Kethani (18 page)

The door eased open without a sound, and the director gestured Standish through.

He stepped into a small, white room, furnished only with a white, centrally located settee. He heard the door click shut behind him, and when he turned to question Masters he realised that the director had left him alone in the room.

A minute elapsed, and then two. Vaguely uneasy, without quite knowing why, he sat on the settee and waited.

Almost immediately a concealed sliding door opposite him opened quickly, and he jumped to his feet.

Someone stepped through the opening, backed by effulgent white light, and it was a second before his vision adjusted.

When it did, he could only stare in disbelief.

A slim, blonde woman stood before him. She was dressed in a white one-piece suit. Her expression, as she stared at him, was neutral.

It was Sarah Roberts.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Then he looked more closely at the woman before him. It was almost Roberts, but not quite; there was a slight difference in the features, but enough of a similarity for the woman and Roberts to be sisters.

Standish managed, “Who are you?”

She smiled. “I think you know that, Doug.” It was the familiarity of her using his first name that shocked him, as much as what she had said.

“I was right? Roberts was...?”

She inclined her head. “This soma-form, and variations upon it, is how we show ourselves on Earth.”

His vision blurred. He thought he was going to pass out.

Was he one of the few people ever to knowingly set eyes on a member of the Kéthani race?

“Why? I mean—”

“We need to come among you from time to time, to monitor the progress of our work.”

“But this...” He gestured at her. “This isn’t how you appear in reality?”

She almost laughed. “Of course not, Doug.”

“What do you look like?”

She regarded him, then said, gently, “You would be unable to apprehend our true selves, or make sense of what you saw.”

He nodded. “Okay...” He took a breath. His head was pounding, with more than just the effects of the hangover. “Okay, so... what do you want with me? Why did you summon me here? Is it about—?”

She smiled. “The killing of the woman you knew as Sarah Roberts.”

“The light from the sky,” he said, “the patch of melted snow outside the farmhouse...” He shook his head. “Who killed her?”

“There is so much you don’t know about the Kéthani,” the woman said, “so much you have to learn. Like you, we have enemies. There are races out there who do not agree with what we are doing. Sometimes, these races act against us. Two nights ago, three enemy agents came to various locations on Earth to assassinate our envoys. They escaped before we could apprehend them.”

He nodded, let the seconds elapse. “Why do they object to what you’re doing?”

She smiled. “In time, Doug, in time. You will die, be reborn, and eventually go among the stars. Then you will learn more than you can possibly imagine.”

“Why have you told me this?”

“We want you to solve the crime,” she replied. “You will return to the farmhouse and search it. You will find a concealed space behind a bookcase in the main bedroom. You will assume that the killer hid there, emerged, and killed Sarah Roberts, stole her jewellery box, then escaped a day later using the cover of the tracks in the snow made by you and your colleagues.”

It was his turn to smile. “But I
know
what really happened,” he began.

“You do now,” she said, “but when you leave the Station you will remember nothing of our meeting.”

He was overcome, then, with some intimation of the awesome power of the Kéthani, and his people’s ignorance.

“You are a good person, Doug.” The woman smiled at him, with something like compassion in her eyes. “Let what has happened to you of late be the start of a new life, not the end.”

He was suddenly aware of his pulse. “How do you know?”

“We know everything about you,” the alien said. She stepped forward and reached up.

Her fingers touched the implant at his temple, and he felt a sudden dizziness, followed by an inexplicable, heady surge of optimism.

“The implants allow us access to your very humanity,” she said. “Goodbye, Doug. Be happy.”

She stepped through the sliding door, and seconds later the door to the corridor opened and Standish passed through. Masters’s secretary escorted him towards the exit.

By the time he left the Station, Standish could only vaguely recall his meeting with Director Masters. He blamed the effects of the alcohol he’d consumed last night, and headed towards his car.

It came to him that he should check the farmhouse again. There had to be a rational explanation of what had happened there the other day. Murderers simply did not appear out of the blue and vanish again just as inexplicably.

