Idea in Stone

by Hamish Macdonald

  At the next stop the youngsters stampeded out, and the bus continued on to the edges of the city. Stefan shot his finger like an arrow, ringing the bell as soon as the office came into sight. He raced down the stairs and leapt out the door, saying “Thank you, Driver,” as he’d heard others say (adopting the accent, too).

  “Morning, Jenny,” he said as he jumped into his chair.

  “You’re early today,” she said.

  “Just anxious to get started on my investigation.”

  “Ah, right, The Case of the Missing Mobile.” She sat one half of her round bum on his desk. “So how are you going to find out who has it?”

  Stefan blinked.

  “I imagine you’re going to want to talk to Tech.”

  “Yes, right. That’s what I was thinking.”

  Jenny laughed. “And how are you going to get them to respond to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I put in for a new keyboard last winter. I got an e-mail back saying they were busy this year.” She stood up. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. After all, you’re the only person I know who’s ever seen the directors.”

  “Where’s their office?” he asked.

  “There’s a steel door at the back of the building. They’re behind that.”

  Stefan thanked her. He logged onto the company e-mail system, found the Tech department in the directory, and sent a message to them. They didn’t reply. He sent another message, asking if they’d received his first one. Again, no reply. He wrote a third time, mentioning that the directors has asked him to investigate, and asked if they would help him. No reply. He sent another: “Hello?”

  Half an hour later, he received a reply: “Bugger off.”

  He went outside to look for the door to the Tech department. He had to punch out to leave the building, but he didn’t care about that. He followed one wall around to the back, where he found a steel panel about the size of a door, but with no markings and no handle. He knocked, timidly at first, then harder and harder, but the door was too dense to convey any sound to the other side. There also seemed to be a distinct lack of anyone listening.

  “Excuse me,” said someone behind him, startling him. The man wore matching blue work trousers, jacket, and cap. In his arms was an open cardboard box containing a big silver bag marked “Coffee”. The man stepped up to the door, putting his hands on his hips, which made an imposing shape of his broad, muscular frame.

  “What?” said a voice from no discernible direction.

  “Catering,” answered the man, unbothered by the abruptness of the voice.

  “Can I give you a hand with this?” Stefan asked the man.

  “Sure, if you want to get one of those canisters,” said the man, nodding his head toward his truck. Stefan went to it and found several fountain drink refill canisters like small torpedoes. He tried to lift one marked “Irn-Bru” , but it was too heavy. He rolled it on its end to the open door, then down a steeply sloped corridor. The only direction sign he saw was marked “Bomb shelter” in vintage lettering. He followed that, passed several times by the delivery man, who carried a canister under each arm, then made more trips with boxes of coffee, followed by boxes of candy bars, sugar packets, and cartons of irradiated milk. Stefan continued rolling his canister and reached the Tech room at the same time the delivery man made his last trip, carrying a single bunch of bananas. They stood with the supplies in a small pool of light under a lone bulb.

  A tall person entered the light and signed the delivery man’s clipboard. Stefan wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman, this person with a large beak of a nose on a tiny head. Its colourless skin and bulging eyes gave it the look of a deep-sea anomaly. The figure had long, slicked-back, bleached yellow hair, and wore a floor-length black leather coat. Looking up, it saw Stefan. “What is he doing here? Why did you let him in?”

  “He was helping me,” said the man, tearing off a receipt. “Gotta go.”

  “Take him with you!” shrieked the blond creature, showing long, stained rodent teeth.

  “Sorry. He’s not with me. I think he works with you. See ya.”

  “No!” it yelled, but the man was gone. It turned to Stefan. “Get out! You can’t be in here.”

  “Actually, I think I can,” said Stefan, annoyed now. He held out a printed copy of the case details. “The directors told me to investigate.”

  The blonde thing grabbed the paper and examined it. It pondered something for a moment. “You can reach the number?” it asked.

  “I’ve only called once.”

