by Nick Wilford
“Bye, Mother,” said Wellesbury. “Bye, Father.”
“Bye, son,” said Custer, as his son followed the official down the front path.
There was no attempt at physical contact.
Chapter 5
The man had a hovercar waiting near the front of the house. He opened the back door for Wellesbury, who climbed up. The official got into the front, and the car moved off with a whirring sound.
After his little visit to the jail, it was pretty much inevitable that they would want to interrogate him. Wellesbury intended to tell them the truth - or at least, what Mallinger had told him - no matter what they did to him. He wasn’t ready to give up on his new friend yet.
He was being driven to a remote area of the city he was unfamiliar with. They were approaching the city walls. And then they were at a gate in the wall, with a barrier. The official waved a card out of the window at a panel, and the barrier rose up. The next thing he knew, Wellesbury was outside the city for the first time ever.
Salvo had described it, but very vaguely. He supposed that was because there really was not a lot to describe. Expanses of flat whiteness stretched out as far as he could see, between which the hovercar travelled on a little road. There was the white, and the same old pale yellow sky, and that was it. He could see why people didn’t bother to come out here. After a while, though, shapes on the horizon seemed to denote a small town.
It became clear they were driving towards this, and as they came closer Wellesbury saw it wasn’t a town as such, just a collection of buildings. No houses, and no people walking around. This must be the institute.
The driver, who had remained silent throughout, slowed down next to a sprawling complex of buildings, went through another gate in the fence that surrounded it, and stopped outside one building that resembled a box with a flat roof stuck on top. “We’re here,” he said, turning to Wellesbury.
Wellesbury got out and stretched. “This way,” said the official, and marched briskly to the door of the building, Wellesbury following behind. The official used his swipe card again to open the door and they stepped through. In the small room beyond, a man of an advanced age was hunched over a computer terminal. He raised his head and nodded at the man as he approached, then squinted at Wellesbury with a scowl on his face.
“Wellesbury Noon,” said the official to his elder colleague. “He’s expected.”
The old man pressed buttons on his keypad for a few seconds. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Take him into Room 73. Mr Tharl will see him in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Hudston.” The official marched off again without a glance at Wellesbury, who trotted after him quickly to get away from the old man’s glare.
They went into a wide corridor and into an elevator. It started to descend, and the further it went, the more stifling the air in the cramped space seemed to become. Wellesbury tried to ignore the churning feeling in his guts that warned him something really bad was going to happen, but like everyone else, he had heard rumours of the sort of things that went on in these places. Finally the door hissed open to reveal another, identical corridor, which the guard strode down with Wellesbury hurrying to keep up. Upon reaching Room 73, the official opened the door with his swipe card, but did not enter. He gestured to Wellesbury to go inside, where there was a computer desk and two chairs. “Sit down,” he said. “Don’t touch anything. Your examiner will be here in a few minutes.”
Examiner?
Wellesbury entered the room as instructed, but it was as if all the atoms in the air had grown to an incredible size, and were swarming around and blocking his progress. Everything inside him told him this was a bad place to be. Nevertheless, he made it to the chair which faced the desk, feeling small and weak. His stomach reminded him that he had missed the evening meal, a fact he had until now overlooked. He glanced up to ask the official if he could get something to eat, but the man was gone, leaving Wellesbury staring at a firmly closed door.
The only thing he could think of as he sat for a seemingly interminable time was Mallinger. Sitting in a cell, just like he was now – not waiting for someone to come along and read his brainwaves, or whatever, but waiting for death. Nothing else to occupy him, no means of marking the time, utterly alone. This time he couldn’t help it – a single tear squeezed its way out and ran down his right cheek, but he sniffed and wiped it away with the back of his hand. No way was he showing any weakness when the “examiner” arrived.
As if all at once, the door opened and sharp footfalls echoed on the hard floor. Wellesbury opened his eyes; he had been trying his best to think of absolutely nothing.
“Good evening,” said the examiner, sitting behind the desk. He was a lean, sinewy man of about sixty, with blue eyes that seemed to bore into Wellesbury’s soul. “It is unfortunate indeed that we have to detain you in this way, but perhaps it shall not be for too long.”
Wellesbury didn’t answer. He tried to meet the man’s gaze, but somehow it was like looking directly into the headlights of a hovercar at night. He was feeling groggy and spaced out from the protracted period of sitting on his own. Don’t let him brainwash you.
The man punched a few buttons on the computer terminal. “My name is Examiner Tharl, and I work here at the Assessment Centre. Please, do not be afraid of me. I, along with the entire Government, am working in your best interests. This session will just be about exploring what has happened and finding the best ways to minimise any damage.
“Now, you are aware that you’ve been brought here because of your exposure to a demon from the Under-Region.”
Wellesbury remained silent, biding his time.
Tharl took a sharp intake of breath and then blew it out again, as if he had inhaled something unpleasant. “It is extremely important that your mind is cleansed of what this demon has told you. We believe it has travelled to our world from its own foul dimension along some kind of rip in the fabric of the universe. Although our scientists are working hard to repair the rupture, the demon is trying to latch onto other minds to strengthen the link and bring others of its kind here.
