Infinite Ground (7 page)

He longed, every day, for the end of the day. The meaning of his work was concentrated in its finishing. What he was doing he was doing so that it could no longer be done. When it was absent it was at its best, when there was nothing left of it – that was when it had been perfected. When you couldn't see it, when there was nothing left of it – that's when you saw how important it was. It was all about not being there, he saw. The work was there so that it could be destroyed; he was there so he could be somewhere else, in theory.

He was used to the days, used to not even counting on having days, used to there just being days always, because what else could there be if not days? But he was also used to the idea that days were about reversing them into nothing, making, so to speak, non-days of them, about running them out of themselves. That this was the thing to do, then, running the days out. That was his work. Turning the day seamlessly into another day. Which was a notable achievement, of course, there being so many things to attend to, and all at the same time – it was a marvel, he thought, that any of them managed to do it at all, to get from one day into another, to keep everything going just like that.

Was it really possible that this was what had happened to Carlos? That as he had made the days into nothing, so he had made himself into nothing? That some agent present in his office had accelerated the process, that in the weeks, even the months preceding his ultimate disappearance, Carlos had steadily diminished, maintaining only the coarser processes of living and working, but with less of him available in every passing moment? And nobody had noticed?

He looked up, back out over the duplicated office, and felt a lurch of panic. The structure of the room, the nondescript, identikit furnishings – everything took on a sinister character. The room appeared carnivorous. A person – an employee – ­consumed here? Absorbed by immediate habitat? He pictured Carlos sitting where he sat now, the mouth opening and beginning a long exhalation, delivering over everything inside him and finally the surface too – the skin, nails and hair, the eyes – until the process was complete, he was gone. Silently, anonymously engulfed by the world.

His short lease expired. He wasn't sure how the exposure to Carlos's situation, the details present in the office, had affected him. He wondered what would happen next. It was difficult to think about, to consider in any way that wasn't grossly reductive. It wasn't just metaphor, not necessarily. He had researched Isabella's speculations, the reports in journals linking bacteria and obsessive trains of thought. It was possible that the origin of the thought – an infection, something picked up in the office – became what the thought was about. Material into symbol. Substance. You were driven in circles. The brain was stuck, running up against its limits. Tidying the desk. Checking the lock on the door again and again. He read about a girl consuming her house, literally eating it, beginning with the walls. What was Carlos's single thought? The transmission of a strain. ­Infection. Invasion. The single idea dominating, returning again and again.

Carlos had done nothing so stark, so brilliant as consume his own walls. Although walls had been important to him: they had found prints on the entire office perimeter, every centimetre. He pictured Carlos running his hands along the walls, sceptical of the room's integrity, repeatedly checking the boards that maintained, for the moment, his private space. Even the Inspector could see the parallels between the wall-like organs of his body and the places where he lived. Their analysis of the empty office was the ultimate intrusion: it was as if Carlos had seen it coming all along.

In time, the missing outgrow their houses and become part of the wider environment. This is one of the reasons the community is respectful to animals during hunts, and why it rations the amount of materials taken from any one part of the forest, not wanting to destroy matter indirectly related to the person they had loved.

Following signs of a vanishing, loved ones examine light for imperfections. It is far more likely that light has only subtly changed, concealing the missing person, than that this person has been voided. Objects too will be found to have disappeared, and plants, animals, fresh skin. The afflicted individual, the one whom no one, for the moment, is able to locate, will be amused and unable to affect people, other than through atmospheric impressions.

Light readings are made daily, variations noted; on some days, usually close to darkness, sudden changes in light momentarily reveal a full feature of the missing person, such as a limb or a facial expression. One such sighting is sufficient to rejuvenate the family concerned for several months.

TRIBES OF THE SOUTHERN INTERIOR, p. 148

His head started to hurt. He felt a young man's pain in his gums and teeth. The whole lower part of his face, in the restless ­periods between night and morning, seemed in flux. He wanted to retreat into a more secure and solid area and rest there, but was unable to detach himself from the ongoing physical process. In these liquid periods he dreaded facing his new appearance in the morning, his altered proportions, the higher or lower setting of his jaw.

He was presently the least qualified person imaginable to solve and bring about a conclusion to the case. He was too tired – the years, this heat – to think much, to give shape to his theories, to notice anything he had not noticed before. He was looking straight ahead out of habit, seeing nothing at the edges.

If Carlos were the subject of an unusually virulent infection, something connected to his position in the corporation, then he couldn't be the only one. Where were the other missing persons? That there was no indication of any connected spread of missing workers should have been enough to put the inspector's mind at ease, professionally and personally. This wasn't an epidemic. He wasn't, himself, at risk. Any symptoms he imagined were just that. They weren't real, they were inventions, possibly stress related.
Wash your eyes, Inspector
.

