The Imagination Box

by Martyn Ford

  “Finger monkey,” Tim said.

  “A talking one,” Phil added, turning his head.

  Fredric closed the door behind him and stepped toward a chair. “This is a conversation I’d like to be a part of,” he said.

  —

  A little later, Harriet escorted Eisenstone and Tim down one of the Diamond Building’s long, narrow corridors. They were heading for the security department, to view CCTV footage of the Imagination Box’s theft. They passed offices and laboratories, some of which were impossible to ignore.

  “Timothy, are you familiar with the common misconception that the moon is made of cheese?” Phil asked. He was pleased to be somewhere he didn’t have to remain hidden. “Because I would like to disclose some musings on the matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am aware it is fictitious, but I assume there is some cheese on the surface—surely the myth cannot be absolute fabrication?”

  “There is no cheese on the moon, not even a little bit. Look at this.” Tim stopped.

  In the next room, through the viewing window, he saw the remains of Clarice Crowfield’s Imagination Box, the metal torn, buckled. And, on the other side, the teleporter, its tall chambers empty. Both were scorched, blackened by fire and soot. It was strange seeing these things, exhibited now as pieces of evidence. They were obviously trying to learn from the devices.

  Farther down the hall, another lab caught his eye. A man was sitting in a large chair, wearing what Tim recognized as a reader. However, it was different—it had goggles and earmuffs, like a headset from some kind of virtual-reality game. Scientists in lab coats were taking notes and measurements. On the other side of the room, behind a partition, another man was wearing sticky pads on his temples, countless wires flowing from his head like long, dreadlocked hair. Tim watched in awe, ignoring the fact that Eisenstone and Harriet had rounded the corner out of sight. He felt a slight static throb coming from the window, literally making his skin tingle. Some force, some incredible power, was being tested. There was a high-pitched hum, a weird digital sound that—

  “Electromagnetic pulses.” An American voice came from behind, followed by a popping sound. Tim turned to see Fredric Wilde by his side, also staring into the large lab. He was chewing bubble gum. It smelled of sweet strawberry. “That’s what you can feel.”

  “What are they doing?” Tim asked.

  “They are experimenting with something called a mind board. It apparently allows you to see the world through another person’s eyes and, I’ve heard, even to take control of a person completely.”

  This was obviously a prototype of what Harriet had described—a device similar to the one the Mind Surfer might be using. “Does it work?”

  “Of course not,” Fredric said. “I ain’t holding my breath on this particular project. Pie-in-the-sky kinda thing.”

  “Why does this organization need such a machine?” Tim asked, having not completely understood Eisenstone’s explanation of what they did.

  “They spend billions of dollars creating brilliant things so that when the rest of the world catches up, we can be best protected. That’s what they say, at least.”

  “Protected?”

  “TRAD was originally established to research weaponry. In an arms race, you need to have the biggest gun. But nowadays, with nanotechnology, quantum physics, a vast wealth of undiscovered potential, it’s essential that they understand these things before they can be used against us. It’s the agency’s job to be one step ahead, on the cutting edge.”

  “Right,” Tim said, looking at the warped reflection on the bulb of the reader. “And what’s your job?”

  “I’m an entrepreneur…a businessman. I sell computer parts, gadgets—got a few ventures online. I dabble in all sorts.”

  “And you’re allowed in here?” Tim asked, remembering that this was a top-secret organization.

  “It’s amazing the places you can go when you have enough money. Recently your fine government cut TRAD’s funding almost clean in half, so they turned to the private sector for help. People like me, we’re keeping this place afloat.”

  “I see.”

  “Tim,” Fredric said, lowering his voice slightly. “I think I should be honest. TRAD has quite an extensive file on you, and when I heard who was in Harriet’s office, I came to see you specifically.”

  “Why?”

  “I understand you very much enjoyed experimenting with Eisenstone’s technology.” The way he pronounced “Eisenstone” made Tim smile. “Well, I have created something that surpasses it in virtually every way. I would like you to come to my facility and see it.”

