The Eidolon (24 page)

“Well, how about you buy us a drink, then?”

I hesitate, beginning to regret the question, but it’s the least I can do. “Okay, then.”

“You did ask,” she says, regarding me through lidded blue eyes as she walks past me into the street and reaches back to close the door. She smells of cinnamon, of Christmas.

We turn into an alley. There are cobblestones between the squat rows of shops, restaurants and cafes. We weave between shoppers ambling along in the blade of sunshine slicing between the high buildings.

“You’re not local,” I say. “Where are you from?”

“Originally?” he says. “London.”

“Nevada,” she says. “My name’s Aiyana.” She attempts to smile, although it still looks like an effort for her.

“Robert. Robert Strong.”

I turn back to the man. “Balaquai,” he says.

Is that a first name or a surname? I don’t ask.

A woman pushing a pram is walking towards us, the baby inside bawling in vibrato as the pram judders over the cobblestones. Balaquai steps aside to let her past. We pass a tea shop on the right. Red and yellow flowers spill from tin buckets on the cobbles at its entrance. A jewellery shop on the left displays an array of glittery things on black cushions. We turn down a lane to the left, which is narrower and quieter, the familiarity of shops fading, becoming ones selling trinkets and old books – a little dustier, a little darker. I’m not sure about this, but I don’t want to go back to the apartment yet and they did help me out.

There’s a pub at the end of the alley, dwarfed by the huge deserted warehouse butting up against it. It looks old, from a time when people must have been a lot smaller, its windows and door set in thick stone walls. Dark wooden beams interlace the stonework on the outside, like an old Tudor house, and it’s leaning a little to the left. A weathervane sits on the point of its eves, black iron with a bird of some kind on top. It pivots in the breeze. There’s a brass sign outside which reads La Caverne
,
above a rose carved into the stone
.

We step inside. The cave-like interior extends away into the gloom, far further than I expect after seeing the outside of the bar. The uneven walls arch up to become a low ceiling, which is propped up by curved, dark wooden beams. A bar sits in the corner to the left. I’m relieved to see a few people sipping drinks at the tables dotted about the room. Balaquai nods towards the woman pouring a beer at the bar. She has a broad, handsome face framed by an unruly mass of dark curls that seem a kind of deep purple when the light catches them. She smiles widely and nods. I move towards the bar, studying the choice of beer chalked up on the board above the cash register.

“What’ll you have?” I ask them.

“A Grolsch,” says Aiyana.

“Make that two. Balaquai?”

“Just water.”

“I’ll bring them up to you. It’s on the house,” says the barmaid as I reach into my pocket.

“Really?”

She grins again, her dark eyes glinting.

I follow Balaquai towards the back of the room, but he doesn’t go for the empty table in the corner. Instead he opens a door that leads into a narrow corridor, dimly lit, with dark wooden-panelled walls and an old staircase. He takes the stairs to the upper level and Aiyana follows, her expression something between irritable and resigned. Chatter drifts down from above, so at least there are other people up there.

The stairs open out into another cave of a room with low arched ceilings and long wooden tables. Candles flicker in sconces, fixed at regular intervals around the walls. It’s busier here; at least half of the tables are full. I follow Balaquai towards a table in the corner. A large fireplace is set into the wall nearby. It’s as wide as a two-seater couch with a lintel that would crush you flat if it fell on you. My footsteps become louder on the wooden floor, and I realise it’s because of the sudden silence. Everyone in the room has stopped talking, and they’re all looking at me.
Shit
. Is this some kind of weird club that I’ve gatecrashed? God, I hope it’s not some wacko religious group. Scientologists, or something like that. I’m beginning to regret all of this.

“Have a seat, Robert,” says a man who gets to his feet as we approach. He’s black, older than me, although I’ve no idea how old, with a dark beard and clean-shaven head. He’s wearing a loose black suit, only when you look at it closely, it’s not really a suit and it’s not really black. It’s more of a bluish-black, like the colour of a mussel shell. His eyes have a certain look in them, the same look that Balaquai has. It’s an odd mixture of intensity and distance. I glance around the room. They all have that look, these people, like they know something I don’t. Why the hell are they all staring? And how does he know my name?

