Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite!

by Douglas Lindsay

  Kind of weird that I actually got anything picked up at all really.

  After all the hate mail for stating that George was cooler than the rest of them, I only wrote one more article, and when my Paul is Dead piece was widely ignored, I gave up.

  Once in a small hotel near Elgin I woke up in the middle of the night to find someone in my room, going through the drawers of the unit beneath the TV. I shouted something indistinguishable, a vague, middle of the night grunt thrown into the darkness. The guy looked over his shoulder at me. In the lights from the streets outside I could clearly make out his face. He didn't immediately run off, just as I found myself lying there, frozen, not immediately jumping up to confront him.

  Then, after some interminable period while we both wondered what was going to happen next, he left. Walked out the room, closed the door behind him.

  I didn't report it to the hotel, then, or the following morning. They would have called the police. I couldn't afford that. It didn't look like he'd taken anything, but it made me realise how vulnerable I was. Whatever happened, I could never ask for help from the authorities. I was completely alone.

  I sometimes thought that since I was trying to be someone else, and that there was another me sleeping with my wife, that it would be all right for me to have sex. That thought came and went, was occasionally justified. As time went on, the guilt that came with it, the guilt which had made sure I didn't even try with the waitress, diminished somewhat.

  In the end, maybe I just never met anyone. Maybe there was some kind of Keep Off sign stamped on my forehead. Whatever the reason, it never happened. So I had the guilt of knowing that I was prepared to do it, but without any of the associated pleasure of actually doing it.

  The months slid by, my brain seeming to shut down more and more. Eventually December arrived, the air cool, snow on the hills, and I knew I was going to have to head south and address the problem I'd been ignoring since early summer.

  There were two of me, and by mid-December there had to be only one.

  19

  I sat in my cell for some time after they'd left. I wondered if I'd see Agent Crosskill and Agent No Name again. It was impossible to tell.

  They'd said I could just leave, but as far as I knew I had already been all the way round this floor of the building and there was no way out. More than likely that was what was making me hesitate. The thought of trying every single door along the corridor to see which might be the exit. And would I even recognise it when I saw it? Would I end up taking a chance on a flight of stairs that led who knew where?

  And then what? All logistics aside, how exactly was it that I intended to locate the Jigsaw Man? I hadn't even begun to consider that. For the moment, this wasn't about the Jigsaw Man.

  Perhaps this cell, no matter how strange and uncomfortable, represented some sort of security and consistency. I didn't really understand what they were asking me to do, and the world out there, that world was four months advanced from the one I'd left. Ten, if one included the six months I lived up north, barely speaking to anyone.

  I don't know how long I would have sat there but eventually they came to get me. I was still sitting at the desk, my hands in exactly the same position, my back straight, my feet flat on the floor, when the door opened again and a nurse stood before me. At least, she was dressed in a nurse's uniform. She smiled and looked at the clipboard she was carrying.

  'I don't seem to have a name here,' she said. She looked up expectantly.

  'Kite,' was all that came out.

  'Hmm,' she said. 'Kite. Very well. Would you like to come with me, Mr Kite?'

  Her teeth were perfect, matching the uniform in their precise whiteness. I still wasn't sure if I would move. There was another act starting in the bizarre events that had overtaken my life, and I wasn't sure that I was yet ready to enter into it.

  She moved a pace or two out into the corridor and, without breaking the smile, said, 'If you'd just like to follow me.'

  She seemed robotic. I wondered if she was a cyborg. If I refused to go, would it confuse her so much that her programme malfunctioned and she started shorting out? Perhaps she'd begin to repeat the same thing over and over and over until someone came to switch her off.

  Eventually, in the face of such an unerring and insistent smile I pulled myself up onto my feet. As I moved, I noticed that the chair pushed back from the desk. I stared down at the legs. They weren't attached. I reached out and pressed gently on the desk. It also moved, albeit somewhat grudgingly, an inch or two. I glanced up at the smiling nurse and then at the large mirrored wall.

  'If you'd just like to follow me,' she repeated.

  This is not the droid you're looking for, I thought.

  I followed her out into the corridor. She walked away to the left, not waiting to see if I was trailing behind. The corridor looked as it had previously. Lots of doors, no guards.

  She hadn't walked far when she opened a door and turned. The smile was still on her face, as if she'd been walking ahead of me, smiling at the corridor. She held the door open for me then followed me through. We were in small waiting area beside two elevator doors. There were still no windows and the walls were the same grey as the corridor we'd just left behind.

  She pressed for the lift and then, as I stood waiting, I felt some sense of perspective about how long I'd just spent in that room. It hadn't just been a matter of days. I was leaving somewhere that had become comfortable and secure, that I had known for a long time, and it felt like a wrench.

  The door opened silently. The nurse stepped forward into the lift. My heart jumped into my mouth and I stood absolutely still. My lips parted. I could feel my breath catch in my chest, the back of my throat dry.

  She was still smiling.

  'It's all right,' she said, 'it's quite safe.'

