Antman

by Robert V. Adams

  'You have to be polite to policemen.'

  I'll bet Laura curses her son's precision memory, thought Helen. Then, out loud, 'Ooops, nearly missed the turning.'

  She glanced into the mirror quickly and swung into the right lane at the traffic lights on the ring road out of town. Her driving instructor always said that she under-used her wing mirror. On this occasion she would have had to be far more vigilant to have noticed the car tailing her, almost a quarter of a mile behind.

  Graver lit a cigarette as he drove. This was looking good. They were beyond the edge of the built-up area now. He suffered a momentary pang of doubt about the efficiency of his tampering with her engine. But at that very moment the car in front swerved, slowed and pulled rapidly into the side of the road and then bumped up onto the verge. The hazard warning lights came on. Graver allowed his taxi to coast along and slowed as he came alongside. He called through his open window, just as Helen was easing herself out on the road side.

  'Problems?'

  'God knows. I'm in such a hurry and it has to cut out.'

  He pulled in front and parked up on the wide verge. He glanced approvingly in both ways, but took care to shake his head. Not a car in sight in either direction.

  'Just your luck eh? That's the way it goes. Are you in the AA?'

  'We were. To be honest I can't tell you if the membership has lapsed. We never talk about these things. Anyway, even if it hasn't the card is at home, in my other bag. So we can forget it.'

  Graver walked round to the front of her car.

  'Let's have a look under the bonnet then? See what the problem is.'

  Her hopes rose. 'Do you know about engines then?'

  'I look after mine, if that's what you mean. He nodded back at the taxi. But mine's a diesel. Chalk and cheese, if you see what I mean.'

  'Oh, right.' Her heart fell again. Possibly not so simple after all.

  She fell in with his guidance, got in and released the bonnet catch. He lifted it and stared expertly, fishing around for a few minutes till he judged it right to pick up the offending connection. 'Aha!'

  'What is it?'

  'Fractured petrol feed, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh. Can't it be fixed then?'

  'Yes, it's a straightforward enough job.'

  'Good, I'm in such a hurry you see.'

  'Right. Only problem is, I can't do it here without the repair pack. It would start leaking again, petrol all over the engine, fire risk, that sort of thing.'

  'Oh.'

  How stupid I seem, thought Helen. Of course he can't fix it. He's a casual passer-by. What do you expect, she said to herself roughly. Jim'll fix it?

  Ten minutes later, they were all in the taxi, three passengers in the back and Graver driving in front, speeding along towards his destination. The fog and the growing darkness helped to obscure the change of route until it was far too late and by the time they disembarked at the remote farmhouse, Helen's tiredness was overcoming everything, even her anxieties at what was happening to them.

  The exception – Graver felt compelled to make an exception – to his self-imposed rule not to send any messages to victims, their families or friends, was his phone call to Laura. He had to telephone her, to assure her that there was another man in the world at least as clever as her husband, possibly even cleverer. And yes, there was another reason, which he hardly admitted to himself until he actually made the call.

  'Hello.'

  ‘Who is this?'

  'Hello.'

  ‘Who is this please?'

  'Mrs F.'

  'Yes. But I said –'

  'Mrs F-O-R-T-I-U-S.' He spelt it out quietly, so his passengers couldn’t hear. He repeated the letters slowly, rolling each sound round his mouth, because it amused him to be using them in a legitimate conversation, not a fantasy. 'You will say nothing about this conversation to anybody. Be quiet and listen.'

  Silence at the other end.

  'Can you hear me?'

  Still silence.

  'Mrs F, if you don't answer you will never see your children again.'

  'Yes.'

  'Yes what?'

  'Yes I agree.'

  'Mrs F.' There it was again, the frisson of power. It didn't happen every time, but was well worth trying for. 'Let us be clear. I am making a statement and you have to confirm. This is not a question, but a statement. You will ask nothing, you simply agree. Understand?'

  'I understand.'

  'You will say nothing about this conversation to anyone, not even your husband.'

  Her voice almost disappeared, she was in such a nervous state. 'No.'

