The Forever Man

THE FOREVER MAN

ALLEN STROUD

Text Copyright © 2017 Allen Stroud

Cover Design 2017 Karl Eklund

First published by Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh, 2017

The Forever Man ©2017. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

www.lunapresspublishing.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-911143-27-7

Contents

Foreword

After Work

Distant Friends

The Terms of Engagement

Doing Your Research

Playing with Scrutiny

The Spider’s Representative

Tea, Trees and Books

Other People’s Moves

Good Intentions

The Spider and the Web

Crossing the Rubicon

The Pursuit of Knowledge

A Life Bargain

The Use of Rituals

Useful Resistance

Nest

The Other Side

Choice of Direction

Eternal Consequences

Something Stable

Hunters and Hunted

Testing Times

The Source of Knowledge

Making a Choice

Rite Work

Confrontations

Deliverance

No Place Called Home

Night Notes

Gifts

Leave

A Rescue

Solution

The Prisoner

Epilogue

To my sister Rachel,

who has always believed in this story.

Foreword

The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible.

This is a famous quote from Arthur C. Clarke. It appears on the little trophy I won for my short story, Dancers, which will feature in a special commemorative anthology of short stories produced by Newcon Press and the Clarke Award to celebrate the one hundredth birthday of the late great master of science fiction. I was presented with the award as part of the ceremony that acknowledged Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad as the 2017 winner.

I’m very proud of my little award. However, I had no idea it would feature this quote. As it turns out, it’s very apt for The Forever Man, both in the story and my process of writing it.

I started trying to write this story in 2006, a little while after I had completed my Master of Arts by Research degree in Creative Writing at the University of Bedfordshire. After the viva voce with Doctor Adam Roberts no less, it was clear to me that I needed a fresh story that was unburdened by all my formative attempts to be a novelist. My story needed to move away from the clichés I was stuck with and give my writing a chance to shine in a plot that would deliver something different and interesting. Of course, I can’t claim this book is unique, but it was very different to what I was trying to do before then and, as such, marks a moment when I decided to experiment with different themes.

The Forever Man brings together some of my experiences and ideas I had about popular fantasy stories and the idea of us travelling to them. Some of its themes are wish fulfilments, while some are drawn from other genres; most particularly, crime fiction, which was (and is) something of a departure for me in my writing. This is perhaps part of the reason the book had such a long and difficult birth. When I started, and even when I finished the draft, I was a very different writer to the one I am now. However, there was enough of a good story hidden amongst the overwritten sentences for Luna Press to take a look at it and, thanks to some incredibly patient work by my editor, Robert S Malan, we have the much-improved version you hold in your hands today.

I hope you enjoy it and that it won’t be quite as long before we’re back visiting Durrington again, to tell another mysterious story.

Allen Stroud

Prologue – Forty Years Ago

As the sun sets, I hear the knock on my bedroom door. The same three taps, the same expression on my mother’s face as she takes my hand, leads me down the stairs, out into the silent street.

When I was younger, I remember resisting; hiding under the bed, but it never did any good. My father would drag me out and carry me, arms pinned to my chest. I would shout and wail. I see curtains twitch and faces at the windows. I know they hear me, but no-one ever comes. Monster, they mouth soundlessly.

The church is dark when we get there. Father unlocks the door with a long key and we go inside. I sit on the stones where they point and mother takes up the chalk, drawing out the circle around me. When it is done she hands chalk to me. You know what to do, she says and then walks away. Father follows her. They never look around.

I look around. The cloth is on the lectern, red triangles on black and the candles are lit. Who comes in before us to prepare everything? It is always empty when I am here.

When the shadows on the walls come alive, I know it is time. I take up the chalk and draw.

The symbols appear to me through instinct, an ingrained skill of muscle memory. I’ve done this so often the movements are part of who I am. I focus on the task and not the moving shapes. When I was little, I didn’t know how to draw and instead, I would stare into the dark. I remember nothing of what I saw, only that I would awake covered in scratches, my own vomit and worse. My eyes would bleed for days after. I had been their plaything, their food and their sacrifice. I was lucky to be alive.

