He paused halfway along the shelf and pulled out a very old movie called Scott of the Antarctic. Gran had said it was a true story.
"Let's try this one, Oatie," Ian said. The dog settled down next to him on the sofa. "Maybe it's got dogs in it."
He put his feet up on the stool. Yes, it did have dogs in it, sled dogs, not that Oatie took any notice, and guys with really weird English accents that Ian was sure no real Brit had these days. But that wasn't what drew him in.
It was about a polar expedition. It was bleak and depressing, but he couldn't stop watching. The grim struggle to be the first to the South Pole, the realisation that the Norwegians had beaten them to it, the awful journey back – it was painful to watch. And then a guy walked out into the snow to die to give his friends a better chance of survival, no fuss or drama, a man called Oates. They just carried on in the face of certain death.
Who was going to rescue them? Ian waited for the upbeat ending.
But there wasn't one. Nobody reached them in the nick of time, nobody at all. They all died, still stoic and writing notes to their families to the very end, and this wasn't just a script. It had actually happened. Tears welled in Ian's eyes.
He sat staring at the screen, disturbed and lost long after the credits had rolled. That was what real men were supposed to do. They made sacrifices. They put their friends before themselves. They faced the worst with calm dignity. How many really did that? For some reason, the polite little film hit him even harder than some of the war movies he'd seen.
He still preferred war films to just about anything else, though. It wasn't the action and the thrills. It was the questions. Could he do that? Would he have been that courageous? What was it like to feel so much a part of something that you'd risk your life for it, or kill for it?
Ian wanted to think he had it in him. He wondered what Scott or Oates would have made of his situation, and realised that he didn't even know what a problem was compared to what they'd endured. He had food, he had friendly neighbours if he chose to see them, and he wasn't risking a cold and lonely death.
I'm a wimp. A child. I've got to man up and stop feeling sorry for myself.
But Scott and his men knew exactly who and what they were, and that they'd be the same tomorrow. Ian had to come to terms with being unlike any other human on Earth.
Why did Kinnery do this? Who the hell does he think he is?
Ian was angry again. It seemed like a better reaction, though — not self-pity, not fear, not doubt. He might be afraid again when he woke tomorrow, but right now he was fired up and ready to act. It was a movie: it was a TV show. If he thought of it like that, if he put a layer of unreality between himself and the crisis, then it wasn't happening to him and he could play it out any way he pleased. He'd work out his lines so that he'd always know what to say next, and he'd have a character that he could step into so that nobody saw the scared Ian Dunlop underneath.
Yeah, that's how I'll do it.
He picked up the phone and told himself he'd do it on the count of five. He'd call a near-stranger to say that Gran was dead and that she'd told him everything. That was his script. He tapped out Kinnery's number, checking each digit on the note Gran had left. It was a Canadian area code; Vancouver.
It rang a few times before a voice mail message cut in, asking Ian to speak after the tone. He hadn't been expecting that. He almost blurted it all out, but what if someone else was listening? He needed to speak direct to Kinnery. He'd try again later. It was nearly two in the morning anyway, not a smart time to have a difficult conversation.
Ian woke just after nine the next day, floundering in a few seconds of forgetfulness before he remembered everything anew. Yes, he was frightened again. He was alone, he wasn't completely human, and whatever he was would make people hunt him down. Some scientist had put engineered genes in him, animal genes, and that scientist was the man who used to come and visit Gran.
It's his fault. He's got to put this right.
Could Kinnery put him back the way he was? Why hadn't he done that already? Was he still carrying out some study?
Maybe I shouldn't be calling him at all. Maybe he's only doing it for his own ends.
But Gran had left instructions, and despite the angry thoughts that still rattled around between the grief and the confusion, Ian was sure that she'd protected him. She wouldn't have left the note to call Kinnery if she'd had any doubts.
He wasn't so sure about involving this Zoe Murray, though, whatever Gran said. She was a journalist. He was a story. But she was only there as an emergency when he'd run out of options, and that hadn't happened yet.
