"I promise I won't take advantage of you," Ian said.
"I know that."
"What use am I to you, though?"
"You don't have to be useful. Not to me. Not to anybody."
"Okay, I want to be useful. How do I earn my keep? Can I do stuff for your new company?"
Mike looked to one side of the monitor as if he was taking the idea seriously. "Well, you could help us brainstorm. We've got to come up with something soon. We're looking at doing security assessments for organizations setting up overseas."
"Sure." Ian had no idea what that entailed, but he he'd make sure he found out. "I just want to be ... well, you know. Make a difference. Even if I can't join the Army."
Mike shook his head slowly, just one side to side movement. "I really do know, buddy. I'm still trying to make a difference."
"But you served."
"In the Guard."
"You make it sound like that wasn't real."
"Oh, it was real enough in Iraq. I'm not being disrespectful to all the guys who got killed and injured. They made the same sacrifices as everyone else. I just got frustrated with the organization. Rob says I'd have felt even worse in the Army."
"Is that why you spent all that time and money on private training?"
Mike didn't talk about it much, but Rob had told Ian all the details. Mike's instructors had been former SEALs, USMC, and Delta guys, even SAS and French Foreign Legion. He'd been trained to do things he wouldn't have experienced even in a full-time infantry career. Ian didn't have a word for it, so he invented one: hyper-legitimizing. Mike had to go further and do tougher stuff than anyone else to prove he wasn't playing at it.
"Private contractor work was the only thing left for me when I quit the Guard," Mike said. "I needed the best skills I could get."
It made perfect sense, but Ian could see same need in Mike that he saw in himself. Rob was different. He had his validation. That green beret told Rob everything he needed to know about himself, and he didn't fret about changing the world. He knew that he'd done his utmost and that he could do nothing more.
"Where's Rob, by the way?" Ian asked.
"He's taken his shoulder to the sports physio. Age, buddy. Everything takes longer to heal. That's you in twenty years. So take a day off."
Ian worried that if he skipped a session he'd lose his self-discipline as well as muscle mass. "Okay. Can you give me ride into Westerham, please? Is that okay? I'd like to wander around on my own."
Mike nodded, but he still looked worried. "Sure."
"If I'm alone, it won't matter if I morph again. Nobody can connect me with you."
"How about I drop you off and park up somewhere? That way you get your privacy but I'll be on hand for close protection."
"KWA's not going to find me here."
"I know." Mike just looked at him, more a plea to be humoured than disapproval. "I worry too much."
"It's okay. We both need to get used to – well, whatever this is. It's only been a few months, right?"
Mike tidied papers into a pile. "And that's awesome progress. Don't forget that. Okay, let's hit Vegas."
If Westerham Falls even had a pool table, Ian would have been surprised. It was as small-town as Athel Ridge, except more picturesque, all chocolate-box houses, stores with "artisan" in their names, and upmarket foreign cars. Ian thought that Mike and Livvie would have more fun in a city penthouse, but they seemed to want to hide, an urge he understood. They were people who'd always be targets because of who they were. They had to lead low-profile, anonymous lives, with few visitors and even fewer friends. Ian had much more in common with them than he'd first thought.
It makes them weird, being so different and so set apart. Just like me.
Mike dropped Ian outside the gas station a hundred yards from the town centre and tapped his watch. "You want to meet back here? Or call me?"
"One hour," Ian said. "Thanks, Mike."
He watched the Mercedes pull away. Mike would probably park in the centre of town to keep an eye on who was coming and going, and probably try out his surveillance skills as well. Ian wondered if this was a test to see if he'd spot Mike tailing him.
He strolled around, checking out stores and planning his pit stops. He could have a late breakfast in the French patisserie. Then he could browse in the bookstore, and finally drop in to the posh bakery for a couple of loaves of that walnut bread that Livvie liked. Shopping was a sport here, not a chore to bring back supplies. He'd get used to it.
As he passed windows, he checked his reflection, tilting his head to look under the peak of his cap. He still had the face he didn't want.
Fuck it. I can do this. I had it once. I can have it again.
The bookstore sold what he needed; illustrated guides to anatomy and drawing portraits, a source of detail that might help him learn to look at a face the way an artist or a surgeon would. If a guy could reduce pain in his leg by visualizing its blood vessels and nerves relaxing, it had to be worth trying.
Ian found an art book that had anatomical diagrams as well as sketch techniques, then headed for the patisserie to study it over a hot drink. The place was a temple to sensory overload. The woman behind the counter was wrapping something for a customer, tying a candy-striped box with gold ribbon against a backdrop of glittering glass shelves that were laden with multi-coloured cakes and tarts as vivid as jewels. It was a ritual conducted in a haze of vanilla and caramel incense. Ian stepped back to let the other customer leave, then stood at the counter, overwhelmed and slightly queasy. There was just too much choice.
His eyes locked on to a strawberry tart, a pastry case filled with perfect, whole berries under a stained-glass layer of ruby jelly. The hand-written label said tarte aux fraises. Thanks to Livvie, he could read most of the French names now.
