Chapter 16 – The Clean Up
I couldn’t figure whether the room we had just entered was particularly darkened, or if it was the light we had just shut out, that made Mr. Shakrin’s study appear so dark and foreboding. A huge oak desk took up the farthest quarter or so of the room, a laptop and single lamp upon it giving off the only light we had with us. My eyes adjusted slowly as Shakrin, obviously familiar with the lighting arrangements, muttered on about something. I was too busy taking in the surroundings and figuring out how to confront him about what Stu had said to really pay the man much attention. Books lined either side of the room and even behind the desk, breaking once for the window which had heavy black curtains drawn over it. I couldn’t make out any titles on the books, my eyes still unaccustomed to the bleak gloom, as I tracked my eyes from wall to wall taking in just how quaint this room was in comparison to what I had already seen of Shakrin’s illustrious home. A whisper of air came from behind me, and as I turned I saw the door had swung back into place, the brown leather padding raising even more curiosity within me as the exit became indistinguishable from the walls it was embedded in. I turned back, still awe-struck by the room. As I did my stomach clenched and my heart jumped into my throat. Shakrin stood before me, toe to toe, with a dark grin on his lips, and raised his hand. A glass of liquor was clasped loosely at the rim by his thumb and forefingers. The knot in my stomach loosened and I took the glass in a fitting manner with my heart still racing uncontrollably.
“You know,” he started, turning towards his desk and motioning to the chair closest to me, “I like you, Raymond. You remind me of me,” He said, laughing to himself and sipping his drink. We sat down and he offered me a cigar. I was too transfixed by what he had just said to acknowledge the gesture.
“Heh,” the grin disappeared as Shakrin cast his eyes down, seemingly offended at my unintentional ignorance. “Tell me, Raymond,” he stopped himself. Something wasn’t sitting right with me. Shakrin appeared agitated about something. Uncomfortable, even. He shuffled in his chair, the uneasiness not entirely subtle. “What would you say if…” he paused to light a cigar, “No. Wait. Allow me to re-phrase: what if I were to tell you that there was a way out from the everyday goings on of this country? What if I could show you the light and free you from constant fear and paranoia without having to kill or fight or anything?” the cigar bobbing jovially as he spoke, “and that in all reality you don’t really need telling, because I know that’s exactly why you’re here?” He emphasized the last part, with his lowered tone and leaning forward on the desk between us. “I am right, aren’t I? I mean, that’s why you’re here, you came for guidance. You’re sick of everything in the “real” world, but you’re afraid to take those first steps without a companion, aren’t you? Afraid that no-one else felt it, so you tried burying it away. But it’s back again, because it never goes away, does it, it eats away at you and you have no choice but to nourish it. It’s like an itch on the roof of your mouth; it’d go away if only you could stop scratching it…” He paused and leant back in his seat, locking his hands behind his head and puffing on the cigar, pleased with himself. “And there was only so much dear Stuart could have done for you.”
He’d taken me by surprise. What was this? Some kind of offer? Was he going to ask me to sell Stu out to the authorities and join him in some subtler crusade? A strange fear took hold of me. The same paranoia he just warned me of. I put an elbow on my leg and cradled my head, sipping the liquor in my free hand to steady myself. Shaking my head I tried to make sense of the last three minutes. I heard myself unconsciously say “no” over and over until I was screaming at Shakrin, my only hope of salvation, screaming and shouting while he sat un-phased; as if he’d seen it a hundred times before. “NO!” I exclaimed, “Get away from me, you… you… nut-case! You want me to sell Stu out don’t you?! You’re fucking crazy! You’re not right man! You’re not right… Who the fuck do you think I am?”
He rose. The friendly demeanor gone. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t seem himself. Almost unhinged. I realised it was too late to do anything as Shakrin boomed in an unfamiliar voice “I’M NOT RIGHT?! ME?! No! No. No, no, no, my friend,” he said, calming down a little, “it is YOU who is not right” his sentences were barbed with spite, “I guess you’re perfectly fucking sane, no? You mean you’re ripe, ready and waiting for the System to bag you and cash you, you fucking idiot!” he threw his empty glass down violently, “You are just another statistic for the junk pile, my friend. I am free in all the ways you are not. And let tell you how…”
“Sh… Shak… Shakrin, I’m sorr…” I protested.
