Fizzy’s building up to his spooky climax.
‘. . . and all they found was her shawl, the same one she’d been found in when she was abandoned on the doorstep as a baby,’ he says. ‘Totally. True. Story.’
Deso and Marky burst out laughing at this final declaration.
‘That’s fuckin’ shite, Fizzy,’ Marky declares, still laughing.
Fizzy just grins. Couldn’t give a fuck.
‘Not true, and not scary.’
‘Jumbo fail,’ Deso agrees.
‘Can you do better, well?’ Fizzy asks, clearly hoping that Deso can.
Deso thinks for a moment, and realises he just might.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you something really scary, and scary because this is true. No word of a lie, and you can ask when we get back because it happened to my uncle.’
‘No word of a lie, you got shagged by your uncle?’ Marky says.
‘Fuck off. This is serious. My uncle Iain and my aunty Margaret live out in Perthshire, middle of nowhere. A place nearly as remote as this. One night, about two in the morning, the doorbell rings, wakes them up. Uncle Iain goes downstairs and opens the door, and there’s a man there, about the same age as himself. The man says: “Sorry to trouble you, but any chance you could give me a push?”
‘Uncle Iain goes, “Fuck off, I’m in my jammies, it’s the middle of the bloody night.” He slams the door and goes back to bed, tells Aunty Margaret what it was. She goes spare. She says: “Don’t you remember that time when my appendix burst and our Land Rover broke down on the way to hospital? We knocked on somebody’s door and I’d have died if that guy hadn’t given us a push. Get back down those stairs and help that man oot.”
‘So my uncle gets oot his bed again, and just as he’s walking down the stairs, he realises it has been five years to the day since Margaret’s appendix went. He’s thinking, “Oh fuck, man,” as he approaches his own front door. Then he opens it, and guess what he sees?’
‘You getting shagged by the wee man?’ Marky suggests.
‘I’m serious, here. He opens the door, and he can see nothing. No man, no motor. But he can hear this noise, this wee squeaking noise. Eeeee. Eeeee. So he goes, “Is anybody there?” Nothing, just eeeee, eeeee. So he calls out louder, “Hullo, mister, are you there, are you still looking for a push?” And that’s when the eeee noise stops and he hears a voice. It’s distant, like just more than a whisper, saying: “Aye . . . Over here . . . on the swing.”’
Deso lets this hang for a second, then starts pishing himself with laughter.
‘Oh, fuck you,’ Fizzy tells Deso, then he and Marky start lobbing pillows at him.
‘Fuckin’ arsehole,’ Marky says, but he’s laughing as well.
Then one of the pillows misses Deso and wallops into Beansy. He doesn’t respond. No half-conscious retaliation, no rolling over, not even a grumble or a snore.
Something isn’t right.
Never mind snore, Deso can’t hear Beansy breathing, and Beansy does nothing quietly.
‘Beansy?’ he asks.
There is still no response. Deso urges Marky and Fizzy to drop the pillows, give it a rest. They go quiet, exchange looks.
‘Aye, very good, Deso,’ Marky says. ‘You’re just trying to freak us oot.’
‘Shhh,’ Deso insists. ‘I’m not. Something’s no’ right. I cannae hear Beansy breathing.’
Without anyone having to suggest it, they all hold their breaths. They can hear nothing.
‘Fuck,’ Fizzy lets slip.
Deso slowly approaches Beansy’s bed, reaching a hand towards the pile of covers. Just as his fingers touch the duvet, he hears a fierce, throaty growl outside the window, and looks up to see a pallid, grimacing, demonic face snarling behind the glass. There are horns at the temples, seeping gouges on the cheeks, the features humanoid but viciously distorted.
Deso jumps back in response, clattering into Fizzy and Marky, sending all three of them into a tangled sprawl on Deso’s bed.
When he looks at the window again, he sees the demon pull the flesh from its own face.
Deso almost closes his eyes in fearful revulsion before noticing that the demon’s arm is clothed in puffed-out nylon. The flesh is revealed to be a mask, beneath which is Beansy’s grinning coupon.
