No Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  But, childhood discarded, now I know.

  Magic sucks.

  I’m in bloody agony. These are not my limbs. This is not my shape. It’s as if my body has been crammed into a shell it doesn’t fit. I’m pressed up against the limits of new skin while my body screams to be free.

  Clyde tells me it’ll get better soon.

  I would love to say that I accept this news with affable good humor, but in the heat of the moment I tell him to shove his magic bloody wand where the sun doesn’t shine. Not one of my finer moments, truth be told.

  Clyde, thankfully, is the bigger man. Literally now, it transpires. He smiles, tells me not to let go of the D battery he’s given me and then leads me by the elbow out of the broom closet and back into the conference. And he’s right; it does get a bit better.

  I apologize, and, knowing the lay of the land this time, finding Olsted goes quicker. Spotting his two buffalo-size security guards is easy enough anyway. I mentally dub them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

  Olsted’s leathery face becomes momentarily more scrotum-like as we approach, though after a moment I realize he’s actually attempting to smile.

  “Mr. Olsted,” I say, taking the lead as we approach. I attempt my own smile but I’m not totally used to these new muscles so I’m not sure I’m any more successful than he was.

  “Mr. Olsted is busy,” says Tweedledum, which is an obvious lie, but I’m guessing from the size of his fists that he’s the sort of man who doesn’t have to worry about such trivial things as factual accuracy.

  “It’s about your daughter, Mr. Olsted,” I say with the same teeth-grinding smile.

  Tweedledee balls his fists.

  Olsted lays a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Heel, Christopher.”

  Tweedledee satisfies himself with an aggressive leer.

  “I enjoyed your presentation, gentlemen,” Olsted says. “But, as ever, things seem very distant.”

  “That’s what we want to talk to you about.”

  Olsted works his jaw. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not quite hope. Something too tired for that. And is this really the bad guy? Someone just looking to save his daughter?

  “I am too old for promises of better tomorrows, gentlemen. And my money is invested in other lines of research.”

  “A Phase One trial,” Clyde snaps. The words lurch out of him. He repeats it, more quietly, “A Phase One trial.”

  “You’re years away—” Olsted starts.

  “Publically,” I say. “Yes.”

  That hangs in the air a while.

  “You have thirty seconds,” Olsted says, “before Christopher and Samuel here take you outside and break your fingers.”

  We lose three seconds in staring. Clyde at Olsted. Me at Clyde. Go, I will him. Talk. Please. Talk. Two more seconds go by without a word.

  And then Clyde talks.

  It’s almost bloody poetry. If poetry was carried out mostly in acronyms.

  It’s not perfect because he stares over Olsted’s shoulder the whole time, because he speaks in a monotone, and because he spends another five seconds trying to grab at the word “precursor.” But then thirty seconds are up and he’s still talking. He’s still going at a minute.

  Olsted holds up a hand and stops Clyde. A card appears in it. As if by magic. Comfortable David Blaine magic. I pluck the card from between his fingers.

  “Next Tuesday,” he says. “Eight p.m. My home. You can meet Ilsa then.”

  “Yes. Yes.” I am almost babbling. I want to high five Clyde. Probably would be bad form. “We’ll see you there,” I manage.

  Olsted and his goons depart and we stand there staring after them. A result. For a moment I’d feared Clyde didn’t have it in him, that I didn’t have it in me. But we did it. I turn and look at Clyde. There is panic on his face.

  “What did I just say to him?” he says. “I have no idea what I just said to him.”

  “You know what?” I smile. “It doesn’t even matter.”

  NEXT MONDAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO GO

  “So, wait a minute, Boss,” says Swann. She sips her beer but doesn’t take her eyes off me. “You, a government employee, are telling me, a police officer, about your plans to break and enter?”

  There is a chance I have said too much.

  At least I left out the bit about the aliens, and the magic, and prophetic twins living in a pool full of squid. In fact, I think the sheer amount of “saying-too-much” I am now capable of may be throwing off my sense of what it is OK to talk about.

