Mappa Mundi (13 page)

“Oh yeah?” She used her leg to steady the desk and started rummaging in one of her bags for something.

Knitted Man was Dan's name for Bill, one of the Clinic's chief programmers for the NervePath systems. Although he wasn't qualified in psychology, or any other mental science, his technical skill with the hardware and software was constantly called on as the doctors and researchers struggled to get their ideas down into practical code. He wore a tank-top sweater on many of the cooler days and it was this, combined with his pinkish indoor skin and round body that made Dan think of
The Clangers;
an old show about a race of knitted aliens who whistled. Bill also whistled when he thought he was alone and Dan had recordings of him taken with the office webcam that could guarantee a laugh with almost anyone else in the Clinic whenever things started to get a bit intense. When work was going well Bill whistled “La Marseillaise,” when badly, snatches of opera, and when things were going
really
badly he made a kind of slowly repeated “piu” like a finch on the verge of dropping off the twig.

Dan watched Natalie produce a generic disk and jam it into the driver of her personal machine. She seemed not to like it, for some reason.

“Yeah. He left early, said something about going to get some money for his holiday, but walked out of the parking lot towards the Haxby Road end instead, whistling the whole time.”

“I thought you said it was weird. That sounds about normal for our
place.” Natalie tapped at the grey keys of her ‘board and flicked on the switches of her graphics processors. As they came up to speed she took a sip of her tea.

“D'you want to know the big news?” she said. “Stages One and Two have now been cross-mapped properly.” She made a face at him that said Ta-DA! and waved her hands in the air.

Dan paused, forgetting the funny story about Bill and the security system, and looked at the gobbledegook that had suddenly cluttered the screen in the terse, efficient Courier font that meant he couldn't read anything properly without putting his lenses in. “Stages One and Two?” He wished he listened to more of what she said. It would make life so much simpler.

“Physical Event Map and Mental Event Map,” Natalie grinned like a maniac and waited for him to get it. He waited. She said, “You know, it means that we've stuck together the real world of physical events like chemicals and electricity and the nonphysical world of mental life. It's the big kahuna. The foundation for a genuine working theory of consciousness. Dan, for fuck's sake! The Holy Grail, man!” Her voice had risen on the last phrases as he'd kept his face straight and now he could grin, too.

“Gotcha.” He nodded wisely.

“Yeah!” She made a fist with her right hand and pumped the air. “That's what you call a goal. It's a game of two hemispheres. The lads is over the moon!”

“You said it was a grail. Now it's a goal.” He gave her shoulders a quick rub as he slipped briefly into Jewish Mother mode. “Goal, grail, schmail. Ishmael! Fetch me a whale. Grail, and still she sits in her room at the little screen, popping her eyes out and not a husband in sight. Oy, why have you sent me such a daughter? The least she could do is put on a dress and try to act normal before her ovaries are withered down like raisins and her face would pass for a dog's bum!”

“Well.” But Natalie was in a good mood. “It's not quite the Grail
yet. More a sort of plinth thing that the grail will go on. But you get the idea.” Her graphics cards had revved and produced a slow pair of pictures, side by side, on the screen. As the images built themselves in layers, forming a rough 3-D of two naked brains, she added, “That does sound weird for Bill. He must be feeling the pressure. A week in Malta will sort him out.”

“Yeah maybe.” Dan wasn't sure. But he'd mentioned it and his conscience was clear. “Anyway, you have to come out for at least a celebratory tipple, hon, or the whole thing isn't cricket. What're those?”

“The right one is a sample of Tony Clearwater, the schizophrenic with paranoia who was up the other day for part of the volunteer therapy programme in retracking that my dear old dad is involved in,” she said. “Do you think it looks like this other one here? Just by zone colour?”

What they were seeing was a representation that used different colours for different levels of activity, roughly delineating the pattern of a few minutes' thought. Dan glanced back and forth and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Yeah. Pretty similar. Not over here…but mostly in the temporal lobes and this thingy here.”