"One of those to eat in, please," he said. He'd feel like a vandal biting into it. "And a hot chocolate."
The woman nodded. "I'll bring it over."
He felt he had to take his cap off in a place like this. Well, what the hell. He picked a table by the window, put his jacket over the chair, and tried to look like he did this all the time. Strange: he could talk to the woman behind the counter without that meltdown sensation that he'd had in the mall a few weeks ago. Okay, she was a lot older than the girl in the clothing store, and not as pretty, but it was more than that. He had nothing to lose. He was so anonymous now that whatever he did didn't matter.
This isn't me. It's a disguise. A mask. A veil.
And he had his script, too. But this wasn't the literal kind that he'd fallen back on when he first went to Seattle. In most social situations now, he could ask himself what Mike or Rob would do. Gran had done her best, but there were some things that only another guy could assure him were normal. It was like growing up backwards. He knew all the theory, but he had to catch up on the basic experiences he'd have had years ago if he'd lived among people.
I morph. That's all that's wrong with me. But that's kind of inconvenient when the world's all about what you see and how people look.
Ian admired the tart for a few moments, then felt he'd paid enough respect to someone's skill and broke off a bite-sized chunk with his fork. It was a fantastic mix of flavours and textures. While he ate, he slid the battery back into his cell and checked for messages before putting it into flight mode. Who was going to message him? Only three other people knew his number. But Rob and Mike said the habit was good persec and worth keeping.
So what would I really do if KWA turned up here right now?
He knew he could throw a few punches. He could get away, or at least cause enough of a ruckus to make someone call 911. He took another mouthful of tart, sipped the chocolate, and scrolled through to the pictures on his phone for another look at David Dunlop. Mike still insisted on referring to him as your great-grandfather. Ian couldn't bring himself to do that again, not yet anyway. He had to do something serious with his life before he could even begin to think of claiming a hero's name.
Damn, he really had looked like him, hadn't he?
Ian hadn't realised how precious that was. It wasn't just a matter of looking good. It was about looking like what you were. He took the book from its plastic bag and studied how an artist built up a face from a few crude geometric shapes into something that looked as detailed as a photo. The anatomical diagrams illustrated which muscles and bones gave faces their shape and expression. It was part medical, part art, and oddly enthralling.
"Excuse me," said a voice behind him. "Is it okay if I close that blind? The sun's in my eyes."
Ian hadn't even noticed the girl when he walked in. He couldn't tell if she worked there and had been in a back room, or if there was a rear entrance and she was another customer who'd just come in. All he knew was that she was now standing right next to him — pretty, dark-haired, in jeans and a cable sweater, and smelling delicious. It took him a confused second to realise that there were vertical blinds in the bay window that made up most of the front wall of the cafe. The sun in the side panel was reflecting off the glass counter.
Rob was the oracle on women. What would he do? He'd take charge.
"I'll get it." Ian was instantly afraid to even breathe. Why couldn't I stay looking like I did? Do I smell okay? Too much aftershave? He reached out and tugged the plastic beaded cord to close the slats. "Is that okay now?"
The vision of loveliness smiled at him. "Thank you. That's great. Can I get you anything else?"
So she worked here. What the hell did he say next? He had no idea how to turn this from buying a snack into chatting her up, as Rob called it. Damn, she probably had a boyfriend who'd kill him anyway. His hopes soared and were shot down in flames within seconds.
But I didn't make a dick of myself. That's something.
"I'll have another hot chocolate, please." He smiled back at her, and that, as Mike would say, was progress. He followed up with the next thing that came into his head. "Are you open every day?"
"Sure." She glanced at the book. "Nine 'til seven, seven days a week. Are you an artist?"
"No, but it would nice to be able draw like this." Shit, what kind of an answer is that? "Maybe I'll try."
"Well, I hope we see you in here again."
When she came back with his second hot chocolate, he gave her his best smile, hoped it didn't come across as creepy, and decided to quit while he was ahead. It was too soon to try anything advanced. This would require a wash-up and post-contact report with Rob, the expert on such matters.
How did Mike meet Livvie? In a bar. How did Rob meet Bev? He never told me.
Ian went on reading and admiring the illustrations, lost in the book for half an hour before he was snapped out of it by the older woman putting his check on the table. He wasn't sure about tipping and put down two tens to be safe. As he left, he glanced over his shoulder to see the girl give him another smile and a little wave. It was crazy how such little things could make or break his day. He wasn't even looking his best, but he was obviously now so ordinary and so normal that he just looked like any other guy.
Once that was all he'd wanted; to be like everyone else. Now he wanted more. He wanted to choose how he looked.
He checked his watch and realised he had ten minutes to make it to the rendezvous point. That meant a brisk walk to the bakery if he was going to meet Mike on time. He went to buy the bread and then headed for the gas station, looking for the Mercedes. It passed on the other side of the road and did a U-turn to pull up alongside him.
