I put her down with a kiss on the head, and called good bye to Henna as I walked out the door. Perhaps she came into the living room to give me a kiss, to wish me luck with my day. I’ll never know, because I never saw her alive again.
Someone had discovered what I was doing, how close I’d come to the truth. They gave the order and that someone came to my apartment that day and dismantled the two women I loved. He did it in a way which said they knew all about me, about the kind of things I had seen in The Gap, about what fears still lived at the heart of my life. For the last five years I’d assumed it was someone hired by Vinaldi, but now I believed that it wasn’t.
But somebody did it. They did it, and they helped destroy me, but perhaps it was me who added the most damning touch.
At the time when Henna and Angela were being killed I wasn’t at work. I wasn’t even working. I could have been at home, but I wasn’t because I was with another woman, and I was fucking her. Her name was Phieta, and she was the one who eventually came and found me in the warehouse, where I’d run after finding my family’s bodies. At the moment Henna was killed I was kissing Phieta’s breasts; by the time Angela died I was perhaps down to her navel. I can’t be exactly sure about the timing, but it’s probably about right. I don’t suppose it really matters.
How long do you wait for something which may never come? Do you keep on looking for Oz? In the end does it even exist, or is it just MaxWork, a way of passing the time?
Five years on the Farm brought me no closer to understanding anything. Perhaps I’m not built for answers; perhaps I am just the product of wrong experiences and bad advice. I can remember one time, when I was fourteen, a rare expansive moment of my father’s. He was sitting in our tiny kitchen, slobbing his way through the dinner my mother had prepared. She was at the sink, washing up. I don’t recall which house this was in, because they all blur into one, but I remember my father watching my mother for a long while as she cleaned and scrubbed, running his eyes over her tired, slumped shoulders. He turned to me eventually and said these words:
“Remember this, Jack. Masturbation is no substitute for all of the other women in the world.”
And though I loved my mother, and hated my father more than anyone before or since, I fear it was his world view which I absorbed. It’s not necessarily the right things, the good things, which make the most impact on your mind. Every little thing, including your own weaknesses, contributes its own little line of code. Even bad things can be true, and even good advice can turn on you.
I don’t eat ice cream very often anymore, but I’ve always tried to follow what the old man on the beach said. I’ve tried to mold my world and not settle for less than what I think I want. To write my own lines every now and then. The old man meant well, but what he didn’t tell me is that sometimes even the best sentiments, the most glorious acts, are not enough. He didn’t tell me that the world is simply stronger, and will bend you much more than you bend it; or that for much of the time you will help it
He didn’t tell me that you may get confused, and lose your way, and that help may never come.
I have made my life unavoidable. I did it to myself. While I was Gone Away I think I began to realize there might be something I could do to save it.
I was Gone Away for a long time, at least several hours. I’d never been away that long before, and when I eventually got back I was exhausted, terrified, and alone. The return is like waking up from your seventy-fifth hangover in a row to find that you’ve run out of coffee and American Express has put a bounty on your head. I faded back into life with the vague feeling of having been summoned, and found myself standing in a thick section of forest which was clearly a very long way from the village I’d fled.
I felt guilty at having abandoned Vinaldi, but the truth of the matter was that I could have done no good by being caught. Splitting up was the right thing to do. People don’t just do it in horror films to make the movie longer—they do it because it means not everyone gets killed at once. Running had also been the best policy, bad though I was now feeling about it. Vinaldi had been captured, but I hadn’t—which meant I was still, technically at least, in a position to do something.
When the guilt subsided I looked around in an attempt to discover where I was. Trees still marched off in all directions, but the ground was rougher than any I’d seen before in The Gap. Large rocks poked out of the leaves and there were hillocks and depressions in the ground. The light was a dim greeny-blue, filtered by the trees. The light made it look as if the forest was underwater.
I had no idea where I was, or how to get back to the village. My bleary examination of the ground failed to reveal any sign of the leaves having been disturbed from any direction in particular; it appeared that I had just been beamed down out of nowhere.
The first decision I had to make was whether to take any more Rapt. Or rather, since I was obviously going to take some more at some stage, whether I should take it there and then. I could feel a residual buzz in the back of my head and knew that the buzz would probably stay at that level for another hour or so, but there was no telling when I’d come up against something which would require me to be utterly off my face to survive. Decisions, decisions.
“Soldier.”
When I heard the voice I thought I was going to die. All my internal organs twitched at once, as if trying to leap out of a body which they clearly believed was not long for this world. I dropped to the ground in a crouch, darting glances around in as many directions as I could without actually disengaging my eyes from their sockets.
“Soldier.”
I almost didn’t hear it the second time, because my heart was beating so loudly. But then the word was repeated again. It was coming from behind me. Naturally.
Using my hands to brace myself, I slowly turned to face the other way without standing up. There was no one there. All I could see was a collection of hillocks, covered in trees, shading off into the darkness like undulating dunes on the seabed.
“Yes, soldier. Come to me.”
I saw a flicker by one of the hillocks, and had a strange urge to get up, but stayed where the fuck I was. One of the things about Rapt is that you learn to heartily distrust your first impressions. Being in The Gap at all is ill-advised. The idea of walking voluntarily toward anyone you don’t know is stupid beyond belief.
“Come, please,” said the voice then, and I saw that there was indeed something standing beside an outcrop of rock about twenty yards in front of me. At least I thought it was that far; the figure, if that’s what it was, seemed surprisingly small.
I stared at it, trying to work out what to do. No point in running; if I’d been seen, I’d been seen. I’d managed to outrun Yhandim and Ghuaji mainly because they hadn’t been properly into space when I spotted them. Also because I can run like fuck when I’m scared shitless and have a head start. I was absolutely confident that whatever was standing by the rock now would be able to catch me within yards.
I stood cautiously, took a couple of steps forward. The figure nodded in encouragement and remained by the rock, waiting.
I decided I might as well walk forward into doom rather than catch it in the back.
The thing was indeed small, but it was only when I was within a few yards of it that the flickering light settled into something recognizable. At first I didn’t see a figure, as such, but an area of space which was simply darker than its surroundings—as if its grip on the world was limited to casting a shadow upon it.