The Radical (Unity Vol.1) (10 page)

‘Of course, you go up.’

The shop assistants came rushing in with bottles of bootleg liquor and I noticed the wake had turned into a full-on party out on the street. As they engulfed Camille and beckoned her to join them, I looked on as she nodded in reply to each person who asked whether she had been given the shop. It seemed no surprise to the staff that she had been left
in charge
.

Suddenly it occurred that I
didn’t want anyone to know about my windfall, and as soon as the notion crept into my mind, Camille returned to the office.

‘Don
’t worry, I won’t tell anyone… if you feel like it later, come and enjoy the party with us. Eve would have wanted you to.’

W
ith that, Camille went to the door, turned back, smiled and was gone. I went upstairs, lifting my legs as if they weighed several tons each.

M
y heart was pumping, I was sweating and feeling extremely nervous. I knew the contents of the letter might be difficult to stomach. I poured a shot of disgusting sherry into a glass and sat on the sofa. I felt like the moment had to be savored and I didn’t want to rush it.

However, one
figure kept whirling around my head.
2.5million. 2.5million. 2.5million.
That kind of figure could buy as much property and security as I could ever need, any lifestyle I could envisage. It just didn’t seem right somehow.

Every
one hopes that one day they might hit the jackpot. In that moment, I resented the responsibility. I hadn’t earned it. Those daydreams about winning the lottery were always broken by the thought that I loved my job.

The desire not to rush the situation was being overshadowed by the promise of revelation
s. I tried taking deep breaths, but that didn’t work, so I lay back and attempted to picture myself on some far-flung tropical island.

Calm and serenity
.

Another drink later and I
decided I was good to go. I carefully pulled open the seal on the envelope, not wanting to tear even a millimeter, such was its importance. I pulled out the contents and discovered several sheets of thin, almost weightless writing paper.

Okay, this
is probably about to get weird...

However, I found most of the pages
were blank. Only the first page had anything scrawled on it – a few words and only one message:

“
Go back to New York straight after the funeral.
Answers await you there.
Eve x
”

G
uilt ate away at me as I rode the train back to Manchester; I hadn’t said a proper goodbye to Camille. It was just that Eve’s words seemed to be telling me to get back to New York as a matter of urgency. I guess a part of me also wanted to be out of my aunt’s lair too.

I didn’t want to return to that
city. I hated it for holding Eve captive, though it had been the unassuming centre of UNITY ’s activities. I needed a change of scenery, having been so shaken by Eve’s revelations.

Camille was strange and yet, I felt an affinity with her close to w
hat I had with Eve. I expect part of me didn’t want to say goodbye because it might have meant more tears, more apologies, and awkward promises we might not be able to keep. If it was meant to be, we would see one another again. Right then, I had only one thing on my mind.

My
safety and the emissaries tracking me weren’t a worry. If they got me, so what? Camille would just bail me out, right? I wasn’t thinking about anything but finally screwing over Officium. I could almost taste it. Eve’s story had given me the edge, I felt sure of it. I had the greatest impetus of all knowing they had ruined her life. I wanted revenge. Before it was a puzzle, now it was personal. I simply needed to get back home, because that’s what Eve had told me to do. If anyone had been given the gift of foresight, it was her. Even in death, I was treating her like she was the only person I could trust. Yet I knew the resistance would somehow be looking after me, too.

It was
5:17pm when I jumped off the train, only to discover all transatlantic flights had been cancelled. The news networks confirmed a freak hurricane was loitering around the East Atlantic and nothing and nobody would be going anywhere fast.

These storms are becoming more frequent
, I thought, but this was just my luck.

Checking into one of those dreadful chain hotels again was out of the question, so it seemed my only option was to wait it out in the lounge until the situation changed.

When it got to 9pm, though, I was losing the will to live. I had my xGen booted up and was trying to hide the content from other psychotic travelers, who all looked as crazed as I felt. It was definitely time to head to a bar, where I could find a corner to hide in.

