Echoes (US Edition)

by Laura Tisdall

  As he stands in front of her.

  Her mind seems to go both very blank and very noisy at the same time. His eyes are brown, like the shirt. There’s a light sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. Mallory feels herself standing too, not knowing what else to do, and her heart is beating so damn fast, and it takes her aback how strongly she’s feeling it all…

  ‘Echo?’ he asks, sort of mouthing it like he’s trying to be secretive, and her face flushes because it’s him, it’s really…

  ‘Warden?’ she replies. The word catches. Why is her mouth so dry? He nods, but… ‘What was your first guess?’ she asks, trying to stay calm, to keep control though it feels suddenly hard to speak at all, speaking to him with her actual voice and not just through the keys and…

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘If you’re really Warden,’ she tells him, ‘you’ll know what that means.’ Damn it, she wishes her heart would slow down a bit. He seems to fit, but this is important. She has to focus.

  His forehead scrunches up into a frown, then, ‘That E six was your favorite chess square,’ he answers, ‘identified using the phonetic alphabet.’ He’s right. It is really him. She nods, adrenaline fluttering irrationally inside of her. ‘So, what does my name mean then?’ he asks. ‘You know, if you really are Echo.’

  ‘Warden of the internet,’ she replies, ‘guardian of truth, upholder of all that is good; some cheesy crap like that. I got it on my second guess.’

  ‘Yeah, you did.’ And he’s smiling again.

  ‘Dorkiest thing I’d ever heard,’ she says, her eyes never leaving his. This doesn’t feel real. He’s just looking at her and grinning this stupid goofy grin like he’s really damn happy, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  ‘Erm,’ he stammers, as if remembering himself. ‘Well, Echo, it’s nice to meet you. Ward,’ he adds, holding out his hand, ‘Warden. I mean, Gilbert Ward. I’m Gilbert.’

  His name, she realizes. That’s his real name. Crap, this is weird… Then; his surname’s Ward? Mallory raises an eyebrow. He actually used his real name in his pseudonym. Wow.

  His face crinkles a little as he sees her disbelief.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, misinterpreting, ‘Gilbert. I blame my mom for that one. She’s got a thing for old names. Could have been worse, though, my big brothers are called Rex and Diggory, so…’ He swallows, though he’s still trying to hold the smile. There’s something unusual about his accent, like he’s British, but with some definite West Coast added in. Maybe she’d been right to wonder before about him spending time abroad. ‘I prefer Gil,’ he adds, ‘but most people call me Bert, I think just to annoy me. My dad goes with Bertie, but… that’s irrelevant. Right, well.’ He swallows again, and Mallory feels the strangest sudden urge to smile back because he sounds like Warden.

  His eyes drop, looking down at his offered hand, the one she still hasn’t taken.

  ‘Crap,’ he says, ‘sorry, the touch thing. I forgot you – ’ He starts to lower it. She reaches out, though, jerkily, her gloved hand grasping his, surprising even herself. The material takes most of the contact, but the tips of her fingers touch his skin for the briefest of moments. His hand is warm, soft…

  What are you doing?!

  ‘Mallory Park,’ she hears herself saying. She hadn’t been sure, before, whether to tell him her real name or not, but there it is, out in the world in front of him. His smile returns, so utterly genuine, reaching right up to his eyes…

  The door to the café swings open again, chiming the bell. Mallory starts and lets go of Warden’s hand. The new entrant, a woman, almost trips over his suitcase.

  ‘Bugger, sorry,’ he says, pulling it away and tucking it under the table. The woman glares at him and walks past. ‘Sorry,’ he calls after her again, definitely sounding British that time. ‘There sure are a lot of people here, aren’t there?’ he says, looking back at Mallory. ‘The airport was packed, but I thought maybe out here the city might be better.’ He sits down in the chair opposite her.

  She sits, too. Beneath the table, she scrunches her right hand into a ball in her lap, fingers still tingling oddly from where they touched. Warden, right there, in front of her. No chat box. No screen. She doesn’t say anything, just stares.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ he says, starting to look a little uncomfortable.

