Resonance (12 page)

"Indeed?"

"Yes, a Mister—" he glanced at his notes "—Graham Smith. He works in this building."

"This building?" The minister sat up. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. It says here he's a messenger based at 12 Westminster Street."

"Would you like to see him?"

Both ParaDim aides looked towards Sylvestrus.

He leaned forward, placed his elbows firmly on the table, brought his finger tips slowly together in a triangle ending at his chin and looked directly at Fotheringale.

"Yes," he said. "That would be most agreeable."

"Graham, where you been, man?" asked Michael as Graham walked into the Post Room. "We been looking everywhere for you. They want you in Conference Room C right away."

Graham was surprised. Why would anyone ask for him? Did they want the furniture moved?

He took the stairs to the third floor—no point waiting for the lift if people wanted him in a hurry—and arrived outside the conference room, out of breath and sweating slightly.

"Graham Smith?" asked an impeccably dressed young man whom Graham had never seen before.

Graham nodded nervously and forced a smile.

"If you'll wait here, I'll enquire if the minister is ready to see you."

Graham's eyes widened. Minister?

The young man disappeared inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

Graham smoothed down his hair with a clammy hand and flapped at some dust on his right trouser leg.

And waited.

The young man returned and opened the door wide. "The minister will see you now," he said, standing back to allow Graham room to pass.

Graham felt even more self-conscious, walking through that huge door into that long rectangular room. He'd never been inside before. Not this room. He'd helped move the furniture a couple of times in the other conference rooms but never this one.

"Take a seat, Mr. Smith."

Graham wasn't sure who'd said it, he was still taking in his surroundings—the huge conference table, the panelling, the paintings, all those important people looking at him. All of them in shirtsleeves, showing the new relaxed attitude—we're powerful men but, deep down, we're just like you, see how we dress down to make you feel comfortable.

It didn't.

The choice of seats didn't help either—there were about twenty of them and only six were taken. Should he sit by the door, well away from everyone else? Or sit closer? And how close? Or should he take one of the chairs by the wall, like that man taking notes?

Graham hovered by the foot of the table, smiling nervously. The impeccably dressed young man appeared at his elbow and gestured that he join the others at the head of the table.

Graham obeyed. A chair was pulled out for him, next to a man whose face he dimly recognized—a deputy secretary? Permanent secretary? Someone like that. Whoever it was, he smiled at Graham and held out a hand. Graham wiped his right hand down his trouser leg and shook hands.

"I expect you're wondering what you're doing here?" asked the minister.

Graham nodded, his fixed smile widening to a death rictus grin.

"I'll explain. These gentlemen here are from ParaDim. You may have heard that name before."

Graham swallowed hard. The minister was still speaking but it was as though he'd suddenly stepped back twenty feet and started talking through water. All the words were squeaking and smothered. Except one. ParaDim. Which broke against his ears like a crashing wave. ParaDim.
They've come for you.
They're sitting opposite. They're here!
 

He swallowed again, trying to unblock his ears. He looked down at his hands and clenched them firmly in his lap.

"Mr. Smith?"

Graham looked up, forced another nervous smile and swallowed.

"You'd be making an important contribution to the advancement of medical science," continued the minister. "A contribution that would not go unnoticed."

"Indeed," said the man next to him. "I'm sure the gentlemen opposite will recompense you handsomely for the two days they require of you."

"That we will," said one of the Americans. "Five hundred dollars a day plus expenses."

"Pounds," said a voice—English, well-spoken, assured. "Make that five hundred pounds per day." Graham looked up. The man was staring at him—more than staring—he was dissecting him with his eyes. The same eyes that had watched him by the coffee machine. The tall, gaunt man.

"We have access to one of the world's premier medical facilities," broke in the American opposite. "We'd pick you up from your home in the morning and take you back at night. Or we could put you up at a top London hotel, if you'd prefer."

Everyone was looking at Graham. He could feel the entire room willing him to say "yes."

