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Angel's Medley - Chapter Two "Syd?" She almost dropped the goggles as she ripped them from her face. "Duncan -" "Hey!" He knelt beside her and looked up into her face. "Are you alright?" "He knows me, Duncan. He knows me. He saw Daddy, and Samantha, but we were together. He knew who I was, my name, my past . . ." "But that's just the exchange of consciences, right?" "No, it was more than that." He paused, deep in thought. "Do you think . . . perhaps he does know you. Maybe the Committee set him up, as some sort of test?" "I don't know - I don't think so. There's more than thoughts in there, Dunc. More than I've ever felt before. It was so real. Like I could touch his soul . . ." "You mean like your karma? I dunno. Hey, but maybe this is like one of those Indian American spirit quests. He's merely what you're creating him to be, to be your guide." "Yes, but a guide to what?" He shrugged. "Your past." "I was back there, Duncan. Back in the car. And I could feel him watching." He shrugged. "Maybe your subconscious is taking over. Your more dominant memories." "It's something more . . ." She got up, pulling on her checked shirt over her vest. "I've got to find out more about these papers. Somehow they connect." "Want me to come with you?" "No. No, this shouldn't take long." She began to walk over to the door, but as she reached out to pull back the metal screen Duncan called out. "Hey, Syd - what should I say if Oliver turns up?" Silence. He frowned, turning back to study the computer screen. "Dentist appointment?" he suggested, to himself. * "Um, hi." The receptionist on the ground floor was not particularly friendly, studying Sydney from above half-moon spectacles. "Good morning." "Um, I'm a student, and I'm doing a thesis on the modern ambassadorial duties and how they compare to other cultures." It had taken her a full half hour to try and decide what exactly she would say to get herself into the British Ambassador's office. "I was hoping I could speak to Mr Middlemass, if he has any free time." "He's a very busy man, Miss . . ." "Sydney Bloom." "Miss Bloom. I very much doubt he can spare the time. If you have any queries please direct them to his secretary." "No! I mean, I need to speak to him directly, I . . ." Behind her, a small group of men and women were leaving one of the many lifts. They were reporters, clustered around one man - the very person Sydney was looking for. His face was identical to the pictures she had searched out on the Net. "Mr Middlemass!" She ran over to the party, waving a paper pad and a dictaphone. "Mr Middlemass, please, if I could just have a word with you." The darkish man, hair flecked with white, waved one hand at her dismissively. "Please, no more reporters. I'm not going to answer even one of you - it's all in my official report." "I'm not a journalist." She'd managed to push her way through the other men and women to his side. "I'm a student. I'm trying to write a thesis on . . ." "A student?" He had finally noticed more than her voice, and was looking her up and down appreciatively. "Well, I've always got time for the American education system." He had a very pleasant British accent, and a wide smile which he flashed at reporters, before taking her arm and leading back into the lift. As the doors closed on the crowd, he turned to give her that same, warm smile. "What can I do for you?" "I'm trying to find out a little more about the duties of Ambassadors and how they compare to other nationalities and cultures. About what it is that you actually do." "Surely you could learn that from books." "Maybe." She smiled, awkwardly. "I thought it would be better first hand." "Well you've come to the right person." The lift doors opened, and they began walking down a plush, carpeted corridor, lined with pictures of various American landscapes. "What do you want to know?" "To be truthful, I;m not entirely sure." "I can give you the full lowdown if you want. A complete biography. Born in Cambridge, England. Mother American, father British. Moved over here when I was eight, grew up in New York, studied history, law, and electronics . . ." The words startled her. "Electronics?" "Yes." He smiled again. "Bit of an odd choice for a future diplomat I know, but I have a certain knack for anything electrical, especially computers. Nowadays it's more of a hobby." "Then you'll have heard of Erin Willis?" "The late Erin Willis. Yes, of course. She was the wife of my secretary, if you really want to know. Died in a car accident, apparently." He glanced at her. "But I didn't think her name was known outside the world of electronics." "Computers are a hobby for me as well." He looked interested. "What have you got?" "Oh, um . . ." "Sorry. You want to know about diplomacy, don't you. Well, I don't know what I can tell you. Things don't always go to plan in politics, that's for sure. Something they don't tell you at university." "Does everything have to be reported on and released to the public?" "Of course. If you're looking for evidence of cover-ups, you won't find them here." His tone changed, and he gave a sidelong, suspicious glance. "That isn't why you're here is it? Not one of those crackpots who believes in aliens and all that nonsense. Looking for conspiracies in the woodwork, they do. My politics are strictly above board." He seemed anxious to assure her of his honesty - but perhaps that was understandable, given the number of reporters outside. "What's your name?" "Sydney." She tried to amend the situation. "If you're busy, then I could always speak to your secretary. I'm sure Mr Willis -" "Mr Willis is no longer with the company." Again his voice turned colder. "Why?" "You ask a lot of questions." "That's why I came." Another suspicious look. "Perhaps you're right; I am rather busy. It would be