Slow Burning Lies (25 page)

45

*

A biting evening breeze streaking towards Patrick shocked him awake. The view in front of him crackled once or twice before flickering into focus; it was a damp and dreary city street with a continuous high wall of buildings on either side.

He shivered and quickened his pace past the storefronts. The extra effort made him weak and breathless. He lifted a hand to his face; his cheeks felt thinner than he remembered, and seemed greasy as well as rough with stubble. As he rubbed he felt a whole jawful of teeth that pulsed with a dull ache.

He shivered once more, thrust his hands into his pockets and pulled his arms tightly to his torso.

His gait stuttered as he realized what was in one of the pockets, but he carried on.

He passed a laundrette locking up for the day, and a club boasting half-naked dancers getting ready to open. He passed Goldie’s convenience store and stopped. Something compelled him to turn and step inside.

The store was clean and well-ordered, while still managing to have not a single inch of free space on the shelves. The homely aroma of fresh bread mingled with the mustiness of earthy root vegetables. There were three customers, two at the checkout and one idly squeezing loaves of bread. Patrick stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do, then took a wire basket and approached the middle aisle.

There he waited.

And waited.

He kept glancing towards the door. Nobody entered, which made him feel good. The first of the shoppers at the checkout paid and left, the second paid then held the hand of the woman serving – a petite lady who cracked a bittersweet smile when the customer called her ‘Mrs Goldberg’ in a sad, almost patronising tone. They hugged and then the customer left. Nobody else came in. There was now only one other customer in the shop. Patrick’s ears and eyes suddenly became hypersensitive.

The other customer, a young man in a ski jacket, chose a bottle of red wine to accompany the loaf and round of cheese resting in his basket before sauntering up to the checkout. Patrick dropped a four-pack of beer in his basket and followed. He stood behind the young man and kept his eyes fixed on the till on the other side of the counter.

‘Irene,’ the young man said. ‘What’s the news of Ethan?’

Irene replaced her smile with a sickly expression, like she was either going to sneeze or cry. She did neither, instead giving her head a little shimmy.

‘Oh,’ the man said, his face turning pale. ‘Oh my God, Irene. That’s terrible. I’m… I’m really sorry.’

Irene nodded and thanked him for his concern.

Patrick felt his teeth grinding from side to side.

‘Look,’ the man said. ‘If there’s anything I can do…’

Yeah
, Patrick thought.
Leave. And quickly.

‘Thank you,’ Irene said, her lips half-smiling but also half-trembling. ‘But there’s not much anyone can do.’

The man collected his change and put his shopping in his bag. ‘I’m so sorry. How… how long?’

‘Three months, perhaps four if we’re lucky.’

The man flicked an awkward glance to Patrick, then back to Irene, before saying, ‘Take care,’ and leaving.

Irene switched the business smile back on and turned to Patrick. He placed the basket on the counter. Then his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he ran a finger over the cold steel in his pocket.

‘Is that all you want, sir?’

Patrick nodded, then gripped the pistol and started to lift it up.

At that moment a woman entered the store and rushed to Irene. The two women together were very alike facially, but Irene was smaller, a little slimmer, a whole lot more stressed out.

‘Oh, God,’ the woman gasped. ‘I just heard… I…’ She gulped and nodded to Patrick. ‘I’m sorry, serve the man first.’

Patrick chewed on his words for a second before saying, ‘No, really. You carry on; I’ve forgotten something.’ The woman thanked him and he backed away and stood at the end of the aisle, doing nothing more than pretending to browse the groceries, and listening. He glanced to the door again.

Yeah, you carry on
, he thought,
then get the fuck out of the store.

The woman skipped behind the counter and softened her voice. ‘Do Jake and Sarah know?’

Irene gazed blankly before shaking her head. ‘I haven’t decided what to say yet. Ethan only got his results this morning.’

‘Why don’t I take them off your hands?’

‘Well…’

‘Just for the weekend. To give the two of you a break.’

‘Thanks,’ Irene said. ‘But no. Ethan wants to spend as much time as he can with the children. But it would be a help if you could collect them from school. Ethan’s not up to looking after the shop, so if I go I have to shut it up.’

‘The shop? I… I know it’s none of my business, Irene, but does the shop really matter at a time like this?’

Irene bowed her head. ‘The medical bills are starting to mount up; we need to stay open.’

The woman dropped her handbag on the counter and put a hand to her head. ‘I just… I’m…’ Her shoulders hunched and started to quiver. Her hand rooted around in her handbag and pulled out a tissue, which was quickly clamped to her eyes. She grabbed Irene and hugged her tightly.

