And then they are gone and I feel a flood of relief as the silence reignites the scene. I count to one hundred, before carefully lifting my face and allowing myself to breath the air freely once more. The snow has frozen around my body and it takes a lot of force to get myself out, to free my hands and then my feet. I stand, with difficulty and feel the pain rip through my body, I want to scream as I shut my eyes and feel the tears form, tears that freeze on my lashes and my cheeks. Slowly, so slowly, the feeling starts to come back, it allows me to start to dig him out, I break the ice and push the snow away and reveal, eventually, the body underneath, frozen but still alive; with my teeth I undo my flask, I force his lips open and pour whisky down his throat. He coughs, splutters, spills most of it and then goes still again. I’m about to carry on when there’s a buzzing, and I realise that it’s my phone.
My fingers are still numb, but I manage to prise the phone from my pocket and answer it. “Hello?” my lips bleed as I speak.
“John?”
“Who is this?” I try to say. It comes out a little like “Whaisdi”
“John, is that you? John, it’s Harry here, Harry Simmons. Can you talk?”
Jesus, what great timing. “Fuck you” I say. I think he hears “Fadu”
“What did you say? Where are you? Listen, John, it’s important we talk. Detective Carver is alive, apparently, but Morrell’s dead, and Carver’s after you. I can protect you, but we need to meet. OK, it’s really important that we meet. This guy is dangerous. I mean, John, if you’d seen it, if you’d seen what I’ve seen…”
I hang up and throw the phone into the snow. It starts to flash and vibrate, so I kick some snow over it. “C’mon” I say to Mark, “let’s go” and I drag him up, and pull him, half unconscious, half stumbling, back to his flat.
***
“They took her, how could I let them take her?” his voice is half choked by tears
“It doesn’t matter”
“But how could I? How could I leave with you, and leave her here? What was I doing. Why, why did they come, I didn’t warn them, how did they know you were here?”
“Mark,” I’m saying, “Mark, listen, we don’t have a lot of time, they’ll be back soon, and they’ll realise you betrayed them.” He looks up at me. “Then they’ll destroy you” I whisper.
“But I didn’t betray them!” he cries, “I didn’t. Who are you, anyway? What do you want with me? Just get out, leave me! Go!” but the anger in his voice doesn’t mean anything and he stays slumped over his table, his drink and his cigarette.
“It doesn’t matter” I say softly, “whatever you say, it doesn’t matter. It’s gone, now. Look, I can…” and I turn and face the dying flames in fire in the corner. “Is it always so cold here?” I ask
He’s by my side, looking for life in the flames. “You can what? Can you help get her back? Please, if there’s anything that you can do, please”, he’s gripping my shoulder, his eyes are crying out for help.
I sigh deeply and lean my head close into his, so that our foreheads touch, I can feel his heat, he steps back suddenly and clutches his head, I see him stumble and try to hold himself upright. Very carefully, I unwrap my package, and run my hand tenderly over the smooth black surface. My hands trembling, I hold it towards the fire, and the fire dies out. The mirror shakes lightly in my hands, and I lean into it, staring into its unspeakable blackness. We look at each other, Mark and I, Mark and John, in the darkness of the night and the darkness of the room, and for a moment it’s like the mirror is really reflecting us, reflecting me into him, my features, the lines on my face, the blackness of my eyes, even something, really, beneath the surface, that is there, that touches me and touches him too, and I can see him, he sees it too, some level of understanding switches on in him.
“Here,” I whisper, “this is for you” and I hold out the black mirror to him. His hands reach out for it, and I know he knows what’s going to happen as he takes it, but he has no choice, and even as he touches it, I can see his hands turn to dust and his eyes turn to flame, as his body dissolves through the power of some force that I don’t understand, and all I hear is one last cry as finally he disappears and I’m left holding the mirror, burning hot but blacker than ever, as the walls crumble and cave in and I’m faced with two masked men, in militaristic uniform, pointing rifles at me.