He paused and gazed over the snow-covered landscape, marvelling at its beauty. He recalled Amanda’s leaving last night and it came to him that it wasn’t so much the end of his old life, but the beginning of a new phase of existence. He experienced a sudden, overwhelming wave of optimism. He recalled the invitation from Lincoln and the others to join them at the Fleece again, and knew in future that he would.

Smiling to himself, without really knowing why, Standish started the engine and drove slowly away from the Onward Station.

Interlude

That Tuesday, Zara came home in a good mood. That in itself was reason enough for me to be suspicious. These days she was usually quiet, uncommunicative. I’d ask her what was wrong, and she’d reply that she was tired, or stressed out at work. For a long time now we’d lived what amounted to separate lives, going about our own interests and concerns without involving each other. From time to time I’d make the effort, attempt to rekindle the spark of bur early relationship; but her rebuffs left me feeling hollowed and isolated. Often my enquiries escalated into full-blown rows, as if she resented the fact that I was questioning the state of our relationship. Perhaps she was feeling guilty.

So that evening when she breezed in and smiled at me, I wondered what was wrong. She had left the front door wide open, and before I could ask why, two overalled delivery men shuffled in carrying something heavy shrouded in bubble-wrap. They deposited it in the lounge and departed, and I asked, “What is it?”

She was still smiling. Without replying, she knelt and tore off the bubble-wrap, revealing a sculpture in dark wood. It was a half life-sized representation of a man and a woman, entwined in the act of making love.

She dragged it over to the corner of the room. “What do you think, Khalid?”

I didn’t look at her. “It reminds me of something,” I said. “Let me think... Ah, that’s it. It reminds me of the time when we used to make love... How long ago was that, Zara?”

She just stared at me. “And whose fault is that?”

“Well,” I said, working to maintain my temper, “it certainly isn’t mine. I’m game, any time. How about tonight? Tell you what. I won’t go to the pub. We’ll go to bed now, if you like.”

She looked away. “You know it’s my study group night.”

“So miss it for once. Make love to me, instead.”

She approached the sculpture, knelt and examined it.

She said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I wondered if she were taunting me. She went on, “I managed to secure it for half its sale price. I know the artist. He comes to the study group.”

I tried to sound casual. “Oh? Who is he?”

“Simon Robbins. He’s quite famous. You might have heard of him...” As she said this, she reached out and caressed the sleek buttock of the male figure.

The name did ring a bell. “Wasn’t he the artist who was jailed for murder... what, twenty years ago?”

She nodded, abstracted. “He served his time, came out, and when the Kéthani came he killed himself. He... he didn’t like the person he was. He thought the Kéthani might
cure
him.”

I hesitated, then said, “And did they?”

She smiled. “Yes, Khalid, they did. He came back from Kéthan a changed man, became an artist. He’s a good person.” Her fingertips rested on the sculpture, and her eyes had a faraway look.

I crossed to her, touched her luxuriant hair. “Zara...” I was close to tears, for reasons I couldn’t quite work out.

She pulled away, stood hurriedly, and moved to the stairs. “Must rush. Can’t be late for the study group.”

She disappeared, and I fixed myself something to eat as she changed and left the house.

That night I arrived early at the Fleece and had downed three pints by nine o’clock before the others arrived.

“Khal,” Doug Standish laughed when he saw me. “Are you living here?”

I attempted a smile. “Feels like it sometimes.”

Elisabeth sat beside me and gave me a hug. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Long day at the ward.”

Dan Chester and Richard Lincoln blew in and Dan bought a round. They were talking shop. Apparently, Dan had been reading some paper put out by the government department that oversaw the running of the Onward Stations in England.

He took a long pull on his pint and said, “Interesting fact.” He looked around the table. “Okay, here’s a little quiz for you. How many returnees come back to Earth and commit crimes?”

The question brought to mind what Zara had told me about Simon Robbins.

Doug Standish frowned. “You mean, per thousand? What percentage?”

Dan shook his head. “No, I mean how many individuals?”

