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After their meeting in Helsinki, Mitchell wondered what good would come of it.
Almost none, probably. He didn’t blame himself for that aspect of this whole mess. He had followed the correct procedure. Well, as much as possible. He’d reported back to Skinner that the procedure didn’t seem to work properly – it had been even worse than the previous time.
Skinner didn’t seem to give a damn except that Mitchell hadn’t got Richard’s signature in the correct way at the proper stage.
But he had dismissed all that nonsense from his mind by now. Even if he’d got the signature in the proper way, what difference would it have made? Richard wasn’t real any more. How could his signature be of any importance? Richard hadn’t been in touch since and everything was still in the drawer waiting to be collected. Perhaps Richard had decided to do nothing about this whole thing and keep himself out of harm’s way. So much the better if he had.
Later, in the bar, it was clear at least no lasting damage had been done – in as much as Richard, or some husk of his being, had no recollection of anything he shouldn’t know about.
Mitchell imagined how, to Richard, the world must be made of shadows projected into his consciousness. It must be a strange way to live. Like living in Plato’s cave.
As he put his signature to the paper, it was suddenly blurred by a teardrop. The tear surprised him. But then he simply folded the piece of paper twice, put it in an envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit. His best suit that would soon be ripped to shreds, covered in black oil and soaked in blood.
???
The shadows of two men are walking together but on separate paths. Where is this place? We are floating in space. The brightness is too bright, the darkness too dark.
Mist begins to obscure the blinding brightness. Cloud-like wisps lightly tumble upon themselves, thickening into shadow, making everything incomprehensible. Slowly, it begins to rotate, like a dying galaxy.
Then nothingness.
Yet there is a sense of something new; something approaching.
Hidden by shadow, something disturbing is near and getting nearer. Vermiform, it oozes from the darkness. A colossus; tattoos on its long, limbless body glisten like rubies, emeralds, sapphires and countless other multicoloured jewels as it emerges. It moves by undulating lazily, pushing before it a head in the shape of a blunted lozenge. It hesitates, then goes forward again, zigzagging from shadow into ever brighter light, revealing shimmering fractals glittering on its surface. It is magnificent! A fallen angel. A Lucifer.
Its monster head, an expressionless mask, moves from side to side, seeking prey. Its metal eyes hunt.
Suddenly the head splits wide open, transforming into a gaping pink mouth, exposing fangs like curved needles. Richard woke up. He was bathed in sweat.
It was that dream again. Why did he keep having nightmares about a damned snake?
5. By Email
(London – 2013)
Andy Mitchell was dead. The email said so.
“How can they be telling me this by email? It must be a hoax – a spoof email perhaps?”
Having just awoken from the nightmare about the snake, everything still felt unreal to Richard, so he found it hard to take in. A fake email from HR would mean there was a breach in the firewall. But a serious breach in security for an email like this wasn’t at all likely. The message was real. Andy Mitchell was dead. Richard reread it a dozen times wondering what could’ve happened to his boss. A heart attack? Car accident? The email didn’t say.
He remembered the last time he saw him. It was while he had been staying in the Grand Sokos Hotel for a project. Mitchell had suddenly turned up in Helsinki and rang his room at quarter to midnight. It was summer, so it was still broad daylight. He had got dressed again, gone down to the lounge bar to meet Mitchell and they had drunk until three a.m. By then they must’ve been as pissed as newts. His recollection of what had happened was very hazy. To start with, the conversation had been normal enough. Mitchell had talked enthusiastically about music and playing bass for some band in his youth. But then he turned a bit odd. He became more and more morose. Suddenly it all came out as anger. He ranted for a while about what a bitch his wife was. He mentioned he was in serious debt.
He talked about being psychic, quite seriously. Then, bizarrely, he produced a pack of cards. He wanted to absolutely prove that he was psychic for some reason. Were they Tarot cards? Richard seemed to remember they were cards with letters on them… and didn’t Mitchell start talking about politics or something at the same time? It was as though he was trying to prove Richard wrong every time he asked a question. Questions that had something to do with…? Richard couldn’t remember. They were probably drinking that goddamned Salmiakki Koskenkorva – liquorice vodka. That would account for it. It had got quite weird and rather irritating, and the whole political thing had got really annoying in the end. Mitchell kept telling him to remember the facts, and repeatedly saying, “You need to wake up,” just repeatedly saying “You need to wake up now,” to whatever point he made. Well, they were both completely drunk. The standard of debate couldn’t have been very high. It was probably a slur of barely intelligible babble.