“SILENCE! You are about to learn something invaluable in life, Raymond. Now listen.”
He sat down again and relaxed. His demeanour was almost friendly again; and it was time to listen intently to whatever it was he was about to say. He pulled up the bottle of whiskey, then realising he’d broken his glass simply started drinking from the decanter itself.
* * *
“Are you listening, Raymond?”
“Yes,” I whispered into my drink.
“Good. Then I shall tell you why this world is how it is, and why and how I can set you free from it.” Shakrin plunged the end of his cigar into a pristine ash tray and began, “The human race is lame. We strive for perfection, just so we can tear it apart. We work so hard to build something up just to rip it all back down again. We thrive on misdirection, we love the attention, we savour the void, nurture the hurt – everyone does it, it’s their own little contribution to this fucked up world. We can’t be happy for too long. Our lives demand failure. It’s human nature. You, me, him, her, everyone.” He pointed with disgust at imaginary people joining us in the room, “They love dying inside. The irony being it makes them feel more alive, haha,” a sickening laugh erupting from him. “For a race of such intelligence we can be pretty fucking stupid wouldn’t you agree?” he didn’t bother waiting for a response from me, “Some party agents argue intellect was never meant to beat the instinct of nature though… Maybe the reason we are war torn, starving and dying is because it’s how we are designed to be? We hold the keys to every door but we keep them locked still. We want everything but can’t stand having it. We get to our destination and still we feel empty. There is NO way to please the human race. Give them what they want and they’ll want something else. Give them that and they still want more. Say no to them and they end up in all kinds of dysfunctional states. Say ‘goodbye’ to the great race, Raymond, because it is about to be erased from the very face of God’s green picture perfect planet.” His words stung with clinical sarcasm. “And from the ashes will rise their successor, unfortunately, the argued ‘rightful’ heir to this raped planet – the Echelon party – and with them Mankind shall be reborn.”
The mood darkened further at the sheer mention of them. The ruling party that imposed death penalties on a whim and treated persecution as a hobby. Something wasn’t sitting right with me after what Shakrin had just shared with me. It suggested that maybe he was…
The room was silent, I heard the whistle of my glass sliding towards the floor, the thud of glass on carpet, the splash of whiskey on broken shards.
“Oh fuck, you’re one of them! “, my mind raced helplessly together, “You’re one of the party! You talk of them as if they’re your enemy too but you’re one of them yourself!”
He looked down, ashamed. “Raymond, please, don’t be so accusative. I am not “one of them””, inverted commas gesticulated, “although, I was hoping to talk to you about all this tonight.”
“Not one of them?! This whole set up was all a lie wasn’t it? Some plot to draw in more victims for you to play with?”
“Raymond,” his friendliness dissolving, “As far as anyone is concerned, official or not, I am actually an outsider to the party. But…” he troubled himself by having to confront something, “the reason I wasn’t with you for the meet with DeSaux was…” he sighed, “the reason you got that letter was to try and warn you. To try and get you out of this before you got caught. The PATRIOTS were on to me. They got me. And instead of simply locking me up or executing me they let it play out. They coerced me into working for them. I was made to bring you and Stuart in. Now that I have I’ll no doubt be regarded as one of them no matter of what I or anyone else says. But I have to tell you Raymond. It’s better. On this side of things. It’s better. Sure I might have had it good already with this place and the money. But now? The power.” An alien grin slid across his face, “And what were you honestly thinking of doing Raymond? Were you and Stuart seriously thinking of taking everything down by yourselves? Or would the two of you merely die on your knees like every other unfortunate soul that disobeys the system?” He looked at me with concern, almost pity, in his eyes and waited for an answer which he didn’t get. He abruptly lunged over the desk growling “Didn’t your mother tell you not to ignore people?!” throwing me backwards to the floor. My head hit the floor, the back of the chair cricking my neck while Shakrin took his crease-less white suit jacket off and draped it over his chair. The taste of blood ran around my mouth and the sting of liquor poisoning the wound in my tongue made me winch. Shakrin laughed again as I tried to get back to my feet, “Raymond, old friend, what did I tell you about trying to stand on your own feet? The human race is lame, remember, or were you not paying attention?” he asked as my side caved under the weight of his foot, “we are the ones who will help you walk before you run, for too long have people just run…”
“You won’t let us walk you fascist bastards!” I proclaimed, spitting blood out.