“Now,” and something in his commanding tone forced Wellesbury to bring his head up and meet the man’s gaze, “we have studied the recording of your... conversation with the fiend in its prison cell extensively.”
Wellesbury’s eyes widened. So, it had been recorded. He should have known as much.
“This is purely for the purposes of keeping accurate records. Trust me, no disciplinary measures will be taken against your friends. But I need to know who it was who told you about the presence of the demon.”
Wellesbury didn’t feel like he could trust Tharl. If anything did happen, he’d be well and truly ostracised from the group. But what choice was there? “Finnister,” he said, his voice sounding cracked. “Finnister Lewiston. He’s got nothing to do with this. He was just there when...” he stopped himself from saying “Mallinger” and went on, “when the demon appeared. He told us about it at our gravball practice.”
“I see.” The clack of keys. “And your friends, how did they react to this story?”
“Ermm... well, some thought he was a demon.” He didn’t want to name any more names, especially Hedgeson.
“Hmm. And what did you think, Wellesbury?” Tharl was leaning forwards with both elbows on the desk, lightly stroking his chin, his gaze pinning Wellesbury to his seat.
After a few seconds he went on, “Oh, come now. Surely you would not have made the decision to visit the intruder in prison if you had believed it to be a demon. There are no wrong answers here. Remember, this is not about discipline or punishment, but merely your own protection. It will help us to treat you if we know more about your thought processes.”
Wellesbury was hyper-aware of the chair beneath him, and underneath that, the unforgiving floor. Although he knew it was impossible, he tried to sit more firmly in his seat, as if hoping he could drill a hole into the ground and escape from the unrelenting stare.
“Well
...” he looked desperately from side to side. “I suppose I was just... curious?” He actually flinched upon saying the word and darted a look at Tharl for a fraction of a second, but the man’s expression was unchanged. “You know, I mean... not much really happens around here. Not here, I mean, Whitopolis. We know what we’re doing every single day. Things like someone appearing in the middle of the city, well, that’s unusual. I wanted to... find out more about him, that’s all.”
As he spoke, the words seemed to take on physical form and line themselves up in the air above the desk. Incriminating him, pointing at him, making him vulnerable.
“I see,” said Tharl in the same impassive tone. “And this was in spite of the danger you knew must be apparent?”
“S... Sir, I didn’t think there was going to be any danger.” Another pause, and the word “danger” seemed to inflate to a larger size than its peers. “Finnister said he was a boy, about the same age as us. He looked the same, except for his clothes, and his skin, which had these black marks on it he called dirt. When I saw him, that was all gone, but his skin was all puffed up with these... sores, he called them.”
Tharl allowed enough time to pass for the foolishness of Wellesbury’s actions to seep into the room. “My boy, you should be aware that demons can take on any appearance they choose. It is hardly a surprise that this monster chose to prey on a young, inquiring mind such as yours. I have held the belief for some time that this lesson should be taught clearly in the schools, in order to prevent such an ensnarement. It is not your fault. What’s important now is eradicating the demon’s influence so you can be returned to your home.”
Wellesbury nodded miserably.
“Now, the fiend told you it was dying and needed your help. This was merely a ploy to warp your mind and gain your confidence. Historically, this has happened on several occasions, although not within living memory. In the younger days of our great nation, after the Reforms, the bridge between the two worlds was stronger. Demons used to travel here looking for souls to bolster their number. Several young people disappeared without trace. When their minds were weakened by the incoming demons, it was easier for them to leave the safe confines of our dimension and travel back to the Under-Region with their abductors, where we believe they became demons themselves. It is thought the despicable hordes were planning a full-scale invasion, but with the strengthening of our defences and security, this never came to fruition.”
Tharl continued to stare at his young subject, although Wellesbury kept his head down. “On behalf of the government, I would like to extend a heartfelt apology. Perhaps checks have not been as rigorous of late as they ought to be. This monster would have exploited the slightest of imperfections in the reality field, pulling at it until it was wide enough to travel through. It should never have been allowed to happen.”
Wellesbury wasn’t prepared to give up on Mallinger yet. He still believed in his story. “If the demons can take on any appearance they want, why didn’t he... it, just look like one of us? Instead of with all the black stuff?”
The ghost of a smile played around Tharl’s lips. “Good question. It was all part of its abominable plan, to gain your sympathy with tales of this... country where disease runs rampant. There is no such thing as disease, boy. It does not exist in the Under-Region, either. The demon told you of fallacies such as pain and sickness. I do wish these things existed – in their world, that is. It might finish them off. But alas, they are immortal. This demon told you it was dying, and nothing could be further from the truth. No, there is no such thing as pain and sickness, but that does not mean their world is perfect like ours. They live in a state of decadence and degeneracy, and they wish to infect us with the same indolence, bring down our thriving economy, and take over our glorious nation.”
Wellesbury was finding it increasingly difficult to think. Tharl’s eloquent words felt like they were being beamed directly into his head, where they were bouncing off the inside of his skull. It felt extremely natural to believe him. But the look of desperation in Mallinger’s eyes... that was an image that just would not go away.
