The Jack in the Green

by Lee, Frazer

  Dedication

  To the green men, the green women, and all their saplings.

  “Wae’s me, wae’s me

  The acorn is not yet

  Fallen from a tree

  That’s to grow the wood

  That’s to make the cradle

  That’s to rock the bairn

  That’s to grow to a man

  That’s to slay me.”

  —‘Song of the Cauld Lad of Hilton’ (Anon.)

  Prologue

  Tom’s nightmare was always the same.

  He was six years old again and it was Christmas Eve. Tom’s breath fogged up his bedroom window then disappeared like a ghost. He tried again, but no luck—the frost clinging to the outside of the windowpane refused to melt. He wished his parents would just go to bed. He’d been kneeling here on his bed, leaning on the windowsill for what seemed like an eternity. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

  It was his mom, there to tuck Tom into bed. He lay rigidly still, breathing heavily with his arms by his side. He felt his mother’s shadow falling over him as she leaned in to kiss him softly on the head. He listened intently as she closed the door and went back downstairs to the living room. Must be wrapping my presents right now, he thought, his ears conjuring sounds of foil paper and sticky tape.

  This was the most crucial part of Christmas Eve for Tom—waiting for Mom and Dad to come to bed. Then he had to leave it for just long enough to make sure they were asleep, without nodding off himself and missing his chance.

  Tom awoke with a jolt and shivered. His bedclothes had made a bid for freedom, leaving just his pajamas to protect him. He grabbed his alarm clock, the luminous face teasing him with the time. Four o’clock a.m. Brilliant, he’d nodded off and been asleep for hours. But there was still time.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and ever so carefully stood up. Without a sound, he crept over to the door. Careful now, this was where it could all go horribly wrong. One false move and he’d wake them up. He reached out for the door handle, his arm rehearsing the exact distance he could open the door before it creaked. Slowly, slowly, he pulled the door open, slipped sideways through the gap, grabbed the outside handle and closed the door behind him with the tiniest click.

  Heart beating, Tom stood on the dark landing for a few seconds, catching his breath. Satisfied he hadn’t woken his folks, he padded gently across the landing towards the stairs. The soft, soundless carpet beneath his feet, he allowed his mind to wander a little. He began thinking of the prize that awaited him at the end of his mission, remembering how wonderful his presents had looked under the tree last year. They’d gleamed in their shiny wrapping paper like treasure, begging him to squeeze them. His pace quickened as he reached the foot of the stairs.

  Downstairs was even chillier than his bedroom, cold seeping into the hallway through hidden nooks and crannies. Tom folded his arms around him, shivering, and snuck into the living room. It was pitch-black inside. An acrid metallic smell filled the room. What had they been wrapping in here?

  Only one way to find out, thought Tom as he edged his way around the perimeter of the room, feeling along the cabinet, then the wall. Finally, he felt the Christmas tree as he brushed against it. Baubles clinked icily as he located the power cord and followed it, crawling across the floor to the power socket in the corner. He felt the cold metal pins in his hand and turning the plug right side up, inserted it into the wall. Something wet dripped on his hand just as he pressed the switch. Something heavy, and slick, slid across his head.

  Tom scrambled backwards in shock. Looking up, he saw the fairy lights twinkling. But they were red, not clear, as they had been earlier today and all last week since they’d decorated the tree. He stared, mouth agape, as he realized the lights weren’t red after all. Rather, it was what hung around them that gave them their crimson glow.

  The Christmas tree was slicked with blood and covered in strands of flesh and hair. His mom’s hair. He could pick out his dad’s tattoo on a piece of bloodied skin that dangled above a bauble like a handkerchief; a mermaid rendered in fading blue ink on now-dead flesh. Drooping branches struggled beneath the weight of the innards scattered across them like red tinsel. Ruined organs steamed like butcher’s offal at the hot kiss of the lights. Eyeballs hung there like baubles. He could recognize some of the pieces; a section of intestine here, a tangle of veins there.

