But Thomas Aiken Is Dead - Part I (7 page)

I’ve never been a stickler for routine but one seems to have developed. 7:00, rise, check emails to see if you’ve written. 8:00, review strategy for the day, prioritise which policeman to pester. 9:00 after preliminary phonecalls, continue to pester various newspapers in the hope that they’ll feature an article or two about your disappearance. They are reluctant. I get the impression that you were a difficult journalist; most of them know you but don’t run to sing your praises. 10:00, retire to the study for most of the day, research recent theories about your disappearance, stop for lunch, continue until 21:00.

I went over to your place today and sat on your bed for a while. It was enough to know that you’d been there, slept there. All your jewelry was neatly stacked on the dressing table. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you neatly stack anything in your life. It isn’t in your nature.

You are five. Lucy is also five, of course. The first day of school. Lucy holds back and peeks through my legs but you walk in without even flinching, march right up to some other children, hold out your hand and say ‘Hi, I’m Fran, let’s be friends.’ That’s the kind of confidence that will one day win you interviews with otherwise unobtainable politicians. You are different to your sister. I had not expected that with identicals. You were almost expelled twice, I think, for starting fights in her honour. You were two halves of the same soul in a way. All the molten was poured unequally when it went into making the two of you. Lucy took all the feminine grace, the dainty countenance, the ability to open a letter without tearing it apart like a rageous wolf. You took the smarts and the irreverence.

That little blue book Salah’s mother gave me is the best lead I can find.
Lead
. I should buy a duffel coat and a pork-pie hat. It has a website on the back. The Church of Ixdom. I can’t say it sounds much like a church. Not a jot of god about it. I skimmed what I could but honestly, it was just the same rehashed trite sentiments without the martyrdom and wine. Something about the
preservation of human life via technology.
May as well be Russian. The big kahuna is a man called, and I’m not joking, Tersh Maxence Kluik. The ‘about’ section keeps referring to him as
the Tersh
, so I suppose it's an official title of some kind.

They run retreats out in the lake district. No mention of massages and spas though. More than that, they hold the
whatever it is
that was in Salah’s schedule called ‘The Receiving’ on Fridays. What kind of day is that for religious worship? There’s one going on in Oxford next week. I pencil that into the calender and phone the contact number.

Hello?

Hi. Is this the, urm…

Second nascent Church of Ixdom, devoted to full realisation of the Ix and its tacit becomings?

Ah, yes.

It is. How can I help you?

I was rather interested in attending one of your introductory sessions.

Excellent. Have you been to one of the church’s meetings before?

Never.

No problem. You’ll only need to bring an open mind and some paper for taking notes.

Is it a lecture?

No, but there may be quite a few unfamiliar concepts.

What like?

Best if we discuss that in person, Mr. -

Aiken.
Shit, not Aiken. A fake name. What’s a fake name? Too late you idiot.

Excellent.

Then, a breakthrough. I find an old archives article of yours for the Post about a harmless doomsday cult in Shropshire. The last paragraph makes idle speculation about the consequences of leaving these kinds of groups alone to flourish into societal threats. Was this one of your concerns? And if so, have you joined up with this Ixdom rubbish to get the inside story? That is not only my best theory at present, but the one with the most evidence supporting it. I can see you now, garbed in the white shawls the initiates probably wear, referring to the other women as
sister
, queuing diligently for cold porridge or something, all the while the million cogs in your byzantine head are taking down every detail, archiving, making ready to regurgitate it into a doublespread feature when you get out.

Friday comes around. They hold the meeting at Barnstable Secondary of all places. I’m early but the place is packed already. Young folks mostly, a few couples, here and there the odd ageing goat like myself. A man quietens the rabble down and introduces himself as Tersh Craven. It could be a timeshare promotion if it weren’t for his white robes. Soon enough he lapses into the expected pseudo-spiritual bullshit. I wrote some of it down. “All life tends towards absolute cohesion.” “The Ix is the culmination of the human technological project.” “All religions have spoken of the Ix, but they have not known its name, nor its intentions.” Makes perfect sense, as you can see. I try to imagine you sat at one of these meetings, nodding, smiling, always a perfect thespian. Wading through horseshit was a kind of professional necessity for you, I suppose. I am not so adept at it.

Afterwards they bring out tea, coffee, and biscuits. Standard induction process. A few normals come out of the woodwork and mill about in the crowd. I stand awkwardly for a little while watching the others and sipping my tea. One of the normals approaches.

‘Did you enjoy the talk?’

She’s around my age, maybe a little younger. Her hair is black and bobbed, almost like a motorcycle helmet.

‘Very interesting,’ I say. ‘And you?’

She shrugs non-commitally.

‘I don’t know, it was all pretty interesting but I don’t think I understood a word.’
Leans in for a whisper:
‘They seem mad as cats, don’t they?’

I nod. Ah, an ally!

‘Thank god,’ I say. ‘May as well have been Hebrew for all the good it did me. So why did you come, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Curiosity. Wondered what all the fuss was about. You?’

I consider telling the truth, telling her all about you and your disappearance and your neatly stacked jewelry and that reptilian stare you do when you know you’re onto something.

‘Oh, just curiosity too.’

Very-British-pause, then:

‘Julia,’ she says.

‘Thomas.’

Handshake.

‘Do you smoke?’ she says. I don’t have your journalistic intuition Franny, but I’ve got my own paternal instincts. So: ‘Sure,’ I lie. We go out into the courtyard and she hands me a Marlboro. I take small drags so as not to cough my lungs up and give the game away.

