by Stuart Atkinson
by Stuart Atkinson
Sitting alone in her seventh floor New York apartment, with the sounds of yellow taxis, car horns and police whistles creeping through her open window, Angela wanted to smash her fist through her computer screen - or rather, through the face of the man who had just emailed her.
She was so angry, so furious, her hands were literally trembling, and at that moment if she had been granted one wish, or a magic spell, it would have been an easy choice: drop a ten ton stony-iron on Muir. Metal table, sharp suit, fancy fish and all.
She stared at the email on the screen with red-hot hatred. There’d been no need to remind her of the looming deadline, none at all. Muir’s deadline - and her own personal Mission Impossible - had been preying on her mind ever since the sickening encounter in his office. It was always there, forever hovering in the background, like the dull ache of a throbbing tooth; whatever she did, whatever she tried to distract herself with, there it was, hanging over her like the Sword of Damocles. Muir, holding it in his bony, pale hands, laughing...
Thankfully, surprisingly, he’d extended the deadline for another two weeks, as she’d asked, but the cost had been great - the sacrifice of a further ten percent of the value of her next Find. And there had been other costs too, more personal ones, little things like her self respect. Still, that was nothing that hadn’t been severely damaged already.
She looked away from the email and stared out the window beside her, looking out again over the green canopy of Central Park. Beneath the sea of leaves and foliage, she knew joggers were panting their way around its maze of paths and walkways, scowling at the roller-bladers who weaved and skimmed their way around horse-drawn tourist carriages and mounted policemen. She wanted to join them, so much, to escape from the cramped confines of the tiny room and out into the open air again, to hear the birds singing and see the sky again...
But The Deadline made all thought - and prospect - of relaxation impossible. It had her by the neck, and was starting to shake her, like a wolf shaking a child’s toy. Muir, playing with her, playing with her life, and her mind.
Five days she’d been cooped up in the apartment, five long, lonely days, trying to track down new, unique specimens for Muir’s hidden collection. In vain. Her leads had all been false, her network of world-scattered contacts unaware of any new “whispers” (or, more likely, well aware, but keeping them for themselves). Even her own recovery team had failed to come up with any new information. Dead ends, in all directions.
And just two weeks left.
She closed her eyes. Oh hell...
Sagging back in her chair she surveyed the apartment. Unlike her homes in London and Rome it was very basic: a glorified bedsit really, minimally-decorated, chosen more for its location than its aesthetics or content. Small. Rented. Adequate.
But right now its walls were closing in on her, and the ticking of the clock on top of the TV seemed to grow louder with every twitch of its hand.
She looked sadly at her desk, covered with the bitter fruits of her labours. Scattered around the computer, scraps and scrunched-up balls of paper, tattered magazines, books and print-outs fought for space with pizza boxes, sauce-crusted chinese take-away cartons and polystyrene coffee cups, all of them together forming a chaotic jumble of trash. Five days’ worth of research. Five days of wasted effort.
She knew she should tidy some of the mess way, but didn’t have the energy, or the time. If she didn’t find Muir something soon - well, that wasn’t worth thinking about. Failure wasn’t an option.
To her left, over near the edge of the desk, Fee’s picture poked up out of a mound of crumpled print-outs, lmost as if it was coming up for air, and Angela pulled it free, smiling as she stared at her daughter’s portrait. She was a lovely girl, a beauty, really; with her long black hair (was it still long? she wondered, or did she have it cropped while she was in Australia, against the heat?) and pale skin she was going to be a heart-breaker when she was older, and no mistake. Tall, long-legged, dark-eyed... And that smile, that wise, knowing smile... the way she laughed...
“What are you doing now?” Angela asked the photograph, oblivious now to the sounds of the city coming in through the window; somewhere on the streets below two car owners were squaring-up after a collison, hurling New York-accented abuse at each other as their hands carved out shapes in the air, but all she heard was Fee’s light, easy laugh.
A thought occurred to her, and she checked her watch. The dial set to New York time read 6.03 pm. The other, displaying Edinburgh time, 11.03. Was there a chance Fee would be awake... and online?
There was only one way to find out.
Calling up her internet software she logged on, and pulled up her list of “contacts online”, anxiously scanning down the list of collectors, experts, journalists and fellow hunters for the one, and only name she ws interested in. Her heart leapt as she saw Fee’s name. There she was! She smiled; the little asterisk next to Fee’s name told her that half-way across the world her daughter was sat in front of her own computer, face bathed in its flickering light, most probably hiking her way across the data wastelands of the web in search of something useful.
