He’d headed west out of Sheffield, after wrapping himself in several layers and stopping to grab a torch as he left the house. He’d intended to be outdoors for as long as possible, and the sun was already setting by the time he’d left. Paul didn’t much fancy spending his last few hours alive nursing a broken leg, courtesy of an unseen rabbit hole.
After about half an hour, he’d found himself driving through the beautiful fields around the Ladybower Reservoir. He could appreciate the area based on past experience; at the time it was far too dark to see anything outside of his headlamp beams. This would do. Driving became a pain anyway, constantly having to wipe the tears from his eyes and clear mucus from his nose, his chest heaving steadily all the while. He’d had to park the car at an almost forty-five-degree angle, as there was no space between the road edge and the steep grassy embankment. The road had been very narrow, but not too winding at this point, and with his hazard lights on in the night other drivers would have plenty of time to avoid him. Plus, what would the police do? Give him a ticket? It wasn’t exactly something he would have to worry about.
As he’d got out of the car, his breath fogging in the chill February evening, he’d slipped his hands into his pockets for his gloves. He’d felt the weight of Straub’s phone in there for the umpteenth time, fingered its edge gingerly.
She can wait. Bugger her. They can all wait. Half an hour, it’s not much to ask.
He’d slipped on his gloves, grabbed the torch from the passenger seat, and turned it on. The powerful floodlit beam had revealed a low road barrier on the opposite side, a small ditch beyond that, and a wooden fence. Easy obstacles to clear, even for a man of his size and low fitness, and then he would have free access into the sweeping, open fields beyond. A place to sit. A place to be as much in the open air as possible, to feel himself and the earth breathe.
The thought had given him pause. What the fuck was he doing here? How had he ended up like this, desperate and wanting to sit in the mud because it somehow made him feel alive? A year previous, on the same month, he’d been celebrating his mate Rich’s fiftieth. Holly had been there too, of course. They’d drank and laughed back then, and watched Mick and Jenny’s kids and half-jokingly talked about some of their own. But this year, as he stood outside with the night air stinging his cheeks, he’d thought that maybe that was the last time he’d ever felt really, really good. Paul then found himself thinking how he’d had no idea what was coming. How he never could have known. How he would become another person entirely, shaped utterly by forces outside of his control and events in which he had played no part in the planning. He’d stood in the road and wanted so, so badly to go back to that past version of himself and warn him, but of course, he couldn’t. The old Paul would still just get up on the next Monday morning, maybe even treat himself to a nice fried breakfast, drive to work whistling along with the radio, duck into the toilet for a cheeky half hour with that day’s tabloid, and then maybe think about finally getting some work done by 9:45 a.m., blissfully and totally unaware. Unaware of the time to come when he would be stood in the dark, weeping and thinking existential thoughts and forced into planning his own suicide.
He’d set off, crossing the road barrier and the other obstacles with less ease than he’d originally expected due to the bulky layers he was wearing, but still feeling a slight sense of calm as he felt his boots squelch into the soft, wet grass. The torch had lit up a path directly ahead of him; it revealed thick patches of dry shrub grass here and there, and a few small, leafless trees scattered randomly around the expanse. Up in the distance, there was the base of a large hill, one that a quick scan revealed went on in both directions for some way. He’d flicked the torch off for a second and given his eyes time to adjust to the light. Once they had, he’d actually grinned as he saw the stars above. That was what he’d wanted; to be out in the open, and for as long as he could allow it he could tell himself that he wasn’t trapped at all, that all of this was his to wander around in. Just for a while.
He’d decided to walk until he found somewhere dry to sit. Then, he’d told himself, he would call Straub, and they would take things from there. He’d know, after all, when the barriers were up. He was certain he’d feel it.
That had all been several hours ago, and he’d crossed over four fields in the meantime before coming to rest on a stile. It formed a perfect seat; the stile itself forming the base, and the fence slats acting as the backrest. He’d cried a bit when he sat down, then stared off into the sky once he’d done so, thinking about, of all things, Sheffield United, and the realisation that if they ever got back into the Premiership then he wouldn’t be around to see it. That had nearly set him off again, but instead, he’d had a thought that made him smirk in the darkness. Even without the Stone Men’s arrival, he didn’t think he’d have lived to see that.
Paul had been sitting on the stile ever since. He wasn’t frightened of the dark; he never had been, even as a child. He’d always been one of those kids whose sense of adventure far outweighed his fear. All he’d been feeling since he’d sat on the stile was a strange sense of calm, one that only shifted into panic whenever he thought about having to call Straub. Even though he knew they’d all be walking soon, he waited. At first he’d justified it with anger (I’ve done enough, it’s cost me enough, and now I’m losing everything) and then with logic (I’ll feel it when they start to walk and Straub can have a chopper here in twenty minutes, or a guy with a gun. I’m allowed this last time, surely?) but even when he’d felt the vibration slam through his bones that let him know his Stone Man, at least—the one coming for him—had set off, the phone remained unused. After a while he’d quietly stopped trying to justify it to himself, and somehow, that felt okay to him. The more he pushed the thoughts away, he found that he felt calmer still. The only thing that felt bad was the idea of calling Straub. That brought everything back when he thought of it, and so he did it less and less. He was aware of a strong sinking feeling though, of a dropping of his chin; as Paul remained sitting on the stile and more time passed, he began to find that, for some, anything could be given up as long as it wasn’t one’s life. He was surprised.
