Meridian Days (14 page)

We crawled from the crevice, emerged into the sunlight and knelt beside the stand of ferns. There was no sign of the security guard, either on the beach or up the pathway. Hand in hand we ran around the cove, hugging the shrubbery at the base of the hillside, then scrambled over the headland. The glider awaited us like a giant, grounded kite.

I dragged it around to face the ocean, then programmed the engine's memory with the co-ordinates for Main Island.

Fire suddenly squeezed my arm. "Bob, look!" She pointed to the cliff-top. On the high path which circumnavigated the island, I made out the small, dark figure of a security guard. He was strolling away from us, his hands behind his back.

Fire swept her hair from her brow, her eyes filling with tears. She could hardly contain her frantic apprehension. "We can't go yet!" she pleaded. "If he hears the engine and tells Tamara..."

"Don't worry. Get in." I took her arm and assisted her into the thermal sling, first one foot, then the other. I pulled the zip fastener, cocooning her in the sling like a baby in a papoose.

I ducked in beside her, gripping the frame. We were all set up to go — but for the guard. He was still on the cliff-top path, but further along, mercifully still in ignorance of us.

"How long before another guard follows him?" I asked.

Fire was near to tears. "I don't know. Not long. There's always a few patrolling the island."

The guard had passed behind a spur of rock.

"We'll just have to risk it," I said. "Hold on!"

She gave a quick, terrified smile. "I've never been up in one of these things, Bob!"

I fired the engine, ran along the beach. There was still no further sign of the guard. Our only hope that we might escape undetected was the fact that the wind was blowing from the island, carrying the splutter of the motor out to sea.

"I hope you don't mind heights, Fire!" I shouted as we lifted, the golden crescent of sand falling away beneath us.

Fire screamed into the headwind, a combination of fright, delight, and disbelief that we were finally free.

I kept the glider low, wave hopping, so that the bulk of the island was between us and Trevellion's dome. Then we climbed steadily, the archipelago opening out beneath us.

Beside me, Fire gripped the hand-rail and stared down with wide eyes, her long blonde hair flying in the wind. "So many islands!" she cried. "I never knew there were so many islands!"

Silver tears streamed from her cheeks and fell into the sea.

We banked and headed for Main.

~

Two hours later we landed on the clifftop greensward of the Meridian Gliding Club, stacked away the glider and caught a cab into town. I was still in two minds as to whether I should take Fire to the Museum of Modern Art. On one hand I hoped that Jade and Tamara Trevellion's collaborative work of art might exorcise the spectre of Jade that had haunted Fire for so long, release in her the knowledge of what had really happened to her sister; on the other, I feared that Fire's experience of the piece might, if it failed to act as a mnemonic, convince Fire even more that the only way to relive her sister's death was through the medium of frost.

As we hovered through the busy afternoon streets of Main, I said, "Fire, do you really want to go to the museum?"

She turned and looked at me. "You promised!" she said.

I shrugged. Sunlight beat in through the glass, making me uncomfortable. "It might be more than you can take," I said lamely.

"That's exactly what you said about frost!" she said. "I thought were going to the museum so that it might bring back some memories, so I don't have to use frost?"

I shrugged again, hopelessly. "I just hope it doesn't make you want frost all the more," I murmured.

We alighted outside the museum, a white marble building of classical Greek design, situated at the end of a long, tree-lined boulevard. We climbed the steps and passed into the cool, hushed foyer. Uniformed attendants stood against the walls. Six archways gave onto as many radial galleries, works of art on pedestals and enclosed in glass diminishing in the perspective of each. At this time of day the museum was quiet. One or two people regarded sculptures and crystals with an air of solemnity, but most of the galleries were deserted. I purchased a catalogue from the sale's counter, turned to the index and found:
Tamara and Jade Trevellion; Nemesis, laser sculpture, gallery six, exhibit fifty
.

We passed through the archway into the gallery. Beside me, Fire seemed subdued, as if for the first time realising that she was about to witness the cause of her sister's death. I felt her hand slip into mine and hold on tight.

The gallery was empty of patrons, and for this I was thankful. I was conscious of what Fire must be going through, and wanted privacy when we viewed the sculpture.

