Dark Matter (18 page)

This was what his mind was alerting him to.
How many times had it already tried, with increasing persistence, only for him
to dismiss it as dizziness or indigestion?

Again he remembered the
errand-carrier-become-sun, the rainbow hues washing its surface as it turned a
scrutinising awareness on the constellations of his memory, autonomous. Was
this its handiwork? Did it ransack his memory for patterns, detect when one
crossed from coincidence to conspiracy, and force it into his conscious mind by
whichever sense-conduit was appropriate or handy?

A student walking in the other direction
brushed past him, talking on a phone, and Rasputin became conscious that he was
stalled halfway through the tunnel. He began woodenly to walk again.

Where the tunnel disgorged, the path split
in two. He took the right fork, which rose to a bus stop. He saw the bus
already standing at the stop, and hurried up the slope, hop-a-step, fearing he
would catch his wayward leg on the uneven concrete. He reached the end of the
queue as it was being swallowed by the bus. He mounted the steps, ratcheting
up, dug in his wallet for his rider card, and flashed it past the fare machine.
It bleeped compliance, and he slumped into a disabled-priority seat behind the
driver.

His heart was hammering his ribs, and he
wondered how many people made it to the priority seat only to be struck by
myocardial infarction.

The door accordioned shut and the bus’s
motion pressed him into his seat, only to pitch him forward again when it
halted.

The door folded open and a familiar set of
aviators floated up the stair. For a moment, Rasputin saw himself mirrored in
miniature in their lenses. He hastily became engrossed in a poster encased in
plexiglass behind the driver. He heard the bus’s fare reader bleep, and sensed
a shadow pass.

A temptation to bolt back down the stair
seized him, but with a hiss the door closed. Besides, it would be idiotic. The
aviators would follow, and then where would he be? Stuck with his shadow at an
empty bus stop.

He hunkered down as low as he could,
watched the bay drift by, and tried madly to arrange his thoughts.

The bus stopped once to let passengers off.
As it surged away from the stop with a whine, Rasputin hazarded a glance at the
convex mirror set at the head of the aisle. He thought he could see reflected
in its vibrating surface, smeared and silhouetted by late afternoon sunlight
pouring through the rear window, a now familiar profile.

The bus wound its way into the sun-starved
canyons of the CBD. The pavement along St. George’s Terrace was bustling with
pre-peak-hour suits and faded lipstick. The bus stopped and he took the plunge
into that bawling mass of humanity.

Minutes later he entered a lift in the city’s
tallest building, Central Park, and punched the button for the 43
rd
 
floor. The lift shot up like an express train
and in no time he stood before a glass door he had seen on only three separate
occasions. Silver lettering on its frosted surface proclaimed it to be the
premises of Gödel IT Consulting Group. (The sign writer was evidently not big
on umlauts.) He entered and waited at the counter for the receptionist to
notice him. She appeared to be checking recommendations for hotels in Phuket,
and was quite thorough.

She smiled tightly, “Can I help you?”

“I wanted to see Jordan Mitchell. Is he
in?”

She picked up the phone receiver, a finger
poised above the keypad. “And you are?”

“Rasputin.”

The finger didn’t quite drop. “
The
Rasputin?”

Short of the late-19
th
 
century monk, he wasn’t sure who
the
Rasputin would be.

“Sorry?”

“From the paper. Mr. Lowdermilk. How could
I forget that name. Lovely.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re
talking about,” he said with a sinking feeling.

“Jordan’s friend. You had the accident.
Terrible. It was in the paper,” she said, and her gaze hunted his head for the telltale
scar.

“Oh, the paper. Yeah,” he said.

The paper? What paper?!
Why the hell didn’t anyone tell him anything anymore? Of course
there had been something in the paper; this was Perth. In Perth, a farting
wombat was news.

The receptionist’s finger fell, mercifully,
and dialled an internal extension.

“Jordan? Rasputin Lowdermilk is here to see
you,” she said, flicking him a quick, conspiratorial glance.

