Black Jack (17 page)

‘Has she been returned to her cage?’

‘I think so. I haven’t contacted Miss Monroe yet. Shall I?’

The silence on the other side stretched. ‘Don’t do anything. I’ll handle it from here. Just send me the latest video of your session with her.’

‘Of course. One more thing - ’

But the phone was already dead in Teddy’s hand. ‘The boy is paralyzed,’ Teddy finished slowly. He put his hand to his forehead. He knew the drugs he had taken would not keep down the nightmares that night. He felt oddly frightened.

Miss Monroe wheeled the girl into her quarters. She helped her into her pajamas then into her bed. The girl turned to lie on her side and face the wall. Miss Monroe pulled the girl’s pajama trousers down to administer her sedative and was surprised to see writing on the girl’s flesh. As if in a trance, unable to stop herself, she went closer to read the ink.

You too are a slave
.

She jerked back in shock and began to back away, but the girl turned over and looked directly into her eyes. She froze, unable to do anything but stare helplessly into the girl’s eyes, her mind blank. Then she calmly recapped the syringe and put it back into her pocket. She nodded at the girl as if the girl had given her instructions, and left the girl’s quarters silently. She walked down the corridor calmly - nobody could have suspected anything out of the ordinary - but once in her quarters she dashed to her desk and sat at it holding her head. It hurt.

She opened a drawer, extracted a piece of paper, and from another found some pens of different colors and began scratching them on the paper. She drew so fast it was as if she was possessed, as if the images were all trapped inside her and clawing to come out. When the paper was full she extracted another, and another, until there were no more. Then she began to grab at anything in her reach. Quickly, the memories are bleeding.

When there were no more surfaces to color she began to scratch the table. When the table was covered she rose and walked to the walls. Her arms ached. The pens were empty, but she couldn’t stop scratching. A pen rolled under her foot and she slipped and lay sprawled on the floor. She pulled herself up and sat on top of her drawings. She lifted one from underneath her and studied it curiously. Then another. All different and yet all similar.

Dark pictures of a little girl being hurt by adults. Look at that child. Poor thing. Howling for help; and that wisp of smoke coming out her body, that’s her leaving when the horror and the agony became impossible to bear. But who is that ageless adult male who consumes human blood, the keeper who holds all the knowledge? Were those slit pupils real, or contact lenses meant to terrify a child?

All her parts were still pulsing and trying to get out, and she must let them out soon or they will tear their way out. She stood tiredly and went to the mirror. For most of her life she had felt held by a sort of black cloud. She had no life, a lot of missing time, and she couldn’t figure out her emotions. She couldn’t figure out anything. Now she knew why the butterflies were all around her. She touched the face in the mirror. Who was that poor, disheveled creature?

‘Don’t cry,’ she consoled. ‘Please don’t cry, Alice.’

She screamed in a shrill voice [...] but nobody, not one of the immortals, not one of mortal men, heard her voice.

 -
The Homeric Hymns, ‘To Demeter’

Bumi opened her front door and came to an abrupt halt. A strange man was sitting at her small dining table calmly pouring himself a cup of tea. She frowned at the key in the palm of her hand - the door had been locked - and looked up slowly at the man. He was watching her with eyes devoid of any emotion but disconnected neutrality - a scientist who mutilates a thousand animals in the search of a better face cream. The room seemed oddly still. He was oddly still, but there was the instant and unwavering sense of something predatory about his cold stare, as though he was homing in on prey. Even the extraordinary impression that he was not human! Her first thought was to flee as quickly as possible. But what of Black? The thought was like an electric bolt. It made her start. It made her bold. She took a step toward her fear.

‘Who are you? What are you doing in my home?’ she demanded.

He put the teapot down. ‘More to the point what are you doing in this country?’ His voice was strange. Indescribable.

An immigration officer. So many years had passed that she had begun to relax. She had never really imagined finding one of them in her house. Perhaps in a sweep in one of those dodgy Indian restaurants or Laundromats, but never in this small space she called home. She took an involuntary step back. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ he mimicked.

