Rollerskater: Threnody

Jump to: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII


This instalment contains some violence and themes of mental illness.


Arthur Fenwick arrived at the 20th Precinct of the NAPD one chill Dinsday morning, briefcase in hand, and submitted himself to a frisk – the same frisk he received every time he visited a police precinct, which was fairly often – more often, indeed, than he liked.

Quite what they thought a one-hundred-and-sixty-two-centimetre, fifty-four-year-old man in Pepsi-bottle glasses with a salt-and-pepper-grey Sinterklaas beard, wearing a straw trilby, tweed jacket, bow tie, white dress shirt and suspenders was going to do to harm even a single police officer was beyond him, but he supposed they had to adhere to some sort of regulation, especially after what had happened at the Rijk Staat a few years ago.

As always, the frisk turned up nothing more than a stick of gum, which he offered the frisking officer, before being moved along. Impolite, he thought. These young coppers never had time for a creaky old geezer like himself. They only wanted him for his services, never for his companionship. This was all fair, of course – it was a professional relationship, after all – but a little courtesy couldn’t hurt, now, could it?

He went to the reception desk and gave his name, handed over his drivers’ license and was escorted by a young policeman to the meeting room, down a series of long corridors with wooden doors and linoleum floors. It was remarkably sterile; Michel Foucault would have a field day with this authoritarian, sterile masterpiece of late-Seventies architecture. He disliked American police stations. For a nation-state so rigidly opposed to Communism, they sure liked making their administrative buildings look as Sino-Soviet as possible.

The young policeman stopped and opened a door for him, and Fenwick thanked him and stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.

It was dark, illuminated only by light from the next room, which was visible behind a pane of glass. A two-way mirror, Fenwick concluded.

Standing by the window, puffing on a cigarette, was another, older policeman, though still younger than Fenwick. His face was obscured by shadow, but Fenwick could see he had beard stubble and wavy brown hair.

The man turned, saw him, and held out his right hand.

Fenwick took it and shook it. He momentarily startled at the touch of it. He had been expecting warm flesh; he felt cold plastic over a metal exoskeleton. A prosthetic. He looked down at it – it was translucent blue plastic over silver titanium. An archaic model, but with a certain charm.

“Good day to you,” Fenwick said. “Arthur Fenwick, MD. Nice to meet you. May I ask your name?”

“Your Dutch is very good,” the officer replied. It came so easily to Fenwick after so many years living in the city that he hadn’t even realised he was speaking Dutch. “You speak like a Nederlander.”

“Thank you,” Fenwick replied. “I’m English by birth. I’ve lived here for ten years.”

The policeman smiled in the dark. “Detective Robert Veck,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, too, Detective,” Fenwick replied. “So, what do you need help with?”

Veck gestured to the adjacent room, which Fenwick had just now noticed contained a man, looking somewhere around his mid-thirties to early forties, with short black hair. He was dressed in a T-shirt with the logo of the NAPD printed on the left breast and a pair of white underwear. He appeared to be staring listlessly into space.

“Guy’s a total mystery,” Veck said. “No records on him whatsoever. Names, birth certificates, prints, DNA, nothing.”

“How does this concern me, Detective?” Fenwick asked.

“Well, you’re a psychiatrist,” Veck replied. “We don’t think this guy’s…quite right, if you catch my drift. He just…sits and stares all day. He’s never said a word to us.”

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Fenwick said. “Why did you bring him in?”

“We picked him up a couple days ago in Central Park. Ass-naked.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Officially, we’re calling him John Doe. Unofficially…”

“Unofficially…?”

“We’re calling him the Chessman.”

“Why?” Fenwick asked, intrigued.

“We found him sitting by the chess tables. He was holding a couple of chessmen, one in each hand. So we—”

“Which chessmen?” Fenwick interrupted.

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know, Detective. Does it?”

Veck nodded. “Uh, a black king and a white queen.”

“Interesting,” Fenwick replied. “Continue.”

Veck raised an eyebrow and carried on.

“Well, he doesn’t talk, but he keeps…”

“Yes?”

“He keeps…waking up at night. Screaming. And I don’t mean just screaming, I mean screaming. As in, wakes up all the other detainees. We can’t calm him down when he has these screaming fits. He’ll scream for twenty minutes, then he’ll suddenly stop, lay back down and stare at the ceiling.”

“I see,” Fenwick said, thoughtfully. “And during these…screaming fits, does he say anything?”