  No Echo to hide behind…

  Nothing to hide behind…

  She feels herself flush again…

  ‘You’re late,’ she says, unable to think of anything else. His face falls slightly.

  ‘Well, I had to pick up that… that thing we talked about,’ he replies, bobbing his head covertly. ‘And you said I needed a false ID. That took some doing. It’s not like I just had one lying around.’

  ‘Sure, you did,’ Mallory tells him. ‘Just like I did. I know you’ve been seeing new R-rated movies since way before you could have been seventeen and I’m fairly sure you didn’t take your mom. It was definitely at the movie theatre you saw them, too, because you’ve told me several times that ‘certain things like that have to be experienced a certain way.’’

  A small frown wrinkles Warden’s forehead again.

  ‘Okay,’ he replies, ‘so I left my wallet on the plane and had to go back for it and then security got funny about letting me through, even though I told them I really needed it. I mean, have you ever even tried…’

  So this is Warden in real life, Mallory thinks. He’s still talking. Definitely, definitely Warden. The corners of her mouth tease inextricably upwards again and he stops.

  ‘What?’ he asks, but the blue-faced waiter chooses that point to return with the coffee jug and an extra mug for Warden.

  Warden who is sitting smack there in front of me…

  ‘Oh, no thanks,’ he says, ‘gives me indigestion. Have you got any mint tea?’

  ‘We got Little Green Martian Tea,’ drawls the waiter.

  ‘Is it really made of little green Martians?’ Warden asks. ‘I’m not sure that makes for good intergalactic relations.’ The waiter stares at him, blanked-eyed.

  ‘We got soda,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, no, I did want the tea…’ Warden begins. He stops. ‘Soda sounds perfect.’ The waiter nods and wanders off.

  Warden finally takes his coat off, then, though he still looks freezing. His skin is tanned but his cheeks have gone pale. Up close, the brown shirt is crisscrossed with narrow cream lines, dividing it into check. It’s buttoned right to the top. His hair looks like it was once neatly combed, but is now ruffled and sticking right up at the back, maybe from the airplane seats.

  ‘So you flew here?’ Mallory asks.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘landed at JFK an hour and a half ago.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘California. Sun City, to be precise. Although, originally England. That’s why my voice is weird, if you’re wondering. I’m half and half; my mom’s from Guildford and I grew up there till I was twelve, then we moved to California, where my dad’s from.’

  That’s why he’s cold, then, she thinks, and she was right on the time zone. He came a long way for this. Her eyes flick down to the suitcase. A long way.

  ‘You?’ Warden asks.

  ‘Connecticut,’ she says. ‘I drove down, parked in a garage up the street.’ It’s deliberately vague and she feels briefly bad about that. ‘You did bring an ID then?’

  Warden nods. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a black wallet before slipping out a driver’s license. The name reads ‘Jacob Tyler’ and the age puts him at twenty-one. Warden doesn’t look anything near twenty-one, but the picture is his, hair there combed into a careful side parting. He’s wearing a tie.

  ‘I suppose that’s what you should call me,’ he says. ‘Or maybe Jake,’ he adds, ‘you know, make it look like we’ve known each other a while.’ He slips the wallet and ID back into his pocket. ‘And you would be?’

  ‘Abigail Smith,’ she answers. ‘Twenty-two.’

 
‘Right, got it. Abby,’ says Warden, grinning. Mallory doesn’t respond, fighting the distinct urge to roll her eyes. His soda arrives. ‘So,’ he begins, expression becoming more serious as the waiter walks away, ‘what now?’ Her nerves spike again as she remembers what they’re actually there for.

  Focus, Mallory.

  ‘I guess we start by just going in, looking around,’ she answers. ‘And then we see if we can…’ She looks at him meaningfully. ‘You brought the bug?’

  ‘Yep,’ he says, patting the satchel. That was his big idea – place a physical tap into Labyrinth’s security feed so they could download the past week’s footage later, off site. He was right, it is a much safer way of doing it, but Mallory didn’t have access to a bug herself and she hasn’t really looked into that physical side of hacking much. Warden had said he did, said he had.

