Irregular Verbs (34 page)

The streets were slick, the ice that had formed at sundown melted by all the people walking. Craning his neck around Dave bumped into a heavyset woman in a bright green parka, lost his footing and fell forward. Without thinking he threw his hands in front of him to take the impact and the briefcase slammed onto the ground, skittered a few feet away.

Dave chased after the briefcase on his hands and knees, wiped his hands off on his pants once he’d reached it and drew himself back up onto his feet. He looked around again: nobody seemed to be taking much notice of him—it was hardly unusual to see someone take a header on a Friday night. He swung the briefcase back and forth, trying to feel if the record had broken, but he knew the jacket would hold the pieces in place if it had. The only way to know would be to open the briefcase, and he could not do that here.

There was the train station, by the canal. Unwilling to risk another glance back he quickened his steps, turned a few zigs and zags in hopes of losing any pursuit and finally made it to the grand colonnaded entrance. There were fewer people here, and he made a quick scan left and right before stepping inside. His hand fumbled in his pocket for a dollar coin to rent the locker, felt it slip from fingers slick with frost and sweat. He stood in front of the ARRIVALS board, pretending to read the schedule, until his heart slowed. Then he looked around again and made his way to the lockers. They were in a narrow hallway, by the washroom; he picked one in the corner, dropped a coin in the slot and turned the key. The locker door swung open and he pulled his briefcase up to his chest. He was tempted to put the whole thing in there, to avoid exposing the record, but anyone who saw him entering the station with the briefcase and leave without it would have no doubt what had happened. Instead he held the briefcase so that the hinges faced away from him and undid the catches. He took a step back, giving himself enough room to open the briefcase, drew out the album. For a moment he simply held it there until, unable to resist, he reached into the jacket and pulled at the record itself. When he felt it come out in one piece he exhaled, let it fall back in and put the album into the locker, shut it and pulled out the key. Then he walked into the bathroom at a steady pace, went into the furthermost stall, lifted up the lid of the toilet tank and dropped the key inside.

By the time he had left the train station he was already feeling better. He remembered now how the meetings used to make him feel, like he was part of something important: that he was contributing to something that mattered. The cold air outside felt crisp now, invigorating. He decided not to wait for the morning, but to buy new shoes now. Why not?

Turning, Dave felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Wait a moment, please,” Geraci’s voice said from behind him.

Dave tried to turn around, but Geraci held him fast. He craned his head instead; saw Geraci, in his black plastic coat and red scarf, flanked by two men similarly dressed. Geraci led him forward to the train station’s loading zone, where the car Dave had seen in the parking lot was waiting. Even in the mist it looked clean and shiny, its windows black.

He knew better than to resist when they bundled him into the back seat. The windows here were as dark on the inside as the outside, and a black plastic partition separated him from the rest of the car. One of the silent men accompanying Geraci sat with him, looking straight ahead during the whole ride.

Finally the car stopped and he was led out. They were not treating him roughly, not yet, and Dave looked to this for some measure of hope: the ride could just as easily have ended in the car.

They were inside, or else underground. He followed Geraci down a corridor whose walls were featureless grey concrete, heard the echoing footsteps of the two men behind him. Finally they stopped at an unmarked door. One of the men opened it and guided Dave inside, sat him down on a folding chair by a small, square metal table on which sat a thermos and two paper cups.

“Coffee?” Geraci asked from behind him. Dave craned his neck to see Geraci come into the room, sit down across the table.

“Sure.”

Geraci nodded, unscrewed the thermos and filled both cups, handing one to Dave. The coffee smell was strong, filling the small room. Dave brought his cup up to his lips, sniffed at it carefully and then took a sip.

“No milk,” Geraci said. “I am sorry. My men, they do not always think of such things.”

“It’s all right,” Dave said. He took another drink and set down the cup, casting around for something else to say.

“It’s a long time you’ve been working at Broadcast?” Geraci asked.

Dave nodded. His head was starting to swim, his stomach churning.