“Amygdala,” she said, trying to shrug him off.

“Yeah. Close enough for government work. You should wash this you know,” he plucked at her two-inch tufts. “Makes it an entirely different colour.”

“Good,” she murmured, not hearing him at all. “And not good.”

“Come again?”

“I am going out after all,” she said, spinning around in her chair so fast she almost knocked him over. He grappled with his tea and only burned his fingers slightly.

“Oh, great.”

“Yeah. But on my own.”

“Natalie!”

“I'll meet you. At nine. In…the Black Swan.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

She stood up and started heaving him towards the door. “Go on now. I need time to change.”

“Natalie, what's going on?!” But she wouldn't explain, only shoved him harder until he had to move or fall over. The door closed in his face.

“Nat-ta-lee!” he howled but she didn't respond. He paused. “Will we be eating out or shall I just chew on this six-month-old carrot from the last time anyone shopped?”

“We'll eat,” she conceded. “But you can lick the stove clean as you're waiting.”

He thought, listening carefully, that she was making a call to someone. With his ear pressed to the thin hardboard he could almost make out the tones.

“Dan, piss off!” she yelled. “I can see your shadow under the door.”

Reluctantly he drifted to the sofa and put the TV on. He felt a bit flat and left out of things. Natalie couldn't have a secret life, it wasn't on. It was very unnecessary.
He
didn't have one. He told her everything. On the other hand, they were going out tonight, so there was that to look forward to. Only a couple of hours to kill. Still, curiosity was a new one and he was finding that it itched him something ridiculous. He could, of course, satisfy himself and follow her.

He could. He didn't have to.

Natalie found a dress too airy, a skirt too girly, and a blouse too much like a secretary's garb so she did a black-leather-trouser-and-shirt thing, stuck midheeled boots on her feet so that she could run if she had to, and found a decently cut jacket to sit on the top that was just about the same colour as her hair. The bootleg software disk went in her inside pocket, Pad on the outside. She checked her face in the mirror and re-lipsticked two shades darker. She only knew one makeup routine, but it seemed to have worked and made her look marginally less peculiar; like someone out of a French film rather than Catwoman's madder, more deformed sister.

With the basics taken care of, and five minutes to go before she'd said she'd leave, what she was doing started to look very dodgy indeed to her. As a precaution she logged a call with her personal datapilot service, Erewhon, leaving a closed message about her whereabouts in case of emergency. It was hard to get a secured line and she was late by the time she managed to scoot out past Dan, who was already into his bathroom routine. At least, as she tugged on the handle of the outside door to close it, there was no rain, only a heavy atmosphere of extreme dankness from the river and a mild scent of rotting greenery. She didn't want to go that way tonight, thought that more populated streets would be better, so she started towards the town end of the road and walked at a good pace. He'd better be on time, or he was going to miss entirely.

The trees overhanging Fulford Road dripped on her as she passed underneath and once her boot skidded on wet leaves, but she didn't slow down or alter course. Natalie strode past the first row of shops and then took a branch path towards Fishergate and the city beyond the walls.

Jude Westhorpe caught up with her as she walked in the darkest part of the way, alongside a church and its close-packed nest of gravestones where the vast shapes of old, nameless trees hung low over the pavements, screening out the street light and cocooning them both in shadows so dark that when Natalie looked back it was as if they had surged together to create his shape, as if he'd not followed her at all but been waiting here under the branches for her, immaterial until she'd come by. She couldn't help giving a shiver of fear and excitement.

Jude walked up to her and lifted a hand to her shoulder. To her astonishment he didn't speak but leaned down and kissed her shock-open, like a fish mouth.

“We're on a date, right?” he murmured in that husky American burr and she realized that it wasn't real, only their cover, for the sake of anyone who might see them there. Her unexpected emotions sank out of sight so fast she felt sick.

“Uh, yes, yes.” She was shaking. She'd thought for a moment that he really was shadows made flesh. It had seemed magical, wonderful. As she faked a professional smile and tried to smother the giveaway emotion he might see in her eyes—
you fool, you pathetic shithead
, she snarled internally to herself—she couldn't help but feel the disappointment cut her to the heart.

