‘Approaching the Red Lion now,’ remarked Gavin, in his characteristically detached voice.
Alan and Warner leaned forwards as the BMW entered the car park.
‘Looks like the PM is here already,’ remarked Warner. ‘I hope his grunts at the door don’t give us too much static. We should just act happy and relaxed, and if challenged: say we’re guests. Gavin, pull up in the centre somewhere, away from the entrance and away from that red Bentley, and wait for us in the car.’
‘May I propose that I come as well? They’ve seen me at the wheel and it could look suspicious if I remain in the car.’ This was the first time Alan had heard Gavin suggest something on his own without simply answering a direct question or commenting on traffic and suchlike.
‘Good point,’ replied Warner. ‘The three of us will go in together.’
Warner smiled warmly and Alan, rictus-style, as they approached the PM’s security detail.
‘Hold it!’ said one of the grunts.
‘What’s all this?’ asked Warner. ‘We are guests here!’
‘VIP inside. ID, please. If you don’t have any you’ll have to submit to a search.’
‘You got ID?’ enquired Warner of Alan.
‘Err, no.’
The grunt advanced on Alan and vigorously patted him down. He then checked Warner’s and Gavin’s ID.
‘Okay, enter. I apologize for any inconvenience caused.’
‘Yes, I bet you do,’ hissed Warner.
‘Now what?’ asked Alan, as they loitered in the deserted lobby.
For once Warner seemed to be at a loss.
‘How about through there,’ suggested Gavin, pointing at the door marked “Bar”.
‘Why not?’ agreed Warner. Gavin led the way and entered the bar. Who put him in charge? Alan wondered. Maybe the guy just needed a drink, non alcoholic, presumably.
As they entered, all heads turned their way and the buzz of conversation abruptly ceased. Alan, Warner and Gavin halted by the door, as though frozen by headlamps, but within seconds a low sound returned and they were subsequently ignored.
‘The Prime Minister’s in here somewhere,’ noted Warner, pensively. ‘That’s probably got them all spooked. Just carry on acting naturally,’ she added, unnaturally.
Gavin approached the bar and enquired about lunch – ah, that was his motivation – but the barman gave him short shrift. Warner surveyed the pub before deciding that she needed a glass of something.
‘Fancy a drink, Alan? Gavin, you can have one!’ Both men nodded.
With drinks and bar snacks ordered, Alan, Warner and Gavin sat down at the table nearest to the bar. For a while nobody said a word, then, gradually, a generic conversation on current affairs developed: typical bar-chat. Alan began to relax.
‘What the hell does our Prime Minister want with Tebb, anyway!?’ demanded a gruff shaven-headed man at the bar, of the barman, who ignored him. ‘He’s been in there, like…’ The man consulted his watch but did not bother to complete his sentence.
‘Did you hear that!? said Warner, eyes wide. ‘That man over there mentioned Tebb! Why have we forgotten about him, and the others?’
Alan shrugged.
‘I’ll tell you why!’ continued Warner, ‘The Gang of Four are running a perception filter! And it’s clearly working on all of us! Shit! We need to focus! Remember why we came here!?’
‘Of course!’ replied Alan. But his mind tugged him away and he soon forgot Warner’s counsel.
Warner spoke again: ‘Yeah, so why are we sat here casually discussing the state of the economy!? …Come on, let’s have a word with baldy over there.’ She stood and approached the bar. Alan and Gavin followed reluctantly.
‘Hello, are you a friend of Russell Tebb?’
The bald man studied Warner with a look of enmity. ‘No, I am not a friend of Russell Tebb. Are you?’
‘More an associate,’ replied Warner.
‘Hmm, my sympathies.’ The barfly briefly gave Alan and Gavin the once-over before returning his attention to Warner: ‘Would you be an “associate” of the Prime Minister, as well?’
‘Yes, I would,’ replied Warner.
