Revolution (3 page)

We slept when
it was dark and we woke with each sun-up. After a night sleeping inside the
crowns of giant tree ferns, we’d walk a bit more, a bit further and listen for
the sounds, of voices, other voices. But that scared me and had me hang onto
hope at the same time. I didn’t want to be the one who would die and leave Eddy
on his own, the only boy on planet Earth.

We slipped
and slid and walked along, and tied some loose vines around what was left of
our boots. I don’t suppose we smelled too sweet either, but that all blended in
well enough with our surroundings. We’d laugh sometimes and talk sometimes and I
began to worry about hangovers from a time no longer with us, of birthdays, and
Christmases, and Halloween and stuff like that. But the real unspoken conversations
were the ones in my head, the talk of survival and hope. And I would sometimes
look back at the mud we had just walked through, seeing it glint in the light
of another dusk, and wonder if the footprints we’d made would find themselves preserved
in fossilized rock. But that was a thought, an impossible thought, a thought
like any other.

I heard her before
I saw her, her footsteps outside the door, the knocks, the glass rattling in its
frame.

Her hand
reached up, a shadow through the mist of frosted glasswork, a mamba ready to
strike.

A
prickle of sweat rolled down my spine.

I needed
to be in control, to be calm, collected, to be ready.

I'd gone
over it in my mind so many times, and now it was finally happening, the final
transaction.

She
knocked again.

I patted
down my tie.

Damp
patches of sweat froze under my arms.

The
chair behind me squeaked like road kill as I pushed it back.

She
knocked again.

I opened
my mouth.

The
handle in the door twisted, slow, sure, the little dent in its brass bubble
turning.

Then
there was a click as the latch gave way. And when door swung wide I saw her,
standing in the doorway like a statue.

With the
green wall behind her, she looked like a museum piece made out of liquid jet
that had been hidden away for years in a secret alcove.

Her head
tilted up and she looked at me through a beaded veil of black. Her cerise
colored lips stayed closed as her eyes met mine.

"Mister
Carter?" she said.

I nodded
dumb seeing the envelope clutched in her right hand. A black patent purse
gripped under her left arm.

"Please,"
I said. "Come in."

And she
did.

She
glided across the floor like a swan glides over a lake. You just don't see how.

Stepping
around my desk like a Clydesdale in the presence of a glass figurine I pulled
out a chair at the front of my desk.

"Please,"
I said, "take a seat."

She sat
down, still clutching the envelope, and placed her purse on the edge of the
desk.

"Can
I get you anything," I asked, "a coffee perhaps?"

"No
thank you, Mister Carter," she sighed. "I won't be staying for long.
But thank you all the same."

I wanted
to slap my hands together in exultation, to give them a rub.

"Excuse
the mess or… lack of facilities, Mrs. Andresen…"

"Don't
worry, Mister Carter," she said looking around my office then back at me.
"I'm not here to comment on the décor."

"Right,"
I said sitting down behind my desk and rolling my chair closer.

She
looked at me through her veil. Her ice-grey eyes that never flinched from mine,
caught in the sheared evening sunlight.

"Do
you mind if I have a cigarette?" she asked.

And
before I could say sure, no problem, she had the clasp of her purse open, and
pulled out a pack of Slims.

"Okay,"
I said feeling too dumb to think of anything else, and took the opportunity to
open the solitary drawer in my desk, and reached in for the old tin ashtray. It
was full of butts so I tipped them into the drawer before I placed it in front
of her.

Veil
lifted she lit up her cigarette with a chunky lighter from nowhere, an antique
thing covered in scrollwork, pewter by the looks of it, then dropped it back
into her purse as if she'd suddenly found a dead thing in her hand.

Reaching
up she pulled the pin out her hat, removed the hat, and the veil from her face,
and for the first time I had a good look at her. The aquiline nose, the
Egyptian eyes, the lips fuller than her sixty years might have dictated as
natural for a woman her age.

She
placed her hat and veil by the side of the ashtray then drew on her cigarette.

"You
received my letter?" she said crossing her legs.

"Yes."

"In
that case you know what this is all about."

She
pushed the envelope toward me.

I looked
at it, my fists sweaty, and for a second I couldn't move.

I didn't
want to take my eyes off of her either.

She
stared back at me, drew in more smoke and siphoned it into the split beams
cutting through the grime on the window.

I
reached into the drawer again, cigarette butts and all, and scrambled around
for my checkbook. Covered in ash I tapped it on the side then dropped it on the
desk.

"Okay,"
I said, "business first. No names. My client has already paid me, so now I
pay you…"

My
breath was coming too fast.

"There
is no business, Mister Carter," Mrs. Andresen said leaning forward, stiff
backed.

She
tapped her cigarette into the ashtray.

"Sorry?"
I said.

"I
don't want your money."

She
leaned back again, stiffer than before.

"I
don't want anything to do with it," she said. "I feel bad enough for
passing it on to you. And taking remuneration for it would mean me having to
keep a connection with it. I don't want that. I want rid of it."

I let
the cover of my checkbook flop back like the wing of a dead duck.

I
couldn't think of anything to say except:

"Are
you sure you wouldn't like a coffee?"

"No,"
she said.

She took
another puff of her cigarette then another.

"Can
I ask why you don't want anything for it?" I asked. "I mean my client
is paying a very large six figure sum…"

"That
thing killed my husband, Mister Carter," she pointed at the envelope with
her cigarette clamped between two fingers, "and ruined my life at the same
time. If I'd had the nerve I would have destroyed it years ago. Instead I was a
coward and kept it hidden in a vault. My husband's shrine if you will."

