Minions (20 page)

“I met with him because I assumed he was sending me these
messages.  Ikel said after he approached Conrad the messages magically
stopped.  So I went to meet him, and he bombarded me with his concern that I
was at risk.”

“So what did he say?”

“He said life expectancy among readers was a little,
limited
.” 

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what I believe!  He might just be one of a
sinister horde wanting ‘
in
’ to LastGasp’, but I don’t see it.  He, on
the other hand
shows
me that most readers are dead.  I don’t recall you
telling me this.”

“Conrad would never have said most reader’s life
expectancy was limited.  Tell me what he said and showed you.”  He raised his
remote control to turn off all of the televisions.

Devlin paused for moment.  He was aware that he was being
directly asked to disclose all, and Conrad’s warning sprung to the forefront of
his mind.  He was implicitly being asked to choose a side.  To be anything less
than up-front with
all
of the details with Glen would be paramount to
siding with Conrad.  It was reasonable thereafter that Conrad’s warning might
truly be warranted.  Alternatively, why wouldn’t he side with Glen and disclose
all about his brief meeting with Conrad?  If nothing else, Devlin figured he
owed Glen the truth.  The man had given him a chance and a job when he had
nothing else, and at that moment his gratitude outweighed any concerns for
himself that he felt.

“Can I start with the fact that I went there under the
premise that he was sending me the messages.  It turned out that he wasn’t,”
Devlin started.  “I plan to try to trace the messages from the phone company
today.”  He felt immediately that he’d proven his allegiance. 

“He showed you the matrix?  The dots on the screen?”

“You know about it?”

“I know a lot.  What else?”

“He thinks you’re involved, or at least to blame, for all
the reader’s deaths,
apparently
.”

“Do you remember how many flashing dots there were?”

“I didn’t think to count.  Why?  Are they dead or what?”

“Just ask what you want to ask me, Devlin!”

“Alright.  Am I at risk?”

“I appreciate the candour in your question.”  He drank
slowly from his coffee, drawing out his reply.  “No, you’re not at risk.”  He
turned on the bank of televisions once more, teasing Devlin with the
distraction.

“So Conrad is a liar?  What about the fact that all of the
other readers are dead?”

“Sadly, some have died.  Thus the flashing dots on the
screen that you would have seen.”

“I saw a lot of dots!”

“Sadly, a small percentage of my high staff turnover over
many years.”

“Conrad said they all killed themselves!”

“That’s not what he said.  Conrad is misguided, but he’s
not a liar.  I’d suggest he said
many
, not all, have in fact committed
suicide, because it’s true.”

“Why did they kill themselves?”

“Stress is sure to be at least a part of it.  But it’s
just as likely that LastGasp’ was not the source of all their stress.”

“That’s a joke!  Boredom is more likely!” Devlin laughed.

“I’m glad you’re laughing about it.  I’ll keep tabs on
your stress levels, just the same.  In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to
make it interesting.”

“So what are the rest of the readers doing now?  The ones
that aren’t dead.” 

Glen presented his total attention to Devlin, albeit
without eye contact.  “How about if you go and learn about the other readers
yourself.  I’ll even give you a list of names.  You’ll learn something from all
of them.  I’m sure that Ikel wouldn’t mind if you borrowed his car. 
Thereafter, you can make up your own mind.”

*          *          * 

Glen seconded Ikel’s car with a spare set of keys and
sent Devlin off with a manila folder filled with a list of people, their
contact details and home addresses.  He purchased a latté to go, retrieved the
car from Albert’s guard and drove off without any clear plan or having even
examined the list.  As soon as he was stopped at a traffic light, he returned
his focus to the obvious need to formulate a plan, if only to define a route to
at least some of the past readers on Glen’s list.

Just as he was about to close his eyes and randomly point
to one of the listed names, he was alerted to the arrival of a message on his
phone from Glen. 

TRY WHITELY MASON.

