Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [118]
The policeman’s tongue, such as it was, was flickering wetly in and out of his mouth.
‘Yes, dear. You might even have a person in it who seemed absolutely real. And that person might just be a construct, made from memories of someone you met.’
‘Telling me it’s all a dream.’
‘Well, they might not actually come out and say it, dear.’
* * *
The last of the trees had been cut down and dragged away.
Now you could see the tunnel mouth of the project site quite clearly from the picture window, even when you were sitting down.
Stephanie was admiring the view, sitting on the couch beside O’Hara. She had her feet up on a cushion on the coffee table beside the printer. While O’Hara was waiting for his call she was printing out a questionnaire that had been prepared by the Butler Institute’s psychology consultants. Stephanie caught the last sheet as it slid out of the printer. She got up and sauntered out of the room.
O’Hara remained sitting on the couch, waiting to take the call that was coming in on the hour. Jack Blood appeared on the carpet in front of him. He was holding a rotting newspaper and a huge fan of yellow pages, and was wearing a 1930s newsboy’s cap. ‘Priority news,’ said Jack. The words came out of his carved mouth in the voice of the B&O television newswoman. The computer in the B&O had picked up something it deemed O’Hara should know about.
‘Pause,’ said O’Hara. Jack Blood froze, the newspaper extended in one twig‐bundle hand, hanging in midair. The woman’s voice faded. ‘Resume when this phone call is over.’
Three images stabilized on the wall. The first to snap into focus was Mr Pegram’s physician. She advised O’Hara against exciting Mr Pegram, then disappeared to be replaced by Pegram himself. O’Hara had never seen the old man looking so ill. The next image to arrive was that of the Oriental woman. Next was the teenage boy. He was wearing his ceremonial robes today.
The woman was the first to speak. ‘Our shareholders are applying a great deal of pressure. People are becoming frightened.’
‘My subjects are frightened as well,’ said the boy.
‘We’ve done our best to keep a lid on the situation,’ said Mr Pegram, the rich virile voice coming out of his withered face. ‘But too many people know. Word’s getting out to the public. They know about the point of no return.’
On the floor under the living room, at the front of the house, Stephanie knocked and went into what used to be Patrick’s bedroom. There were still toys on the floor, dragged into piles to make room for the stretcher from the helicopter. It was a bulky paramedical unit with on‐board life support equipment and some monitoring hardware. Mulwray was sitting in a child‐sized chair, supposedly on guard duty. He got up when Stephanie came into the room and shambled out, heading for the kitchen. He was carrying a handgun and, considering his increasingly erratic behaviour, Stephanie might normally have been a little worried. But she had ordered the weapon especially for Mulwray from an armaments subsidiary, with a request that the firing pin was removed.
When Stephanie was alone she presented Vincent with the questionnaire, removing one set of handcuffs and giving the boy a pen to write with. She kept the other set of cuffs locked, one end attached to his wrist, the other to the frame of the bunk bed. Stephanie looked at the small decals that covered the heavy metal bunk bed. O’Hara had told her that his son loved this bed. Just one of those dumb things kids become fond of.
As Stephanie turned to leave the room she had a strong impulse. She wanted to touch Vincent. Turn and go back into the room and touch the teenage boy handcuffed to the bed.
It was an odd desire. It wasn’t as though there was anything special about Vincent. He certainly wasn’t good looking. But there was something about him. You wanted to grab his hand. Touch his face. Make contact.
Vincent