The Memory Man
Page 1
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles from Steven Savile
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
A Selection of Titles from Steven Savile
Novels
SUNFAIL
PARALLEL LINES
GLASS TOWN
COLDFALL WOOD
A Eurocrimes Thriller
THE MEMORY MAN *
* available from Severn House
THE MEMORY MAN
Steven Savile
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
First published in the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2018 by Steven Savile.
The right of Steven Savile to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8842-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-965-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0175-1 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
ONE
Darkness and light.
Shadows and pain.
They were inextricably linked, feeding off each other, enhancing each other.
Darkness and light.
Shadows and pain.
All it ever took was a single spark to banish the absolute black, but in that moment the two came together to give life to something new. The shadows. Everyone knew that the real monsters hid in the shadows, not in the dark. No amount of light could make them less monstrous. All it ever succeeded in doing was changing the face of their evil into the more familiar masks they wore every day as they moved among us. But then that was the essence of evil, wasn’t it? Looking normal. Some mornings it wore your neighbour’s face, some afternoons it looked like your best friend, some evenings it masqueraded as your lover and late at night your father confessor. It came dressed in familiar skin, and for a while there you even welcomed it.
For a while.
A narrow slash of yellow underscored the ancient oak door that imprisoned the man. The jaundiced light only lived for an inch before the darkness overwhelmed it. He’d lost track of how long he had been in there. It couldn’t be anywhere near as long as it felt. He’d woken naked and cold with a fierce thirst and a tongue that didn’t feel like it belonged in his mouth. He had a shit-smeared blanket for warmth. At first, he’d sworn he’d rather freeze, but that stubborn resolve had weakened. Now he clutched the blanket around his shoulders and shivered as he tried to ignore the crust and the smell.
He’d given up shouting and hammering at the door. No one came. He’d made bargains with the darkness, promising not to prosecute them if they just opened the door. He’d even wait long enough for them to slip away. No one ever needed to know who they were. Being a public figure brought all kinds of unexpected trouble, and being a politician meant there was always someone who hated him. Every policy decision transformed him into someone’s own personal Antichrist, no matter how well-meaning it was. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. There was nothing he could do but wait it out.
He struggled to piece together what had happened. The memories were fragmented and confused, a side-effect of the drugs they’d pumped into his system. There had been an invitation. He remembered that much. It had been nicely written on a small white card. There had been a time and a place, beneath a cryptic message that urged him to Remember Bonn.
No, not remember, it was something else, a foreign word. Latin? Memini. Remember Bonn. Bonn. Was this about the climate conference? It was hard to believe anything he’d done there could have warranted this. He tried to think. Everything was dulled with the lingering fog of the sedatives. There had been a lot of back-channel negotiations, plenty of incentives changing hands, nothing unusual. He’d done things he shouldn’t, including one diplomatic gift that was barely legal. Was that it? How could the shadow know about that?
He heard movement on the other side of the door. Gaoler or rescuer?
He stumbled to his feet, the blanket hanging on his shoulders, and hammered on the door until his knuckles were
raw.
More movement, and then they were gone and silence reigned supreme. He slumped down against the wall, hunger tearing away at his gut, confusion soaking his thoughts. The plates of his skull threatened to pull apart on their biological fault lines.
Somewhere in the darkness hope died.
It wasn’t a prank. There was nothing harmless about it.
He was lost.
When the bolt finally ratcheted back he had no voice left to beg with. When the key turned in the lock and the door opened he had no tears to soften the pain as he blinked desperately against the light. The air was filled with the smell of his own urine.
‘Please,’ was the only word he could muster, and even that was barely a whisper. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling behind him turned the figure in the doorway into a shadow.
‘I hope you’ve made your peace with God,’ the shadow said.
‘What do you want?’ Four words. Now, at least, he could find the words if not the strength to deliver them.
‘What makes you think I want anything?’
‘Everyone wants something,’ he said, ever the politician looking to make a deal.
‘I want nothing from you.’
