No Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  Except that punch... It occurs to me that, in fact, my only reason for believing Kayla’s not infested with duplicitous mind worms is that Shaw says she isn’t. And what reason do I have to trust Shaw? What if Shaw is infected too? Both of them, sabotaging the efforts of MI37 from within. Which, yes, I am willing to admit, is a little paranoid. But there are mind worms, damn it. A little paranoia might not be amiss.

  And all this is weighing on me a little bit, and I’m not really in the mood when the doorbell chimes. But then it occurs to me that it will probably be a Jehovah’s Witness or something and seeing someone even more pathetic than me might cheer me up a bit.

  “Sorry, not today,” I say, opening up the door. But actually it’s Swann standing there which catches me off guard, so I say, “Actually, yes, today.” Which is both not funny and reminiscent of a bad pick-up line. But it’s still Swann, which is a little cheering.

  “Boss,” she says, “with all respect, you’re one stupid bastard.”

  Not how this scenario had played out in my head, I have to admit.

  “What is it, Swann?” I sound tired and impatient, which I suppose I am, but I wish I didn’t sound it.

  “Oh, come on, Boss.” Swann rolls her eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t deserve that. You burst a lung because someone actually stabbed you with an actual sword, like a real actual sword, and then you check yourself out of hospital without telling anyone, go completely missing, and worry everyone half to death—you’re a stupid bastard. It’s obvious.”

  Not the finest example of her detective skills, but I’ve got to say she makes a convincing argument.

  “Good to see you too,” I say. She smiles at that.

  “You look a bit rough, Boss,” she says. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

  And while I’d rather she point out that I look rugged and handsome, I say, “No, I don’t mind.” I smile. She doesn’t.

  “Look, Boss,” she says, “when an injured copper goes missing then your co-workers may get a tad worried about the whole thing. Wonder what you’ve been up to.”

  If I was cooler, I would say something disingenuous about not knowing she cared, but as it is I just sort of shuffle my feet the way I did when Shaw had me on the spot. “Well, you know,” I say, “the whole stupid bastard thing got in the way.”

  “Seriously, Boss.” Swann looks momentarily anxious, a brief moment of vulnerability I haven’t seen before. “What happened to you? The superintendent is going around bitching about some government letter saying you’ve been co-opted, which no one seems to be able to prove is a fake, but it stinks so bad of bullshit he’s leaving his office windows open. And now here I am and you look like a car hit you. What’s going on?”

  “Well...” I say. And how do I answer that? How do I lie to her face after she’s come here to check up on me? Above and beyond the call of duty on her part that is. But I can’t tell the truth. I like the way she doesn’t think I’m insane, or a pathological liar. “Good news is,” I say, “that actually the car missed me.”

  “What?”

  “Look, do you want to come in?” I ask. The question feels loaded in a way it shouldn’t. I’m just asking a coworker in. Just trying to make a long story short. That’s all.

  “Sure,” she says.

  So she comes in and takes a beer, and examines my CDs, and asks me who Miles Davis is, which breaks my heart a little, and finally finds a seat, and makes herself comfortable.

  “So.” She takes a swig. “This is the bit where you tell me everything and put my mind at ease, right?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. Not at all. “It’s complicated,” I say.

  She stands there, one eyebrow up. Wish I could do that.

  “Look...” I say.

  Still the lone eyebrow mocks me. And I have no point to make. I have nothing for her to look at. I sit down on the couch, which makes a sad little groan that sounds like disappointment.

  “I want to be honest with you,” I say. “You deserve that.” And it is and she does. “But the honest thing is I don’t know what I can tell you. What I’m allowed to tell you. You understand?”

  The eyebrow climbs back down. The other one goes up instead. “Well,” she says, “I mean, yes, I understand the sentence. All the right words in all the right places. But, you know, I come here because half the bloody force is worried about you, and now you’re not going to tell me shit? And, look, I realize that, well... you know... you’re the boss. But, I mean... I was bloody there. When you were stabbed. I was there. When we almost had her. I was there. I’m involved.”