‘How did you hear about these people?’ I say.

‘Look. I wasn’t completely honest. I
am
curious about all this but it’s not why I’m here. Two months ago my son went missing suspiciously. He’d been banging on about Ixdom-this and Ixdom-that for ages, so when he didn’t seem to be coming back and when no body had turned up, I thought this might be the answer. Can we keep that between ourselves?’

Joy. Guarded overwhelming joy.

‘I can keep a secret,’ I say. ‘Do you think he joined the church?’

‘Maybe. They’ve got a habit of indoctrinating eager twenty-somethings. It’s all over the net.’

Is it?

‘Callum wasn’t one for fancies, but there was something about this bunch that really did it for him. I thought I’d come and see what all the fuss was about, maybe eek out a hint or two about his whereabouts. You’re not a plant are you?’

She regards me through the cigarette smoke and half-light. What cerulean blue eyes she has.

‘Plant?’

‘Sure. Some of these screwball cults put normal-lookers in among the new initiates to keep tabs on everybody, make sure nobody’s in it for the wrong reasons.’

‘Like you,’ I say.

‘Sure. Like me.’

She looks me up and down covertly, examining for oddities. I was careful to dress with near on perfect dullness. She won’t find a thing out of place.

‘I don’t think plants smoke,’ I say.

‘That doesn’t mean a thing. You
don’t
smoke. Look at you, puffing it all into your cheeks.’

I nod and stub it out. No point being a masochist now the secret’s out. She’s smiling mischievously.

‘You’re just playing with me, aren’t you?’ I say.

‘Of course.'

She eyes my naked ring-finger. A subtle glance but detectable enough. I am long out of practice with this.

There must be a thread which links every action in a life, even if it’s impossible for us mortals to discern. For the last three weeks I have been trying to trace yours, that indestructible wool which stretches from wherever it is you are now, whichever room you’re sitting in, back to the moment you stormed into the world just a few moments ahead of your sister. Sometimes the thread winds over on itself, juts off in some unexpected direction. Taking a sudden interest in Phil Collins. That was out of the blue. Cultivating a smoking habit. Your religious phase. I could see the idea forming in you, crystalising in realtime. We sat huddled like Russians in a gulag at the front of the church, not a spare pew in the house.

Your mother and I were silent but you were crying something chronic, practically wailing. The priest was giving it the usual nonsense, and it wasn’t until the
and who believes in me shall never die
that you stopped crying all of a sudden and raised your head to listen. Shall never die. But Lucy was dead already, lying just a few feet away with her mouth pursed and her makeup made up. What force you threw yourself at Christ with after that. Buddhism, Jainism, Nihilism, every plate from the ideology buffet all went out the window in that moment, didn’t it? Jesus was your captain now and you fell into the bible and the psalms with the same ferocity you used to give to boys and MTV. I always wondered if you felt cleaved after that. Something had been taken from your mother and I, but a piece of your very own soul had been taken from you, split down the middle. Untwinned. You simply couldn’t accept the brutal truth. Terrible things happen sometimes and we have little else to do but come around to the idea, unbearable as it is.

I don’t want to take you apart psychologically, but you never quite relented on this religious nonsense. When Christ became too contradictory you found your other prophets, the Eastern mystics, Terence Mckenna, Alan Watts, Ramdas. They lost their appeal too, soon enough.

‘They have a special workshop on Tuesdays,’ Julia says. ‘For the initiates.’

‘You’re thinking of joining up?’

‘Of course. How else do you get inside this thing?’

I turn this over in my head. It’s clear enough that short of putting on the garb myself they’re not going to give anything away.

‘All right,’ I say.

You’d like this woman. She’s driven in that singular way. Fran-ishly. When she talks she keeps her eyes fixed on yours like they’ve been epoxied, doesn’t let up for anything. A sign of intelligence, I’ve always thought. We go back inside after a while. There are only a few non-initiates left, all swamped by the
Ixers
. Personal details time, all the freaks trying to aquire phone numbers of the uninitiated. They have a good go at mine and Julia’s. I give it to them for good measure. What’s the worst they can do?

The moon is hiding tonight, but least I know where she is and when she’ll be back.

I miss you always,

Yours,

Papa.

Internment Transcription – Ersatz-Ningen Denizen – Blue Tier
Present Subjects: The Interlokutor (Cadence Official), The Breacher (Cadence Official), Ersatz-Ningen Subject (Perpetrator)

The Interlokutor:

There have been revelations in Cadence Major.

Atia:

You’ve seen the foolhardy error of your ways and you’d like to release me.

The Breacher:

Please refrain from derisive ningen humour during the investigation.

The Interlokutor:

The mergerment recently consumed the entirety of Orange Tier.

Atia:

Saahl has told me of this already.

The Interlokutor:

In an effort to preserve Orange Tier’s legacy, the foremost archivist distributed the tier’s selfsense records to Cadence Major before it was subsumed.

Atia:

And you’ve no doubt been trawling through them.

The Interlokutor:

Indeed. Some startling facts have come to light.

Atia:

And I’m sure they’re accompanied by startling conclusions made by yourself?

The Interlokutor:

Partly.

Atia:

Well don’t keep me in suspense here. What are you talking about?

The Interlokutor:

We believe your infant responsible for the mergerment’s initiation.

Atia: