Authors: Guy Adams
Looking back on it, I wonder if it was always there. I suppose it must have been. But 2008 is when I met it head on. 2008 is when I gave it a name. I was back in the UK, my life intact, despite formidable odds. I had received a psychiatric evaluation after Basra that had flagged up a possibility of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Naturally, I had denied it. I didn’t want to admit there was anything wrong with me. I didn’t want to be seen as ‘weak’ (and yes, I am perfectly well aware
now
that suffering from PTSD is no such thing, but I couldn’t make myself believe it then).
I was no longer under threat. I was no longer being assaulted. I was simply watching the television in my apartment. One
minute I was sitting on the sofa, idly contemplating ordering a takeaway, and the next I was hunched foetally on the floor in front of the TV, convinced the roof was about to crash down on me.
There is always the sense that the world is shrinking, compressing you. You know the sensation you feel when walking under an object that comes close to bashing your head? That tingle in the back of your skull that says, ‘Careful! You nearly misjudged that and smacked me with something large and painful.’ It’s like that. All the time. When there’s nothing around you. The world has grown teeth and it wants to sharpen them on you. No matter where you move you’re going to graze a knuckle, stub a toe, bend back a finger. Add to that the way the silence seems to roar at you. Everything your body would do in response to a deafening row, the wincing, the flinching, the sensory overload, the inner voice that begs for the sound to stop … all of that, but with no sound actually triggering it. The Fear is an attack without an attacker, being under siege with no external foe. And it’s been with me ever since.
Of course, I didn’t tell anyone. You don’t admit to weakness when you work in intelligence. These days my attacks are rarely so strong that I can’t grit my teeth and weather them until I can get somewhere private, take a few deep breaths and wait for things to settle down. They’d send me for ‘evaluation’. As if I wasn’t managing to sabotage my career just fine without adding
that
to my file. Was The Fear a problem? Yes. Of course it was. But it was
my
problem.
At that moment, with Shining gone and the sound of Derek’s machinery closing down around me, The Fear was back with a vengeance. So much so I had to take it outside.
The street seemed charged with danger: every step on the road felt insubstantial, as if the tarmac could simply vanish from beneath me at any moment; as if the whole world was a trap just waiting to snap shut on me. What was I going to do? Just what the
fuck
was I going to do?
I caught my breath enough to be able to deal with Derek, walking back in on a man who appeared in an equally bad state. ‘OK,’ I said, determined to give orders rather than converse. I couldn’t bear the thought of a conversation, which might entail questions whose answers would only make my state worse. ‘I need you to repair whatever needs repairing and be ready to go again if need be. Can you do that?’
‘Of course, but …’
‘Please. Just do that; I need you to do that.’ I gave him a business card with my mobile number on it.
‘It says your name’s Gerard.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘I bet it’s not Charlie Berry, either.’ He scribbled his own number on a supermarket receipt and handed it over.
‘Probably not. But it’ll do for now. I need to leave you to this, all right? I’m sorry but I need to run. I need to … Well, I need to.’
Derek held up his hand. ‘It’s fine. I understand. Do your thing. I’ll call you.’
I nodded and left, my hands twitching, my legs moving so fast I was in danger of losing my balance. I wanted to run, to run – and run – and run. To start screaming, to fill the rushing air with noise and anger and fear. I was a hair’s breadth from losing control. You’re probably judging me for that, yes? Writing me off as weak? Well, fuck you. I’ve seen things that
would make your teeth bleed. Sometimes those things gang up on me, that’s all.
If Shining had gone missing on what could be termed a ‘normal’ mission (God knows what constitutes ‘normal’ in any branch of espionage, but you’ll admit it rarely involves time travel and living-dead Russians), there was a protocol to be followed, a plan to fall back on. But at that moment I was utterly lost. Barely a day old in the world of Section 37; I was no better than a tourist. I was suddenly the entirety of the section, with an unresolved countdown and a missing officer. I hadn’t a clue where to begin.
My only option was to let The Fear go, burn itself out, and let me think.