  'No what?'

  'I will say nothing.'

  'Right, that's lovely. We're making progress. Now –' A sudden thought struck him. 'You are alone, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'No other person in the house?'

  'No.'

  'No tape recorders, bugs or other interferences? I can tell that you know I will carry out my threat if you make any attempt whatever to –'

  Laura's voice rose steadily, nearly out of control: 'Nothing, no nothing, please believe me.'

  'Good, good.'

  He was back to the soothing tone again: 'I take it you want to see your children again.'

  'Yes.'

  'And you will do anything I require in order to achieve this.'

  'Yes.'

  'You will drive to a place I will indicate. You will have with you in the car a recording of Bruckner. It will be Bruckner's seventh symphony.'

  'That's no problem, honestly. I think we have a record of that. I'm almost positive. Something by Bruckner, anyway.'

  'Mrs F, hear me clearly. I'm sorry, but "Something by Bruckner" is not good enough. You will bring with you the recording of the original scoring of the seventh symphony.'

  'Oh, I don't know if we have that.' She spoke in a sudden rush. 'I suppose there's always the library, or the music shop.'

  'Many people don't search diligently enough, Mrs F. But I assure you it makes a considerable difference. Sheep from goats, you know.'

  'Yes, I'll do everything –'

  She was talking to emptiness. He had hung up.

  No directions. He had rung off without giving her directions. For a quarter of an hour – it seemed like a lifetime – she paced about, scoured the house, homed in on the record, cassette and CD collections in the lounge, in Tom's study and in their bedroom. 'Oh my God, what do I do? What if he rings before I find it? What if I don't find it? Will there be time to go to the music shop in town? Will I have to order it? Perhaps he'll kill the children before I manage to reach them.'

  She collapsed on the floor, surrounded by piles of recordings, a chaos of classical, romantic, operatic, modern, folk, jazz, everything sent to taunt her except the record she was looking for. And she didn't even know whether they had it.

  Brr brrr. Brr brrr. The phone rang, double rings, insistently.

  Laura flew to answer it. Quick, before it stops!

  'Yes?'

  'Is that the lady of the house, Mrs Fortius? I'll introduce myself. I'm not trying to sell you anything. Quite to the contrary, you may be able to help us and benefit yourself.'

  'Who is this?'

  'Have you had heating problems in the cold snap last winter?'

  'Who is speaking please?'

  'Howard of Double Glazing Consultants speaking.'

  She slammed the phone down. It rang again. Brr brrr.

  'Hello.'

  'Oh, Howard here again Mrs B. I forgot to add details of our special bonus –'

  'Get off the phone,' she shouted. 'I'm expecting an important call. If you ring me again I'll kill you.'

  'Mrs B, did I mishear? I only –'

  'You did, I'm sorry.' She was so confused. 'The dog made me spill my coffee and I was shouting at him. I've burned my hand. So if you'll ring back some other time.'

  'Of course, and remember we're only a phone call away. Byee.'

  Graver had one more call to make
. He would enjoy making this before anybody else and very carefully placed a muffler over the mouthpiece of the receiver before dialling.

  'Mr F?' He put a slight emphasis on the Mr. He'd planned this detail of misdirection and was particularly proud of it. 'I'm ringing about your children. Are you sure you know who is looking after them?'

  He rang off immediately. He liked the idea of this. This was turning out to be one of his particularly focused days.

  'The children,' Laura shouted and there was nobody to hear. 'The children. How could I forget? Helen was taking them. She’s picking them up later and taking them to play at friends this morning, with Mum. I must get through to Mum.' She picked up the phone. ‘No, what am I thinking of? They’ll be at school. Helen’s collecting them later.’ Her hand was shaking so much she dropped the receiver. There was a cracking sound and it lay on the tiled floor buzzing like a dying bee, the plastic cover on one side, the intricate interior wiring on the other. 'My God, another phone. I must find one. Tom's study.' She raced for the stairs.

  In the study she was reminded of Tom. She'd ring him first.