I found
an imitation, old-fashioned pub tucked away in a quiet nook of the airport, where I ordered a coffee and some kind of questionable meat pie from the selection screen at the side of my booth. It entered my head that my trip had ended up costing me a bomb – the airfare, all those expensive meals. That was when a little voice told me to shut the fuck up. I was an heiress. Nevertheless, it didn’t escape me that eating out in England had become an expense few people ‒ and I really mean few – could afford. For some, the meat pie was a week’s wages.

The place was dank and dingy, with a lurking clientele and synth-jazz blaring in the background – it was just the right kind of establishment
in which to disappear.

Within minutes, I heard a low rumbling and a
green light flickered above the hatch next to me. I retrieved my order from inside and a deep sense of relish settled in my veins while the smell of pastry crust and baked meat filled the air. What lowlifes were in there with me looked up with envy so I started downing my food, willing the storm to pass so I could be on my way.

Two
coffees later, however, I was losing my mind. If I rested my head on the table in front, my eyes began falling. If I remained awake, I saw people staring at me and shifting into multiples. I knew I was still battling a level of exhaustion that was unnatural and my mind was starting to play tricks. I had also just buried my aunt. It was no use. I would have to check into some godforsaken hotel again.

I swiped my
U-Card at the door to pay my bill but as I left, a man caught my eye for a brief moment. He was entering just as I was walking out. Like me, he wasn’t anything like that pub’s usual clientele. The people in there were thin and wan, living off beer and scraps, possibly only moving from their seats to answer the call of nature, or secure some shady international transaction.

This man entering as I was leaving was a huge specimen of man, no doubt someone living on the edge of what Officium deemed excusable
, so not so different to me. His dark-brown eyes caught me off guard. He seemed familiar somehow, but I was seeing three of him. I needed to put my head down on a pillow, even if that pillow was only an inch thick and smelt like bleach. However, I couldn’t help but notice him watching me leave. He obviously knew my face, but then most people seemed to share that expression. I sensed there was something he wanted to ask me when he opened his mouth to say, ‘Excuse–’

I was away quickly and turning towards the hotel, too tired, too spent to care whether he was someone I might consider a mark or not. His voice echoed behind me as I crashed on a painfully uncomfortable bed, fully clothed, exhaustion sweeping over me so hard I didn’t know what had hit me.

The next day I
contemplated heading back to York, but the thought of that bridal house made me feel a little ill. I dreaded the things that had taken place within its walls; the times Eve had probably cried for her old life to return. A son or daughter or pet running round the place at one point, their ghosts haunting her as she was left behind, alone. Camille was much more than a confidante to my aunt. She was more a sister. If I hadn’t heard Camille fucking some woman during the night I spent in Eve’s quarters, I might have thought my aunt and she had something more between them.

It was clear that Camille was
just a woman of physical need and even in the wake of her best friend’s death, she had felt the urge to fulfill it. For me, that urge was quashed decades before. Ulrich and I were once lovers, I suppose. Well, we fucked. He arrived at my apartment, took his clothes off and screwed me into oblivion, before we exchanged pleasantries and he left. That was the only way I could cope with it. He ended up wanting more but I told him I didn’t have room in my life for that – and the disappointment in his eyes is what deterred me from seeking anything like that again. It had gotten to the point where I only fucked for quick release, or if I wanted something from someone.

I spent hours laid on that bland hotel bed trying to arrange my thoughts but it was difficult to make sense of
everything I had learned about Eve. My parent’s deaths had to be linked to the cause, there was no other explanation. But how, why? It was all too much to absorb and would mean admitting everything I had ever perceived about Mom and Dad was wrong.

When I had
eaten everything from the mini-bar, I decided there was nothing for it.
Reality check
. I took out my xGen. Despite providing 2YB, it still ran very slowly with the amount of crap I kept stored on it. The guy who made it for me shouldn’t have given me so much space I guess, because I never deleted a single thing in case it came in handy for future use.

The number of messages in my
various inboxes was insane. I answered some of the ones from Eve’s accountants and lawyers, avoiding anything work-related. My mind was still foggy enough to put me off dealing with any of that. I was
non compos mentis
. Perhaps my boss would give me some leave, I mean I was grieving, but that was not what really bothered me. What did more than anything else was the fact that my aunt had been married and never told me. She may have had kids.

