The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  A woman stood beside the desk, dressed in a dark skirt and jacket—the female equivalent of an SS uniform complete with jackboots. Her fair hair was twisted into a single plait. The man lifted his pencil from the paper for a moment and she pulled the sheet away. She carried it to the next desk, wrote something in the top left corner, then placed it face-down on another pile of similar pages.

  “Anything of interest?” Hoffman asked, walking over to the desk where the man sat.

  The woman clicked her heels together and stiffened to attention. “No, Sturmbannfuhrer. He killed several men, but nothing that seems important.”

  Guy looked at Davenport, who shrugged. Did they mean the man at the desk? He looked broad and strong, but emaciated and tired. He continued to stare into space, pencil moving swiftly over the paper.

  “You may leave us,” Hoffman told the woman. “Wait outside. I will tell you when we are done.”

  She nodded, and marched briskly from the room, closing the door behind her.

  “What is this place?” Guy asked as soon as they were alone. “What’s he doing? Who did he kill?”

  “Not him,” Hoffman said. “Come and see.”

  They watched as the man drew. A sketched drawing of the top of a desk appeared. A blotter, papers, notebook, filing tray—sketched approximations of the real things.

  “This is Number Nine,” Hoffman told them. “They all have numbers. I have no idea of his real name.”

  “And he draws pictures?” Davenport asked, with evident amusement.

  “All the time.”

  Hoffman lifted away the finished drawing, and the man immediately started again.

  “At least,” Hoffman went on, “whenever there is a change of view that is significant.” He led them over to the stone table where the woman had stacked the previous drawings. Hoffman lifted several sheets to show them. Each had a number neatly written in the top left corner. “These will be filed, along with all the others. We have them photographed too, as a precaution.”

  Davenport took the sheets from Hoffman and riffled through them. They showed a progression—a view of a door; a view through the open door of a man; several pictures of the man, apparently in conversation across the desk. Then a change—hands around the man’s throat; a confused blur of motion; a knife stabbing forward; a body lying on the floor, a dark stain forming around it. Then the top of the desk; a closer view of the notebook—a diary; the desk again …

  “He draws what he sees,” Hoffman said. “Or rather, what someone else sees.”

  “This is the same sort of paper as that picture of me was drawn on,” Davenport said. “Are you telling us that he draws what the Ubermensch sees?”

  “They are linked somehow,” Hoffman said. “Of course the draftsman—or woman—needs to have some innate talent. It seems to work with fortune tellers, mediums, people with some psychic ability.”

  “A mental link then?” Davenport suggested.

  “It seems so. But there has to be some affinity between the viewer and the Ubermensch. We tested several of the candidates before we made this particular connection.”

  “Candidates?” Guy said. “You mean the people in the beds?”

  Hoffman nodded. “Anyone who seems to have the right ability is tested, and if they pass the test they are brought here.”

  “What sort of test?” Davenport asked.

  “Simple things—predicting the next card in a sequence. Identifying a symbol chosen by another psychic. That sort of thing.”

  “But—how does it work?” Pentecross said. “How is the link established?”

  “The bracelet,” Davenport told him. “Don’t you see—that man is wearing a bracelet just like the one Sarah recovered from the burial mound. Just like the Ubermensch was wearing.”

  “That’s right,” Hoffman agreed. “The bracelets seem to come in pairs. Although we have had instances of a connection forming without the bracelet. It is never as strong or reliable, but if the two—Ubermensch and viewer—are extremely compatible…” He shrugged. “Kruger is in charge of the project and he pretends to have answers for the Reichsfuhrer, but he doesn’t really understand. None of us does.”

  * * *

  The place was in turmoil. People were running—not just hurrying, but actually running—across the main concourse. Sarah pushed her way through to the reception desk. The woman at the desk recognized Sarah. She probably didn’t remember why, but it was enough for her to wave Sarah through as soon as she asked for Mr. Whitman.

  “It’s urgent,” Sarah said.

