Chapter Twenty-Three - Identity
The muzzle was pressing into the base of his cranium, the occipital bone, just under the occipital crest.
It was the exact spot. It was the moment. He was going to die. Now.
He froze. Terror paralysed him.
Run!
He couldn't run. He couldn't move. Fear. Death. Alizen. Failure.
Fear.
It was all over.
He'd failed. He would never find the answers. He'd given up. He wouldn't even run.
Couldn't even run.
Dead.
There was a harsh snapping sound. He knew it was the hammer coming down, striking the cartridge.
The last sound he would ever hear.
Silence.
Time had stopped. He stood still, waiting for the end.
It didn't come. Suddenly the barrel was gone.
'Relax, Mark, it's not your time to die. Not yet.'
He spun round.
'GRAEME!'
Dezlin was standing in front of him, dressed in the green tunic he had been wearing on the recording. The black goggles were still on, completely obscuring the eyes. He was holding the antique pistol in his right hand. Its patina was dull, oxidised, rusted. Something seemed wrong. The poise, the body language was different. He held himself strangely, stiffly, somehow taller than he remembered him.
'Graeme! What's going on? Where's Alizen?' What had he done with her?
Dezlin silently sat down in his chair behind the desk. He broke the gun open. Before Fenton realised what he was doing he had slid a single bullet into the chamber and snapped it shut. So, it hadn't been loaded. That was why he was still alive. But it was primed and ready now. What was he going to do with it?
Dezlin carefully placed the gun down flat on the table. To Fenton's relief the barrel was pointing away from him. But his right hand was draped over the pistol. He would be able to snatch it up, aim and fire in an instant.
With his left hand Dezlin silently gestured for Fenton to take the chair opposite him.
'Where is she?' he demanded, still standing. His eyes were on the gun. If Graeme was going to shoot he'd have a better chance to dive for cover standing than sitting.
Dezlin pushed the gun away. It slid across the desk scraping noisily, scratching the surface. That was out of character, Graeme usually treated things with respect, with exquisite care; everything except Alizen. The gun screeched to a halt at the exact centre of the table. Dezlin pointed to the chair again. His face was impassive, the black goggles blank, but the meaning was clear. He would not be able to snatch up the gun without rising from his seat. If Fenton sat down he would be in the same position, the gun would be equidistant between them. Neither of them would have an advantage.
He stared at the gun. Should he go for it? Create the crisis? Why take the risk? If Graeme wanted to kill him he could have done it. He would feel safer with the gun in his hand but if he made a move for it then so would Graeme. Someone might get killed. Besides, if Julia was right and Graeme could stop time at will then he could seize the gun at his leisure, any time he wanted.
Fenton slowly sat down.
'Where is she?'
'Mark, there's a thin line between loyalty and stupidity. We both know you crossed it a very long time ago. You're wasting your time with her, always have been. But then you knew that didn't you? That was the attraction. Pining over her was just the excuse you needed to stop you looking elsewhere. And you didn't want to look anywhere else, did you? Because you were scared. But there was always that small risk you might wear her down. Or she might get tired of waiting for him. Or get desperate. And if she did then she'd say ''yes''. So you ran, before she got the chance.'
The voice too was wrong. It was distant, echoed slightly. He was unnerved by the sound as much as he was angered by the words. He was about to argue, tell him he was wrong, that he loved her. But he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of provoking a response. It was none of his business.
'Cut the amateur psychology, Graeme, you're not very good at it. Where is she?'
'I'm not an amateur, Mark. I've had far too much experience, at everything. And I'm not Graeme Albard Dezlin either.'
'Yeah, Graeme, you can cut the amateur dramatics too. Where is she?' His bluster was draining away. If this was a performance it was chillingly convincing.
'She's safe, Mark. Now, will you desist in this tedious line of enquiry? Besides, I really wouldn't worry about her. She doesn't care that much about you. She told him that. If I were you I'd be more concerned about yourself.'
'Why?'
'You know why. You don't have much time. I'm going to kill you. Soon.'
The gun was lying on the table between them.
'Why?'
'Because I'm going to enjoy it, Mark. It's something I've been looking forward to for a long time, a very long time. It will be the crescendo to my symphony, the climax to my magnum opus.'
He was right. Graeme Dezlin had gone mad. He might kill him at any moment. This might be the only chance he would get. He flung himself across the desk, snatching for the gun. His fingers closed on empty air. There was no gun. He sprang back, diving for cover.
There was no cover. There was nowhere to run.
Dezlin was still sitting serenely in the chair. He didn't appear to have moved. The pistol was in his hand, resting gently in his lap.
