“But I digress,” he continues. “Maybe that’s why you called the process Elvira, if it’s all about energy and power. Is what why you called it Elvira?”
“So, maybe, I don’t know, maybe that’s what it was named after. I’m not in charge of marketing.” I reply.
“Ah, in Hart Industries, you mean? No, you don’t look like the marketing type. Who is in charge of marketing, by the way?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that.”
Detective Carver raises his hands, “OK, OK, sorry, so, tell me more about Elvira. Really powerful stuff, right?” I look at him and he smiles, reaches over and removes the packet from under my hand. He plays with it in his hands and I feel like I’m panting like a dog.
“You wouldn’t believe.” I shake my head. “you wouldn’t believe how powerful.” I pick up a glass from the table.”You see this glass? I could fill this. Just this one glass, could contain enough energy to power, say, all the cars in the world for the next ten years. Completely renewable, completely sustainable.”
“Impressive” says Detective Carver.
“Solution to all the world’s energy problems” Detective Morrell says quietly.
“In one go” says Detective Carver.
“Strange that we haven’t heard about it” says Detective Morrell.
“Strange, and quite sad really, when you think about it. Think of all the issues that global warming has caused, and just imagine that all you need is this one glass” says Detective Carver
“Just this one glass, full of power” says Detective Morrell
“This one glass, full of power, and all our problems solved. I could drive my four by four and not feel so guilty about it” says Detective Carver.
“We could probably even increase food production and stop starvation” says Detective Morrell.
“I could heat my swimming pool all year round” says Detective Carver.
“We could provide power and light to the poorest nations” says Detective Morrell.
“I could take my family on that trip to the North Pole” says Detective Carver.
“We could develop vaccination programmes for the worst diseases” says Detective Morrell.
“Do you have any coffee?” I ask.
“Can I have my pill now?” I ask.
They both stare at me.
“So why haven’t we heard about it?” asks Detective Carver
“Why haven’t we solved the world’s problems?” asks Detective Morrell
“You haven’t been keeping it to yourselves, for your own personal gain have you?” asks Detective Carver.
“Have you? Really?” asks Detective Morrell.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
“He has!” they both exclaim, turning to each other.
Detective Carver is smiling broadly. “So let me get this straight. You have this thing, right? You have this process and yet, instead of using it for the common good, you use it to make money?”
“To create your weapons of destruction?” adds Detective Morrell.
“Why do you care?” I repeat.
“I care because I want to be able to drive my huge four wheel drive vehicle without feeling any guilt” replies Detective Carver.
“I care because I care about the poor people” replies Detective Morrell.
“No you don’t” says Detective Carver.
“Good point” says Detective Morrell.
“Please can I have my pill” I say.
“Just a couple more questions.” Detective Carver gets off the table, and suddenly, harshly, grabs my shirt and pulls me up to face him.
“This is what makes me sick, more than anything else, about you, about your people. You have a choice, but you sell it so that people can kill each other and you can get rich? Who did you sell it to, some terrorist group, some renegade country, some destructive weapon that we’re only waiting to see the results of? You do it for so much money don’t you. How much are you getting, billions, trillions even, I’m guessing right?” He’s speaking with almost a righteous rage, and I have to lean back to avoid the impact. “You could get so much, in any case, yeah, maybe only millions, but who cares? How can you spend that money in any case? How can you justify that against all the misery that you cause?"
I don’t know where I get the energy from, but I manage to pull myself away and speak. “What makes you so much better? You still drive your big car, you still do everything you want, you haven’t done anything good, I bet have you. The only difference is that I had a choice. And the world will still get a chance to have this” I shout. “If it’s willing to pay the price” I add more quietly.
But they’re both laughing now and Detective Carver actually slaps me on the back.
“Actually,” Detective Morrell replies, “we don’t really care about that. What you do with all that is up to you. I must admit, though, I would like to have a car as cool as yours.” He turns to Detective Carver. “He has a very beautiful car.”
“Very beautiful” agrees Detective Carver. “Have you touched the bodywork? It feels like you’re running your hand across a woman’s bare body. It’s quite stunning.”
“Or a man’s” says Detective Morrell. He turns to me and smiles. “I’m gay” he says by way of explanation.
“Yes of course, a man’s” replies Detective Carver. “But that’s not what we’re discussing, in any case, my sincere apologies for taking us off the subject, even if it was to discuss your beautiful car. Sincerely, my apologies. But the only reason that we’re interested in Elvira, is because of the murder. That’s what we’re actually interested in. The murder.”
“Mmm, this murder.” Detective Morrell muses. “Actually, we should say, these murders.”
“Yes, that’s right, because, strangely enough, just after your visit to him, this farmer person, I can’t remember his name, seems to have been found, ahem, dead.”
“In a very unpleasant way” adds Detective Morrell.
“Yes, extremely unpleasant. At least, though, I don’t think there were any unicorns present this time” adds Detective Carver.
“But we’ll never really know, unless we have some help” says Detective Morrell, and he slides a photo across the table to me. I glance at it, trying to make out what I am seeing. “Do you have any coffee?” I ask again, hopefully.
