written this two or three years ago I would have concluded by admitting, genuinely mystified, that I never understood why this happened, why she suddenly left me. However, now I think that I do know why: I was betrayed by a remembered taste. (No, I must be honest; my betrayal was revealed by a remembered taste.) Considering all that I have seen and done, it is remarkable that it is this – such a tiny, trivial thing, so many years ago, before our relationship had even properly begun – that brings a blush of blood to my face when I think about it and makes me feel ashamed. I have done things most people would be ashamed of and watched things done I would be ashamed of, yet it was for the taking of one sweet – not even that, perhaps; for not owning up to that petty theft, and the implication that it had been me who had stolen her pencil-sharpener blade as well – that I was condemned then and still feel soiled now.
I joined the army later that year and was posted abroad, becoming a military policeman after much study. The hardest bit was passing the psychological test. They didn’t really want people who had done what I had done to another human being in the force, at least not then, anyway, but I was smart enough to know what they wanted to be told, and told them what they wanted to hear. Knowing how that process works, from the inside as it were, is in itself an important part of my line of work, so even then I was learning, and adding to my skill set.
8
Patient 8262
Most worlds are Closed, a few are Open. Most people are not Aware, a few are Aware. An Open world is one in which most people are Aware and there is no need to dissemble regarding the business of flitting or transitioning between worlds. Where I am now, lying in this bed in this clinic, is a Closed world, a reality where possibly nobody except myself knows that the many worlds exist, let alone that they are connected and that travel between them is possible. This is as it should be, for my purposes. This is what I wanted when I came here. This is my protection.
I opened my eyes to find the fat bald man sitting staring at me; the same man with the bad skin who makes a habit of sitting beside me in the television room during my rare visits there and talking continually in his incomprehensible dialect or accent.
There is mist outside and the weather feels cold for the first time this year, though I am still warm inside my hospital bed. The fat man wears the same white and pale blue pyjamas that we all wear, and a faded blue dressing gown that has seen better days. He is talking to me. It is mid-morning and the usual mid-morning cup of fruit juice is sitting on my bedside cabinet. I was not aware of the orderly leaving it.
The fat man is talking quite animatedly to me, as though he expects me to understand what he’s saying. Actually he may be making an effort for me; I get the impression he is trying to talk more slowly, at least initially. Also, his skin condition appears to have improved recently too. He may be talking more slowly than usual, but he seems to be compensating by talking more loudly and with greater emphasis. He gestures quite a lot, too, and his upper body moves as he does so and I can see tiny specks of spittle arcing from his mouth to fall on the bedclothes between us. I am a little worried that some of his spittle might land on my face, even on my lips. I might catch something.
I frown, sit up in bed and cross my arms, enabling me to put one hand up to my mouth so that it looks like I am listening, or at least trying to listen, to what he’s saying, but really I’m just shielding my mouth from any errant spit. I frown some more as he jabbers on, I put a pained expression on my face and sigh deeply, generally trying to give the impression of wanting to understand what he is saying, but failing. He doesn’t appear to be paying much attention anyway, frankly, just talking away in a machine-gun flurry of sound within which I can barely make out one word in twenty.
I suppose if I concentrated I might understand more, but from the little I can make out he’s complaining about another patient stealing something from him, or insulting him, or taking his place in some queue, or all three, and the medical staff either being responsible in the first place or being complicit or guilty of not listening – or all three – and to be perfectly honest I don’t care. He just needs to talk to somebody, preferably somebody who might be neutral regarding whatever petty nonsense this is all about, and preferably, I suspect, somebody who is not likely to answer back or ask any pertinent questions or actually engage with him and his concerns at all. He’s just offloading. Depressingly, I am the perfect choice.
It’s strange, this need to talk, to express ourselves even when we know or strongly suspect that the person seemingly listening isn’t really, or can’t understand, or doesn’t care, or couldn’t do anything anyway even if all the above did not apply. Some of us just like the sound of our own voice and most of us need to vent sometimes, to get things out, to release pressure. Occasionally, too, we need to articulate vague but powerful feelings and so make them less frustratingly vague, the act of expressing them itself helping to define what it is we feel in the first place. I suspect the fat man, just now, hovers between the love-of-own-voice and letting-off-steam explanations.
He nods emphatically, falls briefly silent and sits back, hands on knees, having apparently just come to some conclusive break in his oration. He looks expectantly at me, as though I’m supposed to respond. I move my head in a sort of circular motion, something between a nod and a shake, and spread my hands. He looks annoyed at this and I feel I need to say something, but I don’t want to attempt anything in his own language as this will just encourage him. I can’t let slip that I can speak languages which are quite simply not of this world – vanishingly small though the chance may be that this could materially affect my security or threaten my anonymity – so I decide to make up some gibberish.
I say something like, “Bre trel gesem patra noch, cho lisk esheldevone,” and nod, as though for emphasis.
