8.
Night Not At The Roxbury – Yeah, That's Not Creepy, Ben – Informer – Om Shanti Shanti Not So Much – What's Up, Doc?
August 2009, London
Club music thumped through the air and Ben's skull. The atmosphere was oppressive, smoke-filled, and dotted with hypnotic lights. Lyrics sang out, layered over primal techno beats, a La Roux remix informing the thrashing audience that the singer was, in fact, bulletproof. He ignored it as best he could, two aspirin doing their best even while their best wasn't very good, and his eyes picked out faces in the neon-spotted dark. Most danced and writhed, faces irrelevant, immediately forgotten as he continued to hunt. Hunched figures pressed against the black marble bar were harder to identify and he moved through the crowd seeking better angles for his examination.
Nothing.
A nerve tensed and twitched in his jaw, the only visible sign of his irritation. The club was too claustrophobic, too chaotic for his sensibilities. Nonetheless, his information placed his quarry here, so here he was. With no sign of what he sought.
Burying his unwillingness to deal with the scene, he slipped closer to the bar and locked eyes with a tall bartender whose expression molded into a bland cover of you don't belong here as he sidled over to Ben. He flashed the photograph from his file at the tender, who tilted his head at it. "She's not here," the man drawled, thick Soho accent cutting through the noise.
The nerve jumped again. "Clearly," he replied, his tone terse. Something in his eyes must have shown his irritation. The tender put both his hands on the bar, regarding the small man with obvious caution. Ben inhaled, reigned in his temper. "Has she been here tonight?"
The tender continued to look him over, narrowing his eyes. He swore under his breath, then jerked his chin towards a staff doorway. "Back there, out the door, in the alley. You want her, you take your ass out of here and go around the building." A snort. "Good luck with it."
. . .
It was quieter outside, the bass beats dulled to a distant jungle rumble. Mr. Livingston, I presume? muttered an internal sardonic voice. The natives are restless. Trash lined the alley, thin newspaper chip wraps, polystyrene cups, forgotten and disregarded butts, the clink of bottles. The dumpster loomed around the back end of the building, casting a deeper, smellier shadow. Ben paused, peering. Yes. There was a figure slumped against it. He sighed and moved closer to examine.
The woman was passed out. He could smell her from five feet away, but moved over closer yet to examine. He put a hand out to check her face, ensure she was, in fact, breathing. It came slow and shallow, rattling with the alcohol still in her throat. She remained unresponsive to any touch, sticky brown hair obscuring her face. He swore again. This one was not his first choice, but Hugo had insisted.
He gave her an experimental tug, testing her weight. She slumped, boneless. Average, but he didn't relish the thought of dragging her to the car. He let her go and thumped a hand on the club door. Again. Nothing. In exasperation, he kicked it. That got the door open. The same, familiar face from the bar glowered down at Ben in his neat black suit and fedora. "You again. Fuck off, I'm on break."
"I need a hand."
The man rattled a laugh. "Told you that you'd need luck."
"I've got a hundred pounds cash that says you pick this woman up and put her in the car that I bring. Two hundred if you can tell me where she lives and I'll take her there."
"How much for not telling the cops about you when they find her corpse?"
Ben rolled his eyes, pulled a couple of currency notes out of his pocket. He waggled them at the bartender. "I'm hiring her, not killing her."
The man shrugged and made the paper disappear. "Whatever. Get your fucking car. I know where she goes."
. . .
She woke up near noon the next day, groaning aloud as the sun beat into her eyeballs. "Whafu." She drew the back of her hand across her face, blocking the light. "Mrf." Squinted through, saw the bedroom curtains open and the windows cracked to let fresh air in. Looked around. She was home, still dressed in her clothes from the night before. Her thoughts came together enough to suggest that she'd managed to sleepwalk home. Not unusual. On the other hand, the open curtains were an oddity. Someone's here. A soft rustling sound from the living room confirmed the idea.
That got her fully awake. A hand fished under the bed, looking for the blackjack she kept there. Her dark eyes widened further when she found it missing. So was the bottle of Absolut she kept there for what she liked to call her 'medical emergencies.' She swore, the word hissing from her lips.
"There's coffee," called a dry voice from the other room. "It'll keep. Take a shower, as some well-meant advice."
