The man snorted with disbelief. "That's what he told you, huh?" For a moment I felt the hand tighten as if he was about to squeeze my skull and burst it, then just as suddenly he relaxed. "You think he wants everyone in the world to live forever, do you?" He laughed, and it was a cruel sound, loaded with irony. "Think what that would do for the economy, Dr Beaverbrook. Imagine telling a garbage collector he was doing to live forever. Or a secretary. Who'd do the menial tasks in a society where everyone lived for ever? Wake up and smell the coffee. It would be used to keep a few key people alive for ever. People with money. With power. But first, they'd get rid of us. Me and Terry and the rest of our kind."
"I don't understand."
"Sugar is working on a virus which will recognise the longevity gene. Hamshire had seen some of their research papers. He'd been hacking into a couple of Government computers while doing research at Cal-Tech. We think that's how they got him. From what he read, it looks as if Sugar wants a virus that will enter the walls of all cells but only bind to the amino acids which make up the gene that allows us to live forever. And once it binds it will change configuration and become toxic. Lethal. It will hone in on our DNA and kill us, without harming humans in any way. They plan to introduce it into the atmosphere or the water. Sugar's plan is to design a virus with a very short half life, of the order of a few weeks. Within a year none of us will be left, and they can then begin consolidating the gene into their own cell nuclei. There will be a new order in the world. I don't think it would be a world that you would be comfortable in."
He stopped. "I shouldn't be telling you this," he said. He pushed himself away from the door and stood in front of me, his hands on his hips. "You know nothing, Dr Beaverbrook. Nothing that can help me." He looked disappointed, and I realised then that Sugar had at least been partly telling the truth. The vampires had hoped that I would lead them to Terry. And to the rest of the captive mutants. And now that I had proved otherwise I was obviously no use to them. His hand moved forward and I flinched but all he did was seize the door handle and twist it. He grinned at my discomfort. "No, that's not what I'm here for," he said. "If it was up to me, I'd probably do it, but she said no. She likes you, believe it or not. And she doesn't want you hurt. Crazy girl, huh?" I moved out of the way and he opened the door and strode down the pathway. He didn't even bother to look back as he walked to the pick-up truck and drove off.
The Prison And that was the last time I saw her. Until today that is. Ten years, that's how long it took, ten years of trying to convince them that I was on their side, that I regarded Terry Ferriman as nothing more than a laboratory animal to be studied. I knew that if I ever let on just how much she meant to me then they'd never let me see her, so for the first eight years I didn't even try. I stayed with the LAPD but started to do some research work at UCLA, initially an extension of my criminal work but I gradually moved into the effects of ageing on intelligence and behaviour and particularly comparisons between chronological, biological, functional and subjective age. It was interesting research in its own right, notwithstanding that my main reason for doing it was to get to see Terry again. At any one time a person's age can be classed as in those four ways – how old he is in years, how old his body actually appears to be, the status level the person holds in society, and how old the person feels inside.
Take me for instance, sitting at my military desk with Terry's picture in front of me, the orange light of the computer screen reflecting off my face. Chronological age? No problem – forty-six.
Biological age? Well, if I'm brutally honest I'd have to say my body is that of a man a good ten years older. I can't read or drive without glasses, four of my teeth are capped, my hair is thinning.
My hearing is nowhere as good as it used to be, especially with high frequency sounds. I can't get through the night without getting up to go to the bathroom at least once. My skin is losing its elasticity fast which accounts for the sagging around my jowls and the wrinkling.
Functional age? I guess I've done well, and achieved quite a lot during my academic career.
Even being modest I'd say I've achieved as much as most academics would have done by the time they were sixty. I was in a rush, I suppose.
Subjective age? I dunno. Inside I feel exactly the same as I did when I was sixteen. I know a few more tricks, I know how to handle situations because I've been through them so many times, but inside it's still the same teenager, the same insecurities, fears and desires.
The lighting flashes behind me again, a double flash. How would I rate Terry's age?
Chronological – something close to four thousand, I suppose. Biological – in her late teens.
