“Now you mention it, I can detect your accent. I can’t say I ever noticed it about Malcolm, though.”
“Oh, well, he lost it. Our parents shifted here when Malcolm was little. I was quite a bit older than Malcolm. That’s why the accent’s stuck, I suppose.”
I strain out another smile as I think about all the things you can not know about someone you think you know well.
“Yes, well,” she says, “he liked a wee dram, but I’ve never seen him any the worse for it. Certainly I can’t imagine it befuddling him so much that he would step in front of a speeding car. Especially where he lives. Lived,” she corrects herself. “It’s halfway down a dead straight street, d’you see?”
She shakes her head again and for a moment there’s silence as we both follow our own thoughts. After a while, I get up, placing the cup carefully back on the coffee table, shrugging to show how sorry I am to leave, that I’d much rather stay here with her, body language telling lies, of course, and she shows me to the door. On the way out, I ask her what time the funeral is set for. They’re still waiting for the funeral director to let them know, she tells me, and I promise I’ll give her a call the next day to find out. Then I walk down the front path, the near-elderly woman thanking me absently and remembering her brother, I guess, as he had been when she was young, me struggling with ideas that are just starting to really scare me.
4
The drizzle has made his shoes wet. He wishes his poncho extended out properly over his knees and feet, but it always seems to slip back. At least the fuckin’ rain stops when he gets close to the pond. As he wheels down the path between the shrubs and bushes, he sees Alex sitting on the park bench wearing a khaki-colored parka, idly throwing scraps of bread from a clear plastic bag to the ducks that scramble around his feet. There’s a stink of wet grass and rotting leaves.
“Well, hi, young fellow.” Alex looks up as Predator brings the wheelchair to a halt next to the bench.
“Hi yourself.”
“You’re looking just fine.” Alex is always smooth and he can’t tell if he means it or not. “How’re your folks?”
“They’re okay. You should come visit, that’s what Ma always says.”
“Yeah, well.” Still smooth, Alex is never put out. “I’ve been meaning to, but it’s all so crazy, you know? Election coming up and all. Man’s gotta living to make.”
“Yeah.” He makes his voice reasonable. In reality, he loathes his cousin. He’s always loathed him, even in the days when he had full use of his legs. Alex has always been different. When they were kids, he remembers, when he was five and Alex was, what, twelve? Alex would smile at his parents and offer to take him for walks and then, when there were alone, tell him scary tales about bogeymen or grubby stories about girls he claimed to have touched up and undressed. “How do you like that, little cousin? Make anything come up, does it?” He thinks Alex must have forgotten. He masks his thoughts.
“So how’s the world of journalism?”
“Just great. Lots happening,” smiles Alex.
“Still free-lance?”
“Oh, yeah. The New York Times were trying to get me to join them last month. Made me a big offer, but hey! Why tie yourself down, that’s what I say.”
“Oh, sure,” he says neutrally. The guy thinks he’s way cool. No way. If only he knew what the Predator knows.
“Anyway.” Alex throws the last piece of bread to a fat mallard and holds the bag upside down, sprinkling its remaining contents onto the tarmac in front of him. Ducks waddle around snatching at the crumbs. One of them scrambles over Predator’s feet in its haste to get into the action. “So what’s this thing you got that’s so all-fired urgent?”
He squints at the trees on the small island in the middle of the duck-pond. “I’ve got a deal for you. I give you information and you work out what to do with it. Sell it to a paper or the TV news. I don’t care which.”
Alex turns and smiles at him indulgently. “So what have you got your hands on, young fella? Somebody been dipping into the library fund at school? International crime ring shop-lifting comic books from the local store?”
Predator returns the smile. This bastard ain’t gonna rattle him, not this time. Once he hears what’s going on, he’ll come crawling. Yeah, right down there with the duck shit.
“Kinda more than that. The deal is I want half of whatever you can get for the story.”
Alex’s eyebrows rise in mock surprise. “Big pay-off, huh?” He pauses for a moment. A multi-colored rubber ball rolls under the park-bench and a small girl in a bright yellow raincoat comes running round to collect it. The child stops when she realizes they’re there, looking first at Alex and then at Predator, not knowing what to make of the wheelchair. Alex picks the ball up and holds it out to the little girl, who stands uncertainly for a moment before grabbing it and running away.
“What I got,” he plays it chill, “is evidence of a major rip-off involving the government. Interested?”
“Oh sure. Watergate, episode two, is it?” Alex still isn’t taking him too seriously. “How d’you get this exposé, David? Got your own version of Deep Throat calling you up? Or have you taken up with a guy called Doctor Watson?”
“I used the computer.” He looks at Alex. His cousin isn’t showing any real interest but he can tell that he at least has his attention. “I hacked into a police system.”
“Oh sure.” Alex’s tone is sneering but that, Predator knows, is an advance on indifference.
“Yeah, sure. It can be done, you know. Takes a bit of luck, but it can be done.”
“So what did you manage to hack out of the system, then, oh great computer whiz?”
