The title of this chapter bears little or no relevance to what actually happens, it's just a 'throwaway' phrase from the comment I made at the end of the last chapter…
It was freedom. Not just within Rosenkreuz, but without it. Actually independence. Movement of the best kind. A chance to do as he wished. Within reason, of course.
Errand boy. Even Bradley could see that, despite all the ceremonial trappings they gave his position. He was running messages and packages back and forth between Rosenkreuz in the Austrian Alps and an Estet building in Berlin. And the only reason he got it was because he was the only post-graduate who knew how to drive.
But still, standing on the street corner in Berlin, holding the brown paper package in suspiciously dry palms (not all of the deodorant adverts lie, just most) he waited for the contact. They wouldn't let him anywhere near the actual building yet. He was rapidly learning that the council believed that knowledge was power, so it was handed out in limited portions only to those who could be trusted. Bradley meant to earn that trust, that knowledge, that power, but in the mean time he had to put up with being left out of the loop.
An elderly man came up and asked him for the time. Bradley replied apologetically that his watch wasn't working. The old man revealed that he used to be a watchmaker, but he couldn't be having with any of this battery nonsense. Stopped working if it so much as rained, he said. Bradley agreed, saying he'd dropped his watch in the bath and was only wearing it out of habit.
The old man said, "It's like some daft James Bond film, isn't it? I keep expecting to see Q turn up with a helicopter in a briefcase."
Bradley chuckled dryly. "Quite. I was expecting to have to walk into you or something, and surreptitiously swap packages."
"We used to do that," the old man admitted, "but people kept dropping things or ending up with the wrong package and to be quite frank it's bloody difficult to do that sort of thing subtlety."
"I suppose I'm meant to accidentally leave this here, and you'll absentmindedly pick it up and intend to take it to the lost and found at a police station somewhere?"
"Something like that, but that's still pretty difficult to pull off. Business men are always meeting to exchange things, so it's best this way."
"True." Bradley handed over the package with a faint smile. "So, how long have you been doing this? You make it sound like a long time."
"Ever since I got out of Rosenkreuz," the elderly man said jovially. He noticed the stunned expression on Bradley's face. "I know, it's not most people's ideal job, but I'm pretty weakly talented, a telempath, by the way, and it keeps me out of trouble."
"I don't intend to be doing it for the rest of the year, let alone the rest of my life," Bradley spluttered.
"Well more fool you. I'm not an important person, or a powerful person, so people don't bother with me. I get a fair wage and a decent home. You want power, you have it, but you'll never see thirty. Those at the top are very protective of their positions."
"I'm not going to take those positions from them," Bradley reassured him. "I'm going to create a new one."
"Good luck with that," the old man said wryly. "I'll see you around, no doubt." With a brief wave, the elderly gentleman walked off down the busy street, parcel clutched under one bony arm.
Bradley turned to make his way back to his car when a vision hit him. Hit him like an express train. He staggered backwards, one hand to his head, gasping for breath. A young woman gave him a concerned look, but he waved her away. Staggering to a bench, he sat down and tried to collect his scattered wits.
The redhead. Urgent. Death. Trembling slightly and still confused, Bradley forced himself to his feet again and set off down the road, ignoring looks he got from passers-by. Breathing deeply, he stared around. An alley. This was a wealthy part of Berlin. No dirty alleys around here.
When he was younger, Bradley had visited Berlin several times. His father thought it a good way of teaching him about the 'damn dirty reds'. Bradley had found himself admiring the communist sentiment, if not the way it was put into practice. It had earned him several beatings.
Now, with the Berlin wall relatively recently toppled, the city was a different place. But still, he could recognise both parts of the city, and the alley he'd seen the redhead in was in what had been the Eastern sector. Making his way towards his car, Bradley climbed into the plush black vehicle and set off. His vision blurred, his hands unsteady, his heart racing, he narrowly avoided both pedestrians and street signs as he wove his way across town, speeding through red lights and once even going straight over a roundabout, one of those one wit a raised bump covered in flowers in the middle. Later, he'd have nightmares about the journey, but right now he was having nightmares about what would happen if he were too late.
