"What do you see?"
"Nothing you have the words for. And, out of interest, what am I?"
"You're..." What's a good way of putting this? "A mouse-person."
He laughs. "A mouse-person. Do I even have fur?"
"Yes."
"What color?"
"Gray."
"Do I have the bow and arrows?"
"Yes."
"Am I wearing anything?"
"Yes. A red robe."
"A red robe?" He laughs. "Where did that come from? I don't wear that in any of the pictures."
"What pictures?"
"You know who I am, presumably? You looked me up?"
"Yes. You're Apollo Smintheus. God of mice."
"Were there pictures?"
"Yes. Some coin ... It wasn't very clear."
"I am, of course, not a mouse. Not usually."
"Oh. Sorry..." For some reason it seems right to be sorry; sorry for what's in front of my eyes.
"I am an incarnation of the Greek God Apollo. Or, at least, I was. I've been evolved since then. Or—what do the boys say?—upgraded."
I put down my coffee. The sensation of drinking something that isn't really there is weird, like bulimia. This can't really be happening. It's all too odd.
"I'm very lost," I say. "Are you saying that you are something other than what I see in front of me?"
"Oh yes. Like this whole place. It's different for everyone. Well, every human. You must know that."
"I'm afraid I don't know anything."
"Then why did you come here?"
"The book..."
He shakes his head. "What did it promise you? Money? Power?"
"No." I shake my head. "I don't really know why I did come. It didn't promise anything really, except knowledge. I think I just wanted to find out if the place was real."
"And now you know. Will you be coming back?"
"To be honest I don't know what I'm going to do. I think I'll have to find a way to escape from those men. If that means using this place then..."
"You can be sure they'll be using it to find you. And they'll be using the..."
It's that strange language again.
"Sorry?" I say.
"The children you saw. They'll be using them as ... Now I can't find the word in your language. I'm coming up with hitchhiker, piggyback, and infect. The children aren't projections of entities from your world. They're beings who only exist in this world, like me."
"So they're gods?"
"No. They're something else." He smiles, and his whiskers twitch. "I'm guessing that they are attached—in the way of a hitchhiker, piggyback-rider, or a virus—to those men. They won't go into your mind on their own. They'll go where the men go."
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as I can be. I can find out more for when you return, if you like."
"So I won't get into trouble then, if I come back?"
Apollo Smintheus smiles. "Trouble from whom?"
"You. The other gods. I don't know."
He starts laughing. "Oh dear. That's funny."
"Why? I don't understand."
"We can't stop you doing anything. This is your world, not ours. We're part of it, but humans made it. All I'm saying is that we do our work best here, and you're better off staying in the physical world. But that's only advice. You can ignore it."
"If I ignore it, will anything bad happen to me?"
"I doubt it. You'll probably need to use this space, anyway, if you want to defeat your enemy. But you'll need to answer an important question."
"What's that?"
"Well, if they're the bad guys, are you one of the good guys? And if so, what do the good guys stand for? If you're going to fight them you need to work out why you're fighting them."
"I don't think I have any choice. They're going to kill me."
Apollo Smintheus looks away from me for a second, as if he's wondering whether or not to tell me something. He sips from his coffee cup and then puts it down on the table.
"Well, you should understand that you can use me for help as long as you've got the card. And as long as I have the energy."
"How long will I have the card for?"
"Who knows. Probably a few days, in your time. Maybe less."
"Right. Thanks. And what do you mean about your energy?"
"If they pray, I survive. If not, I go to sleep. It's not death, exactly, but I can't do anything very impressive."
"Who are they? Mice?"
"Ha! No. Mice can't make gods. They wouldn't want to. No, I'm talking about the boys in Illinois. They're the ones who keep me going. There's a small club of them. A little ... A cult is what you'd call it, I guess. The Cult of Apollo Smintheus. They have a Web site." He yawns. "I'm actually getting a little tired now. I'll have to tell you about them next time."