Now I concentrate on the chalk; the whorls and lines, each mark gradually unravelling the white rock in my hand. It disgorges itself to my intent, becoming smaller and smaller. Today there will be enough, but tomorrow? Who knows?

What happens when it runs out?

Out of the corner of my eye, I still see them move, watching and waiting for their chance. I know the circle holds them back. I feel their breath on the back of my neck. They whisper to me, begging, commanding, tempting. Lick a finger, wipe away the line. They promise me sweetness and sleep in exchange. You are one of us, they say. Many times, I’ve considered it, especially near the dawn when I’m tired, but I’ve never done as they ask.

As the hours pass, the circle fills. I can’t read the writing, but its effect is clear. I am protected, safe from harm. Held at the edge of sacrifice, listening to dark whispers.

I wonder who could read the words and shapes around me. Do the shadows know? I finish in the grey light near sunrise and I know they will leave soon, defeated for another night by the chalk. I don’t look up, but I sense the frustration. The threats come then, to hurt my family, but they are hollow curses from the fading dark and mean nothing. You can’t care about people you don’t love.

Dawn sun shines through stain glass windows and the shadows leave. I hear the key in the lock. Cautiously, mother comes in and takes a photograph of my work as she always does. The flash hurts my eyes a little. I stand and she kneels, washing away the chalk, erasing every trace of my presence in this place.

Oh, Matty, she says to me. You’re such a good boy.

I take her hand and walk away. The street is quieter than before, as if something has been released or appeased. No-one watches us hurry through the fog, back to our house, to my room.

One day I will be too old for the shadows.

What kind of monster will I be then?

After Work

‘…we reject all such merely probable knowledge and make it a rule to trust only what is completely known and incapable of being doubted. No doubt—’

We’ll need to take a statement from you, Mr ...?

Click.

The camera flash startled Andrew from his book. He glanced up and then around.

A young girl’s body lay on the floor between the bookshelves of aisles 10 and 10a. He put the book down, struggling to take it in; not his usual trip to the local library.

Excuse me, sir?

I’m sorry? He turned towards the person speaking: a policewoman. She was staring at him, an earnest expression on her face.

I said we’ll need a statement from you. Her tone remained casual, but with a touch of anxiety; not a usual day for her either.

Nothing to do with me. I’ve been sat here, reading. He nodded at the book beside him: Rules for the Direction of the Mind by René Descartes.

According to the assistant, you were the only person up here. She seemed to weigh each word.

But I was sat here reading when you came in, he replied. I had no idea about any of this. He couldn’t match her measured tone.

I understand, Mr ...?

Doctor ... Andrew Pryde.

She smiled at that, a sweet expression made cute by her freckled face and dimples, but he caught a glimpse of her clenched teeth. "Well then, Doctor Pryde, I’m afraid we do need to take a full statement from you at the station. Clear blue eyes held him in a grip of expected compliance. Wait here, please; my colleague will be with you shortly."

For a moment, he considered making a run for it. She was shorter than him and several stone lighter, despite the bulk of her reflective jacket and stab-vest, but the uniform kept him in check.

Okay, I guess I—

Too late; she’d turned away. He found himself staring at her back: shapeless yellow brilliance, topped by a tiny black hat, with tight brown curls peeking out on either side. The image drew the eye, but it couldn’t hold his attention for long.

A young girl’s body lay on the floor between the—

He stepped back as the policewoman and her colleague, an older man, busied themselves at the scene. A roll of plastic tape, a pair of scissors, and the alcove between 10 and 10a was sealed off. The gesture seemed hopelessly inadequate compared to the violence.

The girl’s arms and legs were twisted, as if she were made of broken sticks. Strangely, she looked like she’d fallen from a great height. Her face remained obscured.

He felt detached, as if he wasn’t in the room. Everything seemed unreal. Where did she come from? The first floor of Durrington Library contained reference books and dry academic works. It was usually deserted in the early evenings and his visits were a regular pastime. He couldn’t recall hearing anything, even the small noises a person might make by being in the same room.

As he watched the police, he found himself edging closer. He wanted to see the girl’s face, as if her expression would grant him understanding. There was something in her hand too: a book, half open, with a green cover.