  “Really?” Tim felt a familiar rush of curiosity, wondering what on earth could be better than the Imagination Box.

  “Yes, and I’d strongly advise you to agree.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Firstly, because it’ll be the most fun you’ve ever had,” Fredric said, turning to face him properly for the first time. “But mainly ’cause I think I know who really stole your Imagination Box.”

  “Tim.” Eisenstone was striding toward him. Harriet was waiting at the end of the long corridor, looking down at her watch. “Come on,” the professor said.

  “I’ll be in touch. You mustn’t utter a word of this to them,” Fredric whispered. He then turned and wandered off down the hall.

  Harriet showed Tim and the professor into a dimly lit, spacious room, with an entire wall covered in flat-screen monitors. On the large one, in the center, was some paused CCTV footage. It cast bright bluish light on Harriet and Eisenstone, shining white squares in their eyes. Tim kept repeating, in his head, what Fredric had said. If it was true, if he knew where the box was, why couldn’t he just tell Harriet?

  “This is Glassbridge Mall.” Harriet pointed the remote. “Yesterday afternoon.”

  They watched the bird’s-eye view of the busy shopping center. The silent, grainy video showed countless people walking between the shops.

  “And here you come, Tim,” she added.

  At the bottom of the image, a black shape appeared, weaving between the shoppers, running at full speed. Although the memory was a little blurry, the footage of him sprinting headlong straight into the large pane was as clear as the glass itself.

  “Ouch,” Phil said. “Might I ask, Timothy, why did you not stop?”

  “I thought the door was open,” Tim said.

  “Alas, the menace of transparency.”

  The video showed Tim fall to the ground, sprawled out on his back. Then, as he’d suspected from his cobbled memories, the crossing guard appeared. She walked directly up to him, crouched over his bag, and then stepped away with something bulging under her jacket. Harriet zoomed in on her face, which was pixelated beyond recognition. Tim squinted.

  “This is who stole your Imagination Box?” Harriet said, turning. “A forty-year-old crossing guard named Grace Paulson, with no criminal record and no identifiable ties with any foreign or domestic organization that might have an interest in such things.”

  “So, indeed,” Eisenstone said, peering through his glasses, “why did she steal it?”

  “That, George, might be a little harder to determine,” Harriet added, lifting a folder.

  “Why is that?” Tim asked.

  “Because she’s dead.”

  On the drive home Tim felt a squeeze of anxiety in his chest from the information. This was serious. He couldn’t help but picture the woman’s face—the blank expression she’d had when she demanded he hand over the Imagination Box. Initially he had been angry with her—annoyed that she’d chased and stolen from him—but now, realizing she must be part of something far larger, he felt sorry for her.

  It had turned out that the crossing guard had died that morning, the day after the theft, in a car crash. To the outside eye, it was little more than a tragic accident. But Harriet said she suspected it “wasn’t quite that simple.”

  The whole way back, Eisenstone barely talked. Tim still got
the impression, although he never said it, that the professor was profoundly disappointed with him.

  Once again, he felt determined to find the box.

  On that thought, after a particularly long silence, Tim said, “What did you think of that Fredric guy?”

  The professor shrugged. “I think…well, I think it’s a shame that such an important organization has to, to rely on private funding,” he said.

  To Tim, Fredric was exciting and seemed somehow cool. Eisenstone, on the other hand, had become quite reserved since last summer. Tim recalled again what Fredric had said by that window. Not so much the bit about knowing who “really” stole his Imagination Box, but the other thing. The part about having the most fun he’d ever had. Oh, now, that was a bold statement.

  Harriet had explained that a surveillance van would be parked outside the Dawn Star Hotel to keep close watch on him. He pictured the agents inside with cameras, recorders, microphones, and the like. She said the fact that the thief or thieves, whoever he, she, or they were, would likely be returning as soon as they realized that the Imagination Box was useless without the reader, was a good thing. It meant they had an opportunity to catch them. But it didn’t exactly make Tim feel more secure about the whole situation.

