No Hero

by Jonathan Wood

Well... actually, she’d probably be more impressed if I demonstrated competence at ironing. But...

  Bollocks to it. This is exciting. Even if I do have to work with a terrifyingly psychotic woman who seems more likely to stab me than to actually support me in my attempt to... Jesus... to save her kids.

  Jesus.

  I’m actually pleased with how together I think I managed to seem at MI37’s headquarters considering how freaked I was, and I was planning to freak out significantly more at home but Shaw has given me two little off-white pills saying they’d help with healing, and five minutes after I take them everything goes fuzzy and it’s sort of fun to say, “Agent Wallace, Agent Wallace, Agent Wallace,” over and over in my head, and then the curtains seem to come down rather hard and—

  THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER

  A knock on the door wakes me. I manage to unglue my face from the couch cushion I’ve been drooling on and stagger to my door to find the bloke in fatigues from outside the book room standing there. He’s left his machine gun behind, though, and he’s nice enough to let me shower and collect my somewhat scattered thoughts. I’m toweling off before I realize that I can breathe again, that I’ve only got a tiny scar on my chest instead of a great bloody sword-inflicted wound. I am healthy and whole.

  Honestly, I think Shaw should give up the MI37 thing and take over National Health.

  Anyway, then it’s off through the tortuous streets of Oxford in a miniature Fiat, through three hundred different security locks, and I finally end up in empty corridors deep underground being marched to my first briefing. It’s bloody brilliant.

  “We don’t feckin’ need him.”

  Kayla’s Scottish brogue is sharp enough to puncture my good mood. I hear her speaking around a corner, out of sight. I put my hand on my chaperone’s shoulder. I don’t particularly want to hear this, but I’d rather not confront Kayla before my first big meeting. Urine stains tend to make bad impressions.

  “It’s not your decision, Kayla.” Shaw’s tone is placatory but firm.

  “They’re my girls.”

  “We all want the best for them.”

  “And he’s the best?”

  Ouch. But the problem is that, somewhere in the back of my head, there is a gnawing fear that Shaw is clearly two sandwiches shy of a picnic if she thinks I can help her out in any way at all.

  “He’s the best I can do.”

  Well that’s all my fears allayed... Oh wait.

  “We don’t need him,” Kayla states.

  “We need someone.”

  I’m half tempted to just turn and hoof it there. Except that’s not what Kurt Russell would do, is it? And, anyway, that seems to have been enough to silence Kayla. There’s the sound of a door opening and then closing. Then nothing. After a moment I touch the shoulder of the bloke in fatigues.

  “Onwards then,” I say.

  He gives me an awkward half smile. A pity smile. But we go on. And then there’s the door to conference room B, and my chaperone knocks, and I am delivered.

  “Good luck, mate,” he says. But I’m starting to worry if it might be too late for that.

  Shaw opens the door.

  “Agent Wallace,” she says. She checks her watch. “You’re a touch late.”

  Suddenly being Agent Wallace seems a lot like being myself at age twelve knocking on Mrs. Watton’s classroom door for the first time. Still, Shaw stands aside, whereas Mrs. Watton gave me and the class a five-minute lecture on the evils of tardiness, complete with references to Satan, unwholesome thoughts, and potential blindness. Odd woman, actually, Mrs. Watton

  Conference room B is as plain and functional as any room back at the police station. There’s a couple of tables shoved together, a few office chairs scattered about, an over-sized whiteboard. I had sort of hoped for images of pentagrams and hieroglyphics, or runes and scientific equations, or possibly just the rough sketch of some hideous monster from the outer limits of space, but instead there’s just the usual mess of half-erased lines that seem to appear whenever a whiteboard is exposed to the air for over six seconds.

  I’d expected a veritable host of people to meet, and palms to press. Even the smallest murder case warrants a team of at least a few police officers. The end of the world would seem to require fifty or more. But there are just three others sitting around the conference table.

  Kayla is there, looking broody and murderous. I can’t see her sword but her red flannel shirt is baggy enough to conceal multiple death-dealing instruments. I look for the seat furthest from her.