The sound of a siren banished his wayward thoughts and brought with it guilt and apprehension. For a moment, he wondered if he could have been responsible for the girl’s death without knowing it.

As the policewoman led him down the stairs, he took one last glance back and got a glimpse of a broken end of tape and a bare foot sticking out from between the shelves.

*

Why don’t you tell us from the beginning, what happened?

On the table in front of him, the wheels of a cassette recorder turned hypnotically. Andrew found himself suppressing a smile that the police would use such old recorders.

I, uh, well … if you mean in relation to the girl, I don’t know.

He was sitting in a plain-walled interview room. After arriving at Durrington police station, the desk sergeant had taken his personal effects and booked him in. He’d waited for an hour. They’d told him he was under arrest when they left the library, but he hadn’t been charged.

Seated across from him was a crumpled man dressed in a crumpled suit. He’d introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Underhill, although that had been for the archaic machine that crouched between them. Behind him, the female officer from before leaned on the door. She’d taken off her luminous jacket and held her hat in her hands as she scraped at some unseen blemish on its rim.

What d’you mean you don’t know? Detective Underhill’s eyes seemed almost to disappear as he frowned.

Well, as I said to your officers, I didn’t see anything.

Underhill sighed. Doctor Pryde, I need some indulgence from you please. Andrew recognised the same measured tone in the man’s voice from earlier. We can’t piece together what you did or didn’t see without an idea of what happened before the incident. So, if we go from the beginning, we’ll get a picture of that.

Okay, Andrew said. Where do you want to start?

When did you get to the library?

About six-thirty, I guess. He shrugged. I’m fairly regular on a Wednesday.

Good. Underhill nodded. Then what did you do?

I headed up to the reference and academia sections on the second floor.

Not a fan of fiction?

Excuse me?

You didn’t stop to browse downstairs first?

No, why, does that matter? Andrew asked.

Underhill raised his eyebrows. Not if you think I’m criticising your taste in books, Doctor. I’m trying to determine if anyone saw you in the library.

Oh ... right. Andrew felt a warm flush spreading across his cheeks.

Well, did they?

I don’t know. I can’t answer for them.

The policewoman at the door coughed. Underhill glanced at her. Their eyes met and she nodded to his unspoken request.

Underhill turned back to Andrew. Anyone else around when you went in?

Um, I think so. Andrew tried to remember. A few people in the aisles; a tall assistant stood at the desk.

Mr Sanders.

What?

His name is Luke Sanders. He remembers you.

Oh, good. For some reason, the confirmation helped. I don’t think I spoke to him.

No, he said you went straight upstairs.

Right. Andrew gathered his thoughts, trying to examine the minutiae of what he remembered. I went to the encyclopaedia stuff first and the geography section.

Pick anything up?

No. I never do. I just like the big old books. He chuckled and immediately regretted it. Sorry, I mean, no. I browsed for a little bit and went over to history and philosophy.

Anyone come up the stairs?

No, no-one.

Underhill got up from the chair and walked across the room to stare at a patch of the blank concrete brickwork.

Philosophy; that’s your area?

What?

Philosophy; that’s your interest, right? According to our records, you teach philosophy at the university? The balding head turned towards Andrew again and narrowed eyes speared him to his seat.

I teach history. I like reading philosophy, among other things, he said, swallowing.

What were you reading?

"Rules for the Direction of the Mind, by René Descartes."

Good book? Useful?

It might help you, Detective, Andrew replied, although I doubt it.

Underhill turned back to the wall. And in all that time, you didn’t see the girl or hear anything of what happened?

No, nothing until the officers arrived.

You didn’t look up? Underhill stared at him again. You must have been at least a half hour.

I didn’t have cause to, Andrew said. I was reading, alone.

*

The next two hours became procedural hell. Andrew’s fingerprints were taken, shoes removed, a swab from his mouth acquired for DNA records and they asked him to go over the story again, in more detail, with another plain-clothes officer.

In between interrogations, Andrew was left to reflect on his lot. I’m innocent, can’t you see that? But of course, they couldn’t; they had to follow the evidence.

