The Cut Out

by Jack Heath

  Noelein had said that Troy Maschenov was only two months older than him and had been in Velechnya for two years. It unnerved Fero to know that in Besmar, he was old enough to be recruited for intelligence work.

  He was sure he’d heard the name somewhere before. But the memory was just out of reach in the shadows. The toothpaste was sour after the ufril. Fero scrubbed his teeth, spat walnut shards into the sink and returned to the bedroom.

  Usually he would read for a while before going to sleep, but tonight he couldn’t focus. He was physically exhausted and mentally overstimulated. He turned out the light and lay under the covers, staring at the dark ceiling.

  I’m alive, he thought, and free. I will never take either of those things for granted again.

  The room is taller than it is wide. Black stains creep outward from the corners. There are no windows, but somehow Fero knows it is night-time. Twin light bulbs hang from rusted chains high above. His shadow sways beneath him, as if he’s on the deck of a ship.

  The thick steel door stands open. A dark shape watches from beyond.

  There’s scarcely enough floor space for the two chairs. Fero has no room to shrink away from the woman sitting opposite. Her face, only half a metre from his, is twisted into a snarl of rage. He can see the pores in her cheeks, the cracks in her lips.

  ‘Don’t make me get the needle,’ she says.

  Part of Fero is aware that he’s had this nightmare many times before. The angry woman, the freezing room, the man waiting just outside the door.

  But this time, the woman sitting opposite is Noelein. And the room is a cell at Velechnya State Penitentiary.

  ‘Please.’ His voice comes out sounding weak and pathetic. ‘I’m not who you think I am.’

  ‘Don’t make me get the needle,’ she repeats.

  ‘I’m Fero Dremovich!’ His arms are bruised from all the other injections. ‘Troy Maschenov is out there, pretending to be me!’

  ‘Don’t make me get the needle,’ she says.

  He grips the sides of the chair with his shackled hands. Fetters bite into his ankles. His bare feet ache on the cold concrete. Something warm trickles down his leg. He’s too frightened to feel shame.

  ‘Please don’t get the needle,’ he whimpers.

  The silhouette in the doorway holds up a syringe.

  ‘Please! I’ll do anything you want!’

  The doctor looms closer. His scrubs are slick with someone else’s blood. A surgical mask covers his face. His bored eyes search Fero’s skin for an exposed vein.

  ‘No! Somebody help! Somebody help me!’

  The doctor drives the needle into Fero’s flesh—

  ‘Nyargh!’ Fero sat up, heart racing.

  He was in his bedroom.

  His pyjamas were stuck to his sweaty skin. His ankles were tangled up in the blanket. He had hoped to be too tired for nightmares, but his imagination was stronger than his exhaustion.

  I’m fine, he told himself. I’m at home. I’m safe.

  Footsteps thumped up the stairs. Fero jumped out of bed as his mother pushed the door open. She wore a dressing-gown and a hair tie, and held a mascara brush in her hand. She’d already done one eye – it looked bigger and darker than the other.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice was croaky. ‘I’m fine. How are you?’

  ‘I thought I heard you yell something.’

  ‘I hit my toe on the closet door,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ She backed out of the room. ‘I’ll make you some toast.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he called after her. Then he eased the door shut.

  He shivered, shaking off the dream. The clock read 07:12. He had to leave for school in forty-five minutes.

  Suddenly he recalled the train, the police station and the ridiculous stroke of luck that had freed him. The memories woke him up and left his body crackling with energy. It was all he could do not to start whistling as he pulled his school uniform out of the closet.

  He dressed quickly, checked the contents of his bag and added some library books. In the bathroom he sprayed water on his hair, slicking down the patch that always stuck up.

  The TV wasn’t usually on before school, but Fero came downstairs to find his parents on the couch, cereal bowls in their laps, eyes glued to the screen.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  Wilt grunted.

  Fero picked up a slice of the toast his mother had left on the bench. He looked at the TV, and his hand froze halfway to his mouth.

  His parents were watching the protest.

