Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘We don’t know how this happens,’ Roland says softly. ‘But we know it will happen. Which is why we need you. We need you to find out how this happens and stop it. I can’t make you help me . . . I can only hope you will do so because you see the gravity of the situation. Other than the inventor, there is myself, Malcolm, Konrad and now you three that know of this. Just us . . .’

  Safa flicks her eyes from the screen to Roland. Harry does the same. Impassive and centred without a flicker of panic or worry on either of their faces.

  ‘If we help,’ Safa says slowly. ‘Can we go back?’

  ‘Miss Patel,’ Roland says, conveying a deep sadness. ‘We can never go back. We have to . . .’ He stops, flicking his eyes left and right, trying to find the right words. ‘Detach ourselves from the lives we had . . . those lives are not ours.’

  ‘Ours?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Yes, ours. I was extracted too, Mr Ryder. In fact, I was the first extraction.’

  Twelve

  ‘Berlin. Germany,’ she says, looking over the table. Years of training show in the absolute lack of reaction on her impassive face. ‘Private clinic. Dozen operatives taken in. Six dead. Six injured. That’s the start point.’

  ‘Understood,’ he says. ‘Team?’

  ‘You plus four,’ she says.

  The man is highly trained but even he shows the tiniest of reactions in the safe dead-zone environment of the briefing room. A team of five was a big team in his world. They either worked solo or in pairs, rarely in threes, only in exceptional circumstances would they go for four, and five was unheard of.

  ‘Five identification packets. Five passports. Five driving licences. Five legends to learn.’ She places five unmarked brown envelopes on the table, pushing them towards him. ‘You are Alpha, you will be Alfie during our communications. You will designate Bravo, Charlie, Delta and Echo. I am the controller. I am Mother for our communications.’

  ‘This real, then?’ Alpha asks. To generate five legends in such a short space of time that matched each agent took some doing and for her to remain as controller was also exceptional. He’d heard the rumours of course and had been waiting patiently for deployment but he didn’t actually believe it. Time travel was not possible. It was fictional. It did not exist.

  ‘Who knows,’ she says, still impassive. ‘But it’s too big not to be at the front . . . and we are always at the front.’

  He nods. Just once. A dip of the head. This is the top of the game, where every single nuance of body language is analysed to a depth greater than the ability to second-guess, creating in turn a breed of person that simply does not show reaction. It is safe here. It is safe with her, but even so, he has just shown one tiny reaction and he sure as hell will not show another so soon after the first.

  ‘Budget?’ Alpha asks.

  ‘None.’

  Again he suppresses any urge to show reaction. She watches him, looking for the reaction and seeing the suppression of the reaction. He is good. He is the best they have, apart from her of course.

  ‘Any methods are sanctioned in advance,’ she says, holding that level of scrutiny of him. ‘You have freedom to operate but we will be at the front. Credit cards are within the packages. There is cash waiting for you downstairs. We do not require receipts.’

  Fucking hell. No receipts? This is beyond rare. This is way past exceptional. This is groundbreaking.

  ‘We do, however, require results either to confirm or negate. Questions?’

  He stares, impassive. Cogs turning. ‘No.’

  ‘Have a safe trip, Alfie.’ Mother smiles, beaming a grin full of warmth and humanity that changes her whole appearance and manner with an instant transition into character.

  ‘Great.’ He grins back, as happy as she at the trip he is about to go on.

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ Mother says as he rises.

  ‘Will do,’ he says, grinning back, perfectly in character.

  ‘I want pictures,’ she says, gently chiding him as he heads for the door. ‘And make sure you eat properly, not too much junk food . . . and no hookers . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ he says, rolling his eyes as though he has just been gently chided.

  Thirteen

  ‘Banana,’ he says again. ‘Definitely banana.’ With the ruthless precision of a hungry gorilla he snaps the top and peels the first segment down the long body. ‘Smells bananaish,’ he says after sniffing the exposed fruit. He takes a big bite, chews for a second and pulls his head back in disgust. ‘Not a banana,’ he informs them with a mouthful of mush, which he swallows before taking a breath and then another bite.

  ‘Why are you eating it then?’ Safa asks at the look of horror on his face.