At 10:15 he tried Kinnery's number again and got the same voicemail recording. Maybe Kinnery was as scared of picking up the phone as Ian was of calling. Okay, he'd leave a message.
"Mr Kinnery, this is Ian." Kinnery must have known Gran's number. He certainly knew who Ian was. "Call me back."
Ian settled down to wait for a call. He still had plenty to keep him busy around the house. But Kinnery didn't ring back that evening, or the next day. Ian rang again on Wednesday and the voicemail kicked in again.
Now he was upset and scared. He took a deep breath and tried to put more urgency into it. "It's Ian. You need to call me back. Gran's dead. I know what you've done. You have to call me."
He'd give Kinnery until tomorrow morning. Then what? What if he never called back? Ian sat watching the news about somewhere in Africa having another civil war, but he wasn't taking any of it in. He nursed the cell phone in his lap, willing it to ring.
Perhaps Gran had already had her doubts. She'd come up with a backup plan, after all. Ian studied Zoe Murray's phone number on the card. It seemed crazy to tell anyone else that he existed, but Gran must have known what she was doing or Kinnery wouldn't have trusted her in the first place. She'd avoided every situation where Ian could have been exposed, from teaching him at home to skipping hospital visits.
That took some planning. All Ian had to do was to stay as mistrustful as she had been. If he needed to contact this Zoe woman, then, he'd do it anonymously until he was sure she wouldn't expose him.
Kinnery still hadn't called back the next day, or the day after. Ian had expected to hold out a few more weeks before he started to panic, but now he was in free-fall.
Nobody except Kinnery knows what I am.
Isn't that what I want, the safest option? No. I can't live with a secret that big. It's beyond being alone. It's like being buried alive. I need to talk to someone.
He could have waited, but he had no idea how long was long enough. He could huddle here for months, dreading a knock on the door. He had enough supplies to sit out a siege, but if he didn't take hold of his own life right now, if he didn't force something to happen, he'd be a prisoner here indefinitely. He didn't want to call Zoe on the cell in case she could trace him. If she was in Seattle, he'd get the bus and call her from a public phone there, well away from Athel Ridge.
Sorry, Gran. I'm even more suspicious of the world than you were. Imagine that.
There was a lot that you could learn from movies, whatever people said. He'd made his first smart decision without Gran's folder to guide him.
Now he needed a bus timetable. He'd call the ticket office. While he was searching for a directory, he glanced at the photo of David Dunlop and his helicopter, the essence and personification of the kind of man he wanted to be.
Suddenly that hurt more than anything. Ian wasn't related to him at all. Ian was just a device for courageous men to use, not destined to be one of them. There was no blood of heroes flowing in his veins.
He didn't know whose blood was in them at all. But he needed to.
ATHEL RIDGE
TWO DAYS LATER.
Ian kept thinking of Captain Scott as Joe dropped him at the bus station in Athel Ridge.
"You sure you don't want me to drive you all the way?" Joe asked.
"Thanks, but I need to learn to do this on my own." Ian hid behind his sungl
asses and cap, distracted by his teeth for a moment. Did they morph too? He'd never considered it. He tested them with his tongue, but nothing had changed. "And it gives me time to read."
"Well, whatever it is, call me if you decide you need picking up."
Seattle wasn't a war zone. It was just a city. All Ian had to do was to stay calm, get on the right bus, and not draw attention to himself. But it was the first time he'd ever been out among strangers on his own. It was a step beyond picking up the phone and calling Kinnery. He tried to think himself into a role and imagine the lines he'd use, but outside the safety of his own four walls it didn't seem so easy.
Okay, visualize something else. Imagine I'm the way I was – when I thought I was just crazy, not a monster. Imagine I look normal to everyone else.