  “There again,” says Swann, “probably a good thing you told me. You’re going to need a friend on the force to bail you out when they call the cops on you.”

  “What?” It is my general understanding that men as bad as Olsted do not call the cops when someone’s trying to expose their nefarious plans. Pools full of piranhas: yes. Police officers: no.

  “I mean, seriously, Boss,” Swann pats my hand. “Do you really think you’re going to get through the front door? I mean, you’ve already screwed up by telling me about it here and now. And this is hardly a high-pressure situation.”

  I bridle a little at this. “Look, Swann,” I say. She smiles. Apparently I don’t bridle as intimidatingly as I might wish. “For starters this is not a government employee telling a police officer, this is some bloke telling his friend about a difficult work situation.”

  “Course it is.”

  “And secondly,” I say, “yes, it was part of my plan to get past the front door.” I sag a little. Chew my lip. “You really don’t think that’ll happen?”

  “Boss,” says Swann. She has a maternal expression, which I don’t think is entirely appropriate to our relationship. “You’re a good copper. You’re a great boss. You can solve a murder like nobody’s business. I’ll give you all that. But is this cloak-and-dagger stuff really your thing? Really?”

  Balls.

  “I’d rather hoped this would be the conversation where you told me how easy this sort of thing would be and how nothing could go wrong.”

  She pats my hand again. I do have to concede that the hand patting almost makes up for the brutal beating my confidence is taking.

  “Look at it this way, Boss,” she says. “I’m sure the guy in charge will be a competent military intelligence ninja bastard, and probably won’t let you screw up too bad.” She gives me an encouraging smile.

  Oh double balls.

  TUESDAY

  I pick Clyde up from a surprisingly modern flat overlooking the canal. I’ve barely knocked when the door flies open with an exuberance that borders on the explosive. I take an instinctual step backwards but the only thing behind the door is a woman who looks about as deadly as a teddy bear.

  “Hello!” she booms as the door flies wide. “Arthur! You must be Arthur! This is fantastic!”

  She resembles a peppier, younger version of Santa Claus’s wife. All ruddy cheeks and boundless curls of brown hair. For a moment her sheer enthusiasm keeps me on my back heels, so I stand there silently collecting myself as she beams a hundred-watt smile at me, before managing, “I’m here to pick up Clyde.”

  “I know!” she shrieks. “Clyde! It’s Arthur!” she bellows without looking over her shoulder. Then out of nowhere she grabs me and hugs me. I’m enveloped in a cloud of perfume and soft flesh. Not entirely unpleasant but I do briefly worry about asphyxiation. Still, she releases me before I start to spasm. Complete escape is still beyond me though. A meaty hand on each arm, she continues to hold me close and booms, sotto voce, “Clyde never goes out for drinks with work friends.” She dazzles me with another one of her magnificent smiles.

  I think I rather like... oh bugger, what’s her name? I should know it. Clyde has mentioned it before. I know he has. It’s just the whole Clyde–Tabitha thing has seemed so palpable that the girlfriend thing didn’t seem like it could be real. But now there is nigh overwhelming physical evidence.

  I’m surprised Clyde would want to go from her to Tabitha. The
re seems to be simply so much of her... And what Tabitha has... Well, Tabitha’s very nice in her own way. But her way seems more of a hard spiky way compared to this.

  Clyde’s head suddenly appears over the woman’s shoulder. “Hello Arthur,” he says to me. “Devon, this is Arthur.”

  Devon. Her name is Devon.

  “We just met.” I smile as winningly as possible.

  “He’s lovely,” Devon bellows. Then she grabs Clyde in what is either a hug or a very complicated wrestling hold. “Not as lovely as you, of course. My glorious geek.” A very large kiss is planted on his cheek. She looks utterly enrapt.

  “Met at Cambridge, you know,” she tells me, failing to release Clyde, who can apparently hold his breath longer than I can. “Lab partners. I set him on fire with a Bunsen burner. So romantic.”

  “That sounds...” I realize I have no idea what that sounds like.