  “Perfect,” it said, smiling wickedly. The thing, which Stefan presumed was the Tech manager, left him, then turned back, gesturing for him to follow. He reached out for the walls and followed it into the dark. They went further down an incline, then reached a set of stairs, which the thing neglected to tell him about, possibly on purpose. At the bottom, Stefan found himself in a low room lit with long, fluorescent black light tubes. Pipes and wires hung from the ceiling.

  Along one wall of the room were what looked like aquaria full of wires and green silicon boards. A picture flickered on three sides of each aquarium, footage of a horribly grisly war. These movies were watched by large, unmoving, mole-like people whose long black coats flowed to the floor. Their eyes were tiny, near-blind dots on large white heads covered with hanging, oily hair. Only their stubby pink fingers moved, poking furiously at keyboards. Stefan realised that they were controlling the war they watched. The blond thing audibly cleared its throat, the fingers paused, hit a single button in unison, and their aquaria filled with lines of code.

  “We’ll help you with the investigation,” said the manager. It went to one of the coders, whispered in its ear, then turned back to Stefan. “Call the number,” the manager told him, pointing to the long desk in the middle of the room. Amongst the cables, spare parts, and coffee-makers was a solitary telephone.

  Stefan lifted the receiver and poked out the familiar numbers. All his butterflies took flight as the voice answered. “Peter,” it said.

  “Now!” yelled the blond thing. The coder-moles tapped furiously, and their screens filled with snow.

  “Hello?” asked Stefan, watching the aquaria as a slideshow of buildings flickered in the fuzz. He turned away. “My name is Stefan.” He’d wanted to say that for so long. Even now, he doubted that he’d be heard.

  “Hello, Stefan. I think you’ve got the wrong number.” The phone hummed and started to feed back.

  The manager whispered in his ear, “Keep talking.” Stefan turned around and looked at the screens. A lone figure walked in the snow there, like a charcoal rubbing in motion. Stefan looked at the manager’s grinning face. “Got him,” it mouthed. “Calling the police.”

  Stefan slammed down the phone. “What is this?” he asked.

  “Celldar,” said the manager, “developed by mobile companies in conjunction with the government. By tracking bounced signals between our towers, we can ‘see’ anywhere we want.” It pointed to an aquarium screen. “Look, he doesn’t even know he’s being watched. As long as he keeps moving, he’s ours.”

  “Great,” said Stefan, forcing a smile. “Thanks for your help. I guess I should get out of your way.”

  “Don’t you want to stay and watch?”

  “Uh, no,” he said, “I—I should—” He pointed to the door and ran.

  ~

  “Could you please turn the radio on?” asked Stefan.

  “Where do you want to go?” asked the taxi driver.

  “I’ll tell you in a second. Could you just turn on the radio?”

  “Ah,” said the man, chuckling, “you’re anxious to know how the game’s going. World Cup, I don’t blame yeh.”

  “Right,” said Stefan, smiling. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to the open space between the Lucite panels, listening to the radio. Ah’m no sure wha’s happenin’, Rab.

  ~

  “Ah’m really jus’ no sure,” said Peter Hailes.
He didn’t elaborate. His mother would hit him if she heard him speaking. His father was proud of the Scots language, but his mother was determined that he learn to speak “properly”. When he was upset, though, the Received Pronunciation went out the window. Oot the windae, he thought, smiling briefly.

  He passed a large shop window and stared into it. He ran his hand through his hair. He’d intended to tidy it, but it just flopped about in a different way, like a flattened crow on the road with wings akimbo. His eyes glanced to one side. He gasped and spun around, but no one was there. He knew that before looking. Beside him in the window, though, there he was: that man.

  His whole life, Peter had seen glimpses of him, first as a boy, then older and older as he grew, too. He’d told his father, who was a believer in such things, but knew better than to tell anyone else.

  Lately, though, it was getting unbearable. It wasn’t just a shimmer or a peripheral catch anymore. The man was there, as if he were sitting in the window display, leaning forward.

  His father was out of the country on business, so Peter called Rab, his best friend. Or, more correctly, his best friend with a mobile phone. “Rab,” he said, forcing himself to be calm, “I think there’s something wrong with me. I need you to meet me.”

