Strangers in the Night (29 page)

The
world
he had just returned from.

He calmed himself down. He peered through the two-way mirror.

Through the glass.

Into the other room.

He eyed the creature.

The Stranger . . . the
Slug
.

Mitts was far from an expert on Strangers, but he could see, from the way it lay, how its fangs were still—its entire body
still
—that it was dead.

He turned on Doctor Smith. “What happened?” he said. “What’s gone
wrong
?”

Doctor Smith smiled gently, working at his touchscreen. “Nothing’s
wrong
, Mr Thornestone. You’ve just returned from a dream. A
dream
of the Stranger’s making.”

“No,” Mitts said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t a dream . . . there’s
no way
it was a dream.”

Doctor Smith held still.

To begin with, he thought he hadn’t heard him.

Then, with a wide smile, Doctor Smith finally replied.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

* * *

Later in the day, back in his room, Mitts peered out the window.

He looked down to the garden.

He wore a fluffy, white dressing gown. It had been given to him a few weeks back.

Perhaps to put him at greater comfort.

He could still smell the heavy scent of disinfectant.

It seeped out of his pores.

More than anything, he wished the stench might be replaced by the scent of sulphur.

The smell he had experienced in the other world.

Although it had only been a few hours ago, already it felt like another lifetime.

Mitts had never felt so awake in all his life.

He felt every thought churning through his mind.

His brain throbbed.

But there was no pain.

It was a
pleasant
sensation.

At the same time, his body felt exhausted.

As if it weighed him down.

They had had to bring him to his room in a wheelchair.

When he had attempted to stand—even aided by a pair of escorts—he hadn’t been able.

There was a
buzz
at the door.

Mitts remained quiet.

And neither did he bother to look.

To see who it was.

It didn’t seem worth his energy.

He continued to stare out across the garden below.

He was vaguely aware of the voice behind him.

He didn’t turn.

Carla appeared before him.

Her voice babbled at him . . .
through
him.

Static rattled his skull.

Finally, as if someone had turned the tuning dial a little, the signal came clear.

Mitts slipped back into the ‘real world’ . . .
his
world.

“. . . in the end, and . . .”

Mitts opened his mouth.

Let out a slight groan.

His vocalising apparatus wouldn’t obey him.

And then, as had happened with his sense of hearing, everything clicked back into place.

Click.

“What happens to the creatures?” he said. “I mean after you’ve
used
them?”

Seemingly taken aback by Mitts’s sudden lucidity, Carla paused a moment before replying. “They’re
clones
, Mitts. That’s all. We
made
them to serve our purposes. They wouldn’t
exist
—”

But before she’d even finished, Mitts shook his head.

He fixed his eyes on the stone seat down in the garden.

The one he’d been sitting on just that morning.

“No,” Mitts broke in, his voice exercising patience. “I asked what you
do
with them.”

Carla didn’t reply right away.

“It’s okay,” Mitts went on, “you don’t need to consult, you can tell me the truth. I’m
man
enough for the truth.”

After another brief pause, Carla responded.

Her voice sounded husky now.

“They die.”

Mitts nodded to himself.

He had known that, of course. That much had been apparent.

He had only wanted
her
to say it.

Had only wanted
her
to admit it.

“How many do you use up
spying
on me?” Mitts asked.

“ ‘Spying on you’?” Carla replied, clearly a touch bewildered.

The scent of sulphur became almost too strong to stand.

No, it
was
too strong to stand.

Too strong for him—
a mere mortal
—to resist.

He pushed himself up onto his feet, using the arms of his chair.

“Careful,” Carla said, her voice a whisper.

Mitts staggered. He found his balance.

His
physical
strength.

“Why? Are you worried your little
experiments
might be ruined?”

Carla’s mouth latched open.

But she said nothing at all.

“How many?” Mitts repeated.

Carla, this time, spoke clearly. “About one a day,” she said. “For moderate surveillance.”

“And
intensive
surveillance?” Mitts put in.

She swallowed hard.

Mitts caught a whiff of her minty scent.

“It depends on the range—where the target is . . . how
deep
we wish to go . . .”

“To spy on my thoughts—Luca’s thoughts—in the Village?”

She blinked rapidly.

Slipped a glance to the door.

This only served to enrage him.

He grabbed hold of her lab coat.

Felt the material tight in his fist.

“
How many
?!”

She trembled in his hold.

They would be here for him.

Any second.

But he had to know.

“Seven . . . eight . . . sometimes more.”

Carla sobbed.

Mitts cocked his head to one side.

He stared deeply into Carla’s eyes.

Was there a soul there?

Trapped
. . . somewhere at the back.

In a cage. Hands curled about the bars.

Peering out with a doleful expression.

Mitts loosened his hold.

Carla took a couple of steps back.

He considered his words.

Calmed himself down.

Then said, “What do you want to achieve?”

“ ‘Achieve’?” Carla replied, as if it was some kind of alien term.

“What’s the
goal
of these experiments? What did you want to
gain
from cloning—from
studying
—these creatures? These
Slugs
?” he added, in a mocking tone.

Carla held herself still.

Mitts took a step toward her.

She took one back from him.

The buzzer on the door went.

She flashed a glance over her shoulder.

He locked his eyes onto hers.

In a thick, throaty voice, he said, “Come in.”