“Haha,” Shakrin grinned mildly before quickly wiping it away, “that’s because if you were allowed to run, allowed to roam free, we would have all the things of the early days – war, poverty, selfishness. And a generally piss poor excuse of an existence!” he spat. “But thanks to Echelon, the great creators, who have taught me some valuable things in the days they detained me, there has been an end put to that. When was the last time you heard of war, murder, poverty, depression or starvation? Well…?!”
I couldn’t compete, I knew he was right, in a twisted sense, “A long time ago”, I quietly replied. Shakrin leant over me. A mean look in his eyes said this wasn’t going to be over quickly. “Exactly! And whose handy work is it? Well?! I’ll tell you who. It is the work of Echelon! Yet STILL there are those who disagree and revolt. But they do have a rather distinct way of dealing with such non-believers…” my jaw was jolted sideways before he’d even bought his sentence to a close. I lay on the floor, my eyes watering from both the punch and the fact I’d been so fucking stupid in believing in Stuart. Shakrin was still going on, he’d been completely converted, but he trailed off into background noise as I thought of the fate what awaited me. I’d heard of what happens to protesters. I know what becomes of those who don’t lie down. You hear things, like they’re never seen again, as though the party read every fine dystopian novel and took hints before destroying their inspiration in the mass book burnings of the 90s. Rumour has it that offenders are thrown in with the wolves. Taken to prison and thrown in with the now segregated rapists, wife beaters and gang bangers. I hear they get beaten beyond recognition and that’s the real reason why they’re not seen again: because their friends, families – even their enemies – can’t see beneath the black, blue and red. They avoid friends and families afterwards anyway, for fear of incriminating their loved ones as ‘harbouring known enemies of the state’. A crime that carries a sentence similar to any mass murderer would have had in the early days, before the party took over and saw that psychotics would make for powerful front line soldiers if there was ever a need for them.
From what gets printed in the Tribune, the resistance is so badly trampled over and again that it’d leave anyone with a lot of doubt as to whether it actually exists. Maybe it’s just a means to capture resistors who will then be raised clean out of history. No birth, no life, no death. A family who don’t remember and a work placement that’s filled in before any arrests were even made and any co-workers have the time to ask. And here I am stood before a pseudo-Agent of the System who knows my most intimate feelings about the party. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t realise Shakrin was speaking. He was going on about our friendship and what it meant if he turned me in. “As if you wouldn’t hesitate…” I shot out with conviction.
“There are three options here Raymond.” He sat perched upon the corner of his desk, looking down at me. “One, I turn you in, get a reward and you’re sent to the gas chamber. Two, I let you go, we get found out and we both die. Or three…” he seemed troubled having to suggest it. “Three…” he sighed heavily, looked up and around the room for the confidence to say it then back at me. He appeared truly shaken at the idea of what he was about to tell me.
“Three?” I said firmly.
“Look, Ray, I’m sorry you had to find this out, but it doesn’t mean the end for you.” He wasn’t going to sliver out of this one.
“Three?!” I said even harder.
He sighed again. The man was genuinely distressed. Reaching over his desk he pulled up another glass of whiskey to ease his nerves. “Or three: You could claim all of this was down to Stuart and Pesayck. That they held you under duress, blackmailed you into doing this and you had no other choice.”
“What?!”
“I mean join me, friend. Become a member of the party with me. We can live at the top of the food chain. None of this matters to me. This ruling the world malarkey. It really doesn’t. I just want to live my life like you do.”
“Bullshit!”, I cradled my mouth, the blood gushing over my palm, running down my fingers and beading on the knuckles, dripping sporadically.
“Bullshit, huh? How about your dead wife and daughter? Surely you’d want to see the men responsible for that perish?”
“What?” I spluttered, the effects of the beating taking their toll.
“Jess and Kristie.” He looked down solemnly, “Stuart and Pesayck did it. To free you of your ties to that lifestyle. So that you’d join their crusade with whole hearted commitment and wouldn’t be worrisome of your family’s well being and if you’d ever get home to them again. It was even his idea to call you and fabricate some bullshit that Enfrich had done it because he knew he could manipulate you into then taking him out of the equation.”