  I wasn't looking at her. I was looking past her, at the pale blue sky stretching for miles in the distance. There were buildings in front of us, but all of them much lower. We were high up in the sky, and the elevator was on the outside of the building. Having spent so long in the dim light indoors, the brightness of day and the wide open space went straight to my legs and my head, knocking me off balance. I already felt like I was falling.

  'I'm sorry, it can be a bit of a shock,' she said, still smiling. 'I ought to have warned you.'

  'Where are we?' I managed to say. 'Where?' I added, because it felt like words had just tumbled from my mouth without me having any real idea what I'd said.

  'We're in the Burj Khalifa,' she said. 'Our offices are near the top of the building.'

  'What?'

  I dragged my eyes away from the endless sky and looked at her. Stop smiling!

  'We're in the Burj Khalifa, in Dubai. Our offices are near the top of the building.'

  'We can't be.'

  She turned and glanced out the window and then turned back.

  'I can assure you that we are, as you yourself can see.'

  'I walked along that corridor.' I looked at the door I'd just come through. Was I really contemplating going back in there? 'I walked along it. It was endless. It took me God knows how long to get back to my own door. It was like a two-mile circle. So big I didn't even realise I was walking in a circle.'

  'The corridor can be quite deceptive,' she said through her white teeth. 'It's because of the height of the building. It can play tricks on the mind.'

  She was still smiling, I was still staring at her, not quite refusing to get in the elevator, but not walking forward either.

  'I didn't think Khalifa had outside lifts,' I said. I had no idea if it did or it didn't.

  'The elevators can be quite deceptive,' she said. 'It's because of the height of the building. It can play tricks on the mind.'

  All right, she was beginning to get on my nerves. Yet, whatever way I looked at it, I didn't really have any other great career options at that moment. I stepped forward into the lift then stood as close to the doors as possible without risking getting the end o
f my nose trapped, turned my back on the sky, and closed my eyes. As the doors closed, I reached out and gripped the silver panel in the lift. I needed to be touching something.

  The lift started descending and I felt my legs go weak, the fear rise within me.

  'This is the third fastest elevator in the world,' she said. 'We will be at the correct floor very shortly.'

  I put my weight on the panel, as I wasn't sure my legs would be able to support me.

  *

  I was sitting in another small room, but this was an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view overlooking the sea. I'd been led in here, but I wasn't sure for whom I was waiting.

  I'd had a shave and a shower then they'd given me a change of clothes and a meal, and removed the ankle tag. I had no idea which meal of the day it was. I couldn't see the sun, there were no shadows up here, every room had the chill of air conditioning set at slightly too low a temperature.

  The door opened behind me. I was staring straight ahead at an indistinct patch of the sky, and did not change my gaze. A woman sat down across the desk and filled my view, so that I was looking straight into her eyes.

  She started talking. When she spoke, no part of her face moved except her lips. She had her hair tied severely back and wore outsize, slightly absurd spectacles. I decided that she was incredibly attractive – well, she was incredibly attractive, that was no decision of mine – and that the hair and the spectacles were an attempt to detract from her beauty so she might get more respect from her male colleagues.

  'We've packed you a small bag,' she began. Her accent was some sort of generic American, every word clipped and precise as if someone had just cut her vocal chords with a pair of scissors. 'A change of clothes, some toiletries. You shouldn't be too long. If you are, we'll come and get you.'

  'How will you know where I am?'

  She let the question hang in the air for a few moments so she could savour its apparent stupidity, then continued as if I hadn't spoken.

  'We've given you a passport in the name of Montgomery Boyd. It's not as though you're going undercover anywhere, so there are no other facets to this new identity. Where would you like to go?'

  We continued to hold each other's gaze. Outside the sky continued to be the most remarkable blue. I wondered if the windows were tinted to enhance its effect.

  'What do you mean?' I asked.

  'I'm not entirely in the loop on this,' she said, 'I'm the QM. Don't need to know the details. I believe you've been sent out on a mission to look for someone. I don't need to know whom, nor indeed do I have any interest in finding out, but you will need to tell me where you intend to start looking. If that's in Dubai, I can show you to the front door. Otherwise, you'll more than likely need to go to the airport and once there, you'll need a ticket. For which destination would you like me to get a ticket?'

  'I don't know,' I said.

  She stared blankly. Her gaze was unwavering. There wasn't a hint in it that she might be frustrated by my cluelessness.

  'Were you given any suggestions on where you should go?'

  'The agent said to start with what I know.'

  Start with what you know.

  'And what do you know?'

  'The Jigsaw Man was...'

  'No names.'

  'OK, sorry... He was in Glasgow and then he went to Laos. I don't know after that.'

  'A ticket to Vientiane. I'll need to check, but I presume you'll need to fly via Bangkok.'

  'She said I wouldn't need to go to Laos.'

  'Glasgow then.'

  It wasn't even a question. I didn't object.

  On the one hand it seemed pointless going to Glasgow. If there was no need to go to Laos because he'd left there a long time ago, then why go to the place he was before he went to Laos? Yet that was what she'd said. Start with what you know. And I knew the Stand Alone café.