"OK. Sorry. I'll get going." I stand up, and the chair carries on rocking a couple of times, as if it remembers me sitting in it. "I know this is an awful question..."
"Go on."
"Well, do you have any estimate about how long you can keep those men here? I'm assuming that while they're here they can't pursue me in the real world ... Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. Well, if you go now and I can focus all my energy on it, I can certainly keep them here for..." He screws up his eyes. "This is a more complicated calculation than you'd think ... Um, about another three or four hours, your time."
"What do you mean, 'my time'?"
"I'll have to explain when you come back. I need some rest. I'm not the most powerful god around. With only six people in the world seriously praying to you ... Well."
"Thanks again," I say. "You really did save my life."
Back out in the Troposphere it's started to rain. That's odd. There's never been weather in here before. It beats down on the tarmac like percussion, and then rushes down the gutters with a shhhhh noise. The men are still unconscious in their cage, but I keep my distance as I walk around it. I have to get away from them. I saw what they could do to me, and, if they could get into my mind with those horrible kids, I think that would be it. That would be the end of me.
It seems to take ages to get through the tunnel this time, as if there's a wind blowing me the other way. What would the men see, if they went into my mind? Presumably they wouldn't go down this tunnel: I understand that this is my way into and out of the Troposphere. I wonder if I have a little shop and what's in the window. Do I decide, or do they? And what were they seeing in the Troposphere? From what Apollo Smintheus said, they wouldn't have seen what I saw—and it was certainly clear that they missed the newspaper rack and the steel bar. But those boys: They did see what I saw. He's right: It is hard to understand. But surely it can't be impossible to understand?
I pass the wavy lines and the pinpricks of light. Nearly home. Nearly...
Oh fuck. I come to on the sofa and everything feels different. I don't know what's happened to me. My mouth is so dry that I couldn't speak if I wanted to. Shit. I sit up, but I feel as if I've got the worst flu I've ever had. Water. I need lots of water. Somehow, I get up and make it to the sink. I drink three cups of water and then immediately throw them up. I drink two more and throw up again. I know I need fluid, so I force myself to drink another cup of water, slow sips this time. God. What's happened to me? I thought the Troposphere was some sort of "dream world" in which you can't get hurt. My eyes sting. The light coming from the window is laser-beam strong, and I move across the room and shut the curtains. There's bright white snow all over the rooftops outside, the sun glaring off it. Hang on. Why is it light? Why is there sun? It wasn't just nighttime in the Troposphere (where it's always nighttime anyway); it was nighttime when I left Wolf's mind, not that long ago.
I look at the clock. It says it's two o'clock. It must be afternoon if it's light.
But I took the mixture at five o'clock in the afternoon.
I run my tongue over my dry mouth. I feel dizzy. I know this dizziness: It's because I ha
ven't had a cigarette for hours. Jesus. Have I been lying on the sofa for twenty-one hours? No wonder I feel ill. Is this dehydration? Or is it part of the same madness that means I imagine that I can travel through other people's consciousness? The same madness that means I believe two men are after me with guns?
The thing is, I don't feel mad at all.
Adam. I need to find Adam and find out what—if anything—happened yesterday (or whenever: Fuck knows what day it is—I could have gone back in time for all I know). And I make a deal with myself right now. If the men are real I'm going to drive away somewhere where they can't find me. But if they're not, I'm going to go straight to the university medical center and see if I can get myself sectioned. I guess that in either case I'll need to take some things with me, so, after taking The End of Mr. Y from the mantelpiece, I go into the bedroom and put it into an old holdall before covering it with clothes. What else do I need? My laptop. A big knife, just in case. Obviously I need the rest of the holy water mixture, and the bottle of Carbo-veg so I can make some more. I don't really have any food that's transportable, so I'll have to worry about that later. Once I have packed my bag, I wash quickly and go to leave the flat. There's an envelope by the door with my name on it. Someone must have slipped it underneath the door when I was out cold on the sofa. It's from Adam. Urgent, it says. I need to talk to you. OK. There's a local phone number, but now I'm paranoid and I don't want to use a phone for communication. I'll just go to my office and hope he's there.