‘They’re all through there. You’d better hurry up, they’ll be wondering where you got to!’
Warner frowned in puzzlement at that last remark before checking to see where the man was pointing. ‘Thanks!’ She beckoned to Alan. ‘Come on. …And Gavin, you stay here – you can keep this delightful chap company.’
‘Oh, joy! I’ve got Gavin to keep me company. Rejoice!!’
Warner frowned at the bald man for several seconds before grabbing Alan’s arm and leading him towards a door at the far end of the bar. ‘He’s an odd one, that one, isn’t he?’ she remarked, once they were safely out of earshot.
‘I’m sure Gavin can handle him,’ replied Alan, nonchalantly opening the door, and inviting Warner to step through first.
Alan followed Warner into the next room; as he glanced up it was as though a pane of glass had suddenly shattered directly before him; nothing visible, nothing audible – just the clear sense that the so-called “perception filter” had disintegrated.
The grinding anxiety he’d felt throughout the day, but which had mysteriously left him on entering this establishment, returned with a vengeance. He found himself standing face-to-face with The Gang of Four and the Prime Minister!
As before, Alan and Warner froze against the full impact of the assembled crowd’s scrutiny, and, as before, the crowd seemed to quickly lose interest. All heads turned back, attention fixed on the opposite wall.
‘I’m back in the room,’ muttered Alan.
‘What?’ muttered Warner.
‘I mean I’m fully lucid – the perception filter has gone.’
‘Oh, yeah, me too!’ agreed Warner.
Alan surveyed the room and its many pictures of crop circles. ‘What the hell is this place?’ he asked.
The Prime Minister turned and again focused his dark eyes on Alan: ‘Mr. Dosogne! A pleasure to meet you at last, …and I’m assuming you are the Malevolence!’ he added, regarding Warner with a look of disgust.
‘What’s he talking about?’ Alan asked Warner.
‘No idea!’ replied Warner, nervously. She approached the group tentatively: ‘I see you finally located your quarry, Prime Minister,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice that didn’t even convince Alan.
‘Who, them: “Gaia and friends”? Yes, for all the good it has done us. With hindsight I should have remained in blissful ignorance!’ The PM looked depressed, defeated. That was not expected, nor was it encouraging.
‘I believe she prefers “Ceres”, the Roman version of Gaia,’ replied Alan, recalling a snippet of information from The Truth.
‘Oh,’ replied the Prime Minister. ‘Apologies, madam, but you never actually formally introduced yourself.’ That almost sounded like a mild rebuke, thought Alan.
The conversation stalled. No member of the Gang of Four appeared to be interested in talking and the Prime Minister returned his attention to the crop circle image; the two others present: the female interrogator from Scotland Yard, and a shambolic man Alan did not recognize, who looked rather out of place – did likewise.
Alan sheepishly cast an eye over the members of the Gang of Four; at least they hadn’t just struck him down – yet. Nor were there any signs of that demented fury he’d been forced to endure on the Finsbury Circus roof. He studied the spider: it looked strong and fast, like it could be on his throat in the blink of an eye and injecting god-only-knew-what into his jugular! As with the others, it silently studied the crop circle image, but Alan felt sure that at least one of those eight iridescent jade eyes was watching him closely.
Then there was that cat, Mr. Waterstone, aka: Planet Earth. Like the Cheshire Cat, it seemed to exist above the fray; if everyone else in the room clustered around the crop circle image, showing varying signs of angst, not so the cat. It sat apart from the group, upon the large table, and stared
back at Alan with the same languid expression he recognized from before: sangfroid amusement. Charming little fellow!
Ceres and Russell Tebb had their backs turned to him.
‘Err, what are we looking at?’ Alan asked, finally breaking the intolerable silence.