The policewoman brought him some tea in a plastic cup; bitter, but hot. He drank it and carefully picked at the rim. Gradually, the cup disintegrated in his hands, a tiny act of rebellious destruction, creating a pile of shards on the table. After that, he started on the wall, digging at loose paint chips in a minor act of vandalism that revealed the dark grey concrete beneath.

They let him out briefly to use the toilet and he took a moment to splash water on himself. The man in the mirror was haggard and dishevelled. Tired blue eyes and receding light brown hair framed a weathered face that bore witness to a hard day.

Andrew gazed at his reflection. Come on, Pryde, what happened? Some poor girl’s dead and they think you killed her! The exhaustive questioning made him begin to doubt his own judgment. Again, he tried to remember if he’d seen the girl before. The images of her body lying twisted on the floor between the aisles kept flashing into his mind, as if he was missing something ...

... There was no blood.

The sudden realisation nearly knocked him off his feet. His hands gripped the washbasin, knuckles whitened. Why didn’t I notice before?

When he left the toilets, he found the female officer in the corridor. She’d put her hat back on and was standing outside the interview room door.

I didn’t catch your name earlier, Andrew said.

PC Miriam Jones, Doctor Pryde, she said. We’ll be keeping you in here a bit longer, in case the detectives want to talk to you again.

What happens then?

You take a seat in one of the cells until you can go home.

Andrew swallowed past a lump in his throat and changed the subject. What book was she reading?

What? PC Jones said, frowning.

The book she was holding in her hand, Andrew persisted.

PC Jones bit her lip and hesitated. Finally, she replied, "It’s called Tree and Leaf."

Never heard of it.

I hadn’t either, but apparently it’s by J. R. R. Tolkien.

Andrew went back into the room and sat down. A little while later, PC Jones returned and took him to the cells. As he went in, he found he was shaking, but he managed a half smile as she locked the door. Each thud of the locks made him want to run, but there was nowhere to go. The scraping sound of the metal viewing slot came last, consigning him to his dungeon.

Now what do I do? Andrew sat on the plastic-coated mattress of the thin bed. The springs squeaked in protest and he realised he was doing what countless people had done in this room before. He wondered how many of them had been as confused as he was.

So where’s my phone call? In films and television, everyone had a phone call. Who should I ring? His mind went back to the interview. He couldn’t shake the thought that in some way Underhill had asked the wrong questions.

Beyond the cell wall, a man began screaming. It was a muffled wailing sound, full of anger and frustration.

Somewhere in a little part of his heart, Andrew screamed too.

*

Yes, I can confirm it happened here this time!

Flicking back a greasy fringe from his pallid face, Ronald Gibbs peered at the computer screen as he typed his responses into a chat forum. The monitor was the only source of light in his cluttered bedroom. Next to his disheveled desk a CB radio wheezed as it scanned the airwaves, randomly announcing transmissions. ... Car twenty-eight, car twenty-eight, customer from the chip shop on Ainsley Street, pick up and drop at the Sabbeline Estate ...

Comments appeared in response as the multi-coloured handles of each user scrolled up the screen. He scanned the messages, typing rapidly as he read.

Of course I’m going to check it out. You think I’d miss this kind of opportunity? Amazing! Right on my doorstep!

The questions came thick and fast, but Ronald knew which ones to ignore. Twenty-four years of age, he was an internet veteran and could separate the wheat from the chaff.

Yes, I’m sure. Listen, I’ve done my research. The evidence points to this being a perfect opportunity. Can’t be a normal murder.

Ronald blew his nose with a ripped piece of tissue paper, squelched the contents into a ball and dropped it on the desk. Behind him, the radio continued to click and whirr. He yawned and rubbed his eyes before selecting a question that was important to answer.

No, this time the police have a witness. They think he killed her. He’s a university teacher. Just the sort of person we need to make people understand the truth!

The sound of a buzzer made him jump. He extricated himself from his litter-strewn swivel chair, picked up a small rucksack and headed for the door, pausing only to retrieve an object that glittered in the half-light by the doorway.

Carefully, he tucked the long-handled flick-knife into the back pocket of his trousers.