“Nothing intelligible. We’re wondering if he knows how to speak at all. We got a doctor in last week to test his hearing, and his hearing is within the acceptable range for a man his age. So we’re stumped. Far as we can tell, it’s all psychological. That’s where you come in.”

“You want me to try and get an insight to this man’s mind?” Fenwick asked.

“Can you do it?” Veck asked. “We’ve heard that you’re the best in New Amsterdam.”

“You heard correctly,” Fenwick replied. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Veck opened the door and led Fenwick out of the room, then unlocked the door to the interrogation room and allowed Fenwick in, accompanying him.

The nameless man did not react at all to their presence. He stared catatonically into space.

Fenwick pulled out a small digital recorder attached to a directional microphone, a notepad of high-quality notepaper and a Staedtler pencil (he couldn’t stand that dollar-store crap). He pressed a button on the recorder. He decided to speak English rather than Dutch, on the off-chance that it would spur some reaction from the man.

“Hello. My name is Arthur. Arthur Fenwick. I’m a psychiatrist. I’m here to help you. Don’t worry, I’m not going to put you away in a hospital or anything like that. I’m simply here to try and help you. Shall we start with your name?”

The man did not react.

Fenwick stood and examined the man’s face more closely.

“Pupils very dilated,” he said. “Physiological response to fear or anxiety. Something is scaring you. Am I right?”

The man simply gazed emptily back at him. He didn’t seem to blink. Fenwick found it disconcerting.

He sat back and pondered for a few moments.

“Detective,” he said. “Where are the chessmen he was holding? I’d like to try something.”

“They’re in the evidence lockup,” Veck said. “Want me to go find ‘em?”

“If you could.”

Veck hesitated. “Sure you’ll be alright in here with him?”

“For God’s sake, Detective. I’m a trained psychiatrist. I have dealt with people far more disturbed than this man. I’ll be fine.”

Veck nodded. “Your funeral,” he muttered, walking from the room.

He walked out of the room, leaving it unlocked.

Fenwick watched after him, then turned back to the Chessman.

“The policeman is gone,” he said. “You can speak to me.”

The Chessman looked at him.

“It sees me when I sleep,” he said, in a high-pitched, child-like voice. He spoke English like a native. “It’s…in my head.”

“What is?”

“I can’t tell you,” the Chessman said.

“Why not?”

“It can hear me.”

“I see,” Fenwick said, writing on his notepad: Schizophrenia with comorbid catatonia.

“Do you believe me, Arthur?”

“I believe that you are unwell,” Fenwick replied.

“No,” the Chessman said. “I’m not crazy, Arthur. I have seen it. It isn’t from this world. It can see me from outside time. You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Fenwick said. “I believe that the distress you are experiencing is very real.”

“You don’t believe that I’m telling the truth. You think that I’m imagining things. Don’t you?”

“I think you are becoming agitated—”

Don’t you?”

“If you could just relax…”

The Chessman leapt out of his seat and grabbed Fenwick by his bow tie.

“You’re keeping me in here because you don’t believe me.”

“Do…” Fenwick choked. “Do you…remember your name?”

“No,” the Chessman replied. “I don’t remember anything about myself before two days ago. But I know that it has been following me since…since before I was even born.”

“How is that possible?” Fenwick gasped. He felt his face beginning to go blue.

I don’t know,” the Chessman said. “But it knows.”

“You haven’t told me what it is,” Fenwick replied.

He could feel his limbs going numb. The Chessman was strangling the life out of him.

The Chessman pulled Fenwick in very close and whispered:

The…Thren—”

BZZZT-ZAK-ZAK-ZAK-ZAK-ZAK

“Auuuuggghhhhhh!

The Chessman collapsed.

Standing behind him was Veck, and protruding from his prosthetic limb were two wires affixed to prods, prods which were now stuck in the Chessman’s back.

“Thank…thank you,” Fenwick said.

Veck ejected the cartridge from his arm and radioed for two officers to come and escort the Chessman from the room. He was removed, having seemingly lapsed back into his catatonic fugue.

“Trained psychiatrist, huh?” Veck said, sarcastically.

“I assumed, wrongly, that he was safe,” Fenwick said, dusting himself off. “That is a very disturbed man, Detective. Nevertheless, I believe I have gathered a good amount of information.”

“Really? Can you write us a report?”

“Of course. Off the record, I strongly suggest that he is committed.”