"There'd be nothing invasive. All the tests are state of the art. We'd need a small blood sample but that would be all. If you'd prefer we could take a DNA sample from your saliva instead?"

"Or your hair," suggested the other American.

"Whatever you want. We can show you a complete list of the tests involved and talk you through everything they entail. You can choose the two days which are the most convenient for you."

Again the wall of faces turned on Graham. Again he stared back blankly, waiting for everyone to give up and let him go.

"If there's any test you're unhappy with, we'll cancel it."

"You really would be helping medical science. Lives could be saved."

They all looked at Graham. Well-meaning smiles, encouraging nods. Waiting for the "yes" that had to come.

Graham was torn. He was terrified of ParaDim and he was terrified of saying "no." He'd spent his life agreeing with people, pursuing the line of least resistance through life with his nods and smiles.
Do what people say and they'll stop bothering you. Life's hard for people like you. Don't make it any worse.
His mother's advice. Advice that had served him well.

The minister broke in. "You wouldn't lose any holiday entitlement, if that's what you're worried about. You'd be on full pay for the duration of the tests and we'd offer you time off in lieu as well."

More smiles, more encouragement. Should he tell the minister he didn't trust ParaDim? That once they had him, they'd likely keep him? No one at the department would care if the two days turned into a week and then a month. And then what—an accident? A tragic unforeseen event? A car crash, a fatal allergic reaction, a mystery illness?

How could he say anything without sounding paranoid?

People are out to get me. They follow me everywhere. Annalise told me. She hears voices. 
 

Smiling faces turned quizzical. He recognized the look—surprise and pity rolled into one. The look before people changed the subject or walked away.

Would these people walk away? Would ParaDim ever give up?

Graham looked away. His skin burned so much, he was certain his face was bright red. His hands knotted together in his lap. His mouth opened and closed like a fish—struggling to speak, struggling not to speak. Constrained and impelled in equal measures.

"Perhaps you need time to consider?" asked the tall, gaunt man.

Graham looked up, eager, smiling, nodding. A way out!

"Here's our card," he said, pushing a black and gold business card across the table. "Contact us when you've had sufficient time."

Graham nodded again and reached out eagerly to take it. The man didn't let go, he kept his index finger pressed down hard on the card.

"If you have any questions," he continued, looking directly into Graham's eyes. "Don't hesitate to ring. There will always be someone to take your call."

He raised his index finger a fraction and released the card.

Graham took it and almost tripped over the chair leg in his haste to get to his feet. He smiled, grasped the card to his chest with both hands and nodded deferentially several times as he backed away from the table. Then turned and almost ran to the door.

He grasped the ornate handle, pushing and pulling, rattling the door until it flew open. And then he was flying, down the stairs and away.

Graham kept on the move for the next hour. He didn't feel comfortable at his desk—they'd called down for him once, they could do it again. He took over Michael's rounds—except for the third floor. Michael didn't mind. Michael was always flexible.

Just after five, Graham was walking through the ground floor lobby on his way to the stairwell when he was called over to reception.

"Could you take this up to 515?" the receptionist asked, holding out a small parcel the size of a book. "I've tried ringing through but it's engaged. The courier said it was urgent."

She managed to smile and look pleadingly at the same time. Graham smiled back and took the package.

Five minutes later, the parcel delivered, he pressed the lift button and stood back to wait for it to arrive. He rocked gently back and forth on his toes and heels and counted the first row of ceiling tiles. They were all there. A good even number to finish on.

The lift arrived. He got in, pressed "ground" and walked to the back. He liked to stand at the back—dead center, heels against the wall. He stretched his arms out against the back wall, judged the distance between the corners and the tips of his fingers and shuffled a few inches to his right. Perfect. Lifts appreciated equilibrium—all machines did. He watched the lights descend, five, four . . .

The lift stuttered as it braked for the third floor. A muffled bell tolled in the lobby and then the doors slid back.