There had been a time when she'd believed in such things, been a girl with a destiny, a special person, caught in the reality of her own imagination so strongly that it had turned her whole life towards the effort to discover the truth about the world of human meaning. Still, there was no reason not to take advantage. She wasn't so lacking in self-worth that she couldn't at least see how to have an interesting time, if not the one her imagination wanted.

Under the dark hands of the trees on Fishergate, Natalie put her hands on either side of Jude's face for the second time that day and kissed him, standing on tiptoe, as she'd wanted to the first time; kiss the darkness that hadn't come that long-ago day, welcome it like a long-lost friend, despite its promise.

Fifty yards behind Natalie, dodging two kids on a bike—one on the seat with his hands in a genial strangulation grip on the front lad, who was pedalling so slowly that he was almost tipping it over—Dan couldn't see a bloody thing. She'd gone along the darkest bit of the road, like a nutter, asking for the local rapist to pounce, and that long-striding s.o.b. had gone in after her, accelerating to the kind of speed that Dan would have had to run to keep up with, and so far no one had come out the other end. Worse than that, it was starting to rain again.

He was going to give up and circle round the block to approach the other side of the church when he saw another man standing still on the corner, where the last house cast a long shadow. He, too, was looking fixedly at the trees and his figure had a heaviness and a still confidence that Dan didn't like the look of at all. The man wore a long, thick coat that was too hot for the weather and a wide-brimmed hat that cast the face in even deeper shadow. If he had noticed Dan he gave no outward sign of caring that he was there, nor did he waver when a clutch of students strode past within spitting distance, on their way into town.

It was a foolish thing to do but Dan couldn't stop himself. Shrugging into his jacket more deeply and shaking hair out of his eyes, he stepped off the pavement and grubbed around in his pocket, only then realizing he'd stopped smoking again three days ago. It was too late,
though. The man had seen him coming and was starting to turn his shoulder, the hat brim angled to guard against any chance of eye contact. Dan pushed forwards faster, almost tripping over the curb. He caught his balance just in front of the figure and stood taller. He was tall, he could do that. He wished he hadn't, but his mouth was already continuing the pretence.

“Got a light?”

The man grunted in the negative and Dan saw a smooth-shaven jaw twitch side to side as he tried to see around and over Dan. Dan weaved an opposite pattern. The man stepped aside smartly and said, in a voice of rasping grit that hadn't a human feeling in it, “Sorry, mate. I don't smoke.”

“Okay,” Dan hesitated foolishly. He glanced at the man's face and felt sick. The flat stare was drinking him in just like Ray's did, only this one was even emptier, bigger, like a thousand Dans wouldn't be enough to fill it up. There was something weird about the eyes. They seemed focused and full of intent, but inanimate at the same time with a dullness that had scoured out their insides, numbed to pain or pleasure or anything Dan could imagine feeling. They made Dan's skin want to slide off his back and slink into the drain cover to escape.

The dead gaze flicked away, towards the trees.

Dan knew there was no way this person meant any good. He had to make sure that if he was watching Natalie or that American they'd get away. Would Natalie have had time to leave yet? Dan dodged around in front of the man, pretending doggy friendliness that hadn't noticed any hostility, blocking his view of the church.

The response was instant: two hands came out of the man's pockets. They lay on the front of Dan's shoulders with all the muscle tone of defrosted fish. The indifferent voice said, “Look, I don't know what your game is, mate, but I'm minding my own business and I'd like it if you got the fuck out of my face.”

The hands shoved Dan backwards with a casual force that made his
collarbones bend. He staggered back, doing a kind of quickstep, and hit his shoulder and head on the lamppost behind him. His shadow danced and its head lolled, rag doll-silly. It gave him the idea, not a brilliant one, of acting drunk—drunks might get smacked around but they didn't get blamed long-term, or remembered.

“Lend us a fiver?” he asked plaintively.