  It looked like a zombie film. Protesters flailed at one another with fists and boots, blood pouring down their faces.

  None of the banners or signs were visible. The police, too, were absent from the footage.

  The camera cut to smashed shop windows and walls scrawled with graffiti. Neither of Fero’s parents met his eye. Had they seen him on the screen?

  ‘Police recovered this footage late last night,’ a reporter was saying. ‘The rioters were few in number and authorities quickly contained the situation, but the damage to Stolkalny Square could take weeks to repair.’

  Wilt was saying something.

  ‘What?’ Fero asked.

  ‘Can you believe this?’ Wilt asked again. ‘What do these idiots think they’re doing?’

  So they hadn’t seen him. But the camera was panning across the crowd. Fero could already see the man with the drum. If he didn’t distract his parents right now, he would be spotted.

  ‘How come you guys don’t have any friends?’ he asked.

  Both his parents turned to face him immediately.

  ‘Fero!’ Wilt said. ‘What a thing to say.’

  Fero was clearly visible on the television now, talking to Irla. He forced himself not to look at the screen.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you never have people over.’

  ‘Your father and I weren’t wealthy when we met,’ Zuri said. ‘We could only afford a small wedding. That made some people angry, so they haven’t kept in touch.’

  She said all this without breaking eye contact with Fero.

  Guilt tightened in his abdomen. He could hear the newsreader saying something about the Kamauan swimming team. The protest story was over.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Wilt patted Zuri’s leg. ‘Are you ready for school?’

  Fero hadn’t had a single bite of his toast. But there was a coldness in the room now. He didn’t want to be here any longer.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  THE ATTEMPT

  Just don’t get shot, Pogodin told himself.

  It was the last thing his mother said before he joined the police. He had stood in front of the worn mirror, checking his new uniform for lint and fastening the junior insignia to the shoulder. Looming in the doorway behind him, she hadn’t told him not to be nervous. She hadn’t said that she was proud of him, or that she wished his father could be here to see this. She had simply said, ‘Don’t get shot.’

  Pogodin had nodded gravely and promised her he would do his best.

  He wiped the sweat off his bald head and pulled his helmet on. The bulletproof vest was too loose around his burly torso. He tightened the straps and checked the safety on his automatic rifle for the fourth time. His mother’s advice probably wouldn’t be useful today. He was far more likely to be blown up than shot.

  Melzen Hospital loomed behind the fence. It had looked different in the televised anniversary specials – brighter, cleaner, even with the smoke blooming above it. Now the flag was a tattered rag. Bird droppings encrusted the roof. There was no graffiti since even vandals were afraid to approach the building, but the brickwork had crumbled away at the corners. Pogodin didn’t believe in ghosts, but it was hard not to notice how much the wailing breeze sounded like distant screams.

  A jungle of weeds swayed
between him and the dirty grey walls. The vegetation would be thick enough to slow him down, but not tall enough to provide cover. And either way, the hostiles would see him and his unit climbing the fence.

  The Librarians had told him the terrorists wouldn’t set off the bombs until their deadline passed. He hoped they were right.

  But what if the coronavirus was floating around in the hospital, nine years after the outbreak? Or what if the place was still filthy with toxic chemicals? What if the gasmasks weren’t as hardy as his commanding officer had said?

  Or what if the rumours were true, and one of the terrorists was a monster?

  ‘Are we going in, sir?’ a chubby young cop asked. He rubbed his trembling palms together.

  ‘Calm down, constable,’ Pogodin said. ‘When I know, you’ll know.’ He slipped the gasmask on over his face.

  He looked back at the hospital through a narrow gap in the fence. No movement. Perhaps the coronavirus was still active, the terrorists had breathed it in, and now they were dead.

  But as he stared at the cursed building, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that—

  ‘Sergeant.’ Noelein’s voice crackled in his earpiece. ‘Move in when ready.’

  He nodded, wondering if she could see him from the rooftop of the office building across the street. It was humiliating, having her in charge of this operation so soon after last night’s embarrassment with the boy. He was determined to do his part perfectly.