  “Alright,” said Rab, “where?”

  “Meet me in Waverley Station.”

  ~

  The taxi rumbled over the cobbles, wobbled around a corner, and tipped down a steep decline. Cars blocked the roundabout ahead. “This is fine,” said Stefan, shoving bills through at the driver and opening the door.

  “Wait. Your change.” But Stefan was away, running down the hill. The wind was strong, and he felt tiny pinpricks of dampness hitting his face.

  He turned and looked down the length of the Waverley Bridge. It was full of people.

  An announcement came over the loudspeakers below in the train station. Just as loud, Stefan heard the second voice, and spotted a man on the bridge, talking into a mobile, his mouth moving in conjunction with the words he heard. Stefan ran toward him.

  The man looked up and panic filled his eyes. He looked around, then back to Stefan. The rain intensified, and fell in huge, pelting drops. The man shivered, staring at him. Stefan couldn’t speak as he moved closer. He pointed at the mobile phone, then grabbed it and threw it as hard as he could from the bridge. It arced through the sky and landed on the tracks below. He took the man’s hand and pulled him across the street to the wall there. “Stand still,” said Stefan, daring to keep hold of the hand as they stood still beside the wall. A moment later, a police car drove past them, down the ramp leading into the station.

  “It’s you,” said Peter, turning to him.

  Stefan smiled. “Keep talking.”

  “My name is Peter.”

  “I’m Stefan.”

  “You’re real.”

  “You, too. I’ve had my doubts.”

  “What does this mean?” asked Peter.

  “I have no idea,” said Stefan. He stared at Peter, drunk with the intensity of his company. “I can’t believe I’m finally talking to you.”

  “I can’t believe I’m finally seeing you.”

  Stefan let go of Peter’s hand and crossed the street to look down. Police combed the tracks below. One of them held up the shattered mobile phone. Between that and the dense sheets of rain, Stefan hoped they were safe to move. He held out his hand to Peter. Peter smiled and grabbed it willingly.

  They ran.

  Fifteen

  Dig Nation

  “This is it,” said Stefan, unlocking the door. Peter walked around him and stopped just inside. Stefan followed Peter’s eyes to the floor, where the water dripped from his clothes and hair. “Oh, I’ll get you a towel,” he said, running to the bathroom. He grabbed the first thing he found and ran back. Peter looked at his hands, which held two halves of a towel. “One for each of us,” said Stefan, smiling.

  Stefan rubbed himself briskly with the towel, but he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. He realised it had nothing to do with the cold. He smiled at Peter and spoke, his teeth chopping up his words as they came out. “I’m ner-r-r-vous.”. Peter held up his hand: he was shaking, too.

  “Where did you come from?” asked Peter.

  “I came from Canada.”

  “I suppose I was asking that, but, in a bigger sense, who are you?” He looked into the coat-rack mirror on the wall, which framed both of them, standing side by side. “All my life, it’s been like this. I’ve been seeing you there. Now here you are.”

  Stefan stared incredulously at the young man with the dripping black hair and the pale drowned-looking skin. His jaw and thin lips were outlined with uneven black hairs, and as Stefan looked at his eyes, so brown they seemed black, he felt himself falling in. “My name’s Stefan Jackrabbit Mackechnie,” he said. “I’m thirty-two, I—I have no idea where to start. What about you? I thought I was crazy, hearing your voice all that time. But you’re real. And you’re standing right here in my hallway.”

  “Jackrabbit?” smirked Peter.

  “Shut up.” Stefan’s reverie was broken. He didn’t expect Peter to tease him.

  “I don’t think I can manage the ‘Stefan’ part, either. It’s a bit fancy. Mind if I call you Ste?”

  Stee. Stefan found every word this man said beautiful, even if he was teasing—the timbre of his alto voice, the roll of his Rs and the swallowed, glottal Scottish vowels.

  “I don’t mind at all. Hardly anyone knows my name here, except—”

  At work.

  “How did you get that phone?”

  “I found it,” said Peter, blankly.