She remained still, forehead thumping with the effort of thought and the chemical remnants of last night's binge. Okay, rapist? Top ten weirdest I could imagine so far.
"The bottles are gone from the bathroom, too. I did a little housekeeping. Also, I have all day if necessary. Do get moving, please."
Make that top five. She looked around for her cellphone. That she saw on the bedside table, fully charged. "I'm gonna call the police!" The sound of her own voice made her head hurt worse.
"Do that if you like." Whoever he was, he sounded bored. "If it'll make you feel better. When they're done talking to me, I'll just be right back. I have tomorrow, too."
What the hell? "That doesn't sound creepy at all."
"Yes, I'm sure this is all quite strange to you. Meanwhile, I've dealt with odder before breakfast. Which, I note, I haven't had. I think I saw a toaster somewhere. How about I do that while you get moving? Things will become more reasonable once you're fully awake and I can explain what I'm doing here. Hm?"
She laid back on the bed and blinked a while before rising and going to wash.
. . .
Ben glanced up from the plate of buttered wheat toast when the woman emerged. He looked her over clinically, olive skin and an average, narrow face scrubbed free of alley stick. Dark brown hair tied back. Dark green eyes watched him with extreme wariness, flicking occasionally over to the flat's door to assess any need for escape. Another expression mingled there, one she was masking with some success. He examined it with interest. Was it recognition? "Good morning, Ms. Glaukopis." He gestured to the plate. "I found a bakery up the street that still had some fresh. It'll help dull the hangover I'm sure you're dealing with."
Kyra Glaukopis stayed in the bedroom doorway. "What do you want?" The muzziness was gone from her voice. Now she was alert. He regarded that as a solid improvement, a step towards convincing him of her usefulness. The tone she used was sharp. The question was a test. Very interesting.
"I'm doing a little hiring for the corporation I represent. We need an information specialist. By your tone, I think you may have some guesses who I'm with."
"I know who you are. Take your shit and get out." Tense, flat, edged with fear. Yes, she knew.
Ben dropped his gaze and put a pair of toast slices on another plate and pushed it towards her. Stuck under the plate was a thick brown envelope. He took a seat at the table with casual grace. "Charles Widmore had you hired several years ago to investigate Mittelos for him. You didn't get much to report to him from what I understand, but from the circumstances you would have battled, I think you did quite well. Well enough for our people to have our own file on you. Quite the career history."
"Do your people know that the CIA has a file on you?"
That gave him pause. She knew more than he had been aware of. "That little tidbit wasn't in your report to Charles." He glanced up. "Not that it matters; he knew. He was the one that arranged that little escapade." He tilted his head. "Pulled some favors, tried to have me hunted like a dog because it suited his fancy. It didn't work. It's also very old news and muddling without context. Circumstances have changed. We have some new faces in charge. New policies. I think you might find them more agreeable."
Kyra stuck a finger in the air. "One: I'm not working for you or for anyone related to you." Another finger joined the first. "Two: I don't do the job anymore. I'm retired. Three-" Three fingers in the air now. She dropped the flanking two and turned the fist and its remaining finger around to present the world-famous rude gesture. "I think you take the hint."
He arched an eyebrow, showing no sign of offense. "You're on the last dregs of your savings. You obviously have a severe drinking problem; your family has had no contact with you in five years. Whatever your personal issues are, I don't feel you're in much of a position to refuse an honest and open offer." After a moment's thought, he picked up a piece of toast and munched on it, face contemplative. He kept his tone distant. "I told Hugo repeatedly I had a better candidate in mind. Regardless of your prior ability."
That made her face tight and he watched it contort, privately amused. When in doubt, prick the pride. It was the limit of manipulation he was free to engage in, on Hugo's request. Free will kept the rule – but cutting through emotive barriers was useful. And it had been the truth. "I don't have a drinking problem," she snapped. He lifted his head up to regard her, eyebrow arched in polite disbelief. "I have a suicide problem."
Ben made a noncommittal noise in his throat. "Regardless." He gestured at the folder under the plate. "The full details of the contract are in that folder. It's entirely up to you to accept the job. If you have any questions about the nature of the deal, there's a line to call in and clarify anything." He allowed a brief smile. "Of course, if you remain unwilling to work with me while the offer itself tempts, adjustments can be made. My superior insists on the new hires being comfortable with the situation."