‘That’s how you give somebody a fright, Deso.’
Bonnie Brae
XI
It’s only when a voice speaks to him directly that Merrick realises he’s lost himself: staring without seeing, hearing but not listening.
‘Two more entities for the collection,’ the voice says. ‘Not quite the kind of bestiary I had envisaged when I set out.’
It’s Steinmeyer, standing next to him on the observation platform, from which they can look down on the floor of the Cathedral. They’d have a perfect view of the anomaly itself if there weren’t a dozen soldiers and yellow-suited priests in the way.
Merrick would have been startled to notice anybody was beside him; that it’s Steinmeyer adds a deeper level of discomfort. The guy is unravelling. He’s been falling apart before Merrick’s very eyes, or would have been had Merrick not been avoiding him in order to spare his eyes that distressing sight.
He has no idea how long Steinmeyer may have been standing there. The chief physicist is staring intently, as focused and calculating as Merrick had been disengaged and drifting.
They’re shutting it down: Merrick got the memo. He hadn’t seen Steinmeyer since learning this news, and hasn’t been looking forward to discussing it. It’s been hard enough making peace with it himself.
Merrick says nothing, worrying too much about his own response: will it convey how uncomfortable he is to be around Steinmeyer? Will saying nothing do that more? Will either response finally elicit the breakdown Steinmeyer’s been so inexorably hurtling himself towards? At least he’s being vocal today. Often he comes into the Beta labs and stands like he wants to talk, then says nothing. He’s fuming, simmering, like there’s so much inside needing to come out that he can’t decide how to begin. So he doesn’t begin. Then after a while he leaves, and you’re very glad he’s gone.
‘I thought our most exotic captures would be new types of particle; or if not new, then perhaps very, very old, but never apprehended before, even for a nanosecond’s duration. Kaluza-Klein echoes. Proof of extra dimensions greater than the Planck length, thus lowering the energy necessary to recreate the unification of the forces. Tangible evidence of the graviton, that was my wildest dream.’
He sounds reflective, even resigned, but he’s been like this before. It’s like watching a log drift serenely on glass-like waters just ahead of the hundred-foot falls that will plunge it to be consumed in the raging churn below.
Merrick has to reason with him, but not argue with him.
‘We’ve got tangible evidence of something even more remarkable,’ he offers.
Steinmeyer looks at Merrick with a pitying regret, like he’s telling a child the truth about Santa Claus.
‘We’ve got nothing,’ the physicist says. He nods downwards, towards the soldiers and the priests. ‘They’ve got it.’
This could be the moment the log topples over the edge. Merrick searches for something placatory to offer. ‘I guess we both knew that when we signed our souls away. Secrecy was always a big part of the deal, but it’s the knowledge that counts, not who bags the trophies - or even who gets their name on the paper.’
Steinmeyer nods, more to himself than in agreement.
‘Ever heard of Giordano Bruno?’ he asks.
‘No,’ Merrick confesses.
‘Precisely.’
‘Who is he? What’s his field?’
‘He was a sixteenth-century Italian philosopher, scholar, play-wright, astronomer, teacher, magus and poet. Undoubtedly one of the great minds of his time. He once wrote: “Thus is the excellence of God magnified and the greatness of his kingdom made manifest; he is glorified not in one, but in a thousand thousand, I say an inf
inity of worlds.”’
‘Did he precede Copernicus?’ Merrick asks.
‘No. He was born five years after Copernicus’ death. But how’s this for a man preceding Newton and even Einstein: “There is no absolute up or down, as Aristotle taught; no absolute position in space; but the position of a body is relative to that of other bodies. Everywhere there is incessant relative change in position throughout the universe, and the observer is always at the centre of things.”’
‘That is indeed prescient,’ Merrick agrees. ‘So why doesn’t history remember him? Too far ahead of his time? Prophet in the wrong land?’
‘He was burned at the stake as a heretic by the Inquisition on February 17th 1600 in the Piazza Campo di Fiore in Rome, and his books placed on the Index Expurgatorius. He was offered the opportunity to recant his heresy, but he stood by his belief in a heliocentric universe, and that God and nature could not be separate and distinct entities. His life and work were consequently all but erased from history.’