  The best bet seems to be a chair next to a tall, skinny, collegiate-looking chap with a scruffy beard. He wears thick, black-rimmed glasses and a welcoming smile.

  “Clyde,” he tells me as I sit down, and pumps my hand vigorously. Nice chap, I suspect. “And this is Tabby.” He indicates the girl sitting opposite him.

  She’s young, mousy, and I think Pakistani, though her skin is mostly hidden behind tattoos. Text scrawls its way up one arm and something like ivy pokes out from a thick sleeve that coats the other. Her nose is pierced once, her lip twice, I lose count checking out her ears. White streaks through her dark hair build to a checkerboard pattern around the base.

  She places a foot, clad in a platform Doc Marten, on the table and informs me, “It’s Tabitha.”

  Probably also lovely. Probably not nearly as terrifying as Kayla. Probably everything’s going to be fine. Probably

  I wipe sweat from my palms and smile around the room. I try to make it seem like I’m jolly and at ease. Not sure how well that goes.

  Shaw takes a seat opposite me and consults her watch again. “We’re behind,” she says. There’s a quick glance at Kayla and me. The offenders, I guess. I try to look contrite, but I don’t think Kayla bothers.

  “I’d hoped we could do some formal introductions,” Shaw continues, “but Clyde, you and Agent Wallace here have face-to-face with the Sheilas in just under sixty, and you know what the traffic is like.” She doesn’t bother looking at us for confirmation. Not exactly a democracy here. Still, bold leadership, and all that.

  Probably fine.

  “You’ll be consulting them on a pronouncement Ophelia delivered at oh-seven-thirty-six this morning.” She flicks through some notes lying on the table, pulls out one sheet of paper. “Beware the painted man’s false promises until he shows his second face.”

  I grab my notepad from my jacket pocket and jot the words down. No one else bothers. The new-kid-at-school vibe intensifies.

  Probably all Oxbridge geniuses with photographic memories or some such.

  My palms are starting to sweat again so instead I look at the words I just wrote down. It looks like gibberish and I’m worried I’m no longer able to parse sentences properly Excitement and nerves have the better of me and I’m making a hash of everything.

  Probably going to doom the world to being consumed by giant soul-sucking aliens or some such.

  Probably.

  Shaw is still speaking. “Agent Wallace,” she says, “as you have some experience directing a team, I’ll let you take the lead on the Sheila conversation.”

  Wait. On my first day I’ll be doing what?

  But Shaw has already moved on. “Tabitha,” she continues, “if you’d do us the kindness of researching painted men, especially prophetic ones. Maybe start with Native American mythology, see if there’s anything there. Kayla, you’re going to be sitting the early rounds out—”

  Kayla grates her teeth like someone mashing the gears in a sports car.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Kayla says nothing. I have to learn how Shaw renders her so passive.

  “All right, people.” Shaw gives us all a tight little nod and a tight little smile. She looks at her watch again. She looks up and catches me looking at her. I think she reads the tremors of panic in my expression because for a moment her smile softens, broadens. Then the moment passes and she looks around the room. “Let’s get moving,” she says and seems to be ou
t the door before I blink.

  And with that we’ve started.

  Bloody hell.

  “This way,” Clyde says with more gusto than I think I could manage even on a good day and suddenly we’re whisking our way down a myriad of corridors, pushing through doors and security points. I tag along as best I can, feeling like flotsam caught in a wake.

  Eventually we reach a moment of stasis, waiting for an elevator to take us up. “So,” I manage to say into the toe-tapping silence, “who are the Sheilas then?”

  Clyde turns, a look of sudden horror on his face. For a moment I wonder if he’s foreign and I’ve somehow stumbled across a colloquialism that means I’ve slept with his mother.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he says, so contrite that I’m forced to wonder if the colloquialism is reversed, that I’ve accused him of sleeping with my mother.

  “Why?” I ask, because what I’m thinking can’t possibly be right.

