by Tony Moyle
John reflected on the possibility that Sandy could be wandering around the Earth in a million different guises. How was he going to find him? It appeared an impossible task. If John’s original view on reincarnation was still valid he could be any living thing on the planet. John had never believed in reincarnation as a possibility. His view on the afterlife had been a conventional Christian one, until about ten minutes ago at least.
“Do you know what he has been turned into?” prompted John, unconvinced he was going to like the answer and having visions of him trying to coax a cloud of blue sparks out of an uncooperative elephant.
“That’s what you need to find out. We have no idea what he’s become. Come to think of it, we have no idea how the Limpet Syndrome works either. It’s not of our design, you see, more a quirk of nature, a mutation, an anomaly if you will. There are people who may be able to help you, though,” replied Brimstone quite unhelpfully.
“If Sandy’s soul is in some random animal, why can’t you just leave it there until it dies and eventually passes up here anyway?”
“As I said before, it’s not our design, so we don’t know what the possible consequences are. We think the most likely outcome will be the complete destruction of your Universe,” Brimstone answered without the required level of concern.
“The end of the Universe. What makes you think that?”
“Obviously we don’t know for sure. Clearly it hasn’t happened before or we wouldn’t be having this chat. Neither are we prepared to sit back and see if it does. We’re only going to get one chance to find out, aren’t we?”
John weighed up his predicament. He had to find the soul of someone he didn’t really like that much, which was inside some kind of animal, somewhere on Earth. What’s more, no one here had the foggiest idea or helpful suggestions as to where. If he didn’t do it, the whole Universe was probably going to collapse around his ears. If he didn’t take the deal, or failed, he was personally going to spend an afterlife somewhere on the lower levels of Hell, being emotionally and physically bothered for the rest of eternity.
That was before he even considered how he was going to get back to Earth to try. He was dead: that must be a major restriction. It wasn’t an everyday choice which he was used to. In the past the hardest decisions he had to make were which restaurant to eat in on Friday night, or what direction he was going to take to go to work. This took more consideration and thought.
“Not that I’m suggesting this, you understand, but what happens if I say no?” John asked in a manner designed to suggest the question was hypothetical.
“This is your only chance to get back to Heaven: there is no choice. We need you because you have first-hand experience of the persons in question, and that has always been vital in the past. The alternative is that I break out the sharp, whizzy, pokey devices that make life particularly uncomfortable and go get your room key.” Brimstone had the expression of someone holding a royal flush, whilst John had at best a pair of two’s and a very poor poker-face.
“I’m sorry, I might have misheard you then. Did you say ‘persons’? That’s plural,” replied John, who had been paying close attention to the response, which he hadn’t liked at all.
“Yes, there are two of them. Did I not mention that earlier? How remiss of me. That’s what makes this case so absolutely fascinating,” explained Brimstone, seeming to think it was humorous.
“Who’s the other one?” asked John, his vision now expanded to dealing with a herd of elephants.
“His name is Ian Noble and he was due to come at precisely the same time as the other one. We think that both incidents might be related.”
“Oh, they’re related all right,” replied a now exasperated John, “Ian Noble is Sandy’s right-hand man; he hangs around him like a lost dog. He was always the one that carried out Sandy’s more difficult or risky jobs. Unfortunately he wasn’t very good at them, very accident-prone, that’s why he was nicknamed Cher, as in Cher-nobyl.”
“I knew you were the right person for the job, John, you already know more than I do. What is your choice?”
“It doesn’t appear that I have one.”
“That’s the spirit: worse things can happen, you know. Think of all those poor sods circulating around in there.” Brimstone pointed at the base of the Soul Catcher.
John did consider the possibility of this for a second and, although he would not have volunteered for this mission, it perhaps could have been a lot worse. After all, it would seem that he would get a chance to return to Earth, one last time. It might give him a chance to do what no other dead person had ever been able to do: right a few wrongs.
“Ok, there really isn’t much time to lose,” said Brimstone. A ridiculous phrase in a place where only nanoseconds had been lost since John’s arrival.
“You need to get those souls back before the summer solstice. Now to my reckoning you got to us in early April and they died at the end of March. That only gives you a couple of months to get it all done,” said Brimstone, talking to himself rather than to John.
“What’s significant about the solstice?”
“We believe that this is the point at which any lost souls would be noticed. Do you know what the solstice stands for?”
“No,” replied John, shaking his head. He guessed that it was some Greek or Latin derivative, but all he knew was it represented the longest or shortest days of the year.
“‘Sol’ means sun, and ‘stice’ comes from the Latin ‘sistere’, which means ‘to stand still’. Of course, ‘sol’ also has links to the word ‘soul’. At the point when the Sun is in its most northerly position it appears to stand still. It is believed that at this point any souls that are unaccounted for will themselves appear to stand still, ready to be counted. Any imbalance in matter, matter that should not exist, means the Universe is not in balance. This in turn could set off an unstoppable chain reaction. The reverse of the Big Bang,” explained Brimstone.