The Prime Minister turned to him: ‘I’m afraid, Mr. Dosogne, our little project appears to be stillborn. I’ve been informed… by reliable sources…’ The PM tilted his head towards Ceres. ‘…that it would never have worked. The genetic issues are far too complex for us – even for you!’ The PM once again regarded Warner with an odd expression of revulsion that left Warner looking bewildered and upset. She finally piped up: ‘Do we have issues, Prime Minister? Helen Warner. We’ve met once before – at the Mansion House banquet, but, if I recall, we got on fine! We chatted about offshore tax havens.’
‘Hmm? I meet so many people at these functions. I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. Your name rings a bell, though: you’re a hedge fund manager, are you not?’
‘Right! Down there with journalists and weather forecasters at the bottom of the nation’s esteem, but I don’t get this “malevolence” tag, nor do I understand your overt hostility!’ Warner appeared to be genuinely hurt.
‘She’s also a client of Dosogne’s, sir; for some reason we never fully pursued this connection,’ interjected the Prime Minister’s female minion.
‘So it is you I have been dealing with these last few days,’ stated the PM: ‘Pulling his strings?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then you must be the Malevolence.’ The PM turned to Ceres, seeking confirmation.
‘Yes and no,’ came a male voice from behind, and everyone turned. ‘But I don’t much care for that moniker. Bit on the nose. Please – call me Jim.’
Alan could feel his heart in his mouth as Fairclough menacingly advanced on the group, but he suddenly stopped short and briefly regarded everyone. His eyes finally rested on Alan’s:
‘Alan, I am very disappointed with you! You promised to discuss my employment status this morning!’
Alan felt ready to faint.
‘That’s enough of that!’ growled Ceres, and Fairclough’s hostile expression suddenly switched to an easy smile:
‘Yes, I suppose I will have to call time on this one. Oh, but it’s been so much fun, Alan, what with you grappling with your newfangled human emotions. The guilt you felt at my shoddy treatment! Marvellous! So sharp, so pungent!’
‘Err, excuse me, let me get this straight,’ began the Prime Minister: ‘You are the Mal– the, err, fungal entity, the Sponsor parasite residing under London? Or you… represent it?’
‘Again, yes and no. I’m a control node. Grown specifically to deal with this crisis. The Sponsor “parasite”, as you put it, is actually a community of talented humans tenuously linked to each other and empowered via the alien tissue. Muz Warner here is a member. In some respects it is the opposite of a gestalt: one becomes many, rather than the other way around.’
Alan forced himself to regain some composure. He turned to Warner: ‘And you knew all this Helen? …Helen??’
Warner stared vacantly at Fairclough.
‘I’m afraid she can’t become fully aware of her “status” – it would cause significant mental trauma, and she is rather crucial to our operation, she’s the one with the relevant technical expertise, not I. Whilst I’m here with you in “person”, representing the interests of the alien tissue, she’ll have to be kept under tight control. At the moment she’s catatonic. Hope no one minds.’
‘I mind,’ said Alan.
Fairclough shrugged, clearly not giving a shit.
‘Wait a minute: you said you were “grown”?’ stated the Prime Minister.
‘Yes, from a pod outcrop located in Finsbury Circus. I believe your spooks later recovered some of it.’ Fairclough briefly glanced at the woman, before turning to Alan: ‘Remember that rancid stench as we went for lunch? Helps to keep inquisitive vermin and bankers at bay. Although, MI6 seem to be onto it now!’ He frowned at the PM’s assistant before finally resting his gaze on Ceres. ‘Of course, they got help…’ Fairclough continued to stare impassively at Ceres. ‘Earth is a very unusual planet…’
Silence hovered awkwardly over the room. The Gang of Four, the Prime Minister and his underlings, and Alan had nothing to say; Warner and Fairclough both appeared to be in a trance.
Finally, Fairclough snapped out of his daydream: ‘Now, I understand we have a problem. Is it true that Ms. Warner’s project is no longer deemed feasible? Is the human system definitely set for collapse? If so, I wonder if I could be cleared to use what’s left of it to build myself a space vehicle, so I can haul my alien butt outahere and reconnect with the Sponsors – I’m assuming they’re still out there somewhere… I’ll need about twenty years to fast-track the relevant technology.’