Suddenly Richard had an uneasy feeling. A feeling Mitchell had said something important to him he’d completely forgotten.
And then he remembered the email Mitchell had sent him two days ago. He had dismissed it as a jokey way of saying they had to go for a drink sometime. He read the words again with a feeling of dеj? vu, or a feeling of having read them in a different life:
“Remember Helsinki? Have you made a decision yet? It’s getting urgent. Let’s arrange to meet soon.”
It was only at that moment, now that Mitchell was dead, in fact because Mitchell was dead, that the strangest idea began to insinuate itself. Back in Helsinki, Mitchell had said something to him that was not only very important but very secret. But no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t remember anything definite. Why can’t I remember the thing that I’m trying to remember?
Richard shook his head, trying to shake away the presence of the dream serpent, the shadows of grotesque unreality that still swarmed around him; trying to imagine what Mitchell could possibly have said to him that was so important. Something to do with Oldhams Bank, perhaps – or another project?
There was a more ominous possibility. The possibility that it was something to do with Zima. But that would be preposterous. Anything to do with Zima would have lit up in his consciousness like a neon sign. Where there should have been a memory there were just shadows.
So whatever this shadowy memory was, it couldn’t be Zima. He tried to think what else it could have been. There was one more possibility. The possibility that Mitchell had never said anything important to him in Helsinki. That, like the snake, it was imaginary. So, finally, unable to bring to mind any substantial notion of what Mitchell had said, he dismissed it as the memory of a dream. Richard switched off the laptop. He was annoyed though, that he’d read his emails just because a stupid snake dream had woken him. It was still only two a.m but now he wouldn’t get back to sleep.
6. Virtubank Software
The Bank of England, an ugly Georgian building consisting of an unfortunate hybrid of several incongruous elements, conceals the administrative machinery that once controlled an empire and continues to exert huge power over the global economy.
Walking near the building, along Threadneedle Street, you are aware of it only as a windowless Portland stone wall on top of which a disproportionately small Greek temple perches. From a greater distance, you would be able to see that the Greek temple has somehow been grafted to the front of something that looks like a French Hotel de Ville.
So, the Bank of England is ugly, but imposing. Fortunately though, the eye is somehow drawn away from it by other distractions. A statue of Wellington, on horseback, stands before the pleasant fa?ade of the Royal Exchange building and, further down Cornhill, James Henry Greathead, 1844 -1896, forces traffic to bifurcate by occupying a position in the middle of the road on top of his stone pedestal.
In addition to Cornhill, six more streets scatter out at random angles from the intersection where the Bank of England is situated. They are surprisingly narrow – certainly not grand, continental boulevards such as those, for example, that radiate, in organised symmetry, from the Arc de Triomphe. They were not created for parading military might before cheering crowds. The might here is financial, not military, and so great is it that it must be concealed rather than paraded. Therefore, the streets are not (as Dick Whittington and his cat believed) literally paved with gold. Furthermore, the design is ramshackle and haphazard because they still mark out the positions where they were arbitrarily formed in medieval times.
In the vicinity of the Bank, the streets are crammed with more white stone buildings. Behind these, a little further away, glass skyscrapers rise up. All this would surely inspire feelings of awe in any who came here, or perhaps envy.
Richard emerged from Bank tube station and was confronted by the sight of all this history and glory. He felt a sense of disgust at the sight, both with the buildings and with himself for continuing to work here.
Yet capitalism was a necessary step on the way to socialism. Marx himself had promised this much. And, looking up, if not to Richard but to the impartial observer, at that moment the City seemed celestial. Fluffy white clouds were moving across a porcelain-blue sky. It was almost expected that horn-blowing cherubs would appear, unrolling scrolls of parchment so that some triumphant announcement could be made. You could believe that perhaps they would proclaim that here, right here, they were constructing the New Jerusalem which Ezekiel had prophesied.
It was obvious that heaven and the celestial sphere was an abstract dimension hidden just out of sight of most mortals, as the world of finance was.
Looking back at the Bank of England, it becomes clear the temple is at ground level and the wall it is built on is, in fact, its foundations. Everything else at that level is also subterranean. Black cabs and bright red buses crawl through these underground passageways, while swarms of pedestrians bustle along shadowy walkways. Above this, a better world exists in sunlight and splendour.
???