“Understood,” Veck said.

“By the way,” Fenwick said. “Did you happen to find those chessmen?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah,” Veck said. He held up a small plastic bag, labelled “EVIDENCE”, and handed it to Fenwick.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to handle police evidence?” Fenwick asked.

“We’re only keeping it safe until we can figure out what the guy’s deal is,” Veck replied. “If the chessmen help you figure that out, then we’re happy to entrust them to you.”

“Very well. Thank you, Detective. I shall be in touch with my report.”

With that, Arthur Fenwick packed his things and departed the 20th Precinct of the New Amsterdam Police Department, and caught the subway home, chessmen tucked safely in his briefcase.

The Chessman was clearly mentally ill, Fenwick knew quite well…but what the man had been trying to tell him before Veck had tasered him was bothering him. Perhaps it was the part of him that loved a cozy whodunnit, but there was more to this case than met the eye. He wanted to find out what.

*

Wistfully, the Wanderer walked the wastes.

Here in the no-place, the no-time. A man without identity, riding on horseback.

He wore a black denim jacket over a plain white T-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of black leather boots. Atop his head, he wore a wide-brimmed open-crown hat, held to his head by a string around his chin. He had wandered this endless desert for maybe a day, maybe countless millennia. He had long since forgone the need to think, the need to busy his mind with concerns.

The only task he set himself was to keep moving forward. In a realm without geography, without topography, without climate, without structures, the map really was the territory; there was no right or wrong direction in which to head, because they were all the same direction.

He had been riding for days on end when he spotted it – far in the distance, though it was hard to estimate how far, given that distance largely relies on a coherent concept of time to fully grasp; but it appeared to be on the horizon. It was the first landmark he had seen in he didn’t know how long. He decided to task himself with riding towards it, even if it took him a century or more.

The horse trotted at a leisurely pace towards the landmark. Might have taken them fifty years or so to get there, or a day. The closer they got, the more defined the objects became. The Wanderer recognised them. He had just forgotten the words for them.

They were tall structures, which indicated to him that they were oriented wrongly, since they usually moved in long formation along the ground rather than sticking vertically into the air like buildings. Wheels stuck out of the side.

The Wanderer dismounted the horse and approached the strange standing structure, and attempted to spin one of the wheels with his right hand. It didn’t move. It clearly could – there was no obstruction, the wheel was free – but did simply didn’t move. Totally inert, like a stone.

The Wanderer walked around it and saw that it had windows. He peered inside.

There were people.

He was taken aback by this – the only other person he had seen in the Notherethere thus far had been Magpie. Yet, here was a structure, filled with people.

He tapped on the window.

None of the people inside reacted.

In fact, the people inside didn’t move at all.

They were not dead, the Wanderer knew this. Death didn’t exist in this place, anyway, at least, not in any conventional sense.

Everyone in the structure was simply frozen in time, like a fly in amber – mid-way through telephone conversations, reading newspapers, gazing glumly out of the window or fast asleep. They had been like this for what seemed like many years, and had never moved. They did not seem aware that they were being held like this.

And it suddenly occurred to the Wanderer what the structure was.

A train.

The horse stared stupidly at the train with big, empty eyes.

The Wanderer got back on the horse and continued to ride it. There were several trains sticking out of the ground, as though they had fallen from the sky – fallen out of time.

They peppered the ground sparsely over quite a wide area, like a sort of strange scrapyard.

As he continued on his way, the amount of trains became closer and closer together. They had fallen in a sort of cone formation, the epicentre of which had a greater concentration of trains.

Near the centre, he could see other vehicles, too – trams, cars and buses.

Trapped in the Notherethere, just like him, with no universe to go back to. Strictly speaking, these trains, and the people inside them, must not exist at all – not in any proper sense. And the same was true of himself. A non-entity.

The further he got in, the more vehicles there were, until there was a forest of vehicles.

Up ahead, there was a wall of buses arranged in a circle, around what looked like a “clearing” in the forest. There was a small opening, and he rode towards it.

He realised quite quickly that the horse wouldn’t fit through it, so he dismounted the horse and found his own way inside.

Sitting right at the epicentre was a human figure.

It was a ghostly apparition of a woman, wearing a white dress. She flickered, as though an image on an old television set.

“Hello,” the Wanderer said. It was the first word he’d spoken to anyone in a long time.

The ghost looked at him.

“Socks?” she said.

