Black Jack

  ‘I dreamed of these.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Do you know an Indian woman with long, black hair?’

  ‘That sounds like my mother.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘With me in England.’

  She nodded thoughtfully, her hand dropping to her side.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Dakota.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘No, I come here when the others take over.’

  ‘I see. What is this room?’

  'I don’t know.’ She frowned. ‘But I have always been alone here. It’s not a good place.’ She turned her eyes away from him and back to the hourglass. ‘Thanks. Turning the hourglass was very difficult work.’

  ‘No problem. In fact I’m going to make an even bigger one and put it into a self-turning machine.’ And the hourglass was immediately part of a rotating machine. ‘This way you never have to worry about it again.’

  Dakota stood and backed away from him. Kindness always came with a price. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘My name is Black and I came to give you something. Now that you don’t have to watch the hourglass all the time you probably could use these,’ he said, and reaching into his pocket took out a handful of crayons. He held them out to her.

  She reached for them, biting her lip uncertainly. ‘I have no paper.’

  He reached into his back pocket and fished out a large art pad. He gave it to her. She took it with both hands.

  ‘Well, I have to go now, but before I go I want to show you something. Come,’ he invited, his hand outstretched.

  She shrank back in fear. ‘I can’t go outside. It’s too horrible.’

  ‘I’ve changed it,’ he said. ‘Please, just peep out of the door.’

  He led her to the door and stood aside so she could see the flowers, the balloons, the ice cream cart and the sunshine that he had dreamed into existence.

  For a while she said nothing. ‘You did all this?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What about the graveyard?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘And the boy ghost?’

  And suddenly Black knew. The graves were the people she had had a hand in killing.

  ‘He’s gone too.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘What about the monkey?’

  Black put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was loud and clear, the way he had always dreamed of doing. And the monkey came running, but it had a bow around its neck and looked tame.

  ‘I have to go now, but I will come back to visit you soon.’

  ‘Please do. I get so lonely here.’

  ‘I promise to. Be sure to use the crayons now.’

  ‘Thank you, Black.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied. He waved to her and walked down the colorful checkered floor. A song in his heart.

  ‘I want to go to Green,’ he said, and just like that he was back in the white room without walls.

  ‘Very impressive,’ Green complimented. ‘I knew you could do it, but never so proficiently. It becomes more and more obvious why you were chosen above all others.’

  ‘What is the significance of the hourglass?’

  ‘Her thinking is buried in fairy tales. She has been programmed to see herself inside them. Even her handlers will pretend they are fairy tale characters. She has been led to believe that if she is good and obedient the sand will not all fall out. If at all she is disobedient, the sand begins running out, and her life is on the line. There is no room for mistakes. If she is careless death will come.’

  ‘She seems very pitiful.’

  Green eyed him thoughtfully. ‘That is not all you feel about her. You have to be very cautious with her. She has many angry and cold-blooded alters who have killed before and will again. Her alters do not have a chance to understand what they are doing and she does not have any control over them. Any moment, another hostile aspect, and they are mostly that, can take over. Some of her alters have been victimized so much that given half the chance they will immediately take on the addictive power of victimizing someone else.’

  ‘One last thing: what’s worrying my mother?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Black. Telling you would be infringing upon her free will. She doesn’t want you to know.’

  Hold out baits to entice the enemy.

  Feign disorder, and crush him.

  - Sun Tzu, The Art of War,

  6th century BC

  Sitting across from the girl, Teddy realized that something was amiss. ‘Were the coordinates for the boy’s address correct?’ he asked, his eyes watchful.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, her expression bland.

  ‘He was there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you saw him in his physical form?’

  ‘I did.’

  Teddy frowned. The brief, barely informative replies were out of character. Just then, he knew. It was not Winter who sat across from him, but Shekina. Shekina had disobeyed her orders. He had never come across such a situation. Looking intently into her bold face, he said, ‘Shekina?’

  ‘It is I.’

  ‘Your instructions were very clear - only Winter was to interact with the boy. Why did you not leave and let her handle him?’

  ‘I kept the body when I realized that the boy is totally paralyzed. He is unable to even blink! There was nothing Winter could have done with him.’

  Teddy couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Totally paralyzed?’ That was a game changer. Still she had disobeyed - and that was a ruinous game changer too. ‘I suppose you did the right thing. I will see you tomorrow as usual.’

  ‘Teddy.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, never suspecting what she would do next.

  She smiled at him, coldly, deliberately, and did the unthinkable. She looked into his eyes and remote viewed him, her controller, her handler. She felt the malice in him and smiled that cold smile. His eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Return to sender,’ she said, and heard his howls of rage in her head.

  ‘Bitch,’ he cried, his voice shocked, strangled, strange. No longer the cool, cold, military man. The mental intrusion was intolerable. He had been designed to retaliate, he wanted to reach for the gun on his person, but he could not.