He started again. Opened a file at random: 17337. Carlos's employee number. He began doodling with his pen, cross-­referencing, seeing what he could find. The number equalled the approximate net salary of the caretaker in the corporation building. It was a little under five hours in seconds, half their corporate working day. The typical number of steps taken daily by a non-sedentary worker. The number of heartbeats in a healthy, middle-aged male in four comfortable or three anxious hours. Close to the distance in light years to Omega Centauri.

The number, if converted into the Latin alphabet, read AGCCG. This, he saw, was biologically meaningful as a DNA strand: adenine, guanine, cytosine, cytosine, guanine. It repeated in nucleotide transcription errors in organisms making transitions from land habitation to sea. The mutations were coincident with seaward movement and remained present in all mammalian descendants.

He was perpetually half-asleep at his desk at home, dulled but kept awake by the thick and all but stale odour of filter coffee. Transcripts, testimonies from Carlos's friends, relatives; phone numbers, printouts of closed-circuit television frames, distant public-transport schedules beginning the moment of the disappearance and stretching on a day, a thick bundle of technical reports on the office; drawings, lines, ideas, many of which he looked at now and could think of no referent; theories, a nonsense logic he turned to occasionally in weaker moments; restaurant receipts, books, several coffee-stained mugs, pistachio shells, tangerine peel. The contents of his desk flickered in the otherwise ineffective fan breeze. The heat only made it harder to stay awake.

He slumped forward, nestled his head in the figure-eight of his arms.

He dreamed Carlos had been consumed. Dreamed of meeting a large man, 300 lbs, on the thirty-fourth floor of a glass building. The man had just finished eating when the inspector arrived. His shirt collar was open, his tie folded and hung over the back of the metal chair, a white cloth handkerchief spread over his lap.

He woke and immediately realized something was different. Something had developed. He was being converted, no longer himself – self-rejecting, turning inside out. He ran, humiliated and urgent; he burst out over the bathroom floor. He sat on the bowl, head in hands, the room solid with the smell of his excretions. As his stomach moved, he fell in and out of appalling dreams.

Hours later he showered, did what he could to remove the smell, all trace, drank quantities of water and ice, lay down on top of his bed and tried to sleep.

He couldn't. He held the stomach, tried to still the shuddering cramps, delay it a while longer. Something nagged at him, although it was absurd that a thought, an insight, might come from this. He wanted to sleep, disappear. Still he couldn't; something insisted. He grimaced, pressed the heels of his hands against the damp mattress, lifted up his frail carriage and looked ahead at nothing, a wall. He smiled pathetically, waited. White space, a wall. The wall in the offices, the corporation. The photo­graph. He knew where he had seen that face before.

It was an August, too, and almost as bad as this one. Garbage collections delayed, rotting in the heat. In the poorer neighbourhoods windows stayed open. Barbecues in parks and gardens. The smell of food lingered. Animal imprinted on clothes and skin. His wife washed down in evenings, too. He would join her, the cut of cold water like blades on his back.

The odd thing he had noticed on entering the building all those years ago was the sudden and dramatic escalation of the smell; a stench, the air clotted and difficult to breathe. He had taken a moment to right himself at the bottom of the stairs. The palm of his hand had covered his mouth and he knew it would be difficult to go on.

It was unusual he had been called. It didn't sound significant. Just a smell. But he knew something was wrong the minute he passed through into the stairwell. This was not food. The murmur of a hive noise. Something rancid in the building. He couldn't call for others yet. He would first identify the source. The apartment was on the third floor. The neighbours wouldn't come out, not even the resident who had made the call. The smell was thick and heavy, taking over the stone stairwell. He had an idea what it was, but he couldn't do anything until he saw.

He rapped on the door. No sounds from inside. He expected radio or a too-loud television. Some background noise, at least. Quiet footsteps approached and then a smiling, healthy-looking man appeared in faded cords and an immaculate white T-shirt. ‘Come in,' he smiled, and the inspector followed.

Inside it was difficult to breathe. He remembered how clean the white shirt was, and how compactly the man carried himself. The sound of the insects vast. A city's power. He said it was an honour to receive him, a man of law. He was smiling, but not ironic. He asked the inspector if he would like some iced tea and he almost said yes.

He was not manic. He didn't chatter ceaselessly or jerk angularly or wave his arms like a man who feels a great energy, having difficulty containing himself. He just seemed pleased to have the company.

‘Would you mind if I took a look around?' the inspector asked. ‘It's just routine.' He tried to smile briefly. ‘Nothing to worry about.'

‘Of course, of course. It's nothing special, I'm afraid, just an ordinary apartment. If I'd known you were coming I would have cleaned up.'

‘It's better this way.'

‘Okay.'

‘I'm just going to walk around. Nothing to worry about. I'll be a moment.'

‘Wouldn't you like me to escort you through the rooms?'

‘It's not necessary, thank you. I'll be gone before you know it. I'll be out of your hair in no time. Thank you, though.'

