by Ben Jeapes
“Hey, right!”
*
It was finished on a Friday. Caroline was out on some task and Malcolm was in the back room going through publishers’ catalogues when he heard a cry of triumph from the front.
“The last one! That’s the last one!”
Ted was dancing a jig around the piles of books; he stumbled and stopped with a foolish grin when his employer came through.
“Finished?” Malcolm said.
“Every last one, Mr Lloyd! Every last one! Aristotle to Zola. Arts to … Zoology. Um … Annuals to–”
“All right, all right. Let’s see.”
Ted, still flushed with pride, looked on while Malcolm sat down at the computer and called up a few titles at random, just to show that he could. “You’ve put a lot of work into this, Ted. Well done.”
“Thanks, Mr Lloyd.”
“In fact, I think a celebration is in order.” Malcolm pulled out his wallet and handed Ted a five pound note. “You’re over eighteen, aren’t you? And there’s an off-licence just round the corner, I think. I’ll trust your judgement, and remember to get a receipt.”
“I’ll be right back, Mr Lloyd.” Ted hurried out with the money and left Malcolm alone with the computer … the shop … the sanctuary.
He looked lovingly about him. Yes, it really was going to be all right. All the care and attention he and Caroline and Ted had put in … this was it.
He turned back to the computer and his fingers played over the keyboard at random. He glanced up at the screen and screamed as the Grey People welled out and took him.
*
Grey covered him and he floated in its vileness while they came at him, ecstatic at having him in their grasp once more. They touched his clothes and his clothes rotted away. Their hands played over him and his skin began to dissolve. They reached through him, through his blood vessels, through the layers of muscle and fat, deep, deep down into the heart of Malcolm Lloyd.
They reached into his brain and started work on who he was, peeling away his identity like layers of an onion. Biting down the panic that made him want to give up and give in, he recited what he knew, anything at all, keeping it active in his mind where they couldn’t get at it.
“I’m … Malcolm Lloyd. M-Malcolm … Arthur Lloyd. B- born … born … September–”
It vanquished Descartes. Cogito ergo sum had no meaning here because, though he might indeed think, his thoughts were as a baby’s. Meaningless, uncomprehending. Unimportant. Insignificant.
He felt the cold start at his extremities and work inwards and, like Socrates with his hemlock, he knew that when the cold reached his heart he would be nothing. Malcolm Lloyd would be gone.
It cleared in patches, like mist. Vision returned through rapidly shrinking patches of grey.
(“Malcolm!”)
He saw whiteness. Dirty whiteness. He stared up at the ceiling, aware of something nearer his eyes.
A face. A person. Love. Warmth. Familiar.
(“Malcolm!”)
His lips moved.
“C … Ca-”
She helped him up. He was lying flat on the floor, his feet still up on the chair. He had fallen over backwards as the Grey People rushed out at him. There were tears in her eyes.
“It was them again, wasn’t it?” she said. He nodded. “They got in, didn’t they? But how–”
“’S’okay,” he mumbled. He felt strength returning as he drew on Caroline’s own energy.
“It is not okay! We … we sell everything, we buy this place, we come for sanctuary, somewhere we can be at peace and yet they’re still here–”
She trailed off and looked up. Malcolm gingerly moved his head and saw a young man standing in the doorway, staring at them with round eyes. A bottle wrapped in green tissue paper dangled from one hand.
The boy was in his late teens or early twenties, of average height. His hair was gelled and he wore a T-shirt and jeans and trainers. All this Malcolm took in at once. He had no idea who the newcomer actually was.
“What’s happening?” the boy asked.
“Malcolm’s had a kind of turn,” Caroline said, ‘but he’s better now.”
He knows my first name, Malcolm thought. I should know him.
“Oh no! Can I help? I’ll call an ambulance or–”
“No, no,” Malcolm croaked. He held up a hand. “Help me up, that’s all.”
Together they got him into a chair. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Lloyd?” the boy asked.
“Take the rest of the day off, um–” Malcolm gave up trying to remember the name. “Yes, take the rest of the day off and I’ll be fine in the morning. I promise.”
*
“Ted,” Malcolm said. The name rang no bells at all.
“He’s done so much for us, dear,” said Caroline. “We met his parents at that drinks party.”
“Drinks party?”
“Oh, Malcolm–”
Malcolm shrugged. “I’m sorry.” He stood up and paced around the room. Then he went out into the front room of the shop and looked about him. Caroline followed. “You’ll be glad to know I remember all this,” Malcolm said. “It’s The Agora, and I remember thinking how safe it was from the Grey People. So, why isn’t it?” He walked back to the computer. “It’s this bloody machine, isn’t it?” he said. “It–”
“No, not that,” Caroline said. “You told me you’d decided it was safe. Something to do with software.”
“Really?” Malcolm looked surprised. “Okay, it’s not the computer. It’s not you or me. It’s not the books. Ergo, it must be–”
“Malcolm, no!”
“–Ted.”
“No!” Caroline said. “Malcolm, he can’t be! You’ve always said how pleased you are with him. You said he was careful, and … and meticulous, and … and everything the Grey People aren’t.”
“I liked him?”
“You liked him a lot. He’s … he’s a good boy, Malcolm. Malcolm, I’m sorry, but it was you.”
“It was not!”
“Shut up and listen, Malcolm Lloyd. Malcolm, for the last thirty years you’ve been surrounded by … by a kind of unofficial bodyguard, you know who I mean, and now it’s just me. You know that–”’ She tapped her head. “–up here but you don’t feel it. You’re still living as if all the others were around you, and they aren’t. You got careless. You were so convinced you were safe, you let your mental guard down, and look what happened.”