“Get me out of here” I whisper, and I’m gone.
***
The ivory door shuts with a gentle click behind me as I enter the main room. They are waiting for me there, standing on either side of the stone table. Without a word, Simon motions me forward.
They are waiting there, in white suits and dark glasses, their hands covered by surgical gloves. She gently prises the mirror from my grasp and looks down at my bleeding hands. He takes my left hand, then my right, and with each, slowly and methodically, bathes them and covers them in white bandages, wrapping each finger individually. I thought I would feel pain, but I feel nothing as my eyes remain locked with Simon’s.
“It’s ready” she whispers, and it’s a welcome relief to break from Simon’s gaze and turn to her. She’s holding the mirror in her left hand, and he is standing next to her with a cup, or a goblet, which he holds underneath the mirror. She brings her right hand onto the mirror, and they both look at me, through their dark glasses, I can see their eyes shine brightly. I can make out a hissing sound, as steam rises from the mirror and the concentration on her face masks the pain that’s there, that comes through. Simon touches me and points at the mirror, it’s as if her hand is starting to dissolve, to disappear, and suddenly there’s a sharp crack, like a whip, she lets out a gasp but holds herself steady as a crack slashes across the surface of the mirror and the two sides open and a thick, dense liquid appears and almost slithers across the surface of the mirror, before it drops, loudly, into the goblet. Then another drop, then another, time after time, until the goblet is full, and she is holding two separate pieces of the mirror in both her hands before she collapses and lies inert on the shiny white floor.
“There” says Simon, with a satisfied smile, as he takes the goblet, “that went well. Now, please, drink."
With a shock I realise he is actually talking to me, no one else, he’s holding the goblet out to me and I understand that he wants me to take it and to drink it.
“I” I say.
“But” I say.
“Look” I say.
“Please” I say.
Simon just continues to fix me with his eyes, and the bitter smile on his face tells me that he won’t change his mind.
“Ruth” I say, turning to her. “Ruth, please.”
She touches my arm. “John, what did you expect? This is what has to be done, there’s no other choice. You just need to drink this, then you’re back, you’re back with us, that’s all.” Her voice is soothing and gentle.
“But” I stammer, “but, what will it do… what will it do to me? I thought...I thought this was what you needed, why do I have to drink it? Surely it's for them, surely that's what you need..."
“it has to come through you, John. You're the conduit. Just drink it, John” says Simon. “you have no choice.”
Of course there’s a choice, there’s always a choice, I think for a second, I can say no, I can just walk away, I don’t have to pour that dark liquid into me, that dark liquid that is a nightmare in itself, whatever else it is. It’s still my choice, I am thinking even as my arm is rising, even as my hand reaches across and grasps the stem of the goblet, even as Simon releases it and smiles warmly as I bring it to my lips, even as I gaze into its dark secrets.
“Stop!” shouts a voice behind me; as if in slow motion I turn around .
“How did you get in here” snarls Simon.
“What do you want” breathes Ruth.
“Hello John” he smiles.
“Er, hello…” and it takes me a second to place the name, “Mr Simmons”
“We had an agreement, didn’t
we” he says; I swallow, and I can feel Simon’s cold eyes on me
“Just drink the fucking potion” snarls Simon.
“How was your trip to Fadu, John?” asks Harry, pleasantly.
“You’re dead, Simmons” Simon says, aggressively.
“Just go, please” says Ruth, pleadingly.
“Er, Detective Simmons…” I start.
“Detective?!” splutters Simon, “he’s not a detective!”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Why on earth do you think he’s a detective, John?” asks Ruth, softly.
“Er, I think I should go” says the man who had been holding the goblet, speaking for the first time
“Shut up” says Simon, not looking at him, and he shuts up.
“He told me” I say, unhappily.
“Yeah, well, he’s told a lot of people a lot of things. Most of them lies. He thinks that he’s some kind of reactionary, some kind of revolutionary, here to save the world from the likes of me.”
