Shift

by Kim Curran

  “Takes after you in that regard,” Mum mumbled into her tea.

  “So can I go?” I asked quickly before they started rowing again.

  “I’m not sure. I’m not very keen on these academy schools. What’s to say they won’t shut down in a year’s time and then where will you be?”

  “It’s been around since 1840!” I said, remembering the spiel Morgan had given me and getting a little frustrated. “I think it’s going to be around for at least another year.”

  “But East London is such a long way to go,” Mum said. “And I don’t want you cycling again, not after the accident.”

  “Then let him get the moped, for god’s sake!” Dad said.

  That was the last thing I wanted. “It’s OK,” I said quickly. “I’ll get the Tube. Look, how about I give it a go for summer and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll go back to school and do my A-Levels like planned?”

  “Hmm, I suppose. But I’m not too keen on you only doing IT. What about your creative side, Scott? Everyone needs a balance in their lives. Maybe you can take night classes in art? Or macramé?”

  “Oh, you and your creative nonsense!”

  I snuck away and they didn’t even notice.

  Mum had been right about one thing, though. East London was a long way to go. It took me an hour and a half – one train and two tubes – to finally arrive at Old Street. The station was bustling with people who all seemed to be sporting angular haircuts, thick-rimmed glasses and their grannies’ cardigans. As I emerged onto street level, it only got worse. It was like the whole of East London was populated by art students. These people were, literally, too cool for school. I felt overdressed in my grey M&S suit and shining loafers and loosened my tie a notch.

  I’d gone over the route from the station to ARES HQ in my head again and again. Now that I was standing in front of the massive roundabout crawling with traffic, I didn’t know which way to turn. I spotted the old fire station to my right and headed that way.

  ARES HQ, it turned out, was a converted hospital. Or at least, that’s what I assumed ‘St Anthony’s Medical Facility and Research Centre’ had once been. It was an old Art Deco building, with smooth white walls and geometric carvings. Stone angels with two heads towered over the entrance. Although they had been made slightly less impressive by the speech bubbles somebody had drawn coming out of their mouths. One bubble read: “We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” And the other read, “I’m a big fairy.” The vandal must have gone to a lot of effort, scaling the sheer wall just to leave his mark. A red-faced man in blue overalls scrubbed at the wall from the top of a ladder.

  I walked up the few steps that led to the glass double doors. My heart was thudding in my chest. The way Aubrey had been going on, I was willingly handing myself over to the Gestapo here. But then, she was in there somewhere, and that knowledge gave me some hope. I pushed the door and walked in.

  Inside, everything was carved in brilliant white marble. A staircase curved up and around the entrance hall. Straining my neck to look up, I saw more double-headed angels, each with their arms crossed in front of their chests. A kid wearing a blue military jacket ran past on the level above. The sound of his squeaking trainers echoed around the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” A man in shabby security guard clothes sat behind a desk. He had his feet up on the table and, from the hooting I heard spilling out of his small TV, he was watching the Jeremy Kyle show.

  “I’ve been told to report to Admissions,” I said, walking up to the desk.

  “Sign in,” he grunted, sliding over a leather-bound book. I scribbled down my name, the date and time. Then pushed it back.

  “Fourth floor,” the man said, not taking his eyes off the screen. Two women were rolling around on the floor, trying to tear each other’s hair out.

  “Excuse me, how do I…?”

  The man gave me the briefest of glances and nodded behind me before returning to the catfight. I turned around and saw the large silver doors of the lift.

  “Thanks,” I said. “For nothing,” I added as I walked away.

  I pushed the metal arrow that pointed up and stood back. The lift hummed into life, groaning as it made its way slowly downward. It pinged and the doors eased open. I stepped in.

  I pressed the button marked four and waited. Nothing happened. I pressed the button again. Still nothing. I pushed the button again and again.

  “Excuse me,” I shouted at the security guard. “It’s not working.”