He was aware of the cold, but thanks to his many thermal layers, he thought he could handle it and sit there pretty much indefinitely. The thought had great appeal; his own quiet little space, alone with his thoughts. He wondered how much space he’d have, eventually, once his barrier was up, how much room to wander and breathe (of course, though, he told himself, that it wouldn’t come to that, that he’d call Straub first. Eventually. He just wanted a bit more time). He let the thought linger for a moment. Just how big was the inside area of a barrier, after all? His mind instantly skipped to his last frame of reference, going through the available evidence and finding the best piece instantly. Patrick. How far had he gotten outside of his house, before he ran into the barrier in a blind panic and trapped himself in the spider’s web? About forty feet, maybe? Maybe fift—
Paul jumped to his feet, electrified.
Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Surely … surely …
He hardly dared to believe he might have something. Even if he did, it was so miniscule, so … so barely there as a chance, that he couldn’t hang his hopes on it, couldn’t allow himself to even consider salvation, as it would be beyond cruelty to do so and it then turn out to be wrong. He was a drowning man who had seen a small shape on the horizon, unsure what it could be and uncertain regardless that it could reach him in time. But the shape was there, nonetheless. They didn’t know everything about the Stone Man, and the variables were immense, so there had to at least be a chance that he was right …
He began to pace back and forth at speed, rubbing his face and babbling his thoughts out loud, unaware that he was doing it. His fingers twitched and his breathing became rapid—almost to the point of hyperventilating—as he checked and double-checked all the Stone Man facts that he knew, or thought he knew. He paced as he tried to poke holes in his own realisation,
testing it soundly yet desperately hoping for it to pass, like a man of lapsed faith confronted with a miracle. As he did so, and his idea began to stand up more and more against it all, his feverish excitement grew, despite his best attempts to contain it.
This could work. This could really WORK!
But Straub! He would have to convince Straub to … to what? Paul realised that yes, he had the vague shape of a plan, but that was it. No logistics, no details. If he were to even have a ghost of a chance of convincing Straub, he would have to have the whole thing perfectly laid out, with as many variables covered as possible. He checked his watch; nearly 11:00 p.m. He’d delayed so long already, and they were walking now. He knew he couldn’t wait much longer, but he had to get his story straight. His life might depend on it.
Paul turned his smartphone onto its note writing function. He began to get it all down on electronic paper with frantic hands, actually beginning to sweat despite the cold. His quivering thumbs drove him mad as he did so, and several times he had to stop and let out a scream of frustration to the night sky. His attempts to get his adrenalized body to put his mind’s desires on record via a precision instrument were torture, and yet he didn’t notice the small, steady flow of tears that streamed down his face and froze his cheeks in the chill night breeze. The madman’s smile on his face was desperate, and his eyes were wide white-and-red circles in the dark.
Eventually, after he’d finished, and read and reread it several times whilst making small adjustments to it here and there, he was ready to go. He took a deep breath, and switched on Straub’s phone.
Even when he pushed Straub’s name in the phone’s contact book—the only other name in the contacts book being David’s, but Paul wasn’t going to be dealing with that guy—the call kept failing, much to Paul’s nerve-rattling frustration, but the reason for that soon became clear. The torrent of texts, voice mails, and e-mails that flooded in after a few minutes of unsuccessful call attempts told him both that the phone, after being switched on, had been too busy gathering all of his waiting communication formation, and that Straub and her people had been trying very hard indeed to get hold of him. He almost thought about reading some of the texts and listening to the voice mails, but decided against it, pushing forward impatiently. If there was anything in them that might actually offer him salvation, Straub would surely tell her himself straightaway … but he doubted very much that that salvation was the content of the messages.
The next call that he attempted connected successfully, and the phone was answered on the other end after one ring. Paul waited for her to speak, and initially there was an odd silence on the other end, save for a faint rustling sound. It was a sound Paul knew; the sound of someone holding a phone mouthpiece to their chest to muffle it. He could picture Straub clearly, barking at the rest of the room to shut the fuck up, he’s on the line.
The muffled sound lifted, and Paul could now hear machine noises in the background, but nothing else. Straub paused before she spoke, and when she did, her voice was calm, soothing and controlled … but the effort it was taking to make it so was clear in every gentle syllable.
“Paul,” she said, trying to sound warm but managing only ice cold, “we’ve been trying to get hold of you. Are you all right?”
“Yes … I mean no, no … I mean, look, I’ve been busy,” Paul bleated, wincing at I’ve been busy despite his frantic state of mind. It was the most lame comeback possible in the face of world-changing events. “I mean … sorry, I’m bloody sorry. This is just bloody hard to handle, all of this. I’m just …” Paul trailed off, taking in the field around him, the starry night sky, the feeling of the cold breeze as it made his skin raise. He had to bite down on fresh tears.