And perhaps, like herself, ready for a break.
Quickly she flashed Fee an onscreen message, a simple and hastilytyped “Hi, wanna talk?”. The reply came back after just a few moments, her daughter’s trademark “:-)” emoticon: sure!
Sliding open the lens cover of her webcam, Angela opened up a video window on her screen, and clicked on Fee’s name, establishing the link between them. A few seconds of blurred static, then the window cleared, and Fee’s face appeared. Angela’s heart leapt; she hadn’t realised just how much she’d missed her.
“Hi..!” Fee said brightly, trying to sound enthusiastic as she smiled into the camera, but Angela could tell she was tired. Even on the webcam’s less-than-crystal-clear picture her daughter’s eyes, usually so bright and alive, looked dull and weary. She was almost asleep, looked absolutely exhausted. Angela realised she’d probably just caught her before she turned in for the night, resolved not to keep her from her bed too long.
“Hi yourself,” Angela spoke into her microphone, “don’t worry, I won’t keep you up long, I just wanted to check in, see how you were.”
“No, it’s okay,” Fee replied reassuringly, “it’s nice to hear from you again... and see you, too.” To emphasise the point she waved cheerily at her thru the webcam.
“You’re up late,” Angela observed, waving back, then, noticing the dark rings beneath her daughter’s eyes, added: “working hard on something for school?”
Fee nodded tiredly, and when she replied she spoke through yawns. “Had some big tests last week,” she said, “lots of revision... cramming...”
Tests? Angela wondered which ones they could have been. There weren’t any scheduled usually for that time of the year, were there? Probably new ones, she told herself. As if they weren’t put under enough pressure already. Whatever they were the tests had to have been big ones, judging from all the work- and crib-sheets she’d pinned up on the wall behind her.
“They go okay, your exams?” Angela asked.
“I think so,” Fee replied thoughtfully, “I’ll know next week when the results come back.”
“You’ll do great,” Angela assured her, “as always... Aaah, my daughter, the genius!”
“Genius? I don’t think so,” Fee said, jerkily running a hand through her hair and managing a weak smile, “but thanks anyway...”
Angela leaned closer to the screen. Fee looked tired - no, not tired, exhausted. But before she could pursue it Fee was already speaking into the camera again. “So, what’ve you been doing? Come to think of it, where are you?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been doing...” She paused. What should she tell her? ‘Wasting my time on a wild goose chase?’ No. “... nothing much, just research,” she continued casually, figuring it was close enough to the truth to not count as a lie, “and I’m in New York at the moment.”
Fee’s low-resolution image jerked as she laughed. “New York!
Sounds great!”
“Yeah, it is,” Angela replied, lying. She wanted to tell her that actually no, it wasn’t great, it was just like every other city - noisy, smelly, over-crowded and claustrophobic. No sky, no air.
No ice.
“So, what are you up to over there?” Angela asked, turning the question around.
Fee began to answer but, strangely, and uncharacteristically, seemed to catch herself before she replied. “Oh... nothing much... Dad and I are thinking of taking a little trip this weekend... just a break.”
Angela studied her daughter’s expression closely. Maybe it was just because she was so tired, but she thought she looked... strange. Tense, a little.
“Anywhere exciting?” she enquired.
Again Fee hesitated before answering. Just a moment, but it was there.
“No,” she replied dismissively, “just down to... the Lakes, long
weekend. Bed and breakfast kind of thing.”
Angela’s curiousity was aroused now; even allowing for her daughter’s fatigue she was being unusually vague.
“A reward for the exams?” she enquired, fishing for more details.
“Yes,” Fee replied, a little too quickly for Angela’s liking. In the glow of her lamp, Fee looked more than a little uncomfortable. What, Angela wondered, was going on over there?
“Is it nice, where you’re going?” she asked, trying not to sound too interrogatory.
“We... er, don’t have anywhere specific in mind,” Fee replied, “just going to drive around, ‘til we find somewhere we like the look of.”
That clinched it for Angela; although Fee’s father would be more than happy to do that, just drift around aimlessly on the off-chance of stumbling upon somewhere suitable, Fee herself definitely wouldn’t. She had to be organised, know exactly where they were going. It was one of the - few - traits she’d inherited from her mother.
“Sounds nice,” Angela said, smiling, thinking ‘Nice try, but what’s really going on?’
That was strange too. The wall behind her... that looked like a lot of paper for just a couple of mid-term tests..?