We made our way down the aisle between two rows of exhibits. On one side was a display of crystals; each slab, perhaps a metre square and a centimetre thick, was canted on a stand to present a coruscating surface to the hand. Visually they were unspectacular, but to the touch they transmitted the feelings and emotions of their creators. To our left was a series of sculptures, from figurative representations of every conceivable object, to abstract designs. The materials employed ranged from wood to titanium. The base of each was labelled with the title of the piece and a brief biographical sketch of the artist.

The Trevellion sculpture occupied an alcove of its own at the very end of the gallery. We paused before it and regarded it with the aspect of pilgrims. It stood on an obsidian plinth, illuminated by an overhead spotlight — a geometric construction of silver spars, like a mechanical tarantula with its legs in the air, roughly three metres tall and shaped like a diamond. In its deactivated state, it had a certain raw power of design, the promise of greater things when the lasers were burning.

I read the engraved plate on the plinth. 'Nemesis — Tamara and Jade Trevellion. This piece is notable for its innovative design, its intricate use of steel and lasers to produce a stunning visual harmony. Perhaps its greatest attribute is the fact that the final tragic effect was the result of mischance, as is evident when the piece is in its activated state. Tamara Trevellion is a poet and artist, and Nemesis is her first work to be exhibited in the museum. Jade Trevellion, her daughter, died tragically in the making of this piece.'

I read through it a second time, not at all sure that I wanted to go ahead and experience the activated work. I glanced at Fire. She was reading the notice, her lips moving slowly. She came to the end and looked at me. "Shall I turn it on?"

I nodded and she stepped forward and chopped her hand through a bar of light on the plinth, breaking the circuit and activating the lasers.

The effect was instant and spectacular, the dazzling light-show forcing us to take a backward step in surprise and, at first, delight. From regular points along the geometric spars, bars of laser light sprang forth and criss-crossed the interior of the design, creating denser squares of colour where they intersected in an overall effect like luminous tartan.

Caught in the polychromatic vectors of the laser nexus was the ghostly image of a female figure, as insubstantial as the form of a naiad projected onto a column of smoke. Fire gasped and stared at what might have been a reflection of herself. The standing figure of Jade Trevellion looked out at us from the lattice of lasers; from time to time the image blurred, and when it re-focussed Jade was presented at a different angle, in a different pose, each time outfitted in a different costume. Her resemblance to Fire was remarkable and unnerving — the same long, fair hair, full lips and slanting, emerald eyes — all the more so because I recognised the clothes that Jade was wearing: the yellow trouser suit, the halter top and shorts, the silver lamé dungarees...

So far the images of Jade had been distant, dreamlike. Now, the scene in the network of lasers changed, became definite: Jade, standing on the greensward in a red bikini which I had never seen Fire wearing. The image gave the illusion that the girl was on the other side of the sculpture, looking through it at us. Her expression was serious, contemplative, even sad. As we watched, Jade took one step forward, then a second...

Then the scene shattered.

Fire was clutching me, staring at a series of fragmented images — a fleeting, anatomical montage. I made out the curve of a flank, a knee drawn up to a bare stomach, a flash of emerald eyes... Then the mosaic vanished, only to appear a second later in an altered configuration: I caught a glimpse of a familiar face in pain, a hand with fingers spread in agony. I drew Fire to me, tried to cover her eyes from what I sensed was coming next — but she pulled my hand away and stared into the sculpture.

We watched as the fragmented figure of Jade Trevellion in a red bikini fell forward through the cat's cradle of lasers. The expression on her face was one of frozen terror, as if in her last second of consciousness she was fully cognizant of the oblivion about to engulf her. The scalpel-sharp rays reduced her to so many units of meat. Segments of arm and leg, belly and head, tumbled through the lasers, the projection becoming ever more faint as the horror of the images increased.

Fire screamed, and I half-carried, half-dragged her from the gallery and out into the foyer. I found a secluded foam-form and sat her down, holding her to me and feeling useless as I could think of nothing to say that might ease her pain.

"Fire, Fire..." I closed my eyes and felt her tears soak through my shirt, as once again I saw the girl identical to Fire fall through the lethal thicket of lasers.