  God, I wish I could tell her. Just to ground myself. Tell someone I trust what the hell is going on. Someone who isn’t part of the madness that my life has become. But how can I tell her that there are alien mind worms, and other aliens the size of Texas coming to eat us? How can I tell her I know a chap who can access other realities by sticking batteries in his mouth?

  The silence stretches between us. I see that sad look again.

  I can’t. I can’t tell her.

  “Fine then,” she says abruptly. She stands. “If that’s how you bloody want it.”

  “Swann,” I say. Then, “Alison.” I don’t think I’ve ever used her first name before. She turns, some mix of hope and sadness and anger there.

  “I want to tell you,” I say. “I honestly do. But...” I trail off.

  “But, what?” It looks like anger is winning out, eclipsing other emotions.

  “But it would be really selfish.”

  She stands there for a moment, unreadable. And it sucks because she’s as good a person as she is a cop, and it sucks when you realize someone’s a friend just when you lose them.

  Swann stoops, picks up the half-empty bottle of beer she left on the countertop and takes a swig.

  “Fine,” she says. And she sounds like she means it. Like things really are fine.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t push it,” she says. “I’m not going to feel sorry for you.” She takes another sip. “Stupid bastard.”

  It’s OK after that. Maybe “fine” would be pushing it, but there’s an understanding. We make small talk. We smile at the right moments. She doesn’t stay for a second beer, though. Of course she doesn’t. But it would have been nice if she did.

  “Guess you won’t be in the office tomorrow either, will you?” she says as she stands in the doorway.

  “Don’t think so,” I say.

  “You going to take care of yourself?” She pushes hair back from her eyes.

  “Yes,” I say, and I even smile reassuringly as I lie to her.

  11

  THE NEXT DAY

  Clyde is like a child in a candy store. He runs his fingers over the spines of books, tracing our route through the Bodleian Library’s stacks.

  “It’s a genuine copyright library,” he says. “A copy of nearly every book in the world.” He turns round in a circle, a smile on his face. “You can almost feel it.”

  I know everything he’s telling me—which is a nice change—but I don’t mind him repeating the information. Pretty much anything delivered with this much enthusiasm would be a nice pick-me-up.

  The place itself feels dark, musty, and rarely visited. The librarians at the front desk seemed to know Clyde— they only gave his credentials a cursory inspection before letting us back here. I saw one student staring at us with obvious envy as we walked through the “Staff Only” doors. This is hallowed ground for the serious bibliophile.

  “Just a little further,” says Clyde as we make another tight turn between the encroaching bookshelves. “He’s normally somewhere back here.”

  Clyde has been unusually coy about who we’re seeing this morning. Seems to be the morning for surprises.

  AN HOUR EARLIER

  “Agent Wallace is right,” Shaw says.

  The complete absence of precedence for this statement causes my mouth to hinge open. I glance left and right around the room to see if other peop
le have heard this. They all look as astonished as I do. Which, while it confirms that I’m not suffering from auditory hallucinations, is not quite as reassuring as I’d hoped.

  “We need to work on our teamwork,” she continues. “We need to work on people being able to fill dual roles. We need to work on team redundancy. We also—” and this with a quick, not-quite-nervous glance “—need to work on being less reliant on Kayla.

  “We are going to try to decrease Kayla’s involvement in subsequent operations until such a time as the team can operate more successfully independently. Once that is achieved she will once more be integrated into full team membership.”

  Kayla doesn’t say anything but I can almost feel the temperature dropping from that end of the table. Tabitha isn’t looking at anyone either. Clyde, though, smiles and gives me a surreptitious thumbs up.

  Personally, I’m a little blown away. I had even considered having a quiet word with Shaw about whether she’s really sure I’m the man for the job. I mean, yes, I care about the end of the world, but Tabitha’s accusation kept on playing on the mental soundtrack all night. Because what did I really contribute? Even if it hadn’t been my first day, what could I have contributed?