Malcolm said nothing.
“Malcolm, we need to start recruiting a new bodyguard, now, and Ted should be the first.”
“Ted?” Malcolm said. “Darling, he’s … he’s young. He may be a good boy, maybe I liked him, but–”
“But?” Caroline said.
“He’s … he’s … young.” Malcolm still couldn’t think of a word that better conveyed his objections.
“You were young once.” The argument didn’t seem to impress Caroline. “I’ve seen your birth certificate.”
“Okay, put it this way.” Malcolm was collecting his thoughts. “Our friends back home – sorry, back in Cambridge – they were … they were our sort of people, Caroline. And our sort of age. They’d been through life, they knew its ups and downs and slings and arrows, they’d been knocked about a bit. They knew life and they savoured it and they enjoyed it–”
“And Ted doesn’t?”
“They had experience, darling. They were on their guard, they didn’t let things past them, they-’ Malcolm waved a hand in frustration. It was so clear to him. “They’d grown up. Ted has plenty of potential but he still has some growing to do.”
“I see.” It looked as if he were finally getting through to her. Caroline stood with her arms folded, gazing at the floor. “Well, dear, Ted’s the only one we have, and if he needs to do some growing, if he needs to be knocked about a bit, we’ve got to start now.”
Malcolm held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Oh, no,” he murmured.
*
There were tears in Ted’s eyes too, the next morning. “But … have I done anything, Mr Lloyd? Is it something wrong–”
“Ted, Ted, you’ve done nothing wrong, nothing at all,” Malcolm said. It helped that he didn’t remember the boy, but he could see it was hurting and he knew the pain that Caroline was feeling, and both those things stung him. “You’d have to go soon, anyway, when term starts,” he said. “We’re just letting you go a month early. You’re young and you should have a life, not be stuck here all the time. You should be out with your friends and your girlfriend. Look, you won’t lose out.” He held up a cheque. “A month’s extra pay, and a bonus on top of that, for all the great help you’ve given us. And, next holidays, there’s bound to be a job for you here.”
“If you’re sure–”
“I’m sure, Ted, really.”
“I mean, I could at least finish the day–” Ted was beginning to sound desperate. “There’s the catalogue to set, and–”
“It’s okay, Ted.” Malcolm tried to spare him the humility of pleading and used the tone which he had used on students to indicate that no further argument was needed or wanted. He saw Ted bite his lip as the realisation finally sank in: he really wasn’t wanted any more. Just like that.
“Right,” Ted said. A pause. “I’ll … I’ll be off, then.” He tried to be cheerful, disastrously. “I’ll see you.”
“Remember your cheque, Ted.”
“Oh. Yes. Thanks.” They looked at each other for a long moment. “Well, ‘bye,” Ted said, and left. Malcolm turned and went slowly into the back room. Caroline stood and put her arms round him and they held each other, tight.
“God, that hurt,” Malcolm said.
He could see it from Ted’s point of view, but he could see further ahead as well. Two people that the young man had come to regard as friends, who he trusted and who were clearly fond of him in return, had abruptly turned round and slapped him in the face; but he had always regarded them as slightly cracked and perhaps, in the boy’s mind, that explained it all. It would add to his character, as pain and hurt always did; it would help him develop and mature and grow as a bulwark against the Grey People. If he came through this then he would be fit for Malcolm’s bodyguard.
“It won’t last,” Caroline said.
“Doesn’t make it any easier.”
That evening, Caroline would go round to Ted’s house. She would explain that Malcolm was still affected by his ‘turn’. He wasn’t thinking straight or behaving normally. But they did want him, they did value his services, and Caroline had talked Malcolm back to reason. So, would he come back? And then it would be up to Ted. If he could swallow his pride, if he could forgive the hurt, wonderful. And after what had happened today, he would always be on his guard. He would always be careful.
If not–
Que sera. Either way, Malcolm would win. If he came back, that was one more for the bodyguard. If he didn’t, then the pain of the sacrifice Malcolm had made would hurt the Grey People. They certainly wouldn’t be expecting that.
He looked out of the window at New Canal. This was the new battleground. “I’m going to get you, you bastards,” he murmured. “Watch me come.”
[The End]
First published in Substance no. 4, Winter 1996.
About Ben Jeapes
An overdose of TV science fiction as a child doomed Ben Jeapes to life as a science fiction author. He took up writing in the mistaken belief that it would be quite easy (it isn’t) and save him from having to get a real job (it didn’t). His novels to date are His Majesty’s Starship, The Xenocide Mission, Time’s Chariot, The New World Order, Phoenicia’s Worlds, The Teen, the Witch & the Thief, and The Comeback of the King. His short story collection Jeapes Japes is also available, containing 18 short stories originally published in Interzone, Fantasy & Science Fiction and other venues.
His ambition is to live to be 101 and 7 months, so as to reach the 1000th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings and the arrival – as family lore has it – of the man responsible for his surname in the British Isles. He is English, and is as quietly proud of the fact as you would expect of the descendant of a Danish mercenary who fought for a bunch of Norsemen living in northern France.
He lives in Abingdon-on-Thames and his homepage is at www.benjeapes.com.
Other books by Ben Jeapes
The Teen, the Witch & the Thief
Phoenicia’s Worlds
The New World Order
Time’s Chariot
The Xenocide Mission
His Majesty’s Starship
Jeapes Japes
www.benjeapes.com
