by Sarah Noffke
He shakes his head, his once blond hair, now silver, has grown out in the few months since the last time I saw him. “No, Ren, you can’t quit. There’s bad people out there. People you can stop. Lives you can save.”
What Trey forgets or doesn’t want to admit is that I’m one of those bad guys. At least I used to be. I don’t remind him of this; instead I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, Trey, there’s always going to be bad guys to stop, don’t you get that? What we do matters so little.”
“How can you say that after everything you’ve done?” he says, pinning his elbows on his knees and leaning forward more.
“Because, Trey, I’m tired. Tired of fighting what increasingly feels like a never-ending battle. People keep breeding. They keep putting bad people in society. And I’ve got to drain my reserves to stop them from doing something that at the end of the day matters very little. Hell, even if I save these people who are potentially in danger then some natural disaster will take them out. Or some disease. Don’t you get that we only have one life and we’re wasting it helping people who don’t even know we exist?”
Trey seems to consider what I’ve said with a thoughtful look. “I thought after your last assignment you’d have softened some of this cynicism,” he finally says.
“Well, you’re wrong, old buddy. Getting abducted by my big sister only preserved my cynical nature. But at the end of the day, this assignment was my best work and also my last bit of charity. I’m going out on an up note.”
“But Ren, there’s so much you could do. You have at least half a century left in you.”
I stare off into a corner of Nepal in the distance. I’m feeling on the brink of having a moment. Hell, for the last few months I felt that way, like everything is coming to a pivotal point. I push the feeling away. “Don’t you get tired of watching the news reports?” I say. “Don’t you tire of seeing the death that keeps pouring in? Sometimes we step in and stop the plane from taking off and sometimes we fail and people tumble to the earth. Don’t you sometimes want to just forget about the future? Just live in the now?” I say.
“This doesn’t really sound like you, Ren.”
“Well, I don’t really feel like myself anymore,” I finally admit.
“And no, I can’t just forget that I can know the future. That I can stop it. How can I forget the capabilities of the Institute and the lives I can save with that knowledge? How do you expect to?” Trey says, his eyes hard.
“I’ve got some ideas,” I say with an indulgent grin.
Trey, who is supremely good at ignoring my bad behavior, shakes his head. “Ren, there’s a terrorist group who is planning a series of explosions. They call themselves Group X. Thousands will be killed and maimed and you could stop them. That’s the job I wanted you for next because you may actually be the only one who can stop this. We need someone to infiltrate their headquarters and get into their heads. Stop the propaganda they’re sending to their guerrillas. And you are the only one I know with the experience to do this job. If you walk away from this job then these people will die. Retire if you want, but do this last job. Please,” he says, almost pleading.
“There will always be more jobs, Trey. There’s never a good time to quit a job. Don’t you get that?”
“If you quit now then thousands will die!” he says and his voice actually rises. I’ve rarely heard him do that and it was always for a good reason.
I regard him for a long time. I can just get in his head and make him leave me alone but I don’t do that to people anymore and I never did it to anyone I respected. Trey is one of a few people who I admire and besides he can probably resist my mind control.
I shake my head. “I guess thousands are going to die then,” I say in a hoarse whisper.
“You can’t be serious?”
“When have you ever known me to joke?” I say dryly. “I’m done, Trey. But because I’m such a kind soul I won’t leave you high and dry. I’ve got an idea for how you can deal with this terrorist situation.”
He blinks at me. “What’s that?”
“Call the fucking cops,” I say. “This is their bloody job, after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Just like when I arrived in London the first time, I dream travel to a GAD-C and generate my body. Again I have only the clothes on my back. This time I have a modest bank account, instead of an overflowing one, and a key in my pocket. I step onto the curb next to Piccadilly Street. Automobile fumes waft through the air. People jostle past me, invading my personal space and invading my mind with their repugnant thoughts. And loud noises echo from too many places.
It is good to be home.
For some reason I feel like I’m living in the present for the first time. I’m about to live my life unlike I ever have before: simply. The key to my flat slides into the lock easily. I had purchased the penthouse flat all those years ago and sent money using my checks at the Lucidite Institute to maintain it. I was never sure why I held onto the place, but maybe it was because it was the only place I ever owned. Calling a place “home” isn’t really my style, but my flat comes close to earning that title.
After unlocking, I push the door open to find a dozen or more notes that were slid under the crack. They are yellowed from age. I know without a doubt they are from Dahlia. I kick them to the side. I definitely don’t want to see my post box after eighteen years of not checking it.
My nose pinches from the acute smell of dust. I march through the flat, a lifetime of memories sparking back to life. Has it really been a lifetime since I sat in my old plaid armchair? It definitely has been a lifetime since I was the man I used to be. The scammer. The gambler. The womanizer. And I’m ready to become someone completely different than I am now. I don’t even want to be the man I’ve been since Trey gave me a second chance.
I open my walk-in closet. Rows and rows of suits that would still fit stare back at me. I’m still the same size I was when I was in my twenties, but my days of wearing suits are over.
I take my time making my way to the bathroom. I stare down at the porcelain sink for a long minute, gathering a courage I didn’t think I’d need. Finally I flip my head up and look at myself. An image stares back, blinking. My hair never dulled from the orangey red like my mum said it would. My neon green eyes hold a mysterious, sinister look. But I know all my secrets. I’m a bad man who has done bad things. I’ve tried to change but the truth is that the monster in me is in my gifts. My mum was right that my powers make it so it’s impossible for me to be happy. That’s why I’ve decided to change. It’s not that I’m deluding myself into thinking I’m going to be happy in this lifetime, but I’ll settle with not being miserable.
***
Little has changed in Peavey. There’s still one school, one church, one pub, and one inn. I think the town went to incredible lengths not to grow. They would have had to. Everything evolves. Even stupid people. But the people of Peavey ran developers away. They prided themselves on the quaint feel of the town. They didn’t want anything complicating and polluting their way of living. It has taken me forty-five years to appreciate that mindset.
To say it feels odd to knock at the door to my childhood home is a serious understatement. I didn’t know when I met Allouette and Chase that by working with them I’d have to abandon my father for so long. I thought of sending him a message. Of letting him know I was all right. I even considered asking him to dream travel to meet me. But I’m a coward. I didn’t want to tell him why I couldn’t visit in person. I knew for certain that the look in his eyes when I told him what I’d done to get myself in trouble would be worse than my years of confinement. In my mind, he was better off thinking I’d died.
Pops opens the door, a look of bewilderment on his features. He was probably surprised to get the knock in the first place, since I’m guessing no one calls on him much. And then his face grows even more confused as he recognizes me.
I’m a hard man, unaffected by most anything. But to stare at my dad�
�s face after eighteen years has a visceral effect on my being. Something rattles my sternum, like fingers have wrapped around it and are trying to break it in two.
“Son?” Pops says, squinting at me. “Is that you?” For eighty-eight years old he looks impressive. Back straight, arms strong, and eyes eager. No one would think he was older than mid-sixties.
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
He takes me in, looking me up and down, his disbelieving eyes growing heavy with emotion second by second. Not only do I look older to him, but I know I look different than he was used to seeing me. I’m wearing khaki pants and a plaid flannel shirt. For the first time in a long time, I’m comfortable in my clothes. “Where have you been all these years, Ren?”
I scratch the side of my head, conscious that I’m shaking. “I got myself in a tad bit of trouble and couldn’t visit. I didn’t want to lure the devil to your doorstep.”
“Are you safe now?” he says, gauging the empty hills behind me. He’s probably looking for someone stalking after me.
“Completely,” I say.
“Thank the Lord,” he says and just then he opens his arms to me. Without hesitation I walk forward, embracing him. It is the first hug I’ve had… well, since he hugged me last, after my mum’s death. Pops is also still strong. He presses his large hands tightly around me, and there’s an urgency in his every movement. Maybe he thinks I’ll vanish before him. I won’t. I never learned teleporting from Trey, although he offered to teach me.
Pops finally steps back, breaking the embrace. “Well, come in, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse.
The house hasn’t changed much either, a bit like Peavey. I’m glad for this though. There are few comforts in my past, but seeing the interior of my old home brings a host of fond memories rushing to my mind.
Pops doesn’t keep the house as clean as Mum did. I notice this at once when I take a seat in the old dusty armchair. Almost like he’s unsure how to act, Pops sits awkwardly on the sofa across from me. He folds his hands in his lap and then changes the fold several times.
“I’ve been gone a long time,” I finally say.
He nods, his bottom lip twitching to the side.
“I saw Lyza recently,” I say casually.
His face doesn’t brighten like most parents’ would after hearing the mention of their daughter. I know for a fact that she never came to see him. Not once after Mum’s death.
“She’s mentally unstable now. Not doing so hot, but she got herself in a bit of trouble as well,” I say, finding I don’t know what to do with my own hands either.
Pops nods again. “Did you get yourself put in prison with your scamming? Is that where you’ve been?”
I laugh suddenly, making him startle. “Oh heavens no. You know no prison could ever hold me. I’d get myself out of there before they locked the bars. Where I’ve been was like a prison, but I stayed there willingly. I made some enemies and had to hide,” I say.
“And your enemies…?”
“They’re gone now,” I say, enjoying every time I get to say that, to know it’s true. “How have you been?” I ask.
My father tilts his head side to side. “Mostly good. Had some hard years after your mum passed. But the town has been there for me.”
“Good,” I say. “Anything new?”
He stares around the house, like the answer is written on the ancient furnishings. “Not really. Not that I can think of.”
We’re silent for a bit. It’s strange that we’ve lost so much familiarity after all these years. “I’m back for good,” I finally say.
His face now brightens, breaking into a relieved smile. “I wondered the question, but didn’t know if I should have such hopes.”
I almost smile. “I’ll be in London, but I’d like to stop over on the weekends. Would that be all right?”
He slaps his knee and lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course, son. Nothing I’d like more. Nothing on this earth.”
I do smile now. A small one.
Then Pops’ expression drops, a sudden look of concern. “So are you going to go back to gambling and scamming?” Pops asks.
“Oh, hell no. I’m going to do something way more repulsive,” I say, and watch as his face morphs through different expressions. “I’ve decided to get a real job.”
He nods in acceptance. “I think you’ll enjoy that. There’s something honest in working. In giving back to society.”
I want to tell him that over the last eighteen years I worked in a job where I literally saved millions of lives. Instead I say, “Pops, I get why you chose to live such a simple life. I appreciate it now.”
He blinks at me in surprise.
I continue, “I’ve decided to take a page out of your book. What I’ve been doing hasn’t worked. My powers have only ever gotten me in trouble. I’ve decided that it would be best for everyone if I didn’t use my gifts anymore. No more scams. No more mind control. No more hypnosis.”
He tilts his head like he’s trying to regard me from a new angle. “Whatever happened to you to make you leave, it really changed you, didn’t it?”
“It did,” I agreed. “But also, since I’ve been using my powers nothing has actually ever changed for me. I’ve always felt my life was wrong, like I was a mistake. That’s why I’ve decided to not use them anymore.”
“Well, powers or no powers, I love you, son. No length of time has changed that, and nothing you could do would either.”
I blink back a wave of emotion. I’m certain that can’t be true, but I’m not challenging my father on it. I’ve done many things that would change the way he feels about me, but those are my secrets to keep, not his to shoulder.
We talk easily for a long hour. I find there isn’t much to say. There are so many things I can’t tell him and so many things I don’t want to. And my pops has lived such a simple life that his stories run out fairly quickly. When it’s time for me to leave I make for the front door.
“Aren’t you going to dream travel to the GAD-C in London?” Pops says, giving me a look of confusion. “You have to take the train here, but you always dream travel back.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t joking when I told you I’m changing, Pops,” I said, sliding my hands into my khaki pants. “I don’t plan to use any of my gifts anymore and that includes dream traveling.”
“Are you sure you want to go to that extreme, son? Dream travel isn’t the power that corrupts you.”
“Corrupts is a strong word,” I say, pretending to be offended.
Pops sees through it immediately. “Oh, you know what I mean. I just don’t want you to deprive yourself too much or make too many radical changes.”
“Change is what I need,” I say. I don’t know how to reply to the part about depriving myself. I’m doing this all because I think I need to. Because nothing else has ever worked to kill the monster in me. But if I’m honest with myself, then no, I don’t really want to give up my powers. But addicts don’t want to give up drugs either, and yet they must to be healthy.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The office is cramped and smells of old food, like the way a lunch box starts to get that odor about it after a while. Across the desk from me sits an overweight bloke who’s sweating profusely. He introduced himself as Arnold or Johnny or Pete. I wasn’t really listening. His fat fingers flip through my application, which took me a whole minute to complete. With a look of surprise he drops the papers on the desk.
“Mr. Lewis, the employment history here is blank,” the fat man says. “Did you forget to complete it?”
“I never forget anything,” I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my ankle over my knee. “It is blank because I don’t have any employment history.”
He splays his stumpy hands on the surface of the desk and leans forward. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a job? Not one?”
I catch myself before I roll my eyes. People are so bloody stupid. I ha
te having to repeat myself. “That’s right. Zero employment history.”
“What have you been doing since you graduated from school?” He squints at the paper, checking it. “Over twenty-eight years ago?”
“Would you believe I’ve been watching the telly and playing video games on my pops’ couch?”
He eyes me, his forehead wrinkling. This guy has awful skin. “You don’t look like the video game type.”
I can’t tell this chap that I worked as the Head Strategist for a secret society so maybe he’ll believe this one. “Truth is I can’t provide references because I’m a rich kid who’s traveled the world on my pops’ dime. He’s just kicked the bucket and wouldn’t you know he didn’t leave me a single quid. Apparently he waited till he was dead to teach me a lesson. He was always a bit soft with me. You know, the enabling type,” I say.
“Didn’t you make contacts with your wealthy and prestigious friends? Can’t you get a better job than this?” the man asks, studying my button down shirt, which is untucked, making me feel half naked.
“’Fraid not. My pops gave strict orders in his will to all his shareholders. He wants me to make my own way, so here I am,” I say.
“Well, I have to warn you the job is fairly boring. I’m not sure a bloke with worldly experiences such as you will be happy doing a job like this. The automatic ticket machines have made it so people don’t use booths to buy their travelcards,” Arnold or Pete or Johnny says.