Functional – God, it would take a normal person, even a highly successful businessman, hundreds of years to acquire the assets she has. Subjective? That I didn't know. I couldn't comprehend how it must feel to live so long. Maybe she too still felt as if she was sixteen.
Anyway, over the years I developed a program similar to the Beaverbrook Model which through question and answer could determine the four ages of a subject. Much of the work I did involved measurement of fluid intelligence, the ability to solve new and unusual problems. Fluid intelligence peaks at adolescence and then declines steadily, whereas crystallised intelligence, the knowledge and skills acquired in life, increases up until the start of adolescence and then increases only slowly until it plateaus in old age. I published a stack of papers in the best psychology journals and though I kept working for the LAPD I managed to travel overseas a lot to interview some of the oldest people in the world – in Ecuador, Russia and India, incorporating the results into the computer model. I put in a few other features too, so that the program got into a person's psyche more thoroughly than ten years with an analyst.
Unlike Sugar and his researchers, I made sure I published as much as possible, and I knew it would be obvious to them that the work I was doing could be helpful in their hunt for immortals.
Used properly, my new research could be used to identify members of the population whose functional and subjective ages were way out of kilter with their chronological and biological ages.
I kept applying for access to Terry and the rest of the immortals – for research purposes, I said.
Eventually permission was granted by some agency or another and a team of six agents came and picked me up at home in a limousine with darkened windows, darkened so that I couldn't see out. I told them I needed the Toshiba computer and they allowed me to take it with me. One of the agents took a chrome gun-like thing out of an aluminium case, placed it against my upper arm and pulled the trigger. Everything went hazy, and then black, and when I woke up they'd taken my watch and the Toshiba and I was in what could have passed for a Holiday Inn bedroom except for the fact that there were no windows. There was a TV and the papers were delivered every day and I could choose my own food from a leather-bound menu but other than the food deliveries I didn't see or speak to another human building for two weeks. I was in quarantine. Before they'd allow me to see her they had to be convinced that I wasn't being followed. No conversations, no phone calls, no letters. After two weeks a guy in a white coat unlocked the door and gave me another shot. When I awoke I was lying on a bunk in a steel-lined room. The first thing I saw was a remote control television camera staring at me. I guess it was being monitored continuously because within seconds of my waking up the door was unlocked and two beefy men in grey overalls came in. Someone had taken off my clothes while I was unconscious and had dressed me in a pale blue overall with "VISITOR" stamped across the front in large white capital letters. One of the men handed me a styrofoam cup of warm water and I drank deeply to wash away the bitter taste that coated the inside of my mouth.
"You'll soon feel better, the effects disappear quite quickly," said a voice at the door. I looked up to see an elderly man with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had a kindly face, topped with a mane of white hair, and he spoke with a vaguely French accent. He sat down on the bunk beside me and felt for my pulse. Satisfied, he shone a small torch into my eyes, nodded, and pronounced me fit.
He disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived and another man arrived, this one younger and fitter and wearing a dark blue suit and carrying a clipboard. It was a check-list of things I was not to disclose during my conversation with Terry (though she was referred to throughout as The Inmate), mainly news events, the date, time of day, location of the prison (not that I knew it), that sort of stuff. When he'd finished reading the list out to me he handed me a pen and made me sign at the bottom before he, too, left the room. The two guards then escorted me along the corridor to a lift.
Both carried M-1 carbines and the safeties were off, their fingers never leaving the trigger guards.
They tapped a six-figure code into a small keypad to call the lift and when it arrived the doors hissed open to reveal another grim-faced guard, wearing a similar uniform but holding an M-14 assault rifle at the ready.
There was no way of telling how far down the lift went but it fell quickly enough to make my stomach heave and it was a full thirty seconds before it came to a halt and the door opened. Two more guards were waiting for me, almost doubles of the ones who'd led me to the lift God know's how many floors above and they escorted me along another metal-lined corridor, their steel-tipped boots echoing as they walked. My bare feet slapped on the cold metal floor. The overalls were all I was wearing, I could feel that I was naked underneath the cotton material.