Detective Carver sits down again, next to me, and puts his hand on my knee. “So, John, this seems like another case of ritual sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m not sure I understand” I reply. “Can I have my pill now please?”
“Well, if you remember, the last time we, erm, met, it was to discuss the ritual sacrifice of a lady, or erm, maybe a woman. An as yet, still I am afraid, unidentified woman. A real shame. And now we have, in a similar vein, a farmer, well, a man, who happens to be a farmer. Also, it would appear, sacrificed, although in a somewhat more brutal way. Quite imaginatively brutal.”
“At least we know who this is” says Detective Morrell.
“Indeed we do. And the strange thing, the coincidence, if you like, is you.”
“Why?” I ask, “what does it have to do with me? All I did was visit him. It was actually you who asked me to visit him. When do I get my pill?” At least if I had some coffee.
“Well, erm, slightly more than that. Yes, you’re right, I did ask you to visit him, I didn’t ask you to murder him and then chop off all his limbs though. I would have remembered asking you that.”
Detective Morrell starts laughing. “Yes that’s right, we admire your initiative, but really the guy just wanted to talk to you. My friend Stephen here is very much into upholding the law, he really doesn’t encourage people to do this sort of thing.”
Detective Carver is laughing too. “That's right, I really don’t encourage that sort of thing. In fact, I positively discourage it. But let’s be serious for a minute. It really is a serious subject. The farmer was ritually disembowelled, and then had all of his limb
s chopped off, all, it seems whilst he was still alive, on the same day, it would seem, that you visited him. If his diary is to be believed. His diary is quite interesting, by the way. That’s where we got the connection to Elvira. Although I must admit I’m still baffled by it. What do the numbers mean, by the way?”
He’s asking, but I can’t answer, I just look at him. “The numbers?” I ask eventually, as I have to say something.
“Elvira Ten, for instance. That was what was written in his diary. In the margin, at least, next to the bit about his wife. What would that mean? Would it be something about the level of power?”
“It sounds logical, doesn’t it, “ Detective Morrell answers him.
“If you give me the pill, maybe I’ll answer” I say.
“If you answer, maybe we’ll give you the pill” replies Detective Morrell, winking at me.
We sit there for a minute, all waiting.
“Well, look, OK, let’s come back to the pill in a minute,” says Detective Carver, ratting the envelope in his hand. “We just want to understand what happened here. You get picked up next to where a woman was sacrificed in a very bloody way. Then, a few weeks later, you visit a man, a farmer to be precise, in almost exactly the same place, in fact you can see the sacrificial field, shall we say, from the window of his house. And then the farmer is sacrificed too. The same day. And on top of that, in his diary, which is very interesting, by the way, he’s scrawled something about Elvira. Which, as you say, is a technology that your firm has patented. Wouldn’t you say that’s a little bizarre?”
“And not only that” adds Detective Morrell, “but this woman’s identity is interesting, isn’t it, Stephen?”
“Fascinating, actually” agrees Detective Carver. He turns back to me to explain.”I think we said that we don’t know who she is. But we weren’t being entirely honest with you. You see, we do have quite a good idea who she is. A very good idea, in fact.”
A waitress enters and puts a cup of coffee in front of me.
“I hope the coffee’s OK” says Detective Carter.
“It certainly smells good” agrees Detective Morrell.
“Can I have a break, please?” I ask.
“Drink your coffee first” says Detective Carver. There’s a knock at the door to the conference room, and we all turn to look.
Simon stands in the doorway to the room, dressed in black, clutching a handgun. For all his bulk and lack of fitness, he looks like a commando in a rescue mission. His voice is steady and harsh.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks.
The detectives appear to have lost some of their confidence.
“You’re Simon Hart” whispers Detective Carver.
Simon slowly, deliberately walks up to him and raises his handgun level. I can’t help but notice the sleek lines of a Jones P2. I wonder if he’s going to shoot.
“Simon Hart doesn’t exist” he says, steadily. “You are CAT aren’t you? I thought we had an agreement.”
Detective Carver doesn’t answer, just returns his look, and waits. I can see Simon’s finger squeeze the trigger.
Chapter 23
“Thank you” I whisper. Simon’s concentrating on the road, or the sky, I can’t tell which. We are going very fast.
“I was scared” I add, but he doesn’t turn, he doesn’t look at me.
We wait for a long time, I sit in the leather seat staring straight ahead of me, wondering about the Very Happy Pill. Wondering about Simon. Occasionally I steal glances at him, his brow furrowed in concentration, but of course, he looks pissed off, really, and I don’t want Simon to be like this. I know what he’s capable of. Not towards me, though. Hopefully.
The heat of the day bears down on us through the windscreen.
“How did they know your name?” I ask.
“You tell me” whispers Simon, but still he doesn’t look at me.
“I didn’t say anything!” I blurt out. “Nothing at all, I promise you, Simon!”
We land on the roof of my apartment building, but instead of getting out, we both just sit there, waiting. My clothes become drenched in sweat, I can feel the smell, the odour, from myself, but I can’t do anything, I can’t move, I have to wait, just wait and look at his face, the muscle, fat and tissue, the hard and cruel lines, the dark eyes and dark hair.
