The Apocalypse Club (17 page)

In the car on the way home, my mother asked what Max had meant by that final remark. I told her that he’d had about five beers by that point and probably didn’t know what he was talking about, either. She let the matter drop.

T
he first time I saw my dorm room, I thought it was an elevator. Then I spotted the window. It was just large enough for a small bed, a small desk, and a chair. The walls were about as soundproof as bed sheets, which meant that I became quite familiar with my neighbour’s tastes in music (horrible Italian Eurovision), movies (mostly porn, although they could have been exercise videos, I suppose), and mating (usually first-year kinesiology students on Thursday afternoons). I spent a lot of time listening to audiobooks. Russian names are a great antidote to expressive moaning in romance languages.

I skipped all the frosh week stuff. I’ve never been a “hang-out-and-chat-over-the-fence-good-neighbour” type of guy. I’m more of a “you-kids-get-the-hell-off-my-lawn” kind of guy. I don’t usually base my socialization on proximity. Just because I live next door to you doesn’t mean I want to hear your version of “Oops! I Did It Again” after you’ve polished off 32 shooters at three in the morning and can’t remember which room is yours. Especially if I have to get up and spend 15 minutes explaining that, as much as my room looks like your room and no matter how positive you are that I am a squatter who snuck in while you were out, you have got the wrong address.

I got a job working evenings at the university library and another one doing the occasional weekend shift at a boutique video store. The video store had managed to survive by avoiding the mass market studio stuff and specializing in the esoteric: French new wave, Swedish existentialism, Italian neo-realism, Japanese cartoon monster tentacle porn. If it was black and white, featured a lot of ironic nudity, or had been inspired by the slicing of a cow eyeball, we had it. Being self-referentially hip, we didn’t classify our movies alphabetically, but by a series of bizarre and ever-changing categories: “Movies Starring Ewan McGregor’s Dick,” “Stop Them Before They Shoot Again” (featuring Uwe Boll, Michael Bay, Tom Shadyac and Joel Schumacher, among others), “Nic Cage Goes Batshit,” “Idiot Plots” (dumb concept movies with central conflicts that could easily be resolved by a 30-second conversation between the main characters) and “Prescribed By Doc Oc” (movies deemed capital-I “Important” by the Academy that you feel you have a moral or historical obligation to watch even though they’re really not very entertaining, like “12 Years A Slave” or “Judgement At Nuremburg”). I had only been there a few weeks when the assistant manager left after six months to study art restoration in Florence and I took over the job.

The income from the jobs wasn’t much, but it was enough to enable me to move out of the dorm and into a tiny basement apartment at the end of my first year. The place wasn’t great, but it was only two blocks from the nearest subway station. Plus, I finally had a kitchen and bathroom to myself for the first time. I bought a cookbook and learned to make curry, Chicken Kiev and Pad Thai, only giving myself food poisoning once. I switched my major from Politics to History, which was relatively easy since so many of the courses overlapped. I went to movies, art galleries and museums. I got used to being by myself.

I only heard from Max a couple of times during that first year. He emailed me when he completed the GDI special ops training and been assigned to an operational unit overseas. He couldn’t tell me which unit, what he was doing or where he was going. Indeed, a large disclaimer at the bottom of the email advised that it had been reviewed and passed by the GDI Intelligence Division and that all correspondence with that email address was subject to the same scrutiny. The only other email I got from him was a picture of him standing in a tan T-shirt and shorts somewhere in what looked like a desert. He appeared to be holding a chicken upside down by the claws and laughing with someone standing just out of frame. There was no text to explain where the chicken had come from or what was so funny (or if there previously was, it had been deleted by the censors).

Since I was out of the dorm and class sizes were smaller this time around, second year started more quietly than the first. I was getting enough hours at the video store that I no longer needed the job at the library, but I kept it anyway. It was during one of those shifts on a quiet Thursday night in October that it happened. I was shelving books in Economics when I came around the corner with my cart and there she was, sitting quietly at one of the study carrels.

