Meta Zero One (8 page)

  "As long as none of then end up with "do you want to come back to my place," or "get your coat, you've pulled" then yes, ask away. Not that "Get your coat, you've pulled" is really a question, but you get my meaning."

  Stan smiled, got up, picked up his drink and walked over to her in that stumbling lurch familiar to drunks all over the world.

  He pointed to the stool next to her, she nodded so he sat down,  "Stanley," he said, holding out his hand, she shook it, her hand was warm, her grip firm.

  "Margaret," she replied.

  "Another beer for the lady, and another Jim for me please. Oh and another cranberry juice for the gentlemen at the end of the bar" Stan grinned at Samuel L who didn't smile back, miserable bastard.

  "The question?" Margaret asked.

  "If your husband," he started.

  "I'm not married."

  "Ok, if your boyfriend.."

  "I don't have one."

  "Ok, now it's starting to feel like you are going to ask me back to your place," Stan said smiling. "I think I should tell you now, you are well out of my league, so don't bother persuading me."

"No," Margaret said grinning,"I just don't have either a husband or a boyfriend, and before your mind goes off on a seedy little tangent, I don't have a girlfriend either, I'm just single woman, at the moment anyway."

  "Kids?"

  "Nope."

  "Mum, dad, dog?"

  "Dead, died, and no, I can't think of anything worse."

 "What's up with dogs? Dogs are cute, dogs are always, and I mean always happy to see you, what's up with dogs?"

  "There is nothing sadder than picking up your dog's shit in a plastic bag and carrying it around town with you."

  "Other than picking up some other dogs shit and carrying it around town with you."

  Margaret laughed, "No, you're right, but I just hate dog shit, and so I hate dogs."

  "Ok," Stan grinned, "since you are currently unattached can I change the question I was originally  going to ask then?"

"Well since I didn't know what it was in the first place I don't see why not," she sipped again, and Stan ordered another beer for her.

 "Why not indeed?" he said, "so why no husband or boyfriend, I mean have you seen yourself, have you looked in the mirror recently. You are hot stuff if you don't mind me saying. So why are you on your own, I can understand me being on my own, but you, no, it's beyond belief."

 "Hmm now that is a very good question," she sipped, "not one I'm going to answer, not without a lot more beer inside me anyway."

  "Ok, I didn't think there was much more beer to be had, anyway, back to my original question. Imagine that you had had a husband, and he was murdered, what would you do?"

  "Were we in love?"

  "Well you were married, so I really hope so."

 "It's not always the case, and is getting rare you know."

  "Yes," Stan said, "you were very much in love."

  "Ah," Margaret said, "you are a romantic, a rare find these days, so when did she die?"

  "Who?"

  "Your girlfriend," Margaret asked, "since there is no wedding ring, nor any marks on your finger where they would be, I reckon it was a girlfriend not a wife. I'm pretty sure you would be the sort of man to wear a ring, so no marks means no wife.  And since not many people either wear black suits and ties to go out for the evening, or then walk around in the rain for hours on end, I think her funeral must have been today. So that explains why you are drunk, and brave enough to talk to me. So, when did she die?"

  "A week ago," Stanley said quietly, "you are smart, she would have liked you I think."

  "I doubt it," Margaret said, "most people don't, they are put off."

  "Why?"

"I'm a psychiatrist," she said, "I get under people's skin, and it can get on people's nerves. It's hard to turn it off really, I am very good at getting information out of people, but not so good at giving it."

"Hence why you are avoiding answering my earlier question perhaps."

"Perhaps, anyway, moving on rapidly, so my husband, if I had one, who I loved, has been murdered."

"Yes, what would you do?"

"It depends."

"What on?" this was getting more complex than Stan's drunken mind could come to terms with, he felt like he had the mental faculties of a three year old.

  "Do I know who killed him?"

  "No."

  "Ok, I'd go to the police?"

  "And if they were not interested."

  "Then I would want to know why they were not interested," she paused, "so why aren't they Stan?"

 "I don't know, I really don't, they say it is out of their jurisdiction, but still, she was killed in broad daylight, in front of hundreds of witnesses."

  "Ok, so, you only have a few alternatives, you can go on with your life, and get over it."

  "Not a good option, my life is now officially shit. It was shit before and it was only her that made it less shit."

  "Or, you can drink yourself into an early grave."

  "Any other alternatives, while that one appeals, I'm not sure I have the funds for it."

  "Or, you could try to find out who the murderer is yourself, but.."

"But.."

"Well life isn't a film Stanley," although Margaret knew that quite often it felt like it. Her life for example over the last few weeks had been more than a little cinematic, "and you don't strike me as the Columbo, Jim Rockford, Sherlock Holmes type."

  "No, so that just leaves me with option 2."

  "I'm afraid so, look," she said, reaching into her bag and giving him a card, "come and see me, next week, I might be able to help."

  "I think Margaret," Stan said, "when it is obvious that I don't have enough funds to drink myself to death, I am pretty sure that you are far more than I could afford."

 "The first three sessions are free," she said, "then we can talk about the cost, give me a call. I have enough high paying clients to do a favour every once in a while, you'll make a change from some of the nut bags and freaks I have to deal with. I could do with a normal, screwed up human being, you can be my coffee break."

  "Thanks," Stan said, pushing his seat back, leaving money of the tab of the bar.