  And now, out of nowhere, Shaw has my back. Apparently I have contributed something. Though it does seem to be something that pisses half the team off something awful.

  Maybe fifty percent isn’t bad...

  “So,” Shaw says, “with that understanding, let us proceed.” She pulls out a folder, extracts some notes. “Now,” she continues, “we know from the Twins and the Sheilas not to trust the words of a tattooed man until he shows his second face. From yesterday’s debriefing I understand we had a tattooed man who changed his face. So, what did he say?”

  “Did he say something?” Clyde asks. “I don’t remember him saying anything.”

  “Yeah.” Tabitha nods, unexpectedly breaking her moody silence. It strikes me that I really have no idea if the mood was genuine or just posturing. Maybe Clyde’s right about her not hating me. “Said he’d sketched the picture. Drawn the tattoo himself.”

  “Which was a lie,” Shaw says.

  “Pretty bloody obvious,” Tabitha said. “Bollocks clue.” She looks over to Kayla. “No disrespect to the Twins.”

  Kayla doesn’t reply.

  “So where did he get it from?” I ask.

  Tabitha finally looks at me. “What?”

  “Well,” I say, feeling like I just flunked occult research 101, “if he didn’t draw the tattoo himself, he must have copied it from somewhere, right? I just was wondering where?”

  “Well, I mean, I’d guess, probably a book from the Bodleian,” Clyde says. “I mean... You see... Usually...”

  “Tabitha,” Shaw says, riding over Clyde’s sputtering, “access our student’s library records.”

  Tabitha pulls out her laptop and within two minutes has managed to violate everything I was ever taught about computer security. If I get back to the police force, I’ll have to talk to the chief about questioning the usefulness of corporate-sponsored training seminars.

  “History stuff mostly. Primary sources. Usual crap. Plus,” she pauses, runs a finger over the screen, “Thaumaturgic Practices in Milton Keynes.” She raises her eyebrows. “Shit you not. Wish I did, but I don’t.”

  Clyde must see my befuddlement because I don’t think anyone else learns much when he says, “Thaumaturgy— big fancy word for magic.”

  I flash him a smile. My first of the day. And I think maybe I’ll give the whole thing one more day.

  “Clyde, Agent Wallace,” Shaw says, “I want you two to head to the Bodleian. Find out what you can.”

  I don’t think Clyde could have looked happier if he’d plugged his nipples into the mains.

  NOW

  Clyde peers down one aisle, then another, another. We’re not getting anywhere particularly fast, but I appreciate the change of pace.

  Still, something is bothering me, and in the Bodleian’s musty recesses it seems safe enough to voice the concern. “Clyde?” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “There are aliens out to destroy the world, right? The whole universe, et cetera.”

  “Unfortunately I’m going to have to go with the affirmative on that one, old chap.”

  “And we’re funded by the British government, who I imagine do not want their nation, nor any other nations, to be consumed by hideous aliens from outside reality, right?”

  “Again, a thumbs up for accuracy.”

  I nod. Something doesn’t add up. “Well, then,” I say, “where is everybody then?”

  Clyde stops peering down rows of books and peers at me. “Ah,” he says.

  “I mean,” I say, “if the world was on the verge of destruction, I’d imagine we’d be throwing a few more people at the problem.”

  “Yes, about that.” Clyde shrugs a couple of times, I think to calm himself. “Bit of an old lacunae in the orientation there, that. Intentional on Shaw’s part I’d guess. Not malicious of course. Far from it. Lovely lady underneath, I suspect. Just doesn’t like talking about the matter. Which is totally understandable of course. Prickly subject and all.” He trails off.

  “What is?” I prompt.

  “Oh yes, sorry. Going on about lacunae and then leave a great gaping hole in the story myself.” Another shrug. “They’re shutting us down.”

  “Wait.” This requires a moment. “Who? Why?”

  “The government. See... well, when MI37 was set up—”

  “Back in the thirties,” I say, remembering Shaw’s story about the Everest expedition.

