Chapter 59
Paul sat in a corner of the kitchen and rocked forward and back.
His body was covered in a layer of sweat but it wasn’t ordinary perspiration; it was sticky and grimy and synthetic. It was as if he was covered in a diet soda drink. He felt it clog his pores and struggled to believe he was still breathing.
The kitchen fixtures morphed into blobs, and he pressed his thumbs against his temples.
In his hand, he held a large kitchen knife, and he pointed it out in front of him, even though his eyesight had begun to fail him.
‘What are you pointing that thing at me for?’ the other man said.
Paul wiped his eyes and felt them burn as if he’d poured chemicals in them.
‘Are you feeling hot?’ the man asked.
Paul tried to ignore him. He didn’t trust anyone.
All he wanted was to go back to before, when everything was normal and their future was so bright, it blinded them. Now he knew that what really dazzled them was greed.
‘Do you get headaches?’
Paul looked up and nodded.
‘Do you remember when it started?’
‘We felt like kings. They flew us first class. We stayed in the Mandarin Oriental in Manhattan.’
‘Ah. I know it well. I stayed there too. Could you see Central Park and the Hudson?’
Paul nodded. His face reflected in the blade of the knife and seemed to sharpen his memory of that time. But try as he might, recalling what he did an hour ago was impossible.
Hank told them they could sell anything.
They were invincible.
‘You two can sell water to fish.’
It was exactly what Hank had said.
His blood boiled and he grabbed the knife.
A noise at the door startled them and their attention shot towards the door.
Paul opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He felt as though his jaw had been hijacked by little workers intent on sealing up the great cavern that had once been his throat. He no longer had the power of true speech.
But he realised that it had gone a long time ago.
The night he agreed to help Sandy rather than Jamie. That was the turning point.
It was all his fault.
‘No, it isn’t, son,’ the man said.
Paul didn’t realise that he’d spoken out loud. The lines between reality and fantasy had blurred and he didn’t know if his words were manufactured or real. He blinked and stared at the man.
‘It’s the detective,’ he said.
Paul tried to think who he could be referring to. Detective?
He couldn’t place anyone matching that description.
Then he heard banging that hurt his head.
It reminded him of the thump of Jamie’s head hitting the floor when he’d fallen from the second floor.
He hadn’t pushed him, though that’s what he’d thought about doing to stop him ruining everything they’d worked so hard for.
‘We don’t own anything, Paul,’ Jamie had said.
‘Value is nothing when it’s given by the devil,’ Angelina said.
Now when he remembered Jamie’s face, it was too painful a memory. He couldn’t bring himself to relive the full reel of images. They always stopped midway through, like some incomplete slice of remembrance.
He recalled somebody else wearing his shoes, his CAT boots, thinking it was peculiar.
He also recalled his body lying on Jamie’s bed.
It was more comfortable than his own bed in the hotel, and he had felt offended.
It fuelled his paranoia that Hank had favoured Jamie all along.
Jamie was the brains behind their success.
Jamie was defter with the sales teams. Jamie was the one who understood the science.
Jamie had been the one to pull the plug.
Sandy had been sent to placate them and offer more money. Money which Paul was desperate to accept. His habits had begun to cost astronomical sums.
The breaking of a window caught his attention and Paul looked to where the noise came from.
He covered his face and reached out to feel around the floor to see if he could find something to drink.
His thirst was killing him. But he found nothing.
His whole body seemed filled with noise and then he felt fingers clawing at his hands.
‘Paul? Paul?’
Layers of reality converged inside his head and his eyes flickered open, and he was able to stare at the light above his head. Beneath that was a man’s face, and he knew he’d seen him before.
‘Paul, it’s Melvin, remember me? Can you hear me, Paul?’
He stared at the older man, who had the same look of paranoia in his eyes as he did when he stared into the mirror in the mornings.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked, but he wasn’t aware of his mouth moving.
‘Woah, fella!’ the stranger said, as he grabbed his hand and took a large knife from him. Paul watched him remove the weapon but couldn’t figure out how it had got there.
He’d roamed around this place, trying to break free. He remembered bits of his journey. The caves. The podcaster, was he called Joe? Jamie’s face before he fell.
The face of the man who pushed him. A robot. A man possessed by another’s hand.
This man.
The man called Melvin.