That threw him. It had to be a lie. He needed it to be a lie. ‘Then why am I here?’
‘You must undergo a trial. If you succeed, I will allow you to confess your sins.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A test of faith. Don’t tell me you have forgotten everything?’ He shook his head. It might have been denial. It might have been disbelief. ‘You disappoint me.’
‘I need water, please. A drink.’ As he reached out the blanket fell away from his shoulders to expose a ripe belly matted with a wire of greying hair and flaccid cock that had shrivelled up to the size of his thumb and was all but lost in the tangle of more hair. ‘Please.’
The shadow held something out to him. It took him a moment to realize what it was: a plastic water bottle.
‘Is this what you want?’
He nodded.
‘Good. That should make the trial interesting at least. It’s always better if there is a genuine dilemma,’ the shadow said. ‘Resist the temptation to drink from this bottle for the next twenty-four hours and I will hear your confession. I will cleanse your body and your mind and you will find your release.’ The shadow placed the bottle on the floor and kicked it, sending it skittering away into one of the dark corners.
He scrambled on his hands and knees, clutching at the darkness as he reached for the bottle.
The door slammed, the key turned in the lock, and the bolt slid back into place.
This time there was no light.
He fumbled around frantically, his hands finding only empty darkness as he crawled on all fours. All he could think about was the water and his overwhelming need. His hand came down in something wet and his heart sank. He lowered his face to the dirty stone slabs ready to lap at the water like a dog until the astringent reek of his own piss had him recoiling and laughing at himself in disgust and relief.
He kept on searching the darkness until he found the bottle. He crawled back into the far corner and pressed his back up against the wall. He clutched the bottle to his chest.
Twenty-four hours.
There was no way he could go that long without breaking the seal on the bottle cap. It already felt like days since he’d last had a drink. It wasn’t a trial, it was torture. Just one sip. Not even a swallow. Just the feel of the cool refreshing wetness on his tongue. He didn’t have to swallow, just savour it. He could dip his finger into it and run the tip across his cracked lips. That wasn’t drinking, was it? The shadow had said resist the temptation to drink. He hadn’t said don’t open the bottle. Don’t wet your lips. Don’t drink. That was specific. He convinced himself there was a loophole, a way to save himself from the hell of his trial, or at least lessen the torment.
He was weak.
He had always been weak.
He knew who he was. He didn’t hide from his weaknesses.
The thirst was all he could think about.
It was the devil inside his head, whispering its need over and over until his fingers fumbled with the plastic cap.
He pushed his finger down into the neck, then tried to moisten his lips, but that was never going to be enough. It only served to make the craving more intense and without realizing what he was doing he put the bottle to his lips and took a swig. One mouthful was nowhere near enough to slake his thirst. He took another swallow. Another mouthful. And then another.
The cold water burned his raw throat as he guzzled it greedily down. He didn’t stop swallowing that one endless mouthful until the water spilled back out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin and chest. He’d drunk maybe half of it and spilled another precious quarter. As much as he wanted to just drink the rest and be damned, he struggled with putting the cap back into place and promised himself he was saving the rest for later. He had twenty-four hours to get through. He needed to ration the last sips out to keep his strength up if he was going to have a hope of overwhelming the shadow when he returned. He wasn’t going to die here, he promised himself, even as the bottle slipped from his fingers and he started to slump against the brickwork.
The last thing he felt before he blacked out was the cold kiss of stone where his face hit the floor.
And then there was nothing.
When he came around he was sitting upright, strapped into a too-small wooden chair, hands bound behind his back, the blanket draped over his legs to hide his modesty. There was an unholy war raging inside his skull, and he was on the losing side of it. It looked like the same dank cell. The door was wide open. The bare bulb from the other room cast everything into sharp relief. It was so bright it burned to look at, like the sun. With no way to shield his eyes, all he could do was blink and turn his head, trying to look away.
It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t alone; the sound of breathing betrayed his tormentor’s presence.
‘You disappoint me,’ the shadow said, behind him. ‘All you had to do was show some restraint. You knew the reward that awaited you. Release. But you surrendered to temptation. Not easy, is it?’