There were television cameras at regular intervals along the corridor and as we passed them I could hear the whirring of a servo-mechanism as they turned to watch us go. At the end of the corridor was what looked like another lift but after one of the guards tapped in another six-digit code and pressed his thumb against a small square of illuminated perspex the doors opened to reveal a square room, about the size of a school classroom.
At the far right side of the room was a panel of booths, each with a plastic bucket chair facing a steel wall in which was set a square pane of glass about a meter square. Through the glass I could see a matching row of seats, facing towards me. To the right of each window was a telephone, not the modern sort but the old-fashioned black Bakelite type, the sort you see in old movies. I heard the doors close behind me. The two guards stood at either side with their guns at the ready, their eyes watchful, almost fearful. They said nothing but I guessed that I was supposed to sit in one of the booths. There was no indication which I was supposed to use and as I approached the line of chairs I saw that there was nobody on the other side of the glass. I sat down and waited, the plastic cold against my backside through the thin material. Beyond the glass I saw a smaller room, also metal lined, and a single door with no handle or visible lock. The walls were also featureless though there were what appeared to be ventilation grilles set into the ceiling.
After five minutes or so (there was no way of telling how long because they'd taken my watch) the door opened and a guard came in carrying an automatic rifle. He walked into the room, his eyes flicking from left to right, then stood to one side. Behind him I saw Terry. She looked small and frail, pretty much the way I'd first seen her in De'Ath's interrogation room more than ten years earlier, her hair loose around her shoulders, her skin pale and her eyes lowered. She was wearing a robe which looked as if it was made from the same material as my overalls and which ended just below her knees. They'd given her a pair of brown plastic sandals for her feet and she was having trouble walking, but that wasn't because of her footwear, it was because the bastards had chained her feet together. There were big chrome clasps above each ankle joined by a chrome chain which couldn't have been more than eighteen inches long which meant that she had to shuffle rather than walk. My heart went out to her. Her arms weren't chained which surprised me at first but then I realised that they were more concerned about inhibiting her movements than of her attacking anyone. They had assault rifles and by the look of it she had nothing, just the robe and the sandals.
If they were as thorough with her as they had been with me then I knew that she'd never come within a million miles of anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon. She walked into the middle of the room and another guard followed her in. I saw a third guard close the door behind them but even though it was made of steel several inches thick I could hear no slamming or grating sound. The glass was obviously completely soundproof and, for all I knew, probably bullet proof as well. Terry was in her own sterile world, completely insulated, and almost certainly had been for the last ten years. The guards in her room took up positions on either side of the door, their fingers on the triggers of their rifles. Both of them were wearing miniature headphones I noticed, small black ear pieces with wires running round their necks and disappearing into their overalls. Were they constantly receiving instructions from some central command point, or were they using music or white noise to blot out anything she might say to them? I had no way of telling.
Terry raised her eyes and saw me for the first time. Her face broke into a smile then it quickly disappeared, as if she'd thought she'd seen a friend but then realised she'd made a mistake. Was that because she wasn't pleased to see me, or because she didn't want them to know how she felt about me? Did she still feel anything for me? God, I was so bloody confused, about her, about my feelings, about what I should do.
I stood up and said hello, even though I knew she wouldn't be able to hear me through the glass.
She mouthed hello back but stayed where she was in the middle of the room as if she was afraid of approaching the glass screen. I knew I had to play it cool, too. They had only allowed me to see her because they thought I was on their side, that I wanted to study her, to find out what made her tick. Any sign of affection and they'd pull me out immediately, I was sure of that. God, I so much wanted to take her in my arms, to press myself against her and to bury my face in her long, black hair, to seek out her lips with my own and to kiss her until she couldn't breath. I motioned for her to sit down and she shuffled forward, her hands slightly forward for balance, and lowered herself into the chair. She pulled the chair forward so that she was right up against the small shelf that ran under the glass partition. There was a matching shelf on my side of the glass and I followed her example, getting as close to her as I could. I picked up the phone on my side of the glass and there was a crackling noise like static. I nodded at her phone and she picked it up gingerly with her left hand as if afraid it would give her a shock. She used her right hand to brush the hair behind her left ear and then pressed the receiver to it.
