Internal Security has reported, a matter of the gravest security. I certainly wouldn't have had you brought from your bed for anything less… He's called Peter Miller, sir — that's 'Mr' Miller — our so-called 'local liaison'. Not very helpful, sir, no. Indeed, completely hysterical, as I've said… That's what I would suggest, yes, absolutely… Until we're finished here, yes. That is, of course, if you're in agreement…? Confinement. I'm afraid so, yes. Oh, we have the means. But Miller — Mr Miller — is an Australian citizen, sir, and we're not. Which is why I need your…?'
Trask looked up, saw Miller's face throbbing with rage and 'righteous' indignation where Jake's hand was clamped over his mouth. The sight of the man, in no way pacified, seemed to convince Trask of the course he must take. And:
'Perhaps you'd like to have a word with him in person?' he continued into the phone. 'See for yourself, as it were?' With a nod and a grimace he passed the phone to Miller, at the same time indicating that Jake should release him.
Miller shook himself, reeled, and said, 'Eh? What?' Intent on freeing himself from Jake's grasp, he'd taken in very little of Trask's conversation with the unknown other.
But now Trask said, It's for you… someone who wants to know how you're keeping?'
'Bloody crazy Pommy bastards!' Miller raved. 'And who the hell is this, the Prime-bloody-Minister?' He snatched the telephone from Trask's hand, yelled, 'Whoever you are, the man you were speaking to is not a reasonable human being. He's fucking British, a fucking murderer, and I'm a God-fearing, completely innocent fucking Australian! This is my goddamned country, for Christ's sake, and I demand to speak to the police, to the military, to someone in authority, to…'
'… To the Prime-bloody-Minister, perhaps?' said Ben Trask, coolly examining his fingernails. And under his breath, to the others in the trailer: 'Lance Blackmore, whose platform slogan, if I remember correctly, was 'Sanity, sobriety, and common decency in speech and spirit.' Oh, and something else: he's decidedly pro-British!'
Miller's round face was suddenly wobbling, its colour visibly changing, paling. 'Eh?' he gulped. 'Do I what? Your voice? Do I recognize it?' Well, maybe he did… and maybe not. With his pig-eyes narrowing, he stared suspiciously at the phone — then at Trask — and spat, 'Some lousy fucking Pommy con man you are! And this is supposed to be Lance bloody Blackmore, right? Oh really? What, at two o'clock in the morning? After what I've seen and been through tonight, you expect me to believe that my own Prime Minister, the Australian Prime-bloody- Minister, would condone…?'
But the telephone was making loud noises in Miller's ear, and suddenly his face was floppily mobile again. For this time the owner of the now angry voice was fully awake and the voice itself unmistakable. As Miller's flabby mouth fell open, Trask took back the telephone and spoke into it. 'There you have it, Prime Minister. Now you know what we're up against.' And a moment later: 'Yes, certainly, I shall see to it myself. Physical restraint — house arrest, shall we say? — until we're through here? Thank you. And there will be a copy of my report on this phase of the operations on your desk by noon, yes. So far it's — looking good. My pleasure, sir. Thank you once again. And goodnight.' He put the 'phone down.
'It was him.'' Miller gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. 'It really was Lance Blackmoref Clenching his pudgy fists, he glowered at Trask: 'You duped him.' You even duped the Prime Minister.' Who the fuck are you people?'
Trask shook his head in disgust. 'Once your mind's made up it really is made up, isn't it, Miller?' 'That's Mr Miller—'
'Oh, shut the fuck up!' Trask was mad now. He reached over the desk, grabbed the fat man by the front of his sweaty shirt, bunched a fist and drew it back… then thought better of it. Instead he gave him a shove, sent him reeling back into Jake's arms. And before Miller could start up again:
'You're under arrest. If you protest too loudly I'll have you gagged. If you come on all physical I'll have you bound. If you attempt any interference with the work going on around you, I'll put you under constant surveillance by Lardis Lidesci. And if you're stupid enough to make another run for it, then you'd better be aware I'll deal with you… far more severely. Have I made myself clear?'