Shit. Shit!
Why had he said that, why? Now he was being looked at with the beginnings of a genuine interest. With hardly any sign of movement the man's right fist darted out and punched Dan straight in the stomach. The man had a long reach and Dan was at the end of it, but it still landed like a horse-kick.

Dan doubled up, gasping, holding himself. He was convinced his solar plexus had ruptured or a broken rib had punctured a lung. At the same time he tried to look up in case there was more coming. Natalie had better have gone. He wasn't sticking around for any more, but his legs wouldn't take him away, even though he was trying for real now. He tasted his own stomach acid and saw a Kit-Kat wrapper floating in the gutter that made him try and smile—something ordinary in this horrible minute.

“Get lost before I lose my temper.” Without another look at him, the man—all heavy overcoat, like it was just a bit of clothing over a couple of rigged dustbins, moving smoothly, oiled to silence—stepped out of the dark into the street light. He began walking towards the church at a fast march. Dan was powerless to stop him, but in an instant he heard the footsteps stop and the man swore under his breath; he had a cultured accent, the intonation of the kind of thug that is only produced by a good school, where a dirty word sounds out of place and never comes out right.

Huddled against the garden wall, looking back over his shoulder, Dan saw by the line of the shadows that nobody was standing under the trees. He cowered there, retching on nothing, gasping, until the crisp sound of the man's new shoes had faded out far away against the background of cars and voices.

Rain was falling harder now, bouncing and sparkling off the road. A group of girls on a night out passed him by in a perfumed clatter of high heels and one of them said, “Is that you, Dan Connor?”

He saw it was Edie Charlton and grinned, straightening up and trying not to let his face warp as a fierce stab of agony shot through his midriff.

“Hi. I was just, uh, checking the road signs here. Little hobby. This is still YO
2
, and nearly outside the walls, did you know that? Amazing. It's part of my extensive research into postal districts and the distribution of urban decay.”

The nurses giggled, because they were from the Clinic and the District Mental Health Unit and all knew him well. Edie took hold of his arm. “We're for Lendal Cellars. Are you coming? Come on now, don't be shy. You'll find more nice lads down there than in this gutter.”

“Aye, and don't be selling yourself round here, these bastards haven't got any money anyway!” cried another girl at the top of her voice. Amid a vague fog of Pernod and Obsession they piled up on both sides of him and, laughing all the time at his dizzy stupidity, they dragged him with them into town.

Dan looked in every opening and down every turning, but of the clean-shaven dustbin in the coat, of Natalie or that American, there was no trace.

On the other side of the low churchyard wall, in a bed of soaking weeds, with the American agent's body heavy on top of her and his hand loosely over her mouth, Natalie had to admit surprise. She waited a minute and then touched his palm with her tongue. He took his hand away.

“I have to say,” she ventured in a whisper of conscious irony to the ear that was conveniently located next to her mouth, “this is faster than I usually go on a first date.”

“There was a guy following me, or you, or both of us,” he whispered back, “but something distracted him.”

“Oh yeah. Of course.” She ignored the feeling of water seeping slowly up around her back and neck and concentrated instead on the tough muscle sliding against her legs as he started to get up. It beat the sensation of whatever she'd encountered on the carpet the other day. “I'm sure he hasn't gone yet.”

“Yeah, he has.” He didn't notice what she'd meant.

Natalie thought crossly,
That could have been the best ten seconds of my life. And it's over already.
The part of her that wasn't a wise-ass felt faintly disgusted at the sentiment. Genuine emotion scared her.

They stood up in the almost complete darkness and brushed themselves off.

“I'm sorry,” he said and sounded it. “That was kind of dumb. I'm so jumpy tonight. I don't know why. Probably he wasn't following. There's no one even there.” He looked around quickly.

“No, don't apologize.” She reached down and collected his case, which was sticking out of a clump of nettles. “Is this what you're looking for?” She thought he was smiling and then she heard him laughing very quietly. In a second she was laughing, too. She handed him the case. “I hear you Yanks use any excuse.”