He thought that he'd be conspicuous, but there were a couple of other guys his age waiting for buses at other stops, dressed pretty much the same. Nobody was going to even notice him if he just stayed calm. When he caught his reflection in the glass window of the ticket booth he felt that pang again, the need both to look away from it and stare to see what had changed. He boarded the bus and slid down in a seat at the back to read a book.
The vehicle smelled of sweat, perfume, and cleaning fluid. It was the first time he'd travelled on a bus, and the first time he'd ventured off the ranch with the phone switched on. Gran said a cell could give away your location even with the GPS turned off, so she usually took out the battery. If Kinnery rang back, though, Ian couldn't afford to miss the call.
Along the route, a man sat down next to him but didn't make eye contact. It was like Ian wasn't even there. Ian began to learn how people managed to pretend they were alone in a crowd. He could act as if was engrossed in his book, rummage in his backpack — one of the folding ones that he could empty and shove in his pocket — or keep checking his phone, and nobody expected him to look at them or talk to them. People were the most striking new thing in his world now. Ignoring them seemed impossible, but that was exactly what he had to do.
The everyday world was actually a lot more like TV than Gran had admitted, except there weren't as many good-looking people. Ian noted the bits of reality that matched what he saw on screen and those that didn't fit at all.
And Gran's still Gran. I mustn't think about what she wasn't. Not yet, anyway.
Kinnery still hadn't called by the time Ian arrived at the Stewart Street bus station. Maybe the guy had died and nobody knew Gran was out there waiting to hear from him. Well, Ian was here now, and he had a choice; to go ahead with the plan and call Zoe, or just kill some time getting used to walking around a city, hope that he didn't morph in front of anybody, and take the long ride home.
He picked up a street map from a kiosk. It took him a few minutes to pluck up the courage to walk into the men's room at the bus station, but he was bursting, and all he had to do was find a cubicle the way he'd done a couple of times in Athel Ridge. He shut the door, had a pee, and then sat down on the closed toilet lid to study the map and locate a public phone.
Well, that was simple enough. He managed to get out of the rest room without making eye contact with anybody and found the phone booth. If Zoe wasn't in, he couldn't leave a message asking her to call back, so he might still go home empty-handed today. He set himself a deadline to give up and catch the bus back to Athel Ridge. A plan and a timetable were a good substitute for courage.
But I'm doing fine. Look. I'm in Seattle, tracking down a reporter. On my own. It's just a script, just acting. I can handle this.
As the number rang, he glanced around. Absolutely nobody was looking at him. Then a woman's voice answered and startled him. He didn't catch a name. But he was sure she said The Slide.
Deep breath. Don't screw this up.
It came out in a rush, not quite the casual tone he was aiming for. "Are you Zoe Murray?"
"That's me. Who's calling?"
It was a good question. Ian would have given a lot to know the answer. Suddenly it felt too dangerous. No, he wasn't going to say who he was or even mention Gran, not yet.
His tried to slow his breathing. They said it helped calm you down. "I've got some information for you."
There was a few seconds' silence while he fidgeted with the plastic-wrapped envelope in his pocket, rehearsing how he'd hand it over without contaminating it.
"What kind of information?" Zoe asked at last. "Can you e-mail it?"
"No, it's hard copy in a sealed envelope. About a medical research project." Wow, this was harder than he'd thought. Perhaps he should have asked for her address and mailed the package. But this had to be done in person. Gran always said letters could go astray or get intercepted. "Can we meet up?"
"Sure." Zoe didn't ask any questions about the contents, probably because she was worried about being tapped, given her line of work. "You obviously know where I am. Where are you?"
"Seattle."
"Okay, that's easy enough. Meet me outside the conference centre, corner of Eighth and Pike. Half an hour?"
Ian studied his map. "Okay."
"How will I recognise you?"
She couldn't have known how impossible that question was, either. "Navy blue hoodie, jeans, blue cap."
"Okay, look for a woman with short grey hair and a red satchel. I'm easy to spot. See you later."