He had to hold onto something – he had to fight against giving in to Tharl. To... them.
The interview went on for another hour. And Wellesbury stayed at the Institute for another three days – missing the gravball game by just a narrow margin. There were tests, questionnaires, lectures about the great glory of Harmonia and its Imperial Government. By the end, Wellesbury felt immersed in something which felt like cotton wool, but it wasn’t a pleasant situation. He wanted to punch his way out of it, which should have been easy, but he couldn’t do it. And although it sickened him to do so, he managed to give them the impression of accepting everything they said. If he stated the case for Mallinger as he believed it, they might keep him in here indefinitely, and then he wouldn’t be any use to his new friend at all.
As Sunday rolled around, missing his big match started to make him angry. He had been here long enough. Contact of any kind with the outside world was not allowed, so he couldn’t even notify his teammates. Unless his parents or someone else told them where he was, they’d think he’d bailed on them, and his life would be a misery at school tomorrow.
As he was driven back home on Sunday night – by the same chauffeur who’d escorted him here – he began to think with more clarity. Maybe the blank expanse of scenery helped; so much more depth to it than the small rooms he’d been in, despite the lack of detail. It had been a convincing argument about the demons, having listened to everything Tharl had to say. But Wellesbury could still close his eyes and conjure up the frightened face of Mallinger in an instant, still felt the mysterious connection that throbbed between them. He couldn’t bring himself to think of him as a demon, no matter how hard he tried.
Chapter 6
On Thursday night, around the same time as Wellesbury was being picked up for his little educational trip, Ezmerelda started to put her plan into place. After her meeting with Wellesbury, she’d found it hard to concentrate for the remainder of the day. Finally something interesting was happening.
When she’d first heard her father talking about the appearance of the “demon”, her ears pricked up. Then she’d had the talk from her father about not going anywhere should a similar incident happen while she was out in the city, and she’d nodded gravely while mentally calling him a cretin. She was practically jumping for joy at the news, because it was a break from the same old routines every single day. She hated pretty much everything about Whitopolis. It was just so... dull, and mean. And what about the clothes? Why did they have to be boring white, like everything else? Her eyes had colour. Her skin had colour. Ezmerelda longed for more colour in her world.
She really admired what Wellesbury had done. From being just another boy whose only distinguishing feature was an impressive talent for gravball, he had gone up by leaps and bounds in her estimation. She wasn’t sure if she would have had the guts to go to the prison. Because she would have known the conversation would be recorded. Wellesbury’s description of the strange boy was moving, and she had resolved to do everything she could to help.
That afternoon, she came in from school to find her parents sitting on the living room couch. Her father was relaxing before going to his shift at work. Instead of going straight up to her room, as she normally did, she came to sit on the armchair and looked at her parents.
“Hello, dear,” said her mother, without turning her head from the screen in front of her.
“Hello, Mum, Dad,” said Ezmerelda primly. Her father looked round and gave her what could be described, if you were feeling generous, as a smile.
“Hey, you know you’re working tonight, Dad?”
“I am aware of that fact,” replied her father.
“Well, I just thought Mum might like to go out and see a movie or something?” She looked at them expectantly, but there was no apparent reaction. “I was hoping to roll my tapestry out in here, and do some more work on it without distracti
ons.”
“So you want to get me out of the way, is that it?” asked her mother.
Darn, I played that wrong. “No, I just mean... You never do anything nice for yourself, Mum, and anyway, this tapestry’s meant to be a surprise. I’m going to show you the whole thing when it’s finished, and I haven’t got the room to do it properly upstairs. So it’s much better if I have the place to myself, isn’t it? Trust me, this tapestry’s going to be worth it!”
“Ah, I see,” said her mother. “Well, if it’s for the tapestry, darling, I understand. I can’t wait to see it when it’s finished. I’m sure it’s going to be beautiful.” Although her words were kind, her tone was flat.
Her father gave her a smile which suffered, this time, from being overenthusiastic, and so the illusion of a loving, harmonious family was maintained, with a bit of effort from all involved. Ezmerelda knew her parents couldn’t care less about her tapestry. She herself was rather proud of her work on it – it was a highly difficult skill to master, and one she had been nurturing quietly for several years. Although pleased with her achievements, she couldn’t say she liked the look of the tapestries – being, of course, all white. The difficulty lay in weaving the thread at different thicknesses to create contours, and from that, the picture. Hers depicted the Whitopolis skyline, using a government photograph to work from. She herself had never been out of the city walls, like most of her peers, and had never stood in the spot where the picture was taken.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Ezmerelda. “There’s a show at eight o’clock, Mum. I’ll have to work fast; there’s quite a bit I want to do.”
Well, there was no lie in that sentence, at least.
*
At seven o’clock, her father punched in the combination that would open the elevator in the hallway and began his journey underground towards his place of work. Shame it was a combination only he knew. If Ezmerelda could have, she would have tried sneaking down there herself, but who knew what she would uncover in her father’s study?