Elisabeth laughed. “In Britain, Europe, worldwide?”

“Worldwide.”

Jeff Morrow placed his pint precisely on its mat and said, “Well, it’s obviously low. So I’d say... God, I don’t know. How many returnees are there every year, worldwide?”

“In the region of a million,” Richard Lincoln said, helpfully.

“In that case,” Jeff said, “I’d guess around twenty, thirty thousand...”

Dan smiled and said, “Lis?”

“I don’t know, around the same figure.”

It went on like this, until all eyes rested on me. I said, meaning to be dismissive, “How about ten, Dan?” and hid behind my pint.

Dan slapped the table. “Well, Khalid’s the closest.”

Expostulations sounded around the table.

Ben said, “What kind of crimes are we talking about, here? Murders?”

“All crimes,” Dan said. He paused dramatically, then said, “The actual figure is precisely zero.”

Elisabeth laughed, incredulous.

Before anyone could demur, Dan pulled a pamphlet from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.

Elisabeth picked it up and read through it quickly.

Dan was saying, “The UN conducted a study recently. If you look on page ten, second paragraph, Lis,” he directed. “It’s an incontrovertible fact. Returnees do not commit crimes, of any kind.”

Jeff looked across at Doug Standish. “Can you confirm this, Doug? Have you arrested any returnees recently?”

Doug looked up from his pint. “The odd thing is... and this isn’t official police policy... but when I’m considering suspects, I tend almost always to discount those we know are returnees. I’m not even sure it’s a conscious thing.” He shrugged. “But I don’t doubt the report,” he finished.

For the rest of the evening we discussed what the Kéthani were doing to us, out there.

It is a paradox: it took an alien race to invest us with humanity...

I absented myself from proceedings before closing time, attracting a few worried glances at this untoward behaviour, and made my way down the main street. Instead of letting myself into the house, which would be cold and empty at this late hour, I slipped into my car and sat in the driving seat, considering what I was going to do next.

I was drunk, and hardly capable of driving safely, but to be honest this was the least of my worries.

I started the engine and drove from the village, then turned onto the bypass and headed towards Bradley. I drove slowly. It was a fine summer’s night, and a full moon illuminated the countryside, but even at this late hour there was other traffic on the road. In retrospect I’m amazed that I managed to drive the seven miles into Bradley without killing myself or some other hapless driver.

I parked across the road from where Zara and her study group met every Tuesday evening. It was a big Georgian terrace house, with a stained glass door and a flashy silver Porsche sitting by the kerb.

There were no lights on in the downstairs windows. But upstairs, in the main bedroom, an orange light burned.

I was filled with rage: part of me wanted to charge in and confront Zara there and then. But that intemperate action would have robbed me of my ultimate act of revenge.

One hour later, the bedroom light went out. I steeled myself. The light in the hallway came on, and a minute later the front door opened.

I saw Zara, and the man behind her. I wondered if this were the celebrated artist, Simon Robbins—the man the Kéthani had turned into a paragon.

I looked away. I didn’t want to see them say goodbye... I started the car and drove off at speed, so that I would arrive home before Zara.

I feigned sleep when she arrived a little later. In reality I lay awake, planning what I should do.

I find it impossible to write about what happened over the course of the next few weeks, even after all these years. Richard Lincoln was there at the beginning, and at the end, and I’ve talked to him about it over many a beer since then. So let Richard tell my sorry story...

SIX

THE WISDOM OF THE DEAD

I was in the main bar of the Fleece when Khalid announced that his wife was leaving him, and I was in the lounge of his converted coach-house a year later when he explained to me the circumstances of his death.

That night I finished a long shift making deliveries to the Onward Station high on the moors, and I was in need of a pint or two in the company of the usual Tuesday night crowd.

It was a balmy summer’s evening, and the clientele of the Fleece were making the most of the weather and drinking in the lane. The main bar was almost empty, but for the regulars: Ben and Elisabeth, Jeff Morrow, Dan Chester my colleague, Doug Standish, and Khalid.