Violet Haze.

I just stood there for a moment, sure I had to be seeing things. By that time, I had mostly convinced myself that she had been a figment of my imagination, along with everything else that had happened leading up to our attack on the Weather Station. What had come after was harder to forget, but I was doing a pretty good job of blocking it out of my mind.

What on earth should I do? I considered turning the cart around and walking away, but she had already looked up and spotted me. A strange little smile flicked across her face. Out of nowhere I was furious. Retreat was suddenly no longer an option. I dropped the book I was about to re-shelve on the cart and strode over.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked in a low growl. After working in a library for a year, I had become so accustomed to speaking in whispers that I was physically incapable of raising my voice.

“My, oh my, Mark Simms!” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Fancy seeing you. What, you work here?”

“Don’t pretend you had no idea!” I hissed. I looked around, but we appeared to have the place to ourselves. “Why are you following me this time?”

She laughed. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean I’m out to get you, Simms.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Violet had changed surprisingly little since the last time I had seen her. The only difference was that before she had looked like a school girl and now she looked like, well, a woman. Instead of being pulled straight back, her hair was longer and slightly curly and hanging down across her forehead, framing her face. She was wearing a business-like pantsuit. On the floor next to her chair was the same type of brown leather carrying case favoured by law students.

“I’m on a study exchange program,” she said. “Four months at Cambridge and four months here. What about you?”

I looked around, half-expecting to see black-suited goons hiding in the stacks, talking into their cuffs. If they were out there, they were well concealed. “Uh huh. So is that your reward for selling us out? We get two months in the JD and you get to go to Cambridge? That’s how it works?”

She capped her pen and put it down on the table. “Okay. I probably do owe you some sort of explanation for that.”

“
Some sort
?” I said in disbelief. “What….I can’t even…”

She dropped the large textbook she was reading in her case and stood up. “You’re done at nine, right? Let’s meet for coffee. I’ll text you the place.”

And then she was gone.

I went back to my cart, but I don’t think I shelved more than two books during the rest of my shift, both undoubtedly in the wrong sections. My mind was whirling. What in the hell was she doing here? Surely it couldn’t be coincidence. Why was she after me this time?

No matter what it was, I was determined that I wasn’t walking into another setup. I debated even going to meet her after my shift, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me blow it off. I had to know.

Two minutes after nine, my cell phone buzzed with the location of a coffee shop off College Street. It was a short walk and I arrived to find her sitting in a booth near the window. I dropped myself down opposite her and ordered a cappuccino, which, on their menu, was referred to as “The Little Monk”.

“You know,” she said, “Italians don’t drink cappuccino after noon.”

“I’m not Italian,” I said. “Why don’t they?”

“Beats me,” she said. “It’s just one of those things that’s not done.”

“Well, I’m doing it,” I said. I was in a punchy mood. She was looking at me with the kind of concealed amusement that indicated she knew I was in a punchy mood but didn’t care.

The place was moderately busy with the usual students sitting mostly alone with their laptops or tablets. I had been to this place a few times before, but certainly wasn’t a regular. Most of the staff were students, too. I had heard a rumour that the chief barista was 32, had been there for 10 years and was still in the process of finishing his BA.

“So how are you doing, Mark?” She took a sip of her latte.

I took a nervous look around. If there was anyone in here who wasn’t a student, they were doing an excellent job of disguising themselves.

“Just us,” she said. “No men in black suits.”

“So you know about him, I take it.”

“Who?”

“Mister Black,” I said. “Least that’s what he said his name was. The lawyer who came to see Max and me after we got arrested.”

“Actually, no,” she said.

My coffee arrived. I tipped two packets of plain sugar into the cup and stirred. “Uh huh.”

She sipped her drink. “There are things I can tell you and things I can’t. It’s…complicated.”

“I imagine so.”

“The two of you were originally supposed to take the fall for the whole thing, but they changed their minds about that,” she said. “Maybe I helped them a bit with that, I don’t know. Not that they would listen to me.”