  “Isn’t everything today? He’s in his office. You know the way?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I assume he’s expecting you?” the woman called after her.

  “Of course,” Sarah called back, without turning.

  She hurried up the stairs and made her way down the corridor to Andrew Whitman’s office. She knocked, not waiting for an answer before she pushed the door open.

  “Andrew—we have to talk.” She paused in the doorway. “Oh.”

  It wasn’t Whitman. The man in the office was older. He half stood as he saw Sarah, beckoning her in.

  “It’s all right.” His voice was a lazy drawl, not unlike Whitman’s. “Andrew has been detained, you know what it’s like. But he should be here soon.”

  “Perhaps I’d better come back.”

  “Nonsense. Miss Diamond, isn’t it?” He gave a short laugh at her surprised expression. “Andrew’s told me everything about you. Come on in. Take a seat.” He gestured to the chair opposite.

  “Everything?” Sarah asked, trying to make light of it. He’d better not have.

  “So what brings you here, Miss Diamond?” He ran his hand over his bald scalp.

  “I have to talk to Andrew. There are things I need to tell him. Things he should know.”

  The man leaned back, swinging gently in the swivel chair behind the desk as he considered this. “Is that a fact? You can talk to me, you know. Andrew and I work together. Jeff Wood,” he said. “Call me Jeff. Andrew will be here soon, but if you want to make a start?”

  Perhaps because Jeff Wood seemed so casual about it, perhaps because his accent and his tone reminded her of Andrew Whitman, perhaps because she had come here determined to tell her story, Sarah nodded.

  “All right,” she said. “Have you ever heard the expression UDT?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  * * *

  “When they brought it here, the Ubermensch knew nothing,” Hoffman said. “That was well before I arrived. Before I even existed.” He smiled. “But it had to learn, and it learned quickly.”

  “Where did it come from?” Davenport asked. “A burial site, like the others?”

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid. I have heard talk of it being unearthed in Tibet, but the circumstances are shrouded in secrecy. I don’t like to ask too much, best not to draw attention.”

  “What did it learn?” Guy asked.

  “Everything. How to speak, how to read … And in return it taught Kruger and the others. It told them how to use the bracelets.”

  “Why would it do that?” Davenport wondered. “Surrender its privacy.”

  “I think it had to, in order to win some freedom. They wouldn’t let it go to England without being able to see what was happening, and be sure it couldn’t escape them.”

  “And why did it go?” Guy said.

  “You know why. As soon as it could, it tried to recover more of its own kind, its own artifacts. It gave details of several possible sites, including the one in England. It said it wanted to help, that its only ambition was to help Germany win the war.”

  “You didn’t believe it,” Guy guessed.

  “I’ve deceived enough people for long enough to know when someone—or something—is trying to deceive me,” Hoffman said. “But what its real motives were, I don’t know. Perhaps it just craved company, wanted to find another of its own kind. Or perhap
s it thought it could recruit enough Ubermenschen to fight back. Now it is gone, and we shall never know.”

  “So all you have now is this link to the Ubermensch from France,” Davenport said.

  “Not quite,” Hoffman said. “If that was all, I’d be less concerned.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They stood watching Number Nine as he completed another picture. A view across the desk toward a door.

  “Where is the Ubermensch this man is linked to?” Guy wondered.

  “We don’t know. London somewhere. But how he got there from the burial site in France where he was discovered, we have no idea. Do you?”

  Davenport gave a short laugh. “Modesty forbids.”

  “I see.” Hoffman took another completed drawing—the office door was swinging open. He numbered it and placed it on the pile. “We should go.”

  “Is this what you wanted us to see?” Davenport asked.

  “Part of it. Not the most important part.”

  “You coming?” Guy asked Davenport, who was still standing beside Number Nine. He was staring down at the next drawing.

  “I think you should look at this,” he said.

  “Why—what is it?”