I stare at Simmons and he shrugs, smiling. “Well, what difference does it make, really? I still wanted you to do the same thing”
“But” I’m saying, “but you promised… you promised me…”
“Yes, I admit, it probably made a difference to you. I admit, you’re right, I wasn’t able to deliver on all my promises. But look…” he’s holding his hands out to me, “look, it was important, what I was asking you. Look, do you really want to hand over so much power to this man here, really? Do you really want to take the consequences of drinking that” – he points at the goblet – “for him? For what, really?”
“Yeah? And what do you have to offer him, exactly?” shouts Simon, “what’s your big, grand plan?”
“Freedom” he answers. “I can show him how to do things differently. I can show him how to put his powers, and his immense knowledge and skill, to a use that won’t necessarily just result in destruction around him.”
He turns to me. “I mean, John, look around you. You just do what he wants, do you ever stop to question whether there’s a different way, whether there’s a need for all this violence that is created, that he creates, whether what you do could be put to good use? Do you really need to kill more and more people, just to get what he wants?” His voice goes very soft, very slow. “I can show you a different way, John. Please, just pour that away, and come with me. Look at it” he urges, “look at what he is asking you to drink, look into its black depths and ask yourself, do you really want this? Is it really worth it? Please, John, come with me, I can show you a separate way, a better way.”
For a second I stare at him. “Fuck off, you traitorous bastard” I say, and bring the goblet to my lips.
“No! shouts Simmons and jumps forward. With a flash, Simon brings a dagger out from his jacket, it flies through the air and strikes Simmons in the left shoulder, he lets out a cry of pain but keeps coming towards me.
“Drink!” shouts Simon, I am staring at him but I am frozen. Simmons’ hands are bloody, his face in a grotesque smile as he grips the dagger and yanks it out, then brandishes in front of him, advancing towards me.
“For God’s sake just drink it!” Simon is screaming and still I can’t do anything, I can’t lift my hands, I can’t move them any closer to my mouth.
“Look at you!” Simmons shouts at me, “look at you, you’re pathetic! Just do what he says, just for what?” he’s rubbing his bloody hands together. “Why won’t he drink it, have you asked yourself that, if it’s that easy, why won’t he drink it?” he’s pointing at Simon with the bloody dagger.
“He, er” I start and then fade away. Ruth is by my side and I can feel her gripping my free hand, she’s whispering to me “just drink it, please John, just drink it, it’ll all be fine, things will be back to…”
“Or her!” he cries, “give it to her, let her drink it! Give it to her, go on, it’s easy, go on, she’s there!”
I turn my head and look at her, look at her, her blond hair and beautiful eyes, I had never realised her eyes were so beautiful before, as they glisten with tears.
There’s a shout, a scream and we turn, Simon is next to Simmons now and they are fighting, Simon’s trying to wrestle the dagger away from him, he’s struggling, Simmons is pushing him back, forcing the dagger closer to his throat, their heads are so close, they are snarling at each other like animals, Ruth’s hand tightens around mine as we watch, motionless, until with a huge cry Simmons pushes Simon back, he staggers and slips in the blood and falls, inches from us. He looks up in fear, he starts to whimper as Simmons stands over him, still holding the dagger, Simmons gauging his prey, ready to strike, and then it’ll be over, and Ruth whispers, “drink it, it’s not too late”, and Simmons looks up at us and smiles crookedly.
He drops the knife and walks forward until he’s next to us, he’s holding the goblet with me, his left hand placed firmly around mine, gripping it tight. He dips his bloody right hand into the goblet, into the black liquid and I can see his face contort in pain, but he carries on, he lifts his hand out, holds black fingers towards Ruth and whispers “drink, go on, drink it, just drink, prove to him that you can, just drink” but Ruth can only shake her head and allow tears to trickle quietly down her face.
