The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (34 page)

—Finding that Paul has rang my Blackberry, but I’ve missed the call. He hasn’t left a message.

—Being asked to come back to the UK by Boldfield for some more tests. Nothing severe, I’m told. I’m put in a room and asked to listen to some frequencies, and then am bombarded by what I assume are X-rays as they’re all stood behind a thick screen whilst it happens. They tell me it’s safe, and I don’t really have any choice but to believe them.

—Bryan constantly ringing about the book deal progress, as well as giving me invites to one soiree after another in the States. I fly back, and have another crazy, shameful few weeks. I get laid, repeatedly, and at a calibre I never would have imagined. The men at these affairs are all sycophants trying to kiss my arse, or posers trying to outdo me, but I don’t care. The attention is nice in any aspect, and to my amazement I’m not finding myself trying to avoid it, not trying to shy away from it like normal because
I don’t have to try for the first time in my life
, I can behave how I like and they’re doing all the work. There’s no
pressure
. Plus, no matter what, I am made for life. I avoid the drugs—the last thing I need is an out-of-control habit to push me over the edge—but I do drink a lot. A photo of me falling out of a nightclub ends up on the cover of nearly every paper worldwide. It doesn’t affect anything—if anything else, it helps—but it’s embarrassing.

—The
New York Times
printing my new piece. I don’t think of another one after all; I’m having a good time and have a book to write. I’ve already made good progress.

—Deciding I need to get it finished quick, or I’m going to be forgotten. Knowing I need to detox. I fly to the Bahamas and rent a room in a ludicrously expensive and famous private retreat for celebrities. I live off flavoured water and salad, and the weight I’ve gained in the last two months starts to drop off. I write, I relax. The weeks pass, and I feel a tension that I didn’t really know was there start to fade. I realise that the nightmares have stopped.

—Calling Paul.

“Hey, Andy! Wondered if I was going to hear from you! How’s things in the world of celebrity?” He sounds pleased to hear me, but his voice is slightly thick, as if he has a cold. He still sounds tired.

“Well, I’m calling from a hotel in the Bahamas, so it can’t be
that
bad.”

“Poor sod. When you could be in sunny Sheffield. Or Cov.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll get over the delightful climate here and beautiful beaches. Someone has to do it.”

We exchange pleasantries, each catching up on what the other has been doing in the meantime; the paycheque from the government has come through for him, and it’s good. He and his wife have used it to start up a side business—catering—ran by her, and the early signs are promising. He’s told her the whole story, and she’s kept it quiet. Work is going well, and their finances are good to great, and look to stay that way. His tone is light, but hollow. It’s a front, and a very weak one. This is not the same man that I met in Sheffield. Again, I find myself wondering what is wrong with me; how I am so unscathed emotionally by what happened to that man in the street as he screamed before my eyes. I tell Paul that if ever he needs money—a lot of money—he only needs to ask, and it will be given. I surprise myself by telling him that he can have half, anytime he wants it. He goes quiet at this, and makes a quiet thinking noise. He then thanks me.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Andy. You never know, do you … principles are good and all, and right now I don’t need it, but when the moment comes, who knows. Who knows.”

He goes quiet, and I wonder what to say. He speaks first, though.

“How’ve you been sleeping?” The question speaks volumes.

I say not bad, better now. I ask him about
his
sleep. He sighs, and there is hidden pain in it.

“Not good, mate, not good. Pretty terrible, really. When the lights go out … can’t drop off. And when I do, half the time I have the same dream. I see it again. Boom, just like that.” He pauses for a long time, and when he speaks again, he’s almost whispering, the truth behind the upbeat lie coming out.

“Sometimes … sometimes it’s
me.
”

I don’t ask if
It
is Patrick, or the Stone Man.

—Finishing the book and sending it to the publishing editor, after receiving approval from David, of course. Flying back to New York at the publisher's expense. I have a few days drinking and ass-kissing with the New York literary set, then I get to work on the edits that I’ve been given by the publishers. There are a few more parties in the meantime, but I’m relatively careful. More sex, but easy on the booze. The book launch is going to be on October 7th, with all the accompanying fanfare, and I want to be on top form for it. This is when I’ll be catapulted to a solid position of respect, cemented as a writer and not as a grim reality show celebrity.

-October 2nd, the day that it all comes to a shrieking end. The day that the Stone Man comes back.

***

I could tell that something was wrong from the moment I woke up. At first, I thought I was still drunk, but realised quickly that this was a different feeling. Familiar, but unrecognisable through my sleep haze. I checked the clock:
23:07
. I’d only been asleep for an hour. Last night had ended extremely early indeed for me, I dimly remembered, although it had been a pretty early start as well; six o’clock dinner reservations, celebrating someone else’s book launch, a member of the squawking, butt-kissing literary party pack that I barely knew. I hadn’t felt comfortable at all, spending the alternating between restlessness, irritability and even dizziness. Eventually I’d made my excuses and arrived home around 9:00 p.m., and out of frustration and petulance I’d given up on the day and taken a Xanax, managing to pass out. That made it even more odd; I should have been asleep for hours. How the hell was I awake already?

I staggered to the bathroom, my silk boxers feeling weird around my legs and groin. I’d bought them as an indulgence, and had regretted it all of the previous day. I’d spent too long in opulent surroundings, had been spoilt by the world of New York’s finest hotels. Even now, if I threw open the expensive floor-to-ceiling drapes, the view from my current room would be breathtaking.