  Tom scrambled to his feet. Nausea hit him and he vomited stomach bile onto the living room rug. Turning fearfully around, he saw his parents lying lifeless on the sofa like grotesque dolls. Their bodies had been torn apart. Flesh ravaged and rib cages exposed like the hulls of broken ships.

  The room spun and Tom sank to his knees, a dry scream dying in his throat.

  Then he saw them. Red, burning eyes watching him from the dark black of the fireplace.

  Watching him touch his presents.

  Chapter One

  Tom’s nightmare was always the same.

  And it always had the same effect. He awoke with a start, a dry scream dying in the pit of his throat. His body was slicked with sweat, his pulse pounding. Afraid to open his trembling eyelids for fear of what they might reveal, he tried to remind himself he was no longer that six-year-old boy; almost thirty years had passed since then. Still, he kept his eyelids clamped shut. Then a hot, urgent buzzing sound dared him to look. Angry red eyes glared at him in the gloom. He lashed out at them, self-defense of the half-asleep, and knocked the digital clock from the nightstand to the floor. The noise cut off as the clock-face hit the deck, the after-image of its numerals burned into his retinas: 6:15. Time for work.

  Julia stirred, right beside him but leagues away. Had he cried out again during the throes of his nightmare? Had he whimpered like that child did on Christmas Eve all those years ago? A new and terrible fear lurched into his consciousness and he reached down quickly to feel the crotch of his boxers, then the sheets either side of his hips.

  Dry.

  At least he hadn’t wet the bed again—no shameful sheets to explain this time.

  “Tom?”

  So she was awake.

  Here it comes, he thought.

  “You… You okay?” she asked sleepily. Her words were slurred and she sounded stoned. The meds usually knocked her out for longer, until way after he’d left for the office.

  “I thought I heard… Bad dream again?”

  Making a hasty exit from their bed, he tripped over the clock and its hot coal eyes glowed crimson against the floorboards.

  “Gotta shower. Early start. Meeting.”

  He was at the door and into the en suite before she could utter another word.

  If Tom’s nightmare was one recurring hell, his journey to work was another. Always the same undignified crush to clamber onto the over-ground Caltrain, always the same surly looks from his fellow passengers as they jostled in vain to create some personal space. That morning, the smell in the carriage was a hangover from the night before; fast-food-grease smell imbued with subtle body-odor variants cut through with a sharp spice that smelled like stale vomit.

  Good morning, America.

  Somebody coughed and sneezed on the back of his neck, showering him with droplets of nasal mucus. Charming. He tried to crane his neck to get a look at the culprit but, still stiff as a board from his lousy night’s sleep, only succeeded in straining a muscle in his neck. Wincing painfully, he tried to maneuver his free hand up and over to his shoulder to massage the spasmed muscle. Instead, he got his arm entangled in a fellow passenger’s bag strap and had no choice to but to remain in bondage with the indifferent stranger until his stop. The doors yawned open and he and dozens of other travelers spewed out onto the platform like flapping fish from a net. The
woman to whom he had become so attached in such a short space of time gave him a look that could curdle milk before she snatched her bag away from his arm and stormed away cursing under her breath.

  Yeah, good morning, America. Have a nice day.

  Tom rubbed at his shoulder, which clicked like a faulty latch, and meandered toward the exit.

  The headquarters of The Consortium Inc. was just as he had left it on Friday; monolithic, cold and somehow indifferent to human life in its design, much the same as Tom’s experience of working for such a large global corporation. He had worked there for six years and barely knew any of his coworkers’ names, especially those in other departments. Standing by the elevators along with a group of smartly dressed drones, he basked in the slightly uncomfortable corporate silence. At the familiar ding of the arriving elevator car, a complex hierarchical dance played out as the workers boarded. Tom watched as the person nearest the row of polished buttons pressed for the second floor. He recognized the member of staff as Monroe from Legal. Tom’s division, Risk Assessment (& Contracts), was on fifth, so he reached through the crowded elevator and almost sprained his arm to press the button marked 5. He’d rather risk injury than actually speak to anyone, especially first thing in the morning. His hand brushed against Monroe’s arm as he pushed the button.