‘Please don’t,’ Irene said. ‘You’ll start me off and I won’t be able to stop.’

Patrick’s eyes had now set upon something else: the woman’s handbag, left on the counter, close to the door. He walked the length of the aisle to stand at the end of the counter, a couple of paces away from the handbag. But what were the odds? An easy handbag which looked cheap and might not have much in it, versus whatever was in the till, which was presumably a day’s takings, but more risky.

As he deliberated, the woman stepped back and her hand instinctively fell onto her handbag.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Irene. ‘It’s not right for me to feel so lousy when you’re…’ She blew her nose and took a breath. ‘Just promise you’ll let me know how I can help. Anytime. Okay?’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘No, it isn’t. You deserve it. That’s what sisters are for. Now I have to go before I upset myself again.’ The woman stepped back, almost bumping into Patrick. ‘And you have a customer to serve,’ she added.

She left, and Irene and Patrick faced each other, alone and in silence apart from the hubbub of street noise. They stared at each other for a full five seconds, as though Patrick couldn’t summon up the courage to do what he wanted to do, and almost as if Irene knew what was coming, was waiting for him to make the first move.

Patrick jumped over to the door and locked the latch, then pulled his pistol out.

Irene’s already small frame shrank down even more as she lifted her hands up to her face and shrieked. ‘Please. Please don’t hurt me.’

Patrick leaned over the counter and pointed the pistol at her. ‘Do exactly as I say and I won’t kill you. Do anything else and I will. Understand?’

She nodded.

‘All the takings. Get one of your bags and put everything from the till into it.’

‘Okay, okay. Take anything but don’t hurt me.’

Patrick vaulted the counter and pointed the pistol at her forehead. ‘Don’t talk. Don’t look at me. And don’t fucking cry.’

Her trembling fingers needed three attempts to open the till. She grabbed a bag and started scooping the till contents into it.

‘Card receipts too?’

Patrick pressed the pistol to her head, giving it a push which made her head flick away.

‘I said
everything
!’ Patrick shouted. ‘And don’t stop!’

Irene wiped her arm across her face and carried on filling the bag. She scrabbled at the back for coins.

‘That’ll do it,’ Patrick said. He kept his pistol pointed at her as she dropped the bag onto the counter.

‘Please leave me alone,’ Irene said, sniffling and almost coughing the words out. ‘You have what you want.’

‘But… you know who I am,’ Patrick said.

Irene looked straight at him for a second then dropped her head back down. ‘I won’t remember. I promise. Please. Please don’t shoot.’

Patrick threw a glance back to the door then stepped forward and pressed the gun onto her head. ‘Are you telling me what to do? I don’t like people telling me what to do.’

Her head jolted then shook as she spluttered a few times and her cries turned to an uncontrollable sob. ‘Please. Just leave. I… I did everything you asked.’

‘No you didn’t.’

She looked up and Patrick saw the glistening red rims of her eyes.

‘But I did!’ she said. ‘You have it all.’ She pointed to the bag and collapsed, bawling.

‘You see, I told you not to cry. And now you’re crying. That means I have to kill you.’

Irene pulled her hands over her head and hunched herself into a ball. ‘
No. Please!
’

‘Bye bye, Irene.’

Now her whole body convulsed as she cried like a hungry baby. She tried to speak but the words made no sense. She pulled herself together enough to hold her hands up to Patrick and say, ‘Please! Anything!’

Patrick lowered the pistol a few inches and gave her a sideways grin. ‘Anything?’

‘Just don’t kill me,’ she said between gulps.

Patrick looked to the street outside and back to Irene. ‘Take your top off,’ he said.

‘What?’

Patrick raised the gun again and shouted, ‘I said, Take your fucking top off!’

The woman’s flow of tears was halted and she stilled herself for a few seconds. Then she slowly pulled her large pullover over her head, her tee-shirt coming with it.

He flicked the gun to her bra. ‘And the rest.’

‘No, please.’

Then the pistol touched her forehead, and she reached behind to unclasp her bra. It slid down her arms and settled on the floor. She gave a sniffle, but otherwise had stopped sobbing, stopped begging.

Patrick looked more closely at her breasts. The both of them sagged, one lower than the other.

‘Nice,’ he said. Then he lifted the pistol back to her head and shouted out, ‘NOT!’

Irene closed her eyes and started mumbling prayers, but then, just as Patrick’s finger tightened on the trigger – just as there was that no-going-back click – she stopped and opened her eyes.

