by Alan Baxter
The barman came over, put down a frilly edged paper coaster on the bar. ‘What can I get you?’
Isiah smiled warmly. ‘Beer.’ He had been looking forward to a cool beer since he had agreed to meet Baker in a bar.
The barman didn’t move but stood looking quizzically at Isiah, like he didn’t understand. Isiah stared back. After a couple of seconds it became a little uncomfortable. Isiah raised an eyebrow, tried again. ‘Beer?’
The barman looked slightly impatient. ‘Of course, sir, but what kind. We have beers from all over Europe, America, Asia, light beers, dark beers, cold filtered, ice...’
Isiah held up a hand, interrupting the inventory of the bar’s stock. ‘Why don’t you surprise me?’
The barman stared for a second longer, then turned to the nearest fridge of the half a dozen or so lined under the bar behind him and took out a bottle. He swung the bottle opener up from his belt with a practised flick of the wrist and popped the cap. With his best smile, he placed the bottle on the pointless little coaster. ‘Glass?’ he asked, his tone of voice suggesting that he didn’t expect for a second that Isiah would want one. Isiah smiled and shook his head. The barman nodded knowingly and turned to serve someone else.
Isiah picked up the bottle, looked at the label. Elephant Beer. He took a long draught from the thin neck of the squat little bottle. The beer was cold and refreshing, and strong. It would do just fine.
An old man played a piano in the far corner. A big, white grand piano on a raised dais. Isiah could not recognise the tune exactly, but he was pretty sure it was Bach. The old man played extremely well, even though no one seemed to noticed. It made Isiah a little sad to think that the old man’s talent was going to waste. Such talent took a lot of dedication, required hours of practice and was quite simply one of the purest human achievements possible. Yet this poor old man was reduced to prostituting his ability for these uncaring idiots who would probably consider hours of piano practice every day a considerable waste of time.
Still, it was nice to relax, drink the beer, let the music wash gently over him. As he sat there, he could not help his mind wandering back to his previous thoughts. His first killings, brutal and rage-filled. That massacre in the Scottish Highlands.
He had had no idea how long he had sat on the blood soaked grass among the dead soldiers, head in his hands. He was brought round by a chill in his bones, the familiar, light Highland rain misting gently over his bare arms. He had raised his head. Immediately it began to pound and he felt the burning ache of wounds on his face, arms, hands. There was a gash across his chest but he couldn’t feel that at all.
He sat staring at his blood stained palms for a long time, feeling light headed from exhaustion and blood loss. Eventually looking around himself, he saw the carnage that he had caused. The four soldiers lay around him, twisted and grotesque in death. He felt nothing. He knew he was glad they were dead, but it did nothing to ease the pain of his loss. Megan was dead too, and nothing would bring her back. He felt neither vindicated or relieved, just empty.
He staggered to his feet, fell back onto one knee, tried again. He stood, swaying slightly, for a few seconds, unsure what to do. Without thinking about it he began to walk. He stumbled back up towards the top of the ridge he had come down, head hanging. He walked for a long time, seeing and feeling nothing but the tatters of his life trailing out behind him. He didn’t notice the grass become shale, the heather give way to slate and rocks. Suddenly he came to an unsteady halt, his feet on the very edge of a cold, deep precipice. Raising his head he saw a mist filled valley before him. Rocks jutted out all the way down to the shingly valley floor hundreds of feet below, the grass and heather spreading out again a few yards from the base of the cliff.
His mind was empty of all thoughts except the face of Megan, cut and bruised. All he could feel was the pain of losing her. His heart pounded with wrenching beats, his head felt stretched as though it would explode, his very soul ripped apart by his grief. Tears began to course down his cheeks and he stepped off into thin air, desperate for the hard agonising death of the sharp rocks below, expecting nothing but an end to everything.
The second he stepped off his stomach lifted, turned to water. Wind instantly rushing past him at a ferocious rate, whipping his tears from his face, the ground rushing up towards him at a terrifying speed, sharp rocks reaching up like hard, grasping hands to embrace him. His heart felt like it had stopped beating, his breath trapped in his lungs, the wind drying his eyes and teeth. He was vaguely aware of his arms and legs flailing, beyond his control. He felt more than saw colourful spots preceding blackness begin to slide into the edges of his vision and wondered if he would pass out before he hit the rocks below.
Then he felt himself begin to slow down. The second he noticed himself slowing the blackness in his vision receded and bright, white light flooded all his senses. He could hear and taste brightness at the same time as it blinded him. Then silence, stillness, nothing.
He looked at his body, arms and legs hanging, supported as if by water, and realised that he was not blind. All around him was bright white nothingness, but he could see himself clearly enough. He held up his hands. The blood was gone. So were the wounds on his arms and chest, the pounding in his head. He felt a profound sense of peace, heard not a sound but the gentle hiss of his own breath. He was neither warm nor cold, no longer wet or tired.
He rolled onto his back, let his head fall backwards, but it was supported as if on an invisible cushion, like he was laying on the softest bed that moulded to whatever position he chose to adopt. The only thing that prevented him from panicking was the utter peace he felt. Immediately he thought of Megan, yet strangely even that didn’t seem so painful. All he could feel was his immense love for her, washing through him in waves, but no sorrow. He could feel her love for him, surrounding him, embracing him. He closed his eyes. Am I dead?
He felt a sense of presence. All around someone, something, was with him. Intangible, yet undeniably there.
YOU ARE NOT DEAD.
The voice was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It seemed both male and female, soft and silky, clear and perfect. It sounded inside his head and outside at the same time, in his ears and his mind. It sent shivers up his spine. It even sounded a little like his own voice. Had it read his mind?
‘Where am I then?’ he asked, his voice quavering.
NOWHERE.
‘What?’ He felt lost and helpless despite the peace and safety pervading his being. There was a gentle chuckling from the other, a light crystalline sound, pure joy. Edward involuntarily smiled, infected by it. ‘Who are you?’
YOU COULD NOT POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION. DID YOU REALLY WANT TO DIE?
‘I jumped, didn’t I?’
YES. BUT WHERE DID YOU EXPECT TO GO?
‘Nowhere, anywhere. I don’t care. I just wanted to end the pain. I can’t live without Megan.’
ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT?
‘What do you mean?’
IT HURTS, LIFE SEEMS SO POINTLESS, BUT IS RUNNING AWAY SOLVING ANYTHING?
Edward became angry. ‘I’ve spent my whole life running away and nothing changed. Then I stopped running and I loved and nothing changed.’ Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘My whole life has been death and killing, and now I’ve killed too and Megan’s dead and...’
AND?
He took a deep breath, tried to calm down. ‘And I’ve had enough.’
BUT YOU ALWAYS SURVIVED.
‘Yeah, I survived. Pure and simple. Like an animal survives. Like a wolf survives a harsh winter. Then finally I found a reason to carry on, only to have that torn away from me. It’s not fair!’
LIFE IS ANYTHING BUT FAIR.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
SIMPLY A TRUTH. LIFE IS NOT FAIR.
‘That makes it just fine that Megan was brutally raped and killed?’
JUST AS FAIR AS THE FAMILIES AND FRIENDS OF THOSE ENGLISH SOLDIERS
WILL CONSIDER THEIR DEATHS.
Edward was incredulous. ‘What? They were evil, rapist bastards!’
AND AS FAR AS THEIR FAMILIES ARE CONCERNED, YOU’RE A BARBARIC, MURDERING HEATHEN. NOT FAIR, IS IT.
Edward could say nothing. He ground his teeth, waiting. He couldn’t argue a point like this, there was no right or wrong. He knew he was justified, on a personal level. For himself, for Megan. He knew those men deserved to die, and anyone who knew the whole story would agree with him, but this other was right too. Two sides to every story.
There was a sound like a gentle breeze and he realised it was the other laughing again. ‘What now?’
YOU HAVE A REMARKABLE MIND, RATIONAL IN THE FACE OF THE GREATEST ADVERSITY.
It had read his mind! ‘A curse.’
MAYBE.
‘What of it?’
YOU HAVE NO BELIEF OF ANY KIND, DO YOU?
‘Do you blame me?’
BELIEF IS A MATTER OF FAITH. FAITH LENDS SUBSTANCE. BELIEVE IN SOMETHING STRONGLY ENOUGH AND IT WILL EXIST FOR YOU.
‘But how can anyone believe in anything without some evidence?’
THAT’S THE CATCH, ISN’T IT? BUT THERE ARE MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE COMPLETELY IN THINGS THEY HAVE NO PROOF OF WHATSOEVER. EVEN THE MOST CYNICAL USUALLY HAVE SOME DEEP SEATED BELIEF. THERE ARE NUMEROUS DEITIES AND SPIRITS GUARDING OVER THEIR FAITHFUL IN THIS WORLD.
‘What do you mean “there are”?’
THE MORE PEOPLE THAT BELIEVE, THE MORE POWERFUL THEY ARE, BUT IF ONE PERSON BELIEVES COMPLETELY IN HIS OWN GOD, THAT GOD EXISTS.
‘All these gods really exist?’ Edward was incredulous.
IT MUST BE HARD TO ACCEPT, THOUGH IT IS TRUE.
‘All right, so it’s true. So what?’
WHERE WILL YOU GO? YOU BELIEVE IN NOTHING.
‘I don’t care.’
HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO CONTROL PEOPLE THAT HAVE NO BELIEF?
‘You control people? What are you?’
PEOPLE ARE LEFT TO THEIR OWN DEVICES, FREE TO DO AS THEY WILL, BELIEVE WHAT THEY WILL, BUT THERE MUST BE A BALANCE.
‘A balance?’
THERE MUST ALWAYS BE BALANCE.
‘And you’re the balance?’
IMAGINE IF EVERYONE IN THE WORLD BELIEVED IN THE SAME THINGS. IMAGINE THE POWER OF THE LEADERS OF THAT BELIEF. WHERE WOULD THE DIVERSITY BE? THE FREE WILL? IMAGINE ONLY ONE DEITY OR PANTHEON IN TOTAL CONTROL. WHEN THAT BALANCE NEEDS TO BE MAINTAINED, PEOPLE NEED TO BE GUIDED.
‘And that’s what you do? Guide people who would upset your balance?’ Edward was beginning to see the point, but the scope of it all made him dizzy. Until now he had only heard rumours of other races in other lands. He was not a classically educated man and all this was just too much. But he was beginning to understand.
YOU REALLY DO HAVE A POWERFUL MIND.
‘So why are you telling me all this?’
YOU KILLED FOUR MEN TODAY. ONE OF THOSE MEN WAS IMPORTANT IN MAINTAINING A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF BALANCE. YOUR UNPREDICTABLE ATTACK HAS UPSET A DELICATE COURSE OF EVENTS.
‘So why didn’t you step in? Reach down and guide me?’ Edward knew he sounded sarcastic, scathing.
IT IS NOT POSSIBLE TO TAKE A DIRECT HAND IN THE AFFAIRS OF HUMANS. THEY MUST BE GUIDED BY THEIR DEITIES, OCCASIONAL MOMENTS OF DIVINE INTERVENTION, REVELATION, INSPIRATION.
‘I see. And you order those deities when to intervene?’
NOT EXACTLY. BUT CLOSE.
‘And I had no deity to intervene?’
CORRECT.
‘So you had no power over me.’
YOUR KIND IS UNCOMMON, THANKFULLY.
‘And now you want me to believe in something, have somewhere to go?’
That chuckle again. YOU CANNOT CHOOSE TO BELIEVE IN SOMETHING THAT EASILY. BELIEF IS A TENUOUS THING AT BEST. BUT THE RULES CAN BE BENT, SO TO SPEAK. VERY FEW END UP DYING WITH NO BELIEF OF ANY KIND. MOST END UP GOING SOMEWHERE. YOU ARE A RARE CATCH INDEED.
‘A catch?’
YOUR PAST LIFE IS OVER EDWARD. YOU WILL BE ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL HUMANS EVER TO TREAD THE EARTH, AND YOU WILL BE KNOWN SIMPLY AS ISIAH.
Isiah was staring blankly past the aged piano player, the Elephant Beer slowly warming in his grasp. He took a deep breath, then a long draught of beer. All so long ago. The Balance had not given him any choice, no option to simply disappear into oblivion. He was too rare an opportunity for that. Ever since he had been wandering the Earth, guided by the Balance to guide those who had no belief. Keeping the Balance.
It had afforded him the most unique of existences, but to this day he had no idea if it would ever end. He had grown more and more powerful, developed physical and mental talents unrivalled, sometimes unheard of. He had been places that only existed in people’s faith filled minds, had met entities that escaped rational explanation, but he was tired.
He sat up straight, mentally shook himself. No time for melancholy. As he shook off his reflective mood three people entered the bar. Two of them were typical hired gorillas, bulky, muscular bodies stretching the seams of designer suits, heads more suited to butting than thinking. They walked either side of a smaller man, though still tall. He was thin, rakish, olive-tanned skin and slick, black hair. He too wore the designer suit, with crocodile shoes and silk shirt. Isiah quickly let his mind drift over them all, scanning their thoughts. The two gorillas were concerned almost exclusively with violence, fighting, although one was particularly moved by a young blonde in a tight cocktail dress leaning against the bar. The one in the middle was definitely Baker.
Isiah raised a hand, caught Baker’s eye. He looked at the watch on his raised hand. Twenty five minutes late, pretty good guess. Baker saw the gesture, walked casually over to the bar. The two gorillas stopped a pace or two back and stood leaning against a marble pillar trying to look both inconspicuous and menacing at the same time.
Isiah smiled, reached out his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Baker. Glad you could come.’
Baker shook Isiah’s outstretched hand firmly, but his dark eyes were cold, flinty. ‘You’re lucky I did. Who are you and how do you recognise me?’
‘Never mind that now. We need to talk about Samuel Harrigan, and we need to talk fast. I believe we are both trying to locate him. The more time we waste, the further away he can get.’
‘Very well. As I am so anxious to find him. What is your concern with him? Are you a policeman, perhaps.’
Isiah genuinely laughed. ‘Shit, no. Far from it.’ He had to get Baker on side. That would require convincing him that he himself was based on the wrong side of the law. ‘Quite the opposite really. I believe you and I have more in common than you realise, Mr Baker.’
Baker raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? How so?’
Isiah knew he was taking something of a risk, but the brief scan of Baker’s mind had revealed a certain amount of concern regarding drugs. With time and effort Isiah could pluck all the information he needed directly from Baker’s brain, but that was hard, and unpleasant for all involved. Besides, he didn’t like to work that way. He liked to take snippets of information and work with them, play the human side of the game. It was more real that way. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Baker. Samuel owes me a certain amount of leisure pharmaceuticals. I’d really like to find him soon.’
Baker smiled softly. Isiah felt him relax somewhat. Good. ‘Go on,’ Baker said.
‘Well, I know that Sam sometimes met people at Dave’s shop. He’s met me there before. So I went and convinced Dave to tell me who else he had met with in the hope of gaining some information as to Sam’s whereabouts.’
Baker nodded. ‘I too require knowledge of his whereabouts. Perhaps we should combine our efforts in searching for him.’
‘A good idea. Why do you seek him?’
Baker turned and waved to the barman. He looked at Isiah. ‘Drink?’
Isiah held up his nearly empty Elephant Beer bottle, showing Baker the label. Baker shrugged, turned to the barman. ‘Two Elephant Beers.’
When the barman h
ad gone Baker said, ‘Samuel Harrigan owes me a lot of money.’
‘Oh. What for?’
Baker seemed to think about this for a moment. Isiah kept his face relaxed. Come on, trust me.
Baker took a swig of beer, then, ‘He had plans to travel. He had done some business with me before and came to me for help. He said that if I advanced him a sizeable sum of money to finance his trip, he would return with a large amount of merchandise for me. A relatively short term investment on my part.’
Isiah bit his lip to prevent himself from smiling. This guy stood there pretending to be a big shot, yet he would advance a scumbag like Samuel a whole lot of money on the promise of some drugs. At least now he knew how Sam planned to afford a search of South America, looking for the crystal skull of immortality that Satan was teasing him with. Cheeky son of a bitch. He made a point of maintaining control, this Baker could be useful yet. ‘And then he disappeared with your money?’
Baker nodded once sharply. ‘Exactly. There are certain codes of ethics in our business, are there not? Samuel will pay dearly when I find him.’
‘Indeed,’ said Isiah, thinking, You complete idiot. ‘Well, I have your number. I suggest that I give you a number on which to contact me. If either of us should hear anything, or get any clues, we ring the other. Pool our resources.’
‘Of course. I can see you are an honourable man, Mr...’
‘Smith.’
‘Of course.’
A few minutes later Isiah was strolling toward the Gents, planning to use his usual escape route. What he had learned from Baker was really not much to go on, but at least he had a better idea of Baker’s relationship with Samuel and a better understanding of Samuel’s plans and movements. Any information, however insignificant it seemed, could be of enormous help. No wonder Vincenzo had laughed when Isiah had asked him about Baker’s status. Truly a mouse among the most vicious cats.
Isiah pushed open the heavy, leather covered door of the gents and went inside. He was immediately annoyed by the presence of an old man in a neat hotel uniform standing by the sinks. Isiah gave him a nod, went over to the urinals. He would have to find somewhere else to travel from.