Harry Simmons is looking back at me, his grip is hurting me, making me wince as he says “you see, please, you still have a …” and then he stops, he looks surprised, and he crumples to his knees, then to the floor and I see Simon standing behind him, the newly bloody dagger in his hand, which he lifts and points at me and says “Drink. Drink it now.” And so I drink.
Chapter 40
“I would never trust him, to be honest, my friend.”
“No,” I’m agreeing, nodding my head. “No, you’re right.”
“He was a slippery bastard at the best of times. And that’s when I thought he was straight. Turns out he was a double agent for years. Unbelievable, really, isn’t it.”
“A bit like yourself” I remark, nursing my drink.
“Ha! I’ll drink to that.” We sit in silence for a while, sipping our drinks slowly. “But you know” he says, “it’s not like me actually. I was just crooked, to be honest, that’s very different to trying to be two things. You knew – you knew where you stood with me.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure I did, really.” Casually I flick the pill between my fingers, looking at the huge smile painted on it.
“Anyway,” he says, draining his drink, “that’s not the point, really, is it, that’s not the point at all. Is it, now? You need to tell me what you want.”
I pick up the Very Happy Pill, and place it gingerly on my tongue. Promising myself that this is the last time, the first and last, I swallow it with the last of my whisky.
“Well, Detective Carver, it’s like this. I want redemption.”
“Barman!” shouts Detective Carver, “a bottle of your best whisky for me and my friend!” Then he turns back to me, slaps me on the back, and laughs.
“OK”, he says, “I can’t pretend to even begin to understand your motives, but that’s not really my concern, now is it?”
I sigh and drink a lot. “I’m not sure that I really understand my motives, either to be honest. The point is, though, we are together on this, right? Redemption for me, destruction for you?”
“I’ll drink to that” he nods.
***
This is still quite new, quite old. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, in my bed, in my apartment, in a cold sweat, strange and confusing dreams that I don’t understand, I don’t recognise. I’ve been looking across at the girl beside me, someone different every night, but the desire, the excitement isn’t there.
I showered, at three in the morning and went wandering around my vast, empty apartment. I locked the door to my bedroom so that whoever was there couldn’t escape, couldn’t disturb me. I stood by the enormous window, and looked out over the cityscape. I left the apartment and walked the dark streets in my nightclo
thes. Most people left me alone, seeing the empty look in my face and realising they weren’t going to get anything from it. Some would come up to me, looking for what chances they could get, and mostly I would ignore them, and if they became too interested I would just destroy them, it became easier and easier.
During the day my only job took about ten minutes, I would have to stand in a machine in Simon’s new laboratory and have energy sucked out of me, ready to make another clone in his mercenary army. We didn’t talk, he didn’t make the effort to and I was relieved. Something about him repelled me.
One night I found myself in a bar, somewhere unusual, somewhere I hadn’t been before. It was cold and dark and almost empty, a solitary bar, staffed by a solitary barman, a small, round man with a drooping moustache and thinning hair. He wore a white t-shirt that covered his enormous belly. I remember the t-shirt well, it was old and fraying and stained with what looked like blood.
He nodded, reluctantly, as I came in and walked slowly across the closed, empty space towards the bar. The place seemed deserted, the barman stood alone, a drink in his left hand, and he watched me as I came towards him.
“Quiet night” – he said.
“What can I get you” – he said.
“You look like shit” – he said.
“I know you” – he said.
“You killed my brother” – he said.
But that didn’t seem to stop him, he poured me a large whisky and slid it across to the bar to me, and I drank gratefully. My lack of sleep was making my head spin all the time, making my throat thick, making my eyes splinter the dark light into ribbons.
“Thank you” – he said – “I hated him. He was a thug.”
That’s when I heard the noise behind me, and I didn’t need to look up to know it was him, as he pulled a stool up next to me and I could feel the heat from his body. He nodded to the barman, who turned away from us.
“How did you escape?” I asked.
“You know,” he replied, touching his chin, “I don’t blame you. I know it wasn’t your fault, I know you didn’t really know what was going on there either.”
Falling Page 21