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ he said. Then, to his unit: ‘We move in on three.’

  The nine cops spread out along the fence, grabbing clumps of vine and metal. Pogodin waited until they were all looking at him.

  ‘One,’ he said. ‘Two. Three!’

  They scrambled up the fence as quickly and gracefully as monkeys. The razor wire bit into Pogodin’s gloves as he clambered over and dropped down into the long grass.

  He didn’t wait for the rest of his unit. Snipers could open fire from the hospital windows at any moment. He sprinted up the hill, boots slipping on the uneven ground, weeds slapping at his knees. Grass seeds clung to his trousers. Startled bees launched themselves off nearby flowers and hummed behind his head. Soon he was on the cracked concrete steps and then his back was pressed against the rotting boards that covered the front door.

  No shots were fired.

  He watched his troops dash up the hill towards him. It was a matter of seconds before they were all at the door. One of them had a heavy steel tube, which the unit called ‘the password’, strapped to his back. Pogodin unbuckled it and grabbed two of the four handles welded to the side. Another cop grabbed the other two handles and together they slammed the tube into the planks, which shattered into crumbling husks.

  After three strikes Pogodin had room to slip through the doorway. The password clanged to the ground as he pushed through into the gloom.

  He looked left, looked right, and hissed, ‘Clear!’ Then, into his radio, he said, ‘We’re inside. I’ll let you know when we find the explosive charges.’

  The air was dirty and thin, as if worn away by the years. Dust swirled around the floor as the rest of the cops squeezed into the foyer. Broken glass crunched underfoot. A long corridor stretched into the darkness.

  A camera stood on a tripod, facing the window. The terrorists probably knew he and his troops were here. But would they set off the bombs?

  He was about to report this when he saw movement up the other end of the corridor. It looked like just one man, with no weapons that Pogodin could see. He was tall and broad, with thick arms that hung almost to his knees. His muscular frame was stuffed into a Besmari army uniform. Pogodin couldn’t see his face. He was a long way away – but suddenly sprinting towards the cops at an incredible rate.

  ‘Contact, contact!’ Pogodin yelled as he raised his weapon. It went against his instincts to shoot an unarmed man, but Noelein had warned him to take no chances.

  The runner paused, grabbed the handle of a nearby door and wrenched it open, blocking Pogodin’s shot. The door was made of metal – if Pogodin fired, the bullets could ricochet back and hit his troops.

  The man ripped the door out of the wall.

  Pogodin boggled as the steel hinges stretched and tore like cardboard. They must have been rusty – surely it was impossible for anyone to be so strong.

  Suddenly the door was rushing towards Pogodin like a runaway truck as the man charged. Pogodin sidestepped, trying to get a clear shot.

  As his finger tensed on the trigger, he wondered: why would the terrorists send just one man? Strong or not, he doesn’t stand a chance against all of—

  It was Pogodin’s last thought.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Noelein pressed the button harder as though it would make Pogodin more likely to reply. ‘Sergeant, do you read?’

  Nothing but static on the radio. She had heard him yell, ‘Contact,’ and then there was a strangled cry. After that the radio was silent. The song of a distant cuckoo carried on the breeze. The rooftop air conditioner rumbled behind her.

  She rested her elbows on the concrete, raised her binoculars, and glared at the hospital. Apart from the broken planks in the doorway, it looked the same as it had for nine years. The boarded-up windows were still. The weeds waved peacefully at her.

  ‘It’s a fortress,’ Sloth said.

  ‘I can see that,’ she snapped.

  Sloth was a lanky Librarian with an outdated haircut and a quiet, sleepy voice. His slow gait and hanging jaw gave people the impression that he was dimwitted, which Noelein was sure he used to his advantage. She had hired him not only for his formidable engineering skills, but for his pyschometric test results. He had blitzed the empathetic reasoning section of the exam, which made him personable and well-liked at the Library. Most importantly, he could decode the motivations and predict the actions of Besmari State Security agents with spooky accuracy.

