Authors: Jonathan Wood
The woman’s face curdles, twists upon itself. Fury and horror. And then the world frays like a piece of old celluloid. Holes in reality. Voids swallow me, the woman, everything. And I am empty and alone, and then I am not even that.
The first thing that comes back is the pain. The physical pain. A little slap of it to wake me, to ground me back in reality—whatever that is these days. And then a dull ache, radiating out from my neck, pulsing to match the pain in my heart.
Alison.
Fuck.
I try to sit up and try to get my bearings. I don’t do very well on either task. The room is small, cramped, bookshelves on three walls, all overflowing, the couch and a doorway jammed against the fourth. The exposed wall is a deep red and mostly covered by a Klimt print I don’t recognize. Something from an exhibit at the Tate apparently. Someone is in the next room. I can hear a kettle whistling.
I make it upright, put my head in my hands.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have gone off like that at Shaw. I shouldn’t. Especially considering... What exactly did she do to my neck? My whole arm still feels numb. The headache throbs up from the base of my neck, wrapping around my skull, stretching down my shoulder.
Is it Shaw? Is she not what I think she is?
What do I think she is? Friend? Enemy? Kung fu master?
And what is happening to me when I fall unconscious? Where am I going? Does this always happen to people? I’ve never been knocked out before. Typical really. You wait for one knockout forever and then three come all at once.
But that alleyway doesn’t just live in my subconscious. I know that. It’s not like I’ve been doing this job that long, but it’s too long for me to keep making that mistake. There’s something else going on. Something else to talk about with the team.
God, I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Which is, of course, when Clyde comes in with the cups of tea.
“All right, old chap?” he says.
I put my head back in my hands.
“Understandable,” he says then stands there awkwardly He shrugs a few times. After about thirty seconds he holds out a mug. “Fancy a cuppa?”
On the whole, I realize, I rather would. As we sip he sits down beside me. We sit in silence for a while.
“This your place then?” I say after a while. Of course it is, but I need to say something, to get out of the confines of my own aching head.
“Yes. Well, mine and Devon’s. Me and Devon and the cats.”
“Cats?”
“We have seven cats.”
“Wow.”
“I like cats.” Clyde sips his tea.
“Be tricky if you didn’t.” It’s not a funny joke, just an automatic one. A social reflex.
“True.” Clyde nods. We both stare at our cups of tea.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally.
“Whatever for?”
“For punching you. Back at Olsted’s. I shouldn’t... I mean... I didn’t know what else to do. And I suppose... I don’t know, maybe I had to do it. Maybe I didn’t.” I’m waffling, saying nothing. Alison’s words echo too fresh in my ear.
Grow a pair.
“I’m sorry,” I say, more definitively, though still repetitive. “It had to be done—”
I think it had to be done.
“—but I’m sorry it happened.”
“It’s all right,” Clyde says. “Good plan in the end. Sort of worked out. All except, well, you know, the Progeny in Olsted.” He pauses, looks stricken. “Which, I mean, obviously you realize, given...” He pauses again. “I mean. Well, I don’t want... Just that... Oh God. Foot. Mouth. Shutting up. Going to be completely silent. No more talking.” We sit there quietly, Clyde occasionally muttering the word, “Idiot.”
I sit and stare at my feet. Images, moments, keep floating up. Bits of scum coming to the surface. Bodies floating. The image of the runner grabbing Swann. The sweat pouring off me as I took the car onto the sidewalk.
“How do they...” I start. “He wasn’t... human. The one who grabbed her. I mean, I know they’re not human. But they’re in human bodies. How could he run so fast? How couldn’t I... How couldn’t I catch him?”
“Well.” Clyde shuffles his feet and contemplates his tea. “Sort of interesting in a, you know, totally academic way. Horrific in other ways, of course. But you know there’s this idea that we don’t use all of our brains? Total myth in a very specific sort of way. All sorts of bits of it are useful. But we do all use our brains in, ostensibly, the same ways. This bit connects here. That bit over here. Nowhere else. But the theory is—I can’t state any of this for certain you realize—but the theory is that the Progeny rewire stuff. Bugger with the connections. Do things we can’t do. Establish neurological parallel processing. They can get more out of the brain than we can. Inhuman thing to do of course. Alien thing. Can make their hosts a little odd. Buggers to deal with. But then, you know... well, yes. I mean you... Shutting up again.”