  He harrumphed and sighed, hefted his feet off the desk and dragged himself from behind the counter. His shirt was hanging out of his trousers and I saw a glimpse of his hairy belly button.

  “Can’t you read?” he said as he arrived at the lift. He leant in, pointing at an empty space on the wall. “Oh.” He looked on the floor at a sheet of A4 paper that lay in one corner. I bent over to pick it up. It read:

  All visitors wanting the fourth floor should go to the fifth and walk down a flight or to the third and walk up a flight of stairs. The management apologises for the inconvenience.

  The security guard was already waddling back to his desk. I pressed the number 3 and the doors finally closed.

  After getting stuck in the stairwell, and having to ask a cleaner to let me in through the keypad-protected doors, I finally made it to the fourth floor. The scene waiting for me was a little less awe-inspiring than the reception. As secret government facilities went, this one was a little disappointing. I had been expecting something… well, something more. I had been expecting chrome and glass and ultramodern angles like you saw on spy dramas on TV. I would have happily settled for green leather and wooden panelling like in James Bond films. But this was just like one of the sixth form colleges I’d gone to see last year. It was more local city council, than elite secret power. A temporary sign, stuck to the wall opposite the stairway with Blu-Tack, told me that Reception was to my left.

  I walked down a corridor of flimsy doors. From behind one I heard high-pitched children’s voices answering questions from an unseen teacher and I wondered why I’d ever been afraid.

  I arrived at the reception desk, where a pretty girl was talking into a phone headset. I approached the desk and she held up a hand, telling me to wait. Her call finished, she smiled at me a little quizzically.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  “I’m Scott. Scott Tyler. Here to see Commandant Morgan.”

  The woman consulted her computer screen and nodded.

  “Yes. You are the Commandant’s 10.15am appointment. You’re a little early.’ She jerked a taloned thumb at the large digital clock behind her head. It read 9.56am.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be late.”

  “Take a seat.”

  She directed me to a grey couch with a wave of her open palm, answered another call by pressing her headset, and promptly forgot about me.

  I sat on the sofa and waited. My stomach was twitching with nerves and I was pretty sure I was going to be sick. The plant next to me looked pretty hardy and I decided that its pot would have to do when the time came for me to throw up.

  The clock ticked over to 9.58am.

  I reached for the scattering of glossy magazines laid out on the glass table and plucked one at random. It was called Government Industry Weekly and its pages were filled with articles about policies and budget cuts. I closed the magazine and placed it carefully back on the pile.

  “Ah, Mr Tyler.” The voice from behind me made me jump. I scrambled out of the low couch and turned to face Commandant Morgan.

  The first thing I noticed was his teeth. They were so white they were almost blue. The last time I saw him, he hadn’t been smiling. But this time, he was grinning so widely I saw almost every tooth in his mouth. The second thing I noticed was his uniform. Grey and so sharp I was surprised he didn’t cut himself on it. He reached out a hand and I saw a flash of purple from the lining around his cuff. I stretched out
my shaking hand and tried to remember everything they’d taught us in business studies about a firm handshake. I was pretty sure my handshake was about as firm as a dead fish.

  “I’m Commandant Morgan, head of the Shifting Division.” Morgan squeezed my hand and shook it in three great jerks. Now that we were standing so close, I realised I was taller than him by a few inches. He patted my shoulder, and I don’t know if I was imagining it, but I thought he was arching up slightly on the toes of his shining brown brogues to even out our height difference. “Well, at last we meet, Scott. It’s OK if I call you Scott isn’t it?”

  I mumbled that of course it was OK he called me Scott.

  “Great. That’s great, Scott. Ha! Great Scott.” He laughed too loudly at his own joke and then finally let go of my hand. “Follow me.” He crossed his legs and spun around in a dramatic turn, ending with both hands making gun gestures.

