“Skib ertelis byan grem shetlintibub,” I say to the younger man. “Bolzaten glilt ak etherurta fisriline hulp.” I feel my face grow hotter still and fear that I am blushing. Sweat is gathering on my brow. This is perfectly absurd, but both men now seem rapt, and I feel it is easier to go on talking, even if it is utter gibberish, than it is to fall silent and wait for them to reply, or just burst out laughing. “Danatre skehellis, ro vleh gra’ampt na zhire; sko tre genebellis ro binitshire, na’sko voross amptfenir-an har.” Finally I can go on no longer, and – as my throat dries up – I simply run out of nonsense to speak.
The younger man narrows his eyes and nods slowly, again as though he understands this absolute rubbish. He looks slowly away from me to the fat man and says something. The fat man nods and makes a hand gesture that might mean I told you so. The young man leans forward and says, quite slowly, “Poldi poldipol, pol pol poldipolpol poldi poldi.” He sits back, smirking.
Well, of course, they are simply making fun of me. I smile thinly, look him in the eyes and say, “Poldi poldi polodi plopolpopolpopilploop.”
I expect him to smirk again, or laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits back as though struck, his expression changes to that of somebody who has just been profoundly insulted, he looks me up and down and then rises smartly to his feet, angrily shrugging off the hand of the fat man who appears to be trying to placate him. The fat man starts to say something, sounding soothing, but the young man interrupts him, shouting him down in what sounds like a stream of invective. The only word I can make out is the nonsense one “Poldi.” He turns imperiously, spits at the floor under my bed and storms out, head held high.
The fat man says something plaintive to him, goes to the door and says something after him, then gives a deep sigh, shakes his head and looks in at me, his expression regretful, hurt and disappointed. He scratches the back of his head with one chubby hand and expels another resigned sigh. He says something inflected to be a question, I think. I am definitely not saying anything else from this point on, and I just sit there glaring at him.
He shakes his head once more, asks another, similar-sounding question, then – when I still do not reply, but glare even more pointedly at him – he rubs one thick-fingered hand over his bald pate and stares down at the floor, possibly at where the younger patient spat. I doubt he will have the manners to do anything about that particular outrage. I bet I shall have to wait for an orderly or the cleaners to clean it up. I suppose I could do it myself, but I feel the gesture was both rude and uncalled-for and I don’t see why I should.
He mutters, staring away, as though talking to himself, and rubs his hands together, looking and sounding worried. He sighs theatrically, shakes his head one more time, and leaves, shoulders drooped, still muttering.
He stays away this time. Filled with relief, I reach for my thin plastic cup and the watery fruit juice. As I drink it, I notice that my hands are shaking.
“Did you kill Lord Harmyle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was ordered to.”
“By whom?”
“Madame d’Ortolan.”
“I know that not to be true. Lord Harmyle was not on your list.”
“Really? Must have misread it.”
“Please don’t affect flippancy.”
“No? Okay.”
“Now, did you-”
“Have you seen the list?”
“What?”
“Have you seen the list?”
“Not relevant. Did you have orders to kill anybody else?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Dr Seolas Plyte, Ms Pum Jésusdottir, Mr Brashley Krijk, der Graf Heurtzloft-Beiderkern, Commandante Odil Obliq and Mrs Mulverhill the younger.”
A pause. I got the impression this was being written down as well as recorded. The circle of lights surrounded me. My questioner was still behind me, unseen. “My information indicates that you were asked merely to forcibly transition the people you mention, with the exception of Lord Harmyle, who, as already indicated, we know was not on your list.”
“I was given verbal orders from Madame d’Ortolan that all those on the list were to be killed, not transitioned. Quickly as possible.”
“Verbal instructions?”
“Yes.”
“In a matter of such importance?”
“Yes.”
“To be confirmed in writing subsequently?”
“No. I asked specifically. Definitely not to be confirmed in writing subsequently.”
“That would be unprecedented, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I would like to ask a question.”
Another pause. “Go ahead.”
“Who are you?” We were speaking a version of English which had separate “yous” for singular and plural; I had used the plural version.
“We are officers of the Concern,” the calm male voice said. “What did you think?”
“Who do you answer to?”
No pause. “Were your orders delivered to you in the usual fashion?”
“Yes. A one-time mechanical micro-reader.”
“Did you question your orders?”
“Yes. As I’ve said.”
“But you still accepted them, including the unprecedented alleged instruction to kill individuals who, according to your written orders, were only to be forcibly transitioned for their own safety.”
“Yes.”
“Had you received orders to kill so many people before?”
“No.”
“Were you aware that they were unusual orders in requiring such a… such a glut of killing?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you did not think to question them.”
“I did question them. And in the end I did not obey them.”
“You were not able to. You were captured before you could.”
“But I had-”
“Be quiet. Plus, you took it upon yourself to kill at least one more person in addition to the already significant number you falsely claim you had been instructed to kill.”
“As I-”
“Be quiet. I take it you were aware of the seniority of the persons you claim you were instructed to elide. Save for the Mulverhill woman, they are all on the Central Council of the Transitionary Office. Answer.”
“Of course.” (Are all on. An interesting choice of verb tense; inadvertently instructive, I hope.)
“And yet still you did not think to question the orders?”
“As we’ve established, I did question them. And I did not carry them out.”
“I see. Is there anything you would like to add?”
“I would like to know who you answer to. Under whose authority do you operate? I would also like to know where I am.”
A pause. “I think that concludes the preliminary part of our investigations,” the voice said. There was a hint of a question in the tone and I got the impression that he had turned his head and was talking to somebody else, not to me. I heard another, younger, man speak. Then the voice that had been conducting the interrogation said quietly, “No, we’ll call that stress level zero.” The young man’s voice came again, then the older man’s once more, patient and instructive, a teacher to a pupiclass="underline" “Well, it is and it isn’t. Absolute to the level per individual, but individuals differ. So, zero. Provides headroom.” I was starting to sweat. The man cleared his throat. “Very well,” he said.
I heard him rise from a chair and sensed him walking towards me. My heart had been beating quickly anyway. Now it started to beat even faster. Shadows twisted on the concrete floor. I sensed the man behind me. I heard the deep, rasping, tearing noise of thick sticky tape being unrolled. He reached over me and put the tape over my eyes and right round my head, blinding me. I was breathing short and shallow, my heart thrashing in my chest. More tearing. He put another long line of tape round across my mouth and, again, right round my head. I had no choice but to breathe through my nose now. I tried to calm myself, to take fewer, deeper breaths.