Shift (17 page)

"The John I knew had a quick wit and was always telling jokes. This one just smiles a lot and talks about a better tomorrow."

"You don't get elected playing stand-up."

"But look at his eyes! There's no playfulness there. No mischief. He looks like he's on tranquillisers. He looks . . ."

She stopped and stared at Nick. "You said he might have lost a part of his personality during the SHIFT flight. Could he have lost the part that reasons?"

Nick scratched his chin. "It doesn't quite work like that . . ."

"Isn't there a reasoning part of the brain—some place that filters thoughts and ideas? Like whether to answer 'yes' to a journalist asking about nuking China?"

"Not exactly . . ."

Louise wasn't listening. She could see exactly what had happened to John. He'd lost the reasoning part of his brain during the SHIFT flight, leaving him open to religion and politics and the unscrupulous manipulation of others intent on using his name to forward their own political ambitions. John was nothing but a pawn in their hands.

Nick disagreed. "Look," he said, putting his handheld down. "If he were a pawn, the campaign team would have had him back on those hotel steps within minutes explaining how he misheard the question. The fact they didn't tells me that not only does he believe what he said but his handlers can't persuade him to back down."

"But that's not John!" She felt like she was banging her head against a brick wall. Nick didn't know the real John; the media didn't know the real John. But she did!

"Could he have been split in two?" she asked. "Could the good bit have gone into Pendennis and left the bad bit behind."

"Next you'll be saying that Mr. Hyde is standing for the President of the United States."

"Well, is he?"

Nick sat up. "No. Mr. Hyde is a Victorian concept. We're not composed of two selves—one good, one evil—locked in a fight for dominion over our soul. We're far more complex than that."

"But you said part of his personality could have been ripped from his brain during the SHIFT flight . . ."

"And it could. But it wouldn't be entirely good or entirely evil. It would be part of a sub-personality. Maybe an entire sub-personality."

Louise was confused. Personalities, sub-personalities, personas. Weren't they all describing the same thing?

"So he lost the sub-personality that controls reason?" she asked.

Nick took a deep breath. "I see I'm going to have to explain this." He shuffled closer to the edge of the bed and rested both hands on his knees. "Think back to your childhood. I bet you were a different girl with your friends than you were with your parents."

Louise nodded.

"That's because you, like most children, learned to adopt different personae according to where you were and who you were interacting with. Now, as you get older these sub-personalities change. Some fade away, others appear. You flit between roles: mother, wife, lover, friend, child, colleague, boss and however many other personae your lifestyle demands. Now, John spent most of his adult life in the forces. Maybe, and I'm using retrospective psychoanalysis here, maybe that led to him developing a sub-personality to cope with a highly structured, disciplined regime. Moving to NASA and the SHIFT program would have accentuated that. The same discipline but this time extended into his off-duty hours. He'd be a twenty-four hour ambassador. For NASA, for SHIFT, for his country. The first man chosen to fly to the stars couldn't be seen behaving badly.

"So, over the years John's work persona assumes the dominant role in his life. But what happens if that persona—the highly disciplined, professional John Bruce that made up say 75% of his life—is suddenly ripped away. He wouldn't turn evil but his other sub-personalities would suddenly be forced to cope with the unexpected exposure. And how would they react? Wouldn't they feel freed? Maybe even reborn. All that rigid discipline and constraint suddenly removed. Which could explain the new John. He's lost the rational straitjacket and become reacquainted with the child, the friend and all the other sub-personalities that he'd been repressing all these years. Which is why when someone asks if it's a good idea to nuke China he'll answer off the cuff. Well, yeah, it's gotta be an option."

"So I was right," said Louise. "He's lost his reasoning sub-personality."

"No, he's still reasoning but employing a different set of priorities. His 'work' personality would place a high priority on behaving well at all times. His 'friend' personality would care more about being popular. They'd both employ reason but with different goals."

"But isn't that dangerous?"

"Only if he gets elected which he won't. You heard the news. His campaign's finished."

"But what about John? Shouldn't someone tell him he needs therapy or something?"