Not now, Winter. This is NOT the time. Keep it together.
“Of course it is, no one’s blaming you,” replied Straub, and Paul thought she might even mean it, despite the stress of her own situation. After all, could anyone really blame him for not just handing himself in? Could they? “This isn’t a normal situation, Paul. But you’re calling me now, aren’t you, and that’s a start. I can only imagine how hard that alone must have been for you, so you’re making a hell of an effort, and I appreciate that, I do.”
Paul listened closely, thinking he heard another voice nearby on Straub’s end, a whispered stream of words in the background. He couldn’t make out what the words were, but he could guess. The adviser, the negotiator, listening in to the call and prepping Straub’s responses for her. These were the pros, after all. Paul reminded himself to be extra aware of whom he was dealing with.
“Good, good, I’m glad, thank you,” replied Paul, his voice shaking as he began to play his own negotiating game. “I … I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m listening,” said Straub, after a very telling pause, “it’s the least I can do, considering … what we’re asking of you.” The second pause was too short to be a thinking pause, and the words afterwards were spoken too fast. Straub had attempted to cover the fact that she had someone giving her cues, and failed. Paul decided not to let on that he knew. He took a deep breath, and tried the gamble that might save his life.
“I wanted to suggest something,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, his eyes shut. “I know that you probably already know where I am now, and that you’re also probably on your way. And that’s okay, I know I’ve … been taking a long time to get in touch, and that you have a job to do. I understand all that. So I’m not going to go anywhere, and I’ll sit here and wait for you lot to turn up, I promise. The barriers will be up soon anyway, and I know you’re trying to get to me before they do, so you can … take care of things. And that, that, you know, that’s fine too. I just want you to listen to me for a few minutes, and hear what I have to say, and then you can do with it what you like. Straight shooting, cards on the table. All right?”
There was silence on the line, except for the continued background hum of whatever machines Straub’s team had working in the background. Paul began to panic a little.
“All right?” he repeated, more anxiousness in his voice than he would have liked.
“Hold on,” said Straub, all business now, the false honey gone from her voice, and then the muffle came back on the line. All Paul could hear was the rustling sound in his ear, and the almost deafening thud of his heart in his chest. The muffle lifted, and when Straub came back, she was to the point.
“Okay, Winter, straight shooting. We’re all ears. You have about ten minutes until our team are there, so I’d make it good. We weren’t a million miles away from your position as it is, being totally honest. Our new guys—the ones who came forward—checked out. Together, they had it down to about a hundred mile radius from where you are now, and they were closing. They’re not as good as you two were, which explains why it took us so long to be convinced by them, but they work at least.” She caught her breath for a moment, and then, to Paul’s surprise, she sighed. “That’s coming out wrong. I didn’t mean it that way. It was supposed to make you feel better; that we have people that can still help, that can save lives.” She sighed again. “I do mean it about not judging you though, Paul. I’m pissed off it’s taken you this long to turn up—and if I’m honest, I’m surprised as well—but I can’t say you’re a totally bad person for it. It’s the biggest thing to ask of someone, after all.”
“The new guys,” asked Paul. “Do they know what’s happened to me and Andy? As in, do they know two of their targets are the people who used to …?”
Again, a lengthy silence.
“No,” said Straub eventually, and firmly. “They don’t. And I’m sure that even you’d agree it needs to stay that way. No?”
“I don’t know,” answered Paul, rubbing his eyes as he suddenly felt incredibly, unbearably tired. His head started to throb. “I don’t fucking know.” A thought occurred to him. “Andy. Have you … where’s Andy?” This time, there was no hesitation from Straub. Relaying bad news was obviously something she was more
experienced with.
“He took care of things himself. He didn’t want our help. I spoke to him this morning. His body has been recovered from the car park of a Birmingham hotel since; he’d jumped out of the penthouse window. He wouldn’t have suffered, Paul, jumping from that height. It would have been instant. He died a hero.”
The weight in Paul’s stomach doubled, and he had to steady himself as a wave of nausea washed over him. He knew it was coming, but for it to be so final was too much, and almost as much was knowing that Andy had the stones to get the job done … while Paul didn’t. And even in that moment, the voice that whispered SURVIVE told him that it didn’t matter, that he had a job to do. He tried to get his lips moving, but for a moment, nothing came out but a high-pitched, barely audible whine.
“Winter? Paul? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” whispered Paul, dragging himself back to conscious function by sheer force of will. “I need …” He coughed. “I need you to listen.”
“You already said that. I know, Paul.”
“Uh. Ah. Yes. Yes … I …”
“Breathe, take your time. This is your time.”
Paul slammed his left heel into his right shin, and the sharp physical pain focused him.
“Okay. Yes. I have something I want to suggest to you,” he said, breathing deeply and slowly. “I have a proposal.”
***
The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller Page 38