Three people were waiting.

All of them from ParaDim.

The tall, gaunt one spoke.

"Such a small world, isn't it, Mr. Smith?"

The ParaDim deputation stepped inside. Graham watched as they filed in, one to his right, one to his left and one by the doors—the man with the eyes. Graham looked beyond him into the lobby. Wasn't anyone else getting in? All he needed was one more person, a witness.

The lobby was empty except for one girl at the coffee machine, her back to the lift. The doors began to close. Graham could feel the shoulders of the two Americans touch his own. Why were they standing so close? He felt paralyzed, hemmed in, trapped.

Ignore them and they'll go away
. More advice from his mother. Applicable to bullies, wasps and men from ParaDim.

The lift began to descend. The tall, gaunt man was staring again, an amused expression on his face. Graham swallowed hard, fixed his eyes to the control panel, watched the floor numbers light and dim, willing them to move faster, watching for any movement out of the corner of his eye, his hand ready to spring for the emergency button the moment anyone moved.

Should he press a floor button and get out? Or would that force their hand? The moment his finger hit the button, a hand would fly round his neck and a needle would find its way into his body. They'd carry him out of the lift, security wouldn't stop them. The man's had a seizure, they'd say. No need for an ambulance. Our car's outside, we'll take him to the hospital. We're doctors.

The lift began to brake. The light flashed on "one." Graham waited for it to flip over to "ground." It didn't. He heard the muffled sound of the lift bell on the first floor lobby. He had a chance. The lift doors slowly opened. He could see one, two, three people standing back from the doors waiting for people to get out. He delayed until the last second and then surged forward, squeezing sideways past the tall, gaunt man and stumbling into the lobby. A nervous smile, a nod of apology to the girl he'd nearly collided with and he was away, half walking, half running down the rear corridor.

He looked over his shoulder several times. No one appeared to be following. He heard two girls giggling and the lift door close. And then nothing.

He stayed on the first floor for ten minutes—mostly in the far lobby, looking out the window onto Westminster Street, straining to catch sight of the three men from ParaDim.

He didn't see them.

They could have kept to the near side of the pavement, they could have walked off in the other direction.

Or they might not have left the building.

He tried the windows above the main exit, plucking up courage to return to the scene of his escape from the lift. There were a few people at the coffee machine, which made him feel safer. He stretched up on tiptoe and peered down at the pavement. Plenty of people walking by but not one of them from the ParaDim delegation.

They must have gone by now. Important people wouldn't hang around, would they?

He tried the stairs, descending slowly, pressing himself against the wall, peering around corners. The door to the ground floor lobby had a glazed panel, he looked through, twisting his face to the left and right.

He couldn't see them anywhere. He opened the door a crack and looked along the wall to the lifts. Nothing. Four people waiting for the lift, all of them people he recognized.

He left work, convinced they were waiting for him somewhere. Maybe in that big black car from Annalise's dream.

He kept away from the curb, hugging the near side of the pavement, up against the shops and offices—stop-starting all the way down Westminster Street as streams of people flowed in and out of doorways. No one was going to bundle
him
into any slow-moving car.

He buried himself in the crowds at the tube station, kept away from the platform edge, kept away from any nook or passageway where someone could hide or sneak up on him. He pushed inside the carriages as far as he could, far from the doors where someone could force him off the train against his will. The stations flew by, light and dark, the ebb and flow of people, the noise, the rock and roll of the carriage.

And gradually, ever so gradually, his fear began to fade. Maybe, just maybe, he was safe. ParaDim had come for him, he'd said "no" and they'd gone away. Twice, if you counted the lift. Twice they'd had him and twice they'd let him go. Did that sound like people who wished him harm?

Maybe these were the good guys at ParaDim? Maybe the medical tests were for real? Something to do with Kevin Alexander and his friends? He'd ask Annalise tomorrow when they met in the park. Even if Kevin wasn't behind the tests, he'd be able to find out who was.