As the gun recoiled the display of cigarettes behind her head turned crimson and her body, with eyes still open but now glazed, dropped to the floor.

Patrick’s shoulders started to quiver as a cackle of laughter dragged itself from his lungs and developed into a proud guffaw. He grabbed a handful of chewing gum from the counter display, picked up the bag of cash and his pack of beer, and left the store.

As soon as the cold street air hit him his body stiffened, the light surrounding him dimmed, and very soon his world was dark once again.

*

46

‘That’s disgusting,’ Maggie Dolan said, her upper lip curling as she spoke. ‘Even in a dream that’s truly disgusting.’

‘I agree,’ the man said. ‘But as you understand by now, it was only a dream.’

‘You know, dream or not, I’m not sure I want to hear any more.’

The man frowned. ‘You don’t want to hear the ending?’

Maggie stood up and nodded to the door. ‘I think you should leave.’

‘Are you getting scared?’ the man said, showing no sign of standing.

‘Look. I just have things to do.’

‘But you are scared?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because of the knife you have.’

Maggie turned the palm of her hand outwards, revealing the small paring knife. ‘Yeah, well. I guess I am. Who wouldn’t be with a strange man telling sick stories.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Now are you gonna leave?’

The man didn’t look at her, but took his cigarette lighter out again and brought the flame back to life, rolling his fingers over it again.

‘That’s it,’ Maggie said walking to the counter. ‘I’m calling the cops.’

The man shot her a puppy dog expression. ‘Please. I won’t be long. Then I’ll go. I’ll just walk away. I promise.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And, believe me, I’ll leave you with a good story.’

Maggie’s hand hovered over the phone for a few seconds, as she held a stare at the man.

‘And you do have the knife,’ he added.

Maggie’s glanced to the knife her sweating hand still clung to.

‘Why don’t you sit back down,’ the man said, ‘and hear the final part. I’ll tell you who Patrick really is.’

‘And you’ll tell me who you are?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Ten minutes. No more.’ Maggie sat back down, pulling her chair away from the table.

‘Thank you so much,’ the man said. ‘I’ll continue.’

47

In the darkness that had suddenly engulfed him, Patrick was very quickly conscious of three things. One, he was sitting back, constricted on all sides and with his neck held firm. Two, he felt terrible, with a dry mouth and a head that throbbed with the mother of all hangovers. But the third thing was the most worrying: for some reason he was unable to move his arms or legs. He could clench a fist, but his forearms were held as rigidly as the rest of him.

 
He could move his head very slightly, and whenever he did it felt like spiders were crawling all over his face, teasing him. He flicked his head to try to rid himself of them, but it didn’t help, and he also felt himself being strangled the more he moved.

And then he shook his whole body, quietly at first, then with absolutely no inhibitions, grunting and rolling, straining but not moving the seat he was locked into. It was no good; he was securely imprisoned.

Then a small door opened next to him and he slitted his eyes to the brightness.

‘You’re awake,’ he heard a voice say.

He blinked a few times then looked across. It was the Sandman.

Then he looked down and recognized the seat immediately – it was the low-slung black one he’d seen before. He was in the WishPhixxer pod, whatever the hell that meant. A variety of thick fabric straps – the sort used to secure luggage onto vehicles – tied his arms, legs and neck to the contraption. He was looking through a veil of trailing wires, the sticky-tabbed ones that led to the screens in front of him.

Now he could see his situation he struggled some more. Again, he was wasting his time. There were too many straps and they showed no signs of loosening their grip on his flesh.

‘Please, Patrick. I advise you not to waste your energy. You’ll need it later.’

And only then did he see the Sandman holding a small brown bottle in one hand and a large pad of cotton wool in the other.

Patrick flinched and struggled some more as the Sandman tipped some of the clear liquid onto the pad and eased it towards Patrick’s face.

‘Stop struggling. Only for the head wound.’

Patrick relaxed a little, only to tense up again at the stinging when the pad reached its target.

‘That’s better,’ the Sandman said. ‘My colleagues won’t believe me, but I can’t bear to see people suffer.’ He replaced the lid and left the room.

He returned with another bottle, this time plastic with a spout at the top.

‘Are you thirsty?’ he said in an appeasing tone Patrick found all the more unsettling.

‘Very,’ Patrick said.

‘That’ll be the DKK. Open your mouth.’

Patrick did, and tasted the tang of apple juice. ‘What’s DKK?’ he said.

