Darion, a giant of a man with the strong lower jaw of a T-Rex, had a soft Greek accent that was ideal for expressing amazement.
“Suicide!” In his amazement, Darion elongated the third syllable of the word. His dramatic exclamation caught the attention of everyone in earshot and spread what seemed to be a ripple of unwanted emotion through them. Several co-workers nearby glanced up in apparent annoyance that their concentration had been disturbed.
“What! You’re kidding.”
“No,” Darion said in a more neutral tone. “It was suicide.”
It took a moment for Richard to think of anything to say. “Do you know what made him do it?”
“Nobody knows. Apparently the police said it was a ‘brutal suicide’.”
“God! I wonder what that means?”
“I don’t know. Someone said he jumped in front of a train.” Steve Wong had been unloading his laptop onto a nearby desk. Now he came over.
“Yes, that’s what I heard too. I heard he was in debt.”
“But come on! Nobody kills themselves just because of a little bit of money.” Darion’s accent had grown a little thicker. He seemed indignant that Mitchell couldn’t face up to mere financial problems. After all, they were all City workers. Money was easy to come by. Admittedly, it was easy to lose too, and never quite meant what you imagined it would. “He could’ve run away somewhere. What’s wrong with Venezuela?”
The guys laughed a little. They knew that Darion had recently been to Venezuela and had had a whale of a time with the local girls. The economy there was smashed to bits and any foreigner was seen as a billionaire.
“Venezuela is a favourite place for dodgy geezers to run to,” said Steve winking at Darion.
“You know, it’s not such a bad idea, my friend. You can go there any time you like; they will welcome you as a hero of socialism and give you your own place to live.”
“Wow! Really?”
“In a favela, or whatever they call the slums there, but it would be cosy, no worse than the others there have, and you should not have the bourgeois expectation of more.” He winked at Steve to indicate he was being ironic and understood both he and Steve fully expected more. A lot more. After all, Darion was a securities expert for a specialist financial software company and Steve was a qualified accountant for that company. The tailored suits, fine cotton shirts and silk ties they both wore made it clear they were a cut above the likes of Richard, who nevertheless was also reasonably well dressed in a dark suit and silk tie. His were not quite so ‘designer’, though.
“Better than topping yourself, anyway,” said Steve.
“Anything’s better than that. Imagine his family!” said Darion.
“Last time I saw him, he seemed quite happy,” said Richard. “He came over to Helsinki.”
“There you go!” Darion asserted, case proven. “He was swanning around all over the place pretending to be a manager and getting paid for it. What the hell did he have to go and top himself for!?”
Everyone shook their heads disapprovingly and smiled a little. Darion was always joking but, whatever his troubles, at least Mitchell did seem to have had a pretty cushy, well-paid job. In the short time they’d known him, he’d acquired the nickname of “The Invisible Man” because hardly anyone ever saw him. It seemed he just travelled from place to place, doing very little except occasionally chatting to his subordinates. In the end, none of them were able to sympathise with what he’d done. They all considered it to be a selfish and unnecessary act.
“Christ!” said Darion, suddenly serious.
“What?” asked Steve.
“Don’t you remember? Andy thought he was psychic. I wonder what shit he saw in our future.” Darion drifted off, leaving the others wondering if he was still joking or not. Steve just shrugged and wandered off too.
But Richard was slightly disturbed by this. He remembered Andy mentioning this in Helsinki. And now he remembered that Mitchell thought that he, Richard, was also psychic.
And suddenly it slithered into view. The thing that he had been trying to remember.
Mitchell had actually said, “When the stranger returns you must wake up.” He could practically see and hear him saying it. Yet it was not Mitchell and it was not Richard. It was a kind of film of them talking together. They were just actors playing roles in a film. It could not have been anything real because, no matter how drunk he’d been, he would’ve recognised that phrase immediately. Unless, through drunkenness, Mitchell hadn’t said it properly.
There was one more reason why it couldn’t be true: if Mitchell was his contact, and he was now dead, the last hope of the plan he’d been waiting for had already disappeared.
7. Advance To Mayfair
The meeting was taking place in a building in Mayfair belonging to Her Majesty’s Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Those present were Mark Osbourne, Jim Callan, Dr Joseph Skinner, Jack Logan, Graham Wood and Tom Brookes, all of whom had arrived almost simultaneously with great urgency and seated themselves around a tatty government-issue table. Last to arrive was Mark Osbourne, who took his place at the head of the table and began talking immediately.
“OK gentlemen, thanks for coming, sorry about the short notice. I guess you all know why by now. Anyone not heard the news?”
Everyone shook their heads except Tom Brookes, who looked round the table in alarm. What was going on that he wasn’t aware of?
“What news?” Brookes blurted out.
“Mitchell just killed himself.”
“What?”
“So we need to know why and clear up any loose ends he left lying around. He was handling several cases at the time of death, most of which are ticking along smoothly, I believe. The only item that gives me cause for concern is the work he was doing on Winter.”
Osbourne paused for a moment as though expecting someone to contradict him. He looked down at his laptop and continued:
“So, let’s talk about the suicide first. Any ideas?”
There was stony-faced silence.
“He left a note. I doubt if it means anything though. It seems utterly confused, quite frankly.” Osbourne passed photocopies of the note around the table.
Callan read aloud: “I occupy this crevasse – the realm of nothingness which lies coiled in the heart of being – like a worm, but existentialism is a false dichotomy, and therefore metaphysical hope is impossible. I have seen through the illusion. I know what it’s like to be dead. I already know. When I walked into the room to see him I was dead then. He didn’t notice but I knew.
“Anyway, as JFK said, ‘Don’t sing me no la la la tune no more I ain’t gonna listen to that shit again.’ By JFK I mean Jo Fucking King – but, my dear reader, no I ain’t joking.
“Inside my mind I have seen into the soul of the universe and it is filled with A MILLION maggots of death. They breed. They are the EVIL in everything. THE e-vile.
“Now I just want to go there and be inside it. It will be me. I will be it. We will reign forever.
“I’ll stand on the mountain that stands on me and I will see everything.”
Callan had finished reading, but everyone continued to stare at their personal copy of the note as though they still expected to find some meaning in it.
Logan was the first to speak: “Christ! Mitchell wrote that? Are you sure? I mean…” he was lost for words. “I said cheerio to him Friday, going out the office. He said cheerio back. He was the same old Andy Mitchell I’d known for…”
Dr Skinner interrupted: “Some of that might not be complete gibberish;