Ian hadn't even mentioned Gran's name, but Zoe had agreed to meet him for no better reason than the offer of unspecified information. People were too trusting. He put the phone back on the cradle and headed for Pike Street.
Seattle looked like every other city that he'd seen on TV, canyons of glass storefronts and streaming traffic. It could have been anywhere in the country. He merged into the sea of pedestrians, getting more confident as he realised it wasn't hard to adopt the shared pretence of being alone. He slowed to look in a store window.
As he passed the automatic doors, a group of girls in bright T-shirts and jeans ambled out, chattering like parrots and leaving a perfumed wake. He froze. He'd never smelled anything like it in his life. His fragile confidence vanished instantly, and all he could see was the vast gulf between what he was and what he could never have, and a few hypnotic details – a silver necklace, lip gloss, and tanned skin. He wasn't prepared for the impact and what it would do to him.
Not now. Please, not now.
It was just as well he'd worn the hoodie. It was already long, but he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets to make sure it reached almost mid-thigh. He was certain that the entire city would spot his erection. Embarrassment and guilt almost blinded him for a second. Then the girls were gone, lost in the endless stream of shoppers. Ian suddenly couldn't understand why he'd ever thought it was a good idea to come here. Gran was dead, his life had plunged into chaotic shit, he didn't even fully understand what or who he was, and now all he could think about was sex. It overwhelmed him. He had no control over his own body, not even how he looked.
Christ, guys my age are fighting wars, and I can't even handle walking past a few girls on the goddamn street.
The shame of not being heroic focused him instantly. He reached the conference centre and wandered up and down on the opposite side of the road to the main entrance before finding a doorway to stand out of the way. He caught a glimpse of himself in a window, temporarily superimposed on the stream of passers-by. He looked completely average. He wasn't a monster, and he wasn't crazy, and it was obvious that nothing about him seemed odd to anyone else, because nobody even glanced at him.
I don't exist. I can hide in a crowd. That's quite something.
Where would he go once he'd made contact with Zoe? He'd have to talk to her to work out whether Gran was right to trust her. He'd practiced sliding the envelope out of the plastic wrapper by letting it fall under its own weight. Now he wouldn't need to wear gloves when he met Zoe. He could just drop the envelope.
On what? A table. On a table in front of her.
Okay, so they'd have to go to a coffee shop or something. There were
plenty of restaurants around. He just had to remember not to use a cup, because it was a great way to harvest someone's DNA. He'd seen that on too many cop shows. He tucked the plastic-wrapped envelope into the outer pocket of his rucksack and carried on watching the conference centre doors. He wasn't the only person apparently waiting for someone. He was just doing the same as everybody else.
His stomach growled and he regretted not buying a sandwich earlier. Maybe he'd missed Zoe. Then he saw a splash of red out of the corner of his eye.
That's her. Got to be.
Zoe was one of those older women who still dressed like a student. He saw the red satchel even before he saw her grey hair, but he waited for her to stop at the entrance and look around first before he was certain enough to cross the road and approach her.
"Zoe?"
She looked him up and down. "You're the guy who phoned, yes? Do I get a name?"
Ian was suddenly so far out of his depth that he gave up trying to swim. It really was like a movie. He had nothing else to guide him.
"Not yet," he said. Oh God. I'm miles from home and about to tell a total stranger what I am. "I don't even know how to explain this. Someone said I could trust you."
Zoe was still looking him over. "Okay, you want to go for a coffee and tell me what you can?" She pointed up the road to a restaurant. "If you're trying to avoid being seen, you've been picked up on CCTV cameras already. But at least the place up there bans glassholes."
Ian didn't know what a glasshole was, but he got the general idea. He followed her. The cafe had a notice on the door: FOR THE COMFORT AND PRIVACY OF OUR CUSTOMERS — NO LIFEBLOGGING, GLASS, OR OTHER RECORDING ALLOWED ON THE PREMISES.