‘Is that better?’

Patrick nodded, not taking his eyes off the Sandman.

‘Do you like sport?’ the Sandman said.

Patrick didn’t answer.

‘Oh, come on. I thought you wanted us to talk.’

Patrick simply gave another frightened glance to the man’s face, who had combed what little hair he had back to its previous style after their tussle had disturbed it.

‘You like soccer, don’t you? I know you like soccer. Except you prefer to call it football.’

Patrick felt like his head had recently been kicked around like a football but still he didn’t speak. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I love football. Love it. So what?’

‘I do too.’

‘Good for you. What are you going to do with me?’

The Sandman drew a nearby chair up to Patrick and sat down, leaning into the pod so that each man could see even the faintest hint of an expression on the other’s face. ‘Not the game, of course – I loathe the game.’

‘What the fucking hell are you going on about?’

Patrick drew his head back a little as the Sandman leaned forward even more, his face almost reaching Patrick’s captive head. This close up Patrick could see a small but regular tic in the wrinkled skin just below the Sandman’s left eye.

‘I’m not “going on” about anything, Patrick. I’m talking to you, trying to have a civilized conversation as opposed to a slanging match involving the use of foul language. Please remember that.’ His brow creased, his eyebrows straining to meet each other. ‘When I say I like football, I mean I’m enamoured with the charged atmosphere.’ Now his eyes shone a little brighter. ‘It’s like a war, but a war fought with chanted insults and slurs instead of bullets and bombs.’ He cracked a smile. ‘Well, usually.’

‘What have you done with my brother?’ Patrick said.

‘Your brother?’

‘Declan. Where’s Declan?’

‘Oh, of course. I forgot. I can tell you exactly what we’ve done with Declan. Would you like me to?’

‘I’m not leaving here until you do.’

The Sandman gave showy glances to the straps binding Patrick’s limbs to the chair. ‘It strikes me that particular decision has been taken out of your domain.’ He pulled the wrist straps a little tighter. ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking for some time that I owe you a full and proper explanation.’

‘You’re damn fucking right you do.’

‘Please. Language. Luckily for you it transpires that I now have the go-ahead to do just that.’ The Sandman leaned back and rasped his fingernails over the silvery stubble on his chin. ‘Okay. So. Where were we? Yes. Football. Soccer. The beautiful game, as some misguided people call it.’

‘Whatever,’ Patrick said.

‘I have a dream, you see.’ The Sandman chuckled to himself. ‘I’m sorry. Unintentional humour, I assure you. But I do. I have a dream of a peaceful world where wars are as obsolete as smallpox or silent movies or the bow and arrow. It’s about taking humanity to the next level of civilisation.’

Patrick shrugged as best he could. ‘What’s all this got to do with me or Declan?’

‘All in good time.’

The Sandman now sat back in a more relaxed pose. ‘You see, soccer is tribal. Territorial. Like most sports, it’s a fight to the death where the loser doesn’t die. Many years ago I had a vision of a world where fights and battles are decided not with bombs and bullets, but by a game – a game where nobody gets hurt. The key to this vision is a world where aggression is channelled – much like in a game of soccer – or any sports match to an extent. Two sides, including their supporters, go to war over the position of a white ball. It sounds utterly futile when you say it like that. But it’s not. It’s a mock war. And that’s better than a real one.

‘The two sides could even be two people fighting a whole war against each other. They could maim and torture each other all day long and nobody would get hurt. And at the end there would be a winner and a loser.’

‘I don’t see where this is all going,’ Patrick said.

‘Apologies if I’m boring you. I’ll get on.’ The Sandman drew breath again and folded his arms. ‘Of course, that was my big theory, my dream. But it’s not where our work starts. It starts with the concept of people venting their competitive urges by playing video games against one another. Just imagine how much aggression a person could expel – how much better a person could feel about themselves – if they could live in their dream world and indulge in their most basic – or base – desires. You hate the rich guy in the Cadillac who butts in at the car park every morning? Just live the dream where you blow the guy’s brains out with a Colt45 or pepper his body with slugs from an Uzi. Sick of big government bullying the little guy? Why not wait until they’re all gathered together in, say, a hotel…’

‘And blow it up?’

‘You understand perfectly. That’s the vision we have in the OrSum WishPhixxer research project; to produce the next generation – or even the next
dimension
– of video games. And without the need for a console or a screen, with no buttons or controls – just plug your mind in and go. And thus we allow people’s dreams, no matter how depraved and violent, to come true. Just imagine for a moment a world where all undesirable human behaviour should become confined to the virtual world. And, of course, think of the corollary – all the people in the world spending all of their ‘real world’ time doing good things. Imagine how liberating that would be for the human race.’

