The Gang of Four

Alan gradually emerged from troubling dreams of rushing frantically through rain forests, savannah, ocean depths. Always the pursued; the pursuer – nature. Every beast and creepy-crawly imaginable on a relentless quest to grab him.

  Lying on the Finsbury Circus roof, he squinted into the sharp sunlight and then studied his surroundings. Traffic sounds. He stood up and slowly walked over to the edge and viewed the scenes below. A road sweeping truck trundled by sucking up crap and debris from the road below. Other trucks performed the same duty in other streets, and pavement sweepers were also out in force.

  London looked battered. Most of the roads and pavements were covered in something and his roof locale was similarly affected. He rubbed the stuff between his fingers: a fine volcanic ash by the looks of it. It began to penetrate his skin so he hastily brushed it off. Further afield, isolated plumes of smoke rose up.

  His memory of events remained vivid but disjointed, so much had happened in such a short space of time. He was no longer Sponsor, his alien tissue and genes brutally ripped away, almost killing him in the process. Recollections of his final moments on the roof were particularly vivid but also nonsensical, blending into his nightmarish dreams. The Earth had done this. Its primary agents were on the roof with him, goading and mocking – the Sponsors probably never stood a chance.

  Alan brushed some of the ash and muck from his crumpled clothes and slowly headed for the stairwell. Considering how ill he had felt in the aftermath of the attack it was puzzling just how well he felt now. But he did feel different: fully human, no longer part Sponsor – like switching from digital back to analogue. Capabilities lost, thought processes a bit sluggish but a compensating ripeness to his senses: smells and sounds, all just a bit more vibrant. Contemplating how different his life would be from now on he made his way down the steps and headed for his place of work, three floors below.

  On entering his department he stopped and took in the buzz and activity of the open-plan office. He no longer fitted in here. Not only was he now incapable of performing his duties, of working any kind of number on the clients, but that whole line of work simply did not exist any more. The first jolt of anxiety. Of all the hybrids he was the least on-message when it came to the Sponsors’ programmes but he knew they were essential. What was going to happen to the human system now!? Why, only yesterday the supervisor had listed the number of times the Sponsors had prevented a nuclear war. But that was merely one obvious aspect of their work. What about the environment? The global economy? Did economics even work without Sponsor intervention? So many of the threads keeping modern society intact and healthy would now be pulled apart. Disturbed by this notion, Alan decided he would attempt contact with the Sponsors; he knew the psynet was down, and felt sure they were all dead on Earth, but maybe something remained… in space perhaps.

  He entered his office unnoticed and was immediately taken aback by the foul stench. Time to open a window, and check out a few things.

  Unlocking a lower drawer on his desk, he quickly discovered the source of that acrid smell: secret communications equipment, fully Sponsor technology, now reduced to a pool of crude oil and the odd bit of metal. He carefully removed the drawer and took it to the toilets for a thorough rinse. Various office workers reacted badly as he passed by with the drawer dripping all over the carpet.

  ‘Sorry.’

  As Alan returned once again to his office he was intercepted by Tilly who came running over to meet him.

  ‘Alan!’

  Alan offered a weak smile. ‘Hello, Tilly.’

  ‘What happened to you!? I left you for just a moment then when I returned with the doctor you’d vanished!’

  ‘Well I, err…’

  ‘I’m just glad you are still with us, you looked terribly ill, on death’s door! Did you go home? You should have waited for the doctor, Babes!’

  ‘Err, yes, well, I…’

  ‘You know Bruce and the division supervisor are both dead. Horrible it was, they… I won’t go into details. But you seem to have recovered, are you feeling okay, Alan. We should still get you checked out by the doctor.’

  ‘It’s alright, I have received treatment,’ he lied, ‘and I am fine.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tilly, noncommittally, before remembering something else: ‘The police are here, investigating the deaths. Apparently there have been quite a few like this all over London! Something toxic from the asteroid, according to Twitter. They’ll want to speak to you.’

  ‘Who, Twitter?’

  Tilly laughed, ‘No, the police, they are still around, somewhere. They’ve got Scenes of Crime over in Bruce’s office. Oh yes, and we’ve got a new boss! James Something-or-other, although he prefers Jim.’