Devlin scanned the list looking for Whitely and on finding
it confirmed that his address was on his shortlist of those immediately
visitable.  He considered whether to take up Glen’s recommendation, cynically
weighing up what Glen stood to gain by such a suggestion.  It may well have
been that Glen knew the most likely person to provide him with the information
that he desperately sought.  Alternatively, Devlin theorised that Whitely could
well be the person that Glen knew would reinforce his own agenda and bias,
thereby largely defeating the purpose of having Devlin speak with him.  He
decided that for whatever Glen’s intent, Whitely was as good a name as any to
begin with. 

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 41.
               
 

On arrival at what Glen had listed as Whitely’s house,
Devlin made a reasonable assessment that the guy had let himself go.  An
alternative explanation was that Whitely was out of place in his current
locale.  In a leafy street in a moderately affluent suburb, Devlin marvelled at
how obvious it was that Whitely did not belong.  He was clearly not big into
home maintenance or gardening.  It also appeared that he wasn’t interested in
collecting the mail, putting his rubbish out for collection, or doing anything
about the layers of graffiti that covered the front of his house and
surrounding picket fence which was partially burnt in several places.  Devlin
resisted the urge to read the graffiti under the pretence that it might
prejudice his meeting.  He parked his car outside a neighbour’s house and
walked back to Whitely’s door, noting the movement of curtains in surrounding
houses.  It occurred to him that if he was being watched so closely, then why
hadn’t such community policing better protected Whitely’s home too.

The closer Devlin got to Whitely’s front porch, the more
he noticed.  Dead vermin were scattered around the brickwork of the house and
in the garden, all attracting their share of insects, flies in particular. 
Occasional movement in the overgrown undergrowth suggested that there were
perhaps more vermin living in the environs.  Only the heavy moisture laden
morning air prevented the associated smell.  Devlin made a mental note that it
would be in his best interests to keep his time with Whitely to a minimum, if
only to avoid the smell that would hit as soon as the sun fell on the rotting
carcasses.  All of the front windows had been broken to at least some degree. 
While some had subsequently been haphazardly covered in wooden boards or tin
sheets, others were just left with projectile sized holes and long cracks
indicating the fragility of the remaining panes.  As much as Devlin didn’t want
to succumb to prejudice, he couldn’t help but figure that Whitely was not very
popular.

The front door was wide open, but on closer inspection
Devlin discovered that there was, in fact, no door.  The door frame remained
intact and undamaged, as if the door had been intentionally removed.  There was
no door-bell, knocker or chime, and after a moment’s hesitation, Devlin called
out as non-committally as possible.  “Is anyone there?”  There was no reply,
but on hearing the sounds of a television, he called out again, this time a
little louder and a little more confidently, “Whitely?”

“Come in then, or fuck off!” came an obtuse reply.  There
was no face visible to accompany the voice.

“Glen Scott sent me.  I’m coming in.” 

“Thank fuck for that,” came the reply from inside.  “Come
and put me out of my misery.”

Devlin started to walk down the hall, heading in the
direction of Whitely’s voice.  The hall was unlit, and the further he ventured
away from the reach of the morning sunshine, the darker it got.  He stepped
cautiously, expectant of some obstacles on the floor.  He felt several things
underfoot and immediately he hoped that there were less vermin inside the house
than out, but his hopes were not high.  “Is there a light?”

“Third door on the right,” Whitely called out.  “And
there’s no light.”

Resigning himself to the fact that help, by way of
illumination or guidance, was not forthcoming, Devlin continued to feel his way
along the corridor carefully.  He was now less concerned about what he might
damage with each step, and more about how he might be injured by something
unseen.  Gradually, as his eyes adapted to the available light, he got braver
and started making faster, but still undeniably slow progress. 

The third door on the right was the only room lit with the
morning’s natural light.  Devlin had passed two other rooms, each with their
doors removed and their windows shrouded with blackout curtaining.  Try as he
might, he couldn’t make out the contents of either of these rooms, but on
reaching Whitely’s doorway, he felt comfortable that he hadn’t missed much. 
The room was strewn with rubbish and decay, ankle deep generally, but in places
Devlin saw that the waste would extend above his knee.  Scattered amongst the
refuse were piles of books and newspapers.