  It was weird, meeting him for the second time. Although this was clearly the first time for him. This multiple reality thing was hard to get my head around. Now that everything had been put right with Katie, I was back in an alternative reality where ARES hadn’t come and dragged me out of Aubrey’s flat. As far as Morgan knew, I was just a kid who’d tried to climb a pylon and had discovered I was a Shifter. Nevertheless, I kept flinching, expecting Morgan to start shouting at me again or cuff me to a chair.

  He led me away from reception and down a long, dark corridor. It smelt of new carpet.

  “The Agency for the Regulation and Evaluation of Shifters comprises two main divisions,” Morgan began. “The Shifters and the Regulators. Shifters are broken down into three separate divisions; Spotters, Mappers and Fixers. While the Regulators includes Enforcement, Analysis, IT and what have you.” He waved his hand as he spoke, as if dismissing these Non-Shifting departments. “And of course beneath all of that is the Programme.” He turned and grinned at me. “Where you shall begin your training and we shall see what you are made of, Mr Tyler.”

  We turned a corner into another corridor, with peeling grey wallpaper and portraits of stern-looking men glaring down at us.

  “ARES was established in 1840 by Queen Victoria after an assassination attempt was thwarted by a Shifter,” Morgan said, continuing his induction. “A Shifter named Jack Locke pushed the shooter out of the way and saved the day. Back then, most Shifters were wild children, living off their wits. Circuses and traveling magic shows were filled with them. A far cry from the focused and disciplined youngsters who pass through our doors today, isn’t that right, Scott?”

  I laughed, thinking he was joking, then swallowed it in a quick cough when he pursed his lips at me.

  “Yes,” I said, quickly. “I guess.”

  Morgan turned on his heels and continued his lecture. “When Queen Victoria learned of the presence of Shifters, she set about finding a way to harness their talent. One of her closest advisors revealed himself as an exShifter and was appointed to create and oversee ARES.”

  We stopped in front of one of the portraits: a man with a huge handlebar moustache and small squinting eyes. His cheeks were red and his expression made him look severely constipated. The name under the portrait read Lord Cuthbert Morgan-Fairfax.

  “He was my great, great, great…” Morgan paused and counted on his fingers. “…great, great uncle. And we Morgans have been in the service of ARES ever since.” I looked back down the line of portraits. Each man did bear a resemblance to the man before him – they each had small, dark eyes and a distinct lack of chins. The last painting in the row showed a man with dark, slicked-down hair and too-big teeth. “My father,” Morgan said pointing at the picture, “Sir Richard Morgan, is the current head of ARES and oversees both divisions.”

  “So your dad’s also your boss?” I asked, trying to read the expression on Morgan junior’s face. Was it awe or fear? Or both?

  “Well, yes. Although he’s not especially hands-on. He delegates most of the more important decisions to me, naturally. Lets me get on with the business of actually running things down here.” He brushed an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder, then examined his fingernails. I guessed he was waiting for me to say something.

  “Er, I guess he must really trust you.”

  “I wouldn’t call it trust, Scott. Not really. You see trust implies hope. My father doesn’t need to trust when he knows I am the man for the job. Now, where was I?” Morgan glanced back to the picture of his stern father and then walked on. “Lord Morgan-Fairfax’s aims were to help Shifters to become valuable members of society who could protect the British Empire. Since then the purpose of ARES has remained broadly the same. While the empire itself has waned we have remained constant. For over one hundred and seventy years, ARES has trained Shifters and regulated them. And to what end, I hear you ask?”

  I hadn’t said a thing.

  “Ad verum via. That’s our motto. It means ‘towards the true way’, or the best possible way. And that is what each and every individual here at ARES strives to do. Work towards creating the best possible reality.”

  We must have circled around as we were now walking down the same corridor I’d passed on my way in. A group of children piled out of one of the doors and raced away. Morgan waved and pointed at a few as they passed. The kids nodded and grinned to his face. But I was able to catch the expressions they made to his back. They weren’t very polite.