‘You're welcome.'

They were still standing in the narrow corridor. There was little natural light, the apartment placed off from the street and the windows western facing. The carpet was a dark brown colour. Nothing hung on the walls. Draped on the back of a wooden chair was a pair of formal trousers and an expensive white shirt.

He opened the door. Bathroom. Well maintained. Damp towel hanging on the shower rail. It would stay damp for days in the humidity. You couldn't get anything done, everybody said.

He opened the next door. He was familiar with the layout of the building, the symmetry either side of the stairs, and so he knew this room was most likely the kitchen. He could have gone here first.

When he heard the roar of the insects, he had the idea that he was inside a computer, something neutral and artificial whose sustenance he didn't understand. It was difficult to identify the contents of the room. The insects distorted things, lent blur and motion. Blood lapped in ground pools, a lot of blood, the deceptive volume of approximately one individual. The blood was easy to identify. He tried not to step through it. It was blood only on the linoleum floor, nothing else had come through. On the worktop was a scalped adult head. The blow flies covered the brain, blue-black currants. The head was male. The eyes were brown and wet hair lined the length of the neck. On the table the torso was in the process of being stripped; he had interrupted the man. A navy blue and white apron hung from the bar that ran along the top of the cooker. Parts of the torso had been sliced, sheets two or three inches deep. These slices made him think of an orange cut down the middle, the fraying and the juice.

He had been trained to act logically and to prioritize. He phoned it in, quietly stating only three numbers, then continued surveying the room. Some of the parts were wrapped in foil. He heard the floor splash.

‘Don't worry,' the man said. ‘I should have warned you, but really there is no cause for alarm.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘There is nothing to concern you here, that's all.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘This is not a human. Was it not apparent to you? I really hope I didn't give you a fright. Easy mistake to make, I suppose, at least if you're not paying attention.'

‘This is a man,' he said.

‘It isn't. It's an Indian.'

‘I see,' the inspector said. ‘I see.'

‘I'm sorry this had taken up your time, when really there was no need. I hope you can resume your work soon. You people provide a great service, I always think.'

The inspector had yet to identify the knife. From the look of the cuts, the blade would be a foot long. The parts had come away easily. He thought of wire and cheese, the freeing of the arms and shoulders. He had moved quickly and with only a minimal number of incisions. He had sheared the head off in one, hacked through the neck-stalk.

‘There is a lot,' the inspector said, searching the room without a flicker.

‘It was big.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Just what I say. It was big. You're right, there is a lot. Can I ask you something?' the man said, still standing in the doorway.

‘Of course you can.'

‘Why are your colleagues coming?'

‘It's nothing to worry about,' the inspector said. ‘I'm just meeting them here and then we are leaving. It's fine.'

‘Okay,' he said.

‘Yeah, it's nothing.'

‘Are you sure you would not like some iced tea?'

‘Yes, I'm sure, thank you.'

‘But it's so warm.'

‘It's rather embarrassing to admit,' the inspector said, ‘only, I have a weak bladder.'

‘Ah,' he smiled and laughed a little. ‘That explains it.'

The inspector noticed a greying flap, four inches long with a slightly uneven surface. It lay flopped on to the counter by the kettle. Looked like a small fish. It was open at one end, where it had been detached. He saw that there were innumerable strings running through it, that the whole thing was rather a mass of strings with a strip of cover on top.

He watched the man speak. He was saying dull things and he was not moving from the doorway. It was six minutes since the inspector had phoned it in and still nothing, and no indication of the sign.

He watched the man speak and he said the right things in response and couldn't help watching his mouth, observing the wet inside, the automatic lathering of the tongue along the teeth-tops, the just detectable excess sound of the lips' contact.

He knew where it was now. The man had lost his concen­tration and given it away. He would have to reach for it. It would take the man almost a whole second to cover the knife with his hand and about half that time to seize it. The inspector asked a question about iced tea, about what brand he used, because he really was a connoisseur of teas. He was very sorry, but he couldn't take a glass just now, and as he finished asking the question the inspector reached for his belt and his gun and brought the man down before he had time to complete the arc of his arm towards the top of the fridge. It was over.

He needed to establish information, confirm possible links. He pushed up from the bed. His head was full and he leant heavily for a moment on the sill of the bedroom window. The evening light seemed too thick, too heavy, as if ready to burst. He pulled the curtains together.

The links, he thought. The killer, here – was it possible he had worked, however briefly, for the corporation? He didn't know if the timelines matched. For how long, even, had the corporation been active? He knew, exasperated, exactly what they would say: that the question was not straightforward. That he would need to clarify, be more specific. Which particular incarnation, they would ask, did he refer to? The corporation had undergone a series of mergers and subsequent divisions. It endured, they would tell him, via transition. So what did he mean, when he spoke of the corporation? What single thing, precisely, did he imagine?