“I don’t know that name,” the Wanderer said. “But if that is how you remember me, then yes, I am him.”

“I see,” the ghost said, sadly. “What is your name now?”

“The Wanderer. And yours?”

She sighed. “I am the Spirit.”

She looked at the object tied around his neck.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

The Wanderer looked down at it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

The Spirit looked down at the ground.

“I see,” she said.

“What is this place?” the Wanderer asked.

The Spirit looked up. “Deep Sleep of the Innocent,” she said. “A resting place for the souls of those who would otherwise have been destroyed when the old universe died. All of them were on trains, buses and cars heading into London when the world ended. I saved them, and kept them here, sleeping, until the day comes that things are once again made right…even if that is not until the end of time.”

“And who are you?”

“When the universe died, my pattern was fractured, and parts of it were scattered. I – the Whole-I – am not even aware that I – the Fractured-I – even exist. I’m here until Fractured-I can be with the rest of Whole-me again. It has been who knows how many years.”

“I’m sorry,” the Wanderer said.

“I did what I had to do,” the Spirit said. “I saved my city at the cost of my own spirit. Whole-me now wanders a quiet place, alone, powerless, never aging. Everyone else sleeps, waiting for time to resume again.”

The Spirit paused.

“The plan did not succeed,” she said. “It couldn’t have. It was based on a flawed ontology – a fundamental misapprehension of the metaphysical forces at play. The universe – our universe was destroyed, yes – but the universe he had envisioned did not come to be.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” the Wanderer said.

The Spirit pointed into the distance. “You must make a journey, wanderer. At the end of this world, there is someone you must meet.”

“The end of this world?” the Wanderer asked. “But this realm has no end.”

“It has no beginning, either.”

“So it must have no end.”

“But it’s here, isn’t it?”

The Wanderer thought for a few moments.

“Which direction?”

“Any,” the Spirit said. “You will know you when you have reached it.”

The Wanderer looked into the distance, past the wall of buses.

“Thank you, Spirit,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Socks,” the Spirit replied. “I hope to see you again, someday.”

The Wanderer said nothing.

He squeezed his way out of the clearing and mounted his horse once more.

He lashed the reins around the horse’s mouth. The horse whinnied, and he rode off into the distance, to be alone once again.

The Spirit stepped out of the clearing and watched after him, silently.

“Fix this,” she whispered, into the nowhere. “Please.”

*

It was the nightmare again, the one he couldn’t tell mother and father about.

He was trapped, trapped in a long corridor of interconnected, segmented rooms, wallpapered in yellow, with a breakneck floral pattern, and beige carpet going wall to wall. Occasionally, there would be a mirror on the wall, and he would look into it, only to see a horror stare back at him – a praying mantis shrieking at him (which was, of course, himself shrieking at his own reflection), a man with no eyes, or a withered, rotting corpse.

The corridor had no beginning and no end – you could live twenty lifetimes and never go back on yourself. This, he thought, must be Hell. It stank of damp towels and bodily odour, piss and stale beer. In the ceiling, fluorescent lights buzzed so loudly as to become a cacophony, like a horde of locusts.

And then, after what felt like hours of walking through this abyss, it appeared.

It was always sudden. Always when you least expected it. And right then you would be paralysed. You had been running for hours in dream-time, but now all you wanted to do was run, and you couldn’t. For there it was, standing before you.

It was tall – he estimated it to be somewhere around one-hundred-and-ninety centimetres in height, and clad in what could only be described as thin black plastic, opaque and matt, like a rubbish bag. It seemed to flap as if there was a breeze, but there was no breeze. Its face, also clad in the black material, was featureless. A round, black oval. It would stand and stare at him, looking like a living shadow. A shadow-monster.

Every time it did this, a voice in his head would whisper to him the name of the monster, the bogeyman, the one he had learned to fear since before he had a single coherent thought.

A small, mocking voice, poking and prodding at him.

Who is it? Who is it? Go on, you know this one. Who is it? Who is it?

And before he could let the words slip between his lips, a voice louder than a thunderclap would roar, and he knew it was the creature’s voice, though its voice did not appear to come from any sort of larynx, but rather it willed the air itself to speak for it.

And the voice would say:

I AM THE THRENODY.

And there would be a great silence, as he was once again forced to acknowledge its presence, as he had done for every night of his wretched existence. The figure would step forward, and with a long arm, point at him with a skeletal hand.

And the voice would say:

ATONE FOR YOUR SINS.”