  “I can’t believe I...” He shakes his head, touches his pants pockets then his breast pocket, as if checking he is completely together. “Director Shaw, you know. She’s all business, and I get caught up in that, so then I’m all business, all go, go, go, and it completely flies out of my melon that you might not have a clue what we’re doing. Totally discombobulating.” He stares off into space for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face. “Is combobulate a word?”

  This last question is a bit of a blow out of left field. It leaves me a little dazed and I eventually manage, “Is that important?”

  “Probably not. No, no. Well...” Clyde stares into the middle distance. “You know. Never sure if these things might crop up in conversation at a later date. Might prove crucial one day. Never see it coming. Your whole life hanging on the knowledge of whether combobulate is a real word or not. Like The Seventh Seal, just with Scrabble or something. But not relevant now, no. Sorry about that.” He shakes his head. “Gone and done it again.”

  I just stare. Despite having not actually talked about the Sheilas I’ve somehow become more confused about them. Clyde is shaking his head. “You ask me about the Sheilas and I go wandering up the garden path, on about classic Swedish cinema. Which, while noble and sparse enough to be noteworthy doesn’t... doing it again. Not explaining. Sorry. Will focus.” He taps his head. “The Sheilas. Three women. All called Sheila. Sheila, Sheila, and, well, Sheila.”

  Somehow I had imagined something a little more impressive, especially after all that. “Oh,” I manage.

  “Bit disappointing,” says Clyde. “I can see that. Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Which in retrospect is a bit of an obvious thing to say. Clyde has me off my step still. Nice man, but... a lot of noise to the signal.

  Eventually we make it to a garage where it turns out Clyde drives a Mini that neither of us really fit in. Still, it’s a classic vehicle and seems to accommodate Clyde’s personality if not his form. We fold into it as best we can and he dials us into classical music, which also seems fitting until “Ride of the Valkyries” begins to accompany our inching crawl down St. George’s Street.

  We ride along mutely for a while, Wagner smashing his way through crescendos and chords, while I try to think of something to say. Clyde seems equally dumbstruck and all we manage for a while is the occasional friendly grin, which somehow only makes things more awkward.

  Finally I open my mouth with a last ditch, “The book’s something, isn’t it?”

  He nods. “Rather messes with your head, doesn’t it?”

  We pause.

  “That it does,” I say into the conversational breach, which is a pretty pathetic save. I am vaguely aware I should be trying to live up to Shaw’s dictum, that I should be leading our little duo. Except I don’t know how to. I don’t know which questions I need to ask in order to find out more.

  “Did you get to the bit about the Dreamers?” Clyde interrupts my thoughts.

  “The Dreamers?” I think. “I did the Feeders. Nothing about...” Then the implications of his statement dawn on me. “You mean there’s more of it?” The idea of going back in that room makes me shudder.

  “Oh yes. It’s got about eighteen chapters.” He fiddles with the stereo. “I’ve only read two. I think Shaw’s made it through about three and seven as well. She’s made of pretty stern stuff, though.”

  “And the Dreamers—they’re related to the Sheilas?” I’m trying to tie this all together, get the big picture. Because once I get that, I can get back to minutia, to my comfort zone.

  Clyde laughs. “Oh no. Sorry. Misleading. Just... no. The book.” He changes the radio station. “Shaw told you about the whole composite reality thing, right? What we perceive being made up of multiple realities.”

  “Composite reality. None involving the Feeders. Some involving the Progeny.” I recall the lesson.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Clyde nods eagerly. “Well, the thing holding all the realities we perceive together is the Dreamers. They create the composite.”

  I know it’s not Clyde’s fault, and he really is a nice fellow, and he’s trying to help, but it does feel like my head is being done in. I rub my temples.

  “People?” I manage, trying to get the facts straight. “That’s what holds reality together?”

  “Probably not actual, real people. Reported to look like us, yes. Well not you and me, but, well, people. In the reports that there are. Not that many of them, you know. Sparse on the ground. Like four-leaf clovers. Well... never seen one of those. But haven’t spent as much time looking for one as I have for accounts of the Dreamers, so maybe that’s a persistency thing. Probably says something about luck, that. The more time you put in... But, anyway, they’re a cagey lot, the Dreamers. Usually exist on some of the less probable realities apparently. Don’t come our way. Sort of opposite of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Except without the religion. Suppose that means they’re not really opposites, actually. Maybe Satanists are the opposite of Jehovah’s Witnesses. They tend to keep to themselves too. At least I assume they do.”