  ‘Don’t waste food,’ he says while shoving the next piece in.

  They watch him eat and his relaxed easy manner is in such stark contrast to the rush of emotions Ben feels. He felt okay earlier when he didn’t know what was going on. The adrenaline was there. Now he just feels wretched.

  ‘I don’t think I’m right for this,’ he says.

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ Safa asks. ‘Go back and get blown to bits on the Underground?’

  ‘What about you?’ Ben asks. ‘Your family? Friends? Your life . . . I’m engaged to get married . . .’ He thinks of Steph as the words come from his mouth. She was having an affair. She was having an affair while he got blown to bits on the Underground.

  ‘Anyone got a knife?’ Harry asks.

  ‘You were engaged,’ Safa says bluntly. ‘You heard him. You’re dead. We’re all dead.’

  ‘I’m not fucking dead. I’m here and so are you and Harry.’

  ‘No knife, then?’ Harry asks, looking round the room.

  ‘Ben, you heard what he said. We can’t go back . . . HARRY!’ she cries out as Harry’s fist smashes down into the big green fruit, sending chunks of sticky goo flying everywhere.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly, staring round at the results of the mini explosion.

  ‘It’s in my hair,’ she tuts, tugging a slimy green dollop from the black strands.

  Ben peels a lump from his cheek and stares at it for a few seconds. ‘What is it? Melon? No that’s . . . is it lime?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Harry says, chomping away. ‘Tastes nice.’

  Ben licks the end of the dollop and waits for his taste buds to decide if they want it or not. Melon but with lime, or apple, or something else. It’s nice but earthier than any other fruit he has tasted. He reaches out to take another wet dollop from the table.

  ‘Maybe he’s got it wrong,’ he says between mouthfuls as Safa starts to dig in to the chunks of fruit.

  ‘Got what wrong?’ she asks while hungrily eating the fruit. ‘Oh, the timeline. Everything he said made sense though. Hang on, Harry, can you smash that one?’ she says, rolling another big thing towards Harry. Larger than the one he just smashed and a deep pink colour with streaks of green and orange radiating out from a thick stem.

  ‘Take cover,’ Harry says, raising his fist. Safa and Ben both duck as he smashes down, spraying the room in more sloppy goo. They sit back up and watch Harry picking chunks of fruit out from his beard while flicking his hand up and down, trying to shake the remnants off.

  ‘Me first.’ Safa leans over, scooping a handful of soft innards out from the broken shell. She does the sniff test then a tentative lick before shovelling it in her gob. ‘Oh,’ she says enthusiastically. ‘Try that.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Ben asks, reaching over. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Like plum . . .’ she says, spraying fruit. ‘Sorry.’ She covers her mouth, tasting the plum-like fruit that is deeper, richer and with hints of other things and different from the first one that was lighter and cleaner. ‘Don’t talk to me. My mouth is having an orgasm.’

  ‘Miss!’ Harry cries out with a crimson blush spreading through his cheeks.

  ‘What?’ Safa asks in mirth at his discomfort. ‘It is,’ she says.

  ‘I . . . well, I just ne
ver—’ Harry says primly.

  ‘Never what? Orgasmed?’ she asks as he blushes an even deeper shade of red. ‘I only said “orgasm”.’

  ‘Stop it,’ he huffs, looking away, but reaches back to grab another bit of the plum fruit.

  ‘I forgot you were all sexually repressed back then,’ she says goadingly as Harry starts to cough and splutter in response.

  ‘Not repressed . . . just discreet,’ he says between coughs.

  ‘Anyway, what were you saying?’ she asks Ben. ‘Oh, you said he might be wrong about the timeline thing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben says, eyeing another long, marrow-shaped object. ‘Maybe he is.’

  ‘He isn’t, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t know anything . . . Harry, what’s that one?’ Ben asks as the ravenous hunger takes over his sense of misery.

  ‘This one?’ he asks, hefting the marrow.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben replies, then looks at Safa. ‘So you’re just accepting it then?’

  ‘What choice do we have?’ she asks.

  ‘Want it?’ Harry asks them both, holding the marrow thing up.