The voice was neither male nor female, but seemingly androgynous. Some Jungian stand-in for a parental archetype, perhaps. But the finer points of dream psychoanalysis evaded him, as terror would overtake him as the creature drew closer. It would never say anything but those two sentences, but they, alone, were enough to drive him to near-madness.

For in his paralysis, it would get close to him, lean in close, and grab him, and its touch was like an electric shock, like something gnawing away at his spirit, chewing his very being – damn his flesh. And that was when the screaming would start, and it wouldn’t stop for twenty minutes.

The door came open with a click.

He was sweating, and screaming, and screaming, his mouth wide open, yawning, an empty black chasm studded with molars and teeth and a tongue that stood bolt upright, screaming like a painting he had once seen (Pope behind a curtain screaming screaming) and his throat would dry out and it would become hoarse and sometimes it would even bleed or he’d burst his larynx but always the screaming always the screaming it was loud it was so loud and he could hear the others waking up but the screaming continued because something had grabbed his soul so tightly in its little fists and was squeezing tearing at it and the men came in then all wearing their pointed hats and put their hands on him

“For God’s sake,” said one of the police officers. “Every night with this shit. I’m going to be hearing this screaming on my deathbed. We got anything to sedate this poor fucker?”

“We’ve tried everything,” said another. “Not even 30mg of Valium will knock him out when he’s like this.”

“I hope that little English bastard can get this guy committed,” said the first police officer. “He’s freaking out the other prisoners.”

And so they restrained him for the next twenty minutes, until the screams subsided, and he fell, again, into his catatonic stupor, staring up at the ceiling.

It stood on the ceiling and looked up at him, continuing to point. It said nothing else. It only pointed.

The light of morning would vanquish it, as though a vampire, and he would say nothing for the rest of the day.

The Threnody…it had stolen his memories…his identity…as punishment for his “sins”. But what were his sins? If he couldn’t remember them, how could he atone for them? What did it want from him? What did it want?

*

“Happened again last night,” Veck said to Fenwick, who was drinking fifty cents’ worth of instant coffee out of a polystyrene cup.

“The screaming?”

“Yes. Didn’t abate for twenty minutes. Same as always.”

“Hmm,” Fenwick said. “I have compiled a few notes and professional recommendations. But I am interested in speaking to him again.”

“Really? After he tried to kill you? You sure that’s wise?”

“He did not try to kill me, Detective. He merely assaulted me – surprisingly normal behaviour for an individual as disturbed as he. Expulsion of energy, a simple conversion.” Fenwick sipped the coffee. “No, Detective, I am quite happy to speak to him. And now I know what triggers such explosive outbursts, I can do my best to counteract them.”

“Alright,” Veck replied. “I’ll let you in there alone with him. But I’ll be behind that glass panelling. The first sign of trouble I’m pulling you out of there.”

Fenwick nodded. “‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ so they say, right, Detective?”

“Right,” Veck said.

Fenwick was allowed back into the interrogation room. The Chessman was sitting at the table.

Fenwick sat down and opened his briefcase, pulled out the digital recorder, set it down and hit record. This was followed by the notepad and pencil.

He then reached in and gently pulled out two objects, setting them down on the table in front of him. A black king and a white queen.

“Hello,” Fenwick said, in English. “How are you today?”

The Chessman said nothing, but he did appear to look closely at the chess pieces.

“Is anything bothering you?”

The Chessman remained silent.

“I do apologise about the other day. I believe I may have come off as quite hostile. It was unprofessional of me to do so. I want to help you, but if you want me to help you, you must be ready to work with me.”

The Chessman reached out to the chess pieces, grasped them, and inspected them.

“These chessmen…they have some significance to you?” Fenwick asked.

The Chessman held them and looked up.

“I…remember…something,” he said, uncertainly. “But it’s foggy…like a dream…”

“Like these dreams of this…thing pursuing you?”

“No…no,” the Chessman said. His eyes seemed to momentarily flash with fear. “I remember those dreams…this is like…a dream of something familiar, but far away…from another place, another time.”

“Another place, another time,” Fenwick replied. “Interesting.”

“I feel safe when I have these chessmen,” the Chessman said. “Thank you for returning them to me. Those policemen…they took them from me.”

“Do they stop you from screaming?”

“No,” the Chessman said. “But…I feel protected when I have them on my person. Like all the hurts in the world could fall on me, but leave hardly a scratch.”