  She looked at him from under her lashes. It was a gesture that did not sit well with her innocent child’s face. ‘I take full responsibility for myself,’ she said, and curiously watched a vein in his forehead bulge. He appeared to be fighting for control of himself.

  He stood, in great pain. Cold sweat was pouring off him. As he lurched from the room he saw her calmly depress the button that summoned Miss Monroe and reach for a pen. Unable to bear the horror in his brain any longer he clutched his head and hurried down the corridor, which seemed to stretch for miles. He glanced back every few pain-filled steps, the feeling of being pursued was so strong. What had she done to him? He rushed into his office and fell into the chair behind his desk. From a drawer he pulled out a syringe and pushed it into his vein. Then he lay back in his chair with closed eyes and waited.

  When the black menace had passed he picked up his phone. Strangely he felt no animosity toward her. She had proven herself able to elevate the information up the channels to a higher level of responsibility than him. But at his level of responsibility he had to let Owl know. A threat. Beyond anything he had known before. His hand was shaking as his fingers moved over the telephone keypad.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Schooner Klaus.

  ‘There is a problem. The Sparrow has turned.’

  ‘Has she been returned to her cage?’

  ‘I think so. I haven’t contacted Miss Monroe yet. Shall I?’

  The silence on the other side stretched. ‘Don’t do anything. I’ll handle it from here. Just send me the latest video of your session with her.’

  ‘Of course. One more thing - ’

  But the phone was already dead in Teddy’s hand. ‘The boy is paralyzed,’ Teddy finished sl
owly. He put his hand to his forehead. He knew the drugs he had taken would not keep down the nightmares that night. He felt oddly frightened.

  Miss Monroe wheeled the girl into her quarters. She helped her into her pajamas then into her bed. The girl turned to lie on her side and face the wall. Miss Monroe pulled the girl’s pajama trousers down to administer her sedative and was surprised to see writing on the girl’s flesh. As if in a trance, unable to stop herself, she went closer to read the ink.

  You too are a slave.

  She jerked back in shock and began to back away, but the girl turned over and looked directly into her eyes. She froze, unable to do anything but stare helplessly into the girl’s eyes, her mind blank. Then she calmly recapped the syringe and put it back into her pocket. She nodded at the girl as if the girl had given her instructions, and left the girl’s quarters silently. She walked down the corridor calmly - nobody could have suspected anything out of the ordinary - but once in her quarters she dashed to her desk and sat at it holding her head. It hurt.

  She opened a drawer, extracted a piece of paper, and from another found some pens of different colors and began scratching them on the paper. She drew so fast it was as if she was possessed, as if the images were all trapped inside her and clawing to come out. When the paper was full she extracted another, and another, until there were no more. Then she began to grab at anything in her reach. Quickly, the memories are bleeding.

  When there were no more surfaces to color she began to scratch the table. When the table was covered she rose and walked to the walls. Her arms ached. The pens were empty, but she couldn’t stop scratching. A pen rolled under her foot and she slipped and lay sprawled on the floor. She pulled herself up and sat on top of her drawings. She lifted one from underneath her and studied it curiously. Then another. All different and yet all similar.

  Dark pictures of a little girl being hurt by adults. Look at that child. Poor thing. Howling for help; and that wisp of smoke coming out her body, that’s her leaving when the horror and the agony became impossible to bear. But who is that ageless adult male who consumes human blood, the keeper who holds all the knowledge? Were those slit pupils real, or contact lenses meant to terrify a child?

  All her parts were still pulsing and trying to get out, and she must let them out soon or they will tear their way out. She stood tiredly and went to the mirror. For most of her life she had felt held by a sort of black cloud. She had no life, a lot of missing time, and she couldn’t figure out her emotions. She couldn’t figure out anything. Now she knew why the butterflies were all around her. She touched the face in the mirror. Who was that poor, disheveled creature?

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she consoled. ‘Please don’t cry, Alice.’

  She screamed in a shrill voice [...] but nobody, not one of the immortals, not one of mortal men, heard her voice.

  - The Homeric Hymns, ‘To Demeter’

  Bumi opened her front door and came to an abrupt halt. A strange man was sitting at her small dining table calmly pouring himself a cup of tea. She frowned at the key in the palm of her hand - the door had been locked - and looked up slowly at the man. He was watching her with eyes devoid of any emotion but disconnected neutrality - a scientist who mutilates a thousand animals in the search of a better face cream. The room seemed oddly still. He was oddly still, but there was the instant and unwavering sense of something predatory about his cold stare, as though he was homing in on prey. Even the extraordinary impression that he was not human! Her first thought was to flee as quickly as possible. But what of Black? The thought was like an electric bolt. It made her start. It made her bold. She took a step toward her fear.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my home?’ she demanded.

  He put the teapot down. ‘More to the point what are you doing in this country?’ His voice was strange. Indescribable.

  An immigration officer. So many years had passed that she had begun to relax. She had never really imagined finding one of them in her house. Perhaps in a sweep in one of those dodgy Indian restaurants or Laundromats, but never in this small space she called home. She took an involuntary step back. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh,’ he mimicked.