I headed towards the river, walking in circles. Eventually I sat myself down on a bench looking out towards Tower Bridge and breathed out the last of the poison that had filled me.
Life had become clearer. I was the only active member of the Section. I knew I could expect no support from outside my newly-inherited office. Either I would solve this problem or I wouldn’t. Anything else was just mental white noise. Compartmentalise. Tag the problems you can deal with and disregard the rest.
Next question: should I tell my superiors about Shining? It wasn’t a simple decision. On the one hand,
of course I should
. On the other … If this was the only section that had a chance of dealing with his disappearance, nothing would be gained by bumping the problem up the ladder. Also, the department would certainly face closure if Shining were lost, so I had to consider keeping it dark. What sold me was that I knew that’s what Shining would have wanted me to do. Keep my mouth shut for as long as possible. Keep it in house. Twenty-four hours and I
was already offering him more faith and devotion than any other section head in my career. I couldn’t decide whether I felt proud or foolish about that. So I just went with my decision.
I had a book of agents, madmen all, and, given that countdown, about two days in which to put them to good use.
Fine.
The first step was to head back to the office. I needed to gather intel and think.
I stopped by Oman’s first, and was furious to find it closed. I needed the app he had given Shining on my phone. At that point I had no way of monitoring the numbers station. I didn’t even know the frequency; those details having been confined to the two of them. Realising
that
made me more angry, and I paced up and down High Road wanting to punch something. It would certainly have been Oman had I clapped eyes on him. However, it was another target that presented itself. I was standing in the middle of the bustling pedestrians, looking across the road at the entrance to the mall when I recognised a woman in the crowd – the one I had seen the day before, outside Euston Station. She had irritated me then, with her cockiness and her patronising attitude. I was fuming now. Certainly too angry to let her wander about unchallenged so close to the office. Had she been keeping an eye on us? Had she maybe even been in the building while we were out? I didn’t imagine Tamar would have taken kindly to that; she clearly took pride in keeping an eye on ‘her August’. I had certainly been treated with utter suspicion, but who knew?
The woman entered the mall and I cut across the road after her, determined she wouldn’t go to ground.
I could see her a short way ahead of me once I stepped through the automatic doors. She was staring at the display window of a jeweller’s. Casual. Normal. Just someone filling her lunch hour with window shopping. That made my mood even worse, probably because I knew that I was being anything but casual. My hasty movements around the busy shopping centre couldn’t have drawn much more attention to myself. The Fear had turned into full-blown rage now, as it always did, and I was struggling to suppress it. I walked up behind her. For a horrible moment I had an urge to just reach forward and shove her face into the glass. Smash that smug face into a pulp. Embarrassment and shame came swiftly after. I had no real idea who this woman was; fantasizing about hurting her was
not
the real me. Or not a ‘me’ I wanted to accept. I was still angry when I took hold of her shoulder, but I was partially back under control.
‘Thought you’d pop by?’ I asked as she spun around. ‘How lovely to see you again – and so soon.’
The look on her face was perfect: an utterly genuine mask of confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You must remember our little chat last night? Perhaps it’s the suit?’
‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’ Her confusion had shifted to anger, but it was nothing compared to mine.
‘Oh, fuck off,’ I whispered, doing my best to keep a forced smile in place for the benefit of any onlookers. ‘Life’s too short for pointless games. Was there anything in particular you were after or were you just sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted?’
The anger on her face turned to fear then and I felt a brief twinge of uncertainty – her performance was exceptionally good.
‘I have no idea who you are,’ she insisted, casting around for someone who might be able to help.
‘Don’t bother,’ I said, stepping in closer, blocking off her view.
That
was a mistake.
‘Help!’ she began shouting. ‘This man is harassing me!’
I stepped back immediately. ‘Nice,’ I conceded as people began to turn towards us.
I turned and began to walk away as casually as I could.
‘Some sort of problem?’ a man asked as I passed him.