He smiles at me with his eyes as I sit down opposite. Balaquai and Aiyana take a seat.

“Glad you could join us,” says the man. I feel like I recognise him, like I know his voice from somewhere. A grey oval stone hangs round his neck on a cord, just like theirs.“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No, not yet. My name is Gomda Sattva. Nice to meet you.” He brings his palms together and bows a little.

Before I know it, I find myself reciprocating his gesture, then flush when I realise what I’m doing.

“I didn’t think you’d be so willing to meet us.”

My defences go up. If he wants me to join his church, he picked the wrong guy. “Look,” I say, “I just wanted to buy these two a drink to thank them for helping me out, that’s all.”

“Of course. So how are you settling into CERN?”

I stare at him. “How did you know I’m there?”

“We know a lot of things, Mr Strong.”

What is this? Does he work there? “Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Sattva, but today’s not the best day.” I turn to the others. “I appreciate what you did, but I’ve got a lot on just now.” I turn to leave.

“We know what you’re planning to do,” says Sattva.

The blood drains from my face as I turn back to him.

“Please, sit down,” he says, gently.

My legs are beginning to tremble as I find the seat.
Focus, Robert. This could all be a misunderstanding.
“What do you mean?”

“We know you’re planning to sabotage the experiments.”

Fuck
. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Let’s not play games, Robert. There’s more going on around you than even you know.” Where have I heard that before? “I suppose Amos gave you a plausible explanation. Something in writing, no doubt.”

Do I walk out? What if they blow the whistle in CERN? The possibility of prison hadn’t occurred to me before, but it’s there now: grey walls, barred windows, stripy sheets and a cellmate with a beard who likes to be called Miriam. “How do you know Amos?”

“Let’s just say we go back a few years. He can be quite persuasive, can’t he?”

Don’t commit to anything – he can’t have any proof. “Some people believe the experiments are dangerous.”

“Like your father?”

I don’t answer.

“Have you considered that perhaps there is something other than belief driving his convictions? Fear, for instance?”

“Fear of what?”

Sattva’s eyes meet Balaquai’s briefly. “Robert, Victor Amos is not who you think he is. And as you’ve only just met him, I would say that your trust has been misplaced.”

“If Amos is right, and I do nothing...”

“Ask yourself this. Do you believe, in the core of your being, that you’re doing the right thing?”

A pool of sweat has gathered at the nape of my neck.

“You don’t have to tell me. Just be honest with yourself before you do something you regret.”

“What do you want, Mr Sattva?”

“I want you to let the experiments proceed as they’re meant to.”

I lean across the table. “And what if he’s right? What if they do produce strangelets and we just sit back and let it happen? There’s evidence that proves their existence. The CERN Council buried it, because it didn’t have the stomach to abandon things this far down the line. But all it takes is the right conditions and we’ve got the Ice-nine reaction on our doorstep.”

“And you’re persuaded by this evidence?”

“Yes. I found a paper which proves it beyond all reasonable doubt. I even spoke to the author’s wife – she validates what Amos said.”

“Did you speak to the author himself?”

“No. He’s not well enough to have a conversation.”

“How convenient.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Sattva regards me with an even stare. “Do you really believe that the CERN council would ignore evidence as persuasive as you found it to be?”

There’s a buzzing sound in my ears and my palms are beginning to sweat. “Why do you care so much about them? What are you, a physicist?”

“No. But there’s more at stake here than the curiosity of scientists.” He sits back, and holds me with his level stare. “Those experiments will open doors to places you can’t even begin to imagine.”

Maybe he’s just a crazy man with a bone to pick with Amos.

Sattva continues, “You came here because you wanted to find out how Aiyana and Balaquai helped you avoid a car accident and a gunshot wound.”

And I wish to God I hadn’t. I glance towards them. Balaquai is watching me and Aiyana is frowning at the table.

“In the same way you knew how to find your way down the mountain in Tibet. Everyone’s entangled with everyone else to some extent, but some much more than others.”