'Why, you… you!' Miller mouthed, his furious expression speaking volumes more than all of his frothing bluster. And so:
'When I turn you over to your Internal Security people in Perth tomorrow,' Trask went on, 'they'll read you the riot act, demand that you sign an Oath of Silence, give you to understand how very much in error you are, and generally threaten you with all sorts of dire things if you so much as mention anything you witnessed as our regional liaison person during this operation. And believe me, Miller, even if they can't make it stick I can. Don't for a moment think I'm going to forget the trouble you've put me to. And something else you should remember: in this modern world of ours distance isn't a problem. I'll be back in the UK shortly — I hope — but I have the longest arms in the world. And if I ever suspect that you're out there somewhere flapping those soft self-righteous lips of yours —'
Trask paused for breath, and Lardis Lidesci said, '—Then he'll send me to stop you flapping them — perhaps permanently!' The Old Lidesci stood in the narrow doorway, holding his machete to his chest, thumbing its blade and turning it in his hand to make it reflect the Ops Room's lights into the fat man's eyes. 'Twenty-seven notches, remember, Miller? But in your case, I'd just love to make it twenty-eight.'
Miller flinched a little but his expression didn't change. And again he blurted, 'You… you… you!'
'Obviously I haven't made myself clear,' Trask sighed. And to Jake: 'See if there's a spare bunk room back there, will you? And lock this fuckhead safely inside it!'
And that was that, for the moment.
Finally, they could all get some sleep. To some, a jplessing…
But Jake Cutter didn't much care for sleep. For some time now, in fact since his weird escape almost a week ago, sleeping had been a problem. Oh, he could do it, and he could do with it — indeed, his eyes felt heavy from the lack of it — but he didn't want to do it. Because when he went to sleep, that was when the Other woke up. That bloody Other, that one who was there in the back of his mind. And when Jake slept… why, then he couldn't be sure that his dreams were his at all.
He hadn't told Ben Trask about it, mainly because he suspected that Trask would be interested. It was the relationship that was developing between them: just as the Head of E-Branch continued to hold things back, so did Jake Cutter. In his book trust was something that could only work if it was mutual.
And so he was left to face it on his own, and sleep was a necessity he avoided as best he could while yet recognizing, of course, that it was a necessity. It wouldn't be so bad — or so he told himself— if only he could remember what these troubled dreams of his were about afterwards, when he was awake; or, then again, maybe it would. And maybe that was why he couldn't remember them: because he didn't want to…
Lardis Lidesci sat with Jake a while, heaped a little wood on the dying fire, opened a can of sausages and beans in tomato sauce and ate them cold. The Old Lidesci smacked his lips appreciatively. 'Some of the things in this world…' he said, then started again, '—hell no, most of 'em.' — I could do without. But a can-opener and a can of beans…' he grinned, smacked his lips again, and shook his head. 'Well, these beans and the meat in these sausage things, they're a sight easier on these gnarly old tusks of mine than roasted shad, I can tell you!' 'Shad's a fish,' Jake said, tiredly.
'In this world, sure,' Lardis nodded. 'But the first time I see a fish pull a caravan… I'll quit drinking plum brandy, and that's a vow/' He held the empty can in one hand, the can-opener in the other, looked at each in turn admiringly, burped and uttered a sigh. 'But since my people don't have cans, what good's a can-opener?' 'You and Trask could drive a man mad,' Jake told him without looking up. 'You come up with this weird stuff right out of the blue, as if I'm supposed to know what the hell you're talking about! I mean, I've seen enough now to know this isn't some gigantic leg-pull, so what the hell is it?'
'Hell's just about right,' Lardis grunted, creaking to his feet. He laid a hand on Jake's shoulder. 'But, son, take my word for it: Ben's not trying to drive you mad, and neither am I. It could be we say these things hoping you'll recognize something, hoping you'll perhaps remember.'
There was something in Lardis's gruff old voice that caused Jake finally to look at him. 'But remember what?' he said.
And it was as if they stared deep into each other's souls. So that for a moment — just for a moment — it seemed that they had known each other, oh, for quite some time. Then Lardis nodded, and as though he had read Jake's mind said:
'Other times, maybe? Other places?'