“I need to get on with it, then? But how do I get down there?”
“I’ll explain that later, that’s the easy bit,” said Brimstone, stretching to his full height and flapping aimlessly at the hot steam ‘sweating’ from his brow. “Before you go, I think I might be able to take you somewhere that might help. Somewhere that very few people, including many of us, have ever been. Are you ready to have your eyes opened, John?”
- CHAPTER SIX -
THE TAVISTOCK INSTITUTE
“Rough day?” asked Sandy’s driver, as his ministerial car made its way across Westminster Bridge and on to the South Bank.
“No more than usual, Frank,” replied Sandy plainly.
The car weaved its way through the congestion, zigzagging to avoid the suicidal cyclists that bobbed and ducked amongst the rest of the rush hour traffic. Sandy always referred to cyclists as moving organ donors for this very reason.
“Where to, sir?” asked Frank nosily.
“S.I.S., I need to speak with Ian,” responded Sandy distantly, as if he was answering his own question rather than his driver’s.
The car turned right onto Lambeth Palace Road, and took off as quickly as it could towards Vauxhall. In the distance in front of them, nestling on the very edge of the Thames, was the unmistakable outline of the SIS Building, that housed the British Secret Intelligence Services. The building itself stood to attention, keeping guard over London as a reassurance and a warning. The sun shimmered off its huge, layered, step-like construction, the light occasionally blocked out by the shadow of the step above. It was ironic how one of the most secretive places on the planet was also one of the most distinctive in the capital.
When the car arrived it passed through the normal array of security checks without delay. Sandy effectively ran this building and his security clearance was of the highest level. This was the building that never slept. The threats didn’t just come between the hours of nine to five of the working day, so it was occupied twenty-four-seven. On this late Friday afternoon it was occupi
ed by someone that Sandy had specifically placed within the confines of its walls. He stepped out of the car and gestured for Frank to wind down his window.
“I won’t need a lift back, Frank. I’ve made other arrangements. See you at the normal time on Monday.”
“Okay, sir, have a good weekend.” Frank put the Jag into a right-hand lock and sped off towards the security gate at the front of the complex.
Sandy walked through the entrance and up to reception. As a regular visitor he barely stopped at the front desk before he was being waved through, passing underneath the metal detectors and x-ray machines that scanned all personnel and visitors that entered or exited the building.
Sandy had been the Minister for Homeland Security for over four years, ever since the present government had been first elected to power following a decade or more in opposition. Originally he’d been elected to parliament as an independent, but soon defected to the government when it became clear that power was nothing unless it had some influence. It was hard to use your power if the only influence you had was on the constituents of Blackpool, and for Sandy that was nowhere near enough. He was the second person who had served in this role and it was a well-held public opinion that neither of them had been particularly good at it.
This building was as familiar to him as his own house. Over the years every department had felt his presence in one way or another. He kept a keen interest in everything that was being carried out there. Many commented that he spent more time here than he did in his own office. Some of the staff found the ever-present attention of a minister reassuring, some found it suspicious. This was hardly surprising given the nature and character of some of the people that worked within its walls. The people who avoided him most were the field agent handlers. It was a matter of both national and personal security that very few people ever came into contact with the people they protected. Not that Sandy hadn’t tried, mind. He wanted the ultimate control of everyone that worked under him.
Sandy wandered through the building, taking in the activities that he saw through the glass partitions, occasionally making eye contact with some of those involved. When he reached ‘Conference Room C’ the door was ajar and a man sat typing violently into a laptop computer. Frustrated with the instrument, he tapped the keys in an overdramatic fashion as if they might respond better to force.
“It’s an electronic device, Ian, not a mechanical one. Using extra force won’t help you.” Sandy’s voice had been the first indication to Ian that he had company. Sandy entered the small conference room and shut the door behind him.
“Stupid bloody thing,” replied Ian. “How am I supposed to save the planet if I can’t even get into this piece of shit?”
“It might help if you plug it in,” replied Sandy, who could see that, although the power cable was plugged into the back of the computer, that’s as far as the connection went to any actual power source.
“How are you going to help me understand the inner sanctuary of the Secret Service if you repeatedly insist on demonstrating how much of a tit you are?” Sandy added frustratingly, “You’re meant to be inconspicuous.”
“Look, I’m trying, but it isn’t easy, you know. I can’t get anyone to help me, I think they suspect something.”
“I suspect they also think you’re a tit. Do you know how difficult it is to get employment here, Ian.”
“I don’t know really. Quite difficult, I guess,” answered Ian, his head dropping at the question.
“Quite difficult,” replied Sandy, mimicking Ian’s reply in a less than complimentary fashion. “Let me tell you. You have to have the highest level of qualifications, a clean police record, a sound family history, agree to the Secrecy Act, be constantly scrutinised, and have an IQ the size of a moderate cricket score. How many of these things are true of you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose I have always had a good understanding of…”
“None.” Sandy cut him off halfway through his incoherent babbling. “Absolutely none. Not only is it none, but also in the six months that you have worked here there isn’t a single person that doesn’t know you exist. Now is that because you have set the world alight with your talents?”