“Of course not. You being such a paragon of truthiness, after all.”

“Mark –”

“Was anything you told me true?”

“No,” she said. “That was a cover story.”

“I give you points for creativity. I thought they would have told you to invent something simpler.”

“I wasn’t working for them yet. The Weather Station operation was my final test, if you will.”

I took a large gulp of my coffee. It was hot, foamy and spiced with something. Cinnamon? Maybe. “I guess an interview with the hiring committee just wouldn’t be enough for a job like…well, whatever job it is you do.”

“Look, Mark,” she said. “Something big is coming. I have no idea what it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s been in the works for a long time.”

“Something big. From
them
.
They
are up to something big.”

“Yes. It’s just a feeling I get.”

“A feeling.”

“Yes.”

“Look, I’m sorry, Violet – if that really is your name –”

“It is.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m getting a
feeling
that I’m being jerked around. This has been extremely pleasant, but if you’ll excuse me, I have no wish to spend another eight months in an institution being assaulted in the showers.” I started to bump my way out of the booth.

“Relax, Simms. It’s just coffee. You’re not going to end up in jail.” She arched an eyebrow. “Unless you try something, of course.”

I sat back down. “On you? Not unless I wanted to end up with my brains leaking out of my nose into a little puddle on the floor.”

She snickered. “Your brains? Yes. That would be a small puddle.”

I pretended to look insulted. “So I don’t have to worry about somebody sneaking up behind me and jabbing me with an umbrella full of ricin, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I like you, Simms. You make me laugh.”

“Well, at least I’m good for something.” I glanced at her briefcase. “Are you really going to Cambridge?”

She nodded.

“What are you studying? That is, if you’re allowed to tell me.”

“Just some neuroscience.”

“Oh, is that all? Dabble in a little brain surgery here and there, do you?”

“That would be neurology,” she said. “I’m looking at the brain from more of a…technical perspective…I suppose you could say.”

“Yes, I’m sure I would, if I had any idea what you were talking about.”

She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

“Yes, I’m sure that mind-altering super death ray device isn’t gonna build itself.”

She smiled and picked up her briefcase. She nodded and took a half step to leave when she seemed to have an idea and stopped.

“Look, Mark…”

“Ye-es?”

“I know this is weird, but you’re pretty much the only person I know in the city. I think you’re funny. I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you again.”

I tried to process this. There’s a passage in one of Carl Sagan’s books where he talks about the human thought process as being roughly as fast as a donkey cart. It was not an unfair comparison in my case.

“Okay,” I said blankly.

“You don’t have to,” she said hurriedly. “I mean, nothing bad is going to happen to you if you say no.”

“Is something bad going to happen if I say yes?”

She laughed.

S
o Violet Haze and I started…well…I’m not sure what the word for it would be.

It certainly wasn’t dating, not in any sense that I understood the word. Seeing each other? No. It certainly couldn’t be described as “seeing more of each other” because I didn’t actually see more of her.

She would just appear, often without warning. The first time it happened was about a month after our conversation in the coffee bar. I got home from a Saturday afternoon shift at the video store to find her in my kitchen, chopping onions.

“There you are, Simms!” she said as I edged into the room. I had seen the light on and thought someone had broken into my apartment (which, I guess, she had). When I peeked through the window to see what was going on, I was more than a little surprised to see that it wasn’t just a couple of teenage junkies trying to make off with my laptop and TV. I wasn’t exactly relieved when I saw who it really was, though. “Make yourself useful and chop those green peppers for me, would you?”

“How did you get in here?” I asked. This was eerily reminiscent of the time she had managed to sneak into my bedroom.

“If I tell you that you left the door unlocked, will that make you feel better?”

Had I left the door unlocked? It was possible, but even if I had, it didn’t make me feel better. I didn’t recognize the knife she was using to do the chopping, either. It was a large, carbon steel professional chef’s knife. I most certainly did not have one of those. I didn’t have stainless steel mixing bowls, either. Or copper saucepans.