Resonance (36 page)

"She hasn't lost a thing," he told her. "Whatever Gary or Howard says, ParaDim has got to be destroyed. On this world and every world." His voice quivered. "And if anyone can find a way, it's Fifteen."

He said goodbye to Annalise at the front step, closed the door and slumped back against it. He was home. The world of ParaDim, resonance and the unattainable was on the other side of the door.

He clothed himself in routine; his Thursday meal, his after-dinner vacuum, a game of cards. He didn't even feel tired any more. Ritual had given him a second wind.

He could even put his feelings towards Annalise in perspective. It was obvious now. He'd misinterpreted excitement as love. Annalise Fifteen was an exciting person to be around. They'd been thrown together, chased, threatened, shot at. No one could have gone through that without feeling something for the other person involved. But love?

What did he know about love? He'd been dazzled by the attentions of a beautiful, young girl, that's all. He'd allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he was the same as other people. When all along he was just plain Graham Smith, weird but harmless, and hopelessly out of his depth.

He went to bed happy, secure in his own unimportance. He'd take a back seat from now on. Gary and Howard could work far quicker without having to look after him all the time. He only got in people's way.

Graham's happiness lasted until nine o'clock the next morning when Ray arrived with the early morning van.

Graham felt like banging his head on the desk. He should have checked the roster! He'd assumed Ray was on midmorning delivery.

"Hiya, Sharmy," said Ray. Graham had his back to him but he could still see Ray sauntering through the delivery bay door. He didn't need eyes—it was an image etched into memory. The swagger, the darting eyes, the hands-in-pocket naughty schoolboy charm.

And the nasty schoolboy humor.

"On a flying visit are you, Graham?" Ray said in the loud voice he reserved for long-distance repartee. "The doctors found your brain, did they?"

Ray laughed, Sharmila tried to shush him and Graham hunched deeper over his desk. He could have been fifteen again. He could have been any age from his childhood—any age, any playground. The same taunts, the same baiting, the same juvenile humiliation.

Why did he put up with it? He was thirty-three! He wasn't a kid any more.

"Ray, don't," hissed Sharmila.

Graham heard footsteps behind him and braced himself.

"Don't what? Me and Graham are old mates, ain't we, Graham?"

Ray ruffled Graham's hair—hard. Graham's head shook under the pressure. He could feel Ray's nails digging into his scalp. He could imagine the smug, mocking look on his face.

The ruffling stopped. Ray rapped on Graham's head twice. "Anyone home?"

"Ray!" snapped Sharmila. "Come and move these boxes!"

"Anything for you, princess," said Ray, turning away.

Graham closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He'd wait ten seconds then leave. He glanced towards the door and immediately stopped counting. Annalise stood in the doorway. She looked stunned. Graham looked down and turned away.

She was waiting for him outside. The moment Graham emerged from the Post Room, Annalise grabbed his arm and pulled him along the back corridor. She didn't say a word. Neither did Graham.

When they reached the back stairs, she turned on him.

"Why did you let him get away with that shit?" She was angry. Her hands clawed at the air.

Graham shrugged. "It's what you do," he said in a quiet voice.

"It's what you do?" She sounded incredulous.

"I've met hundreds of Rays," he said. "If you react, it makes it worse. If you ignore them, they go away."

"Has
this
Ray gone away?"

"No," he said quietly, looking down at his feet.

"Doesn't that tell you something?"

Graham shrugged and fingered the stair handrail.

"I'll sort him out," she said, turning towards the door. Graham reached out, caught her arm and swung her back.

"It'll only make things worse."

"How?" she said, jerking her arm free.

"He might be dangerous. He . . . I think . . ." The words wouldn't come.

"You think what?"

Graham took a deep breath. "I think he might have attacked some little girls on another world."

Annalise was shocked. "He's a pedophile?"

"I don't know. I heard rumors that he attacked a girl in his van. Someone said there were others. The police were involved but I never heard any more about it. It might have been a mistake."

"I'll find out. What's his full name?"

The first-floor door swished open and a man hurried down the stairs. Graham waited for him to pass. The man smiled at Annalise before pushing through the door onto the ground floor.

