GAMBLY RISE


He was there again when I looked out the window; leaning against a lamp-post, smoking a cigarette, examining the soles of his shoes. I wondered who had sent him; probably Roger, but the list was practically endless. It could be anyone from the syndicate, any client, any victim, any disgruntled employee, someone I had shouldered on the street, someone who liked pancakes for breakfast. He had a hat, of course; they all do. I could see, though my binoculars, that he wore a rolex which occasionally slid out from beneath the threadbare trenchcoat to glimmer slightly with the rain, a hidden band of luxury in a dismal fog, drenched pollutants and miasmic potholes, a sign that carelessness on character, not quite as undercover as he wants to seem to seem; or perhaps that is what he wants. It is an obvious stake-out, either an amateur job or extremely professional, designed to make me think of amateurs, lulling false confidence into my parched brain. I may be old, but sharp as ever, perhaps more. I have learned many things in my time, and most important of all is to know the value of learning itself; knowledge is power, and time, if correctly utilised, is knowledge - experience is the ultimate weapon. I have no fear of these petty thugs; rolex man poses no threat, but it is of some interest to me to discover who it is that sent him. So, I wait. The waves close in.

He goes over to the drinks cabinet, pours himself a martini, dry, chilled. The room is large, tastefully furnished; huge heavy curtains hang across the windows like a cinema screen, vast folds combine and mice, once to dream of cornut able for touche dear sir; made to measure, a small string. The floor is wooden, but a furry rug with illustrations of elephants covers the plu part, the most important part, the middle and mostly, a metre from walls the ending abrupt.

I know these things because I have been paid to know. It's my job. I was once like him; hard to believe, now. I have changed. I can see him, looking down at me through a chink in those armoured curtains, wondering who sent me, what I am planning to do, not caring but curious. I am the bait in a trap of my own design. This is a strange situation, what's wrong with you? I wouldn't have accepted if it had been anyone else, but old Snarfter, I owe him a comeback, he deserves it. If anyone deserves it, it's old Snarfter. That's what I keep telling myself, and who else could do it? Not Jones, not that stodgy sack of butt-crumble, not even Catheus Forlorin; it had to be me, and I wanted it. So here I am, in the rain, wearing an almost entirely useless trenchcoat performing an entirely mindless yet painfully necessary waiting game. Waiting for the time I can go home and have a hot shower, and sleep. Waiting for Snarfter to go to bed, wake up in the middle of the night and see me still standing here. Then, and only then, can I leave this steaming pit of porous hell, him convinced that I'm a bumbling fool, and myself probably in full accord. And why am I doing this again?

He settles himself down in his favourite armchair, turns up the heating a notch, browses through the culture and entertainment section of the newspaper, the newspaper which he all but owns, reporting on life in a city which he all but owns. His house is a large house, by any standards, located in the very best part of town with plenty of wealthy neighbours whose houses are almost as large, but not quite; yet despite this excess of floorspace, he lives alone. Twenty bedrooms lie vacant every night; dust gathers, to be cleaned by a special crew every christmas in preparation for Snarfter's infamous annual house party. The house was really a castle, and it was called Gambly Rise after the area in which it was situated, and the Gambly Rise New Year's Party was the most illustrious social event in the city's calendar. All the celebrities, sports stars, actors, musicians, poets and media moguls would do anything to get an invitation, which were worth more than their weight in gold. Apart from that one exception, though, Snarfter was not a particularly gregarious sort, and rarely accepted visitors at home. He had no servants, no chef; when he didn't wish to cook for himself, he simply ordered food by phone.

Moddison! The smacks have escaped! Call the truth, smooch, do the duty!
Yes, sir, yessir!
That retreating back, here up the stairs. Take it in, by the line, to crouch. Even the mind, and console, even things will smooth. Smartly. On hands, for wearing or simple slumber, suits your needs, eyes on me. Special razors in your teeth.
The instructions are understood, though not by myself.
Bring them to the end, and there will be time. Go now.
Yes sir.