  It wasn't surprising that Tom's direct number was engaged. Graver's neat contrivance ensured their panic was mutual and simultaneous. It was several minutes before one of them put the receiver down long enough for the other to get through.

  Part Four

  Inside the Labyrinth

  Chapter 37

  Laura was distraught. She should never have let the children out of her sight. She had a strong premonition that a disaster had occurred. Thunder rolled like a distant drum. She ran to the window and looking out saw a massive storm cloud piling up to westward. Had they taken their coats? In such a serious situation, it was as though the only way she could cope was to think of such unimportant details.

  * * *

  The children went off happily into the man's garden. They didn't know his name but Matthew thought he recognised his voice from visits to Daddy's work.

  'I met you once,' he said.

  'I don't think so,' said the man.

  'Are you Daddy's friend?' asked Matthew.

  'You could say that,' said the man.

  'Helen says to go and play. She's coming in a minute,' said the man. 'You can go and play in the maze.'

  'He thinks Helen's a real nanny,' said Sarah.

  'A maze. Gosh how exciting!' exclaimed Matthew, all thoughts of where Helen had gone set aside. The two children ran off into the maze, to engage in that most delightful of childhood games – hide and seek.

  'You can't find me,' called Matthew.

  'Yes I can,' Sarah shouted.

  But try as she might, she could not reach him. The tall hedges with their close-cropped foliage baffled her. It was particularly confusing to hear him so close and change direction, only to find her way blocked by a barrier. It was a thick matting of hop poles, netting, hedging and creepers, which in the half light formed as effective a screen as any solid wooden fence.

  'Where are you, Matthew?' Her voice had an edge to it now. She was beginning to feel anxious.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and Sarah trembled. She was frightened and she'd seen many times Matthew's terror in thunderstorms. She desperately hoped it would go away.

  'Here. Come this way.'

  'Matthew, I want to find you.'

  'You can't yet. You have to go round the other way.'

  Sarah's voice rose as the anxiety steadily grew.

  'I want this game to end.'

  'It can't end till you find me,' he called tantalisingly.

  Sarah started to run. She hurried towards his voice, only to find her way completely barred by a wall of branches. She heard him but couldn't see. She couldn't breathe properly. Tears and panic flooded her.

  The man couldn't be Daddy's friend if he let her become lost. Unless it was an accident.

  'Matthew,' she called. 'Is the man really Daddy's friend?'

  'Of course,' said Matthew.

  'He shouldn't let you be horrid to me.'

  'He isn't.'

  'I'll tell Daddy if you don't play with me properly.'

  'I am.'

  There was an unmistakable clap of thunder. Matthew heard it. 'That's thunder.'

  'It isn't, stupid,' she said. 'It's a plane in the distance.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Cross my heart,' she said.

  Unseen by Matthew, Sarah sniffed and quietly started to cry.

  'Coming now,' called Matthew, running to the end of the avenue of hedging and turning left to bring him to her.

  Sarah wasn't there. He turned left and ran again. She wasn't at the end of that row either. Matthew's stomach tightened as he heard Sarah calling, further away this time.

  'Matthew, Matthew where are you?'

  'I'm here,' he shouted, a dreadful panic seizing him and raising the pitch of his voice.

  'Matthew, you said you were coming.'

  'I am,' called Matthew. 'Tell me how to reach you.'

  'I can't,' Sarah cried and kept on crying.

  Matthew sat down.

  'I'm think I'm nearly crying,' he said with a sniffle, holding tightly onto the tissue in his trouser pocket.

  * * *

  It gave Graver so much pleasure to watch the little workers running round the labyrinthine passages of the observation nest with its two vertical glass plates and the finger-thin plug of soil between. In the end, he narrowed the space because if he allowed any other than light from the red bulb to penetrate – ants couldn't see red, because to them light at that end of the spectrum was indistinguishable from darkness – they would smear soil and saliva over the inner surface of the glass so he could no longer see in. The optimum width for the observation nest, he decided, was one ant's width plus two millimetres.