"What are you going to do with the information?" asked Graham. "He might be innocent in this world."

"And he might have an attic full of trophies. Relax, I'm not going to call the cops. I just want his name."

"Ray Benskin," he said reluctantly.

Annalise left immediately afterwards.

Graham pushed the incident behind him, filling his head with tasks and the revised staff list. He was not going to get involved. With involvement came pain. He'd get on with his job and she could do whatever she wanted.

A ploy that lasted until lunchtime. He walked to Green Park and found himself looking for her everywhere—on the grass, on the benches, walking towards him. He was torn. A safe half wanting to be left alone and another half—a half he didn't even know he had—craving the excitement, the uncertainty that followed in her wake.

He returned to work, disappointed and guilty. Disappointed that he hadn't seen her and guilty about practically everything. Guilty that he'd looked for her when he'd made up his mind not to. Guilty that he hadn't asked her about Gary and Howard. Guilty that another sixty Resonance projects had probably closed. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

He grabbed the mail trolley and swung it through a wild 180 degrees towards the Post Room door. Ray's van was due at two and in his current mood he didn't trust himself being in the same room as Ray.

He'd calmed down by the time he reached the fifth floor. He stopped outside 502 and stood back to allow a woman through—Phoebe from the Nigerian desk. Stephen Leyland came running out, barging past and nearly knocking her over.

"Stephen!" Phoebe said angrily.

The man didn't respond. He ran for the lift, his coat half pulled over one shoulder, a briefcase slapping against his thigh. He punched the lift button—three, four times—swore and then ran for the stairs.

Graham watched, stunned. Stephen Leyland was one of the most polite people he knew.

"What's got into Stephen?" said Phoebe from inside 502.

"Janie just called," answered a woman's voice. "They've found Jason."

"No!" said Phoebe. "Is he?" She left the question hanging and Graham suddenly remembered—Stephen's son, Jason, the boy who'd gone missing.

"No, he's alive, thank God. It sounds like he's been staying at some hostel in Camberwell. Stephen's running over there now."

"That
is
good news."

Graham agreed, nodding to himself as he emptied Stephen's out-tray. He remembered how cut up Stephen had been when he'd seen him last. The day that Adam Sylvestrus had first appeared in Graham's life.

"Graham?" said a familiar voice. He turned and saw Annalise pulling Frank's door closed.

"Sharmila wants you in the Post Room," she said. "Something about the two o'clock van breaking down. Ray's stuck in traffic." She paused and smiled. "I'm sure it couldn't happen to a nicer person."

Graham looked down at his feet and shuffled nervously. Annalise swung the mail trolley around for him. "I'll come with you," she said. "I need to talk to Sharmila. It seems dragging you away has been disrupting her routines."

Two other people were waiting for the lift. Graham and Annalise settled in behind them. Time dragged. Annalise asked about his lunch, which park he went to on Fridays, the weather.

Graham nodded and shrugged and prayed for the lift to arrive. He couldn't talk. Not here.

He followed Annalise out of the lift and into the Post Room.

"Hi," said Annalise, holding out her hand as soon as she walked through the door. "You must be Sharmila. I'm Tamisha, Tamisha Kent, from the ParaDim Census Project."

Graham waited to hear Sharmila's answering greeting. But heard something else instead.

A wolf whistle.

"Ray!" admonished Sharmila. "You'll have to forgive him, Miss Kent. He's never grown up."

Graham shrank behind the mail trolley. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Was that for me?" Annalise asked Ray. She sounded both surprised and amused.

Ray adjusted his shoulders and sauntered over, half smiling, half leering.

Annalise laughed. "Sorry," she said, placing her hand on his arm. "I thought you were the pedophile."

Graham wasn't sure whose face drained the quickest—his or Ray's. Only Annalise appeared unaffected, looking from Sharmila to Ray, her face a picture of confused innocence.

"You know . . . the other Ray?" she said. "What's his name? Benskin? The van driver?"

Ray looked terrified. Sharmila's eyes extended on stalks and Graham hoped the floor would open up. This was not going to help. This was going to make things twenty times worse.