  Guy could feel the blood draining from his face as Davenport replied:

  “He’s drawing a woman. And I think it’s Sarah.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The new picture showed a view across the desk. Sitting on the other side was a woman. It was unmistakably Sarah Diamond.

  “You know her?” Hoffman asked.

  “Where the hell is she?” Guy said. “What’s she doing?”

  “More to the point, what can we do?” Davenport demanded. He turned to Hoffman. “Well?”

  Hoffman shook his head. “Nothing. We can watch, but there is no way that we’ve found to communicate or interfere.”

  Hoffman removed the page as soon as it was complete. Immediately, Number Nine was drawing again. A closer view. Sarah’s face—the thin features, the slight curl to her collar-length hair … But her expression was contorted, her mouth open in a cry or a gasp.

  They watched in silent horror as the pencil moved down from the face. To the neck. Drawing the hands clasped round Sarah’s throat. Throttling the life from her.

  * * *

  She was desperate to talk, to tell someone about Station Z and all that had happened over the past few months. But as she started her story, something about Jeff made her uneasy. He was charming, attentive, sympathetic. But …

  “Where’s Andrew?” she asked.

  “He’ll be here shortly.”

  “I’ve never told anyone about these things before.” Not that she had said anything much yet—just that there were unidentified traces showing up on RADAR.

  Jeff nodded amicably. “Is that a fact?”

  The way he said it made her even more nervous. The same intonation as Andrew Whitman used. The same phrase. In fact, now she thought about it, the whole way he spoke, right down to his accent, was very similar.

  Sarah shifted on the chair. Her foot nudged against the leg of the desk, and she drew it back, glancing down.

  It was all she could do to keep from leaping to her feet. She struggled to keep her expression neutral, looking straight back up again. Had he seen her reaction?

  The floor was bare boards. No rug or carpet. And across the floorboards a dark stain was spreading slowly from under the desk. Viscous, and blood red.

  “Where is Andrew?” Her voice was strung out with nerves.

  Jeff smiled. His pale lips seemed to crack as they drew back from discolored, broken teeth.

  “I think you know where he is.” Jeff got slowly to his feet. “Now, you were about to tell me everything.”

  Sarah stood up too, backing away from the desk toward the door. “Not a chance,” she murmured. She turned to run.

  But the man was already moving, blocking her path to the door. He grabbed her, shoving her across the desk, hands gripping her throat, forcing her back. She gasped for breath as his thumbs bit into her windpipe. Tore at his hands, scratching and scraping and digging in her nails. But the grip didn’t loosen. She scrabbled behind her on the desk top, hands searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon. He forced her down across the desk.

  Sarah managed to twist her head. It was over the back of the desk, so she was looking down at the floor behind. At Andrew Whitman’s body bleeding out across the wooden boards. The thin blade of a letter-opener had pierced his chest, ornate gilded handle projecting upward.

  Her fingers grazed the top of the handle. Couldn’t reach. Sarah pushed herself back across the desk, the man’s hands still tight round her throat. His face was close to hers. She could see the thin maze of lines etched across his skin, like ancient cracked porcelain. The emptiness of the deep, dark eyes. Misting over as her brain was starved of oxygen.

  Further back. The musty stench of death seemed to emanate from the Ubermensch as he bore down on her, his weight pressing her to the top of the desk. Stretching down, her hand finally grasped the thin knife, pulling it free with an unpleasant sucking noise. She twisted her hand as she jabbed upward, blade first.

  The grip slackened, for just a moment. For just long enough to enable Sarah to push herself backward again. The bulk of her weight was over the edge of the desk and she fell—breaking free finally from the creature’s grip.

  She crashed to the floor, landing half across Whitman’s body. Her palm pressed down on his chest, blood oozing half-clotted between her fingers. She screamed, throat already burning and sore. Rolled off the cooling corpse, and staggered to her feet.

  * * *

  The image showed Sarah from above, staring up wide-eyed at her attacker. A single drop of red splashed to the middle of the white sheet. It landed on Sarah’s neck, close to the hands grasped round it, blotting into the paper.