Predator looks around, scanning the park to see if they are alone, conscious that the gesture may look histrionic but unable to stop himself. The little girl in the yellow dress is off with her mother, who’s standing talking to another woman under an elm tree. There’s no one else near. He tells himself that he’s being foolish and melodramatic. Nevertheless, his voice is little more than a whisper.
“It starts with a corporation called Able-Air.”
5
Too depressed to go back to work, I cab it to the apartment. The weather’s clearing but the thin warmth of the sun on my face does little to ease the chill in my stomach. Once inside, I throw my jacket onto a chair and pour myself a decent sized scotch, to hell with the hour, offering an ironic toast to Mac. I stand for a while, sipping at the drink and looking out the window at the quiet street outside. A youth leans on a lamppost, smoking a cigarette. I think the boy looks up at my window. I try to remember if he was there when I arrived back at the building. Shake myself. The paranoia’s reaching absurd levels.
After a while, I call the office to let them know where I am. The receptionist tells me that Kathleen’s back and wants to see me. I tell her I’ll be in soon.
Leaving the apartment building, I look up and down the street, feeling the need for caution. The youth has gone from his spot beside the lamppost. Along the road, some guy’s leaning over the open bonnet of a green Dodge. I catch myself watching to see if the man’s eyes follow me. No sign that he even knows I’m here. I tell myself again that I’m being stupid, but as I walk back to the bus station, I have the persistent feeling that I’m being followed. Looking back, I see a trio of scruffy-looking characters, bikers or similar, out of place in what is a fairly affluent street. As I watch, they cross the road without looking at me. When I turn the corner at the end of the street, I lose sight of them.
I take a shortcut towards the station through the park. There are rumors that this area has been attracting the wrong kind of attention at nights. The neighbors whisper about drug addicts and teenage prostitutes. Pimps with wide hats and knives lurk along its darkened paths, they say, but in the daytime it’s reckoned to be safe enough. Still, as I pass the wrought-iron arch at the entrance, something catches my eye. A surveillance camera has been mounted on top of one of the arch’s supporting pillars. I
ts blank lens seems to gaze at me as I walk beneath it. Cameras everywhere. I shudder, hurry onto the gravel path.
My thoughts wander again and I tramp along with eyes fixed on the ground in front of me. It takes me by surprise when, passing a clump of shrubs, I hear a rustle of leaves. I look up to see branches being pushed aside. A man bursts through the undergrowth. A low branch snags his trousers and he half-staggers onto the path before turning towards me.
I stop in confusion and growing alarm. This man is one of those I saw previously. He moves until he’s standing in the middle of the path, his eyes on me. He’s young, I guess, nineteen or twenty. He wears swastika badges on a ragged jacket, sleeves razored off, his arms and face covered with tattoos: his cheek bears the number 666.
“Hey.” The man looks past me and shouts. “Here.”
I remember the others who were with this one when I saw him on the street. I hear someone shout out in response.
“Yeah, man. Leave some for us, Sammy boy.”
Shock hits the system. I realize that I’m in danger and step off the path and onto the grass, aiming to walk past. The biker type moves to block my path.
“Not so fast, man. We want a little word with you.”
I look at him, trying to control my racing heart. “Just get out of my way.”
“Don’t push it, buddy.” The youth—Sammy—speaks with exaggerated reasonableness. “You wanna wait ‘til my buddies get here. Ya might learn something, huh?”
I think I know only too well. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the youth’s two companions sauntering through the park towards us, insolent grins on their faces. Another thirty seconds, I’ll be surrounded. I know I’m in trouble. For all the films and unceasing media stories about crime on the streets, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. It’s hard to believe it’s happening now. It must be a mistake. I step back onto the path to try to walk around the man. Sammy again moves across me and pushes at my chest. I can smell his body odor, rancid with old sweat.
I force himself to recall the basic theory of eastern self-defense. When threatened by danger, most people tense up and this limits the ability to respond. Be calm, relax when in danger, my instructor always told the class. Then move.
I know that I’ll have to act. I think myself “loose.” Breathe deep, then exhale. Start to move. Flow. Pivot. Half-turn the body. Sammy’s hands start to push past my chest. Now. Big circle, little circle. Left hand up and across: little circle. Push against the assailant’s wrist. Bring the right arm round in the loop: big circle. Back of my wrist pushing against Sammy’s elbow. Nudging him off balance.
There will only be one chance for this. I see Sammy lean back, trying to restore balance. Raise my hands as I’ve been taught, protecting the sides of my head. Left leg pivots. Right leg swings up, in front of my stomach. Pivot carries through until the left foot is reversed, heel pointing forward.
Look of surprise on the youth’s face. My right knee comes up to my chest. Right foot extends. Then springs. Straight out. Knife-blade kick, the outside of the sole lashing for Sammy’s throat.
To my astonishment, it works. I’ve only ever done this in practice before, kicking against punch-bags, never connecting with a human being. Now I feel the thud of connection, soft tissue giving before the force of my muscles, concentrated as they are into a few inches of hard bone.
Sammy topples, gurgling, hands clutching his neck. I feel a brief surge of emotion—half elation, half nausea. Then there’s a shout. I look up to see the other two, now running towards me, long beards ruffling in the breeze. One of them is pulling at his jacket. I see the glint of a knife.