  She looked toward the boy’s room. The door hung open - the bed was empty. She felt the odd sight drop into the pit of her belly. A stone it was.

  ‘Where is my son? What have you done with him?’

  The man indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Join me,’ he invited and began to pour tea into a second cup that he must have put out earlier for her. His nails were clean and beautifully manicured. A silver watch glinted at the edge of his immaculate white sleeve. He gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘How is it there are no official records of Black’s existence?’

  He was not here for her. Suddenly she began to feel really frightened. What had he done with Black? She must be careful. Mechanically, like one of those battery-operated toys, she walked toward the indicated chair and perched awkwardly on the end of it. He pushed the milk jug and sugar bowl toward her. She picked up the cup and saucer. The cup rattled. She looked at him nervously.

  He had a cold, handsome face. Square-jawed, the way Americans were. Tanned. Not English, for sure. The wintry blue eyes seemed to have narrow flints in them. They regarded her without expression. She returned the rattling cup and saucer to the table.

  ‘Would you like some biscuits with your tea?’ he asked, and stood as if to get them. He was imposingly tall and muscular. The flat felt small and cramped. He was dressed in a black suit, black shoes, a black coat. His stomach was flat.

  She shook her head distractedly. The deliberate charm, it masked something heartless. A cold piercing intelligence.

  He resumed his seat.

  ‘Where is Black?’

  ‘I would have thought a better strategy for you to employ would be to concentrate on answering my questions. At the moment you are looking at some serious trouble.’ He took a sip of his tea. His tone was friendly, almost chatty. ‘Where did you get the boy?’

  She looked at him challengingly. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  An enquiring eyebrow arched. ‘No birth certificate, no national insurance number? The boy doesn’t exist outside this room, does he? How did you come by him?’

  ‘Look, I didn’t steal him if that is what you are implying. I found him in a rubbish dump when he was a baby. His mother had abandoned him. And when I found him he was totally helpless. I knew no one could give him a better home than me, so I kept him. If you think that is so wrong, call the police.’

  ‘Call the police? Are you sure? Don’t you think that might be a dangerous move for you? Seeing that you are an illegal immigrant.’

  She stared at him defiantly. ‘What’s this all about? You don’t really want me.’

  ‘You have guessed correctly. I am not interested in you. I only want to know about the boy. The sooner you tell me what I want to know the sooner I will leave.’

  ‘Why are you so concerned about my son?’

  ‘I have seen the…er…family album. Not much of a life for him from what I can see.’

  ‘He is happy here with me.’

  ‘Can he read?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s a human vegetable.’

  ‘What language do you use when you speak to him?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Does he have any special dietary requirements?’

  ‘He is a vegetarian. He vomits if given fish or meat. He likes milk.’

  ‘The tubes in the kitchen are for feeding?’

  She nodded. He had searched her flat. Who was this man? ‘If you think a crime has been committed, call the police. In fact, I insist that you call the police.’

  ‘I’m afraid that it is much too late for that now. I suggest you don’t entertain such ideas. You might never see the boy again,’ he warned pleasantly. But such hate and malice emanated from those handsome eyes that she was shocked. What had she done so bad that anyone would hate her so much?

  There
was a knock on the door and he went to open it. And that was when she noticed the black cables that seemed to come out of the ends of his trouser legs. How utterly strange, her mind registered.

  ‘I am finished here,’ he said to whoever was outside the door and walked out.

  Two men came in, both well dressed, both burly, and started advancing. She was a rag doll in their powerful hold. She thought she had screamed, but the darkness came so suddenly it was impossible to tell if she had or not.

  When she awakened it was seven o’clock and dark.

  She was lying on the sofa bed, cramped and cold. Her neck felt stiff. She looked around the tiny flat with all its cast-offs from the great manor. The old Aubusson carpet with the large stain over which she had placed the coffee table, the heavy brocade that she had cut into perfectly wonderful curtains and the little birthday presents - a crystal rabbit, a clock from Harrods, the Venetian glassware. They had moved nothing, taken nothing, except her heart.

  She felt a raging thirst and pulling together her weary limbs stumbled toward the kitchen. She leaned against the sink and drank two glasses of water. She shed no tears - none would come. The horror was frozen inside her. She went back to the sofa bed and sat there for hours with only the light from the street lamp. Who were those people? What did they want with Black? Why?

  She jumped when the doorbell rang. Oh, of course. She switched on the light and went downstairs. She opened the door without looking at him and went back up the stairs. She heard him close the door and come up behind her. She turned around to face him. Veera stood in her living room. As unwashed as when she had first found him.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’

  She waved a hand toward the boy’s empty room. ‘The boy is gone. Never approach me again,’ she said frostily, and walked away toward the kitchen.

  His sly eyes immediately suspected a trick. What had she done with the boy? Hidden him? She was not getting away that easy. He followed her into the kitchen. He would have her, if necessary, by force. He reached the kitchen door and stopped.