"Jamie, how are you?" she asked quietly.
"I'm fine, Terry. Just fine. How are they treating you?"
She looked deep into my eyes. Her right hand moved slowly on the shelf, making small stabbing movements with her extended index finger.
"I've been in better hotels," she joked. Her right hand moved up as if to brush the hair behind her right ear, but as she did she made a small cupping gesture. She was signing to me. The sign for Listen. THEY LISTEN. She was telling me that the conversation was being listened to, though I'd already figured that out for myself. They'd be crazy not to monitor what was being said, and they'd be sure to record it, too, so that experts could go over it afterwards. I couldn't see any television cameras in the two rooms, but they'd been everywhere else so I was pretty sure they'd be watching us here, probably through concealed cameras, in the ventilation grilles maybe. Terry had obviously realised that because she put her hand back on the shelf where it would be shielded by her body.
I nodded to let her know that I understood. "You're not hurt, or in pain?"
Terry began signing individual letters with her right hand. It was slow, but she couldn't use the normal word forms that made up the deaf and dumb language because they were very expressive and often required both hands and the guards would have spotted it straight away. So as she talked she spelt out words, letter by letter.
"Sometimes, but there are lots of doctors here." I M-I-S-S Y-O-U.
"They feed you OK?" I signed back, keeping the movements to a minimum. M-E T-O-O.
"Yeah, but it's never the same with plastic cutlery, you know?" I L-O-V-E Y-O-U. "How long has it been, Jamie?"
That was one of the things I wasn't supposed to tell her because they were trying to disorient her sense of time. "How long do you think it's been?" M-E T-O-O.
She shrugged. "Eight years, maybe." C-A-N Y-O-U…
"A long time, that's for sure."
"Not really, not for me."….H-E-L-P M-E?
"What do you mean?" H-O-W?
"I mean it's not that long for me, in percentage terms." E-S-C-A-P-E. "For you eight years represents, what? A fifth of your life? Twenty per cent? Have you any idea how small a part of my life eight years is, Jamie? It's nothing. It's the equivalent of you waiting for a taxi." P-L-E-AS- E.
"Do you get bored?" H-O-W?
She shrugged. "I guess so, yeah. T-E-L-L T-H-E-M They let me have books. No newspapers.
No television. No radio. W-H-E-R-E I A-M. I asked if they'd let me have my cello a couple of years back but they haven't decided yet. T-E-L-L T-H-E-M Do you think you could do anything about that?" L-E-V-E-L 1-8.
"I can try. T-E-L-L W-H-O? Is there anything else you want?"
"Shit, Jamie," she said angrily. A F-R-I-E-N-D "I just want to get the fuck outta this place, but we both know they're not going to allow that, don't we? W-I-L-L V-I-S-I-T I'm here for ever. You know, they don't allow me to have any visitors. Y-O-U S-O-O-N. Not one. And they won't let me use the phone. Ever. In all these years I haven't seen one single person who hasn't been carrying a gun or wearing a white coat. T-E-L-L H-I-M Except for you. You're the first friend they've allowed in to see me. THREE O-T-H-E-R-S H-E-R-E. I'm so glad that you came. A-L-L How did you swing it?" L-E-V-E-L 1-8.
Terry wasn't stupid, I knew that she already knew why I was there, she was just talking to cover the sign language, that it was the silent conversation which was the real one, but I still flushed and the spoken answer was an embarrassment. "This isn't just a social visit, Terry. W-H-E-R-E You could help me with some research I'm doing." A-R-E W-E?
She frowned, and I realised she'd probably assumed that I knew the location of the prison. She had no way of knowing that even after all this time they didn't trust me completely and that it was only after I'd agreed to be drugged that they'd even let me inside the place.
"What sort of research?" she said frostily. M-A-R-I-O-N.
"It's for a paper I'm working on."