I see him, still there, still waiting. What is he waiting for? Where could I possibly be going? Does he think I bring my dog for a walk, and hopes to drop a brick on me as I stoop to clear the pavement? Or is it a massive bluff? One might well wonder. I think it's time for bed; past eleven. There's no need to worry, but what is he up to? Is he really so stupid as all that? I wonder. His clothes are saturated, his head droops, lurking in shadow, stubborn. Clumsy. It could be a ruse, of course, but to what end? I see no sense in it. My back again, need to electric, tired, tired. Feel better in the morning. Lights out.

What I really wanted, of course, was to walk up to him and smash his brains out with a baseball bat. I'd fantasised about it, but it could never happen; this was the only way, slow, patient, boring - but ultimately far more satisfying than these, the impotent daydreams of a waxen heart in the rain, sculpted from a god that no man owns the knowing of. He still thinks himself untouchable, but he doesn't know about me. I can get him, I can twist that old pickle until his eyes pop out into the cat, I can tear those improbable tendons from his brain. I can twist that smile until it's ripe for hanging underwear on, I can breathe upside-down.

Snarfter was a much-feared individual; he held the city close to his chest, and none dared to cross him. Sallybank on the funeral; which, to inspection, was beyond the curvy class of both tone and trifle, almost for the breeze and the rubble they dug her up just in time to hear her apology, ghosted on like tablecloth wine. These lessons had been learned, and rumours spread; old Snarfter had a power, and power breeds power, this like no other; radiation was blamed, but few believed. Mind games he played, and it was claimed that he could move his brain about in his skull, full of muscles, rotations and wicked thoughts. He was different; he influenced people in a way that no other could. He dictated events, behaviour; a superman of sorts. Many enemies. His face was cremated and his ears were lost at sea; he was attacked once outside a fast-food restaurant, learned to channel electricity, melted, burning protein bad for business. Since then, he grew with his gift, learned to manipulate it, more control, more subtlety, more effect. He learned to hide what everyone knew, but not knowing what they know nothing, and he held them there, safely scared of the darkness.

The morning came with a smear of winter, skipping clouds across the bay. Seagulls wheeled there, shopping for life again today, bringing prey to its place. Covered by the deathly pall of exhausted air and sticky surface; the feel of little fingers, away. The phone rang, but Snarfter felt little need to answer. He lay in bed, counting his heartbeats. They phased in and out of time with the electronic pulse, carry on counting, the blood and the bone, the tiniest charge, the phone from far away. The feel of little fingers. The feel of little need. The heart wins out; the phone is dead, silent again and lonely cold plastic core. Breathing sucks deep. Rest again, two months until the party, the birthday party. Snarfter born on the first of January. Another year, another day, another line of weekly life. A column of pilchards retch in unison, as if summoned by some unseen bell; their twisting eyes, their diamond spines. He waits for the sheets to dry, thinks about company, what use? Nothing is worth this waiting, this everyday pain, an occasional gracehair can say, ponder flies on young skin.

The spy had gone; the street was clear, no shadows now. I put on my clothes, such as they were; decided not to go to town, why bother? The most capable people in the world are running my businesses; all I would do is remind them who they are working for, not that they need it. Perhaps he evaporated with the rain, or was washed into the gutter. I sense something, more than normal; why am I afraid? I won't even admit it, but caution is hanging over me. Why not go to town? I don't want to. Why not?

I knew I had gotten to him. I could sense it. Not in the direct way, the cold way, but a far more subtle sense, the faintest odour of a hidden whisper in a darkened room, the echo of a foreign thought. I knew. He would be wary from now on, but never know why; I must be more careful than ever. His alertness will increase. Paranoia is the ultimate weapon. His strength will decline, mine will rise. It's only a matter of time.

