“Cora?” I open the door and the night brightens a little. She’s standing on the bottom step. Her hair is wet with snow, her arms wrapped around her in an effort to stay warm. Large white flakes settle on her head and melt. “Come in,” I say and she steps inside. “You look frozen. Are you alright?” Before I can think about it, I put my arms around her to warm her up, but she pulls herself away, gently. Well done, Romeo. You don’t get to do that anymore, remember?
I show her into the living room. “Have a seat by the fire.”
My mum stands up and kisses Cora on the cheek. “I was just on my way to bed,” she says. “It’s been a long day.” She smiles and leaves the room. Always tactful, my mother.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Alright,” Cora says, and smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous.
I go into the kitchen to get the bottle of whisky and another glass. I want to tell her about Amos, but I think I know what she’ll say. I check my face in the mirror and try to bring the unruly hair into some semblance of order. It doesn’t comply.
“Thanks,” she says, holding the glass while I pour. I sit down in the seat opposite and watch the firelight dance on her cheekbones. Her brow is creased into a frown and she bites her lower lip. I hope this isn’t about Sarah. I don’t need another nightmare tonight.
“So what’s up?”
“That man you spoke with today...”
“Yes?”
“Who is he?”
“He... he runs a science project. He offered me a job. It’s great isn’t it? Just like you said – something would come up.”
“Yeah. But there’s something not right about him.”
I don’t say anything.
“You know how you get a feeling about some people? Like when we wanted to rent the flat on Holloway Street, and then we met the guy who owned it?”
“Yeah, there was something dodgy about him.” There was. My gut feeling had been vindicated when we read in the paper later that he’d been given eighteen months for fraud.
“Exactly. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you knew there was something wrong.”
“So...”
“Well, I got the same feeling about the man we met today.”
“Oh, I think he’s alright. He’s just a businessman. They’re often a bit up themselves.”
“No, it’s more than that. God, Robert, this is difficult, after everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I never told you this.” She takes a gulp of whisky and watches the glass turning slowly in her hands. “I can pick up things about people that not everyone can.”
“You’re just empathic. That’s a good thing.”
“No, Robert, I can see things that not everyone can. I can see auras.”
“Auras.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to tell me she’s joking. But there’s not a hint of it in her face. She means it. She has gone off the deep end.
And you heard a dead man speak to you.
“Yes, auras. I never told you because I knew how you’d react, and it didn’t really matter before. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do.”
“You mean like lights – colours – around people?”
“Yes, that tell me something about them.”
“Okay... so what’s mine like?”
“Yours is...” She sits back, studying me. “Yours has changed, actually. It’s darker than it used to be.”
I’ve been flirting with madness, but at least I know the things I’ve been imagining are a direct result of too much pressure. She doesn’t – she believes they’re real. She has no insight. I feel my gut twist, but remember that it doesn’t need to bother me anymore; her tenuous grip on reality isn’t my problem now. So why am I feeling like I’m stepping into quicksand?
“Okay, okay. So what does this have to do with the man I spoke to today?”
“That’s why I’m here. He doesn’t have one. He doesn’t have an aura.”
“So... what does that mean?”
“I don’t know – I’ve never seen it before. Everyone has an aura. Everyone except him. I don’t know what it means” – she sits forward, her green eyes level with mine – “but be careful, Robert.”
Oh, come on, Cora. Bloody auras? “Alright,” I say. “I’ll be careful. But it could be a really good opportunity.”
“Robert, you can’t trust him.”
“I can’t pass up a chance like this, Cora. I’ll never get another one like it. I lost my job, remember? I appreciate your concerns, but I can’t just walk away from this because you think he doesn’t light up like the rest of us.”
She watches me for a moment then stands up. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you before.”
“No, wait, I’m sorry.” I get up and reach out to her. “I know you’re just trying to help.”
She holds her head high, but a frost has settled about her. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not,” she says, her voice measured and composed. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
She still cares. I feel a little lighter.
“I will.”
She lowers her eyes and moves to the door.
“I’ll walk you home if you like.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got the car. I’ll see you later.” And she leaves into the snowy, still night without looking back.
I think I still love her, even if she is wired to a Mars Bar. I close the door and go to bed.
When I get to my room, I open the top drawer in the chest of drawers. Same old clothes, a set of earphones and a walkman, a Swiss army knife. Unchanged since I moved out, fifteen years ago. I lift them aside to see if it’s still there. Tucked underneath a few T-shirts is an envelope, once white, now faded by time. I open it carefully and take out the photograph. It was taken in the cloisters of Cambridge University. My dad is wearing graduation robes and my mum’s in a long red dress, and they’re holding me up, aged three, between them. My mum’s laughing at the camera and my dad’s smiling at me like I mean everything to him. I used to have it in a frame on top of the chest of drawers, but when I left, my mum put it away, like she did with all of the other photos of him. But I like this one. It reminds me that he was there, once.