‘See, I don’t think the US military go in for immolation. Maybe if Sarah Palin had got in,’ Merrick says, trying a leavening of humour as he fears where this is going.
Steinmeyer is still placid, even laughing a little, but his eyes remain fixed on the Cathedral floor - he doesn’t look at Merrick - and his mind doesn’t stray from its track.
‘Bruno was a difficult character. Not so deftly politic or circumspect when the situation behove it. He was all but chased from court by Queen Elizabeth in England because he made her feel stupid. But do you ever wonder why the Church, why the whole of Christian Europe was so in thrall to a Greek pagan who died three hundred years before Christ? Why not only the Inquisition, but kings and scholars wouldn’t countenance any idea that was at odds with Aristotle?’
‘It’s hard to shift the paradigm,’ Merrick suggests.
‘Exactly. People prefer the world to conform to established truths. They like the idea that some smart individuals have already thought through all there is to think about certain issues, so they don’t have to worry about them. It’s why we accept authoritarianism: it’s comforting to believe that someone else is in charge and knows what they are doing. Copernicus was resisted and Bruno reviled because people don’t like someone throwing all the balls back into the air. The reason the Inquisition had free rein to wreak their tyranny wasn’t because they were all-powerful. They had free rein because people were happy to let them.’
Merrick sees it.
‘They’re shutting us down because the world isn’t ready to know about this.’
‘Quite,’ says Steinmeyer. ‘Tullian isn’t where the pressure is coming from - he was just brought in because he could be relied upon to provide it. He’s a convenient tool, being used by the military to achieve their objectives. We think of military generals as strategists when in fact they are, first and foremost, shop-keepers minding the store. Resource management is literally half the battle: they know what they can and can’t afford in terms of deployment, engagement and, most of all, force depletion. After Iraq and Afghanistan, the last thing they want is a new engagement, and the way they see it, this could be opening up not merely a new front, but a new war, one unlike anything they’ve encountered before.’
‘When you put it that way, it’s a wonder they let it get this far. But that only covers why they’re shutting it down. Where does the fate of Giordano Bruno come into this?’
‘Under what happens next. It’s safe to say they won’t be handing out any Nobel prizes for what was discovered here. Nobody is going to be allowed to know about it.’
‘I always knew that when I signed up,’ Merrick says, though he knows it’s no consolation to either of them. ‘The opportunity to work on something as amazing as this was its own reward. But I guess that’s going to make it hurt all the more to have to suddenly drop it all.’
‘You think that’s what’s going to hurt?’ Steinmeyer asks, once again with the calm, pitying regret that tells Merrick he’s missing something. ‘How do you think it’s going to feel when it all gets tossed in the fire? Did you sign up for that? Because they’re not just going to shut this thing down, they’re going to erase all traces that it ever happened.’
‘They announced they were “mothballing” it, not abandoning it,’ Merrick says, suddenly embarrassed by his own naivety as he hears the words coming from his mouth.
‘It will be wiped from the hard drive of history. What we’ve learned here will not leave this place. If nobody is able to follow our work, then as far as science is concerned, none of this ever happened. All you will have to show for it is a memory in your head, one you might start to question the veracity of after a few years, until you start to wonder if it was just a dream.’
Merrick, staring down at the assembly below, now sees the soldiers’ fatigues for all that they imply. He recalls being quick-marched to that room back in Dartmoor, signing a version of the Official Secrets Act that few people would ever know existed: ‘the most binding non-disclosure agreement outside of Cosa Nostre’, as the supervising officer described it.
‘If I talked to anyone about this, I’d go to jail for a very long time,’ Merrick says.
‘You’d go to jail, yes, but not for talking about this - not officially. It would be for some other breach they cooked up, because if they throw you in jail for talking about this, they’d be lending your story credence. No, they’ll trash your professional reputation too, give you the Roswell treatment.’