"What sort of paper?" P-R-I-S-O-N.
"For one of the clinical journals. I'm doing some research into ageing and its effects on thought processes."
"Another computer program? Like the Beaverbrook Program?" I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S.
I nodded. I knew about Marion Prison, all right. It's the super-maximum security facility built by the US Federal Bureau of Prisons to replace Alcatraz. Only the worst of the worst end up there, and all of them are kept in virtually permanent solitary confinement. At least two were cases that I'd worked on. Really bad cases. God knows how she expected to get out if they were keeping her eighteen levels below the prison. I'd seen pictures of the facility, surrounded by a double thirtyfoot- high fence and bullet-proof watchtowers. It was escape proof.
She sneered, but her hand continued to talk. It was hard to keep the two conversations separate in my head, I kept wanting to answer her sign language verbally and vice versa, and I was occasionally stumbling over my words and stuttering and I had to force myself to keep looking at her face and not down at her right hand. She seemed to be having no problems, though, her voice sounded perfectly natural and now she was letting her anger show.
"So that's what you're after is it? T-H-E-Y W-I-L-L. You want to come up with a program that will pick out people like me?" R-E-S-C-U-E M-E.
"Something like that." W-H-A-T T-H-E-N?
"And what do I get out of it, Jamie? T-H-E-N Y-O-U Have you asked them that? Early parole, maybe? A-N-D M-E. They'll let me out in two thousand years instead of two thousand five hundred? T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R What can they offer me, huh? They're never going to let me out, you know that. They're going to pick and probe at my mind and take samples and prod me and try to find out what makes me tick. They started from Day One, you know? F-O-R-E-V-E-R. They analyse everything, my urine, my shit, they take blood samples every day, tissue samples when they want it. I've had more than one hundred spinal taps, Jamie – and they hurt me every bit as much as they'd hurt you. Ever had a spinal tap, Jamie? Have you?"
I didn't answer, I couldn't. The contempt in her voice was like a slap across my face and I wanted to hug her and pick her up and tell her that it was all right, that I'd help her and that I loved her. But still, on the shelf, her right hand spoke to me.
"They've taken liver biopsies and pieces of my kidney. W-I-L-L Y-O-U They'll start scraping my glands next, then they'll want samples of brain tissue. H-E-L-P They're going to take me apart piece by piece to see if they can find out what makes me tick. M-E? It's going to be a death of a thousand cuts, Jamie."
"I thought you couldn't die," I said. O-F C-O-U-R-S-E.
"Not in the way you and your kind, die, no. My cells live forever, but that won't do me any good if they're spread out across a dozen laboratories, will it? I L-O-V-E I mean, it gives a whole new meaning to I Left My Heart In San Francisco, doesn't it?" Y-O-U.
"I'm sorry," I said lamely.
"Sorry!" she spat, getting to her feet. "You're not fucking sorry, Jamie. You're here to help them. You're here to pull me apart, just like them. OK, so you're not going to use a scalpel or a test tube, but you're every bit as much a butcher as they are. You make me sick, you really do."
The door behind her opened and two guards came in, one carrying my Toshiba, the other with an assault rifle at the ready, his finger on the trigger. The man with the computer carried it over to the booth at the far side of the room and placed it down on the shelf in front of the glass. He kept a wary eye on Terry as he flicked up the screen and pressed the switch on the back which powered it up and automatically booted the program.
"You expect me to run through one of your sick little computer programs, is that it, Jamie?" she yelled down the telephone. The two guards backed away and left through the door. It closed silently behind them.
"Calm down, Terry," I said. W-H-E-N "They've told me that if you co-operate, they'll allow you W-I-L-L to see your friends. T-H-E-Y C-O-M-E?" Not true that, they'd told me that she'd never again be allowed to be with her own kind. She'd know that,too, but she'd also know that by working through the program would buy her more time with me.
"They said that?" she said, frowning. S-O-O-N.
"If you co-operate," I said. I W-I-L-L "This research is important, Terry." W-A-I-T.