“I see,” Fenwick said. “So the chessmen are a sort of…totem. A talisman.”

“Y-yes,” the Chessman said.

“Very interesting,” Fenwick replied. “So you have a sort of fixation on this object.”

“I…I suppose so,” the Chessman replied, timidly.

“Indeed. So it stands to reason that chess may have some significance to you in your past.”

“My past?”

“Yes, your past,” Fenwick said.

“I…I don’t remember my past.”

“Well, you must have a past. You’re a grown man. You were a child, once. Perhaps…something happened in your childhood?”

“No,” the Chessman said, firmly. “I just don’t remember.”

Fenwick sighed. “What was the name of this entity you believe is pursuing you? You were trying to tell me it.”

The Chessman appeared very frightened. “Do you think it will hear me in this room?”

“I don’t think so,” Fenwick said. “It’s just you and me.”

He looked from left to right, and leaned forwards.

“Its name is…” he whispered. “Its name is…is…”

“Is…?” Fenwick prompted.

“Is…is…its name is…”

“You said ‘The Thren’,” Fenwick said. “Before the Detective rudely interrupted. There is only one word I can think of in English that begins with thren. If I say it, will you tell me if it is the correct word?”

The Chessman sat, shuddering for a few moments. “Y-yes.”

“This entity which seems to pursue and haunt you…does it speak to you?”

“O-only a little bit.”

“And one of the things it says is its name, correct?”

“R-right.”

“So,” Fenwick said. “When this entity visits you, it must say…I am the Threnody.”

The Chessman’s eyes seemed to fill with terror. His pupils dilated.

“That’s it,” Fenwick said.

“N-no,” the Chessman said. “N…no…”

“What?” Fenwick said.

The Chessman stood and pointed.

“Look…” he said. “Look…behind you…”

Fenwick turned, slowly, and looked behind him to see…

Nothing.

“It’s there…it’s right behind you,” the Chessman said. “Oh, God, what is it doing…it’s just standing there…what does it want…”

He stood, and pointed forcefully at the invisible spectre.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” he shrieked.

Fenwick saw that there was nothing there.

“Go away,” the Chessman hissed. Fenwick wasn’t sure if the Chessman was talking to him or the phantasm.

GO AWAY!” the Chessman screamed.

In one quick motion, with a frightening amount of strength, he grabbed the metal chair he had been sitting on and hurled it across the room, where it crashed into the glass panelled wall. It was then that Fenwick realised what the Chessman had been looking at – the mirrors on the wall behind them. Had he seen something in the mirror’s reflection? A shadow, perhaps?

He had very little time to ponder, however, as Veck quickly ran into the room and had the Chessman removed once again.

“So, what’s your diagnosis?” Veck asked as the man was escorted out, still clutching the chessmen.

Fenwick sighed, took off his glasses and cleaned them. “It is my professional opinion,” he said, “That that man is more of a danger to himself than to anyone else. I recommend that he is involuntarily committed to an institution at once.”

“We’ll get on it right away,” Veck said.

“Pleasure to be of assistance, Detective,” Fenwick replied. “I shall return to my office and type up a report, then return in the morning to file the proper documentation to have him committed.”

“Thank you,” Veck replied. “We’ll watch over him tonight.”

“Alright. Let me sort out my papers, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Pleasure working with you, Fenwick,” Veck said. “Safe journey home.”

The detective watched as Fenwick organised himself, neatly packing away his digital recorder and notepad, and then led him from the room. Fenwick looked back at the broken mirror.

Just for a moment, his eyes caught a glimpse of something – something lurking in the corner of the room. Behind where he had been sitting. Something tall, and dark. It seemed to look at him. He felt a surge of terror fill his heart, and then it was gone.

“Something the matter?” Veck enquired, cocking an eyebrow.

“N-no,” Fenwick replied, hurriedly. “It was…it was nothing.”

He swiftly got himself out of there.

That man’s mental state was beginning to rub off on him.

*

“Lights-out!”

The lights went off, just as they did every night since he got here. He looked up at the ceiling. Why were they holding him captive? One by one, the guards locked the cells, to prevent anyone closing. He would listen for the sound, knowing that that sound was the difference between him and a night of terrifying dreams once again. All down the corridor:

Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.

Here it came. The footsteps.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

And the lock.

And the lock.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp…

That was strange…they hadn’t locked his cell door. Or maybe they had.