“Piss off! That was you! That was the fucking government, the people who are supposed to protect us who did that! You did that to try and scare me out of doing anything.”
“What proof do you have Raymond?” he looked at me with such an aura of conviction I could’ve been convinced.
“You forget that me and Stuart fought on the front line together. That stands for something. Comradeship. Brothers in arms. He wouldn’t do something like this!” the memories of finding the bodies of my ladies imposing itself over every thought I was having sparked tears. Anger, hatred, despair. All pouring into me.
“Given, it wasn’t actually Stuart who pulled the trigger, per-se. But he certainly told Pesayck to do it.” Shakrin sipped at his drink, “I suppose it was some obscure attempt to keep a clearer conscience than that nigger’s. But you know, you’ve seen the news: who’s the more likely to kill a housewife and child, the upstanding ex-civil servant white boy? Or the gun toting black gangster? Not that it matters anyway, your family’s dead all the same.”
A surreal, unfamiliar coldness accompanied that last statement. What was with all the talking? Was he trying to use some clever word play to lull me into believing Stuart had had Pesayck kill Jess and Kris?”
“On the contrary, what proof do you have? What about the documents Stu and Pesayck showed me?” I asked.
“All fabricated. They were simple fakes. Easy enough to be replicated by even the most amateur of hands.”
“I don’t believe you. What proof do you have?” I repeated. My fists gripped nothing, barely containing the rising temptation to launch myself at him. Or least for a moment.
“Sure you wanna hear this, Raymond?”
He took me aback. He actually had evidence?
“I’ll take your silence as a yes either way. Now, let me just pull up some files.”
He sat as his laptop for a moment, grimacing. Before clicking on a file he looked up at me, “Are you sure you wanna hear this Ray?” he seemed to be trying to protect me.
“Why? What is it?” I felt my stomach tightening.
“Well, it’s, erm, Jess’ last phone call. Her dying words.”
I shrank inside. “OK.” I mumbled.
He double clicked the file, the ringing of a phone swept out of the speakers. No one was answering. Finally a voice came on, a voice all too familiar. “Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”
My voice. It was my mobile voice mail message. “This is Ray, sorry I can’t make it to the phone right now but hey, you know, some of us got lives, haha, just kidding, leave a message after the tone, you know the drill, and I’ll get back to you whenever I can.”
I heard her sobbing first. Breathing heavily. “Ray,” came a whisper, “Ray”, she was trying hard, “please, oh God please, please,” I could feel the water behind my eyes already, “Oh God, help me please, Ray. I don’t know who else to call. The police just put me on hold.” She sobbed more heavily, and coughed something awful. I could feel streaks down my cheeks. “Please. There’s someone. A big man. Dreadlocks. Help me!”
I looked down. Shakrin was punishing me for ever disregarding her. He turned the volume up so I could unmistakably hear the next part. A loud thudding. The front door? Jess screamed hoarsely. The sounds of splintering wood and thudded footsteps neared the phone. “Sssss… sssch… hel… help… me.” Her words were as painful to hear as it was for her to speak them.
“Stuart. Help, please.” Her voice cracked into a whine. Her hysteria became my own. I could no longer deny what Shakrin told me as truth.
Stuart’s voice rang out over the speakers, “What the fuck Marcus! I told you not to make a mess you fucking idiot. You incompetent ape.”
The sound of a hammer being pulled back became just about audible before Shakrin was merciful enough to stop the playback. I looked up at him, my eyes shrink wrapped, and he met my eyes with a look of sympathy. “What, can you do, for me, to get him?” I breathed syllabically. “What can you offer me? And why is it me that’s so important to you?”
“I found in you a memory of the person I once was Raymond. Someone who wanted to know the truth but not have to suffer for it or fight another war. So what I’m saying is…” he sighed deeply, looking almost regretful, hurt even, “What I’m saying is… Join me, join Echelon. In you I found myself a counter-balance and my sole chance of any kind of self-redemption. If I take you with me I can save you and you can be there with me and together we can crush the same types of ‘revolutionaries’ who had your family killed.” he seemed almost sincere in his request. But something didn’t sit right with me. I was having trouble taking all of this in. Join the enemy? Become a drone of the machine? This was too much, too much.
