The Eidolon (10 page)

“No, it’s okay,” says Cora. “He’s just leaving.”

“Please, Cora. I need to talk to you.”

A frost has settled over her. “Get out,” she whispers.

W
HAT DOES SHE
think? That I’m making up some bullshit story about her sister to get things back on track? I’d have come up with something better than that, for fuck’s sake, after two weeks in the sodding wilderness.

The sky is the colour of old lead as I walk back along the glen. The hushed village street stretches ahead, the squat cottages huddled against the evening chill. There’s a fine drizzle on my skin, like being breathed on, and the air smells of clean cotton.
You know what, Cora? The doctor was right. It is all just stress. What was I thinking? I’ll see my mum’s GP and get some of those pills I should have taken in the first place and I’ll not need to tell you about any of it.

“Don’t forget to give your mum my present! And wish her a happy birthday for me!” Casimir’s voice makes me jump – I’d barely noticed reaching his gate. The old man is standing on the grass at the side of his house with one hand on his empty beehive. He waves at me with the other.

“I’m just off to do that right now.” I feel for the carved letter opener he made, safe in my pocket. “We’ll be down to see you later!”

“Aye, no doubt you will.” Casimir calls back, his hand still resting on the hive. I glance back. There’s something in the tilt of his head that seems unfamiliar. Wonder why all his bees died. What did Einstein say? We’ve got four years left, after all the bees die. The tarmac is broken under my boots. Old, splintered by the frost. There’s no need to tell Cora about the dreams or what happened in Tibet. It’ll go. I lock the thought in the past to stop it bleeding into the present.

W
ITHOUT REALLY BEING
aware of getting here, I find myself in the kitchen, making a conscious effort to lose the edge of irritation that’s hanging over me. It’s her birthday, after all. She’s stirring something on the stove, her head bowed, watching the slow arc of the spoon, lost in thought.

“Something smells good. Happy Birthday Mum.” I ruffle her hair, then take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the chair.

“Thanks,” she says without turning round. She just keeps stirring.

“How about we go out for a drink tonight to celebrate?”

She hesitates, then reaches for a mug hanging from a hook under the wooden shelf, her back still to me, as the kettle comes to a boil. We both speak at the same time.

“Eh, Robert...” she begins, just as I say, “Casimir was asking for you.”

She inclines her head a little and says quietly, “What did you say?”

“He was asking for you, when I passed on the way home just now.” I pull a piece of bread from the loaf on the worktop and munch as I speak. “Said to wish you a happy birthday. I told him we’d drop by later.”

Her arm falls limp as she turns towards me and the mug smashes on the tiled floor. Her face is the pale colour of cold ashes and tears spill down her cheeks.

“Robert,” she says in a whisper, “Michael Casimir died last night.”

Chapter Five

T
HE WORLD’S GONE
cold. The spring air cuts like needles into my face as I gather with the congregation to pay my last respects to Michael Casimir. Ice whiskers hang from the trees and a white down caps the rooftops of the cottages in the village. Snow fell last night and laid a white blanket softly over the glen, and the sounds of the day went under it and made the world a quieter place. Sodding snow. In April. My mother stands on my left, clutching a handkerchief to her cheek. On my right are Angus and Alasdair McLeod, the postmen, and Tam Owen of the Stone Circle. I recognise a few others, but can’t recall their names. Cora is there, standing quietly near the back of the small crowd, and the sight of her distracts me from the numb, empty feeling inside.

I don’t know what I saw that day. But I spoke to him –
he
spoke to
me.
Did I dream that too? The thought has needled at me over the last four days. It was there when I called the undertaker to arrange for Casimir’s body to be moved. It niggled at me when I handed over the death certificate at the Registry Office. It pierced me when I looked down at Casimir’s cold, peaceful face.

I glance at Cora. Some people have a heart attack one day, some people’s nerves shatter suddenly, some people see things that aren’t there.It was Alasdair McLeod who found Casimir the day I walked the ridge. He had been dead for hours.