She looked at me through the bullet proof glass and I tried to read her jet black eyes. She smiled and flicked her hair out of her eyes. "OK, Jamie, I'll do it." She put her telephone down and shuffled over to the computer. She looked down at the keyboard, her hair falling across her face like a veil, and tapped at the keys with one finger. I walked along the line of booths so that I was standing opposite her, but she didn't look up as she tapped away. She continued to sign as she worked, small hand movements that she shielded with her body. T-E-L-L T-H-E-M N-E-R-V-E
G-A-S H-E-R-E, W-I-L-L N-E-E-D M-A-S-K-S. A-L-S-O T-R-A-N-S-P-O-N-D-E-R-S EM B-E-D-D-E-D I-N O-U-R N-E-C-K-S. M-U-S-T B-E R-E-M-O-V-E-D.
When she'd finished she stepped back from the computer. She picked up the telephone in front of her and I did the same. "There you are, Jamie. I hope they keep their side of the bargain."
"I hope so, too," I said. I signed carefully. T-A-K-E C-A-R-E.
She smiled. The door opened behind her and two more guards appeared. "It looks as if it's time to go," she said. She replaced the receiver and turned her back on me as two of the guards moved either side of her. A third guard switched off the Toshiba and picked it up. Terry didn't look back as she left the steel tomb. I realised I was still holding my receiver in my hand and that I was gripping it so tightly that my knuckles had whitened and the tendons were stretched taut beneath the skin.
That was the last time I saw her. I was escorted back to the upper level and a man in a white coat gave me another injection and when I woke up I was back in my own home, the Toshiba on my desk. That was this afternoon. I was groggy for an hour or so then I ran her responses through the latest version of the Beaverbrook program. When I'd scanned through the results I took the car and drove to the bank and opened the safety deposit box and took out the manila file. It wasn't so much the case notes that I wanted, it was the picture. I wanted her picture on the desk while I waited. I kept checking the rear view mirror all the way home but I couldn't see anybody following me. There was certainly no red pick-up truck, but then I guess he'd be unlikely to keep the same vehicle for ten years, wouldn't he?
So, that's it. Now I just wait. I sit here at my desk and I wait for them to come to get me. It won't be long, I'm sure. The only question is, who will get to me first. Her friend, who has obviously been following me for ten years, waiting for me to go to her, or the men in suits. And what will happen when they get to me?
I pour myself a drink with shaking hands and lift the glass to my lips. Some of it slops down my chin but I manage to swallow most of it. As I put the glass down the lightning flashes and I nearly drop the glass. My nerves are shot to pieces.
Do I trust her, that's the question. Can I trust her? Or do I trust the men in suits? If she's being honest then all I have to do is to tell her friend where she is and wait for them to break her out. But how long would that take? Marion Prison is the ultimate prison. You can't get within ten miles of it without being seen. There are less than four hundred prisoners and several thousand guards, and even inside the double security fence and its coils of razor-sharp barbed wire you can't move more than a few yards without having to go through a steel gate or pass a television camera. No-one has ever escaped from Marion. It's not just a place to hold violent criminals, either. The Government has a special holding unit there – seven cells in which they hold spies with information so secret that they can never be allowed to mix with other inmates. Ever. And Terry had told me that she and three others like her were being held eighteen levels below ground. How in God's name did she expect to escape? By being patient, maybe. By getting one of her own people into the prison system, by having them work their way into Marion Prison. But that would take years, decades probably, putting together a false work history, references, years in other prisons. I could be dead before they even came close to getting her out. Maybe they planned to get to one of the guards, blackmail him or kidnap his family. But I knew that the guards were specially chosen and positively vetted at regular intervals. It would be so difficult as to be virtually impossible. And what was I expected to do while they put together their escape plan? Was I to wait, getting older and older by the day? Greig Turner's turtle-like face flashes into my mind. How long did they expect me to wait? Would they trust me? Wouldn't they be better off killing me, so that they had all the time in the world?
The questions torment me and I take another drink of whisky. The lamp on the desk flickers and a rumble of thunder rattles the windows as I pick up the bottle of capsules and break the seal. It makes a small popping noise. I push the cap in and twist it open.