“How can I possibly trust you now? After you’ve led me and Stuart on…” the words faded as I looked down and thought of where he could be. I looked up to see Shakrin staring back at me. “Where is he?”
“The last I heard was that your turncoat friend had just managed to get into the Citadel with that poor bastard Pesayck,” he went to pour himself another drink. “I can call someone and find out if you insist?” His back was half turned to me, he took a swig of his drink and looked sideways at me, “well? What’s it to be Ray? Shall we see what’s become of dear heroic Stuart?” I nodded. Shakrin put a finger on an intercom and asked for more details on the break in at the Citadel.
“Raymond. I’ve just learnt that there’s CCTV footage of our mutual friend attempting his operation. Care to watch it? It’s scheduled to go out on the news tomorrow. How does a preview screening sound to you?”
“He’s no mutual friend, Shakrin. But sure, let’s see it.”
Shakrin motioned towards the chair he’d thrown me from earlier and I sat. Shakrin came round to my side of the desk and, swivelling his laptop round, opened an email with attachments. Clicking on the link, a media player came up and I saw what I can only assume is the PM’s office in the Citadel. The camera was looking down from the left hand wall – if the entrance was considered the “front” – and against the back wall was a man behind a desk scribbling away at paperwork. I checked the date and time in the bottom right hand corner of the shot; April 3rd, 05:17, then my watch; 05:53. This was either the genuine article or a very clever forgery being created to use as leverage against me in future interrogation. Just as I was entertaining the thought of a questioning session a barely audible thud came from the laptop, causing the Prime Minister to look up from his desk somewhat bewildered. He was looking at his office door as if it held the answers to the thud he questioned silently; he slowly got up and headed towards the door, (he was dressed down for a man in such power – trousers, shoes, a shirt with the top buttons undone and his tie hanging lazily) and tapped his pen against his free palm as he approached. The camera panned with him to the right and as he was almost upon the door, his hand outstretched to open it, it swung violently towards him, sending him aback. Voices crackled from the laptop’s speakers, “Who the hell are you?! And how have you got past security?!” Another figure stood in the doorway. It was Stu alright. No sign of Pesayck though. God dammit. That was it. Game over. He was out of breath and covered in sweat and blood. He out turned his hands, palms pointing at the PM, and he answered, “Isn’t it obvious what I’ve done to get past your security? You need more than those boys to keep me out, I’m a fucking veteran you asshole, and I’ve come for my cut of that pie you’re keeping for yourself.”
He looked haggard. He clothes were torn and a limp in his left leg suggested that he had fought many outnumbered battles to get there. “Now hold on just one God damn second…” the PM started.
“NO! How about you hold on a second.” Stu started towards the man. His hair covering most of his face. He looked almost ravenous. Animalistic. They neared the desk, still talking; the PM attempting a negotiation, Stuart still dead set on accomplishing his goal.
“Get off of it. Just listen! Wait! Look at me. What is it you want?”
“I want to have my part in setting your citizens free.”
“What?!”
“You heard me.” Stuart stared, unblinking. The Prime Minister was dumb stuck for a moment. He was at a loss, trying to formulate a response. Eventually he spoke. “Listen, OK. The people are free. This is no communist state. Here the people have what they want, how they want and when they want it.”
“Well how about you give me and my brothers what we want.”
“And what would that be?”
“Recognition.”
A look crossed the PM’s face of sheer bewilderment.
“For what?”
“For fighting your war. For keeping, what is supposedly the enemy, at bay for all these years. The news never covers it, never tells the people what their sons, brothers and fathers are fighting for out there. They think its hunky dory.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment until the Prime Minister broke the silence, “OK… I’ll give it to you. But first, let me tell you that it wasn’t just me that wanted to keep that stuff out of the news.”
“I don’t care.” Stuart interrupted.
His opponent was getting irritated, “If you’re not even going to listen to what I have to say, why have you bothered coming here? You asinine fool.”
“Isn’t it obvious mister Prime Minister? I just wanted to play with you before I killed you.”
That last statement shook the PM, he looked up at Stuart who didn’t flinch a bit, and he meant to do it.
“N… now… come on. Wait. I can change this. I can do it for you. I’m like you. I’ve been out there. I know what it’s like.”