  ‘And you’re sure it’ll work?’ she asks.

  ‘I made it myself.’ He says it like that’s an encouragement. Mallory tenses.

  ‘You made it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, a little defensively.

  ‘And you’ve tested it?’

  He nods.

  ‘Been tapping into the CCTV at my high school for the past three months. I’d found a hair in my macaroni one lunch time and I did not trust the cafeteria hygiene levels after that.’

  ‘So you bugged it?’ Mallory asks – though, it does sort of sound like something the Warden she knows would do.

  ‘Yes. And I was right to, too.’ He makes a face. ‘I now know which dishes to avoid.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Mallory responds, ‘we’re going to attempt to bug a New York nightclub with something you’ve only previously tested on your school cafeteria?’

  ‘Well, no one found it in all the three months it was there,’ he replies. Mallory gives him a look that she hopes reflects how little that reassures her. ‘It’ll stand up to a lot more than that,’ he insists. ‘No one will be able to trace it.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He holds her gaze.

  It’s Warden. Warden knows what he’s doing.

  ‘Okay, then,’ she agrees. ‘So, I was thinking about possible ins. I hacked the club’s blueprints from the Department of Buildings – ’

  ‘’Course you did.’ His smile is suddenly back like it hadn’t ever gone and, even amongst all the anxious energy, Mallory feels that stupid urge to return it again. She bites her lip instead.

  ‘I had a look,’ she says, ‘and, if it seems okay once we’re there, I think there might be a way we can get you to their server with no one seeing…’

  Into the Labyrinth

  ‘I can’t believe you’re bringing a paisley suitcase to a nightclub,’ Mallory says, as the wheels of Warden’s bag clunk along the sidewalk beside her. She’s found if she doesn’t quite look at him it’s easier to talk like she would online. It’s almost nine thirty and they’re walking the last block towards Labyrinth, the nightclub’s lights flashing garishly further up the street. She can already hear the thud of the bass. A different, gnawing worry is beginning to grow in the pit of her stomach, biting sharply as she sees the queue of people lining up to get in. How many more will there be inside? She shifts her gloves, feeling the reassuring fabric against her skin.

  ‘I came on a plane,’ Warden replies. ‘The flight was nearly six hours long and I had no idea what one I’d be getting back. I didn’t even know how long I’d need to be staying, just that we needed to go to the place where you-know-who disappeared and put in the you-know-what.’

  She should have thought of that before. She knew he was West Coast. Still…

  ‘It’ll stand out.’ And when they know so little about what’s going on, what they might be looking for, standing out is not a good thing.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll have a cloak room.’

  They walk to the end of the queue in silence. Mallory subconsciously brushes her hair lower over her face, pulling Jeanie’s black leather jacket tighter around her. She’d taken it from the box by the freezer in the garage before she left, and it had fitted exactly. Jeanie had used to wear it over her uniform on cold nights when she was on patrol. Mallory had brought it with her because judging by the club’s website pictures, it mainly catered for techno-loving goths. She’d put heavy eye makeup on in the diner’s restroom before they left. She doesn’t usually wear it, hates the feel of it – sticky and thick whenever she moves her face – but it at least makes her look less like her usual self, like someone who might actually go here. Which is why the suitcase isn’t so damn unhelpful.

  ‘I feel like a wally,’ Warden mutters. ‘Sunglasses when it’s not sunny.’ She’d brought them for herself, but made him wear them for the same reason she’s in makeup. ‘I mean, who does that? I look like a – ’

  ‘Just shut the hell up,’ Mallory snaps, nerves making it come out harder than it should. The girl in front of them glances behind her, studded eyebrow raised in obvious appraisal. Warden smiles uneasily.

  ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Nice evening.’ The woman turns back without a word, and Mallory steps, quite deliberately, on his sneaker.

  ‘What?’ he mouths, scratching at his new black beanie hat, just purchased from the street seller outside the diner. He didn’t like wearing it without it having been washed, but she had insisted, again; partly because he looked so damn cold, partly because sunglasses weren’t enough to hide the fact he was wearing a sweater vest to a nightclub.

  Oh crap.