The fat man rocks back, eyes wide. He nods too, enthusiastically, and comes out with a barrage of quick-fire sounds not one of which I comprehend. He looks like he actually understood what I said. But that’s not possible.
“Bloshven braggle sna korb leysin tre epeldevein ashk,” I tell him when he stops to draw breath. “Kivould padal krey tre napastravodile eshestre chroom.” I shrug. “Krivin,” I add, with a nod for emphasis, for good measure.
He nods so hard that I expect to hear his teeth rattle. He slaps his knees. “Blah blah blah blah blah!” he replies. Not actually that one repeated nonsense filler word, obviously, but a stream of noise.
It is almost as though he does understand me. This is becoming alarming. I can feel myself getting rather hot. I determine to say no more, but he lets loose such a tirade of sound, complete with wild gestures and more spitting, that I feel it is impossible not to respond. If nothing else, at least when I am speaking he is not and so I am in no danger of being splashed with flecks of saliva.
“Lethrep stimpit kra zho ementeusis fla jun pesertefal, krin tre halulavala!” I respond. He nods again, talks quickly and incomprehensibly, then holds up one hand and gets up, grunting, disappearing into the corridor. I would like to think he has gone for the day. Or for good, but something about his last gesture, holding his hand up like that, leads me to believe he is going to reappear all too soon. While he is away I fan my face and flap the bedclothes to cool myself down.
He comes back a couple of minutes lat
er, shepherding into my room another patient, a skinny, slack-jawed fellow I recognise but have never talked to. In fact he’s one of those I thought didn’t talk to anybody. His thin, worn face looks too old for his body. He has lank black hair, an expression of no expression and a straggly beard that never seems to grow. He shows no sign of acknowledging me. The fat man plonks him down in the seat he has just vacated and gibbers a stream of language at him. I think I catch a word or two about listening and talking, but he is talking too fast for me to be sure. The younger man looks at me and in a low voice says something I do not catch. The fat man, standing behind him, gestures expectantly at me. I signal back, a two-handed What? motion. The fat man rolls his eyes and makes a sort of circular hurrying signal with one of his hands while the other taps the younger man on the shoulder and then points at me.
“Skib ertelis byan grem shetlintibub,” I say to the younger man. “Bolzaten glilt ak etherurta fisriline hulp.” I feel my face grow hotter still and fear that I am blushing. Sweat is gathering on my brow. This is perfectly absurd, but both men now seem rapt, and I feel it is easier to go on talking, even if it is utter gibberish, than it is to fall silent and wait for them to reply, or just burst out laughing. “Danatre skehellis, ro vleh gra’ampt na zhire; sko tre genebellis ro binitshire, na’sko voross amptfenir-an har.” Finally I can go on no longer, and – as my throat dries up – I simply run out of nonsense to speak.
The younger man narrows his eyes and nods slowly, again as though he understands this absolute rubbish. He looks slowly away from me to the fat man and says something. The fat man nods and makes a hand gesture that might mean I told you so. The young man leans forward and says, quite slowly, “Poldi poldipol, pol pol poldipolpol poldi poldi.” He sits back, smirking.
Well, of course, they are simply making fun of me. I smile thinly, look him in the eyes and say, “Poldi poldi polodi plopolpopolpopilploop.”
I expect him to smirk again, or laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits back as though struck, his expression changes to that of somebody who has just been profoundly insulted, he looks me up and down and then rises smartly to his feet, angrily shrugging off the hand of the fat man who appears to be trying to placate him. The fat man starts to say something, sounding soothing, but the young man interrupts him, shouting him down in what sounds like a stream of invective. The only word I can make out is the nonsense one “Poldi.” He turns imperiously, spits at the floor under my bed and storms out, head held high.
The fat man says something plaintive to him, goes to the door and says something after him, then gives a deep sigh, shakes his head and looks in at me, his expression regretful, hurt and disappointed. He scratches the back of his head with one chubby hand and expels another resigned sigh. He says something inflected to be a question, I think. I am definitely not saying anything else from this point on, and I just sit there glaring at him.
He shakes his head once more, asks another, similar-sounding question, then – when I still do not reply, but glare even more pointedly at him – he rubs one thick-fingered hand over his bald pate and stares down at the floor, possibly at where the younger patient spat. I doubt he will have the manners to do anything about that particular outrage. I bet I shall have to wait for an orderly or the cleaners to clean it up. I suppose I could do it myself, but I feel the gesture was both rude and uncalled-for and I don’t see why I should.
He mutters, staring away, as though talking to himself, and rubs his hands together, looking and sounding worried. He sighs theatrically, shakes his head one more time, and leaves, shoulders drooped, still muttering.
He stays away this time. Filled with relief, I reach for my thin plastic cup and the watery fruit juice. As I drink it, I notice that my hands are shaking.