Chapter Six
WHY IS IT that when you need to sleep, your mind decides that this is the best time to bring to the surface all those things you can do nothing about? It’s like it’s been waiting until you can hardly string a thought together to spring them on you. I toss and turn for hours, beneath a pendulum which swings between Victor Amos and Cora. Why does she have to be so bloody crazy? It’s like she’s beckoning me from an island I can never hope to reach.
But what if she’s right about Amos?
I glance at the clock: 05:25. I get up and dress in jeans and a white shirt. Dressing for interviews was not part of the plan when I packed. I lift my mobile from the bedside table. I’ve got a message.
“Robert... eh, I know I’ve just spoken to you,” says Cora, “and you’re probably in bed by now, but... I wanted to ask...” Silence. I stare at the blank screen. It’s run out of charge. I grab the charger from the bedside table and stuff it in my rucksack. After leaving a note for my mum on the kitchen table, which explains what she already knows, I take my grey coat from the hook in the hall and open the door quietly. It’s still dark and the crisp air catches in my throat. A blackbird is singing like today is its last.
There’s no sign of dawn. The stars blink down in patches through dark gaps in the clouds, blending with the mountains that loom up from the edges of the glen. I make my way down the road to the main street over the glistening, frosted ground, through the sleeping village.
As I pass the kirk, a car engine starts up across the street. Headlights from a VW Golf cut into the dark and the passenger door swings open.
“Robert Strong?” The man leaning across from the driver’s seat looks about the same age as me.
I get in
to the car.
“I’m Peter Banks. Good to meet you.” We shake hands. He has a square face, cropped dark hair and an Irish accent.
“So where are we going?” I ask.
“We’re heading towards Perth.”
He U-turns the car and I watch Kildowan retreat in the side mirror.
“So do you work for Victor Amos?”
“I’ve worked with him on a few projects. I’m a prospector.”
“Is that what he does? Mining?”
Banks glances at me. “That’s part of it. It’ll make more sense when you speak to him. I hear you’re a physicist?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought about geophysics myself, but I prefer being out in the open. It’s long days, but I like the travel, and I get a decent amount of time at home between jobs.” He reaches behind his seat and pulls out a paper bag. “Donut?”
As we turn onto the A85, the red dawn swells in the east. It catches the scar on his left forearm, which snakes up to disappear under the sleeve of his black T-shirt. By the time we see the signposts for Perth, I’m still none the wiser about Amos. Banks is amiable, but skilled in nudging the rudder of a conversation. He talks a lot and tells me nothing. He takes the turnoff for Crieff.
CHILDREN IN GREY uniforms straggle to school along the pavements. We turn through a series of streets to the edge of the town and pull up beside an old stone, semi-detached house. A woman in a suit and holding a schoolbag and lunchbox is ushering a small girl out of the front door.
“Is this where we’re meeting Amos?”
Banks turns to me, ignoring my question. “You’re a business associate. Don’t say any more, and they won’t ask.”
He gets out of the car. I hesitate, but Banks gestures for me to follow.
“I’ll be home about six,” says the woman.
He kisses her on the cheek. “Okay. Have a good day.”
“Remember to pick up her gym kit,” she says. “She always forgets. Sophie, come on!”
Sophie is hunkered down, selecting pebbles from the ground and putting them into the pocket of her duffle coat. Banks crouches beside her. “That’s a good one,” he says, handing her a small stone. She pockets it and wraps her small arms around his neck. “Love you, daddy.”
“Have a good day, beautiful.”
“Let’s go, Sophie, we’re late,” says the woman, flashing a smile at me. “Nice to meet you – have a good meeting.” She bundles Sophie into the other car on the driveway as Banks holds open the front door. He locks it behind me.
I WAIT IN the hall as he goes into a room that looks like an office. He calls me in a moment or two later. There’s a bookcase against one wall lined with folders and rolled-up maps beside a desk with a computer.
“I’ll need your signature before we go on.” He hands me a pen and a document with the heading Official Secrets Act.
I look up at him without speaking.
“Some of what you’re going to see is highly classified.”
“I thought this wasn’t a government project.”
“It’s not. But we can’t go any further until you sign.”
I stare down at the paper without really reading it. I could back out, but what have I got to lose? I scrawl my signature and hand it back. “Now can you tell me what this is about?”
He leads me to the kitchen. I could use a cup of coffee, but he doesn’t offer. Instead he opens a door to a walk-in cupboard with a sloping roof. It’s stuffed with things that look like they haven’t been used for a while – a rack of old shoes, some rusty tools, a stack of pots and bowls layered with dust. He pulls back the linoleum, taps on an electronic keypad on the floor and and pulls a handle next to it. Light floods in from below.
“What’s going on?”
He looks up. “This will take you to Amos.”
“What? I’m not getting in there!”
“Look, I know it’s unusual, but this will all make sense when you speak to him.” He checks his watch.
I draw closer to the opening, expecting to see a cellar room, perhaps with Amos inside. Instead a ladder stretches down about thirty feet into an illuminated tunnel.