  ‘Fairclough?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. How did you know?’

  Alan had checked his list of new emails and a certain Jim Fairclough featured prominently. He showed Tilly.

  ‘Ah, he’s been firing off lots of those this morning.’

  Alan sighed loudly and unhappily. He did not want to talk to this guy! Jim Fairclough, presumably human, was no doubt looking forward to working with the company’s financial guru and whiz kid, but he knew squat about any of that now! Oh God, he felt like resigning on the spot, but this remained a very well-paid job, and he still had bills to pay. Real life crowded in; how exposed he felt as a human: no special skills, no powerful benefactors.

  ‘I presume they have replaced the supervisor as well?’

  ‘I don’t know, Alan, I think that job may be advertised,’ replied Tilly.

  After a few more minutes of chit-chat, Alan began to cheer up. Maybe he could handle this after all. He could give himself a crash course in financial advice, and the likes of Al Nasa would be happy to take guidance for some time to come, assuming he played that safe. Yes, he had a great client list – if he concentrated on the really dim ones. That meant dropping Helen Warner. No problem, Alan thought, that woman gave him the creeps anyway.

  It all hinged on this Jim bloke: if he was more manager than financial expert then Alan could just affect an enigmatic act and refer to patterns and stuff. Bamboozle the guy with bull! Ah, but that suited old Alan. New analogue Alan would more likely put his foot in it. Still, he could be the silent enigmatic type. Maybe he should get a cape… but what if this guy was red hot on finance..?

  ‘Where have you put Jim? I suppose I should say hello.’

  ‘He’s in the Blue Room at the moment. When the police have finished with Bruce’s office I presume he’ll switch over.’

  ‘Cheers, Babes. Catch ya later.’

  Alan began to make his way to the Blue Room via a circuitous route that included a sweep past Bruce’s office. Not much to see, as it turned out – just some bloke in a tight grey suit fiddling with his smart phone. The bodies had been removed.

  Arriving at the Blue Room – more of an extension to the open-plan area than a proper office – Alan gave a little wave to the man behind the desk who was talking to another man he did not recognize. Already Alan had doubts about his ability to do this. His body language seemed off. Was a friendly wave appropriate?

  The man behind the desk motioned the other to stop and then turned to Alan.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, I won’t interrupt, if you are in a meeting,’ Alan advanced with a lurch into the office space, ‘I’m Alan Dosogne, I just popped in to say hi, welcome.’ Alan extended a hand and thankfully the other man grasped it without too long a delay.

  ‘Alan! I am surprised to see you in, I heard you were very ill. I am Jim Fairclough, this is Superintendent Walters; I believe he wants to speak with you about yesterday’s business.’

  Alan was lost for words already.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the police officer. ‘Glad to see you in the land of the living, we did fear the worst. Where have you been, Mr. Dosogne? We have been trying to track you down all night, but you weren’t at home, or admitted to any hospitals.’

  What was Ala
n going to say? He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he felt guilty, and telling this cop he’d spent the night on the roof would not help matters. It probably wouldn’t go down too well with his new boss, either.

  ‘I don’t rightly recall, to tell you the truth,’ said Alan, shiftily. ‘It’s all a bit of a daze.’

  Would that be good enough? Both men stared at him. Eventually Supt. Walters replied: ‘Of course, Alan. Yesterday was disturbing for all of us. It’s alright, you are not under any suspicion, but I will need to take a statement from you. We can do that now, if you like, or you can pop into the police station.’

  Alan checked the cop’s insignia: not City Police. ‘Which nick, I mean, police station?’ God, get a grip!

  ‘South Norwood. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Is that down by Crystal Palace way?’

  ‘Yes, near there.’

  Another pregnant pause.

  ‘I think we should do it here then.’

  Yet another pause.

  ‘Okay, Alan.’ The Superintendent glanced over at Jim Fairclough, who promptly indicated that the statement could be taken here in the Blue Room.