‘No problem,’ I insisted, but he reached out to take hold of my arm. I smacked his hand away, which was a second mistake as it antagonised him. He grabbed me by my shoulders, his fingers digging in hard.
‘I think you should apologise to the lady,’ he said, the look on his face suggesting he didn’t consider the point open to debate.
Part of me knew that the only sensible way forward was to calm down and play the game; the other part – the bigger part – had absolutely no intention of giving in. With my training I could easily floor this man if I wanted. Stamp my heel onto his foot and his grip would lessen, the palm of my hand to the bridge of his nose, and job finished. I considered it.
‘The lady doesn’t need an apology,’ I told him, struggling to stay calm. I turned to face her and found myself looking at a frightened woman. She looked deeply uncomfortable, scared and desperate. I almost felt sorry for her. I hadn’t made a mistake though; she was definitely the woman I had met the night
before, the woman who had tried her best to scare me off working for Section 37.
‘Looks to
me
like she’s owed one,’ the man insisted. I looked at him: big feller, tracksuit, a full, hard face that spoke of gym hours clocked and fights enjoyed.
We were starting to attract a crowd. I had lost control of the situation.
The woman was backing away, though out of fear or a wish to avoid public spectacle I could no longer tell.
‘Fine,’ I said, swallowing both pride and anger, knowing that the professional way forward was to take the quickest escape route being offered. ‘I apologise if I worried you.’
Then, to the Knight Errant in sportswear, ‘Good enough?’
He looked to the woman. ‘Just let him go,’ she said. ‘He’s off his rocker – as long as he doesn’t follow me …’
‘He won’t be doing that, will you mate?’ The big feller stated, releasing my arms.
‘Not a chance,’ I replied, marching off quickly in the opposite direction before my anger got the better of me and I ended up making the situation worse.
I headed for the exit, aware that too many people were watching me as I weaved between the shoppers and out into the daylight.
Once outside, I released a held breath and leaned back against the railing between the pavement and the road. Twice now she had got the better of me in public. She was really beginning to make me mad.
‘That could have gone better,’ said a quiet voice next to me.
I looked down to see a tiny old man dishing out copies of the Evening Standard.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She didn’t know you, did she?’ he said. ‘You were a complete stranger to her.’
‘She knew me well enough,’ I countered, then wondered how the hell this guy could even have seen what had happened. He smiled and there was a twinkle of malevolence behind his rheumy eyes.
‘Another lesson learned: we can be everywhere, we can be
everyone
,’ he said. ‘She no more remembers she’s talked to you before than this old fool will. We are Legion.’
‘Trying my bloody patience is what you are.’
‘Shining vanished, has he?’
This knocked the confidence from me. How the hell did he know that?
‘He’s not with
us
,’ he continued, ‘so there’s hope for him yet. If his little monkey can step up to the mark that is.’ He smiled again. ‘That would be you, by the way.’
I squared up to him.
‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘unless you really want to make an idiot of yourself. I won’t resist, of course, but beating up an old man only seconds after threatening an innocent woman really isn’t going to get you far, is it?’
‘Who are you?’
‘August knows, though he won’t want to tell you. If you ever see him again perhaps you should ask him.’
‘Where is he?’
‘That’s for you to find out; it’s nothing to do with us. We’re just observers here. Tell you what though, just to show we can occasionally be helpful: when you get the phone call about the body outside St Mathew’s you need to give it your full attention. It’s important.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You will.’
The old man looked away and momentarily lost his balance. I reached out instinctively, trying to keep him steady. He sighed and looked up at me.
‘Legs not what they were,’ he said, his voice somehow gentler, older. He held up a paper. ‘Evening Standard?’
‘No thanks.’ Whoever I had been talking to was gone. Somehow, I just knew that. Say what you like about Toby Greene but at least he’s not slow on the uptake.
I walked back to the office.
Oman had returned to his shop by the time I reached it. At least dealing with him might temporarily push my confusion to one side. Who was it that had taken such an interest in me? And how was it possible they could talk through anyone they felt like, hopping from body to body like a communicative virus?