better if you spoke to my secretary - book an appointment if you must. Here," he produced a small card and handed it to her, "this is his number. Working hours only." He opened one of the doors on the corridor, then shut it on her before she could follow. "Mr Middlemass! Please . . ." Silence. * "What the hell did you think you were doing?" She gasped, drew back to the wall as Oliver approached. "What -" "You know exactly what I mean, Sydney. There was no need for you to find Middlemass. I told you not to get involved - believe me, it's for your own good." "I needed to find out more about Willis. I thought maybe -" "You thought wrong, Sydney." He turned, and brushed his hair back with one hand. "Why must you always turn detective? Why can't you do what I tell you for a change?" "Oliver -" He grabbed her by both arms, pushing her against the wall of her apartment, then drew back. "Please, Sydney. It's for your own protection. There are some big names involved, and you jut big enough to be considered an inconvenience. You don't want that." "But I thought the Committee was all powerful." "Yes, well . . .Apparently not as much as you and I thought." He walked towards the computer, drawing a finger along its surface. "What have you found out?" She lowered her face uncomfortably. "Nothing. Not yet." He gave an exasperated sigh. "We haven't got much time, Sydney. I told you, this is important - you haven't time to go and fight his personal battles." He picked up the folder of papers and threw it at her, so suddenly that she only just caught it, by one cardboard corner. "Take him back in - and this time, try and keep your mind on the job, alright?" * "Hello, Mr Middlemass's offices. How may I help you?" "I'd like to speak to the Ambassador, if I may." "Whose calling?" "I saw him this morning. Sydney Bloom. He should know . . ." "Hold on one moment, please, Miss Bloom. I'm putting you through." Silence, then: "Hello?" * Middlemass sat in the centre of a darkened room, strapped to a chair, the only source of light from a small light bulb swinging from the ceiling. "What . . . what's going on?" "Ambassador." Sydney walked out of the darkness, dressed in army khakis and black vest. "It seems you've been keeping secrets from us." It wasn't Sydney. It looked like her, and sounded like her, but the real Sydney was only a spectator, unable to control the actions of her simile. "What secrets? I swear, I don't know what Willis has told you . . ." "Mr Willis. A good place to start." Sydney disappeared, to be replaced by an image of Matthew Willis. "What's in the files, Ambassador?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Is it politics? Something the government doesn't want made public? Maybe some internal affair?" "I don't know -" His voice was cut off as Willis slapped him, the sound reverberating off distant metal walls. "Liar!" Again the image changed, this time into the man of Sydney's dreams. "Daddy! Daddy what's going on?" "Just go in here, and everything will be fine . . ." "Daddy!" "Samantha!" "Sydney!" She remembered being bundled into the closet with her sister, Daddy's face, anxious, afraid. She remembered lying across the floor with Samantha, and pulling back the furniture to listen at the small air ventilator cut into the wall. Pressed up against the grid, and watching events unfold below her. "I told you, I don't know what they mean!" Daddy's voice and face. Then a stranger's, at first obscured from view. "Don't lie to us, Professor." "Tell the Committee to leave them out of it!" The stranger stepped into the light, and Sydney heard herself gasp. It was the suited man from her past. The man in the car, the man arguing with her father. The Committee man - but from whose memories? Her own? "We told you not to put anything to paper, Ambassador. Things can be found, copied. Used as blackmail. That's what secret means, Middlemass." Back to Sydney. "What did you write? Names? Reports? A journal?" She pressed her face up to his, eyes hard and emerald green, the only colour in the darkness. "Well?" "I'm not sure!" he pleaded. "I might have mentioned some names - I can't be sure! I wanted to keep track of everything - my work needs to be recorded!" "How did Willis find out?" Oliver's voice, Oliver's face. "Tell me, Middlemass. I've told you before, to keep your mind on the job. But you made a mistake." "He was searching though my files, deleting the unnecessary. He came across them by accident, I swear!" "Didn't you encrypt them? Say you encrypted them, Middlemass, please." "I did, but he must have broken the link. I thought I was being careful!" "Not careful enough." Duncan. "Tell me, Ambassador - what do you think will happen to you when my superiors find out what you've done?" "I haven't done anything - it was a mistake! If you find Willis, you'll find the disks. This should not reflect upon me!" "No." The suited man, pacing a small circle around the prisoner. "You're right, it shouldn't. But it does, Ambassador." And he turned, producing a small pistol from the folds of his jacket, aimed . . . "No!" Sydney herself, leaping out from nowhere, reaching out for the gun . . . * "No!" Short, quick gasps of air, desperately trying to still her heartbeat. Sydney stared at the telephone handset, then removed it from her computer and replaced it back on the receiver. The Committee. That's what the papers are about. Maybe it was her subconscious, giving faces to the interrogators that Middlemass could not, but it felt like the truth. Another phone call. * "Sydney." Keep your mind on the job she reminded herself. Don't get distracted. They were on a high street. She wasn't sure why - she certainly hadn't programmed it into the computer - but for the moment, it was the right place to be. Occupied pedestrians crammed the streets, yet curiously seemed to leave an odd space of emptiness