‘You’re not saying you believe Roswell was a military cover-up. Or is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No. I’m saying they’d ensure anyone who talked about this place had as much credibility as some internet conspiracy nut. This will be buried and what we found here lost forever.’
The professor doesn’t say anything further, just continues to stare intently towards the anomaly, but Merrick hears one more word, and that word is ‘unless’.
The contrast between Steinmeyer’s demeanour in recent times and the collected figure standing next to him now is as complete as it is disturbing. Merrick recalls seeing something like it only once before, in a colleague who committed suicide days later. A policewoman he spoke to said it was very common: once they have made their decision to kill themselves, the turmoil ceases and they can seem utterly calm and untroubled. Steinmeyer right now is as placid as Merrick has ever witnessed. There’s not merely a stillness about him, but a profound sense of resolution.
They say that out in the deep ocean, a tsunami could pass under you in a rowing boat and you’d barely notice a bob. That’s what this feels like.
Steinmeyer finally turns and looks Merrick in the eye.
‘The world needs to know what happened here,’ he says. ‘Whether it’s ready for it or not.’
XII
Deso gives his boots a stamp on the hard, dry earth, then jumps on the spot a couple of times to warm up a wee bit. It’s pure Baltic, but it’s clear and still, no wind, so once they get moving it’ll be fine. Better than fine, in fact: a cold, sunny December morning and a cracking day for a trek with your pals. Pity there’s a bunch of wankers coming along too, to say nothing of Deputy Dan, but you cannae have it all ways. Everybody is kitted out in waterproofs and walking boots, plenty of them sufficiently shiny and new-looking as to indicate there will be a lot of blisters on show later. Deso’s got his rucksack already on his back, eager to go, but a lot of them still have theirs sitting at their feet on the ground.
The Sarge guy, Sendak, is looking at his watch. It’s five past nine, according to Deso’s. They must be waiting for stragglers, but he can’t work out who: too many bodies milling about in a crowd. He sees Samantha fussing over her hair, trying to tie it back in a way that’s practical but still looks like she could be on an album cover or at least a catalogue for mountaineering gear. The lassie’s a doll, sure, but it must be hard work worrying about how you look every minute of every fucking day.
Big Kirk is slotting a packet of
fags into the wee upturn of his woolly hat. It looks like a hand-knitted effort, a real present-from-granny number that would be getting slagged mercilessly if it was on anybody else. Not that it looks good on Kirk: he probably selected it especially, knowing it looked daft, because it was one more thing that served to emphasise how the normal social rules didn’t apply to him. Prick.
Deborah is farting about with her phone, as per, though it seems to be the camera aspect she’s concerned with rather than texting folk twelve feet away to tell them what’s happened in the five seconds since she last spoke to them directly. She’s standing next to Marianne, which is a bit of a turn-up. Deso wonders what the score is there.
Beansy is bouncing about in front of the pair of them with a big stick. What the hell is that daft bastard up to now?
‘Check it, Marianne,’ he’s saying. He’s draped his arms over the ends of the stick and has assumed a posture of crucifixion. ‘I’m Marilyn Manson.’
Marianne gives him the finger. There’s something very sexy about the way she does it, Deso reckons, but maybe that’s just him. Cannae ask anybody else to compare notes, unfortunately, due to the threat of a slagging.
Deso then notices a bit of movement towards the back of the group, hurriedly approaching from the main doors, unseen by the crowd. He realises what it is and lets out a horrified scream, startling staff and pupils alike.
‘Aaaah! Paki with a rucksack! Everybody down!’
They all turn in time to see Adnan jogging up to join the group. He rolls his eyes and looks for a moment like he’s about to take the huff. Then he yells out ‘Allah hu akbhar!’ and pretends to detonate himself. Deso scrambles to ‘save’ Marky, pulling him to the floor as several others make their own dives for cover.
Guthrie looks fucking appalled, miserable fud that he is, but at least he spares them all the lecture. Adnan’s participation snookered him: he’d have been gearing up for a wee self-righteous tantrum about racism and religious prejudice, but the Muslim being in on the joke has fair buggered that for him.
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