Snarfter indeed had many enemies; powerful enemies, but all the more impotent for their riches, which made them all the more desperate. Every move against him failed; psycho-scientists indicated a psi-field, but all theory. Snarfter could not be studied, nor understood. A freak of nature, they said. He has an emotive rectification capability, they said. He can manipulate neural networks by sub-etheric interference; he possesses the ability to influence the abstract radiation of rational thought creation; combined with certain telekinetic and psionic powers whose scope stretches far beyond the limitations of modern science. He must be stopped. His enemies, primarily those in second city, were entirely crippled by his control; expansions were impossible, corporate warfare was almost at a standstill. The only expansionist regime was that of Snarfter Networks Inc., and second city were in constant fear of being subsumed; quite rightly so, as it was an inevitable progression. They would lose their initiative, fail to monopolise, be unable to dominate the marketplace. They had so far managed to avoid submission to Snarfter's rule by arranging a 'principle merger' which allowed the major economic institutions of second city to act as a single entity that could only be bought out as a whole unit, while each component actually, in practice, retained full independence. Even this drastic measure, however, would not work forever. SNI were rapidly approaching the level of affluence which would allow a total takeover, and the bosses were getting worried, none more so than Parsley Backer, the west's main nuclear technology tycoon.

'We have to kill him,' exclaimed Parsley,' and as soon as possible, if not sooner. We are in immediate danger of losing control of an empire which has taken me twenty years to establish, and I am not prepared to let that happen. I need a solution and I need it now.'

There was an uncomfortable silence in the boardroom. Then, quietly, from the other end of the table, a voice spoke up. It was Fioline Cramp-Begonia, NTeK's R&D supremo, wearing her white labcoat and stashglasses.

'I have an idea that just might work; the technology hasn't been fully tested yet, but it's the only thing that I can think of. It might be our only chance.'

The problem, you see, was that Snarfter had a virtually unbreakable psychic shield; he could sense danger long before it actually arrived, and could take measures to protect himself. In addition, if he were suddenly set upon by an assailant, he could exercise enough control over the attacker's mind to make him sit down quietly in the corner and wait for the police to arrive. Of course, a large nuclear blast would probably sort him out, but that would also destroy a lot of valuable real estate and millions of potential customers, which would be bad for business in the long run. In such a case, the act of assasination is a far from simple one, not merely the casual dropping of a piano at the right moment or the slipping of nasty powder into soup. There are significant problems to be overcome.

'The way I see it,' continued Fioline,'there is absolutely no point in sending an ordinary man, or a team of ordinary assassins, to kill him. They are doomed to fail right from the word go, because he will sense them coming, how many they are, where they are, what they plan to do, well in advance of their arrival. It simply cannot work.'

She stood up and began to walk around the table towards Parsley, slowly, gesturing with her hands to illustrate her points.

'This is because of his special power, as we all know. We don't know what it is, but we do know he has it and we don't. This is the key; no matter how many people we send, they fail simply because he has the power and they don't. So what do we do?'

Again that uncomfortable silence. Everyone looked at one another for inspiration. Parsley motioned to her to continue.

'Easy,' she said. 'All we have to do is send someone who has the same power he does!'

'But that's impossible. In all the years of documented history, there has never been, nor is there now, a person with those powers. Not even close. He is the only one. The issue has been exhaustively researched.'

'Oh, I agree entirely. But you misunderstand me, and there is some remarkable new technology now available which might well offer us an unprecedented loophole. You see, ladies and gentlemen, thanks to Nuclear Technology, Old Snarfter may well prove to be his own worst enemy!'

The brain residue was reclining, slinking, tearing tiny membranes, shunting into pale corridors, howling on every edge, veins bulging neck as prying needles loomed over his naked skull, across his body, red with pain, charred by light and dismal in robotic control. The straps held fast to the strain the jolts crashed through his flesh, tearing open blinding mindless shafts of sheer hell forever through the world, crazing his flailing eyes, walltide fall, embryo slits combine to blasé finder, sights on empty, shuddering, uncontrol, bastardcold jelly. The nightmare raged forever, the cold sterile walls, the armoured door, the lethal machines that tended him, tortured him. Sometimes, in the night when they left him to sleep, he could sense people, people nearby, but always the same sort of people, like himself, prisoners, helpless, scared; but one name always emerged - Snarfter is the one responsible. He consoled himself with this knowledge. Someday he would escape, somehow. And then the hunt would begin.