“Your room looks in as big a mess as mine,” Angela joked, covering herself while she tapped at her keyboard, grabbing a frame of the video coming in from her daughter’s webcam. Quickly she pulled the frame up on her own screen and dropped it into an image manipulator program. “...looks like we’ve both been hitting the books pretty hard...”
Fee didn’t catch her meaning and looked at the camera blankly.
“Sorry?” she asked, yawning again.
“Nothing,” Angela assured her, quietly enlarging the video frame as she spoke, “I was just saying how tired you look... how a break will do you good my dear...”
Another mouse click and the captured image doubled in size.
What was that stuff? A map... sketches... a picture of - King Arthur, was that? She enlarged one area just a little more, losing definition but gaining a little magnification. A dragon... a dragon? King Arthur had never fought a dragon...
Angela stiffened in her seat. Something wasn’t right about this.
Something was going on, something they didn’t want her knowing about. No, not they, she corrected herself, sure that Fee would never deliberately keep anything from her, it was him. He didn’t want her knowing.
Well, she smiled icily, too late.
“Fee, darling?” she said, looking straight into the camera, “would you do me a favour?” Half-way around the world Fee nodded wearily. “Would you go get your father for me? There’s something I need to ask him.”
Fee looked surprised she had even asked. “Do you think... I mean, you don’t really think he’ll come, do you?” she asked.
Of course he won’t come, Angela knew, she didn’t even want him to.
“I’m sure we can talk like sensible adults,” she replied, trying to sound reasonable.
Fee still looked doubtful. “I don’t think he’ll want to - “ she began, but Angela cut her off.
“Would you try, anyway?” she asked, “it’s important...”
Fee sighed. “Okay... BRB,” she said, using webspeak for ‘be right back’ before getting up out of her chair and disappearing off camera.
Leaving Angela with a clear view of the sheet-covered wall behind her chair.
She worked quickly, knew she had to; Fee would only be gone a few moments, just long enough to be told in no uncertain terms that there was no way (possibly adding ‘in hell’) her father was going to come to the camera. Fingers clicking on the mouse she grabbed frame after frame, the same shot several times so she could overlap them, enhancing the detail. Click, save.
Click, save -
Fee reappeared again. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, “I tried, but...”
“It’s okay,” Angela reassured her, feeling guilty about tricking her daughter as she had done, “my own fault, I forgot the time there... I shouldn’t have asked when it was so late, I’m sorry.”
“Maybe tomorrow?” Fee offered optimistically, stifling her longest yawn yet.
“Maybe,” Angela replied, “don’t worry about that now. You get some sleep, you look whacked...”
“That a New York word?” Fee laughed lightly, and Angela couldn’t help smiling; even exhausted her daughter could always be relied upon to brighten her day.
“Something like that,” she replied, feeling even more guilty about her earlier deception. But only for a moment. Even as she spoke she was beginning to work on the captured video frames. “Go on, bed... we’ll catch up properly soon, okay?”
Fee beamed into the camera. “Okay...” she agreed, looking dead on her feet. “Take care..?” she said.
“Always... and you too,” Angela replied, sincerely; whatever her daughter had been working on - was working on - it had left her drained.
Fee nodded. “Miss you...” she said quietly, reaching out to touch he screen, as she always did at the end of their chats.
Angela touched her own fingers against the juddering image of her daughter’s. “Miss you too, sweetheart...” she said, throat tightening. Each goodbye seemed to get harder than the last. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” Fee smiled, then was gone, leaving her mother looking at an empty, static-sparkled window. She stared into the static for several long moments, thinking of her daughter, imagining her climbing into bed.
Then she closed the video window altogether. She had work to do.
A few clicks and sweeps of the mouse was all it took to tile her
screen with all the previously-captured frames. One by one she carefully stacked them on top of each other, then peered at the composite picture, looking for detail.
Right, let’s see what the big mystery is...
Half an hour later she walked over to the other window, the one facing west. New York at sunset was beautiful. The swollen orange Sun was just visible through a gap in the city skyline, casting long, dark shadows behind the tall towers and skyscrapers. The treetops of the park shone red and gold, and without a cloud in the sky she knew the night would be sparklingly clear; she might even get to see a few stars through the haze and light pollution.
But star-gazing was the last thing on her mind.
Instead she as wondering what was so interesting about a tiny village called Gallowdale.
And what possible link there was between it, a mythical English Dark Ages king, and a picture of an old castle being attacked by an oddlooking dragon.
She didn’t know yet. But she knew she wouldn’t leave the room until she did.
© Stuart Atkinson 2003