  “Sorry,” Tom said, his voice barely a whisper. Monroe glanced round at Tom, who noticed the man’s face looked pale and melancholy, like he was sickening for something.

  “Good morning.” Tom’s words were a verbal reaction to the strange haunted expression on Monroe’s face.

  “Is…it?” Monroe muttered glumly before the doors slid shut at the sound of another ding. The elevator lurched skyward, as though powered by the collective sighs of the workforce.

  Ding.

  Second floor. The Sales people got out in their droves; they owned the second floor. Tom’s department was smaller, much smaller, and efficient enough to tick along relatively unnoticed by the company at large, and that was just the way Tom liked it. He had always been someone to shrink away from any kind of spotlight. Even when his team was instrumental in enabling a big contract, he was only too happy to let someone else (usually Team Sales) step up and take all the glory. That way he could simply blend into the crowd at the monthly and quarterly office meetings he was subjected to as part of corporate life. It was a life he didn’t necessarily love, or hate, but the only one he really knew. And it offered the additional benefits package of keeping him distant from the unknown commodity that was his relationship with Julia—a once happy accident.

  Ding.

  Third floor, where he’d worked until the re-org sent him upstairs a couple of years ago. It had been here that he and Julia had first met at an office party organized by The Consortium Inc.’s mysterious Human Resources division. H.R. was a group of people whose sole purpose seemed to be the creation of an email newsletter that, each week, applauded the various successes of Team Sales and reminded all workers that smoking was forbidden in any of the restrooms on-site. Tom had remained at his desk, working as usual, even when the champagne corks had started popping like a cannon fire salute across the office. As it turned out, this tactical heads-down approach had become his undoing. A small group of drunken diehards from the cubicles nearby had made it their mission to get some drinks down his throat. His faced had burned with embarrassment as they’d dragged him from his swivel chair, chanting, “Shot! Shot! Shot!” Other cackling denizens of the fluorescent-lit nightmare joined in the chant and pretty soon Tom had found himself doing shot after shot of hard liquor to the cheers of his coworkers. He’d felt like a glum gladiator, forced into an arena for the amusement of a baying crowd.

  When the tequila hit, he had felt numb. When the Jågermeister had been unleashed, he’d felt quite sick. It was around that point that he’d been introduced to Julia. She’d been so helpful and considerate; grabbing a wastepaper basket just in time to save what was left of his already diminished dignity. Escorting him to the bathroom, she had even procured a mouthwash sampler from her desk drawer on the way. Outside the office, the air had smelled almost as cool and refreshing as the mouthwash had tasted and, in a rare display of impulsiveness, Tom had kissed Julia. She’d reciprocated of course, being more than a little inebriated, and had continued reciprocating for the following ten months until they moved in together. Soon after their marriage she had suffered a bad fall down the stairs outside their apartment, and the miscarriage had happened.

  Ding.

  They were on Four. Monroe let out an audible sigh and wandered out of the elevator like a sleepwalker. As the doors slid shut behind him, Tom saw the man stop stock still in the corridor. Something about the man’s gait gave Tom the chills.

  Dead man walking. A fair few of them around these parts.

  Ding.

  Fifth floor. Tom filed his thoughts away and headed for his cubicle, prepared for the welcome drudgery of work.

  Chapter Two

  “Mathers wants to see you.”

  The dulcet Eurotrash tones belonged to Dieter, Tom’s least-favorite coworker. Tom peered up at him, instantly disliking the way Dieter was leaning over the wall of his cube. He was perched there like some Aryan Eagle, his blue eyes gleaming, and a meringue of sandy-blond hair framing his arrogant face. Dieter used way too much product; the man was a walking Photoshop filter. Tom just stared, then opened an Intranet Chat window on his computer.

  “Not online. He wants to see you right away. In his office.”

  “His office?”