* * *

Mitts didn’t need to look. He knew who it was.

Samantha.

Of course . . . who
else
would they send?

They needed to calm him down.

Otherwise everything would be ruined.

Feeling Samantha’s gaze lingering over him, Mitts looked to Carla. “I wonder,” he said, reaching out for her. “I wonder what might happen if I snap your
neck
.”

Carla’s eyes widened.

She stared at his hands.

Closing on her.

Coming to
squeeze
her throat.

Mitts stared hard into Carla’s eyes.

Her lips quivered.

He thought he could smell blood.

Thick
on her breath.

No more of the cool, refreshing, mintiness.

Carla backed into the wall.

Mitts closed the gap.

His fingernails brushed her neck.

His hands found their way about her throat.

He felt her pulse.

The bloody smell drove him on.

He closed his grip.

Squeezed
her throat.

Carla trembled.

But she didn’t struggle.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he heard a gunshot.

He smelled a harsh, intrusive—
mechanical
—odour.

Nothing like sulphur . . . nothing like the sulphur he
craved
.

He waited for the pain.

Looked forward to
embracing
the pain.

He had had enough.

In his head, he counted out the remaining seconds of his life.

They seemed
somehow
important
.

He reached a count of ten.

Still no pain.

Carla’s body had gone slack.

Surprised, he released her.

She fell to the floor.

Dead.

Blood leaked from her.

Her eyes lolled back in their sockets.

Her mouth latched open.

Mitts turned.

Looked to the door.

Samantha.

Her expression was neutral.

She held a gun.

Tight in her grip.

But it didn’t point at him.

It pointed at Carla.

It was as if someone had knocked all the air out of him.

And he was dimly aware of falling to the floor.

* * *

“Mr Thornestone? Mr Thornestone?”

Mitts was lying down.

He crooked open an eye.

Back on the examination table.

He took in Doctor Smith’s wrinkled, leathery features.

This was what he’d wanted.

What he’d wanted all along.

He’d only wanted to go back.

To go back
home
.

Doctor Smith was grave-faced.

He worked at Mitts’s scalp. Putting suckers into place. Fiddling with wires.

Arranging
everything
.

When Doctor Smith spoke, it sounded as if his voice was weighed down by a sigh. “A shame,” he said. “A
real
shame.”

Mitts wasn’t aware if Doctor Smith was speaking to himself.

Or if he was speaking for his unseen assistant’s benefit.

As before, Mitts felt like an audience member.

A
passenger
.

Present only in body.

Absent in mind.

“We were really counting on you.”

“ ‘Counting on me’?” Mitts repeated.

“Yes. I suppose we’ll have to start again. Think of another solution.”

“. . . Why?”

“ ‘Why’
indeed
,” Doctor Smith replied. “It does seem that we had a good shake, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “But we keep on going—the human
race
keeps going—more resilient than cockroaches.” He paused a long while, making some adjustment which Mitts couldn’t see. “It’s going to take a long time for us to find another like you—another working on the same psychoactive plane as the Slugs . . . if we find one at all.”

Mitts felt his mind blurring in and out.

He could smell sulphur now.

Could see dark-purple hills.

Almost there . . . almost there . . . almost
home
.

He glared out over the side of the examination table.

To the other room.

The light was switched off.

The two-way mirror active.

Mitts couldn’t see the room on the other side.

But he could
feel
the Stranger there.

He could
feel
its presence.

His family.

His future.

Another
future.

Mitts tilted his head back to Doctor Smith.

Again, it felt as if his lips only traced the words.

“. . . Luca . . .
why
Luca?”

“Pardon me,” Doctor Smith said, leaning over Mitts.

His eyebrows arched up high into his non-existent hairline.

“Oh, was that ‘Luca’? Yes, I suppose we could’ve used her. We could’ve extracted her. But, truth be told, we were expecting marvellous things from you both. We thought you might be the answer, quite frankly.” His lips widened into a smile. “Now, if that doesn’t sound desperate, then I really don’t know what
does
.”

He made his final adjustments to the wires around Mitts’s head.

Then gave a slight chuckle.

“I’m sure I sound like an old nut to you. An old man. Death’s been tapping me on the shoulder for years.” He leaned back, sighed. “The future of the human race will soon be out of my hands.”

He nodded to the two-way mirror, to the unseen Stranger on the other side.

“Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you find it. In that other world.”

Mitts stared back into Doctor Smith’s eyes.

He didn’t know what to say.

He just wanted to be back . . . back in the
other
world . . . in the
new
world.

His
world.

When Doctor Smith spoke again, his voice was a low drawl.

It seemed that he was mumbling to himself.

“Like two strangers in the night,” he said.

Mitts strained to trace words with his ears.

He could no longer tell his lips to move.

But it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

“He gone?”

Mitts vaguely heard the assistant’s voice in the background.

“Almost,” Doctor Smith replied. “Better that we get on with the process before we lose him completely. Don’t want him to get rooted down here on this rotten old apple core.”

Mitts dimly heard the humming of computer hard drives.

The gentle ebb and flow of his thoughts.

They sloshed.

In and out. In and out.

Like the tide.

At first the scent of sulphur was distant.

Then it was up close.

Before he could really believe it, he was there.

Somewhere else
.

Away.

Among the Strangers.

THE END