She looked toward the boy’s room. The door hung open - the bed was empty. She felt the odd sight drop into the pit of her belly. A stone it was.

‘Where is my son? What have you done with him?’

The man indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Join me,’ he invited and began to pour tea into a second cup that he must have put out earlier for her. His nails were clean and beautifully manicured. A silver watch glinted at the edge of his immaculate white sleeve. He gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘How is it there are no official records of Black’s existence?’

He was not here for her. Suddenly she began to feel really frightened. What had he done with Black? She must be careful. Mechanically, like one of those battery-operated toys, she walked toward the indicated chair and perched awkwardly on the end of it. He pushed the milk jug and sugar bowl toward her. She picked up the cup and saucer. The cup rattled. She looked at him nervously.

He had a cold, handsome face. Square-jawed, the way Americans were. Tanned. Not English, for sure. The wintry blue eyes seemed to have narrow flints in them. They regarded her without expression. She returned the rattling cup and saucer to the table.

‘Would you like some biscuits with your tea?’ he asked, and stood as if to get them. He was imposingly tall and muscular. The flat felt small and cramped. He was dressed in a black suit, black shoes, a black coat. His stomach was flat.

She shook her head distractedly. The deliberate charm, it masked something heartless. A cold piercing intelligence.

He resumed his seat.

‘Where is Black?’

‘I would have thought a better strategy for you to employ would be to concentrate on answering my questions. At the moment you are looking at some serious trouble.’ He took a sip of his tea. His tone was friendly, almost chatty. ‘Where did you get the boy?’

She looked at him challengingly. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

An enquiring eyebrow arched. ‘No birth certificate, no national insurance number? The boy doesn’t exist outside this room, does he? How did you come by him?’

‘Look, I didn’t steal him if that is what you are implying. I found him in a rubbish dump when he was a baby. His mother had abandoned him. And when I found him he was totally helpless. I knew no one could give him a better home than me, so I kept him. If you think that is so wrong, call the police.’

‘Call the police? Are you sure? Don’t you think that might be a dangerous move for you? Seeing that you are an illegal immigrant.’

She stared at him defiantly. ‘What’s this all about? You don’t really want me.’

‘You have guessed correctly. I am not interested in you. I only want to know about the boy. The sooner you tell me what I want to know the sooner I will leave.’

‘Why are you so concerned about my son?’

‘I have seen the…er…family album. Not much of a life for him from what I can see.’

‘He is happy here with me.’

‘Can he read?’

‘Of course not. He’s a human vegetable.’

‘What language do you use when you speak to him?’

‘English.’

‘Does he have any special dietary requirements?’

‘He is a vegetarian. He vomits if given fish or meat.  He likes milk.’

‘The tubes in the kitchen are for feeding?’

She nodded. He had searched her flat. Who was this man? ‘If you think a crime has been committed, call the police. In fact, I insist that you call the police.’

‘I’m afraid that it is much too late for that now. I suggest you don’t entertain such ideas. You might never see the boy again,’ he warned pleasantly. But such hate and malice emanated from those handsome eyes that she was shocked. What had she done so bad that anyone would hate her so much?

There was a knock on the door and he went to open it. And that was when she noticed the black cables that seemed to come out of the ends of his trouser legs. How utterly strange, her mind registered.

‘I am finished here,’ he said to whoever was outside the door and walked out.

Two men came in, both well dressed, both burly, and started advancing. She was a rag doll in their powerful hold. She thought she had screamed, but the darkness came so suddenly it was impossible to tell if she had or not.

When she awakened it was seven o’clock and dark.

She was lying on the sofa bed, cramped and cold. Her neck felt stiff. She looked around the tiny flat with all its cast-offs from the great manor. The old Aubusson carpet with the large stain over which she had placed the coffee table, the heavy brocade that she had cut into perfectly wonderful curtains and the little birthday presents - a crystal rabbit, a clock from Harrods, the Venetian glassware. They had moved nothing, taken nothing, except her heart.