“You enjoy it there? It is a good fit for your skills?”

“Sure,” Dave said, the words pouring out of his mouth like syrup. The chair seemed to have tilted under him, and he tried to right himself.

“You are editing videotapes currently? Cutting inconsistencies?”

“Yes.”

Geraci leaned down, lifted a briefcase off the ground and set it down on the table. For a moment Dave thought it was his briefcase, but saw that it was black where his was dark brown. Geraci opened it and drew out a beige folder, opened that and spun a page around with splayed fingers.

“This is a copy of your log, from Wednesday. Do you remember this?”

Dave nodded again; the room shook with the movement of his head and he swallowed hard to avoid vomiting. He didn’t understand what this was about—he couldn’t think—

“Here,” Geraci said, placing his little finger on a few words Dave had written halfway down the page. “Do you see what this says?”

Squinting, Dave tried to bring the page into focus. “I’m sorry—I can’t—”

“‘Thirteen minutes forty seconds to fifteen minutes twenty-five seconds,’” Geraci read, “‘President Nixon mentioned. Watergate reference.’ Do you remember this?”

“I—yes,” Dave said.

“I have seen this sequence you edited. The character who is speaking, he speaks only of Nixon.” Geraci leaned forward. “So tell me, Mr. Lawson, how is it that you know of a
Watergate
?”

Dave laughed despite himself. Was that all this was about? They didn’t know about the record, about—

He was reeling, knocked back by the force of Geraci’s blow. The door behind him opened, and strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright.

“I do not find this so funny, Mr. Lawson,” Geraci said. He was cradling his right hand in his left, stroking it with an aggrieved expression on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. The room was spinning around him.

Geraci looked down into his open briefcase, pulled out what looked like a small tackle box. He reached for its latch with his hand, paused and looked up at Dave. “Are you convinced of the seriousness of this business?”

“Yes,” Dave said.

Geraci’s hand rested on the tackle box, his fingers idly playing with the latch. “Then please tell me. Why is it you feel you must record this mention of Watergate?”

“I—I must have heard it once before, remembered it.”

Giving him a look of intense fatigue, Geraci said, “It is neither your job nor your place to remember, Mr. Lawson. Your job is to find things that can only confuse the people, and to help them to forget those things. You are to forget those things as well.” He glanced down at the open folder in front of him. “You were a student of history, Mr. Lawson. Was this not made clear to you?”

“Yes. I—it was. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Geraci drew a page out of the folder with his free hand, spun it around so that it faced Dave—his other hand still on the tackle box. “This is a confession to the denial of history and also an apology, most heartfelt and sincere. You will sign it at the bottom, please.”

One of the men behind Dave put a pen in his hand. “And—that’s it?” Dave said. “I just sign it, and—”

“Of course there will be consequences,” Geraci said. “Before you can be once more in a position of trust you will have to prove yourself worthy of it—but that chance may be given, in time. All you need do is sign.”

Dave leaned forward, tried to read the page; the letters swam in front of him. “I can’t read it,” he said.

“It is of no consequence.”

He reached out with the pen, felt his arm being guided to the page. A blot of ink formed at the beginning of a horizontal line, and after a moment he signed.

“Very good,” Geraci said. He picked the tackle box up by the handle, put it carefully back in his briefcase. “I am pleased to see you begin the path to rehabilitation.”

The hands holding Dave upright released him, and he slumped forward. He watched Geraci stand, pick up his briefcase and go to the door; on his way out somebody stopped him, and they spoke briefly.

Geraci turned back to face Dave. “A moment more, please,” he said, and Dave heard a change in his voice: a crack in his superiority, a hint of bitterness. “My supervisor wishes to speak with you.”

Dave watched as Geraci stepped back to let the tall man with the long black coat come in. The tall man gave a small nod and Geraci stepped outside, closed the door.

“David?” the tall man asked, moving to stand where Geraci had sat. “Or is it Dave?”

“I told him,” Dave said, his voice cracking. “I signed the paper. I signed it. . . .”