He could escape! No…no, the guards would only tase him again. Or maybe even shoot him. After all, they thought him a dangerous lunatic. And there was probably an alarm system. He didn’t want to be in any more trouble than he was already in. Even though he didn’t really do anything.

He decided not to chance it, and lay down with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling.

*

It was a little after midnight. Veck was sitting at the front desk. He’d only caught a couple of hours of sleep. Fortunately, he had plenty of change for the koffiezetapparaat. He adjusted his mechanical arm. One of the motors was on its way out, which happened with an apparatus this old, but he had grown fond of the old thing. He’d lost an arm while on a tour of duty during the Sino-Soviet invasion of Persia. On returning home, he learned that the NAPD hired amputees and would even pay for upkeep of prosthetic limbs, so he’d signed up. He mostly did desk work – not quite what he had pictured when he’d signed up – but he’d grown to enjoy it.

The public address speaker buzzed and crackled overhead, something it was liable to do from time to time. He looked up at it, then went back to adjusting his arm, toggling a few switches. Then he went back to that day’s copy of the Times, where he was filling in the crossword.

The speaker crackled again. He looked up at it again.

“We must get that fixed,” he muttered, in his native tongue.

The speaker crackled once more, slightly louder, and there was a short squeal of feedback, followed by an unmistakable sound of drumming.

Rum-tum-tum-tum-ta-tum-ta-tum-tum-ta-rum-tum-tum-tum-ta-tum-ta-tum-ta-tum

    Veck sensed something was wrong. He stood, then went up the stairs in the main lobby. The PA system was based in the old switchboard room – when dispatch notified them that a patrol car needed to be sent to an incident nearby, an announcement would be made over the speakers, calling for officers to rush to the scene if no nearby rapid-response vehicles were available. It would also be used in the case of a fire alarm drill, or an actual incident of fire, to ensure swift evacuation of the building.

The switchboard room was behind a large, brown wooden door set into a beige wall on the upper mezzanine. Suspecting something was afoot, he drew his gun from its holster and held it close, then entered the room.

“Police! Hands where I can see them!” he shouted.

The room was almost dead silent but for the drumming.

Across the room, a receiver that looked about old as the building was hanging off the hook.

Carefully, he tiptoed through the room.

The switchboard operating officer would usually have been manning the switchboard. So where was he?

He walked over to the PA microphone. By now, the drumming had given way to brass instruments. It was jazz music.

The button had been taped down, and sat next to it was a small tape player, whose audio jack had been wired into the microphone input (an ingenious addition by the microphone’s designers to allow audio input even if the provided microphone went kaput).

Veck inspected it. Inside was a small Maxell cassette tape, labelled “SING SING SING”.

Veck was about to stop the tape playing when he heard something across the room.

It was a sort of moan or a gasp.

It had come from a nearby cabinet with swing doors, designed for storing first aid equipment, replacement headsets, and things of that nature.

Veck held the gun, and walked over to the cabinet.

He listened very carefully.

There was a painful moan, and a whisper, barely audible:

Help…me…

Veck wasted no time. The cabinet had been locked with a combination lock. He did probably the stupidest thing he’d done in his entire career and fired his gun at the lock, blowing it off, and then wrenched the cabinet door open.

Out of the cabinet fell a body – a human body, pale and clammy.

Veck leapt in fright.

“What the hell happened here?” he exclaimed.

The man in the cabinet moaned and writhed on the ground.

Veck reached down and turned him over.

His blue shirt had been torn open, and a hole had been stabbed through it – a small round hole, suggesting the assailant had attacked with a long, thin blade.

“Wait here,” Veck said. He called for an ambulance.

The man who had been attacked looked at him.

“She’s…still…here…” he gasped.

“Save your strength,” Veck said. “I’ll get her. Any idea where she’s heading?”

The man groaned painfully. “Looking…for…someone…”

Looking for… Veck thought.

Oh shit!

“Wait for the ambulance,” Veck said.

He quickly made his way out of the room, his gun still drawn. The jazz music was still playing, but he wasn’t going to waste time switching it off. He quickly made his way to the cells, the music echoing in the corridors.

He made it to the prisoners’ wing. It was dark. He could switch the lights on, but that would leave him wide open. She – whoever she was – would get the drop on him.

He pointed his gun behind and in front of him.

“NAPD!” he shouted. “I know you’re in here. Put your hands up! Surrender!”

Silence.

“That’s an order!”