"Mind
if I…?" I asked reaching out for the envelope keeping my eyes on hers all
the while.

"Don't,"
she said. "Wait until I'm gone."

"Then
how do I know that it's even in there?" I said flopping back in my chair.

"What
have you got to lose if it isn't?" she said.

I swung
my chair a few inches left, right, then back dead centre.

My
eyebrows arched.

"True."

"And
my letter to you," she said. "What we agreed. I hope
you
have
kept your part of our bargain."

I
nodded.

Destroy
it
,
she'd said.
Do not let anyone else see th
is.

I'd
lied.

I'd kept
it for insurance. What kind of insurance I don't know. But it seemed like a
good idea at the time. And besides I was fascinated by it. I don't know why.
But I could never stop looking at it. Until time and again just holding it in my
hands made me feel good. It set my imagination on fire, made it run riot until
I saw nothing but stars. It was a rush every time I touched it.

I should
have burned it.

"You
play a pretty tight game, Mrs. Andresen," I said.

"I'm
not playing games, Mister Carter."

"So
you won't mind if I take a peek?"

"Only
after I'm gone," she said. "Then you can look at it all you like. It
was a very hard decision for me to make, Mister Carter, my handing it over like
this. I hope you understand that."

My eyes
flicked down to the envelope again.

"Are
you the only one who definitely knows of its existence?" I asked.

She
sighed.

"A
lot of people
think
they know of its existence, Mister Carter, otherwise
your client wouldn't have sent you to look for it, now would he?"

"I
guess not," I said.

"Most
only need to
believe
that it exists," she went on in a tiresome
tone as if she'd had enough of the subject to last her lifetime.
"Unfortunately those men who do believe in its existence tend to end up
being obsessive rejects that end up vanishing from the rest of humanity as if
they had never existed in the first place. The fact is, Mister Carter, very few
people know that it actually
does
exist, if that answers your
question."

Her eyes
hooded; shutters of blue-black eye shadow.

"But
you've never looked at it yourself?" I asked.

"No."

After
taking one last drag of her cigarette she stabbed it out in the tin ashtray.

"And
I never wanted to," she said. "Not after what it did to my
husband."

"Mrs.
Andresen, then how do I know?"

"You
don't, Mister Carter," she said. "Let's just leave it at that."

After
that she picked up her hat, put it back on, picked up the pin that went with it
by its big black bead, and stabbed it right in somewhere at the back of her
head.

I
winced.

She
didn't seem to notice.

She
stood up, adjusted the veil in front of her face, turned and stepped in front
of my desk.

She
looked down at me. I looked up at her.

 "I
didn't have the will to do what you should do with it," she said.
"Destroy that thing before it destroys you, Mister Carter."

That
took me by surprise.

I
blinked as if I'd been poked in the eye with a stick.

"Well
now," I said, "if you'll forgive me for saying this, but that sounds
a little melodramatic, Mrs. Andresen."

And as
soon as I said it it felt like she'd slammed a bulletproof door in my face.

Her eyes
turned to slits.

"Don't
confuse fantasy with fact, Mister Carter," she said. "That thing
kills people."

My eyes
went from her, to the envelope, to back at her again. And when they did I
thought I caught the glimmer of a smile come to those perfect red lips of hers
hidden behind a beaded fog of black net protecting her face. But if it was a
smile, her eyes weren't in it. They stayed exactly the same.

 "Good
day, Mister Carter," she said. "And I sincerely hope that you stay
safe now that you have it."

And with
that she picked up her purse, held it high and tight in both hands, with her
fingers clasping the top of it like the wings of a stuffed hawk, turned and
left.

It all
happened so fast I didn't have a chance to jump up and open the door for her,
and after I watched it close a click I sat there listening as her footsteps
echo down the concrete stairwell until there were none.

And I
waited, but for what reason, Christ only knows.

#

What
now?
I thought.

Look
inside the envelope, dummy.

But what
if it isn't in there? What if it's a fake, a joke? She said she hadn't even
clapped eyes on it herself.

So how
did she know it's even in there?

I rubbed
my hands on my pants. I was shaking. My sweat felt like cold glue.

I sat
for a while longer just staring at that thing on my desk, then at the ashtray,
and at Andresen's buckled cigarette still smoldering in it. I tore my eyes away
and glanced over my shoulder at the only window my office possessed. The late
afternoon sky was a bright sterile-blue.

#

I needed
coffee.

My
metabolism had jumped ten notches and I needed octane.

I was
burning up fast and running on air.

Don't
cave in on me now, Sean.

"Fuck
it!"

Reaching
into my top pocket and yanked out my emergency pack of Marlboro Lights, took
one out and tapped the end of it on the side of the box like a real pro.

I'd gone
a whole week without smoking, but I'd kept a pack close to my heart, just to
prove to myself how in control I was.

And then
that thing appeared on my desk.

"Well…
So much for the self-imposed prohibition shit."

Preparation
is everything, Sean.

So I lit
up, inhaled deep and blew the smoke in a stream high over the desk.

"So
what now?"

Take a
peek.

"Uh
uh, don't wanna."

Coward.

"I'm
thinking."

You're chicken
shit.

I
inhaled then nibbled at my thumbnail as I stared down at the envelope. And it
was glowing whiter by the second.

Do it!

I
lurched from my chair, hands in a dive then let them hover over the envelope
for a second without touching it.

I snapped
my hands away and curled my fingers tight until my nails were digging into my
palms.

I puffed
more smoke.

"I've
got to think first."