Chapter 6
The Unwitting Accessory
His lungs explode.
Well, not quite. But it feels like they're going to, soon.
He's running on empty now, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his legs twin stumps of leaden jelly. Somewhere on the threshold of hearing, somewhere behind him he hears the faint echoes of extremely expensive designer shoes ringing crisply off the impeccably clean concrete floor of the underpass. Slightly beyond that threshold, if his heart wasn't pounding fit to burst and if the flurry of his crazed footsteps wasn't quite so ponderous, he'd be able, if he really tried, to make out the eerie swishes of expensive trouser legs barely brushing their opposite numbers as their owners athletically lift their legs and plant them down in the perfect heel-strike positions for their next immaculate toe-offs.
Pan camera left, then zoom in on the figures neatly rounding the corner in pairs.
These guys make the Agent Smith clones of yesteryear look like frank amateurs. They don't even appear to breathe as they run, arms neatly tucked in by their sides and legs loping in easy strides that belie their speed.
Several well-endowed models, barely covered by their redundant wonderbras and long, flowing tresses watch impassively from their holographic windowlets either side of the tunnel, bouncing and oozing into suggestive, yet not-quite salacious poses and beckoning to the black-suited figures flashing by.
The eight pairs of Calvin Klein dark glasses never once waver from their almost-acquired target dead ahead, somewhere around the corner.
Some of the more progressive ads feature impossibly hunky men as well, bare to the midriff and holding their female partners sexily, yet at the same time suitably chastely to their South East Asian six-packs. Kit's oxygen-starved mind wanders fleetingly back to the days of yesteryear when the ads first started turning faintly bawdy, which coincided funnily enough with the government's push for a more populated populace.
He sidesteps around a grinning geriatric blind solo-act wheezing out a barely discernable tune on his state-of-the-art combination accordian/keyboard/techno drum set/er-hu/home PC/playstation-2 musical gadget, and darts doggedly into a stairwell, slowing to a crawl as he superhumanly mounts the steps one at a time.
His deceleration proves to be his salvation.
That and the visually-challenged uncle with the Cheshire Cat smile, who continues blithely with his raucous rendition of Unchained Melody (complete with nasal lyrics) effectively obliterating all traces of Kit's less-than-stealthy retreat. As the eight Agent Smith lookalikes synchronously pass him handsomely by, not-quite Stevie Wonder somehow manages to stagger obliviously into their paths.
There's that noise of a bowling ball achieving a perfect strike that invariably accompanies scenes like this, and the eight immaculate runners suddenly find themselves sprawled on the ground.
One of them snarls and draws back a lethally-curled fist, which stops abruptly in mid air as his gaze follows blind uncle's toothy smile and subtly extended index finger to the Webcam mounted on Uncle-Steve's PC. It's currently displaying a humourous image of nine men in Calvin Klein darkglasses, eight in suits and one in singlet and shorts in an undignified heap on the floor. It's also logged wirelessly onto the internet.
*****
"Train doors closing. Beepbeepbeep."
He glances furtively about himself as the train pulls out of the station. There's :
1) an offensive-smelling boy in uniform sitting across from him staring vacantly at his nuts lap.
2) a kindly little old man buried somewhere deep in his copy of The Straights Times
3) some guy in a too-tight T shirt reading a copy of The Gay Times. The Gay Times evidenced the progressive, passionate spirit of the New Government, building further on the starting blocks of True Freedom initiated in their wisdom by the Old Government, namely the legalisation of bungee jumping and bartop dancing. It was the brainchild of The YMPA (Young Men's Pagan Association) which sprung up surprisingly quickly the day after the Singalander government declared police registration of apolitical groups optional.
Naturally, homosexual sex remained illegal.
4) Another guy in too-tight trousers reading The Gay Times.
5) Yet another guy reading The Gay Times.
6) A svelte, slim and nubile young woman snogging :
7) another svelte, slim young woman. Nubile, too.
And most importantly,
8) no men in black suits and dark glasses.
Kit starts breathing again and for the first time tonight glances surreptitiously at the tan envelope.
It's good quality paper, and sealed with wax.
It smells of Jean's light, summery perfume - light, sexy, and nearly edible. His heart pounds as he remembers her eyes glazing over as she slumped back out of his arms into... he can't think it.
He can't think that she's dead.
Look at her handwriting on the front of the envelope. Blue ink. And she curls her Rs... A silent tear escapes his eye and works its way down his face.