It’s as though the temperature in the room has suddenly plunged.

“But if you don’t want to know, that’s your choice.”

The barmaid arrives and places the drinks on the table.

“Thank you, Rosinda.” Sattva smiles mildly, as though we’ve just been chatting about the weather.

“How did you know about Tibet?”

“Do you know the story of Ernest Shackleton, Robert?” says Sattva.

“The explorer?”

“That’s right. In 1915, his ship, the
Endurance
, became trapped in ice during an expedition to Antarctica. The ice crushed her to pieces over the course of nine months, forcing the men to abandon ship. After six months of camping on ice floes, they took their small boats to Elephant Island, an outcrop of the Antarctic Peninsula. Their supplies were all but gone, so, from there, Shackleton and two other men began the trek over the glacial mountains to the whaling station in South Georgia, eleven hundred kilometres away. They made it to their destination, and the other men were rescued, but later, when Shackleton recorded his experiences, he admitted that he felt there were four men on that trek, not three.”

“Maybe he miscounted. Hypothermia and dehydration can do that to you.”

“Who else was with you and Danny when you came down the mountain?”

My mouth’s gone dry. “How could you possibly...”

“Because I was there, Robert.”

“What?”

“I was the one who told you to get up, I was the one who gave you the certainty in your stride, I was the one who showed you which was the right way down through the blizzard.”

Is that where I know his voice from? I glance at Balaquai and Aiyana. “Is this a joke?”

Aiyana shakes her head. “I wish it were,” she whispers.

“What, and I suppose you two stepped out just when I needed help, right on cue?”

“Funny thing, coincidence,” says Balaquai.

It feels like I’m immersed in fog. “Is this some kind of Big Brother thing? Is there some satellite link where you’re watching me? Chalking up my debt so that I’d help you out when you need it?” This is creeping me out.

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Well, what then?”

“Don’t you get it?” says Aiyana. “We’re not from here... anymore.”

Sattva watches me, his expression unreadable. Something I overheard Aiyana say in the café comes back to me.
I just want my life back.
My arms have gone cold and the hairs on my neck are standing on end.

“Oh, come on. This is some kind of sick joke, right? A set up?”

“It’s not a joke,” says Sattva.

I become aware of someone standing to my right. “Hello, Robert.”

The world slows down. I’m on my feet, the chair scraping on the wooden floor, clattering over behind me.

Sattva’s eyes stay on me. “I believe you already know Michael Casimir.”

Chapter Twelve

“C
ASIMIR
?”

He nods slowly and smiles.

Is it him? Something’s different; like the lines that gave such character and depth to his face have been erased. And his eyes – he has that look, like only part of him is here.

He offers me a handshake, the muscles of his forearms well defined, and the skin smooth, unblemished. He’s younger. Christ, he’s
alive
, and he’s younger than he was before.

“Aren’t you at least going to shake my hand?”

Slowly, I reach my hand towards his, unsure if I want to find out what it feels like to shake hands with a dead man. His grip is firm, solid, like nothing has changed.

“How are you?” he asks.

“How am I?” I laugh, struck by the absurdity of what he just said.

“Lighten up, Robert.” He grins at me and slaps my shoulder, glancing at the others as he sits down next to Sattva.

I’m still standing there, staring at him, trying to process what’s happening.

“Oh, come on. Sit down.”

I don’t move.

“Robert, are you okay?”

“You’re dead.” The words come out as a whisper.

“Depends on your perspective.”

My fingers find the edge of the seat and I lower myself into it, slowly. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Sattva studies me with his dark eyes. I’m not sure how old he is; there’s something about him that makes it difficult to judge. “Once I tell you,” he says, “there’s no going back. It will colour the way you see everything –
everything –
from now on. Are you sure you want to know?”

I’m not sure of anything anymore. The man who’s sitting across the table from me should be in a box six feet underground, eight hundred miles away. I can see my sanity dribbling down the plughole unless I get some answers. Maybe it’s headed that way anyway. “I need to know.”