  Number Nine was crying blood. A thin trickle from his left eye, welling up and dripping as he drew. Then the whole eyeball exploded. Gelatinous debris spattered across the picture followed by a gush of blood.

  Guy took a step back. Davenport swore. Hoffman seemed unperturbed.

  “Perhaps your friend will be all right. She is fighting back.”

  “What the hell just happened?” Davenport demanded.

  Number Nine kept drawing, the pencil moving through blood and flesh.

  “The affinity between the viewer and the Ubermensch is more than just communication,” Hoffman said. “They are linked somehow. Physically.”

  Guy stared at the bloodied, empty socket. Blood was congealing round the edges already. “You mean, whatever happens to the Ubermensch is also visited upon this poor man?”

  “It seems so.” Hoffman carefully pulled the stained sheet of paper across the table. Number Nine kept drawing, oblivious, as Hoffman folded it. He kept the grisly contents inside, and dropped the paper into the nearest sconce of burning oil. At once the sickly sweet smell of burning tissue filled the air.

  “An eye for an eye,” Davenport murmured.

  * * *

  Sarah didn’t look back until she reached the door. She pulled it open, glancing over her shoulder as she fled into the corridor outside.

  The Ubermensch was coming across the room. The letter-opener jutted out from its left eye. It reached up, grasped the handle and pulled it out. There was no blood. Just an empty hole—darkness. Then thin orange filaments licked out from the eye socket, feeling their way round the Ubermensch’s cheek as if seeking for air.

  Sarah pulled the door shut behind her and ran. She needed to get out, needed air. There was a fire escape through the door at the end of the corridor—she’d used it before when she’d wanted to leave quickly and unseen.

  The cold chill of the outside air was like a knife after the warmth of the embassy. Her coat was still over the back of the chair in Whitman’s office. The fire escape was attached to the back of the building, little more than an iron ladder with a small
platform at each floor level. She clambered down, fast as she could, hands almost freezing to the cold metal.

  Above her another figure stepped out onto the ladder and started down. It moved quickly and easily, with none of the awkwardness of the creature in the burial chamber. Still a dozen feet off the ground, Sarah jumped. She kept hold of the sides of the ladder, letting the handrail slip through as she fell, slowing her descent. The cold of the metal was burning now, tearing the skin from her hands.

  The impact jarred right up through her legs as she hit the ground. One ankle buckled. She ignored the pain and ran.

  * * *

  The image was blurred and vague. It showed Sarah’s back as she ran, as the Ubermensch pursued her down a narrow alleyway.

  “Perhaps it’s getting dark,” Guy said.

  “It only has one eye,” Hoffman said. “This is how it sees now.”

  “That should help Sarah escape,” Davenport said.

  “I wouldn’t put money on it,” Hoffman told him. “Even severe injuries don’t slow them down for long.”

  A similar image. But closer to Sarah now. Her terrified face looking back as she ran.

  * * *

  There was a road at the end of the alley. There would be people. She could lose herself among them. Just round the next corner. Sarah glanced back—the Ubermensch was gaining on her. But she’d make it, she was far enough ahead. She reached the corner.

  And the world changed.

  The wall down the side of the alley was gone, bitten off abruptly. Where there had been a busy street, there was nothing. An empty wasteland of rubble scattered over mud. The ground dipped unevenly into the crater the bomb had left.

  On the other side, the remains of a shattered building stood precariously against the darkening sky. Joists from the floors stuck out like enormous broken matchsticks. The wall of an upper story protruded awkwardly over the empty space below, sagging under its own weight.

  There was a road on the other side of the building. If she could get there, get through the ruins, she might still be safe. Sarah slipped and slid down the incline. She didn’t dare look back. She knew that if she did she would see the Ubermensch gaining on her, orange tendrils like lichen erupting from the empty eye socket and spreading across one side of its face.