  Finally Clyde manages to disengage from the embrace and make his way from doorway to hallway. “Best be off,” he says, leaning forward to give Devon a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

  Devon grabs him in another spine-crushing hug then lets go.

  “Get wasted for me,” she booms as he backs away, then looks at me and mouths, “No,” several times.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I say. Which it is. But that’s about it for things I can think to say until Clyde and I are at the car.

  Our eyes meet as we open the doors. Clyde seems to think some sort of explanation is in order. “We met at Cambridge,” he says, still holding the door handle. He hoists his free shoulder awkwardly high. “She burned me with a Bunsen burner.” He chews his bottom lip. “Surprisingly romantic, really.” But he’s not holding my eye when he says that. Instead he hums quietly and monotonously to himself and then gets into the passenger seat.

  FIVE MINUTES BEFORE EIGHT

  I’ve been trying to ignore what Swann said for nearly twenty-four hours now, and I’m getting worse at it as time goes by. As we watch the door to Olsted’s apartment block there’s a lot of rubbing-sweaty-palms-on-thighs and avoiding-Clyde’s-eye going on.

  It’s not helping, either, that Clyde has dissolved over the course of our car journey and now seems to be in a worse state than the one I’m in. Or that I’ve got several large needles stuck into me. Or that Clyde keeps losing his concentration partway through the spell and saying the wrong things, so rather than channeling otherworldly forces he’s just electrocuting me.

  “It’s OK,” I say. “Everything’s going to be fine.” I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think that’s about the billionth time I’ve said that. It’s about as convincing as it was when I started.

  “Just think,” I supplement, “if we screw up you can throw blasts of invisible power at people using a couple of AA batteries. That’s pretty damn cool.”

  “It’s just kinetic energy,” Clyde says, not looking at me. “Not my spell. Transcribed by a chap called Elkman back in eighteen forty-five. Elkman’s Push. Just pulls kinetic energy from some reality where things are moving very fast a lot. Easier than bringing the thing through. That’s all. Just physics.”

  “It’s still pretty cool though.”

  He finally looks at me. “If I cast any spells tonight that means we’ve already screwed up, doesn’t it?”

  That one stumps me because he’s technically correct. Tabitha is listening in through the tiny earbuds; I don’t think we’re overwhelming her with confidence.

  “Just stick to the plan.” Her voice snaps in my ear. “Do what you’re meant to do. Be fine. Clyde, you’ll be fine.”

  Clyde is hyperventilating. I’m not far behind him.

  Bold. Impulsive.

  But it’s easier to be bold and impulsive when you’re up against scientists. Armed security guards require a whole new league of boldness, and I haven’t given up my amateur status yet.

  Still, we stiff upper lip it. Open the car doors, elevate our chins and march off to our dooms. The doorman checks our names and then ushers us across the lobby floor. Still, he gives us an odd look as he calls the elevator. Can’t really blame him. My kneecaps are doing the tango up and down my legs. It’s not a good look on me.

  “Steady breathing.” Tabitha barks commands at us. “Conference went well. This will go well. Stick to the script. No deviations. No improv. Do your jobs.”

  It’s somewhere between cheerleader and boot camp drill sergeant. I know she’s doing her best, but I rather wish she wasn’t. My nerves are fraying by the second. I pull out the earbud and stuff it into my pocket.

  The elevator doors ping open. Clyde collapses against the back wall. I tug him gently by the arm.

  “Come on, mate,” I say, but that doesn’t work so I bodily haul him out. Which probably looks a little odd to Tweedledum and Tweedledee, who are staring at us from down the hallway. I smile and wave. Probably not the most reassuring thing I could do.

  I’m sure the guy in charge will be a competent military intelligence ninja bastard...

  Oh balls.

  The amount of corridor between us and the Dee-Dum duo seems infinite. I try to keep in mind the map of the building Tabitha found us. It’s not some non-Euclidean nightmare of impossible angles, just a simple corridor running the periphery of the building. Keeps the penthouse isolated—no outside walls, and no windows. In fact, I think Olsted might be even more paranoid than I am right now.