Nick smiled. "And be accused of orchestrating another dirty tricks campaign? How many more murders do you want me accused of?"

Karen clapped her hands together, even with her thick mittens the cold penetrated. There'd be a frost tonight. A heavy one.

She checked the lane again before entering Louise's yard. No parked cars, no strange men lurking. Thank God. She'd had the chain on her door since this morning. What had Louise gotten herself into this time?

The yard crunched under foot. Ice was beginning to form in the ruts. Would Jasper's water be frozen too? She looked over towards the farmhouse. Maybe she should fetch a bucket of warm water? That would at least give Jasper a few hours before his water iced over again. And save her from having to hook out fragments of ice with her bare hands.

She trudged back to the farmhouse, dug Louise's spare key out of a deep coat pocket and opened the door. The house felt cold—only marginally warmer than outside. Louise on another economy drive, no doubt. Karen wondered if that was why she'd had to leave. Money problems. Maybe even threats from some dubious loan shark.

She stood looking out the kitchen window while the bucket filled. Looking at the field gate and wondering where Jasper was. The donkey knew his meal times off by heart. It was unlike him not to be waiting by the gate.

The bucket filled, she hoisted it out of the sink and carried it carefully through the house and into the yard. Still no sign of Jasper. She peered along the hedge line. It was so unlike him to be away from the gate. Especially in winter. There was no grazing anywhere in the field. Could he be in his shelter?

She called his name. Nothing. Normally he'd bray and come galloping over. Was he asleep?

She unlatched the field gate and poured the warm water into his bucket. And then called again. Still nothing. Nothing moving or making a noise for miles around. It was one of those cold, still winter evenings with patches of mist filling hollows in the landscape—like at the bottom of Jasper's field where the pasture sloped away. Could he be down there?

She checked the shelter first—fresh droppings but no Jasper. She was confused. He couldn't have escaped. The gate was still fastened and the field well-fenced. She stared at the misty hollow at the field bottom. He had to be down there.

Was he hurt?

She started to run, her feet jarring on the uneven frozen ground. Please don't let him be hurt! Not Jasper.

The ground fell away, she descended into the mist, calling, peering through the fog. Was that him over there? That dark shape in the corner?

She veered towards it, stumbling, her arms flailing as she tried to run and keep her balance at the same time.

A shape formed out of the mist. Jasper; backed up against the hedge, hunched down, ears back, shaking. He looked terrified. She slid to a stop.

"Jasper, what's the matter, boy?"

She crept forward, her right hand extended. "It's all right, boy. It's only me. Smell my hand."

Something moved on the periphery of her vision, the mist in motion as the slightest breeze rippled through the hollow. Karen shivered. She felt a sudden icy touch against her skin—on her left side just below her rib cage. One of her many layers of clothing must have untucked itself in her dash across the field. She stopped to rearrange herself.

The icy touch moved, slithering across her back. She flapped at it, bending her arms behind her back, swivelling on the spot. Panic. Had something slipped down her neck? Ice? A snake? And then she was moving—upwards, lifted off her feet by something she couldn't see, rising ten, twelve feet in the air, hovering for an instant and then . . .

 . . .slamming hard against an invisible barrier, like a wall of glass in the sky.

Disbelief mingled with pain. She swished through the mist, a dozen feet off the ground, slamming into that invisible wall in the sky. Once, twice . . . too many times.

Far too many times.

A rag doll tugged in a direction it just couldn't go.

Louise stared at the image on the holovision. Her farm, her yard . . .

"It might not be her," said Nick softly.

Louise barely registered his presence. All she could see was her home and boundless despair. What had she done? It had to be Karen. Poor innocent Karen.

The picture changed. An overhead shot from a circling camera drone. The farmhouse at the centre, the yard full of emergency vehicles, Jasper watching them from the gate. The camera zoomed in on a stretcher being carried from the field.

"This was taken earlier today," said a sombre news anchor.

Louise clutched Nick's arm as she watched the stretcher balloon in size. The person's face was covered but . . . that coat. It was Karen's. She'd seen her wearing it a thousand times.