There was no reply. Everyone stared at Fairclough and he reacted as though sensing universal hostility. A look of concern, then panic, spread across his face.
‘Are you familiar with catastrophe theory, Malevolence?’ asked Ceres, as she stared at Fairclough, with a malevolent grin.
‘Err, yeah.’
‘Eight years.’
‘Excuse me?’
Ceres did not reply.
‘I think she means you’re stuck here with the rest of us,’ said the Prime Minister.
Fairclough’s demeanour became more panicked, almost hysterical.
‘But… eight years is not enough! And I can’t stay here!! I can’t function – I can’t exist, without intelligent life!’
‘Tough!’ said Alan.
Fairclough began to breath heavily. He searched for a chair and sat down, holding his head in his hands. After a moment he suddenly looked up and glared at Ceres: ‘What is the nature of this problem? I was under the clear impression that you were employing me to save the human system!’
‘Yes, that was the intention,’ replied Ceres, ‘but you need the help of Michael, here, to accurately reintroduce and adapt the Sponsor programme, and actually make it work. But that was conditional on the human system giving the go-ahead.’ She pointed at the large crop circle image behind her, the source of everyone’s interest: ‘They haven’t given it. So, regardless of what you and Ms. Warner do, sooner or later the hominid will return and reclaim its rightful place on Earth. You would be well advised to abandon your project now, and save the humans unnecessary and prolonged suffering.’
Fairclough stared at the crop circle image. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a crop circle,’ replied Tebb.
‘I can see that!’ replied Fairclough. ‘Presumably it is relaying a message? What is that message?’
‘It’s gibberish,’ replied Tebb.
‘What!? Are you sure?’ Fairclough approached the image and studied it closely; he even ran his hand across it, seemingly seeking inspiration. After a minute or two he turned to Ceres. ‘It can’t just be gibberish, it’s so complex and multifarious! I have to admit I can’t understand it, but then, I’m not the brains of the outfit. Why not let her have a look?’ He glanced at Warner.
‘If you like,’ replied Ceres.
‘Okay,’ replied Fairclough, backing off, ‘I’ll retreat to the bar and return Ms. Warner. Show her!’ He bowed slightly, hesitated, and then exited the room.
Warner stared at the Prime Minister awaiting an explanation.
‘Forget it,’ said the PM, ‘it’s been a stressful day. Now, down to business: do you think you can interpret or decode this crop circle pictogram? It’s apparently key to the successful implementation of our operation, and you are probably our last hope in understanding it.’
Warner looked bemused and turned to regard the crop circle image: ‘Why is this key!?’
‘To proceed, we require the blessing of the human– of humanity, its collective unconscious, apparently. And if that has been granted, it’s encoded in there somewhere,’ replied the PM.
‘And the Gang of Fo
ur can’t read it?’ replied Warner, casting a sceptical eye at Ceres and Michael.
‘Apparently not.’
‘Then I doubt I will be able to.’
‘Can you at least take a look?’
Warner hesitated and then turned to Alan, who nodded encouragement. She sighed and reluctantly approached the image and studied it closely: ‘This section here is a sequence of prime numbers,’ she stated, pointing towards the top left.
‘So what?’ replied the spider.
‘Just saying…’ Warner continued to examine… minutes passed.
‘Ah, what’s this! If one treats these as discrete units then we start to get the first five, no six, numbers of the Fibonacci series!’
‘Again, so what? What’s it telling us?’ replied Michael. ‘We’ve already dismissed all that as artefact, just random noise that briefly throws up patterns.’
Warner grimaced at the spider: ‘Has anyone tried looking for an ASCII code?’
‘Of course! No joy.’
Warner continued studying the image in silence. Alan could see that she was running out of ideas.
***