I helped carry Casimir from the church in his dark coffin to the little wood clustered on the hillside behind the kirk, where he had requested he be laid to rest. The edge of the coffin dug into my neck whenever my foot slipped on the snow, but it didn’t really bother me all that much. Now the minister stands solemnly before us in his raven-black robe, clutching his Bible, and says a lot of things that could be applied to anyone, but nothing that would make you think,
ah, yes, that was Michael Casimir
. He doesn’t know the first thing about him. I switch off.

The sea lies quiet and shimmering in the shards of golden sunlight that have broken through the snow clouds. A large boulder crested with frost sits solid and enduring beside the dark hole in the earth, the budding branches of a larch tree dipping softly down to it. I glance up. Two buzzards circle overhead, they part for a while then come together before disappearing into the clouds.

I remember the first time I was at a grave. I was only three years old, but it’s one of those memories which doesn’t fade with time, even if I want it to. I had to wear black trousers and a black coat – a coat with an oversized hood and brown toggles on the front. It was raining, but a warm breeze spilled over the flat Cambridgeshire fields that stretched out from the church and the small graveyard where we stood. I held my mother’s hand tightly, and looked around at all the other people gathered about the hole in the ground. Some of them were crying, some were standing with their heads bowed, and all of them were wearing black coats. A large man in a flapping black robe, looking like a great burly crow, was reading something from a book in his hands. I remember thinking it wasn’t a very interesting story, so I crouched down and picked up a stick and began drawing a picture in the dark earth, glancing up at my mum every so often to see whether she would tell me off. But she wasn’t looking at me – she wasn’t looking at anyone – she just stared ahead, like she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. I peeked down at the box in the ground which the men had put there. I knew my dad was inside, although I didn’t know why. I just assumed he would come out again sometime soon – we had a story to finish which we read together each night, and he’d want know the end of it. When I looked back as we walked away, still holding onto my mum’s hand, and saw the men in black caps shovel the earth into the hole, I came to realise that my dad might never come out of the box. For the first time I’d felt fear. My bubble of security and love had been burst. I tugged on my mum’s hand to go back, to dig him out myself, but she kept a strong grip and kept on walking. The men in black caps kept shovelling and blurred into the distance through my tears as I wrestled to make sense of it. I don’t know if I ever did.

This time my mum is crying. There’s no noise, but her shoulders shudder a little as she clutches her handkerchief to her face. I put an arm around her. As the minister concludes his words, I step forward with the five other bearers, and take the cords holding the weight of Casimir’s coffin. It’s heavy and bumps into the side of the pit as we lower it down into the earth. The minister sprinkles some dirt over it and mutters, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...”

A
ND IT IS
done.

All that life and now, nothing.

The crowd splinters and begins to drift down the hillside.

What’s happened to you, Casimir?

I thought I had this weighed off. I thought, at this stage in my life, I had come to terms with my reasoning. We’re a sophisticated collection of atoms, nothing more. And one day, the biochemical powerhouse inside us shuts down. That’s all there is to it. Casimir was, and now he isn’t. So why does it feel wrong?

“Hello, dear,” says my mum. Cora is standing beside me. “It was good of you to come.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she replies. “He was such a fine man. Are you alright?”

My mum takes a deep breath, as though drawing in strength. “It doesn’t get any easier, the older you get. But yes, I’m alright.” She smiles at Cora, a sad smile, then pats her forearm. “Now, please excuse me – I must catch Flora about something.” She disappears into the small crowd, leaving us together. The last of the group makes its way to the Stone Circle, where Tam has arranged some food and drinks for everyone.

“It won’t be the same here anymore.”

“No, it won’t.” Cora stares at her feet as she walks slowly down the hillside. “My folks were really upset when I phoned them.” She steals a glance. “Sorry I cut you off the other day. I just found it hard to swallow.”

“I can see that. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you still getting the dreams?”

I haven’t had the nightmare for a few days, not since Casimir died, and I don’t want to let it out of its box. “No, not anymore. I was just under a bit of pressure, but I’m alright now.”