My car, like everything else, is covered in snow. Large white flakes are still falling from the sky, and the street has that muffled, secretive sound that snow produces, as if the whole world is talking under its breath. There's an old piece of cardboard balanced on a bin out by my car, and I use it to scrape most of the soft snow off my windscreen. The ice underneath is more of a problem. I don't have a scraper, and the cardboard is now floppy and wet. In the end I put the heater on full and let the engine turn over for a few minutes until it starts to melt. I still can't see properly by the time I set off, but I have to go. I have to find out if I am mad or in terrible danger. I wish there was a third option, but there doesn't seem to be.
The university campus is bisected by a main road that unintentionally (or so I have always assumed) separates the arts buildings from the science labs. Usually at this time of day the road is clear: a ribbon of black tarmac with only the odd car or cyclist trundling down it, maybe leaving early, or even driving from Shelley College, on the far east side of the campus, to Hardy on the west. Today the road isn't black: it's a mixture of white ice and old gray sludge, and it is completely clogged with snow-smeared cars, all with their windscreen wipers going. And all over campus little groups of students seem to be making snowmen. What's going on? Where's everyone going? And what has happened to lectures and seminars? I can't sit in a traffic jam all day looking at fat white blobs that—and this is a tick in my "madness" column—seem possessed, as if they have come to take over the world. Not today, please. Just let me get to Adam.
As I whisper this to myself, and as I repeat the word "please," I suddenly wonder whom I'm asking, to whom I'm praying. I thought I was doing OK, but suddenly I'm having trouble breathing. Come on, come on. I hit the steering wheel a couple of times and then run a hand through my hair. It's damp with sweat, even though it's freezing outside. The traffic going this way is much worse than on the other side of the road. In fact, after a white university truck goes past, there don't seem to be any cars coming the other way. The turning I need to take for the Russell car park is about fifty yards ahead on the right. Fuck it. I crunch the car into gear, pull out, and start overtaking the long line of cars. People glare at me. Just as I approach the turning, traffic starts coming from the other direction. Well, they'll just have to wait. Except they don't. Even though I'm indicating right, and it's quite obvious what I'm trying to do, the first car just drives towards me, the driver gesticulating and flashing his lights, as if this is the most aberrant thing he's ever seen. For God's sake. I can't move forwards now that this car is blocking my way. To my right, there's a triangle of grass with one featureless snowman standing on it. There aren't any students around. I swerve off to the right and drive across the grass, hitting the side of the snowman and making it tip over and then crumble to the ground. I imagine the pissed-off driver of the other car, and what he would think of that maneuver, but I don't look around to see. I think this counts as an emergency, anyway. Now I'm on the road to the car park, and my way is clear, although there is a long line of cars trying to go the other way. I recognize several people. There are Lisa and Mary. They don't see me. Oh, and there's Max. I slow up as my car passes his, and roll down my window. He does the same.
"What's going on?" I ask him.
"University's shutting for the afternoon," he says. "We had an e-mail advising us to leave. Are you just on your way in?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'd turn around if I were you. It's only going to get worse."
I park haphazardly, unable to see the white lines marking out the parking bays and not caring at all about what anyone thinks about where the bonnet of my car is in relation to the boot and the buildings next to it and the five other cars that are still here. Who actually gives a shit about how precisely you're able to put a vehicle in a white box drawn on the ground, anyway? Car parks seem to me like collective statements of sanity. I'm sane: I'm inside the lines. Me too! Me too! I am not inside the lines anymore. I skid on the ice as I run into the English Building, hoping that Adam hasn't yet left.