Ian’s mouth opened but the words took too long to form.
“Not quite,” offered Sandy. “In those six months, what have you managed to do? You’ve set fire to your own office because you were using a magnifying glass on a hot day to make the font size on your laptop look bigger. You’ve worn a badge into work that said, ‘Is that a gun in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?’ and you’ve destroyed a state-of-the-art prototype bugging device when you accidentally dropped it in your Diet Coke, costing the department tens of thousands of pounds, I might add.”
“Hold on, Sandy, I can explain some of that…” Ian tried unsuccessfully to defend himself, knowing full well that he couldn’t.
“All that pales into insignificance of course with your pièce de résistance. The great Ms. Diaz fiasco.”
“Anyway, Sandy, to what do I owe this…” Changing the subject also had no effect.
“You must remember the head of the Spanish security services, Maria Diaz. The woman you rugby-tackled in reception because, in your words, she was the least convincing-looking woman you’d ever seen and therefore must have been an imposter.”
“She looked suspicious. How was I to know she was a she?” pleaded Ian.
“The normal female characteristics weren’t a clue, then?” scoffed Sandy. “Yes, you’re right, Ian; I really can’t understand why there isn’t a queue of people outside your office who want to help you. If there was, they’d be medical experts.”
“Look, you don’t have to be like that, you’ve known me for twenty years, you know that I’m a bit…clumsy.”
“Ian, it was me that gave you your nickname Cher.” Sandy had thought up the name after the Russian nuclear tragedy, something that resembled Ian Noble on an almost daily basis. “I suppose I shouldn’t blame anyone but myself: after all, I put you in here in the first place. Unfortunately you are the only person that I had, the only person that I can trust.”
It was a stark truth that Sandy had very few allies left in the world, many of them having been trampled on in order for him to climb the greasy pole of power. Ian had been different, though, Sandy never saw him as a threat. In fact he pitied Ian for his inferior intelligence and unusual appearance. Ian, the palest man the world had ever seen; even when he had been in the sun the only result was he tanned to white, was a scrawny individual with the unfortunate image of looking greasy and unwashed.
What drew most people’s attention, though, was his eyes. His left eye was blue and relatively normal, whilst his right eye was brown and always looked in a different direction to the other, a condition he’d had from birth. You couldn’t be sure if he was looking at you or at something more interesting twelve feet behind your left shoulder. The few people that engaged in conversation with Ian were constantly turning around to see what was happening behind them.
“The Prime Minister has given me a choice: either I hand in Violet Stokes or I fall on my own sword,” said Sandy, much more calmly than he had done hours earlier in Byron’s office, time having softened his anger and focused his mind.
“You’re joking: why her?”
“Because he knows he can. He wants to test my resolve and loyalty. There’s something else as well that I can’t put my finger on. He could have got me to do this years ago, and I don’t know why now.”
“What are you going to do?” Ian whispered, remembering where they were.
“For the moment, nothing. I need to talk to her. Do you know if the next target is Tavistock?”
“It certainly is. It’s the only one left that hasn’t been affected, and it’s the jewel in their crown. On top of that, for the first time it is clear who’s running it.”
“What have you learnt?”
“It’s undoubtedly a government facility, but it’s impossible to uncover
what they’re doing there. Even your security clearance couldn’t find out.”
“Do you know when they might strike?”
“The early hours of Sunday morning.”
“OK, then we need to get personally involved in this one. Is the van here?”
“Yes, everything is ready. It’s fully equipped as you instructed.”
“We need to be extremely careful that we don’t bring any undue attention to ourselves. I want you to get the security details for Tavistock and anything needed to get close. I want names of personnel, entry codes, blueprints, whatever you can find. If I’m found anywhere near the place then I can say goodbye to my knighthood. I’ll see what I can find out that might help us. Take the van tonight. I’ll walk. Make sure that the plates are untraceable, even within this building, and make no attempt to contact me in the meantime. Pick me up on the corner of Dunraven and Green Street: there aren’t any cameras there. Two o’clock on Sunday morning. Any questions?” asked Sandy.
Ian, wanting to demonstrate his intelligence and mend his already damaged ego, thought about this for a moment.
“Do you want me to bring breakfast?” he asked.
Sandy stood up and moved to the door, shaking his head as he left. On the other side of the door he put his hands across his eyes. What was he about to get himself into?
*****
A black Transit van pulled up alongside the kerb and an unhealthily pale, skinny man wound down the electric windows. The van itself was normal enough, with the exception of two notable features. The windows had been blacked out and there was a longer than usual aerial flapping in the early morning breeze. A man dressed in black trousers, jumper, shoes and gloves opened the passenger door, jumped in and fastened himself into the seat. The van moved away at a pace that suggested a certain haste, but without drawing undue attention.