There’s more silence. More tea drinking.
After a while I ask, “If I told you that she’s not what you think, what would you say?”
“Erm,” Clyde makes a final bid for composure, gets close and settles for that, “probably, you know, ask you who you’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Same here.”
Clyde gives me an odd look.
“Don’t worry about it.” I can’t deal with whatever that means right now. Maybe I should ask the Twins about it. Or the Sheilas. Or Shaw. Unless it’s about the Twins. Or the Sheilas. Or Shaw.
Crap.
More silence. More tea.
“So,” I say after a while, “how did I get here?”
“Oh,” Clyde says, “of course, stupid of me. Should have explained. Shaw said to bring you here. Thought it might be less stressful for you to be out of the office. Didn’t want you to be alone.”
“Babysitting,” I say.
“No, no, no. Nothing like that.” He pauses, examines the dregs of his tea. “Well, yes.” He shrugs, apologetic. “You know, friendly face and all that.”
I smile. Well, I twitch my lips. Smiles still feel a bit beyond me. A friendly face. Except who exactly has a friendly face these days?
We walk among you,
claims Olsted. Claims the Progeny that possesses Olsted. And if he’s telling the truth I wouldn’t know.
Paranoid thoughts. Maudlin thoughts. The inside of my head is an ugly swill. I put on the smile again.
“Good to know I haven’t disappointed everyone down at the agency.”
“What are you talking about?” Clyde says.
“Well.” I tick off on my fingers. “Kayla thinks I’m a screw-up and she should have stabbed me harder. I just tried to physically attack Shaw. And I’m pretty sure Tabitha wants to use my testicles for golf practice.”
“Oh no,” Clyde says. “Tabby rather likes you.”
Both my eyebrows shoot up.
“You know Tabby,” he says. “That’s just her way. Hard and crunchy on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside. Like nougat.”
“Like what?”
“Bad metaphor.” Clyde shakes his head and looks embarrassed.
There is a noise from another room. A key in a lock. A thump of a body against a door. A bustle of clothes. I jump up, knock over my tea. My heart is thudding, my fists balled.
“It’s Devon,” Clyde says behind me, talking quickly. “Just Devon. Calm down. Nothing to worry about. All fine.”
I sit. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry about the tea.” A brown stain is spreading across the carpet.
Then Devon comes in, all half-shed coats, and eco-friendly bags.
“Honey, I’m home!” she bellows in a singsong voice, then sees me. “Oh, hello. Visitors is it? Fantastic. Want a cuppa? Oh you’ve got one. I’ll just clean that up.” And then she’s barreling past me, past Clyde, with a massive peck on the cheek and a cry, “My glorious geek!” and then she’s into the kitchen.
Clyde’s composure seems to have abruptly left him. His eyes are wide.
“What?”
“Just play along.”
“With what?”
And then Devon is back, paper towels clutched in one meaty fist.
“There we go,” she says as she completely fails to remove the stain I have created on their carpet. “Good as new.” She stands, claps a hand to her forehead. “Good lord,” she exclaims, “where have my manners gone? Must have left them out in the hallway. Too much to carry you know. Forget my head one day, won’t I? That’s what I tell Clyde.” She turns, pecks him on the cheek again. “But, God, listen to me. Blather, blather, blather.” She grabs my hand and pumps it. The crushing grip manages to make it through the blanket of numbness that envelops me.
“Terribly good to see you again,” she says, pumping my arm up and down. She looks over to Clyde, still working my arm, “More drinks?” She examines her watch, finally releasing me. “Little early, isn’t it? Sun above the yardarm and all that naval nonsense? Is that naval? Not really sure what a yardarm is, actually. Is it a flagpole? Always rather thought it was. No good rational reason for that, I suppose. Little early though.” She clucks theatrically
Clyde looks like he’s about to bolt from the room. “Erm... there was this, er, this meeting—”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Devon says. “I’d rather top myself than go into accountancy. Terrible at math. All those numbers and symbols. Terrifically bloody boring stuff. To me. Not to you I imagine. Not to Clyde. Loves them he does. Utterly incomprehensible. Like German. I was taught it as a child but it still sounds like monkeys gibbering to me. Can’t make head nor tail of it. Me. Not Clyde. Well... Wait, do you speak German, Clyde? Should I know that?”