“Too little, too late.”
“We’re the same, you and I. I’m a vet too. Half the reason I had the news ban coverage of the war was because of my memories. I didn’t want reminders, as I’m sure you don’t. We’re not so different.” He was lying. Trying to worm his way out of it. The slithery bastard had no shame.
“Yes we are,” the PM’s back hit a chair opposite his own. Sidestepping it, his spine met another obstacle, the desk; Stuart smiled beneath his foliage of ravaged hair.
“What I have done for this nation is unrivalled throughout history. Our economy has never been better. Nor the peoples’ morale. Or anything else for that matter. This country has never seen better days, nor will it again if we leave.”
“What you’ve done for the country?” Stuart almost laughed at the notion, “You scare the people into your way of thinking and punish those who dare oppose your “logic”. The only good thing you’ve done is lessen their fear of one another, but that’s only because you’ve changed the names of crimes to make them think they don’t happen any more, you haven’t conquered anything. You wouldn’t know how to.”
The PM started to look aggravated, “What has been done to this nation is an act of preservation of freedom and liberty! An act of protection from the communist regime as well as the vaccination plague. What was done needed to be done. We had no choice but to covet the peoples’ thoughts and tame them.” He was obviously still in a mind frame that he was irrevocably right, even in his current bleak situation cornered between his desk and Stuart.
“Fuck you, you self righteous piece of shit,” Stu walked steady and hard towards him, the time for talk was over and he meant to take action.
“Stop! God damn it, stop! You’ll not get awa…”
In an instant Stu had launched himself towards the PM. His hands plunged into the other’s chest as they went tumbling over the desk. For a moment there was nothing as they gathered their bearings and Stuart emerged, kneeling over the Prime Minister, and thrust his hands down as the other’s came up to fight him off. The gargled sounds of strangulation echoed around the room. Slowly they became less sporadic and regular until it appeared the man beneath had lost consciousness. Tending to scratch marks upon his arms, Stuart slowly stood up. Surely he’d succeed now! More blood stemmed from a fresh wound where his victim had gotten lucky. “Mo… there… fucker”, the speakers whispered. He stooped for a while, catching his breath and energy to carry on, and after a short struggle he managed to turn the object of his machinations onto his stomach and clutched the straggling tie readily in his hands while placing a knee in the spine and balancing with his free foot. Shakrin seemed to grimace at the sight of it. Stuart began to pull at the tie, wrapping it around his fist for a firmer grip, while exerting himself onto his knee more and more, steadily, slowly, coldly and in such a calculated manner it made me wonder if I’d ever really known Stuart in the first place or if this was a provocation from what it had taken him to get here. There was a menace in his eyes that I have only seen twice in the time I’ve known him. He was set to kill right now. And nothing or no-one could stop him until his dying breath. Nearly ten minutes had passed on the tape and Stuart dropped behind the desk suddenly, as if hiding. A woman walked in and without looking up said, “Sir, your six o’clock says there’s most likely going to be a delay and was wondering if half past is good enough?” she looked like a run of the mill secretary type, her hair up in a bun, glasses which she didn’t need but made her look more intelligent and a flash suit which didn’t over-do it. She looked up, and seemed truly shocked to not see her boss in his seat. Looking around, confused, she started walking towards the desk a little more. I could see where this one was going. She was going to be the one to end it all. Stuart was never once a threat to the females, he could never bring himself to even think about it let alone implement it. She turned to leave, still thinking and looking lost, when a small splutter came from behind the desk. My eyes slammed shut solely by reflex. I forced them back open to see the woman as she turned on her heel and marched to the desk. Stu crawled underneath obviously hoping the chair opposite would act as cover. A shrill scream braced the speakers with the flutter of papers and ramblings of “Sir! Sir! What happened sir? Can you hear me?”
Stuart scrambled out the other end of the desk as the secretary rushed to her boss’s aid but his cover was blown as he smashed into the chair and the woman straightened up and asked sharply, “Who’s there?! Come out now!”
Stuart stayed still for a moment, contemplating his options, before giving in. I knew it; I knew she was going to be the end of this. He stood up and turned to face her. “What in the Hell are you?!” she asked.