  There again, I’m willing to give him a run for his money. Everything Clyde and I do seems suspicious— when we walk out of unison, when we walk in step. It looks too practised. Too studied. And as soon as I start over-thinking the way I walk I’m on the verge of screwing even that up. And tripping over my own feet doesn’t seem like the best way to convince a man you’re a potential Nobel candidate.

  Tweedledee’s eyes are tiny black beads as we reach the door, his brow knotted. Still he opens the door, and there is Olsted, tiny and wrinkled inside his pristine suit.

  “Gentlemen,” he says and seems about to go on but then stops.

  “Hello, Mr. Olsted.” I put as much sunshine in my voice as I can muster. It’s hardly Royal Shakespeare Company, but I’m surprised at how chipper I can sound when I’m in this sort of state. “Thank you so much for inviting us to come by... and talk...” I grind to a halt. Olsted isn’t looking at me. No one is looking at me. They’re all staring at Clyde. He’s turning a strange shade of green.

  “Guh,” he says. “Ack. Cah.” He coughs. I think he’s trying to shrug but his shoulders just waggle randomly up and down.

  Tweedledum balls his fists. Tweedledee starts reaching for a bulge in his trousers. I still don’t think anyone’s happy to see us. Which means...

  A gun. He’s most definitely going for a gun.

  Oh balls. Oh bloody fucking hell. Swann was bloody right. We’re not even going to make it through the front door.

  And I was right too. They are most definitely not going to call the cops.

  I’m sure the guy in charge will be a competent military intelligence ninja bastard...

  Except it’s me. And I am not bold. I am not impulsive. I’m just a little bastard out of water. And I don’t know what to do. I do not. I do not have these kinds of impulses.

  What would Kurt Russell do?

  I don’t know exactly where the thought comes from. It’s certainly not the most rational thing to pass through my head, but it’s like a brief window, like the eye of the storm opening around me before I am brutally cast out. It’s the moment before I think, I’m nothing like Kurt Russell. A window of madness. A window to be a man of action.

  So, in defiance of rationality, in defiance of the plan, and most definitely in defiance of what Tabitha would have me do, I turn and punch Clyde square in the face.

  15

  Clyde slams back against the wall, head bouncing off the doorframe. I step into him, following up with a sucker punch to the gut and Clyde doubles over, grabbing his stomach. I try to whisper to him to just go with it, as he goes past me, but th
ere’s no real time.

  “What the hell?” Olsted barks.

  Tweedledee has the gun up now. It flicks back and forth between Clyde and me.

  “Easy now,” I say. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. My hands do not so much tremble as bounce as I reach into my inside pocket slowly, very slowly. The gun is trained right on me now. Sweat is coursing down my brow. I pull out the ID Shaw gave me. “Arthur Wallace,” I say “I’m with MI37.”

  “Who the fuck?” says Tweedledum.

  “That’s not fucking you,” says Tweedledee turning over the ID, demonstrating that he is the more eloquent of Olsted’s security men.

  I let go of the battery in my pocket.

  The release is immediate. A nausea-inducing shudder of flesh. And then the pain falls away, like a discarded blanket. My hands. My arms, my body, my legs.

  “Oh,” says Tweedledee.

  “MI37 deals with thaumaturgical threats to the United Kingdom’s sovereign borders,” I say, doing the best I can to keep my voice calm, even. “Obviously you don’t hear about us in the press that much.” I have no idea if I pronounced “thaumaturgical” correctly. I don’t even know if you can use the word that way. I just need to keep talking.

  “This man is not who he appears to be,” I carry on talking into unbelieving faces. “He is Clyde Marcus Bradley, originally of Lithuania—” because that’s the first country I think of “—and the member of a dangerous cabal.” It all sounds paper-thin to me. I get the feeling it’s all paper-thin to them as well, but the gun is down as Tweedledee checks my ID.

  Clyde makes another guttural noise and I punch him again. I try to pull it, but I’m not really sure how to go about that. Clyde goes down on one knee. If we get out of this alive I really am going to need to buy him several beers.