  ‘Can I open it?’ Safa asks.

  ‘Will you stop being vulgar?’

  ‘Probably not,’ she replies. ‘Okay, yes, I promise to try and stop being vulgar . . .’ she adds when he holds the marrow thing away with a smile.

  ‘Heavy,’ he says, placing it down on the table with a thump.

  ‘I’m on it,’ she says, standing up. ‘Take cover.’

  ‘Cover,’ Harry says as he and Ben both duck.

  ‘Shit!’ Safa yelps in pain from her karate-chopping hand bouncing off the marrow thing. ‘Trying again . . . ouch . . . fucking thing . . . ow! Fucking stupid . . . shit!’

  ‘Miss, do you want me to . . .’

  ‘No . . . ouch . . . oh, you piece of shit . . . right . . .’

  ‘Stop hitting it then,’ Ben says from under the table.

  ‘Fucking having it,’ Safa growls, hefting the marrow up over her head and slamming it down on to the table.

  ‘Done it?’ Ben asks, peering over the edge.

  ‘Not a dent,’ she says with a huff. ‘Right, we’re eating off the floor.’ She hefts it up again and launches it down on to the concrete floor, the impact resulting in a wet splat as the skin finally breaks and the fleshy innards spill out. ‘Fuck you,’ she says in victory.

  Being the closest, Ben leans over to grab a chunk of the new fruit but pulls back with a grimace at the disgusting stench. ‘No way.’

  ‘Really?’ Safa asks, grabbing her own bit. ‘Oh, that’s disgusting . . . what is that? It’s like feet . . . like cheesy feet . . .’

  ‘I’m sticking with the plum thing,’ Ben says, ditching the cheesy-feet marrow chunk and going back to the flavoursome plum thing instead. Harry drops down and sniffs delicately at the broken cheesy-feet marrow. A hand comes out, picking a tiny bit up, which he licks as Safa gags. He nods and pushes the finger into his mouth, nods again and takes a bigger bit.

  ‘Harry,’ she groans. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Like the mouldy cheese we had in France,’ he says.

  ‘I might be vulgar but you’re gross,’ she says, screwing her face up at him bringing a big piece back to the table. ‘The whole room stinks of it now,’ she adds.

  Ben eats the fruit and ignores the rising panic about his being millions of years in the past having been rescued from death by some men from the future. It’s not real. It’s made-up. It can’t be real. Things like this don’t happen in real life. Seventeen-year-old kids don’t kill gang members in country lanes and seventeen-year-old kids don’t then end up becoming so famous they have to be put into witness protection with a new identity. Those seventeen-year-old kids don’t grow up to stop a terrorist attack on a train platform either.

  This is happening. This is real. His guts lurch and the hunger fades instantly while his mind frantically searches for a punchline or a way of proving it isn’t happening.

  ‘What happens to Steph?’ he asks so suddenly it makes Safa stop chewing and stare at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.

  She swallows and holds still for so long he starts thinking she won’t reply. ‘Ben, once you know something you can’t unknow it,’ she says softly. ‘Maybe it’s best not to know.’

  ‘No.’

  She carries on chewing but looks away, deep in thought, before swallowing and glancing back at him with conflict etched on her face. ‘What difference does it make?’ she asks so gently even Harry picks up on it and looks over with interest.

  ‘What happens to Steph?’

  The softness fades like a switch pressed. ‘I won’t lie, not for you or anyone,’ she says bluntly. ‘Don’t ask me. It’s unfair.’

  ‘Unfair? Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Seriously, we’re not talking about it.’

  ‘We bloody are,’ he says, glaring at her. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Roland said we have to forget about the past . . .’ she says, her voice growing harder by the second.

  ‘The past? The fucking past? It was yesterday . . . I want to know . . .’ he says with his voice rising at the feeling of something being hidden from him.

  ‘I’ve got family,’ she says, speaking over him. ‘I don’t know what happens to them. Harry’s the same. Just leave it.’

  ‘We just fucking got here and I’m not you,’ he snaps. ‘I’m not a soldier or police officer. I work in a bloody office and investigate insurance claims.’ Anger floods through him at the unfairness of it, at the pure, bitter unfairness.