  “Did you say,” I thumb through the mental mélange Clyde has summoned, “that the Dreamers exist on the less probable realities?”

  “Did I?” Clyde hunches one shoulder; seems to cogitate on it. “Probably did, yes. You see, the problem with having more than one reality is that sometimes, well maybe often, I don’t know, but sometimes they disagree. Opposite things happening in the same place. So the Dreamers pick which reality is more probable and we see that. That’s how the composite can act like one reality, you see. Something happens on one reality, it happens on pretty much all the realities. Except in a few improbable background layers we don’t see.”

  I take a moment. The Dreamers: holding reality together, hiding in the creases. It all sounds a little fragile.

  Actually, sod fragile. Dreamers? Progeny? Feeders? It sounds bloody Lovecraftian. Any minute now my sanity is going to give way and I’m going to wake up in some New England mental asylum gibbering about unspeakable horrors and complaining about rats in the walls.

  “What if they die?” I ask. “What if someone kills them?”

  “Well, killing them isn’t exactly the easiest thing for someone to do,” says Clyde. He has a slightly professorial tone. He seems to relax in a way he hasn’t done so before. The doling out of information seems to suit him. I wonder how much action there is in this job. Maybe not as much as Shaw made it sound. Maybe Kayla does all the action stuff.

  Part of me is relieved at the thought. Part of me is rather sad.

  “If anyone tries to get close to the Dreamers,” Clyde is saying, “the realities they’re on are just removed from the compound.”

  “Oh,” I say “OK.” I wonder when I’ll find out something that is more exciting than it is intimidating.

  We drive on and it turns out the Sheilas live in Summertown, one of the less picturesque parts of Oxford. After the dreaming spires, it seems a rather drab setting for intergalactic revelations but beggars can’t be choosers on
this sort of stuff, I imagine. Still, it’s a little tricky to sustain my sense of wonder as we mount the stairs to an apartment perched above a chain grocery store.

  At the top of the stairs is a door painted a rather alarming shade of deep pink. Clyde knocks on it.

  “It’s open,” calls a chorus of voices.

  I let Clyde lead. I know Shaw said I’m meant to be in charge on this one, but letting the established contact take point here is a good dodge until I get my feet under me a bit more.

  The door opens onto a tiny hallway—really just a four-by-four, square space separated from the rest of the apartment by a dividing wall. The pink theme continues beyond the hallway, with a Day-Glo pink print of the Mona Lisa on the living-room wall, and a shocking pink bookshelf squeezed underneath it. The TV is on and a man with hair so perfect it looks almost laminated is discussing crumb cake. On a pink couch perch the Sheilas.

  There are, as Clyde mentioned, three of them. Except... well... I’m pretty sure there’s a politically correct term for it but at this exact moment it escapes me. Probably because I’m too busy counting. And yes, yes there are definitely three heads. Identical heads, actually. Same one three times. Triplets. That term I have. And yes, there are six legs. And six arms. Six hands. Six feet. But, and this stays a sticking point no matter how many times I go back to it, there is just the one body.

  Siamese triplets? Is that the term? It doesn’t sound like it should be in this day and age.

  They’re all wearing the same T-shirt of a multi-headed Indian god, Brahma I think... Well, I mean, of course they’re wearing the same T-shirt, they have one torso... but it’s really the same T-shirt three times, sewn together somehow. The same deity staring out at me again, again, again. Three pairs of jeans handled in the same manner— one seat with six legs. From their faces—smooth-skinned and fresh—I’d put them in their twenties. They all have the same asymmetrical haircut, bangs slanting down across their foreheads. The one on the left is placing a bookmark in a copy of Macbeth. The middle one slurps ramen noodles from a plastic pot. The rightmost Sheila is the one watching TV. She uses the remote to mute it, but doesn’t turn it off.