He rose from the table, flicking crumbs from his fingers. "With that said, I think I've done enough here. Keep the loaf. Do eat something, you don't look well. I hope we hear from you shortly."
He sensed her eyes watching him as he left.
. . .
London – North Kensington, same day
Krish Madhvacharya remained cross-legged on the floor of his rented studio flat, backs of his hands resting on his knees, dark brown eyes shut. He refused the chant, refused to open his eyes and look up to see the pictures of gurus and paintings of devas that his mother sent. No doubt it was his own refusal to submit to tradition caused his mediation to fail, but he tried on his own terms anyway. Seeking some sort of peace that had been denied him so far.
His skin remained pale yellow under his natural darker tan, the failings of his body becoming visible to anyone that looked. He grimaced, opened his eyes, and looked straight ahead at the blank wall instead. I have a rollicking short term future in a Bollywood zombie movie. So there's that going for me. He smiled for himself, eyes lidding in dozy weight. It didn't matter. He wouldn't sleep. Couldn't. If I sleep, I'm afraid I'll die like my father did. And if I don't sleep, I AM eventually going to die. His liver was already showing signs of stress. The first markers of diabetes had appeared. His heart felt like a freight train. The dementia hadn't landed. That he'd noticed, in any case. That was the most terrifying thing; what if he didn't notice?
He'd left his job last month anyway, just in case. The idea of losing control of himself in his little office at Suisse Bank terrified him. The idea of losing control at all was horrifying. No wonder the meditation didn't work; his mind was too busy playing Olympic ping-pong.
Once again, thoughts of suicide drifted through his mind, and once more, he dismissed it. I want to live! Even in his mind, it sounded plaintive. Petulant. It wasn't the only reason he didn't harm himself. There was another – the nameless terror that whatever he was trying to avoid by not sleeping would come for him then, after death.
So he stayed home, locked in, trying to rest, trying to will himself into surviving. Some hours, he tried to butt through his father's copies of the Veda, others he played video games, his co ordination off and sluggish. Now, though, there was the envelope on the table. It had been delivered the night before, no explanation. Within lay a job offer, one he'd laughed off. He'd rejected several headhunters already, politely shut down several ex-coworkers with their networked offers of help. Nonetheless, a contract had slipped through by being jammed directly into the mail slot. No return address. No postage. Insane and inexplicable.
Yet it still tickled at his thoughts. Health care, work in a field he was used to – financial numbers – and apparently the field office was in the tropics. Hell, it'd be a great place to die, at the very worst.
Krish swore to himself and got up to read the contract one more time.
. . .
Dr. Albert Ellis fiddled with the neat little stack of paper, each sheet bright against his dark fingers. No brown envelope marked his sterile bioengineering lab, just slick, stapled paper and his instruments lining the counters of the room. Everything had a place, and everything to its place. The paper did not fit; it was an anomaly, something new and not under his control, but he accepted it. It came from Above, the faceless superiors of Mittelos Bioscience, and the paper explained his option to accept a volunteer transfer to a field office under the direct supervision of those same superiors.
It would entail a raise, although the paper also warned of possible activity beyond the lab. Details to be outlined at a later date, with the persistent right to opt out – that was a laugh, you killed your career by being unwilling to commit to the team. It made him nervous, not knowing all the details right off the bat. The variables. The what ifs.
He put the paper down on the antiseptic table and ran his fingers across the sides of his short, black hair. The bumps of thickly curling hair and scalp soothed him, reminded him who and where he was. It was a grounding, an abrupt and physical method of drawing up memories. Reminding himself that everything was fine. That everything would stay fine. The tremble left his fingers and he exhaled again.
Human immunity research in a tropic lab. Weird. Very, very weird. Then again, the entire facility had suffered a stroke of the fresh and strange since the CEO changeover to one Reyes. Gossip still talked about that – wasn't he one of the Oceanic survivors? Hadn't he disappeared again, only to reappear a little while ago with reshuffled investments? Nobody knew all the facts. Meanwhile, here was the man's signature on the transfer offer. No rubber stamp, a simple human scrawl.
Ellis flipped the paper over, seeing the handwritten PS again. His eyes followed the script. I really hope you take this, sir. I totally understand if you don't, but we could really use your help out here. I promise everything'll be cool. Signed again by the new CEO.
The doctor inhaled to himself one more time and started looking for a pen.