“No, love,” Clyde says distracted. “See we stopped back here for a cup of—”
“No I shouldn’t know it, or no you don’t know it?”
Clyde blinks rapidly several times. “I don’t know German, love.”
“I don’t think anyone does.” Devon nods emphatically “Not even the Germans. I think they make it up as they go along. Start speaking some other bloody language as soon as our backs are turned. Giant practical joke. I’ve heard Germans can be surprisingly funny people. You wouldn’t think it, but apparently so.”
Devon, I notice, has massive square teeth. She gnashes out her words.
“We should probably be getting back to the office,” Clyde manages weakly
“Of course,” Devon says. “Beck and call of the books, ’ey? Make sure all the rows and columns add up and all that. Do you wear glasses for it? Don’t know why I’ve never asked you that, Clyde honey. I always imagine you all perched over ledgers with those jeweler’s eyeglasses screwed in, peering at stuff. Probably not like that at all. All computers, I suppose. Do it all for you. Probably just sit around and drink tea all day. No, I suppose not. Be nice though, wouldn’t it? I could use one of those.” She abruptly stares off into space, and I have to imagine that maybe this is where she sucks in the next colossal lungful of air before bursting into the next breathless speech.
Clyde pecks her on the cheek. “See you later, love.”
“Yes, yes. Marvelous. Come again, Arthur. That’d be lovely.”
“OK,” I manage.
Clyde leads me out to the car. We drive in silence. I can’t really concentrate on conversation right now. Part of me just wants to get out of the car. Never wants to be in a car again. All I can think about is how slow everything is, how terribly late I feel, about how much faster we need to move to make it... to make it...
I put my face in my hands.
We walk among you.
She is not what you think she is.
Mysteries. Wheels within wheels. I am confused, beaten, and grieving. I want to lie down. Just go to sleep. Give up.
But then... Then this will just happen again. To me. To others. More lives lost. Every life lost. Ophelia first. A sweet little girl.
And who can stop it from happening?
I know some people think it’s me. I don’t think they’re right. After everything, I think they’re probably quite mistaken in fact. But does that really mean I shouldn’t try? I pull my head out of my hands. Look at the world slowly trundling by. Shouldn’t I be looking for a way to go faster? Shouldn’t I be looking for a way to stop those Progeny bastards?
Just because I’ll probably fail doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. And any victory, no matter how small, any chance to see those bastards lose their smug fucking smiles, shouldn’t I take that?
What would Kurt Russell do?
A stupid bloody thought. Some idiot mantra based in bad movie choices and a too-quiet life. A philosophy stupid enough to have Hollywood’s false promises at its heart. But it takes my anger and it gives it an edge. It takes my fury and it uses it to bury my guilt, my sorrow. It gives me a cruel, cold smile.
I’m going to fight those Progeny bastards, I realize then. There in the car. I’m going to do what Kurt Russell would do. I’m going to fight to win.
“I hate lying to her.” Clyde interrupts my thoughts. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about Devon. “I hate it,” he says, “and I do it all the time.”
I think about that for a bit. I think about Clyde and Devon at home in their comfortable apartment, the comfortable bustle of the other, the warmth of that place. And then I think about the way I’ve seen Clyde look at Tabitha.
“It’s not like that when you’re with someone you work with,” I say
He doesn’t answer that, and I don’t push it.
On the way back to my place we get a call to go straight to the conference room. I don’t want to go but I grab onto my newfound resolve and give a nod to Clyde’s questioning look. Probably the best way to stop Shaw from tenderizing me with karate chops anyway.
The meeting is Tabitha’s show again. No laptop this time. Instead she stands at the head of the table trying to navigate a path between her desire to seem like she doesn’t give a damn and her palpable excitement.
Shaw looks up as I come in. She gives me a surprisingly soft look. Very decent of her, considering last time I saw her I was trying to murder her.
Kayla’s there, too. I take a seat as far away from her as possible—opposite Shaw. I can’t look at Kayla without thinking about the rooftop. Without thinking—
We walk among you.
She is not what you think she is.
I glance at her, at Shaw, at Tabitha. And can I really trust the woman in the alleyway? What if what’s in my head is Progeny smoke and mirrors? What if they want me paranoid? Should I trust subconscious visitors, or the people in this room, or no one at all?