She nods and we walk side by side in silence, straggling behind the group, ambling through the soft snow. The buzzards are calling overhead. Whatever happened to Casimir, he knows the Big Secret now.

B
Y THE SOUND
of it, the drowning of sorrows in the Stone Circle is well underway by the time we reach the street.

“You going in?” asks Cora.

Before I can answer, a car purrs to a stop behind us, and a door opens, then clicks shut. I glance back and see a man standing a little way back, next to a BMW. Black, sleek, tinted windows. I’ve never seen the man before – tall, lean and dressed in a long, dark, well tailored coat. A purple silk scarf is draped around his neck and his hands are hidden inside black leather gloves. Subtle but unquestionable wealth. He looks out of place in the village – composed, unflustered, certain. He holds his head level, his hands clasped in front of him, very still. He’s waiting. I can’t say why, but I know he’s waiting for me.

“D’you know him?” whispers Cora. Her eyes fix on the stranger, and she stiffens as he walks towards us. His hair is the colour of a crow’s wing and sweeps back from his slim face to the nape of his neck, glinting like a black feather. His eyes are the pale blue of a deep glacial crevasse. He has the presence of someone who is very sure of his place in the world.

“No, I don’t.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, Miss Martin,” the man says politely, and his mouth smiles at Cora, “but I would be grateful if you would allow me a few minutes of Mr Strong’s time. I have some urgent business to discuss with him.”

Cora looks to me and I nod. “I’ll see you later,” I say.

She holds the stranger’s gaze for a moment, but doesn’t return the smile. She walks away, glancing over her shoulder before she disappears into the Stone Circle. The sound of laughter swells as the door opens, and fades again. The stranger waits patiently until she’s gone, then turns to me.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mr Strong. My name is Victor Amos.” He holds out a black gloved hand, and I shake it but say nothing. “I called by your mother’s home the other day.”

So that’s who it was. “Do I know you, Mr Amos?”

“I don’t believe our paths have crossed until now.” He pauses, watching me, comfortable with the silence. “I understand you were recently released from your employment with SightLabs and are... at a bit of a loose end.”

“How do you know that?”

“I do my homework, Mr Strong. Your reputation in the field goes before you.”

I snort. Is he being sarcastic?

Victor Amos smiles a little and this time his eyes smile too. “There’s no need to be modest, Mr Strong. I am aware of your career progression so far. You have considerable experience in physics, your work with the Grid, in dark matter research. I was sorry that your recent submission to the
Journal of Physics
was rejected. Personally I thought your paper on ZEPLIN-III showed a great deal of promise.” He nods courteously.

“What, do you work for the
Journal?
”

He gives a little laugh. “No, but I have contacts. I also have a talent in spotting true potential, and you, Mr Strong, have a great deal of potential.”

Suspicion of flattery is a true British quality which I have in plenty. People who pay you compliments tend to be after something. “What do you want, Mr Amos?”

“I am here to offer you a business opportunity.”

“Oh?”

“I am the Director of a large global corporation which is committed to furthering many areas of scientific research. I regret that I cannot divulge the details of our work at this stage, but I need someone with a certain skill set to assist with our current project. And you happen to have the skills I seek.”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“Yes.”

“What does it involve?”

Amos glances along the street, his look not furtive, but assured. “Perhaps this is not the place, but if we can arrange for you to come to my office, I can explain the nature of our project and your part in it. And I should add that I am willing to pay handsomely for your contribution.”

“How handsomely?” I ask, frowning.

“One hundred thousand British pounds.”

I stare at him. “You are kidding me.”

“I am too busy a man for practical jokes.”

“Is this some kind of government project? MI5?”

Amos shakes his head. “No, Mr Strong. This is not a government project.”

“What’s the catch?”

“You help us with this project, and we pay you for your time and efforts. It’s a straightforward business deal.”

“Why are you offering so much?”

“That’s a fair question. This is important work, Mr Strong, ultimately for the benefit of the entire planet. It’s a small price to pay, in the larger scheme of things.” I raise an eyebrow. “If you could make some time tomorrow, I will explain things in a little more depth.”