The Sandman paused and took a slosh of apple juice from the bottle.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Patrick said. ‘You’re sick.’

‘Sick?’ The Sandman let out a chuckle. ‘Like the people who pay good money to watch films where such vile things – multiple shooting and mutilations – are commonplace, almost
de rigueur
? Or even people who enjoy reading novels that detail such disgusting events with great skill?’

‘That’s different.’

‘Is it?’ the Sandman said. ‘How is it different? I’m nothing more than a marketing strategist responsible for the future success of a large corporation by satisfying a market demand. People will always want to be frightened – only the medium will change. I’m no more sick that Stephen King or Alfred Hitchcock or their aficionados.’

‘Have it your way,’ Patrick said. ‘Is that it?’

‘No. Like I told you, that’s just the basic aim. The application and practicalities of the operation will interest you more. I just wanted to give you a feel for what we’re trying to achieve here, which could be something truly great for human civilisation.’

‘So, tell me about where I fit in. And what you’ve done with Declan.’

‘Oh, I will.’

‘And Rozita.’

‘Ah, yes. The beautiful Rozita. How could I forget about her?’ The Sandman smiled and gave his stubble another stroke. ‘Rozita wasn’t that crucial – she just fitted the role, but it could have been any of a hundred different women. She majored in drama at UCLA, you know. OrSum offered her a more stable and stimulating career than being an out of work actress waitressing in a succession of LA diners.’

‘She’s an actress?’

‘But a very good one, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘But I don’t understand. How did you get her into my dreams?’

‘The same way we got inside all of your dreams: via the microchip.’

‘The
what
?’

‘You wouldn’t know about it – it just feels like pimple – it’s implanted at the top of your neck, just below the lump of bone at the back of your head, the closest we could get to the base of your brain without major surgery.’

‘That’s crap. I don’t believe you.’

‘There are plenty of things that happened that you don’t remember.’ The Sandman laughed again. ‘And also a few things you
do
remember that
didn’t
happen.’

‘What?’

‘Like being able to play the guitar. We implanted the thought that you could play it but not the skill to do so. That was a good idea but too complex for us to implement – a minor error on our part. So it’s true, whether you believe it or not. We gave you an implant last year. It’s only in the last three months we’ve been using it, though – on and off. The chip operates on microwave frequency.’

Patrick thought for a moment. ‘That’ll be the contraption under my bed.’

The Sandman frowned. ‘You know about it?’

‘I followed the cables that came from VTA.’

‘Ah, yes. Your little chase. Anyway, we use complex digital signal processing techniques to feed graphics, sound, and other sensory information from the transmitter to the chip, which in turn gets fed to the base of your brain, the part responsible for dreams.’

‘But what for? Why choose me to be a guinea pig for your new games?’

The Sandman shrugged. ‘Because you were available. And we haven’t harmed you – in fact we’ve been trying to help you.’

‘
Help me
? Jesus, you’re perverted.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Patrick dropped his chin onto his chest. Again he felt the urge to put his head in his hands.

‘But I guess you’re more interested in Declan, yes?’

Now Patrick looked up and glared ahead at the Sandman. ‘If I ever get out of this contraption you’ll find out just how interested I am. He’s my kid brother. I’m supposed to look out for him.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘So tell me what you’ve done with him.’

The Sandman took a minute or so to look over Patrick’s face, bending forward to look at it from every angle.

‘Tell me!’ Patrick shouted.

The Sandman nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I think deep down you know exactly what we’ve done with him.’

‘Stop fucking me about! Tell me what you’ve done with him!’

‘Please don’t curse again; there’s no need and little point.’ The Sandman paused again. ‘Let me ask you,’ he said eventually. ‘How much do you know really about Declan?’

‘He’s my brother. I know everything about him.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Actually, yes. I really think so.’

‘I’ll make you a deal. You promise to stop cursing and I’ll tell you all about Declan – including everything about the young Declan you’ve quite understandably forgotten.’

‘What things?’ Patrick said, holding his head up high. ‘What makes you think you know more about my own brother than I do?’

The Sandman slowly got to his feet. ‘I can see mere words are not going to sway your mind. I’m going to need something more concrete to convince you. Just wait there.’ He stepped away then turned back. ‘Oh, excuse my rudeness. You have no choice, do you?’