"Police have named the victim as Louise Callander, a thirty-one year-old charity worker . . ."

No, no, no, no, no! She felt like screaming. "Why do they keep saying that?" she cried "Why?"

"Because it's your farm and . . . maybe she didn't have any identification on her."

"But we don't look anything like each other! And the police saw me only two nights ago."

Nick looked away.

"What?" she asked. "Why are you looking like that?"

He took a deep breath, started to say something then changed his mind.

"What? What are you not telling me?" She punched him hard in the arm. "Tell me!"

He took another deep breath and touched her hand.

"Maybe they're having trouble making an identification."

Louise thought she was sinking through the floor. "No!" Not that. Not Karen. Not anyone. She was on her feet, wanting to run but not knowing where to. She stumbled over a box, turned and kicked it. And kicked it again. Stupid, stupid boxes all over the floor. Nick grabbed her, she pulled away. This was not happening. This was definitely not happening.

Maybe it hadn't happened? She'd phone and Karen would answer. They'd laugh about it later. A silly mistake. That's all it had been.

Her right hand flew to her wrist phone.

"What are you doing?" asked Nick.

"Phoning Karen . . ."

He dived towards her, grabbed her wrist. "No! Not here."

She pulled her wrist away. "I've got to phone Karen. It's not her."

She tripped; another stupid cardboard box—why didn't he ever put things away? He grabbed her again, clamped his hand over her wrist and pushed her towards the door.

"Come on. I'll drive. You can make the phone call but not here."

She tried to pull away. "I've got to phone." Her one thought.

"I know, I'm going to help."

Time progressed in jerky dreamtime. Louise disembodied from herself—maybe this was what it was like to separate?—watching a sad girl helped outside and into a car. The girl cried a lot—she could hear the wailing grief—but no tears fell. Her face wouldn't allow it. Tears were for the weak, she said, and for private moments when the world wasn't looking. The sad girl preferred a mask instead, its features fixed and blank.

Time danced, waltzing into the future quick and slow. Louise followed in its wake, connecting and disconnecting with the sad girl and her mask.

"Are we there yet?" the sad girl asked, her voice sucked dry of emotion.

"Another ten miles," said Nick.

Ten miles. She counted them off in her head: one, two . . .

"Are we there yet?"

Nick glanced over. The sad girl couldn't see the concern on his face—she was staring straight ahead at the wash of countryside—but Louise could. "Another six miles," he said.

"Six," said the sad girl, already starting to count. No, said Louise, ripping the mask away. They'd travelled far enough. She had to phone now!

She tore at her wrist, her fingers all thumbs, hit the wrong button, hit the right button, swore at both . . .

"What are you doing?" asked Nick.

She didn't answer. Wasn't it obvious? He reached across; she pulled her wrist away, turned her body towards the passenger door and pressed herself against it. The number was ringing. She could hear it, the dial tone repetitive, insistent, mocking.

"Come on!" she shouted, willing Karen to be at home, praying for that cheery voice to echo down the line, for death to be cheated—just this once. Was that so much to ask?

The phone rang on.

The car must have stopped. Nick was leaning across her. She shrugged him off.

The phone rang on.

The passenger door opened. Nick was outside, his hand closed around her wrist.

The ringing stopped. Louise buried her face in her hands, drew her knees up and folded herself away.

Louise disappeared into her room the moment they returned to the apartment. She didn't want anything to drink, she didn't want anything to eat and she didn't want company.

Nick went to the window in his room and stared outside. Everything was dark grey and black. If only it had been a few hours earlier. He could have flown to Upper Heywood and checked on Pendennis. Maybe discovered he'd escaped.

Or maybe not.

He stayed there motionless for several minutes, wondering if he could navigate at night. The leys would be easy enough. Maybe if he drove to a location where the ley crossed a road?

But could he guarantee the roads at the other end would be lit? Upper Heywood was in a rural location. Most country roads didn't have street lights. And it was hard enough navigating the higher dimensions by day, one centimetre in the wrong direction and he could slip into the void.