Despite the scars on his arm disproving the visions that had long since ceased, he still felt a great affinity towards the boy he was going to save. Ever since first meeting him in the showers on his first day at Rosenkruez, he'd known something was going to happen. But it nothing would happen if the boy died of a drug overdose.
Jamming the pedal against the floor, Bradley roared through Berlin. Closing his eyes, he spun the wheel and slammed on the brakes, spinning the car sideways to slam into a parking space at the side of the road in a manoeuvre he'd seen on films like the Blues Brothers but never had the nerve or the need to try it out before. Breathing deeply, he climbed out and locked the shuddering vehicle and began to sprint towards the alley where he knew the boy would be.
It was dark and damp, in this space between two towering buildings. Needles were scattered across the cracked pavement, as well as cigarettes and used condoms. The word that came to Bradley's mind was 'dank'.
Pressed against a wall, clutching a dirty hypothermic, a redhead cowered. His breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated. Bradley couldn't begin to guess what the boy was taking, or what state he was in both physically and mentally. He crouched beside the boy, thankful that he was still breathing. Glazed eyes stared into his own as he gently took the needle away and injected its contents into the air.
"Do you know how much that cost?" a nasal voice grated out in German.
"It would have cost you your life," Bradley said quietly in the same language.
"Maybe that's what I wanted to pay." He tried to sit up, but his muscles wouldn't obey him. Bradley saw how painfully thin he was. "Hey," the boy snarled, "I'm not that ugly. So what if I could do to gain a few pounds?"
"I've seen healthier corpses," Bradley commented wryly. He picked the protesting boy up and was shocked by the lightness of the atrophied body. One arm was a mass of purple bruises. "I'm taking you somewhere they'll be able to help."
"You're taking me back there," the boy spat. "You think I don't remember you? You think I've forgotten that place? I'm not going back."
"You're not getting a choice." Bradley surveyed the street, the quickly crossed to his car and opened the passenger door, placing the boy securely inside. "Do yourself a favour, boy, and let me do the talking. You'll be safer with me than in any dorm."
"Dorm?" the boy coughed, a smoker's cough. "That weren't no dorm."
"No, you ended up in the Laboratories. I'll do my best to keep you out of there, this time."
The boy regarded him with suspicion, but didn't question Bradley's motives. Instead he let his head collapse back against the seat while Bradley buckled him in. There was a shrill beeping that made him wince. Bradley rescued the car phone from its hook and spoke in muted tones to a voice on the other end.
"Yes, yes. I understand… Of course I'll… To be honest… Really I… Please…" Annoyance began to creep into his tone. "Sir, if… Would you… I think… Sir! If you would give me a moment! I don't think he'd survive the trip. To be honest I'll be lucky to get him to a local hospital before he drops dead … Where? … Give me a minute to write down the… I see. Backwards? … What page? … Thank you. I'll be in contact as soon as we arrive. Thank you… You too, sir. Goodbye."
Dull blue eyes regarded Bradley with apathy as he reached over and began searching through the glove compartment. Coming up with a small black book, he found an address written in English. There were several, and he read them all. He glanced down at his new charge.
"Narr [fool]," Bradley muttered angrily. It was an anger born out of frustration and worry, but it was anger nevertheless. The boy flinched slightly and began to cough again. A soothing hand was placed on his arm as they drove.
"Who are you?" Bradley asked, not expecting a reply.
"The guilty one," the boy murmured. "Guilty."
Bradley frowned. "I meant, what is your name? What do you call yourself?"
"The guilty one," the boy said again. "Schuldig." Bradley noted with concern that the boy has slipped into unconsciousness as he pulled up in front of a plain fronted building, like almost any other building. If he were wrong, the boy would be dead before they reached their real destination. If he were right, the boy would be so close to death he'd be able to recognise him in any identity parade.
He was lucky; it was the right building. The boy was ushered away while Bradley was left to deal with the miles of red tape. The first question alone threw him, and he found himself blinking like he'd just emerged from a cave after several months of darkness.
"Schuldig," he said eventually. "He said he was Schuldig."
The Indian bureaucrat took this down without comment, and when the red head woke up, he found he'd been officially named 'guilty', after an idiot American had mistaken the nonsensical rambles of a drug-induced delirium for a real answer.
That idiot American was going to have a lot to pay for, one day.
Ta-da!