"The ter-terrible, terrible thing—" Fire managed at last, "is that it tells us nothing. Whether it was an accident, or suicide..."

We sat for a long time, beneath a statue of the museum's benefactor, and gradually Fire's tears ceased, and she sat up and dried her eyes and tried to smile.

"Hey," I said. "Abe's meeting me at one. We'll go to a restaurant and have lunch, okay?"

She nodded. "I'd like that."

I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was after one and there was no sign of Abe in the foyer.

"Bob?" Fire said.

I smiled. "Look — Abe told me that if he didn't make it by one, we were to go to meet him."

We left the museum and boarded a cab. I gave our destination as the Meridian Star Hotel. Fire, quiet beside me, was too wrapped in her own thoughts to notice my apprehension. As we rushed through the bustling streets, I tried not to dwell on what Abe had told me last night.

I glanced at Fire. She saw me looking. "It's no good, Bob," she said in a small voice. "I can't remember a thing. You'd think something as terrible as
that
would make me remember, wouldn't you?"

I squeezed her hand. "These things take time," I said, the platitude coming easily, my mind on other things.

The cab came to a halt outside a two-storey, quake-safe building in the centre of town. I paid the river and we climbed out. The day was so relentlessly normal, with the sun-browned, brightly dressed citizens of Main passing back and forth along the street, that I felt out of place, excluded from the trivial affairs of daily life by the knowledge that everything was not as it should be. I hurried Fire into the hotel and asked at the reception desk for Abe Cunningham's room number. I entered the elevator and seemed to wait an age, Fire patiently beside me, while it carried us to the second floor. The sliding door released us and I hurried along the corridor to room twenty-five. I knocked. There was no reply. My next move was to try the handle, but it struck me, absurdly, that this action would almost amount to an admission that I knew something was wrong. So I knocked again, overcome with the strange sensation that if Abe should answer I would never again bemoan any ill-luck that might befall me.

Still there was no reply.

Fire poked at the frame of the door with the toe of her moccasin. "He might be out, Bob," she said. She was still too far removed from what was happening to pick up on my fear.

I turned the handle and the door swung open. The room was in semi-darkness, a dilute light soaking through the drawn curtains at the far side of the small bedroom. I stepped inside, Fire behind me.

I have never considered myself superstitious, but at that moment, even though events conspired to grant me a notion of what had happened, I was loath to call Abe's name lest I should tempt fate. It struck me that my conduct now, my movements as I entered the room, might determine whether or not Abe lived. Already, I realised, I was attempting to make amends for the circumstances that had brought Abe to Main.

Because of me, Abe had ventured to Brightside...

Because of that, he had investigated the Solar Research Station and been arrested...

Abe sat upright in a chair before a desk, his back to me. Even in the twilight of the room, I could see that his head was inclined at an unnatural angle, resting on his right shoulder. His arms hung down on either side of the chair, emphasizing the fact of the unlikely posture.

A noise startled me.

Behind me, Fire was sobbing. I turned and she ran from the room. I took a step towards Abe, caught sight of the hole drilled in his temple. I closed my eyes and sat down on the bed.

I would have expected, had anyone forecast the situation before it occurred, to feel anger and rage that someone had murdered Abe, the burning desire to avenge him by killing his killer... But all I felt, as I sat on the corner of the bed and stared at his lifeless, hanging hand, was a cold numb disbelief at the fact of his death. The Abe I knew was vital and alive, and death was an abstract concept that could in no way be connected to the man I had known and liked.

I left the room and took the elevator to the foyer. Fire was seated in a large padded armchair in an adjacent lounge, almost consumed by the abundant upholstery, her feet hanging inches from the floor.

I stepped into a vid-booth and got through to Doug's office. I asked to be put through to Inspector Foulds, but the receptionist informed me that he was out. I was about to report what I'd found anyway — then stopped myself. I recalled what Abe had said last night, about Director Steiner warning him that if his 'adviser', the mysterious Weller, got to know that Abe was aware of what was going on... I had the sudden intuition that the fewer people who knew about my connection with Abe, the better.