He steps aside. “Come on. We don’t want to keep Bishop waiting.”
This could be a big mistake. Unease and intrigue wash over me, and intrigue sticks. I find myself gripping the rails of the ladder and climbing down.
The tunnel is big enough to walk inside, well lit, warm and dry. Banks has closed the door above and follows me down, shutting out the world above us. No one knows I’m here.
“This way.” He leads me to the left.
“What is this place?”
He stops in front of a recess in the wall, where a silver door slides open. We step into the clean white lift and he pushes the button marked Sublevel One. We descend smoothly for what feels like too long.
“How deep are we going?”
“Ninety feet.”
“Is this a mine?”
“No. It’s not a mine.”
“What then? A military setup?”
The lift glides to a stop and the doors open. We step out into a white tunnel twice as big as the one above, lined with fluorescent panels every ten feet or so. It curves into the distance in both directions.
“Bishop will be here soon. Good luck with your project, Robert.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, and something falls to the ground as he heads back into the lift.
“Bishop? Wait a minute! How do I get out?” The doors glide shut between us.
What the fuck am I doing here?
I stoop to pick up what’s on the floor: a photograph of three women. Their woolly hats are dusted with snow and they’re laughing. The woman in the middle has arresting blue eyes, with a hint of bridled wildness in them. It’s signed on the back: To lifelong friendship.
A hum comes from the right. I pocket the picture as an electric buggy, driven by an older man, appears round the bend and whirs to a stop beside me. A pair of silky heeled legs swings out from the back.
“Mr Strong? I’m Dana Bishop.” She extends a slender, sleeveless arm and shakes my hand. Sleek, bobbed black hair and bold red lipstick: Dana Bishop is striking and comfortable with it. She lets her gaze run over me, then meets my eye. “I’m the Project Director for Mr Amos. If you agree to assist us, you’ll be working with me.”
THE BUGGY TAKES us deeper into the complex, through a network of interlinking tunnels. I lose track of where I’ve been.
“So how long has this place been here?”
“Since the Second World War.”
I glance up at the smooth white walls. It looks much more contemporary, out of character for a wartime construction.
“It’s been upgraded over time,” she says, watching my face. “It needs to be fit for purpose. Cigarette?”
She offers me an unmarked open green packet.
“I don’t smoke.”
“They’re antioxidant cigarettes – meant to improve your neutrophil function. We’ve been trialling them for a month.”
“Health cigarettes? Do they work?”
She takes a drag and closes her eyes. “They taste like shit.”
The buggy draws to a halt as the tunnel opens into a wide well lit atrium fed by seven main corridors, marked Sectors A to G, and populated by busy looking staff in suits and shirts. Far from the cellar room I expected when Banks pulled back the trapdoor, this is an underground colony. Dana strides past them, ignoring their acknowledgements, apart from the occasional nod. I pause and glance back.
“You won’t be going back that way,” Dana draws on her cigarette with a faint look of amusement. “You really think that’s the only way in and out of here?”
She leads me into G Sector, which seems quieter than the others, past a door marked ‘D Bishop Director of Operations’, towards the one at the end, which simply reads ‘VICTOR AMOS’. Dana pauses outside and breathes in, composing herself. She knocks then opens the door.
The room is spacious, white
and sparsely furnished. A wide desk sits at one end with a leather seat on each side. Victor Amos is standing in the middle of the room, facing a large balcony window, watching a flock of birds moving over the rooftops below. It takes me a moment to process that it’s not a window, but a projection. He turns as we enter.
“Ah, Mr Strong, good morning. I’m delighted you decided to come. Thank you Ms Bishop, I’ll take it from here.”
When Dana closes the door, he asks. “Have you heard of stigmery?”
“No.”
“It’s a key concept in swarm intelligence.” He turns back to the projection, which has morphed into a swarm of bees moving across a field. “I could watch them for hours. It’s as if they are one entity, each responding to the same thought. But that’s an aside.” He walks behind the desk and lifts a slim silver pot as the projection becomes a view over mountain ridges capped with snow. “Please, take a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
As he pours, he says, “I suspect you found your journey here to be somewhat unconventional. Given what we do here, I’m afraid it’s necessary.” He smoothes out his silk tie and settles into his high-backed leather seat. “So, Mr Strong. You must have been disappointed about the SightLabs closure. How long were you with them?”
“Five years.”
“That’s quite a long time. Your journal submission suggested that you were making some good progress with your research.”
I take a drink. Proper coffee, not the instant crap I usually buy. “We were close. The last thing we were expecting was that they would pull the funding.”
“It’s most unfortunate. But I suppose, in the current climate of recession, it is science and the arts that are the first casualties. And I am a great believer in both. Do you like art, Mr Strong?”
I glance at the abstract picture on the wall behind him: a grey background with what looks like the silhouette of trees at the bottom and a solid black circle at the top. “I don’t know a lot about it. But I can appreciate a good painting when I see one.” And I don’t like that one.
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