“I know,” the tall man said. He leaned down to reach under the rim of the table, and Dave could hear his coat creaking; it was real leather, not plastic. The man drew a small metal device out from under the table, twisted it. “There. We can talk freely now.”

Dave frowned at him, daring now to look the man in the face. He had brown curly hair that swept back from his forehead, a sharp nose and a thin moustache. “What are we going to talk about?” he asked.

The man tucked the tail of his coat under him, sat down. “History.”

“I told you—I already signed—”

“Not that.” The man leaned back in his chair, dropped his arms to his sides. “You made a copy of that clip Geraci was fussing about, didn’t you? You collect things like that.”

Dave said nothing.

The man shrugged. “It’s not worth denying it. I only raised the subject because it should make some things more clear to you; so without you confirming or denying it, let’s say we both know there are things that don’t fit anymore, pieces of a puzzle that no longer exists. That’s not an accusation. All right?”

He took a breath. “All right.”

“Good. Now I want you to understand—I am one of those pieces.”

Dave’s head was starting to clear, recovering from Geraci’s blow and whatever had been in the coffee; still, he wondered if he had heard the man right. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“That group you belong to, I know you collect things that are remnants of the old history—things the device didn’t manage to change along with the rest of the world. I’m like that: the new history put me here, but I remember who I was. Who I am.”

“So—you’re not—”

The man glanced past Dave, at the door. “There are a few of us, and we’re very close to control of the device. The problem is, a weapon is only useful if you know where to aim it. That’s why I need you.”

“Because I know the history,” Dave said. He hesitated, not sure how much to say, but the man seemed to know everything already. “The old history. You need me to help you change it back.”

The man was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s what you know of
this
history we want—the differences between the histories, so we’ll know how they put themselves in charge.”

“But you have to change everything back. That’s why we’ve been gathering all those pieces—so we can reconstruct the old history—”

“Which is why they’ve left you alone,” the man said. “Your little group is a joke—you think you can change the world by collecting stamps.” He stood up, swung a briefcase from the floor onto the table and opened it. From within he drew out the album, reached into the jacket and pulled out the record, holding it in both hands. “You think this can change the world.”

“Please,” Dave said.

The man pressed both his thumbs to the middle of the record, flexed it so that the vinyl began to bend. “Would you give your life for this? It means nothing.”

Dave dropped his gaze to the table. “It’s history. It’s what’s real.”

“You of all people should know there’s no history,” the man said. “There’s just what we choose to remember.”

After a moment’s silence Dave looked up, into the man’s eyes. They were a dull brown like his hair, steady and sane. “The new history you’re going to make, it’ll be just as much a patchwork as this one,” he said. “What makes you think it’ll be any better?”

The man shrugged, lay the record flat on the table. “It’ll be ours.”

“Fine,” Dave said, though he could not make his tone match his words. “How will you contact me?”

“Don’t worry about that,” the man said. He slid the record into its jacket, put the album back in his briefcase and closed it. “I think it’s best if you stay close.”

“Wait—you mean I can’t go home?”

The man sighed, smoothed his leather coat as he stood. “You were going to disappear either way, Dave. I’ve told you things I can’t let anyone else know, and you’ve already shown you don’t stand up to questioning.”

“But—”

The man went to the door, turned back to Dave. “Well?” He said. “Are you coming?”

Maura climbed up the wide steps to the Broadcast building, the soles of her new shoes fighting to grip the ice. Monday, again; it felt like it was always Monday. She left her coat in the cloakroom, headed for the kitchen to drop off her lunch. On her way from there to her desk she noticed one of the workstations was empty, wondered if it belonged to that man who had been chatting her up last week. She had half-expected to run into him at the shoe store, had thought she wouldn’t mind if she did; he was funny, and it pleased her to see the way she made him nervous. She hadn’t seen him yet today—what was his name?

“Excuse me,” someone said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned around to see who it was: a man in his early twenties, blond hair cut short and over-formally dressed in shirt and tie. “Yes?”