Annalise clasped her hand to her mouth in feigned embarrassment.

"Me and my big mouth," she said. "You're him, aren't you!" She looked him up and down. "I should have realized." She turned to Sharmila. "Does he flirt as much as the files say he does?"

Sharmila nodded.

"Overcompensation," said Annalise. "Due to his many inadequacies. He can't handle a real woman so he picks on thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. Easier to control."

Ray stabbed an angry finger in her direction. His mouth moved like a fish. He wanted to say something but nothing came out.

"That's my specialty on the Census Project," Annalise told Sharmila. "Trying to map degenerate tendencies to specific genes. But where do you start with something like that?" She waved a dismissive hand in Ray's direction.

"You lying bitch!" shouted Ray, his face coloring.

"Ray," Annalise said, turning towards him, a hint of admonition in her tone. "No one here appreciates the b-word. I know you have mental problems but . . ."

"I don't have mental problems!" Ray's face completed its transition from white to red.

Annalise smiled sadly towards Sharmila and shook her head. "Classic symptoms of pedophiliac denial. Red face, small penis—telltale signs."

Graham had to turn away. He didn't know how she could keep a straight face. Behind him he heard Annalise's voice. "He has got very small feet, hasn't he?"

Graham left the room. He had so many contradictory feelings. He marvelled at Annalise's ability to find the right words. He was grateful, he knew she meant well but . . .

He was angry at her too. How could she! Humiliate the bully and the bully came back looking for someone to humiliate even worse. Playground rules. The boy at the bottom of the chain suffers for all.

Didn't Annalise know that?

And then he felt guilty. Guilty for being angry at someone who only wanted to help.

But she'd tricked him! She could walk away from Ray tomorrow but he'd have to live with the consequences for years. Years and years of spiteful revenge.

The delivery bay door slammed shut; Graham heard it from his hiding place halfway down the corridor. Ray had obviously given up and run.

Annalise must have stayed and chatted with Sharmila. He could pick out their voices but not the words. It seemed friendly enough.

Annalise emerged two minutes later.

"What happened to you?" she said as she saw Graham.

"You've made things worse," he said dejectedly.

Annalise was taken aback. "How?"

"He'll come looking for me."

"Graham," she said, hands on hips. "You can hurt him far more than he can hurt you. Remember that. He picks on you because he can. Give him a reason to stop and he will."

Graham looked down at his feet. Annalise did
not
understand bullies.

She touched his arm. "Graham," she said softly. "Do you know what people here think of you?"

He could guess.

"They," she hesitated, "they think you're either deaf, retarded or both."

Graham looked up, hurt. "You think I don't know that? I . . ."

Two women turned into the corridor from the lobby. Graham stopped speaking immediately and lowered his head until they'd passed.

"I'm worried about you, Graham," said Annalise after the two women had moved out of earshot. "Away from this place you're the real Graham. You talk, you hold your head up, you do stuff. But here"—she shook her head—"here, you drop back into the old Graham. You don't say a word, you look at the floor, you let everyone walk right over you. It's not healthy. You're not that Graham any more. He's gone. But as long as you keep coming back here, so does he. You've either got to leave this place for good or find a way of introducing everyone to the new Graham."

He shrugged. He knew what she was saying but . . .

"Don't think I don't know how hard it is," she continued. "I was the oddball at school. I know what it's like to be shunned and laughed at. And I know what I'd be like if I went to a school reunion. I'd regress. I'd become her again—the self-conscious little girl that everyone laughed at. But then I'd tell myself I'm not that girl any more. I've changed and so have you. We matter in this world. More than anyone else in this building. Maybe more than anyone else in this world . . ."

Annalise let go of his arm and jumped back.

"What's the matter?" Graham said.

She didn't say a word. Her eyes were unfocused, her breathing slowed.

"Is it Fifteen?" he asked, realizing as soon as he'd said it that she probably wasn't listening, her mind focused elsewhere.

Her face lit up, a broad smile—a flash of teeth. Her legs flexed, almost a bounce. She clapped her hands.