  ‘Here, take my seat,’ said his new boss, standing, ‘and, Alan, after the statement I think you should go home, get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Jim departed leaving Alan to ponder on how embarrassing their first meeting had been. Was he coming across as zonked? He knew he wasn’t, he was just no good at chitchat any more. This was actually more disturbing because when he did finally get to sit down with his boss he’d be still be useless! Even though first impressions had been extremely brief, he sensed his new boss was no fool.

  Alan provided the police with their statement: accurate in all matters up to the attack; indistinct and misleading, thereafter. He decided to go with amnesia, and vague recollections of wandering the streets, blah blah blah. That seemed to satisfy the superintendent.

  With that business over, Alan returned to his office to collect his jacket before leaving for home. What was he going to do with the remainder of the day? He never took days off..! The thought of a pile of junk food, a bottle of wine and a box-set seemed both novel and enticing. Maybe new analogue Alan could reinvent himself as a couch potato...

  On entering his office he found Jim Fairclough using his phone. Someone really needed to give this guy a permanent office!

  ‘Ah, Alan,’ said Jim, waving the phone receiver at him, ‘before you nip off, could you field this call, please, it’s from Helen Warner. A matter of great import, apparently.’

  Alan reluctantly took the phone and noticed with horror that Jim was sticking around, watching him. ‘Might be confidential,’ Alan mouthed to Jim, who nodded but stayed put. Christ, if he leaned forwards to put this on speaker phone he’d witness Alan’s newfound lack of competence. Maybe he could bluff it out with one of the other clients but Warner had a nasty habit of catching him out, of questioning his analysis and arguing every point until it was beaten into submission. Even with access to the psynet, old Alan sometimes struggled. Hence, occasionally, Warner went her own way. When that happened it could disrupt the human system and so, when the stakes were high, he’d be given help: Mr. Harman: 1.1 percent Sponsor, financial savant and able to muddle and bamboozle even Warner. He could do with his assistance right now, but he would be dead, of course.

  ‘Helen, hi! Alan Dosogne speaking.’ Alan glanced over at Jim who was still watching and listening intently. Nothing on the other end of the line, ‘…hello?’

  ‘Hello, Alan, Helen Warner.’

  Damn! ‘Morning, Helen, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I am pleased to hear you are well, Alan. The police had been keen to get hold of you.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just given my statement–’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve just read it. I like to keep up with the boys in blue, you know?’ replied Warner with relishes of innuendo. ‘You have been through the wars, haven’t you, Alan?’

  That Warner routinely hacked police communications was not so much of a surprise; she boasted of similar surveillances on rivals and officials all the time. But her interest in him was disconcerting.

  ‘Yes, it’s been a very trying period for all of us. You presumably heard about Bruce Claxton?’

  ‘Of course, I’ve just been talking to call-me-Jim, his somewhat inadequate replacement.’

  Alan deliberately avoided glancing over at Jim.

  ‘Yes, and I’m still not quite firing all cylinders. I am actually on my way home now.’

  ‘Oh! You’re taking a sicky!’ Warner laughed uproariously. ‘That must be a first for you!’

  ‘Yes, I think it probab–’

  ‘Before you head off home, Alan, how do you fancy swinging by my office? I’ll treat you to lunch!’

  Lunch with Helen Warner? Alan did not fancy that at all.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Helen, but I am not able to offer you my best at this moment. Could we schedule this for tomorrow, or later in the week?’ …or never!! So much for dropping Helen Warner from the client list! Alan peeked up at Jim who was frowning slightly.

  ‘It’s just for a chat, Alan. It concerns your present predicament.’

  What could she mean by that? Oh well, there was no way out of this, not with Jim assessing him so intently, and possibly starting to question his zeal: ‘Okay then, I’ll head over. See you anon.’

  Warner hung up.

  Alan placed the receiver down and sighed. ‘I’ll be taking lunch with Helen Warner.’

  ‘Good Man!’ replied Jim with a smile. ‘Keep her sweet, then head home. I’ll see you tomorrow. We can have a proper chat then!’

  ‘Yes, sir, will do. Looking forward to it.’

  ‘And call me Jim!’

  ‘Yes, Jim.’

  Alan watched as Jim Fairclough left his office. I wonder where he’ll pitch up next, he wondered. He knew one thing, however: he did not like his new boss.

  ***