She felt a raging thirst and pulling together her weary limbs stumbled toward the kitchen. She leaned against the sink and drank two glasses of water. She shed no tears - none would come. The horror was frozen inside her. She went back to the sofa bed and sat there for hours with only the light from the street lamp. Who were those people? What did they want with Black? Why?

She jumped when the doorbell rang. Oh, of course. She switched on the light and went downstairs. She opened the door without looking at him and went back up the stairs. She heard him close the door and come up behind her. She turned around to face him. Veera stood in her living room. As unwashed as when she had first found him.

‘Are you ready to go?’

She waved a hand toward the boy’s empty room. ‘The boy is gone. Never approach me again,’ she said frostily, and walked away toward the kitchen.

His sly eyes immediately suspected a trick. What had she done with the boy? Hidden him? She was not getting away that easy. He followed her into the kitchen. He would have her, if necessary, by force. He reached the kitchen door and stopped.

She was standing by the kitchen sink, but she was swaying like a drunk and wielding a knife. When his eyes found hers he knew then that he would never have her. She looked insane. The intensity of her hatred made his skin crawl with fear. She would stick that knife into him with a song in her heart. He turned around and hurried out of her empty home without looking back. She had not hidden the boy. Something bad had happened to that child and she blamed him.

“Will you walk into my parlor?”
said the Spider to the Fly.

 - The Spider and the Fly (1829)

Black woke up in a white, windowless room that he recognized instantly as the place the unicorn had shown him. So it had begun. There was no fear in his heart. Only terrible pain. She had betrayed him as Green had said she would. The betrayal was bitter, but he couldn’t hate her. How could he? He was more than half in love with her, and all he knew was an unquenchable loneliness and a yearning to reunite with her. He told himself that she had no control over herself and managed to convince himself that she could be saved still. And that he was the one to do it.

How he did not know yet.

The door swung open without Black having heard any footsteps outside. Either there was a deep carpet outside or the walls and door were soundproofed. He noticed the door was very thick, like those used for vaults, and he wondered about it.

A young, slim man walked into the room. He had bland features. His straight brown hair had been cut into a shining bob around his head. ‘Hello, I am Carter Page,’ he announced in an American accent. ‘I believe you are unable even to blink.’ He sounded almost as though he was in awe of the thought. ‘So if you can hear and understand me simply look at the boxes on the screen. Green is for yes and red is for no.

Black looked at the lighted green box with YES written inside.

‘Good.’

‘Shame you can’t read. It would make my life so much easier.’

Yes.

Carter looked at Black curiously. ‘What do you mean yes? I was told you can’t read. Can you?’

Yes.

He clapped his hands like a delighted child. ‘That’s fantastic. Did your extraterrestrial friend teach you?’

Black looked at the red box.

Carter raised his eyebrows. ‘The TV?’

Yes.

‘
Sesame Street
like everyone else?’ He tittered at his own wit. His hand pointed to a screen built into the wall that came alive when he touched it. ‘You are hooked up to a state-of-the-art computer. I think you will find it very user-friendly. To charge it I will go through the alphabets with you and the computer will register which part of your brain you are using. Then when next you think of that alphabet it will show it up on the screen. In that way you will make your sentences. Are you ready to start?’

Black’s eyes darted to the green box.

Carter produced a remote control from his pocket. The letter A came on the screen. ‘Look at it and think of it.’ His remote pinged. ‘Good.’ He tapped on his screen and the next letter appeared. When all the letters were done, he said, ‘Feel up to some numbers?’ Zero to nine were quickly commenced with. ‘OK, we’re ready to roll. Let’s practice speaking. Spell your name.’

To Black’s amazement, one by one, the words ‘Black Jack’ appeared on the screen.

‘Very good. Now tell me how you feel.’

A bit faster this time. Fine.

‘Now don’t spell it, just simply think the word “fine.”

Instantly the word ‘fine’ appeared on the screen.

Wow, Black spelled out.

Carter laughed. His laugh was infectious. ‘You are good at this. What’s your name again?’