The Transitionary
“Did you kill Lord Harmyle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was ordered to.”
“By whom?”
“Madame d’Ortolan.”
“I know that not to be true. Lord Harmyle was not on your list.”
“Really? Must have misread it.”
“Please don’t affect flippancy.”
“No? Okay.”
“Now, did you—”
“Have you seen the list?”
“What?”
“Have you seen the list?”
“Not relevant. Did you have orders to kill anybody else?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Dr Seolas Plyte, Ms Pum Jésusdottir, Mr Brashley Krijk, der Graf Heurtzloft-Beiderkern, Commandante Odil Obliq and Mrs Mulverhill the younger.”
A pause. I got the impression this was being written down as well as recorded. The circle of lights surrounded me. My questioner was still behind me, unseen. “My information indicates that you were asked merely to forcibly transition the people you mention, with the exception of Lord Harmyle, who, as already indicated, we know was not on your list.”
“I was given verbal orders from Madame d’Ortolan that all those on the list were to be killed, not transitioned. Quickly as possible.”
“Verbal instructions?”
“Yes.”
“In a matter of such importance?”
“Yes.”
“To be confirmed in writing subsequently?”
“No. I asked specifically. Definitely not to be confirmed in writing subsequently.”
“That would be unprecedented, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I would like to ask a question.”
Another pause. “Go ahead.”
“Who are you?” We were speaking a version of English which had separate “yous” for singular and plural; I had used the plural version.
“We are officers of the Concern,” the calm male voice said. “What did you think?”
“Who do you answer to?”
No pause. “Were your orders delivered to you in the usual fashion?”
“Yes. A one-time mechanical micro-reader.”
“Did you question your orders?”
“Yes. As I’ve said.”
“But you still accepted them, including the unprecedented alleged instruction to kill individuals who, according to your written orders, were only to be forcibly transitioned for their own safety.”
“Yes.”
“Had you received orders to kill so many people before?”
“No.”
“Were you aware that they were unusual orders in requiring such a… such a glut of killing?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you did not think to question them.”
“I did question them. And in the end I did not obey them.”
“You were not able to. You were captured before you could.”
“But I had—”
“Be quiet. Plus, you took it upon yourself to kill at least one more person in addition to the already significant number you falsely claim you had been instructed to kill.”
“As I—”
“Be quiet. I take it you were aware of the seniority of the persons you claim you were instructed to elide. Save for the Mulverhill woman, they are all on the Central Council of the Transitionary Office. Answer.”
“Of course.” (Are all on. An interesting choice of verb tense; inadvertently instructive, I hope.)
“And yet still you did not think to question the orders?”
“As we’ve established, I did question them. And I did not carry them out.”
“I see. Is there anything you would like to add?”
“I would like to know who you answer to. Under whose authority do you operate? I would also like to know where I am.”
A pause. “I think that concludes the preliminary part of our investigations,” the voice said. There was a hint of a question in the tone and I got the impression that he had turned his head and was talking to somebody else, not to me. I heard another, younger, man speak. Then the voice that had been conducting the interrog
ation said quietly, “No, we’ll call that stress level zero.” The young man’s voice came again, then the older man’s once more, patient and instructive, a teacher to a pupil: “Well, it is and it isn’t. Absolute to the level per individual, but individuals differ. So, zero. Provides headroom.” I was starting to sweat. The man cleared his throat. “Very well,” he said.
I heard him rise from a chair and sensed him walking towards me. My heart had been beating quickly anyway. Now it started to beat even faster. Shadows twisted on the concrete floor. I sensed the man behind me. I heard the deep, rasping, tearing noise of thick sticky tape being unrolled. He reached over me and put the tape over my eyes and right round my head, blinding me. I was breathing short and shallow, my heart thrashing in my chest. More tearing. He put another long line of tape round across my mouth and, again, right round my head. I had no choice but to breathe through my nose now. I tried to calm myself, to take fewer, deeper breaths.
Imagine that you could simply flit away, I thought. Imagine that just by thinking, you could be elsewhere.
Yes, and imagine that you are any different from any other poor, helpless, doomed wretch about to suffer, as poor, helpless, doomed wretches have suffered across the many worlds and down the countless ages an infinitude of times. With no escape and no choice and no hope.
A final, brief noise of a short length of tape being ripped from a roll, then torn. A very short, narrow piece of tape.
I felt him reach over me, his clothed chest pressing on my naked back and sweating head. The last thing I smelled was an antiseptic scent from his hand. He pinched my nose with one pair of fingers, wiped my skin with a paper handkerchief and stuck the tape over my nostrils, smoothing it down.
Now I could not breathe.
Headache. He has a headache.
He is not certain, for a few moments, which way up he is. Indeed, initially he is not entirely certain what “up” even means.
Pressure. There is pressure on one side and not on the other. This reminds him of something and he feels frightened.
Transition Page 19