The door to my office is unlocked, but there's no one there when I go in. I close the door behind me. Heather's computer is switched on, and I can see the cascading numbers of her LUCA model trickling away. I didn't realize how psyched up I was, but when the door opens again, I jump and let out a little yelp.
"Ariel?" It's Heather, holding a cup of coffee.
"Sorry," I say. "Wow, I'm not used to there being other people in here. Um..." I need to say something normal. "Thanks for dinner the other night, by the way. It was great."
"Oh, thanks," she says. But her eyes are saying something else. "Are you OK?"
"Yes, of course."
"Did the er ... Those guys find you?"
"What guys?"
"The American policemen."
Policemen? Those guys are official in some way?
"Sorry?" I say, deadpan.
"They were here looking for you yesterday. They were actually quite vague about who they were—I'm just assuming they were police, since they acted like it. I thought Adam came to tell you. They wanted to confiscate your computer, and get all your files from Personnel, too. Yvonne wasn't happy about it, so they ended up having to try to get some sort of fax through from their offices in America to the dean. Apparently they've had to investigate someone else from this department before. They said they never found him, but they would have done if the university could have given his details to them sooner. Anyway, the fax didn't come yesterday and they went away in the end, saying they'd come back today. They weren't particularly nice. Ariel, what on earth has happened?"
"I don't know," I say. "I'm ... I didn't see Adam. I had no idea ... Do you know where he is now?"
"No. But he left you a note."
"Has anyone read it?"
"No. He told me to hide it, so I did. But I didn't feel comfortable about it. He's left his number, too."
She scrabbles around on her desk until she finds a scrap of paper with an 07792 number on it. It seems strange—I wouldn't have thought Adam would have a mobile phone. I'm not going to call the number, anyway: Who knows who could be listening in? If those men are official in some way then I'm more fucked than I'd thought. I'm certainly not phoning anyone, and I'm not using any cashpoints (not that I've got any money to draw out). I've seen enough of those action films to know the drill. The only trouble is that when I watch action films I usually feel the excitement and fear at one remove, as a spectator. So the hero might die,
and you might think No! but you don't really care. It's just a story—and you know the hero won't usually die in a story, anyway. But I am aware that I'm not in a story, and that if someone really wants to shoot me, or get into my mind, or whatever, there's no scriptwriter who's going to make it all right for me in act 3. I'll be dead in act 2 and it's not as if Aristotle's going to come along and say it's all wrong.
And it looks as if I'm not mad. Not only is this definitely happening to me: It happened to Burlem as well. He's surely the "other person from the department" whom the men came to investigate. He's the last person who had the book. So I'm certainly not going to the medical center. I'm going to see if I can speak to Adam, and then I'm going to find Saul Burlem. I'm going to find him, find out everything he knows about what's going on—and then I'll work out what to do next. I guess he must have an excellent hiding place if he hasn't yet been found, but then he doesn't have the book anymore: I do.
"Have you got the note?" I say to Heather, trying to stop my voice from shaking.
"Yes. I think so. It's here somewhere."
Eventually she picks up a small blue envelope and gives it to me.
"Thanks."
"Ariel..."
"What?"
"Do you think those men are going to come back? They really freaked me out."
"I don't know."
"I mean, I know we're really just guests here in your office, and what you do is your business, and I don't want to intrude or anything but..."
"What?"
"Well, it's not very nice having the police turn up. If you are in trouble, don't you think maybe you should sort it out?"
Fuck off, Heather.
But I actually say: "I'm not in trouble. And I'm going to stay with my aunt in Leeds, so I won't see you for a while. Say good-bye to Adam for me—and enjoy the office space."
Maybe she'll send the psychos to Leeds, but I'm not counting on it.
Chapter Sixteen
Dear Ariel,
I spent most of the night banging on your door, and then all morning worrying that I led those men straight to you. You haven't phoned me. I hope you are all right.
The End of Mr. Y Page 21
