The Fugitive and the Vanishing Man
Page 30
The senior agent held up his hand. “That name is left behind, my dear. Even our records will show that Elizabeth Barnabus is dead. The circle of people who can connect your past life to your new identity must be confined to those in this room.”
“Did you go to the border fence?” she asked.
The senior agent removed the lid of the box, revealing a folded parchment. “All was as you said. Twenty-three miles north of Lewiston, buried in front of the distance marker.”
“I know about the Map of Unknown Things,” said the woman who used to be Elizabeth. “I know that it shows those moments beyond which your future-casters can’t see. And I know that America being cut off from the Gas-Lit Empire is the thing you’ve feared beyond all others. This document tells you that they know it too. Your enemies in Oregon and Newfoundland have worked out the same truth. For you it is the threat of change. For them it is an opportunity. If they first strangle this continent, they’ll be able to wage war against the rest of the world. I don’t know if there’s anything that you can do to stop them. But if you act quickly…”
The senior agent nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps the Gas-Lit Empire will fall. But with this, we may be able to change the manner of its falling. And shape whatever it is that will come after. There’s much to do. And little time. We’ve read your report. You’ve given us much. Now, according to our agreement, you can walk free and start your new life.”
Elizabeth looked from face to face around the table. She still couldn’t quite think of herself by her new name. It would come with practice. It seemed she’d learned her own true history only to have to cover it up again.
The world was changing. Perhaps she could find a hiding place somewhere that would be free from the storm that was coming. It would have to be far from the cities. They would surely be consumed. She could grow her own food. Raise some animals. And keep a gun ready, in case the battle came to her. But she’d seen too much on her journeys to trust in that idea. The war, if it came, would be terrible. New weapons were ready to tear apart all order and grace. The people she loved would be caught up in it. Julia and Tinker. And John Farthing.
For a moment, she met his gaze across the table and felt her heart constrict. To walk away would mean never seeing him again. It was a price too high.
“I would rather help you,” she said. “With my new identity, could I not work within the Patent Office, instead of against it?”
“I’d hoped you might say that,” the senior agent said. “We have much to do. And little time.”
The safe house was a damp, single-roomed apartment with peeling wallpaper. Its one window looked out on the wall of another building, almost close enough to touch. The corridors and stairway were narrow. But no one asked any questions. She guessed the other denizens of the building had their own secrets to hide.
With the first payment of her new allowance, she went out to buy fresh bedding and a box of candles. On her way back she found a delicatessen.
They hadn’t been able to make an arrangement, never being alone together, but she knew John Farthing would come. At his knock, she opened the door. He stepped in, blinking at the scene she had created, the candles on every surface, the blankets and sheet spread out on the floorboards, the feast of simple food and wine.
He was dressed in the same grey suit he’d been wearing at the meeting, his shirt creased from a long day of work. He looked at her, first with adoration, and then with surprise as he took in the change.
She smiled, turned for him to see her clothes from every side. She had kept the male shirt and trousers she’d been wearing earlier, but unbound her breasts, so that her figure showed through. She had made up her eyes with kohl, and deepened the red of her lips. Her dark hair she had tied back.
The last time they’d had the chance to lie together, she’d wanted him to turn away whilst she stripped from her male clothes. Partly for her own sake. Partly for his. So not to put that image into his mind, of her caught halfway between man and woman.
“Look at me,” she said, because he was turning his head away. “Someone once asked me which clothes I’d choose, if it didn’t matter what anyone thought, if I could dress either way. I didn’t know then. But now I do. When I go out of here, I’ll have to dress so that no one sees what I am. I’ll be a woman for them or a man. Either way it’ll be a disguise. But when I’m with you, when we’re alone, I want you to see me as I really am. I can’t explain it. I just don’t want to hide from you anymore.”
He did look, then. Long and slow. Tear tracks on his face reflected the candlelight. “You could have shown me before,” he said.
“I couldn’t. I’d like to say it was just because I didn’t know it myself. But there was more. I don’t think I really believed you would want me if you saw me like this. Then I met my brother. For all we came to disagree on, in this they were right. And slowly I came to see it. This is something real.”
“I want you above all things,” he said. “I was ashamed of it before. That was why I had to turn away when you got changed. It wasn’t the manner of your dress. It was knowing I was about to break my vows. I had to look the other way until you embraced me. Only then I could forget.”
“Might you break your vows again?” This she asked with a smile, because there seemed no regret in him.
“If you will let me,” he said. “It must still be our secret. But I won’t be ashamed of what we do.”
“I have a new name,” she said.
“I’ll do my best to remember,” he said. “When I whisper in your ear.”
He wore a smile now, bright enough to match hers. She opened her arms and he stepped into her embrace.
AFTERWORD
On reading news of her friend’s death, Julia had fallen into grief. But three days later, a postcard arrived at her home in New York. On one side was a photograph of Annie Edson Taylor standing next to the barrel in which she had famously plunged over Niagara Falls. On the other side was written a quote from the Bullet Catcher’s Handbook: There is no more complete and satisfying way for a man to disappear than for him to have never existed.
On reading this, Julia took off her black armband and folded it away in a drawer. She then sought out Tinker, her newly adopted son, and read the message to him. The boy, who had never accepted Elizabeth’s death, took the card, sniffed it, then held it to his chest. No words were needed. They both understood.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am immensely grateful for the help, advice and support received from many people during the writing of this book. Everyone at Angry Robot has been marvellous. Marc, Penny, Nick, Lottie, Eleanor, Gemma, Paul, Claire: thank you. Thanks also to Sara Codair, the members of LWC, Terri Bradshaw and Ed Wilson, who each contributed invaluable expertise.
As always, my greatest debt is to my family, partly for putting up with me through the whole process. But also for direct help in the form of advice, suggestions and proof reading: Joseph, Anya, Stephanie: thank you.
And finally, a big thank you to the many readers of the previous books who gave me encouragement along the way, by writing reviews, saying hello on social media, responding to my occasional cries of frustration and generally keeping me company as I wrestled the plot of this one into shape.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROD DUNCAN writes alternate history, fantasy and contemporary crime. His novels have been shortlisted for the Philip K Dick Award, the East Midlands Book Award and the John Creasey Dagger of the Crime Writers’ Association. A dyslexic with a background in scientific research, he now lectures in creative writing at DeMontfort University. Some might say that he is obsessed with boundary markers, naïve 18th Century gravestones and forming friendships with crows. But he says he is interested in the way things change.
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