Martial arts also teach that a kick is the second-best defense against a knife. The best defense is to run. I leap over the prone Sammy and sprint towards the park gates. Glancing back, I see the other men arrive at where Sammy lies face-down in the grass. One of them stoops down to pull Sammy over, the prone man now gasping for breath, while the other continues after me, the knife clearly visible in his hand.
Despite my hours of early-morning running, I’m not as fast as the younger man chasing me. I can hear feet pounding on gravel behind me, closing the gap. Gasping, I make the false sanctuary of the gates. The distance between us is still narrowing. Every second I expect to feel the impact of the knife. The sudden slice. Cutting between my shoulder blades. Breath stings my lungs. White-hot fear in my gut. Coming parallel to the gates, I see people on the street outside. It’s unreal. Everybody determinedly minding their own business despite the noise. I hear the sound of pursuing feet, louder now. I know the other runner is only a pace or two behind. I imagine the knife reaching out, closing on my unprotected back. Imagine the pain of steel stabbing through flesh.
As my hand brushes against the wrought iron of the gates, I feel a hand grab at my jacket. I brace for the cut. Action has to be automatic, now. I check and half-turn my head, readying for the kick out, backward this time. Knee coming forward then jerking back like a rider trying to start a motorbike. This kick is less perfect, my aim off, but it catches the bastard a glancing blow on his hip as he’s raising the knife hand for a slash, enough to make him pause and release his grip on my jacket. Then I’m staggering into the street, turning and running full-kilter past startled passers-by towards the bus station, a hundred yards further down the road.
It’s only as I come level with the entrance that I risk a glance over my shoulder. My pursuer has pulled up, hand sliding back into his dirty patched jacket. He stands, staring at me and rubbing at his hip, as I stop running and walk up to the ticket office.
Although rush hour is long since finished, there are four or five commuters in the queue: too many people for my pursuers to risk a public attack. I hope. Looking back, I can see no sign of them. I lean against a wall: for all my painfully acquired physical fitness, my breath comes in ragged gasps and I find that my hands and knees are shaking uncontrollably. I’m relieved when the queue moves and I get to buy a ticket and climb on a city-bound bus. Sitting, I watch the sidewalk until, at last, the doors close and the vehicle pulls away.
Sitting in the back of the bus, my hands still shaking, I try to tell myself that the attack must have been a random mugging. Mustn’t it?
I know it wasn’t. I need to think. Plan.
6
Some time after five, I see Kathleen walk back into the office. I join her in the small cubicle and force myself to smile.
“How was it?” she asks. She knows I’ve been to see Mac’s sister. She told me earlier that she thought of going herself but decided that it wasn’t appropriate, as they’d never met.
“Okay.” As a reply it’s barely adequate, but what can you say? “Well, actually, I had a problem. I took a shortcut through a local park to get to the bus station. Someone tried to mug me.”
She turns, a shocked expression on her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. Best Bruce Willis impression. “I used some of the self-defense techniques I’ve been practicing with for the last year. I never thought they’d work for real but they were enough to get me away.” I can see the concern in her face, I’m warmed by it, the emotion vying against the guilt I feel for worrying her.
“Do you think...” She speaks slowly and I can see that she’s working it through in her mind. “Do you think it’s connected with this?” She points towards the computer screen.
I shrug. “It’s just coincidence, I’m sure.” I feel the need to reassure her and warn her, all at the same time. I realize that my hands are still trembling and I push them under my legs as I lean forward. “Best we take care, though. Even if it was connected, they’d only know about me. There’s no way they could connect it to you and we need to keep it that way.” I explain my idea that she should only use the system if I’m present.
She looks up at me and the skin between her eyes wrinkles slightly. “It’s you I’m worried about. If anything happened.” She pauses. I can see that she wants to say more but can’t find
the words. I decide to move the discussion onto safer ground.
“It’s over now. Probably nothing to worry about. This sort of thing happens every day, doesn’t it? It’s always in the newspapers.”
“Maybe our friend Stephen Garner has a point with all his law-and-order raving.”
“Perhaps. I thought of calling the cops, but I doubt if they could do anything.”
“I expect you’re right. Still—” She sees that I want to drop the subject. “Is Mac’s sister all right?”
I force myself to sound calm. “She’s upset, obviously, but she’s okay. How are you now? You were pretty shaken earlier.”
“Oh, I’m all right. I’m more upset for Mac than anything else. I don’t know how to explain how I feel—as much as anything, it’s a weird kind of regret for him. I think he would have liked to die some other way than under some drunk’s wheels.” She bites her lip and stares out of the window for a moment.
“Did you get the problem on your other project sorted out?”
“Yes. Big glitch caused by minor error. Two characters the wrong way round on a line of program code I’d written. It caused an entire system to crash. Just shows I’m not infallible… Anyway, problem solved and I’m ready to carry on with this thing.” She waves vaguely at the terminal again. “Work takes my mind off... what’s happened. I’ve had a think about what’s been going on, with this latest leak to Stephen Garner. I want to see if I can get into the government communications system through the phantom network.”
The Digital Dream Page 19