  Staring for so many hours a day at the workers scurrying through the maze of underground passages gave him that pleasurable sensation in his groin, but made his head hurt. It was all becoming muddled in his head. He so much wanted those neuro-receptors he imagined sparking with micro-volts to combine these stimuli now with a few millenia of his inheritance from different species, right back to these prehistoric ants. He wanted to become part of the colony. He wanted the colony to become him, to take him over.

  'Second by second, the hand on the clock ticks off the lifetimes which remain. He told you they're taking over.'

  'Taking over?'

  'Yes, removing the repulsive genes and replacing them.'

  'He's telling you. He has to endure the invasion of the brain's most intimate and pain-contorted corridors by foreign agents. That's madness.'

  He knew that while he was able to separate his sensations of what happened in the endless corridors and coils of his brain from those he stared at, he could prove to himself he was not mad.

  'Of course I'm not mad. I discovered the ants. I waited. I'm still capable of rational thought. I planned. The queen was an egg, at the moment of genesis. She matured, mated and began to lay eggs herself. This was the period of generation. The workers developed. They sought food on an increasing, a massive, scale. This was the moment of fission. The colony reached its optimum size. Young queens and males were reared.'

  'I told you.'

  'He told you they issued forth from his ears and nose while he slept. You used to laugh when at the age of nine he wouldn't allow you near his face with the flannel at bath time, and refused to blow his nose and clear the thick snot which dribbled and formed a green crust. He feared the insects pouring out, but he feared them crawling up at night as well. It was worth them shouting 'snot-rag' at school. This barrier of repulsiveness to others suited him. It kept them at a distance.'

  They dug a way out of his head, created and occupied the maze of tunnels and chambers, which rivals the complexity of the labyrinthine channels and corridors of the brain.

  We have made the crucial leap of the imagination, by creating this maze, the labyrinth outside my cranium, thus fusing the external and internal worlds. This is difficult
to grasp, without an understanding of the ant colony as a composite being, at its apotheosis represented in the spreading city of millions of individuals of Atta Vollenweideri, the leaf cutter ant, a single presence spreading over several fields, across the trees and bushes of half a copse and deep into several surrounding acres of soil.

  The programme and the major themes of the first symphony of Gustav Mahler continue to resonate through my head all day long. We live and move with Mahler's and Bruckner's music, replayed from memory and insinuated into this body, seeping into all its everyday activities. The maze-like complexity of their musical scores fascinates us. We want to go behind the printed versions to the handwritten scores. In the reading room of the British Library at Boston Spa, the one called 'I' searched books and manuscripts, looking for photographs of pages of the original manuscripts in biographies of the composers. When this proved fruitless, 'I' tried to find out where the scores were held and planned various imaginary journeys to view them, as a pilgrim visiting a shrine. The first symphony of Mahler at that early point became my own programme. 'I' was the Titan of Mahler's imagination; the first two movements became the idealisation of my own unhappy childhood. The third and fourth took on the qualities 'I' associated with the Hell of existence, with death and whatever lay after death, if anything.

  It has taken much effort to grow what we planned so meticulously on paper.

  THE LABYRINTH is labyrinthine. It's a joke, so laugh if you please. Don't ever accuse me of having no humour. A labyrinthine labyrinth. I repeat the word labyrinth labyrinth labyrinth until it loses meaning and becomes a succession of vowels and consonants.

  Labyrinth: By using hop poles and netting and planting Russian vines and other fast-growing creepers, in less than three years we have created the effect of vast rows of impenetrable living barriers – a fraction of the decades it takes to grow a conventional maze, using traditional hedging such as box or other evergreens.

  Planning and finalising the design, that was the first problem. We couldn't settle on it. We'd sit and draw for hours. Symmetrical layouts with many open spaces and blind alleys in the corners; spirals with narrower passages, with alternatives leading from an initial point near the entrance; a random arrangement of passages, with the farmhouse near one edge. Eventually we have settled for the last of these. There are several advantages of this approach. It is more likely to baffle the players and it is simpler to arrange. We don't have to meet some totally predefined goal. We can change it if we encounter obstacles on the way.