  They’re going to stand out a mile. More people join the queue behind them and Mallory feels a sweep of nausea. She takes a deep breath.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Warden asks.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, making herself step closer to the club as the queue moves forward.

  You’re okay, she thinks.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he says beside her. He nods encouragingly, even though she just yelled at him, and she suddenly feels very glad to have him there, ridiculous suitcase and all.

  It takes them ten minutes to reach the end of the queue. There are two bouncers on the door, both well over six foot and with arm muscles bigger than Warden’s head.

  ‘IDs,’ one of them grunts. He’s dressed in black, the word SECURITY written across the front of what Mallory realizes is a stab vest. His neck is completely covered in tattoos and a vicious looking spike is poking out of his chin. She tries not to stare at it as Warden hands over his card. The bouncer’s brow furrows into hedgerows, like he doesn’t quite believe the age. Warden lifts the sunglasses and smiles awkwardly, matching the picture. The smile falters as the bouncer’s gaze bores into him, but then the man hands back the card and nods him past.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Warden says. ‘Thank you.’ Mallory squirms.

  He’s faster okaying her ID. Maybe the makeup makes her look older. The second bouncer is checking bags, already unzipping Warden’s suitcase as he hovers beside it, looking like there’s nothing he would want less than this man going through his things. The lid flips open, revealing the most painfully neat packing Mallory’s ever seen. Even the underwear is folded. Unperturbed, the bouncer’s clumsy hands rifle through the contents, dislodging the perfect lines.

  ‘You’re touching my underwear,’ says Warden, appearing genuinely disturbed in a way that clearly shows no one touches his underwear. The bouncer gives him a look.

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Jake,’ Mallory mutters, mirroring it.

  The man hands back the suitcase, leaving Warden to zip it back up as he moves on to the satchel, and then Mallory’s backpack. Finally, he waves them through, telling Warden he’ll have to leave the suitcase in the cloakroom down the hall. They nod and hurry past, Warden somewhat reluctantly then depositing the case and parka in exchange for a cardboard tag. He keeps his satchel, though, and Mallory her backpack, and they carry on down the corridor.

  ‘Did you see the way they looked at me?’ Warden says. ‘You could tell they thought I looked stupid. The sunglasses l
ooked stupid.’ He goes to take them off, but Mallory stops him, her hand stalling just before it touches his. He notices.

  ‘Fricking keep them on.’ She jerks her hand back, pulling up the hood of her jacket. The music they could hear from the street is getting oppressively louder the further they go. Her insides roil with apprehension.

  You’re okay, you’re okay…

  The walls look like they were once purple, but sections of the plaster have chipped away and the paint is now discolored with patches of mold and darker stains Mallory seriously tries to avoid, shrinking her arms in against her body. Her boots are sticking to the floor, peeling off with each step. They reach a pair of double doors at the end.

  You’re okay.

  She pushes them open and steps through.

  She freezes.

  The assault on her senses is overwhelming. Labyrinth is huge, like the original main warehouse space has just been gutted, but it’s already packed and heaving with dark-clad people, pierced faces everywhere. The room is filled with platforms on different levels and a huge balcony overhangs the bar on the distant back wall beyond a sea of dancing bodies. Everything is black and red, or silver metal. The lights are flashing like they’re trying to give somebody a fit and the bass reverberates through Mallory’s skull with each thudding pulse.

  ‘Do not touch anything!’ Warden yells beside her, voice several tones higher than before. ‘We’re going to get tetanus. That man had more tattoos than face!’

  Mallory doesn’t answer. There are so many people, so many… Someone knocks into her and she shudders with alarm, the touch sending rivulets of shock shooting through her. She tries to back away, but new people are pushing them further in. There are people everywhere.

  ‘ – all right?’

  ‘What?’ She looks back at Warden beside her. She can barely hear him above the noise. He sticks his thumbs up, face questioning. Mallory nods, forcing her feet to move further into the club. They have to keep going. She tries to concentrate, tries to remember what their plan was… but all she can think of is the people around her, so many – too many – and the pounding of her heart in her ears, almost as loud as the music, and far too fast…