Jordy appeared moments later with the word
what
inscribed on his features.

“Got a second?” said Rasputin.

“It’s nearly Five. I’m about to go home,”
was what he said, but his face still said
what
. “Hang on. I’ll get my
things.”

Jordy reappeared shortly after, holding a
briefcase of shiny black leather.

“Nice briefcase.”

“Shut up.”

As they were leaving the receptionist
called after them, “Nice to meet a real celebrity.” Rasputin said thanks, and
guessed the cogs in Jordy’s mind had turned far enough to connect her comment
with the news article, because the
what
had dropped from his face to be
replaced by
shit
.

“Monk, we were
going to say something—”

“Forget it. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
What was it with fish today? “Someone is tailing me.”

Jordy looked around dumbly as they entered
the lift.

“You being paranoid again?” Jordy said.

“No, I—what do you mean,
again
?”
Rasputin spluttered, momentarily forgetting The Aviators of Damocles.

Jordy waved the question away. “Go on.”

The lift doors closed and they dropped.

“I noticed him today, but he’s been hanging
‘round like a bad smell since Melbourne. I’ve seen him everyday since then.”

“Okay,” said Jordy. “Why are you only
telling me now?”

“I just noticed.”

Jordy didn’t comment, but Rasputin marked
the way his eyes darted to his scar. At least one other person was beginning to
respect The Brain.

Jordy shrugged. “So call the cops.”

“What if he is a cop?”

“You’re being a moron. Why would a cop be
tailing you? Unless he wants an autograph.”

“He wore a fedora.”

“Ah, well, in that case, he’s in amateur
theatre and it
is
an autograph he wants.”

“Be serious.”

“How the hell can I be serious about a
fedora?”

A man and a woman entered the lift, and
Rasputin and Jordy fell silent while they decided where they were going for
post-work drinks. By the time the lift reached the foyer, it was packed with
end-of-day traffic and smelt of sweat. Rasputin and Jordy were the last to
exit, and Rasputin tugged Jordy behind a nook formed by the angle of two
directory boards.

“You want to camp here all night?” Jordy
said. The metal feet of his briefcase rapped the tiles when he set it down. “If
so, I’d better nip out and get some toothpaste.”

“You’re going to nip out, alright, but I
want you to scope for this guy.” Rasputin halted, appraising his friend’s
appearance. “But I bet he knows what you look like—here,” he said, and tousled
Jordy’s hair.”

Jordy slapped his hand away. “Quit it. I’m
not a dog.”

Rasputin stepped back, satisfied Jordy’s
private-school part had been destroyed. He slung his jacket to the floor and
stripped off his t-shirt. Jordy didn’t stop complaining as he worked his tie
loose and undid the buttons of his work shirt. He swapped it for Rasputin’s
t-shirt.

Seconds later Rasputin gave him the once
over. “It’ll have to do.”

“I feel like an idiot,” Jordy said,
plucking at the t-shirt’s faded fabric, which sat rumpled incongruously above
his suit pants.

“Plenty of guys go to the gym after work,”
said Rasputin. He retrieved his jacket from the floor and stuffed it into his
backpack.

“Not in their suit pants, they don’t.”

“You’re setting a trend,” Rasputin said
with a wink.

“Yeah, fashion homicide.”

Jordy sighed and stepped into the open.
“What’s he wearing?”

“Aviators.”

“Okay. Looking for a naked guy in
aviators.”

Rasputin rolled his eyes and spoke fast:
“Short-sleeved shirt, checked with mauve and teal, a pocket over each breast.
Khaki pants, but good ones. Brown leather shoes, maybe Colorados, with an inch
of black sock showing. Sideburns dropping maybe one centimetre below...” But
Jordy waved him off and disappeared.

Rasputin waited, tense, half-expecting to
see twin mirrored lenses intrude on his bolt-hole. But it was Jordy who
appeared a minute later, his bearing changed.

“I mark him. He’s on a bench, pretending to
watch a bocce game. Now what?”

Rasputin pumped his fist, then became
still. He realised he had no idea what to do.

Jordy spoke first. “He could be a cop. He
looks like a cop.”

“Why would he be skulking after me if he’s
a cop?”

Jordy shrugged and sucked his teeth.

“Okay. Back to the lift. There are plenty
of ways out of this place.”

“He’ll know I’m onto him.”

“Maybe. Or he’ll figure he missed you.”
Jordy looked back, seeming to weigh the odds. “Come on.”

They circled round the blind side of the
lift wells. All six lifts were spewing out foot traffic. Jordy pushed the down
button and they waited. Eventually an emptied lift indicated it was heading
down and they piled into it. It dropped to the first basement level, where they
got out. It was a car park.

“I hate car parks,” said Rasputin. Jordy
remained silent, but it was an inclusive silence. He waited for Rasputin to
catch up, and together they mounted a ramp to the street level.

They slipped along the darkening foot of
the skyscraper, mingling with the crowds that thronged the pavement. As they
turned up a lane that lead away at right angles, Rasputin scanned the patch of
grass where bocce was being played. No sign of the guy—the living
collage-portrait his mind had wrought floated up into his thought like an
apparition. Yes, he knew what he looked like. But he was gone.

They merged with the deeper shadow of the
narrow lane but Rasputin felt no relief.

Quarter of an hour later he sat squashed
against Jordy on a train. The multi-level blur of suburbs racing by was a
hypnotic palimpsest. It combined with the swaying cabin to make Rasputin feel
drowsy. He was sliding toward sleep when Jordy spoke.

“Sorry about the paper. We should have told
you, but Dee agreed that you were...well,
fragile
was the word she used.
Some reporter was sniffing around for a quote from you, but we hedged. I
thought he maybe had some kick back scheme with an ambulance chaser.”

Rasputin mulled that over. “Maybe my tail
is the reporter?”

“No. I know what he looks like.”

Rasputin glanced at Jordy with an unspoken
question.

“He came to the hospital,” Jordy continued,
seemingly absorbed with the rushing sprawl. “I told him to get lost.”

“Bet you didn’t. You’re too polite, country
boy.”

Jordy smiled without returning his gaze.

Rasputin leaned back into his seat and
closed his eyes, lowered defences he felt had been up all day, and let the
train tug at him as if he were a rag doll. It felt wonderful.

Two letters arrived the following day.
Rasputin read them as he lay sprawled in a lounge chair. One was from the
insurance agent representing Mr. Hewitt, the man who had almost made his
Valiant a lethal weapon. The letter held no surprises. It said that,
regrettably, Rasputin had no claim. The second letter was from Thorpe. It was
printed on Department of Neuroscience stationary, and unlike the insurance
letter, came in an envelope stuffed to the brim. At first glance, it appeared
that Thorpe had scheduled activities in every one of Rasputin’s non-contact
hours. On closer inspection, he saw appointments scheduled over the top of
lectures.

Welfare suddenly took on a little lustre.

His new timetable had, in addition to
one-on-one sessions with Thorpe, appointments for physiotherapy and
occupational therapy, post-traumatic experience counselling, and
psycho-cognitive assessment, whatever that was. He grew tired just looking at
it. Each stream of appointments had a corresponding chunk of verbiage about
where to go and what to expect. Stapled to the back of each was a privacy
statement printed in a microscopic font, and a liability waiver that just
needed his signature.

He flung the thick sheaf of papers down.
Sections of it shot across the floor like parts of a decrepit, triangular
telescope.

He felt the weight of every planned hour
latent at his feet. There wasn’t going to be any clean snap of the neck for
him. Thorpe was going to tease back each scale and groove the flesh from his
hide—Heaven knew why. He planned to savour every morsel Rasputin’s head had to
offer. He would lick the bones clean, every last one, and mount the skeleton in
a frame in his museum of wonders:
Rasputinus Excogitas.
Rasputin the
Unthought.