  The professor dropped him off at about six p.m. Tim pushed round the revolving door, and as he passed through the lobby, he looked at a few Dawn Star guests milling about, some queuing to check in, others sipping coffee. One in particular, sitting on the sofa by the window, was wearing a long black coat and some large round sunglasses. She had short auburn hair, which was flattened by a tight woolen hat. Assuming she was one of TRAD’s agents, Tim ignored her. Harriet had told him that they would try to “blend in” and that, to help them keep an eye on comings and goings at the hotel, he shouldn’t draw any attention to them.

  So he went straight up to his room, where he closed his curtains and weaved through some of the clutter that was still there, to get to his bed. Elisa had assured him it’d only be for a few days. In fact, it had been weeks now. Tim needed his own space more than ever. He felt trapped, scared, guilty, and frustrated all at the same time. He slumped onto his mattress.

  “There has been a great deal of deliberation, and I have finally reached a conclusion,” Phil announced. “My favorite film is Jaws.”

  “Yeah?” Tim turned onto his side, watching the monkey pace along his bedside cabinet. “Why is that?” Chatting with Phil usually comforted Tim.

  “Primarily because it features a great white shark. Big toothy fish—just wonderful. They might be my favorite animal.”

  “You said bears were your favorite.”

  “Yes, last week. But this week, I must confess, sharks have been formally promoted.”

  “They are cool.”

  “Timothy, you know they can breed donkeys with horses, and lions and tigers make ligers? And, of course, there’s the famous Pigosaurus rex.”

  “Some of those are real.”

  “Do you think scientists will ever be able to make a bear-shark splice?”

  “I…I doubt it. They are very different species. Plus, why would they want to?”

  “I would pay top dollar for such a sight.”

  Tim’s phone rang loudly next to Phil, who leapt away, terrified. “Sugar plum turnips,” he gasped, holding his tiny chest.

  It was Elisa, calling Tim upstairs for dinner. Chris had just returned from a business trip, so she had gotten some food from the Dawn Star kitchen: peppery, crackle-topped pork with mashed potatoes and a stack of honey-roasted carrots. He ate as much as he could, but wasn’t feeling particularly hungry.

  At the table, Tim tried to speak with Elisa about the theft of the box and about his visit to TRAD.

  “There was this guy, Fredric,” Tim said. “He invited me to his ‘facility.’ ”

  “Mm-hmm.” Elisa was washing a plate at the sink.

  “He also said…he said something about…he said he knows who really stole the Imagination Box. And, weirdly, he said I couldn’t tell anyone at TRAD. What do you think I should do?”

  Elisa’s phone buzzed on the draining board. “Sorry, Tim.” She quickly silenced it, then turned. “What were you saying?”

  It seemed as though she wasn’t in the mood for chatting. “Never mind,” Tim sighed.

  Almost exactly the same thing happened when he struck up a similar conversation with Chris. He was on the sofa typing away on his laptop, with his IcoRama on his thigh and his tablet perched on a cushion by his side. Again, he seemed so engrossed in his work, still wearing his suit, his tie loosened, the glowing screens all staring back at him.

  “Hello?” Tim said, glancing between them. “Am I invisible now?”

  “Sure,” Chris muttered. “Whatever you want.”

  This was by no means the first occasion Elisa and Chris had been preoccupied. However, today they seemed especially distracted. Perhaps it was the added stress of the ongoing refurbishment. That would explain Elisa, but Chris, when he was home at least, usually found some time for Tim.

  “Anyway, as I was saying…,” he started, before realizing there was no point. Their thoughts were elsewhere.

  He rolled his eyes and made his way back downstairs. Apparently Phil was the only one who’d listen. At his door, he looked along the hallway. Ornate lamps were posted between each room. One at the far end was broken, darkening the window and fizzing as though a fly were trapped in the bulb.

  Stepping inside, he called out to Phil and, when he couldn’t see the monkey, peered round the edge of some boxes as—

  A shadow moved. A person was there. In his room.