  "Go home Stan," Margaret looked at him. I'll never see him again she thought, "go home."

  Stan smiled, pocketed her card and left the bar, but he didn't go home.

  In fact Stan never went home again.

Chapter 5 - Margaret meets someone special

  Margaret Mason had had one hell of a difficult week. Starting as it did with the suicide of the world's most powerful superhero in her office, and ending with a visit at 4.30 that day from her latest and possibly least stable client.

  She had really needed a drink.

  She really needed ten or twelve drinks, and maybe some meaningless sex.

  Meaningless sex, now that would be nice.

  Watching Stan leave the bar for a moment she felt sad, then as she had been trained to do she put him, and his problems to one side. Professional detachment was something she had mastered years ago, so nowadays she sometimes found it at the bottom of a bottle of beer, well she wasn't complaining.

  She could listen for hours to other peoples worries, understand them, help them, and then ten minutes later have difficulty remembering any of it.

  Sometimes she could barely remember their names.

  That used to be true anyway.

  Now, with the death of The Guardian, it appeared that her life was taking a slightly different course, and she felt out of her depth, she was unable to switch off so easily.

When it had become clear than the Guardian was indeed well and truly dead, that there was to be no miraculous recovery, that he wasn't going to stand up any second, that it had not been a joke, she had stood, smoothed out her skirt and called the police.

The officer who was first on the scene, Officer Murdoch had been surprisingly on the ball, despite his appalling body odour. He had carefully listened to her story, taken copious notes and then used her phone to call in the incident to his superiors.

  She noticed that he had not used the Guardian's name at any time, but had referred to the incident as a code 32 alpha.

  Whatever that meant it'd had the desired effect.

  Within 15 minutes she was being bundled out of her office into the back of a dark blue 4x4 Hummer with blacked out windows, and, she noticed, no door handles on the inside. Next she was told politely, but firmly to stay there, not to move.

  Within 30 minutes she was sitting in a small, featureless office, having been driven to an unknown destination, walked across a featureless underground car park and taken down endless, unidentifiable corridors.

  She had no idea where she was, which, she had to admit unnerved her somewhat.

  The men who taken her had not spoken a word, other than through short barked commands, "sit here," "stand there." They all had the same buzz cut hair, grim faces and all wore the same cheap, off the shelf grey suits.

 They were polite, but firm, and while  Margaret do not feel under any direct threat the overall effect left her feeling lost and uneasy.

  In the end, after what seemed like hours of questioning, she had been released. This was done in the same unimpressive way that she had been taken.

  The men had made it abundantly clear to her that she was not to talk to anyone about what had happened. That if she was asked she could say that a client had killed themselves but nothing more.

  They had made it clear that she would be watched from now on and that the consequences of talking to anyone would be rapid and severe.

Margaret understood, and to be honest she agreed with them. The death of the Guardian, and what had prompted it was so profoundly shocking that she herself wanted to keep it quiet.

  The truth would rock the foundations of his millions of admiring fans across the world.

  Instead, they told her that the story would be put out that he had left earth to travel the universe. That he had gone away to deal with some distant, vague threat, and when he didn't return, well by then some new hero would be stealing the headlines.

  He would not be forgotten, but it was better to think that he had abandoned humanity, rather than killed himself because he hated it.

As far as Margaret was concerned, the less said about it all the better.

So she had returned to work, her office had been cleaned in her absence and not a trace of the man who had died there remained.

She had found it difficult at first, but after moving the furniture around to provide a physical break from the event, she had started to feel slightly better.

She had started to get her mind back on track.

It was only at her last appointment, 4.30 pm that afternoon, that she realised that word of her dealings with The Guardian must have leaked out somehow. Nothing was in the papers, but still it was too much of a coincidence to believe she could get two meta powered clients in a single week.

  The woman who had walked into her office had booked the session under the name Gwen Stevie. Margaret had recognised her as soon as she opened the door and saw the long black hair, the piercing eyes, and the fantastic chest of the Warrior Queen sitting in her reception.

The Warrior Queen, one of the major powered hero's, was fast, strong highly aggressive and simply stunning to look at. She was as famous for her sexual appetite as she was for her powers, but her most recognisable assets, or features, or pair of features were her chest.

  As she walked in, and sat down, Margaret just could not take her eyes off the eye wateringly beautiful breasts that had proceeded her into the room. It was not just that they were big, which they were, nor was not just that they were gravity defying, which they were, no it was that somehow they were the perfect size, the perfect shape, and had just the right amount of natural bounce.

  Margaret, who to that day had never had a homosexual thought, well no more than a thought anyway, wanted nothing more than to touch them then and there.

  She found the whole thing bizarrely upsetting.

It was made worse by the fact that the Warrior Queen clearly knew, and clearly enjoyed the effect she was having on Margaret.

  She'd grinned hugely, crossed her legs, folded her arms under her chest, which made the effect worse, or better depending on your perspective, and started to talk.

"Do you know who I am Margaret?" she'd asked, "you obviously recognise me, or at least your recognise  my tits from somewhere, judging by the fact that you can't seem to take your eyes off them."

"Sorry," Margaret had pulled her eyes away with some difficulty, and looked down at her notebook self consciously, "you're The Warrior Queen. I assume that Gwen Stevie is not your real name."