  Stefan sighed. “I hoped so. There was this police investigation, and—and you know what? I couldn’t care less about that right now.” He directed them inside to his room with a tilt of his head. Peter cocked an eyebrow. “Dry clothes,” insisted Stefan.

  “Oh. Right,” said Peter, smiling.

  Stefan took their coats and hung them on the rack. They slipped out of their soaked shoes and stretched off their wet socks. Even the sight of Peter’s bare feet made Stefan excited. The floor creaked as they walked to the old wooden wardrobe from which Stefan’s clothes spilled. He looked Peter up and down, as if sizing him up, then put his hands on Peter’s waist. Peter did the same to him.

  “Thirty? Thirty-two?” said Stefan.

  “Around that, but I like ’em baggy.”

  “My mother bought me these. They’re made of—”

  “Ste, I don’t care.”

  “Oh, you want to kiss me, don’t you?”

  “What?” asked Peter, with mock indignation. “What do you take me for?”

  “You don’t? Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought that, from the way you were looking at me—” He walked away from Peter, then looked back. “But nevermind. Still, it was nice bumping into you,” he said, nudging him with his hips.

  Peter leaned against him. “Nice bumping into you, too.”

  They stood, their noses an inch apart, laughing. Stefan looked at Peter’s eyes, then dared to look into them. In there was the soul of this person he loved already, and felt he always had. When he was younger, he used to stare into a mirror until he didn’t recognise himself and felt frightened. He’d never risked looking that way at someone else, but now he was, and it was having the opposite effect: he felt sure of this other, safe. In those eyes was something, not something he could see, yet there it was and he could feel it. Definitely a soul.

  His smile dropped, and he reached his hands under Peter’s wet T-shirt. The coldness of the skin there scared him and he shivered. It soon warmed to his touch.

  “Peter Hailes,” Stefan whispered.

  “Jackrabbit,” laughed Peter, then kissed him. His lips were perfect, thought Stefan, just solid enough, just smooth enough. He remembered Ming: even before things went bad between them he hated those lips, like trying to kiss a plate of strawberry gelatine. And then the tongue, that meaty welcome mat that flopped
out the instant their lips touched. Stefan smelled something on Peter’s breath, not the cigarettes or booze that usually preceded sex, but the faint smell of the bodily anticipation of it. This kiss was different. It wasn’t duty paid, but a willing participation in the physical presence of this person who so excited him.

  Peter grabbed Stefan’s hips and pulled him close, laughing naughtily into his mouth. Stefan laughed back and grabbed Peter’s bum. “What’s that?” he asked, looking down.

  “‘That’s a roll of coins.”

  “You’ve been saving up.”

  “Cheers.” Peter ventured a hand to the front of Stefan’s trousers. “Not so bad yourself.”

  The blood rushed from Stefan’s head, and he wondered if he might actually faint. How girly, he thought. “Right, those clothes,” he said, pulling away.

  “Right,” said Peter, pausing to see what Stefan was up to. Stefan unbuttoned his wet shirt and Peter pulled off his T-shirt. They shivered in the cold for a moment, then Peter reached for Stefan, who moved into his arms. The hug turned into a joking rock back and forth, which became an erotic twisting together.

  “No,” said Stefan, pulling away. Peter stood patiently, waiting. “You’re not just anyone. I could so get naked with you right now, but I want to do this right. If we started right now, well,” he grinned, “I’d get you all dirty.”

  “Ay, you’re right, Ste. Me, too. Me, too. I like you—” He laughed. “I don’t like you. ‘Like’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’re my imaginary friend, for fuck’s sake. So what d’yeh have in mind? How do we do this right?”

  Stefan got a shirt from his wardrobe for himself and threw a cosy jumper to Peter while he thought. “Do you want some pants?” he asked.

  “Pants? Oh, trousers. ‘Pants’ are—” he unbuttoned his jeans and showed Stefan his underwear. Stefan’s eyes followed the thin line of black hair down his chest.

  “Stop that! We’re not supposed to have sex until—what is it?—the third date. Isn’t it something like that?”