He stopped outside the cell. His cell. The Chessman’s cell.

He took a moment to rest against the door, only for the door to suddenly swing inwards. He had entered the Chessman’s room.

“What…?” he said.

Did the guards forget to lock his room? But how…? That’s impossible…!

“I bet you’re wondering what’s going on here,” a voice said, in the shadows behind him. A woman’s voice. She spoke English.

Blijf staan!” Veck shouted.

“I’m afraid my Dutch isn’t very good,” the woman said. “Mind saying that again?”

“I said ‘Freeze!’” Veck shouted.

“Oh, right. No, I don’t think I’ll do that. Not that you’ll be able to do much damage with that piece anyway.”

“Don’t threaten me! Where is the prisoner?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of him. But he’s not of much use to me in the local asylum. I’m going to take him off your hands. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I don’t even know who you are, lady.”

“How lucky you are,” the woman in the shadows replied.

She suddenly surged forth.

Clutched in her left hand, to Veck’s eye, was what appeared to be a rapier, with a swept hilt. With two swift slashes, she managed to leave a gash in Veck’s chest, knocking him to the ground.

Veck fired a bullet at her.

To his amazement, she seemed to not only dodge the bullet, but parry it with the blade, as if it were another rapier. The blade seemed no worse for wear.

She placed a foot upon his chest and held the tip of the blade to his neck. Veck cried out as she put pressure on his chest wound.

Veck’s eyes had adjusted. He was able to get a good look at her. Her face was masked, and she wore what looked like an evening gown. Her right arm was missing.

“Who are you?” Veck asked.

“My name is Chroma,” the woman said. “And I’m the last voice you will ever hear.”

Veck laughed.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

He held up his mechanical hand, flexed the palm and launched two taser prods right at her chest.

She screamed, quickly using the rapier to sever the cables.

Veck was able to eject the taser cartridge, roll, grab his gun and point it back at her – all he had to to was line up the shot.

Chroma vanished.

What?!

“Nice try,” Chroma said.

She ran him through with the sword.

Veck gasped and collapsed.

Chroma withdrew the blade and bent down, examining the mechanical arm, and detached it from Veck’s residual limb. She picked it up.

“Hmm,” she said. “Quite a fitting replacement, don’t you think?”

She affixed it to her own residual limb. Immediately the motors whirred. She opened and closed the hand a few times.

The Chessman crawled out from under his cot.

“Wh…” he stammered. “What do you want from me?”

“I have altered the path of events such that you can escape with me,” Chroma said. “You’re…quite famous.”

“You…know me?” the Chessman said.

“Yes,” Chroma said. “But…it will take some explaining.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away from this place.”

She put her arm around him.

“We have much to discuss. But for now…”

And suddenly they were outside, and the woman smiled.

“…it is so nice to see you again.”

*

Arthur Fenwick arrived at the station very early the next morning, at the prescribed time, papers in hand. When he turned up, there was an ambulance at the front.

He immediately felt his heart sink.

There was crime scene tape all around the entrance.

A police officer stood by the entrance, looking very grave.

“Ex…excuse me,” Fenwick said, timidly. “What happened here?”

“An attack last night, ‘round midnight,” the officer said. “Several of our own were attacked, looks like with a sword of some kind.”

“Where is Detective Veck…?”

“He was one of the victims,” the officer said, coolly. “He’s at the hospital. In surgery. He might not make it.”

“What…?”

“You that little psychiatrist we got in to help out with the Chessman?”

“Y…yes.”

“Hmm…” the officer said. “Well, uh, that’s a problem. See, uh – the Chessman…disappeared last night.”

“Disappeared?!” Fenwick exclaimed.

“Yeah. No trace of him. We found Detective Veck in his cell, so…”

“So he broke out?”

“Well…” the officer huffed. “…that, or someone broke him out.”

“Oh my God…”

“Listen, sir, you better get yourself away from here,” the officer said. “We don’t need your help any more. You can mail us the papers if need be and we’ll have him committed in absentia.”

“Of…of course.”

“If we need your help finding him, we’ll let you know.”

“Right you are, officer…”

Fenwick walked away from the station, dejected.

The Chessman…missing?

Veck in the hospital?

Someone with a sword?

What the hell was going on?

He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Something wasn’t right.

And now he really wanted to find answers.


Another place, another time…


Creative Commons Licence
This work is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.


ARC TWO: ROSE GOLD
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII