The Very Last Days of Mr Grey (14 page)

Instead, he looked around the room.
There
was a camera,
there
was a large mirror.

Who was watching him now? Was anyone?

There was a theory in psychology to describe this phenomenon, of thinking someone was watching you, thinking you were more important than you were. What was the name?

Then he remembered,
The Spotlight Effect
. And with the term, came a flood of memories. He pushed them away.

And anyway, just because there was a theory, that didn’t mean it applied to you.

As he dosed off, a purplish creature almost as tall as the ceiling appeared in one corner and tilted its head at him.

Then Mason was asleep.

In the front of the class, a boy of nineteen sits, usually slouched. He focuses on his work, the teacher, the projected images and slides, the movie ideas that flit through his mind. And nothing else.

In the back row, high above due to the stadium seating, sits a girl of eighteen. She sits straight, occasionally talking with the girl on her right and boy on her left, who sometimes switch seats. She watches the slides, takes occasional notes on pad with pen, more often tapping on the keyboard of her laptop. Some days she listens to music, mostly on days when there’s a test, but also when she is bored, or thinking of someone else.

These two people, never meet. Not once in the whole quarter do they arrive at the same time, nor take different seats than those they have now. Not once do both arrive early and be forced to wait outside until the classroom door is unlocked. Not once do either arrive late enough that they draw undue attention as they are taking their seats. Not once does the boy finish a test before the girl and leave before her. Not once, except for today.

Today is the final day of the class, and not coincidentally, the day of the final. The boy, who on the test he now turns in has written the name Mason Grey, walks up the steps, taking in the seated class as he climbs, amazed that for once he is the first one to finish. He wonders at what a difference reading the assigned material makes, versus just half-paying attention in class.

It is because of this commitment to studiousness that he sees the girl for the first time. She is pretty, and for that reason alone his eyes stop on her. But that is all she is. Her clothes aren’t exceptional, nor is her hair. She writes quickly, hunched over the test, but this is the final, and she did arrive late.

And yet, as he gets closer, he feels a flutter, a twinge of familiarity in his chest.

But of course, they are in the same class, so that is not so odd.

But as he passes her, he turns back. It is more than that. He exits the classroom, assuming he must have seen her in another class, or maybe at a party.

If he turned back just a second sooner, he might have seen her looking up at him, seen the recognition on her face. But by the time he did, she already realized that she didn’t have much time left to finish the test, and put her head back down to work and get the A she needs for a 4.0 this quarter, for which her reward will be a car of her choosing.

He leaves the classroom that day with the nagging sense that he is missing something. Someone. He knows the girl from somewhere, he just knows it. But he can’t place her, and he’s unable to get the thought of her out of his mind, until he receives a text from Lily telling him she will be by tonight, and that he should be ready.

He is.

Mason squinted at the sunlight as he was led outside the interrogation room and into the main station, what with its huge windows.

He couldn’t believe it was day out. It was like coming out of a dark movie theater into the daylight and being shocked because every other time you’d left a theater it had been night. You somehow forgot that it was day when you entered.

And so Mason had forgotten his life before this one now. The screenplays he had to write, that were due… He didn’t even know when. The date he had with a woman whose name he also couldn’t remember. Didn’t know what day the date was on or even what day it was now. “What day is it?”

But no one answered.

He wondered if this was a dream. How had he gotten here? Sera. Then a car accident, hospital, then Sera, fight, hospital—crap, he was Sisyphus.

He could try to become Bill Murray. But just now, he couldn’t remember how that had turned out for old Bill.

As they escorted him from the police station, no one seemed to pay much attention. “Who are you?” Mason wondered aloud. “Who do you work for exactly?” He didn’t think it was actually the Department of Defense. That cop had been right, their accents were just slightly off. Mason hadn’t noticed, but then again, he’d been more focused on getting away from them.

Why do you run
, that annoying voice asked. Ever since… When? The accident? No, the Naerdaxine. It was like a reverse antidepressant: instead of flat-lining his emotions and taking away his creativity, it had supercharged his imagination and put voices in his head.

The irony was that he didn’t even know if it worked for sleep yet, since he’d been so pumped full of other drugs since the day he’d first taken it.

“Quiet,” the agent ahead of him—Fredriks—said. “You had your chance to talk.”

The one walking behind him—Ehd—leaned in close. “You know, Mr Grey. You know who we are, deep down. Just tell us where, and this will all be over. You can come home.”

Mason turned slightly to look at the man, but Ehd leaned back and fell in behind Mason again. Mason wondered what he’d meant by that. ‘Come home’, not ‘go home’, as though they lived in the same building, the same house.

In the parking lot, they put him in a nondescript car, a Ford. There was no divider between the back seat and the front, and the instrument panel looked odd, with levers and knobs and gears that were wholly out of place in a car, especially a Ford.

“What’s wrong with your car?”

The agent in the driver’s seat—Ehd—shut his door, then looked back at Mason. He smiled, shook his head. “You can’t fool us, Mr Grey.”

Fredriks got in. “Let’s go. I want out of this place.”

Ehd turned, started the car using a lever that he pulled down on several times, then quickly backed out and exited the lot.

Mason began to worry when they got on the freeway. “Where are you taking me? I have rights.”

They ignored him.

“Hey!” Hands cuffed behind him, he kicked the driver’s seat, and was surprised when it went forward far enough to slam Ehd, with an audible thunk, into the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve into the vehicle next to them, which in turn caused it to careen off the road, where it exploded in a cloud of glass and dust against a tree.

Fredriks turned and pointed a gun at Mason as his partner got the car under control. “You should thank the Crown that someone wants badly to find you. But do not do that again.”

“Aren’t you going to help them!”

The agent turned back, stowing his gun. “Nice try, but the only person you can harm is yourself.”

“What? Didn’t you see that car? They need help.”

“Of course they do.” He looked at Mason. “As do you, Mr Grey. Clearly, you’re not getting it wherever you are.”

Mason struggled to turn and look at the car they were rapidly speeding away from.

It wasn’t on fire. That was good. He saw other cars stopped—most, in fact. A few had continued on though. One seemed to be gaining on them fast. Great, except whoever it was would try to stop Agents Ehd and Fredriks, or call the police on them, only to find out they
were
the police.

He felt sorry for the person following them. Maybe it was because they drove the same model car as him.
Or maybe it’s because you know the truth of the situation
.

He faced forward, leaned his head back, and stared at the headliner for a moment. He tried not to think of death, of steering columns becoming spikes. Then he closed his eyes.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

Mason began to doze off. He saw something furry floating on the hood of their dream-car. A large monster. It stared at him, like a curious dog.

Then Mason heard a voice.

“It’s your fault you know.”

Mason opened his eyes, looked at the agent who’d spoken, but said nothing.

“We’ve never had to go somewhere else. It’s always right where the dreamer is, not some place miles away.” He looked thoughtful. “Why is that, Mr Grey?”

We’re they not making sense because he’d dozed off, or was this where Mason would become convinced that these were not real cops, but psychos that had kidnapped him?

Kidnapping psychos, he thought. Definitely.

If not for the fact that a police station full of police officers saw them interrogate him, and did absolutely nothing, acted like they were invisible.

“You may be cops, but you’re insane.”

The agent actually smiled. It was the first time Mason recalled seeing it. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to say that.”

“Longest holdout I’ve seen,” Ehd put in.

The first agent nodded. “Impressive.” He looked at Mason again. “But rest assured, Mr Grey, we will find you.”

“I’m right fucking here!”

The agent shook his head and turned his attention back to the road in front of him.

“Where are we going?”

No one responded for a moment.

Then, “Home.”

Mason closed his eyes again. Either he was crazy, and that’s why what they said made no sense, or they were, and they were taking him out into the desert to execute him. There was nothing he could do either way.
And it is what we want anyway
, a voice whispered in his head.

But it wasn’t a desert they were headed toward.

They got off the freeway and then took side roads until they were winding their way through a neighborhood, high up into the hills.

Mason eventually recognized the area as somewhere he and his friends used to drive in high school. He didn’t think he’d ever been this high though.

They finally stopped at somewhere about three-fourths of the way to the top, just barely still in the shade of the mountain, near a dirt lot with several large stones that reminded Mason of Stonehenge, and a house in the middle of construction.

Mason tried to place the sense of déjà vu he was getting, but it wasn’t until the agent opened the rear door and got him out that the memory solidified. He had spent several hours here once, years ago, with a girl he no longer knew. He remembered the magic of that night, of standing outside the back door of his car, the girl lying across the back seat, looking up at him. The feeling of looking at the surrounding area, wondering if anyone was around, would call the police, and only seeing that house, in the middle of construction, which was surely empty.

Mason stood now, in that same spot—or so his memory told him—looking up at that same house, in the same state of construction. That was odd. This was a nice neighborhood, and the house, if it ever was completed, would be considered by most a mansion, so for it to be left as it had been then seemed strange.

Afterward, they had driven back down, and she’d had him stop in front of a house with an orange tree, and they’d eaten oranges. Mason wondered now if he ever would eat an orange again. It was strange, you never knew when any time experiencing something would be your last: last time in Vegas, last person you sleep with, last time going to Disney World, first and last time hearing a particular song. Last day of your life.

“Come on.” The agent grabbed him and pulled him toward the cliff. “You’re going home.”

Mason felt strangely calm as he looked out over the foliage-littered drop-off that he had looked out over years before, on that night, with that girl (the last night he’d spent with her). And years before tossed something over and wondered if an animal would find it, and what it would make of it if it did.

But this time, the night air was day air, and it wasn’t cool against his skin, or if it was he didn’t notice. What he noticed was how the incline wasn’t quite steep enough. He might survive the fall. And that wouldn’t be good. Because then he’d been stuck with broken limbs and no one to hear him scream.

You’ve survived worse.

The agent holding on to him began to speak, when a horn blared.

All three men turned to look at the car that was approaching.

The agent holding Mason asked, “What now?”

Mason suspected the man was asking him, but before he had a chance to reply, the car disappeared up a drive and was gone behind some trees.

The three men’s gazes followed the road past the trees to trace the car’s path, but the car did not come out.

“Let’s get this over with,” the other agent said. “I can’t stand this place. If he is doing something, it will be too late.”

“All right Mr Grey, this is your last chance.” He stared into Mason’s eyes. “Where?” It came out as a statement.

Mason knew where he was now. It was the only thing that made sense. He remembered how he’d gotten here, could feel pain, so this was no dream. But that didn’t rule out… “Hell,” he stated flatly.

The agent looked to his partner.

“Forceful extraction.”

“Won’t be pleasant.”

“I’ll enjoy it.”

“Me too.”

They both turned to Mason.

Ehd said, “You won’t.”

They looked at him as if expecting him to respond. He looked around instead.

“Consul Fredriks, do you think our friend here intentionally put the focus point so far away on purpose?”

“I don’t know Consul Ehd, that’s a good question. Maybe this place means something to him.”

“Does it mean something to you?”

This got Mason’s attention. He turned and frowned at them, almost said something. Then he stopped. They worked for the DoD—or somewhere that could get them fake Department of Defense IDs. They probably knew a hell of a lot more about him than that.

But had he told anyone? Where would the records come from? Maybe she had. It was possible.

Since they were being so forthcoming, Mason asked, “What are we doing here?” though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to that.