  ‘It’s not my decision, obviously.’ Sloth uncrossed his legs and stretched. ‘But you know what I think you should do?’

  Noelein threw her radio off the roof. It exploded into plastic shards against the street below.

  ‘He’s not ready,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not ready?’ Sloth asked. ‘Or you’re not ready?’

  Noelein said nothing.

  ‘Do you know what an amazing coincidence it was that the cops found him last night? Do you have any idea how useful he could be right now?’

  ‘Not as useful as he might be in a year or two,’ Noelein said.

  Sloth shrugged. ‘If you don’t put him into play now, in a year or two we may not have a country to protect.’

  They stared down at the hospital for a moment. Nine years ago it had been Noelein who had given the order to block off the subway, to erect the razor-wire fences and to clear the cover within. It was typical of Besmari State Security to use these precautions against her.

  ‘I had big plans for him,’ Noelein muttered.

  ‘You may still get to use them,’ Sloth said. ‘You never know. He might survive.’

  Noelein wondered if he really believed what he was saying. Then she decided that it didn’t matter. Whether Sloth thought they would succeed or not, there was no question that the boy was their only chance.

  ‘You get to work on his equipment,’ she said. ‘I’ll handle the rest.’

  THE ASSET

  Wilt rarely let Fero take the bus. He said it was wasteful, since he had to drive right past Coralsk High School to get to work. Fero had pointed out that the bus would also drive past it whether he was on board or not, but Wilt ignored him. Fero suspected his father just liked keeping an eye on him.

  Fero watched the two giant apartment blocks shrink in the rear-vision mirror as the school approached up ahead. It was a three-storey sandstone slab surrounded by stunted trees with names scratched into the bark. The windows were half-covered by fabric sunshades even though it was a cloudy day. The Kamauan flag – red with a yellow coat of arms – fluttered from a tall post in front of the wrought
-iron gate.

  ‘Anything on today?’ Wilt asked.

  ‘My science assignment is due, but I already handed it in.’ Fero didn’t take his eyes off the road. Just after they moved to Coralsk, Fero and Wilt had been in a head-on collision. If they had been travelling faster they could have been killed. He thought about the accident every time he got into a car with his father.

  ‘That was the assignment about nanomachines, right?’

  ‘Nanotubes, Dad.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘A nanomachine is a machine. A nanotube is a tube.’

  Wilt nodded as though this were very profound. The car pulled up in front of the school.

  ‘Got everything?’ Wilt asked.

  Fero checked his pockets and grabbed his backpack from the footwell. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay. Learn lots, make friends.’

  Wilt always said this, but today it sounded forced. Before this morning, it hadn’t occurred to Fero that his parents might be obsessed with his social life precisely because they didn’t have one.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said.

  Wilt patted him on the shoulder and Fero clambered out of the car. Other students streamed towards the school, yelling and shoving each other. Fero thought the green blazers and polished loafers made them all look like leprechauns.

  Fero watched his father disappear, feeling an unusual pang of regret. He wished he could reassure his parents that he wasn’t unhappy – he actually preferred to be alone, most of the time.

  ‘Hey, Fero,’ someone said, as he walked towards the school.

  Fero looked around, but whoever it was hadn’t waited. Well, he thought, someone knows my name, at least. Mum and Dad would be so proud.

  His first class was history, taught by Ms Tilya – a chubby blonde woman who wore high heels and a cardigan that reached her knees. She glared at him as he strolled in. He smiled back at her, which only seemed to make her more suspicious.

  Ms Tilya was new to the school. It was rumoured she had spent time in prison, but Fero thought kids were just speculating because of the faded tattoos inside her wrists. His parents didn’t like her very much. Zuri said her ideas were dangerous. But Ms Tilya was easier to listen to than the other teachers. She encouraged thought rather than memorisation – ‘reasoning beats remembering’, she sometimes said. She spoke with rapid passion, never glancing at the state-mandated lesson plan. Fero was always hypnotised by her lessons.