  “Yes.” Clyde nods. “Well everyone was mad for the magical and spiritual and occult back then. Very keen. And what with Hitler and the whole occult thing in World War Two, we had about a hundred or so agents in the forties. And then there was the magical arms race in the seventies and eighties. But that all ended horribly and really no one felt like they’d really got anything out of it. At least nothing like nukes, which is really what they were after. Everybody obsessed with destroying the world several times over. Crazy days, or so I’m told. Not quite my era.

  “Anyway, after the eighties the whole magical, alien, MI37 thing ended up rather out of favor. And folk go on about the Progeny and the Feeders, except the Progeny have been here for decades and don’t ever seem to interfere with the sort of stuff governments care about—national security, international finances, that sort of thing. And I think they’ve been pretty much written off as a credible threat. So instead of a hundred agents, right now, with you, we’ve got four.”

  I stare at him. I try to comprehend. There are aliens trying to destroy the world, and no one cares? Because it doesn’t affect the GDP?

  “What the hell?” I splutter.

  Clyde retreats into his shoulders. “Turns out we’re both a bit late on the scene, old chap,” he says. “The old guard’s gone. All the people who’ve seen what we’ve seen. They’re retired. Reassigned. No one in government comes to read the book. They don’t see the Progeny. They don’t really know. So we just rattle around in the old space. Alone and forlorn. Except, well, not forlorn, because, well, despite it all, I quite like my job.”

  “We have to get them to come down and see,” I say This is a travesty of justice. “We have to force them.”

  “Shaw tries,” he says. “She’s always trying.”

  I shake my head. I feel like reality just slapped me a bit. Four of us against the end of the world.

  “But we keep on fighting, don’t we?” says Clyde. He gives me a little smile. “What else can you do?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know. Because there isn’t anything else to do. You just fight. Good old-fashioned Kurt Russell man alone stuff. But that doesn’t seem such a good thing when it’s me playing the role of action hero.

  “Come on.” Clyde gives me a pat on the back. “Let’s go find what we’re looking for.”

  I trail after him as he resumes looking down corr
idors of books. I’m genuinely gobsmacked. I can’t believe they’re killing the MI37 budget. I am so totally voting for the other guys next time the elections come up.

  “No,” Clyde is muttering. “No.” Then, “Quicker way to do this.” He pulls out a flat silver battery and pops it into his mouth.

  “Arcum locium met morum um satum Winston.”

  “Winston?” I ask. Because it genuinely did sound like he said that, but that sounds about as magical as my arse.

  Clyde is a little too preoccupied to answer though. His head tilts back. His eyes roll back, something like static playing across the lower row of eyelashes.

  I take a step backwards. Whatever just happened it doesn’t look like it went right. I wish I had my baton with me. Instead, I heave something substantial-looking off one of the bookshelves, and wield it above my head.

  Clyde opens his mouth. A shuddering groan creaks out. Then, the groan mutates, becomes words.

  “Of all the spells I ever cast,” Clyde croaks, “this one stings the worst.”

  He’s up on his tiptoes now, and suddenly his body jerks forward, like someone is reeling him in, a rope tied around his midriff. I stuff the book back on the shelf and follow. He jostles and bumps down a long corridor until we’re deep in shadows and the faint smell of mildew permeates the air.

  Clyde points a hand down one row of the stacks.

  “This one,” he croaks. The sound makes me cringe. It’s like someone’s down in his throat, working on it with sandpaper.

  I follow his hand and peer into the narrow corridor of books. It’s been blocked off halfway down by a wooden bookcase. The bookcase’s shelves are as stuffed as anything else here, but still it seems out of place, somehow. And there’s furniture here too, I realize now, but each piece made from piles of hardbacks, paperbacks, loose-leaf documents. A bedsheet has been spread over a pile of them at the base of the bookshelf. A stack of atlases makes something like a bedside table. There’s an anglepoise lamp wedged there and a glass of water. And a plastic container of rice and gyro meat.