  'Yes,' I said.

  'You'll have the use of a card and expenses, the PIN is the year of your birth, plus three hundred and forty-seven. If you use it to buy anything that is not mission-related, the money will be reclaimed from you in the next financial period. Any questions?'

  'I suppose,' I said.

  If she was to give me some time to think, I would probably have been able to come up with of a lot of them. I didn't think she was giving me the time, however.

  'Yes?'

  'What do I do when I find him?'

  I almost laughed at the absurd over-confidence of my question. When, not if.

  'I can't answer that. I'll get a flight booked and be back in a few minutes.'

  She left, and once again I was looking at the remarkable blue sky. Directly in front of me there was the straight white line of a contrail, high above. There was no sign of the plane.

  20

  I spent the first few years with Brin in fear of Jones returning. On the one hand I knew that she more than likely wouldn't. I also knew that even if she did, it wouldn't matter. She'd be cool. And the longer it got from those two days we'd spent in bed together, the less of a problem it became. As long as the two women didn't sit down with a calendar, something which seemed very unlikely, Brin would have no reason to think that she'd come romantically before Jones, rather than the other way round. Uncomfortable, yes, relationship-ending, probably not.

  That's what I told myself. The part of me that lived in fear of her turning up, however, didn't get the memo. I continued to live in fear. It changed slightly when Baggins was born as I had something more important to think about, and it felt like Brin had more to lose from kicking me out. It would be tough, but I always thought that we'd get through it.

  One night, not long after we'd moved down to the outskirts of Bristol to be close to Brin's family, I got a phone call. Two Feet. I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years, and I had no idea how he got the number.

  'Hello,' I said, lifting the phone.

  'Fanque's dead,' said Two Feet by way of introduction.

  'Shit, Two Feet,' I said. 'What happened?'

  Fanque was the youngest of our old gang, and I don't suppose any of us had been that old back then.

  'Topped herself in the bath,' he said.

  He sounded like he might start crying.

  'Shit,' I said again. 'When was this?'

  It was the only thing I could think to say.

  'Two days ago, man,' said Two Feet.

  He started to cry.

  I'd never known anyone who'd committed suicide before. By the time I hung up I wasn't really any the wiser, but I promised to go to the funeral.

  Brin wasn't happy, and neither was I. I hadn't thought much about Fanque, and I still didn't. I'd never known her that well. What did worry me, though, was the thought that Jones would be at the funeral. Then, when Brin announced that she'd arranged for her mum to look after Baggins and that she'd be coming with me, I was even more concerned.

  Naturally there was a lot of talk at the funeral about Fanque, but it was all about the old days. The Stand Alone days. Me and Henderson and Two Feet sitting in a corner, talking about the old times, like characters from a Springsteen song. Yet none of us had the time to go there the following morning for a coffee.

  The Jigsaw Man never came. Neither did Jones. Some said she was appearing in the latest Tom Cruise movie, others that she was filming episodes of Coronation Street. I was just relieved she wasn't there, but spent the entire trip feeling nervous, waiting for her arrival.

  No one seemed to know why Fanque had killed herself, but that didn't mean she wasn't dead.

  The next time I worked myself into a renewed state of angst because of Jones was when I became attached to the agent who sent out the script of The Jigsaw Man. I imagined the script being picked up and turned into a film. Then I thought of the attention I'd get. That suddenly Jones and I would be in the same business. That the old gang – minus Fanque – would crawl from the shadows, amused and delighted about the Jigsaw Man, wanting to get back together. I felt as though I had authored my own destru
ction.

  That particular worry slipped away with the script's singular lack of success. The curious instance of Marion Hightower, mystery film executive, did nothing to alter it, so convinced had I become that my film script was never going to become an actual film.

  Nevertheless, the nagging fear and the nagging doubt were always there. We were in our eighteenth year of marriage, but what if Brin discovered my early infidelity? And then I thought myself off a plane and was sent back in time six months, and I never gave it any more thought. First there was six months of another me living and sleeping with my wife; and then there was some crazy, indeterminate period, during which she thought I was dead. Jones and me seemed unimportant at last.

  I saw her on television once. An episode of Spooks. I was barely paying attention. I did a double take, and then there was no doubt. It was Jones. I stopped myself saying anything, and I think even stopped myself looking like I was watching. Brin never noticed.

  And that was it for Jones. Sometimes when I think about her I ask myself who I'd rather have been with. If I had a choice, and no one needed to get hurt, which one of them would I have gone for? I always, always come down on the side of Brin.

  Still lying after all these years.

  *

  I want to like Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I really do. It's regularly recognised as the greatest album of all time, although I often wonder if that's in the same way that critics recognise Citizen Kane as the greatest movie of all time, but in private they'd actually admit that they prefer The Empire Strikes Back.

  The album has that whole concept thing, of the Beatles being another band, and the sound is incredible, and if you consider this against even Help! from just a couple of years previously, which is basically an album of three-minute pop songs, you are just in awe of the progress they'd made. Yet, it's the songs themselves. Most of them are just all right, no better.