It's an address. An address, on an envelope, he thinks hysterically. How sensible. How logical. How... odd.
There's a time on it as well. And a date.
Today's date. 23:30 - an hour from now.
*****
They call him The Architect.
Nobody knows why - they just do. He'd much rather a more menacing pseudonym like The Punisher or The Judge. But no, they have to call him The Architect.
Right now, he's (confusingly enough) in a doctor's office, seated in a reclining chair with his boots propped up on a desk.
It's an abandoned office, and he's sitting in the dark - the electricity has long since been discontinued. Dust cakes the desk, and the floor, and the solitary window. And everything else. As always, he's stylishly dressed in a Burbury's trenchcoat and fedora, making him hot. No, I mean hot. Singaland is no place for a trenchcoat - it's far too humid.
23.31. The contact's late, he's irritable, and it's hot. He lets the brim of his fedora slide down over his eyes and dozes off...
*****
The Old Ang Pow Polyclinic. He's here.
Kit looks doubtfully through the darkened window at the nothingness within, then tries the door. It's slightly ajar, and swings inwards with that dull, prolonged creak one associates with movies with the word "Van" somewhere in them, when he touches it.
It's dark in here, and there's a funny feeling in his throat. He's not sure, but it feels like his heart. And somewhere in his stomach a hundred butterflies unfurl their wings and begin fluttering.
Somehow, by the dim moonlight he begins to make out the shadow of a desk, and an examination couch, and a filing cabinet.
Then, as his eyes attune to the dark he notices boots lying on the table. And a hat on the chair. And...
There's someone in here with him. Someone who's sitting very, very still. The hairs on his neck stand bolt upright to attention. Psychotic violins begin playing in the background. Well, they would if this was a movie, but since it's a narrative there's an absolute and deathly hush.
"uh... hello?"
His words sound like a thunderclap in his ears.
They're met by silence. The figure doesn't stir.
He pauses, then slowly, almost afraid at what he's about to discover, he reaches out his trembling hand...
*****
Beach. He's lying on a beach with a beautiful broad in a barely adequate bikini. Breakers break around their entwined feet as they begin
(we interrupt this scene to bring you a message from our sponsors. This episode has been brought to you by the letter B!) to engage in that stuff broads like prior to bonking. Something, play they call it.
She runs a finger coquettishly along his neck, and then down his arm.
He kisses her neck, and feels her hands close around his shoulders and...
*****
... shakes the figure. It hadn't budged at his first tentative touch. It's still warm. There's a certain fatalistic dread in his heart. Death has stood by his shoulder once already tonight. Please don't let this guy be...
A pair of eyes snaps open suddenly, twin globes of white in the depths of the darkness.
"What." so crisply enunciated is the one word that it cracks like a pistol-shot in the still of the night.
"um. I, I. I've g-got a letter for you, s-ssir. At least I think it's for y-you. J-jean..."
Jean. Jean.
"Jean's d-d-dead."
*****
It's just a kid. A bloody kid. And he's snivelling. Oh God, now he's crying.
Jesus, the Resistance must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel if this is what they're recruiting now.
Still, a job's a job. Sometimes he finds himself wishing he had a more mundane career. Something nice and secure that involved a nice little cubicle and a nice little potted plant, with his very own desk and not some crummy doctors cheap plywood desk for the night. And lots of forewarning before each assignment. A nice predictable routine.
(And who the ____ is Jean?)
"Give me the letter."
*****
Kit hands the shadow the letter with a tiny sob of mingled terror and despair. His shoulders shake a little, but at least he's not crying. Or at any rate, he's concealing it well, he thinks.
His heart stops as he hears a metallic clink - oh God, is that a gun, isthatagun? There's a flare of light.
It's a cigarette lighter. His heart beats again. The shadow bursts crazily into light and sharp shadows. He's wearing some kind of hat and a coat. He's all angles in this light, except for his eyes, which are sharp and narrowed, and as he reads, narrow even more.
The light flickers out.
"Do close the door on the way out, won't you?"
Kit stands rooted to the spot in fear.
There's another clink. And this time it isn't followed by a flare of light.
"You did hear me...?"
The Shadow doesn't need to finish the question as Kit's cowardly legs decide to take action into their own, err... feet, and walk him out the door. Prestissimo.
He closes the door gingerly as he leaves.
Kit doesn't know it yet, but he's just become an accessory to murder.