  “We have eighteen cadets in training here,” Morgan said. “Plus thirty-six Shifting Class Officers. It’s the highest concentration of Shifters in Europe,” he added, smiling at me. I tried to appear impressed. “And then we have the Regulators, the lay team supporting us, made up of exShifters and other, specially-chosen, military personnel, headed up by Mr Abbott.”

  “And is Mr Abbot here?” I asked, hoping that I would see him again.

  “He’s attending to other business.” Morgan stopped outside a door. “Please,” he said, guiding me in with a wave of his hand. “Step into my humble abode.” I walked in and he closed the door behind me.

  This was a little more like it. Morgan’s office had a large window with views across East London. I could just see the tip of St Paul’s spire in the distance; the dome hidden by grey concrete blocks. He gestured at a spindly chair that stood in front of a large walnut desk and took his seat in an expensive-looking leather chair. He brought both his hands together as though in prayer and raised them to his lips. I sat down.

  Morgan wasn’t that much older than me. But he was clearly loving the power of his job.

  “So, Scott. Scotty, can I call you Scotty? Good.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued. “Now, let’s see what we have on you, Scotty.” He adjusted a wafer-thin computer screen positioned on his desk and waved his hand in front of it. The screen lit up showing a picture of me dressed in my school uniform, glaring miserably into the camera. A second wave and the screen was filled with writing.

  “So you say the first time you Shifted was three days ago? And in a public place too.” Morgan shook his head and sighed. With each casual wave of his hand a new page of my file appeared on the computer. I tried to apologise but he cut me off with a raised hand. “Yes, I have a Shift registered on that night that tallies up with your story.” He said story like he still wasn’t totally convinced I wasn’t making this all up. “And you agreed to turn yourself in to ARES in return for training?”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “There’s no guessing, Scotty. It’s all here.” He tapped the screen his finger making a dink dink noise. “Everything that goes on at ARES is all right here.” He pushed the computer out of the way and turned around in his chair to face the window. The back of the leather seat had a large tear down one side.

  “The question now is…” He spun back around, dramatically and leant over his desk, both hands pressed firmly on its top. “What do we do with you?”

  The threat in that question made my head start prickling with sweat.

  Morgan laughed. “Ha, don’t look so worried, S
cotty. You’ve done the right thing. Had you decided to go it alone, well… things might not have been so pleasant. We might not have been able to have this nice little chat.” He stood up and walked around to perch one butt cheek on his desk. He knocked over a pen pot, which sort of ruined the effect. He ignored it and stared at me.

  “So, Scotty. What do you want from ARES?”

  “I want to learn. Learn how to control Shifting.”

  “Yes, yes, very good. We can do that. Of course we can do that. But first. A petite faveur, that’s a small favour. From you.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Who told you about Shifting?”

  “I, er…” I couldn’t tell them about Aubrey. I had no idea what kind of trouble she would get in if they knew she hadn’t handed me over as she was supposed to. “I met this guy,” I lied, not meeting his eyes. “I was out with my friends and I, well I Shifted–”

  “And this was Friday night, correct?” Morgan interrupted.

  “Yes, like I said.”

  “Just checking. Do go on. You were having fun with your little friends.”

  I didn’t like the way he said the word “little”. It was like he was saying “defenceless”. Or “delicious”.

  I pressed on. “Yes, and after I Shifted, this guy stopped me and explained what had happened. And then when I went home, a card was waiting for me. So I rang you.” I rushed through the last bit, hoping he wouldn’t scrutinize my story too closely.

  “And this guy?” Morgan said, inspecting the ceiling. “What did he look like?”

  I hunted around for an image and I remembered Zac. I didn’t care if he got into trouble. I described him, as vaguely as possible.

  Morgan squinted at me. His eyes little slits. Perhaps he recognised the description or perhaps he didn’t believe a word of it. He stood up and walked slowly back to his seat and rattled off an amendment to my file on his keyboard.

  “Tell, me Scott. What would it mean to you if I were to say the letters… SLF?” he glared at me, as if trying to read a reaction on my face, as if trying to catch me out.