'But how will we convince him to do it? He's not likely to agree, no matter how much money we offer, even if we do mange to get him here,' said Parsley, doubtfully.

'I've already thought of that,' explained Fioline. 'You see, he doesn't need to know the connection between himself and Snarfter. After we abduct him, we can keep him in isolation in our research centre in Arizona, away from any populated areas; no human contact, for obvious reasons; we can't even have people nearby, because he will be able to read through the shielding. We have a special mechanised workstation ready to deal with him.'

'And how do we get him to kill Snarfter?'

'Simple - we convince him that Snarfter is doing this to him. And that can easily be done, but the best way, I think, is to pose as Snarfterites and kidnap some ordinary people, people who know nothing about us, and detain them in the same building. That way, he should pick up on Snarfter from them without any contact with us at all. And then, just when he is about to crack, a special team from NTeK break down the door and save the poor boy from the hideous experimentation inflicted upon him by the demonic Snarfter, may he rot in hell with many maggots. Then, hopefully, our man goes to work.'

'But how will we have enough time? We have to kill him now!'

'You forget, dear Parsley, that we now have all the time in the world. We can do anything we want.'

I would get him. There was no question about that; it was only a question of when. I had already changed him, twisted his mind, ever so slightly, so subtle. He didn't notice; perhaps he would notice that he had changed, but he would never link it to me. His consciousness is facing another direction now; I can avoid his probes. His greatest weakness is that he thinks he is strong; he is not strong. He has been weakening for so long, so slowly that he didn't perceive the change, but now he is vulnerable. Weaker than I, despite his 'experience.' I will destroy him utterly. No fancy machines, no delicate torture. No second chance. My period of waiting is almost at an end. At night, I lie on the roof and stare at the moon, dreaming of molten skin and the firm crunch of his skull beneath my boots. He is out of time.

I woke up cold today. I don't know what it is; I feel…strange. Impure. Old. I've never really felt old before, but now…slow, old. I am catching up on myself at last. And there are blank spaces; holes in my head. Even the electric doesn't seem to do much good. I think I'll stay in bed. Phone someone to help? No. No need. Sleep again, perhaps. Such a lovely day. Lovely day, it is, it is. I wonder where the cat is, the bird, the singing. The strawberry fields, the singing. I should sleep. After all, I have the rest of my life ahead of me…

'So, how does this time machine work?'
'To be perfectly honest, I haven't got a clue. But it works, and that's enough. And it's saved your company.'
'I still don't understand exactly how we did it, though. OK, so we go back in time, kidnap Snarfter before he learns to use his powers, bring him to our time, make him think he's been nabbed and tortured by old Snarfter, thereby tricking him into wreaking horrible revenge on his older self. And because good old NTeK 'rescued' him from old Snarfter in the first place, the new Snarfter is now entirely loyal to us, practically guaranteeing us total economic monopoly over the whole country for the next sixty-plus years.'
'So what's the problem?'
'I don't know. I mean, this whole 'two Snarfters' thing just doesn't seem plausible, for one. OK, so we've done it, so it's obviously possible, silly me. But who knows what sort of aftershocks could arise? And another thing; what if Snarfter found out the truth? He's bound to meet us at some stage. What happens then?'
'Well, we have to deal with that immediately. We have a new hypnotic probe which should be able to isolate those memories and erase them, or at least push them into a closed area which Snarfter either can't or (out of respect) won't read into. I think everything's been worked out beautifully.'
'Snarfter thinks that old Snarfter is his father, which I suppose he is, in a weird existential way, which makes the torture he suffered all the more painful. But the thing is, old Snarfter was actually an orphan. So who were his parents, and could they have had the same powers?'
'No. We discovered his parents, after an exhaustive search, and they are entirely normal. Nothing unusual whatsoever.'
'So could we go back again and kidnap another Snarfter, say if our new one turns out badly?'
'I don't know. It's possible, I suppose. Only time will tell, as they say.'
'Indeed.'

The sun was coming up over Gambly Rise, casting shadows over all the lawns, through the trees and across the silent eyes of the stranger on the street.