  Tim saw the whites of her eyes flash as she lurched forward, grabbing him and slamming a hand across his mouth. There wasn’t time to shout.

  —

  It was the woman from the lobby. Her fingers were cold, one palm pressed against Tim’s neck, the other holding his jaw shut. She was so close he could smell her vanilla perfume and see the slight gloss of her lipstick. As they stood together in his room, there was a moment of silence in which Tim realized he wasn’t in immediate danger.

  The woman’s grip loosened, and she raised her index finger to her lips, nodding a few times before she gently pulled her remaining hand away.

  Still frozen, Tim didn’t make a sound as she held up a piece of paper with a message written on it: Don’t talk, ears everywhere.

  Tim nodded as she wrote something else on the crumpled sheet. Can you put some music on?

  Clicking his laptop on from standby, Tim did as she said, turning it up a few notches when she pointed to the ceiling. Although his heart was racing, he was more wary than scared, curious enough to hear her out.

  “Where’s Phil?” he whispered.

  With a slight tilt of her head, she gestured to his top drawer. Tim opened it. Inside, the monkey was strapped to his tiny little bed, his mouth taped shut. His angry eyes were glaring, rolling around.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asked.

  “Shhh!” She stepped closer. “Sorry, but this was necessary.” She spoke in tight, breathy whispers over the background music, which was some of Phil’s jazzy swing. “Listen, there isn’t much time.”

  “Hang on.” Tim squinted. He recognized her. “I know you. You’re…you’re from TV. From the news.”

  “Yes.” She removed her woolen hat to reveal short, chop-cut reddish hair. “Samantha Locke. Sorry, we can do small talk another time. I—”

  “Why have you broken into my room?” Tim said. “This isn’t okay.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you, but we need to be discreet. Basically, what you need to know…I have hacked into TRAD’s files. I’ve read about what happened with your box.”

  “Right.”

  “Look, it’s a long story. Have you heard of the Mind Surfer?”

  Although unsure if sharing information with this intruder was a good idea, Tim figured she might have some details about the whereabouts of his missing device.

&
nbsp; “I…Actually, yes,” he said. “I have.”

  “Good. I’ve been trying to get something concrete. My boss says someone controlling people’s thoughts is, to put it politely, nonsense.”

  “Okay…”

  “But it’s all linked. There are files on Crowfield House, on you, and somehow it’s all—”

  “What are you talking about? You could have just phoned or sent me an email, like a normal person.”

  “No, they’re everywhere. Don’t you understand?”

  “Understand what?”

  “My husband, he…” Samantha was visibly overwhelmed. “He was trying to prove that the Mind Surfer was real and, well, it cost him his life.”

  “Like the crossing guard,” Tim said, almost to himself.

  “She’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh no.”

  “So she was being controlled?”

  “That’s right, and when she’d served her purpose, she was silenced. That’s what the Mind Surfer does. No loose ends.”

  Tim swallowed, the trumpets blaring from his speakers. “But…why?”

  Reacting to a sound, she stepped to the window and pulled the edge of the curtain across. “Right, they’re coming.” She strode back. “All the files from TRAD’s database, it’s all connected and…and it all links back to you. The theft of your Imagination Box, Crowfield House, the Mind Surfer. I don’t know how or why, but, Tim, it’s all about you.”

  There was a banging on the door. Samantha seemed to relax, as though there was no point in being secretive anymore. “Don’t trust any of them. There will come a time when you run out of answers. When that happens, find me.”

  She dropped a business card on his bedside cabinet, then opened the door.

  Two tall men, dressed in black suits with curly-wire earpieces, grabbed her by the arms.

  “Samantha Locke,” one of them said. “Still sniffing around, I see.”

  The TRAD agents told Tim to stay in his room and then escorted her out of the building.

  Once they were gone, Tim perched on his bed, opened his drawer, and tugged the tape away from Phil’s mouth.

  “The audacity,” Phil gasped. “I must say, Timothy, that Samantha woman is most rude.”