He sits still, completely motionless, even the heat and sweat seem to recoil from him when he’s like this and I still can’t, I don’t dare, move. The sky begins to break and the sun starts to set, sending shards of red and orange through the sky. The sweat cools and dries on my body and I move my legs around constantly, trying to stave off cramp, fatigue and fear.
It’s past midnight before he does anything. And then it’s to make a call. “It’s me” he says. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” As he opens the door, he turns to me and says “tomorrow we talk”. And with that he’s gone.
Chapter 24
“I thought I was very clear that you weren’t to talk to the police.”
“You were” I reply.
Simon puts out his hands. “So, what, you disagreed with my advice?”
“But I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t tell them anything.”
“Nothing? You were in there for three hours, or whatever it was with them. What did you do, play cards?”
I find Simon being sarcastic quite scary. I’m stammering. “No, no, of course not, it’s just that, well, it’s just that they talked, I mean they talked all the time, they hardly even asked me anything. They seemed to know so much, they...”
“What did they know?” he interrupts suddenly
“Well, they knew about Elvira, they knew...”
“They knew what Elvira was?”
“Well, sort of, yes, they thought, they had an idea, they knew somehow it was connected to the murders, the sacrifices. They weren’t quite there, they just wanted me to confirm things, that was all, but...”
“And did you? What did you confirm, John?”
“Nothing!” I’m sweating, shouting. “Nothing, I swear, Simon, absolutely nothing.”
Simon regards me, pensively, for a few minutes. I’m sitting so still, not able to look at him. My happy energy is draining away so fast, I don’t need this. Eventually, he nods his head, just once, just slightly, but I know it’s enough and relief floods through me.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter, John” he says evenly. “You don’t need to get involved. Next week, we’ll have our follow up meeting, and we’ll go through it all. In the meantime, please, please, just stay here, work on your project and don’t go out. Nowhere, not even for breakfast, not even for cigarettes, nothing, you understand? Do you think you can manage that, this time?”
I nod, but I can’t look at him.
“OK, good. I’ll see you soon” he says, getting up to go.
“Will you have Shaun look after me?” I ask, quickly. I really don’t want him to go, suddenly. I really don’t want to be alone.
Without looking at me, he replies “I’ve had to let Shaun go.” He’s at the door. Desperately, I say, “He had a diary.”
Simon turns sharply. “Who?”
“The farmer” I say quickly. “The farmer had a diary. They’ve seen it. It mentions Elvira, apparently.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, “ I reply, “that’s all they told me.” Simon walks back over to me and looks intently in my eyes. “John, who do you think killed the farmer?”
“I have no idea” I stammer. “I didn’t even know he was dead until they told me.”
He nods at me, turns, and this time is gone before I can say or do anything. And I’m left, alone in my apartment, alone in my building, save for the faceless security agents, who work for someone now, not Shaun, God help him.
I need to do something now. Time to work. And time to drink.
Chapter 25
His dreams have always been strange. Like hi
s eyes. Like the darkness of his heart. Something’s happened to them, however, they’re not as bleak or as cold as they used to be. It’s as if, in his subconscious at least, he’s turning towards the light, almost the polar opposite of what he feels is happening in his life.
This is the coldest winter yet, since he came to this abandoned place. Faces are more downturned and downtrodden than usual. Most mornings he has to clamber over the freshly frozen corpse of another tramp, another homeless stray, before it is cleaned up and carted off.
At work there’s even ice on the desks, that he has to scrape off and dry down before he can start to do anything. They’re all sitting there, in their big coats, huddled together, even inside, to get a little warmth and last through a little of the day. He’s at the end of the row, slightly apart, concentrating, trying to catch something of last night before it drifts, before it dies in his mind, dies in the cold. Water leaks into his eyes and freezes.
“Mark?”
He turns. “Mark, do you want to get some coffee? Come on, let’s try and get warm”.
He would smile but his lips are frozen, they would just crack and bleed. He nods his head slightly, and they leave.
Chapter 26
The sudden, unusual cry of loneliness is broken by the harsh, uninterrupted crackle of the storm. Days, weeks, months of oppressive heat broken and split apart, that I watch in wonder as I stand by the huge window in my living room and watch the rain cascade onto the streets far below, washing away dust, dregs, people, cars, as I watch and smile.
The bolt of lightning is sudden as it is unexpected, cracks like whiplash against my window and throws me back like an invisible force into my room as the electricity hits the window and cracks it in two, as if it was aimed directly at me like some sort of retribution. And then, not at the same moment, but a split second later, the sky goes black against the yellow flashing light, and I see something, staring at me from outside, something, someone like me, but not me, larger, more tired, more grotesque. This disappears too, like it had never been there and is replaced by another image, my living room, in reverse, two figures, two women behind me, red in the light.
Just as I get up, the noise shatters in my head, arms grab me and twirl me around, and everything becomes light again. I turn to see, still at least, a huge crack in my window.
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