The Blizzard

CHAPTER FOUR

  IT was dark outside. The old man rose and walked to the kitchen, where the airphone was crying for attention. How long had he been asleep? The clock on the wall told three o’clock.

  The dream had been so real, almost as if it had been true. Obviously it was anxiety over the letter he had written to Liddell’s family. His eyes were dry and his head heavy but his mind too full. Curse the company! He didn’t need their approval. It was his money to give away. They didn’t need to know everything. Perhaps a shower would remove the guilty feeling at the back of his mind. And then: to his office, no point in wasting time with sleep.

  The low wheeze continued from the machine on his desk. The sound of the air being pushed through the pipes, a shuttle with a message inside. Who could be calling him? Strang was one of only a thousand or so people in Edinburgh who were privileged enough to own such a device.

  He pulled the shell out of the receiver and pulled out the parchment.

  To his surprise it was a full message.

 

  You don’t know me. Who I am isn’t important. You have limited time so you must listen very closely. You will be dead unless you leave your house this very instant. Your friend Brown is not your friend any longer. You have done something to anger him greatly.

  Agitated, the old man looked around. The windows were as they should be. The curtains were drawn to keep out the cold air from the Firth. His servant always made sure to lock and bolt the door. There was no name, now initials, and no sign of who the sender had been. Just the set of smooth dotted markings on the side of the tubing, denoting a return destination which only the sorters could make sense of and the steady down strokes of an anonymous hand.

  Taking a pen and parchment from the drawer underneath his desk, he wrote a reply in his own hand.

  I don’t know how you got my tube number and I do not intend to carry out a correspondence with you, but I will simply say you are mistaken. Brown is my close friend. There is nothing you can say that would convince me otherwise.

  Packing the scrap back into its tubing, he fired it back through the relay. Depending on where his mystery correspondent was, it could be hours, maybe even a day before the answer came back.

  Dark thoughts stirred in his mind. And he thought of Liddell, the dead man, and the terrible price he had paid.

  Suddenly, the rattling whistle of the airphone. The pressurized air squeezing through the sides of the container which had now returned and was sitting at the lip of the receiving tube, emitting its distinctive wheeze.

  It was impossible for anyone to write a response so quickly and to send it back through the sorters and their relays. Unless… unless… it had been sent from just a few streets away. But no, even still, it was impossible to send a message directly to another airphone without going through the sorting. Everyone knew that.

  Strang seized the paper inside. Paper-white skin paled as the words sank in.

 

  You will be dead in another hour unless you listen to me. Don’t believe me? Why don’t you look under your bed? Do it now! You have nothing to lose.

  Bemused and still disturbed from his restless sleep, Strang found himself drifting towards his bedroom. With a sense of foreboding, feeling his life was about to take a turn for the worse, he sank to his hands and knees and peered into the unlit darkness. Just below the metal frame of the bed stead, inches from where his head had been, was a black plastic box neatly tapped underneath. Whatever it was, Strang guessed it wasn’t for promoting his health.

  By the time he had returned to the receiver, his mind was now decided on a course of action. He scrawled a two word response.

  Go on.

  The writer at the other end of the tube must have already guessed his response and began his latest message, for their return shuttle again shot back faster than Strang could have imaged.

  We don’t have much time. You may or may not have realized the panic you caused by your little gesture of kindness. All very noble but it shows an astonishing lack of awareness about the company, especially for a man of your supposed intellect.

  I know you will say you are not naïve. You think you know about the people your company for putting other businesses companies under the microscope, finding their weak points.

  I’m sure you will also tell me you are not ashamed of sending the money to that man’s family. Make no mistake, Brown is your boss first and your friend second, if he ever was your friend. However, much it might pain him, you have some very sensitive in your head. Don’t take it too personally Mr Strang; I’m sure he feels very bad about it.

  But the problem is simple: you have gone against the groupthink and are no longer trustworthy. If you want to survive, you need to get out of your home, out of the city, out of the country if you can.

  And then you will ask me ‘Then what?’. But to that I can give you know answer. There is no way that you will be forgiven. They will always be looking for you.

  It took several staggered moments for the full force of the words to hit home. His shaking hand finally carved out a reply, the ink sinking into the deep paper.

  How do you know all this? Why are you helping me?

  But before, he could reverse the airflow. Another thought leapt into his mind – and he hastily added to the note:

  The boy – what will happen to him?

  Minutes later, the dreaded whistle and the weary shuttle shot back into its slot. Strang wrenched the tube out of its receiver and, for one final time, emptied its contents.

 

  It is best you don’t try to contact the boy. You cannot stop him being picked up by the Butlers and taken to his father. The best protection you can offer him is by keeping away. He is simply a bystander in your indiscretion.

  As to who I am? Haven’t you worked it out Mr Strang? I hadn’t thought you would be this slow.

  I am the one who is going to kill you.