around the couple. Traffic noise and voices filled the street air, drifting on the wind and scents of freshly baked bread. "Where are we?" "Stateside." He glanced at her. "Don't do this. Don't do this to me." "Tell me about the papers. It involves the Committee, doesn't it?" He gave her an astonished look. "How did you - what do you know about the Committee?" Then he grabbed her, pushed her up against the nearest building. "Is that who sent you? The Committee?" A screech of tyres interrupted him. They turned together, and saw a car suddenly appear from round a corner, wheels causing sparks against the concrete. And a woman stepped out from the sidewalk . . . "No!" Willis pulled away from Sydney, began running towards the woman, too late. She walked out into the road, just as the car accelerated even further. Sydney watched helplessly as the vehicle hit the woman in the stomach, knocking back onto the pavement, it's driver stopping only for a moment to glance behind at the body before disappearing down the other end of the street. Matthew was already beside her, sweeping her up into his arms, long copper hair brushing the concrete. "Somebody help! Please, somebody phone an ambulance!" Sydney knelt down beside him, glancing from Erin's face to the face of the man who held her. "Is she alright?" "No . . ." He pressed the woman desperately to his chest, weeping uncontrollably. "Massive internal injuries . . . they said she awoke in the ambulance, started calling for me, but I couldn't come. Couldn't come until it was too late . . ." The body dissolved in his arms, and he collapsed into Sydney's. The scene around them began to disintegrate into pure whiteness, until only the two remained, Matthew cradled in her arms. "I'm so sorry . . ." "You don't understand." He looked up at her, face clear of tears. "It was the Committee. They killed her." Her eyes widened. "The Committee?" Reality blurred. She now stood in the airy living room of Willis's house, watching a scene unfold around her. Not a scene that had actually occurred, she realised - just an accumulation of facts and memories. Matthew was arguing with Erin. She could see them both before her, their outlines fuzzy and indistinct. "I told you not to get involved." "How could you even think of hiding this from me? All this time . . ." "Because I love you, Matt. I knew that if you found out, that if the people I work for knew that you knew . . ." Erin shook her head, a single copper band falling across her face. She swept it back irritably with one hand, then stepped closer to Matthew. "I wanted to protect you." He shook his head. "I would have understood . . ." She took hold of his wrist, gently. "I know. But I didn't want to risk losing you." Scene change "Sydney." She gave him a dazzling smile, placing one hand on his shoulder and pulling in close. For some unknown reason, the computer had chosen to send the pair ballroom dancing. Willis was dressed in the customary black tuxedo, and she wore a very 1940s-style dress, her hair tucked into a neat bob. It felt so . . . British. "Matthew." She spoke softly. "I need you I need those files. The Committee were involved with my father, they're involved with me. But I need to know more." "I don't want to talk about them." He glanced around at the ballroom, at the sparkling glitterballs above, the other dancers around them, their expressions frozen into a parody of smiles. "Where is this place?" "I'm not sure. It must be one of your memories . . ." "This VR is a truly remarkable place." "The files, Matthew" she insisted, forcing herself away from the lure of the moment. "Tell me what they say about VR." "Now I remember! It was a college competition . . . but I must have been about fifteen! Why on earth did we come here?" "What about the files? Do they mention my father, Professor Bloom? Frank Morgan?" "I don't know . . . Erin would have loved this." "Please," she pleaded, "try and remember. It's important." "I know . . . but this place!" His voice was full of awe. "I remember . . . I was so nervous. I'd been practising for days beforehand. But everyone did it, in the end. We had to - it was tradition. A silly school tradition, to have all the students dance with one and other at the end of year party. But I loved it . . ." "The files!" she cried, desperately, and the scene around them flickered. The crowd around them disappeared, leaving the couple alone, lit by one spotlight. Matthew paused for a moment, and stared at her. "I never wanted to find out. I wish . . . I wish I'd never found them. Maybe then Erin would still be alive, maybe none of this would have happened . . ." "Why did they kill her, Matthew?" He pulled away, stepping into the dark. "So many secrets," he said sadly, and there was the sound of wedding bells and laughter. "Till death do us part." And he turned, and stepped through a looking-glass . . . Wedding bells. Confetti. It was like walking through a ghost church, no congregation, no prayers, just a groom without a bride and a woman in black. Sydney in black, walking up the aisle, to take the groom's arm . . . "Tell me . . ." "You've met them." And Matthew reached out towards the altar, towards a framed wedding photograph set atop a mound of presents. To figures, one of Erin Willis, and the other . . . the man from Sydney's dreams. The Committee. And she knew. "Erin was a member. That's what you read in the files, that's why they killed her." He shook his head. "They killed her as punishment. For telling me. But she never told me anything, she never wanted to hurt me. But they didn't believe her." "And that's why you took the files. Revenge." He pulled away before he could answer, running out of the church, as the sound of screeching tyres grew ever closer. A woman screamed . . . "Not all over again, please not again . . ." Tears in his eyes, and then gone. |