  Dieter smiled, a rictus grin that made the muscles in his neck twitch, making him look even more annoyingly athletic.

  Tom hit Ctrl+Alt+Delete, locked his workstation and rose from his swivel chair. Dieter made like he was going to escort him.

  “I know where it is.”

  Truth was, he didn’t know exactly where Mathers’ office was, only that it was situated somewhere on the mezzanine floor where no one went. He strode away, putting as much distance as humanly possible between him and Dieter, who was left standing amidst the rows of cubicles like a little boy lost. The last thing Tom needed was that creep breathing down his neck. What a guy like Dieter wouldn’t give for a chance to get a glimpse of Mathers’ office. What anyone wouldn’t give for a peek behind the curtain in the Consortium’s equivalent of The Emerald City of Oz. No one saw Mathers’ office. No one saw Mathers for that matter, not in the flesh. Their boss was never on-campus; always making his quarterly address from some sun-kissed island or other, live via satellite like a movie star. So why the summons? Was this some inter-office practical joke? Some Team Sales jape concocted at his expense? That would perhaps be preferable to meeting Mathers. He was the fucking Chairman for Christ’s sake. Of the company. All the moisture had left Tom’s mouth.

  Why does he want to see me? Why now?

  Tom wiped at the cold sweat forming on his brow and headed for the stairs. If he took the elevator he might just throw up.

  “Good to see you, McCrae, come on in, take a seat.”

  The ten-minute wait outside Mathers’ office had done nothing to calm Tom’s anxieties about being called there “urgently” out of the blue.

  Urgent, my ass, he thought, how can it be urgent when they keep you waiting nearly a quarter hour?

  He sat down, glancing around at the minimalist enclave, taking in the polished surfaces, the unused stationery sitting atop the huge mahogany desk like props on a movie set.

  “Coffee?” Mathers offered.

  Tom shook his head and swallowed dryly. Truth was, he could murder a coffee, but not right now, he might spill it and make an ass of himself.

  “Well, I’ll take one,” Mathers said.

  His voice boomed in the echo chamber of the near-empty room. His secretary, an efficient-looking woman wearing a trouser suit, nodded and closed the door after her.

  “Scottish, isn’t it?”

  Tom felt the confusion spread across his face like a nosebleed on a handke
rchief.

  “Your name, man. McCrae?”

  “Oh y-yes. Yes, sir.”

  “Scottish parents? Ancestors perhaps?”

  Tom wished Mathers would speak at a normal volume. He felt as though he was being castigated for some crime he didn’t know he’d committed.

  “Perhaps. I have no idea.”

  “Look into it, Tom, look into it. It’s an important part of the assignment I have for you.”

  There was a sharp series of raps at the door and Mathers’ secretary entered carrying a pot of coffee and a china cup on a small silver tray. She set it down on the desk and loitered for a moment, her manner precise and practiced.

  “Thank you, Eve, that will be all,” Mathers said, without even looking at her.

  Tom watched her leave the room. She closed the door again with barely a click, the room filling with the piquant aroma of Mathers’ coffee. It smelled fresh—expensive.

  “Sure you won’t take some coffee?” Mathers asked.

  Tom shook his head, his lips beginning to form a question.

  “Passport in order, Tom?”

  “Yes…”

  “Good, great. Eve will book your flight, a rental car will be at the airport for you, it’s quite remote where you’re going. Say, is your driver’s license clean too? I neglected to ask…”

  “I…don’t drive, sir.”

  “Don’t?”

  Mathers looked at Tom like he’d just beamed in from some distant alien planet.

  “How the fuck do you get to work each morning, man?”

  “Caltrain.”

  “Jesus God.” Mathers looked gobsmacked. He stroked his chin and muttered the word under his breath like he’d never heard it before, “Caltrain.”

  Maybe he truly never had heard it before.

  “No problem, Tom, no problem at all, we’ll have someone go with you. Not a bad idea anyhow. Drive you up there, help you with the paperwork, no, not a bad idea at all.”