My life
back home consisted of walking the streets, chasing leads, staking one coffee shop or brothel after another. Just anywhere the bastards of Officium might meet and discuss something I could nail them to a cross with. That was my day: always waiting for a piece of information that might give me something to work with.

For as long as I could remember, there had been
rumors that Officium were responsible for 2023. It had become almost accepted fact depending on whom you were talking to. However, proving it was near-impossible. So until then, I would just do my damn hardest to get them for whatever else they did wrong ‒ illicit affairs, drug running, all those petty things that really amounted to nothing but might one day lead to those so-called keepers of the peace finally unraveling and showing themselves up for what they really were.

This routine of mine, however, ha
d let me forget who I was, what I wanted. I needed a friend, a real friend, not one like Camille who was acting out of some sort of sense of duty. Someone who might be just as embroiled in this public battle as much as I. Camille was resilient, but she didn’t know what it was like to have everyone know your face and what you stood for. I contemplated that for a moment – what did I stand for? I guess I represented the few “rebels” just trying to fight back. I was the mouthpiece for a different way of thinking – a past belief that democracy and freedom of speech were all for the greater good. Officium had worked damn hard to eradicate that old notion but it was tried and tested. We just needed one person brave enough to stand against them. My victories over them were small and petty, I knew, and sometimes thankless, but someone had to try.

I was the reporter hell-
bent on undermining Officium and showing them up for what they really were. Just mythmakers who used the flu pandemic for their own gains, perhaps even hastened the disease, created it or specifically made themselves immune and everyone else weak. That sent a shudder down my spine. Were all those who survived only living because they were chosen by Officium? The thoughts swimming in my frontal matter were driving me nuts.

So, I decided to put my time to good use and try
to allay all these crazy insinuations. I laid on that pathetic scrap of bed and searched the births, marriages and deaths databases of Yorkshire. The search brought up hundreds of results so I tried to narrow them down with a few key words.
Born 1980. Married 2013.
Three results presented themselves, all grouped together. The first was Tom’s birth certificate, the second was the marriage record I had already seen and the last was his death certificate.
Shit
. I took a deep breath as I prepared to open the last file. On the screen, the details stared back. Eve had been the one to file his death and had the term “
widow
” beneath her name. On the document, she had adopted his surname and was cited as “
Eve Bradbury
”. She must have reverted back to her maiden name after his death. He died in December 2023 of heart failure. They had 10 years together at least, but why did Eve keep it a secret? Heart failure at 43? Was it flu-related? Was it something else? All these questions I had, and yet there were still no real answers.

Then a thought cut through my mind. His letter, that one I had found in the bridal house, had
told of their painful separation. He hadn’t died then, he couldn’t have. Surely? His letter was clearly written after the flu broke out; the tone of his writing intimated that it had caused them to live apart. Had he been one of the people Officium had targeted? I turned to the marriage certificate and saw Tom’s profession was clearly stated, “
University scholar
”. He must have posed a threat to Officium, there could be no other reason. It was all starting to make sense. He knew something so Eve made it look as though Tom was dead. Had to be that!

I heard my s
tomach grumble and realized it was getting toward evening again. I needed proper sustenance and no protein replacements were going to cut it.

I
would have to face the pub again and hope that nobody there would bother me. Besides, I needed to take my mind off the whole business for a bit. Maybe once I got back to New York, everything would become clear. It was just so frustrating to be trapped there, unable to carry out Eve’s instruction.

I
checked the departure information on my xGen as I made my way back through the corridors of the airport toward the pub.

I only discovered there was no
change; nothing was flying in or out still.

On entering my new local, I tried not to make eye contact, but my attempt to float in without anyone noticing failed. I sat down at a vacant booth and ordered something ridiculous.

W
hat the hell,
I thought,
I am going to be a frickin’ millionaire
, and I also selected a pint of Guinness. It cost an ass-load but took me back to a memory of Eve and also settled my soul. Plus, I knew it wouldn’t contain any of the tracers that Officium put in their own brands of drinks, Eco-Boost and Tonic. The robotic bartender could mix these according to your weight, height and physical health, creating just the right quantities to get you happy and pliant – and mildly addicted. Cheap, yet with a hidden price.