'A little dignity, please, a little courtesy.' He gestured to the chair again, this time with the gun.
Fenton sat back down going cold with fear. He'd just proved Julia right. Stopping time was the only way he could have got the gun. He had no chance. Dezlin could kill him anytime he liked. So why hadn't he? What was he trying to achieve? If he had to die he would at least find out why.
'Conjuring tricks, Graeme? Isn't that a little beneath you? If you can manipulate time then can't you find a better use for it than that?' he taunted.
'Oh, I've found lots of uses for it, inventive, creative uses. You'd be surprised. But then I've had a lot of time to practice, to refine my finesse, all the time in the continuum in fact. Dr Skawry only appreciated the tiniest fraction of my powers, my talents, those little flourishes in the mortuary for instance, merest trifles, a sampler of my handiwork, my potential.'
'So it was you.' It was no consolation to have his suspicions confirmed. He was appalled. 'You killed them all. Why, Graeme? Why?'
'Ever to do ill is my sole delight. I am not Graeme Albard Dezlin.'
'Yes, you said. So who are you today then? The Seventieth System Administrator? Merrius? William Shakespeare? Or are you just what you always were, an emotionally stunted lonely little weirdo with no friends but a clever gizmo and a God complex?' The anger was good; it partially held back the terror.
'Aggression is all very well, Mark, but I see through it. I can taste your fear. I savour it, relish it. He's served me so well, finding you for me. And as for the sarcasm, save it, Mark. It doesn't suit you. Sarcasm is a weapon of the cynic and you're not cynical at all are you? Yours is the bitterness of the frustrated idealist, not the professional pessimist. Life has let you down so badly, hasn't it? It just never met up to your expectations. And you expect so much of it, you still do. Love? You're one of the most naïve people he ever met. That was why it was so easy for him to manipulate you, so easy for her to string you along. Did you believe any of those fantastic lies she just told you? That she cared? Just not in the right way? That she missed you? She'd forgotten you, Mark, forgotten you a long time ago. She was glad to see the back of you. You were an embarrassment, a lovesick puppy following her round, cramping her style. You've borne the whips and scorns of time, the pangs of dispriz'd love for too long.' He raised the pistol, pointing it straight at him. 'I'm doing you a favour, putting you out of your misery.'
His words stung. They were lies, had to be. He had to believe in Alizen. He wanted to scream at him to shut up, to leave her alone. But he had to let him keep talking. Graeme loved to talk. He would never k
ill an attentive audience. And it was the only chance he would ever have to find out what was going on.
'Him, you keep saying him, who do you mean?'
'Him. The late Dr Graeme Albard Dezlin. Your erstwhile friend, her lover, your nemesis.'
'Late?' demanded Fenton, chilled to the bone.
'Oh, hadn't you realised. He's dead, dead ere his prime. He died a very long time ago. I'm in his debt for many things, but that's one of the most important. I am eternally grateful to him. I have been eternally grateful to him.'
'You're not dead, Graeme. You're sitting here talking to me.'
'I'm not your friend, Mark. He's dead, as dead as you are. Dead as you will be. He lost the game, lost the fight, ceased to exist, millennia ago. It would have been a shame to let his body go to waste, especially when I had need of it.'
'Need of it?'
'I don't belong in this dimension, Mark, I have no corporeal form. I took his. It's done me great service over many years, more years than you can imagine.' He didn't want to believe it. It was nightmarish, impossible. But there was something insistent in that strangely echoing voice, something that simply demanded belief.
'Who are you?'
'That's better, Mark. I hate a closed mind.' He placed the gun back down on the table. 'You were right before, I've had many identities over many years, many names.' He carelessly picked up the copy of Milton Paize had left lying on the desk. He flicked through it casually, pages tearing, ripping. Fenton had seen the way Graeme handled his books, he would never have treated it that roughly. 'Your species has been most creative, most inventive,' he had reached one of the plates, one of the strange images, 'and many appearances.' He shook his head as if disappointed that it was not the most flattering of likenesses. He let the book fall. It crashed hollowly onto the metal floor, gilt-edged pages bending, the spine broken.
'You're the Devil?' said Fenton, incredulous.
'That was such a name. Not the greatest of all but it will suffice. Yes, I am he and this,' he waved his hands expansively, 'is my palace, my citadel, my fortress, a monument to my nativity. I walk abroad again. I have returned to retake dominion of this, my birth-right, my inheritance. Hail horrors, hail infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell receive thy possessor. I have returned for you.'