The thick shag pile carpet felt thick and warm under my feet, a sensation then replaced by the smooth but equally warm bathroom tiles (heated from underneath, of course). I pissed in the toilet and rested my head against the wall, regretting another drinking session surrounded by wannabe social climbers. I tried to remember what the hell I’d been drinking, and wondered how whatever it was had managed to get me into this messy state so quickly. As my mind slowly awoke, I remembered the answer.

Orange juice.

I’d had a night off the sauce. So what the hell was this? Why was my head buzzing so much, when all I’d had was vitamin C? The tugging sensation was in my skull, my teeth, my
skin—

I was suddenly very, very awake, and as I jerked upright I felt the resulting head rush hit me, hard. I managed to grab the sink as I started to go dizzy, and took a moment to let myself settle. My equilibrium eventually did, if not my nerves, and I half-ran, half-stumbled back into the bedroom and turned on the TV. What time was it again? Eleven p.m.-ish local time. That meant it was … my brain struggled to work properly, but I dragged the answer out. Around 4:00 a.m. in the UK. Sunday morning here … but just early enough on a Saturday night for people to see it, for clubbers staggering home to know that it was there and start a full-scale panic. An hour or two later, and maybe it could have been kept quiet for a bit longer. CCTV cameras could have picked it up, then the authorities could have been quietly informed. Then the security logistics could have begun with just that bit more of a head start, instead of being one step behind the panic from the very beginning. A few lives could have been saved. Slim chances of all that, but even so …

With a shaking hand, I pressed the power button on the remote. Of course, it was being broadcast live from the scene. I’d just had time to hope it had arrived somewhere else, but somehow I already knew that it wouldn’t have. The blue strip lighting in the floor was the giveaway. Without a doubt, the scene before me was Millennium Place. This was the start of what would become known as the Second Arrival.

As it stood there, bathed both by floodlight and the headlights of the military jeeps and APCs parked impotently around it, I thought that it looked just as solid, real, and implacable as before. The Stone Man had come back.

I actually let out a little cry of dismay, and in that moment everything that had happened in the last three months felt somehow lessened, suddenly diminishing into an alcohol-fuelled fever dream. Seeing the Stone Man like this again, viewed at a distance, it was almost as if I expected Patrick to be brought forward once more, drooling and gibbering, for his date with grim destiny. The Stone Man was here, and someone was going to die. Die horribly, and without dignity.

That was besides all the others that would be killed either in crushes, panic or religious disputes. I thought that they would have started already, and as I then wondered crazily what the Internet would make of it, I realised that my phone was switched off.
Fuck.
How long had the Stone Man been here?

And how was the pull here already? It hadn’t been until the morning after the Stone Man had turned up when I first felt it before, and I’d been through two physical episodes before that. Could it be I was now conditioned somehow, finding the pull more quickly and easily now I’d been tuned to it once already? My mind whirled.

I dived over to the bed in a panic, where I’d left my government-issue phone on the nightstand. It wasn’t a model I’d ever seen before. I’d been given one, a small grey box as basic and functional as a phone from the early 1990s, only smaller. It was heavy, though. No camera, no Internet, but it had a startlingly long battery life, often lasting six days (helped by the fact that it was never used) but that came with a downside; it was often very easy to take charging it for granted. So far, I’d let it die twice, but after receiving no reprimands from David (or any other government spooks; I was still convinced that he was one), I thought I’d gotten away with it. However, I’d let it happen for a third time last night. As a result, I’d set it charging when I got home, but in my distracted, irritated state I’d forgotten to turn it on whilst it did so.

I watched it boot up, breathing hard and willing it to switch on faster. The old-school green screen appeared, and the moment that it registered a signal, a text alert pinged into life. Voicemail. Wincing, I rang it; there were twenty-six messages.

First up was Straub, pointlessly telling me to turn my bastard phone on. Then David, telling me to stay put as soon as I switch my phone on. Paul, ringing from a military base, saying that he’d been picked up already and that they’d scared his Mrs half to death, almost kicking the bloody door down, and wanting to know where I was. Straub again, now repeating what David had said. Bryan, telling me to say nothing to anyone, and to keep a low profile until I was picked up. David repeating his earlier message. Straub, audio cutting in halfway through a conversation that she was having with someone else in the room and then saying no, it’s his sodding answer phone again. David—

A beep interrupted my thoughts, cutting in over the current message playing. I looked at the screen, which was now telling me that I had an incoming call. David. I answered.

“Hello?” I said, breathlessly.

“
He’s here, he’s here!
” shouted David, sounding astonished and talking to someone else, and for a second I thought he was talking about the Stone Man. I then realised he was alerting people around him to the fact that I was on finally on the phone. He then addressed me. “Thank God you’ve finally turned your fucking phone on. You were given that for a reason. I’ve been calling you non-stop for the last two hours.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said frantically, muting the TV via the remote and already looking around for my clothes. “I’m in New York, I’m at the—”

“We know, we know, it came up the minute you turned your phone on,” he said, cutting me off with the voice of an extremely stressed man. “Stay put. There’ll be a chopper arriving on the roof in ten minutes. Paul is already here, but we’re behind the clock. He says he can feel the target, but he can’t pinpoint the fucker without you, which rogers us entirely. Based on our previous intel, Caementum started walking within two hours last time. That time is now up, even before we have you in the air and on the way back to the UK. We have no route, no path to evacuate, and it’s about to start smashing its way in a straight line. People are going to fucking
die
because
you
had to have an early night.” My mouth gaped at this, half of me wanting to say
how fucking dare you
and the other wanting to curl into a ball and die myself. The responsibility was mind-blowing. I’d been asleep five minutes ago, I reminded myself, desperately searching for a way out. Could this just be a bad dream? David was talking again already.