Stu sighed, and apologised. “What’s there to apologise for? For that?!” she shot a finger down at the crumpled body of the Prime Minister.
“Ha. No, I’m not sorry about that. And I intend to continue soon enough.”
“If you’re not sorry about what you’ve done to him, then what is the apology for?”
His eyes narrowed, and a reply growled out. “This!”
I saw the blood before anything else. My eyes must be defying me. A gush of claret has burst from the secretary’s nose and mouth in one swift move from Stuart as the back of his hand connected with her and sent her to the ground next to her boss, unconscious. Jesus, what the fuck had he just done?! Why had he done it? Who was he now?! The video started to blur a little. I felt light headed. This was all too much to handle right now. Too much to process. Too much… Why? I thought. “Why?”
“Why what, Raymond? Why was Stuart given to them on a platter? He was going to get the both of you into trouble. More importantly he was going to get you killed. The reckless son of a bitch. I couldn’t let that happen. Not after so long. Not with the plans I had in mind. You were too important.”
My thoughts couldn’t straighten themselves. Was Stuart dead? If not then what was he about face? One thing became clearer though; he wasn’t the man I thought he was. Maybe Shakrin was right. Maybe he had paid Pesayck to rid me of my ‘inconvenient ties’ to a normal life. But why him, God why him?! Of everyone! …my mouth was dry and my eyes rolled around. My head span. Questions. Scenarios. Wild elaborations. Theories. Conspiracies. Questions, questions, questions. But no answers. I felt faint. My mind couldn’t take it any more. I turned to Shakrin, he looked at me nonchalantly. He suit and face blurred. I muttered something like “What’s… happ… en… ing?” he looked on, indifferently, and then, nothing, only darkness…
Chapter 17 – A Fresh Slate
An alien light met my eyes as I came to. I looked around, confused, not knowing where I was or who I was. I was in a hospital room of some sort but the equipment was unfamiliar, nothing I’d ever seen before. What had gone on here? Where was I? I heard footsteps in the corridor outside, they were headed this way. As my head straightened, someone appeared in the doorway next to a security guard who was stood just in the room. I tried to focus on the men but my eyes were still ablaze with blur. I managed deciphered the guard’s name tag: Dave Tharrd. The name meant nothing to me. Struggling up onto my elbows I could see part of a sign in between their shoulders, it read “…ation Ward”, I couldn’t put the pieces together. The character in the doorway spoke. His pristine white suit glowed with familiarity; I recognised his face but his name eluded me, “Morning. You’ve had us worried, Ra… You’ve been out for a few days.” My head was swimming. Who was this man? Why did he speak as if he knew me? And why the Hell have I been out cold for days on end? What was going on?!
“Here are your credentials, R…” he stopped, “You’ve had a long week, get some rest,” a weak smile spread across his lips and he left me with a look in his eyes that almost showed regret. He left before I had chance to gather together a question. I looked at what he’d left on the end of the bed. My eyes still swimming with disorientation. I found an Echelon security pass and identification card pinned to the front of what looked like some official report of something. Further confused I looked at the photo and name to make sure it was right. They were, for what I could figure in this fevered semi-drugged state. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, and contemplated what had just unfolded before me. My mind cleared with my eyes, the soot of delirium dissipating gradually. I couldn’t remember a thing. Nothing. How I’d gotten here. Why I was here. In fact, I didn’t even know where here was. I grabbed the file and started reading. And then it came to me. Right after the first page I remembered! I’d been selected to infiltrate a resistance stronghold just last week. I must’ve been undone and found beaten half to death somewhere which explains this situation. God damn it. That was most likely my superior who just visited. I’ll be up for review as soon as I’m fit, no doubt about it. But still, why can I not remember past the last two weeks? I must’ve taken one Hell of a beating. Maybe the doctors can help clear up that query. All of these thoughts sparked a train of deviancy inside me. The resistance. Their fight against our undeniable system. Me getting found out and ending up here. Something wasn’t quite sitting right. Not sitting right at all. It was nagging at me to listen. Several minutes passed before I realised it was a voice, a voice deep inside, trying to tell me something. I can hear it but only make out a few words. It’s trying to give me instructions. It’s… It’s calling me Raymond. But why? Why is it calling me Raymond? My name isn’t Raymond.