  ‘Let it go,’ Harry says, holding a chunk of the cheesy-feet marrow in front of him.

  If anyone else had said that Ben would bloody explode but that’s Mad Harry Madden holding a piece of cheesy-feet marrow from millions of years ago and again the surrealness of it sinks deep into his gut.

  ‘Eat some plum, Ben,’ Safa says, pulling the carcass of the squashed fruit over.

  ‘I don’t want the fucking plum. How can you be so calm?’

  She shrugs, non-committal and avoiding in the same gesture. ‘You learn to lock it down.’

  ‘How did you learn that? Why? What did you have to lock down?’ he asks loudly, then flinches from the look of pure venom he gets back.

  ‘Eat,’ Harry says easily, breaking the tension. ‘Both of you.’

  So they eat. They eat plum fruit that isn’t plum and lemon–lime–melon that isn’t any of those things.

  She focuses on the fruit in her hands, tearing pieces away and eating without a trace of emotion or feeling. He is Ben Ryder. The actual Ben Ryder. He was the reason she joined the police and the reason she chose Close Protection. Now he is sitting opposite her eating fruit in a bunker in the dinosaur times after being told they’ve got to save the world. Oh, and Mad Harry Madden is at the table too. She takes it in. The whole of it. The all of it and the one thing that forms in her mind is that she will never again have to be touched by that vile man again. Not here and not for anyone, and what’s more, although she doesn’t know Harry, she already feels a bond with him and knows he will have her back, like she did for him during the fight. Downing Street was the first time she’d killed another person and she’d always wondered what it would be like to deal with something like that. To know you had taken life. As it happens, she feels nothing. They attacked. She did her job. Same with the men in this room. They could have done what they were told to do and restrained Harry but they attacked him with weapons, and used those weapons on her when she went to help. It is what it is. She looks round at Harry eating thoughtfully then across to Ben and her eyes linger on the faded scar on his right cheek. Ben Ryder. It’s really him. She suppresses the smile that wants to form in memory of him running in to the fight earlier. He is completely undisciplined and without technique but he’s brave enough. Smart too. Very smart. He’s Ben Ryder. The Ben Ryder.

  Harry eats the fruit. He’s hungry and four years of warfare have taught him to eat when you can. None o
f this is surprising to him. His mind is desensitised from a life of seemingly never-ending missions, firefights, sabotage raids, guerrilla warfare, open warfare, hand-to-hand combat, dirty fighting in back streets and parachuting on to open fields to cover behind tanks as they laid waste to towns. If the fast boat had got him out of Norway he would have been patted on the back and sent back out. It is what it is. He likes Safa though. That she is a woman doesn’t factor in his head. Plenty of the resistance fighters he worked with were women and she can fight. Blimey, can she fight. He muses inwardly and has to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in memory of Ben flailing his arms about in the fight. The man lacks training and control but he is brave and has the right stuff. Clever too. Got a quick mind, he has.

  Ben eats because the other two eat. His mind whirls. His stomach twists. His nerves frayed. He thinks of Steph and hates that he is not being told something. Safa was holding something back. His life is gone. He is dead but not dead. He is not a soldier. Not a cop. Not a detective. He is not what they need but yet he is here. Why did this program choose him? He had a one hundred per cent success rate in his cases but they were insurance claims, not murder investigations, and they certainly didn’t involve trying to work out who blew the world up in the future. He glances at Harry, wishing he had that level of calmness. He looks at Safa, amazed at the smallness of the world and that she was the copper who ran on to the platform at Holborn. Even without make-up she is stunningly beautiful but she is hard as nails too. Seriously tough. Why can’t he be calm like they are? Why can’t he project that level of . . .

  ‘The window might be a hologram projection,’ Ben says, his brain engaging gear once again. His heart thrills at the possibility. He stops eating to stare at Safa then at Harry.

  ‘Hologram?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Like an illusion,’ Safa says quietly.

  ‘No,’ Harry says instantly.

  ‘Technology has advanced from nineteen forty-three, Harry,’ Safa says.

  ‘We should go outside and look then,’ Harry replies calmly.