“Busted,” he admitted. “But really. I think he was someone from your Clinic.”

“Yeah, I'm sure you're right. After all, this is serious. National security. Top Secret.” Saying it made her feel silly. She knew she had to take this much more seriously, but she couldn't.

“It is. It is.” He was calming down now and so was she. Natalie took a few deep breaths, but not for any cleansing effect.

“Oh, your jacket,” he began, making a half-hearted brushing motion that didn't connect.

“No, that's okay.” She held up her hand. “It's not really all wool, it'll be great, just needs to dry.” The trees were dripping more heavily now. They could hear rain pattering hard against the canopy, like being in a tent. “I think it's that way.” She pointed at the flagstone path.

Jude waited for her to go first. He kidded himself it was because he wanted her to show the way, since she obviously would spend lots of time hanging out in the corners of local graveyards. He knew it was because she'd unaccountably kissed him like he was the last man on Earth and he was waiting for her to do it again. He felt as though the situation had made something slide out of position in his head.

“Okay.” His heart was hammering. And that stunt with the wall—had it really been necessary? Of course it had. Lost the tail, hadn't he? Anyway. He had the case, although part of him would have liked to lose it then and there. He thought of the file and he knew where the slippage had started; in a world of such things, nothing could be real.

Water ran freely down Jude's face. They were standing in the stark black and white dapples of the church security light, near the gate. Everything in this goddamned country smelled of water and mud. He glanced at Natalie. She was looking at him patiently, face tilted up, doll-pale in the glare, two points of white shining right in the iris of her eyes as they closed down, centres blacker, zeroing in on him. The left side of her mouth was still smiling, the right was wry; she wanted to like him but she thought he was playing with her.

He said, “Anything ever happen to you that was really impossible?”

She pressed her lips together, evening out her lipstick to give herself time to think, and both sides of her face united in genuine interest.

“Like what? Meeting a spy and being thrown into a graveyard?” She coughed and laughed breathily at her own sarcasm.

Jude realized he must have really crushed her. He felt a fool. A real fool. He hoped he hadn't hurt her. He shook his head.

“Like…” But if you couldn't say a thing like that at a time like this to a psychiatrist, then when? “You had a dream, but part of it turned out true. I mean, like an object was in the dream and you never saw it before, but when you woke up it was still there.”

Left eyebrow shot up in surprise, right edged down with mistrust and he had to smile.

“No. Not like that.” She became self-conscious and flattened her expression in a practised way.

“But something? Or have you come across it, you know, in your research?” He didn't want to sound nuts or begging but he was both at the moment. The rain fell on his head. He felt water run down the back of his neck, making him shiver with its ghostly touch.

She thought hard. “No, nothing that you couldn't say wasn't just your imagination playing tricks on you. Nothing laboratory tested. But tell me more. I have a lot of material on this kind of paranormal event…”

Jude shook his head, scattering water. “This is going to sound too dumb to you. You're a scientist, much more advanced than I am. Paranormal. Christ. That's exactly what I
don't
want to know about. As if the rest of it wasn't bad enough.”

“Not a believer?” She shrugged and ran her hands quickly through the short spikes of her hair. Her mascara had run in the damp and formed two dark half-circles just under her eyes, making her look vulnerable and vampish at the same time. “C'mon. I promise not to tell anyone, and it's the least you can do after what you've done to my jacket.”

He grinned. “I guess so.” It was strange, her taking it seriously like that, but he was relieved.

They began walking again, passing through the heavy, rotten arch of the lych-gate and into the street. A few yards later they emerged onto a broad, well-lit road full of people walking in both directions, umbrellas twinkling with droplets, raincoats rustling.

Jude started talking because it was easier now they were walking and he could avoid eye contact that might make him doubt his sanity.

“Okay. You're right. Just before I came out here I had this dream, I guess it was. Someone came and—” but he missed out the kiss part for some reason he didn't understand “—and when they were gone I woke up and there was a bunch of papers on the bed.”