The headquarters of VirtuBank Software (UK) Ltd were in the heart of the City. No expense had been spared to express the image of cutting-edge technological prowess. The whole fa?ade of the building was gleaming, precision-cut, plate glass, apart from six vertical stainless-steel tracks where transparent lifts slid up and down the exterior.
Richard stepped into one of these lifts from the reception area and, as the brushed steel doors closed behind him, he stepped forward and looked through the plate glass walls at the view. The small courtyard through which he had just passed held its usual throng of tourists and office workers; some looking up at the building, some taking photographs. It was an impressive enough building to merit a photograph.
From inside the building, members of the VirtuBank dev team on the fifth floor would be able to observe Richard, standing stock-still, ascending to their level as though by supernatural force.
Inside the lift, illusions of reflection and translucence bewildered the senses. The views of the surrounding buildings were mirrored back at the same time as other images were permitted to pass through directly, so that it was hard to tell what was real and what was reflection. The image of the skyscraper of St Mary Axe, popularly known as the Gherkin, floated upwards over the receptionist in an adjacent office while, turning round, Richard saw the more solid frame of the building itself looming above him. It shone like a sky-rocket.
Richard walked past reception, along a wide passage and into a large open-plan office. But he did not venture far. The hot-desks were nearest reception so that he, and other travelling consultants, would not disturb the office-based staff, many of whom, scattered randomly, were already bowed over their personal desks, or concentrating on their workstations. He sat down at one of the hot-desks and opened his laptop.
Darion, smartly dressed in a dark suit, came over, and was already wearing an expression of shocked disbelief by the time he was standing beside Richard’s desk.
“What about that, my friend?” he said.
“I know.”
“I was really shocked. Really!”
“What was it? Heart attack? Car accident?” Richard was still struggling to imagine what could have caused the sudden death of a perfectly fit and healthy man. Mitchell was only just in his forties.
Darion, a giant of a man with the strong lower jaw of a T-Rex, had a soft Greek accent that was ideal for expressing amazement.
“Suicide!” In his amazement, Darion elongated the third syllable of the word. His dramatic exclamation caught the attention of everyone in earshot and spread what seemed to be a ripple of unwanted emotion through them. Several co-workers nearby glanced up in apparent annoyance that their concentration had been disturbed.
“What! You’re kidding.”
“No,” Darion said in a more neutral tone. “It was suicide.”
It took a moment for Richard to think of anything to say. “Do you know what made him do it?”
“Nobody knows. Apparently the police said it was a ‘brutal suicide’.”
“God! I wonder what that means?”
“I don’t know. Someone said he jumped in front of a train.” Steve Wong had been unloading his laptop onto a nearby desk. Now he came over.
“Yes, that’s what I heard too. I heard he was in debt.”
“But come on! Nobody kills themselves just because of a little bit of money.” Darion’s accent had grown a little thicker. He seemed indignant that Mitchell couldn’t face up to mere financial problems. After all, they were all City workers. Money was easy to come by. Admittedly, it was easy to lose too, and never quite meant what you imagined it would. “He could’ve run away somewhere. What’s wrong with Venezuela?”
The guys laughed a little. They knew that Darion had recently been to Venezuela and had had a whale of a time with the local girls. The economy there was smashed to bits and any foreigner was seen as a billionaire.
“Venezuela is a favourite place for dodgy geezers to run to,” said Steve winking at Darion.
“You know, it’s not such a bad idea, my friend. You can go there any time you like; they will welcome you as a hero of socialism and give you your own place to live.”
“Wow! Really?”
“In a favela, or whatever they call the slums there, but it would be cosy, no worse than the others there have, and you should not have the bourgeois expectation of more.” He winked at Steve to indicate he was being ironic and understood both he and Steve fully expected more. A lot more. After all, Darion was a securities expert for a specialist financial software company and Steve was a qualified accountant for that company. The tailored suits, fine cotton shirts and silk ties they both wore made it clear they were a cut above the likes of Richard, who nevertheless was also reasonably well dressed in a dark suit and silk tie. His were not quite so ‘designer’, though.
“Better than topping yourself, anyway,” said Steve.
“Anything’s better than that. Imagine his family!” said Darion.
“Last time I saw him, he seemed quite happy,” said Richard. “He came over to Helsinki.”
“There you go!” Darion asserted, case proven. “He was swanning around all over the place pretending to be a manager and getting paid for it. What the hell did he have to go and top himself for!?”