Whitely sat in a high-backed, filthy looking, upholstered
armchair that was positioned in the corner of the room such that he could see
the window, the door and an old television all at once.  He was unshaven,
dishevelled and looked as if he hadn’t slept in some time, despite being
barefoot and wearing a dressing gown of some description over what may, or may
not have been pyjamas.  He gave Devlin a cursory glance, and then returned his
attention to the television, changing the channel using a remote more out of
habit than any real need.  “Get this the fuck over with, and fuck off!” he
muttered.

“My name is Devlin Bennett.  I’m a reader,” Devlin started
an explanation without physically entering the room.  “Can we talk?”  He wasn’t
expecting to be turned down, but he felt the need to ask just the same.  He
edged his way inside the room looking for any indication of hospitality, or
even civility.  Once inside, he finally got a chance to look at Whitely
properly.  He was drawn to look at the man’s face, but immediately felt bad for
doing so. 

Devlin figured that Whitely was about his age, but his
face bore old scars and recent wounds suggesting injuries spanning a protracted
period.  Whitely returned Devlin’s stare, as if to guilt him into averting his
eyes and it took Devlin some time to realise what he was doing.  “What happened
to your face?”

“None of your mother fucking business.”

“But who would do that to you?”  He couldn’t stop looking
and he reasoned that the more questions he asked, the more he could justify
continuing his stare. 

“What’s to say I didn’t do it to myself?”

Devlin decided to return to his original line of
questioning.  “Can we talk?”

“Then will you fuck off and leave me alone?”

“I thought you’d appreciate the company?” Devlin assumed
tacit approval and started scanning the room for a place to sit.  There was no
obvious seat and Devlin looked to Whitely for a cue. 

“Company is over-rated.”  He pointed to the corner
adjacent to the door.

Looking a little harder, Devlin noticed an old dining
chair hidden under a mass of newspapers and clothing.  He pushed everything off
the chair, figuring that Whitely wouldn’t mind a little extra strewn over the
floor, and lifted it so he could sit with the chair reversed. 

“What do you want?”

“I came for a chat.  That’s all.”

“Why?” 

“I just want to know about LastGasp’, and some other
readers.”

“Why?”  Whitely finally offered some promise as he turned
off the television.

“Where to begin.  I’ve only just joined, as a reader, and
I guess I’m a little paranoid.  I started getting phone messages.  Meanwhile,
Conrad …”  He stopped talking as soon as he saw the hint of recognition in
Whitely.  “This sound familiar?”

Whitely smiled and nodded.  “You got the messages and
Conrad planted the seed of doubt in you.  Right?”

“I’m just a little spooked.  That’s all.”

“Rightly.  So why are you here?” he asked.  “And I’m not
being philosophical.”  He locked eyes on Devlin. 

“I just thought you might help explain my concerns, and
whether they’re justified, if only a little.”  Devlin looked for any sign of
relaxation in Whitely’s gaze before continuing.  “I needed a job and Glen’s
helped me out with what looks like a great job.  But it’s a shit job if I’m not
going to survive it.  I guess I’m looking for something, or someone, to tell me
to cut my losses and run, or that I’ve nothing to fear.”

Whitely looked Devlin over again.  “I can’t tell you have
nothing to fear.  Only you can do that.  But I can help you out a little, I
guess.  Do you trust Glen?”

Devlin appreciated that Whitely was starting with a simple
mind game.  However he answered, he knew he ran the risk of biasing anything
that Whitely might say, or alienating Whitely altogether.  Knowing that any
delay in an answer might betray him just as much, he decided to answer with
honesty.  “I do trust him.  He’s been good to me, and I’ve no case to not
believe anything he says.”

“Good answer,” Whitely smiled.  “He’s a good man, and as
I’m guessing he’s told you, he’ll always tell you the truth.”  He drank from a
can of Coke that appeared among the refuse on a small coffee table.  “I’ll do
you a deal.  I’ll answer your questions just as Glen would, and as with Glen,
the trick is to ask the right questions.”