‘You were never going to release me,’ he said, finding courage in the certainty that he was already dead, and this was hell.
His own personal devil came around to face him, leaning in close enough that he could taste the sulphur on his breath. With the stark light behind him it was impossible to make out any features. And yet there was something about the voice that seemed hauntingly familiar; a long-forgotten sound that stirred a distant memory. Remember Bonn.
‘You didn’t speak out when you had the chance,’ the shadow said, pronouncing judgement on him. ‘You could have made it stop. All you had to do was speak out. But you chose silence. You chose complicity. You could have prevented so much harm …’
And again, he couldn’t find the words, this time to save himself. In truth he didn’t know what to say. Denials wouldn’t save him. Confession wouldn’t cleanse his soul. Nothing he said now would make the slightest difference. It was too late. So, for the second time in his life, he chose silence.
A strong hand clamped around his jaw. The pressure was relentless as the shadow man’s fingers forced his teeth apart and his mouth open. He tried to scream, but before the sound could take on any real shape his torturer caught a hold of his tongue.
The more he fought against it, the fiercer the vicelike grip became.
The shadows finally gave way to pain.
‘You should have spoken out,’ the shadow man said, and then the world was reduced to searing pain and blood as the blade sliced through the meat of his tongue.
He tried to scream but was already choking on his own blood.
TWO
Peter Ash stood in the shadow of River House, the nickname of the massive old Ministry of Defence building, looking along the river.
It was a view that he knew better than he knew h
imself. The circus of the city was there for all to see in splash after splash of vibrant colour and designer labels, reflected in the sunglasses. The crush of bodies filed along the South Bank towards the Tate Modern and the big wheel. An amusement park had been set up, spilling into the already narrow street making it so much more stressful for the tourists to file past the London Dungeon and the Festival Hall and turned that stretch of the Embankment into a pickpocket’s heaven. Every cloud, Pete thought, glad to be on the other side of the water.
He’d walked passed the entrance three times already, but had kept going, unable to face whatever fresh hell waited for him inside. It’d been more than a week since he’d last braved the office, which was a fancy name for the broom cupboard that he’d been assigned – a genuine broom cupboard that been converted for him. No windows, no ventilation, and no space. He could touch all four walls without having to leave his seat. The European Crime Division was a fancy name for a cross-border investigative team that spanned the entire Eurozone, their prime directive to cover sensitive crimes that crossed member-state borders. It was great in theory. It was also a bureaucratic nightmare in practice, and only getting worse since the Brexit vote had thrown everything up in the air in terms of British involvement. No one had a clue what would happen once the whole ugly divorce was over. There’d be fallout. How could there not be? But plenty of the suits higher up the chain seemed to think someone somewhere would pull off some kind of deal to keep the whole cooperation thing alive. Ash wasn’t holding his breath. Since Mitch’s death the one thing he could say for certain was that there were no certainties in life.
When he had been seconded onto the project back in 2012, Ash had convinced himself that it was going to be a dream gig. And for a while it had looked like it was, but it hadn’t taken long for the various national agencies to decide they wanted nothing to do with the Division’s intrusions. It quickly degenerated into jurisdictional pissing contests and endless red tape, and that was when they were cooperating. When they decided to be deliberately obstructive the whole thing became positively Dantean. The Greeks didn’t want Turkish detectives meddling in their shit. The French weren’t exactly fond of the Brits hopping on the Eurostar and trampling all over their lovely walkways with the size-nine Doc Martens. Not that Her Majesty’s boys in blue were any happier with the idea of Germans in their jackboots making a mess in their green and pleasant Broken Britain. And with the crap going on in Catalonia the Spaniards didn’t want anyone coming over, full stop. It wasn’t new. It had been going on ever since MI5 decided that they wanted to get involved in anything that caught their eye. That was the logic behind Division locating them in a Secret Intelligence Service broom cupboard. Like it or not, even on home turf they were outsiders.