Was she lying when she said that I'd be with her forever? The men in the suits said that it wasn't possible, that the phenomena was genetic and couldn't be passed on, that the vampire's kiss was a kiss of death and not the start of life everlasting. If she was lying, her friend would certainly kill me. I put the plastic cap on the desktop and pour out the red and green capsules. They sit in an untidy pile next to the bottle of whisky, red and green, red and green.
They'd play back the tapes at some point, the men in suits. They'd sit there and listen to the conversation I had with Terry and they'd play it through again and they'd wonder why I was stuttering and why sometimes I appeared confused and they'd look closely at the video recording from the cameras hidden in the ventilation grilles. I don't suppose they'll see much otherwise they'd have seen it at the time and they'd never have allowed me to leave, but if they thought something was wrong then they might spot the arm movements and maybe, just maybe, they might put two and two together. If they did then they'd come for me to find out what she'd told me. They'd do everything in their power to force me to tell them. And if they thought I was trying to help her, they'd kill me, I was certain of that. They'd kill me and then they'd move Terry and the others like her to another secure place and this time they'd never have any visitors or maybe they'd use me as bait and through me trap her friends. She'd think I betrayed her.
I pick up one of the capsules and swallow it. It has no taste. I wash it down with a mouthful of whisky.
I've had plenty of time to think over the last ten years and I'm pretty sure what happened now.
Terry and her friends had been fishing for someone like me, somebody they could use to find out where the rest of their kind were being held. They'd had thousands of years of practice at covering their tracks and yet it had taken me only a few days to find out who and what they were. That just couldn't have been possible unless they'd wanted me to find out. It was a set-up from the start: the photograph of Greg Turner, the Porsche, the bank accounts. All signposts pointing the same way, leading me to the basement where she was waiting. And all the time, never too far away, the redneck in the pick-up, watching and waiting as she revealed the clues to me.
She allowed herself to be caught with Blumenthal's body, deliberately getting his blood on her face, she showed me her strength, her knowledge, her abilities, and then finally she showed me everything, knowing that she'd be found out and that the men from the Government would come for her. And she knew that I'd fall in love with her, that I'd move heaven and earth to be with her and that eventually I'd get to see her. All they had to do was wait and watch. It was just a matter of time. And time was something they had plenty of.
So what are my options? Terry's friend kills me, the men in suits kill me, or nobody kills me and I spend the rest of my life waiting for her and getting older day by day. The liver spots on the backs of my hands are getting bigger, The skin is more wrinkled, it's not as elastic as it used to be.
My teeth, the ones that aren't capped, are starting to go yellow. Not much, you probably wouldn't notice even if I smiled at you, but I can see the changes. I'm getting older and she's staying the same. I can't bear that.
I take another capsule and another mouthful of whisky.
The study wall opposite the desk flashes a brilliant white and the sky cracks again and from somewhere in the house I hear a noise, the sound of a chair being pushed in the darkness.
I love her so much, I don't want to betray her, and I don't want to get old and not be with her. I don't want to be abandoned. I don't want to be old and alone. I waited ten years to see her and now that I've seen her I know for sure that she was lying to me. I couldn't see it in her eyes. I looked deep into her black eyes and saw nothing but love and the promise that we'd be together for all time. I wanted to believe her eyes, but I knew that what I felt was purely subjective and that the only thing I could truly believe in was the Beaverbrook Program, and that had been unequivocal.
Terry was totally incapable of love, that's what the program had said. The questions I'd sprinkled through the psychological profiling appeared innocuous but taken together with the response times and keyboard pressure they told me what my eyes had failed to see. She was using me, her declaration that we'd be together was a lie. She loved me, in a way, that I'm sure of, but her loyalty to her own kind and her own survival were paramount. There was no way I could be with her forever. I would die and she'd live on, just as Sugar said. The capsules still have no taste, even when I swallow several at the same time. I wonder who will get to me first. The vampires. The men in suits. Or the capsules.