Everyone shook their heads disapprovingly and smiled a little. Darion was always joking but, whatever his troubles, at least Mitchell did seem to have had a pretty cushy, well-paid job. In the short time they’d known him, he’d acquired the nickname of “The Invisible Man” because hardly anyone ever saw him. It seemed he just travelled from place to place, doing very little except occasionally chatting to his subordinates. In the end, none of them were able to sympathise with what he’d done. They all considered it to be a selfish and unnecessary act.
“Christ!” said Darion, suddenly serious.
“What?” asked Steve.
“Don’t you remember? Andy thought he was psychic. I wonder what shit he saw in our future.” Darion drifted off, leaving the others wondering if he was still joking or not. Steve just shrugged and wandered off too.
But Richard was slightly disturbed by this. He remembered Andy mentioning this in Helsinki. And now he remembered that Mitchell thought that he, Richard, was also psychic.
And suddenly it slithered into view. The thing that he had been trying to remember.
Mitchell had actually said, “When the stranger returns you must wake up.” He could practically see and hear him saying it. Yet it was not Mitchell and it was not Richard. It was a kind of film of them talking together. They were just actors playing roles in a film. It could not have been anything real because, no matter how drunk he’d been, he would’ve recognised that phrase immediately. Unless, through drunkenness, Mitchell hadn’t said it properly.
There was one more reason why it couldn’t be true: if Mitchell was his contact, and he was now dead, the last hope of the plan he’d been waiting for had already disappeared.
7. Advance To Mayfair
The meeting was taking place in a building in Mayfair belonging to Her Majesty’s Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Those present were Mark Osbourne, Jim Callan, Dr Joseph Skinner, Jack Logan, Graham Wood and Tom Brookes, all of whom had arrived almost simultaneously with great urgency and seated themselves around a tatty government-issue table. Last to arrive was Mark Osbourne, who took his place at the head of the table and began talking immediately.
“OK gentlemen, thanks for coming, sorry about the short notice. I guess you all know why by now. Anyone not heard the news?”
Everyone shook their heads except Tom Brookes, who looked round the table in alarm. What was going on that he wasn’t aware of?
“What news?” Brookes blurted out.
“Mitchell just killed himself.”
“What?”
“So we need to know why and clear up any loose ends he left lying around. He was handling several cases at the time of death, most of which are ticking along smoothly, I believe. The only item that gives me cause for concern is the work he was doing on Winter.”
Osbourne paused for a moment as though expecting someone to contradict him. He looked down at his laptop and continued:
“So, let’s talk about the suicide first. Any ideas?”
There was stony-faced silence.
“He left a note. I doubt if it means anything though. It seems utterly confused, quite frankly.” Osbourne passed photocopies of the note around the table.
Callan read aloud: “I occupy this crevasse – the realm of nothingness which lies coiled in the heart of being – like a worm, but existentialism is a false dichotomy, and therefore metaphysical hope is impossible. I have seen through the illusion. I know what it’s like to be dead. I already know. When I walked into the room to see him I was dead then. He didn’t notice but I knew.
“Anyway, as JFK said, ‘Don’t sing me no la la la tune no more I ain’t gonna listen to that shit again.’ By JFK I mean Jo Fucking King – but, my dear reader, no I ain’t joking.
“Inside my mind I have seen into the soul of the universe and it is filled with A MILLION maggots of death. They breed. They are the EVIL in everything. THE e-vile.
“Now I just want to go there and be inside it. It will be me. I will be it. We will reign forever.
“I’ll stand on the mountain that stands on me and I will see everything.”
Callan had finished reading, but everyone continued to stare at their personal copy of the note as though they still expected to find some meaning in it.
Logan was the first to speak: “Christ! Mitchell wrote that? Are you sure? I mean…” he was lost for words. “I said cheerio to him Friday, going out the office. He said cheerio back. He was the same old Andy Mitchell I’d known for…”
Dr Skinner interrupted: “Some of that might not be complete gibberish; he’s quoting Sartre – I think – and John Lennon. We should trace the quotes and see…”
Callan interrupted Skinner’s interruption: “That’s a fool’s errand – we’ll never get to the bottom of any meaning that might be found in a synthesis of Sartre and Tomorrow Never Knows. Was he on drugs or something?”
Osbourne replied: “Actually, yes. That seems to be it. We found significant traces of ChiroButyline-A in his blood. It’s a tranquilliser that was banned worldwide about six months ago because people who took it for any length of time tended to commit suicide.”