Distant Friends

I awake to the sound of screaming from my childhood. The high-pitched cries of the damned that have circled around me my entire life, coalesce and metamorphose into something focused, urgent and demanding.

The shrill ring of my mobile phone, lying on the table beside my bed.

Yes?

Sir, we’ve found a body and have a suspect. We’ll need you to come in.

What time is it?

Nearly three in the morning.

I sit up in bed. What’s so urgent that you ring me now? I ask.

Not urgent, sir; more unusual than anything else. The caller hesitates. We can’t work out how the victim ended up where she was. It’s almost as if she just appeared out of nowhere.

I massage my temple with my free hand, thinking through what needs to be done. Details of the bedroom around me come into focus as my eyes adjust to the half-light. Familiar, safe, protected. A cocoon against the dangers of the world beyond. I will need to leave this place, but not yet.

Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you needn’t bother me until office hours. So long as the crime scene is locked down, the suspect has been interviewed and forensics are doing their job, this puzzle can wait.

Of course, sir.

I’ll see you when I get in. I end the call.

The phone screen remains bright, as if it knows I’m not done. I cycle through the address book and pick out a number intentionally left at the end, simply labelled ‘_z’. I dial it.

Hello? Yes, it’s happened again…

*

Yes, Mrs Pryde, he’s being kept in overnight ... No, I don’t know why he phoned me and not you. Linda Frakes checked a sigh as she attempted to keep up her best phone manner.

Has he got counsel? demanded the voice at the other end.

"No, I’ve not managed to arrange him a solicitor yet. It is ten o’clock at—"

I’m aware of the time, thank you.

The evening was going downhill. Linda had been friends with Andrew Pryde for three years; they had dated for a few months, but the phone call had been a total surprise. They weren’t close anymore and she hadn’t expected to be talking to his mother again, let alone—

I’ll get him a solicitor, Mrs Pryde announced.

Okay, if you have someone, that’s fine. I’ll—

No, I don’t, but I can’t ask you to help. We’ll deal with this.

Right, well, take care and I hope everything sorts itself out.

Why wouldn’t it? Andrew hasn’t done anything!

No, I’m sure he hasn’t.

Exactly.

Good. Bye.

Linda slammed the phone on its cradle. The electronic speaker chirped in protest and went still. She smoothed back her blonde hair and tried to compose herself. Damn the woman. She’d no idea why Andrew had phoned her, but she’d had to ring his parents.

She checked her makeup in the hallway mirror and dabbed her eyes with a neat corner of tissue.

Who was that? said a deep male voice from the lounge.

Andrew’s mother, darling, she replied. I had to call her, given the circumstances.

His answer was terse. Good job I don’t get jealous.

Linda sighed; this evening’s demands seemed to be without end. Her husband’s curmudgeonly behaviour was designed to irritate, but she couldn’t afford to get annoyed. You’re the only one for me, George! she said in a light-hearted tone.

Make sure it stays that way.

Linda thought about Andrew. She didn’t believe for a minute he was capable of murder. If he cared that much about anything, I might have stuck around. For a moment, she entertained the idea of him as some sort of romantic lead, on the run and wrongly accused, but the gaunt, grim, passionate image just didn’t seem to fit the dithering Doctor Pryde.

She picked up the receiver again and quickly dialled a six-digit number.

Horace?

Linda, do you know what time it is? a man murmured.

Sorry to call you so late; I wouldn’t usually, but I need a favour: a friend’s in a bit of trouble.

The man sighed. Fine, you want me to visit the station?

Would you? Thank you, it means so much.

What’s his name?

Who’re you speaking to now? George’s voice rumbled out from the lounge again. Linda hesitated, but decided to ignore him.

Andrew. Could you get to him in the morning, Horace?

Of course.

Thank you. Perfect.

What’s he done?

I’ll give you the details. It’s quite complicated ...

*

A taxicab pulled up around the side of Durrington Town Library. Ronald Gibbs, fresh from his stale bedroom and mind filled with internet conspiracy, burst out of the back seat and onto the pavement. The driver’s window wound down and a hand extended from inside, palm up. Ronald fumbled in his trouser pockets and pulled out their contents.

Here! he said, breathlessly depositing a