"I bought a book." He put the bag in the back and got in. "And some walnut bread for Livvie."
Mike indicated to pull out. "Always wise to make an offering. Anything else?"
"I talked to the girl in the patisserie and didn't make a complete asshole of myself. Which is right up there with discovering penicillin, I think."
"Amen." Mike nodded approvingly. "I have some awful memories of trying to pick up girls in my teens. Took a lot of mistakes to get it right."
Mike was probably trying to reassure him that even confident warrior-type guys like him and Rob had been through the stage that Ian was struggling with now, the same way that Rob made a point of showing him how he'd looked at sixteen. The difference was that they'd grown into the kind of men that most other guys secretly wanted to be. They didn't have to worry about what they'd turn into in the next minute.
It felt like self-pity. Ian slapped it down hard. No wrapping, whingeing, or dripping, Rob said; no giving up, and no complaining.
For the next few days, Ian spent his downtime with the portrait book and even picked up a pencil to try sketching. He didn't expect to become an artist. He just hoped it would make some connections in his brain in the same way that thinking about making a fist would make the muscles of his hand contract and follow through with the action.
The photo session was now on indefinite hold. After three days of sketching, studying angles, and visualizing changes until his jaws ached – he hadn't realised that he ground his teeth so much – he woke to the same face yet again and decided that if the girl in the patisserie hadn't recoiled at the sight of him, then maybe he could live with it.
If I can keep it, that is.
After his morning run, he retreated to his room and took out his pad to sketch. He'd never expected to enjoy drawing, but it made him look outward again instead of inward, and that could only be a good thing. Eventually a tap on the door interrupted him.
Mike stood in the doorway. "I'm going into town to get some groceries. You want to come?"
"Sure."
Mike turned the Mercedes around to head down the drive. Rob was outside the garage, polishing his immaculate white Jaguar and looking a little forlorn. When Ian nodded at him as he went past, he broke into an instant grin. Rob always felt obliged to be cheerful in public.
"He's missing Tom like crazy," Mike murmured, as if he could read Ian's mind. "The sooner he visits, the better. You'll like him." Rain began spitting on the windshield and made the wipers start up. "Looks like a miserable old day coming."
Mike slowed at the bottom of the drive to wave to Mr Andrews, the old guy who lived at the gatehouse, and turned onto the Westerham road. If life in a mansion with a couple of mercenaries and a goddess who could cuss in seven languages was normal, then life was starting to feel routine. They wandered around the grocery store in the centre of town, picking up rosewater and pomegranate molasses for Livvie's latest exotic dish and some dog biscuits for Oatie. It was raining steadily now, hard enough for Ian to turn up his collar and pull down his cap.
"When we get some snow, we'll go skiing," Mike said "Rob can ski. God, he can do everything. Climb mountains, fast-rope from helicopters, operate boats. All kinds of hairy-assed stuff. He claims he can sew, too."
"Didn't you do all that in private tactical training?"
"Yes, but I did hardcore stuff. Needlepoint."
"Can I do some survival training?"
"As long as you promise never to get Rob started about living off the land. If I hear his chicken story one more time, I'm going vegan."
Mike laughed. He did that a lot now, maybe a measure of how confident he felt that Ian was beyond KWA's range. They were heading for the car, heads down against the rain and debating whether Rob should pay Tom a surprise visit, when Ian heard a woman call out. He looked around. Mike turned too.
It was the girl from the patisserie.
She stood outside the shop, no coat or umbrella, waving to get Ian's attention. His heart soared. Not only did she recognise him, she was also braving the rain to talk to him. He waited while she trotted across the road. She had something in her hand.
"I think you've scored," Mike said. "That's her, yes?"
Oh God. "Yes."
Her hair was beaded with rain. "You left your bookstore receipt behind," she said, sidestepping a puddle, still yards away. "I've been waiting to catch you."
Ian was absolutely sure he knew what to do now. But then he felt his scalp prickle and his skin tigh
ten, and although every time felt like the worst possible moment, this one definitely was. He was morphing.
No, not now. It's her. It's my chance.
As the girl stopped in front of him, she looked into his face, eyes narrowed against the rain. Her expression changed instantly into frozen surprise.
"Oh, I'm sorry." She sounded breathless and embarrassed. "I thought you were someone else. You've got the same cap and jacket. Sorry."
Ian wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He could have said no, it really was him, and there was something he needed to tell her, but he knew he could never do that.
"No problem," he said.
She gave him a nervous little oops grin and jogged back to the patisserie, arms folded and head down. He was devastated.
If only he'd managed to not to morph, he'd be in with a chance now. He could have been charming and thanked her. He could have introduced himself and asked her if she wanted a coffee when she finished her shift. He could have hit on her in a proper gentlemanly way, Rob-style. But he'd morphed. She was lost to him forever. He didn't even know her name.
He turned to Mike. "This is what the rest of my life's going to be like, isn't it?"
It was hard to read Mike's expression. It was somewhere between embarrassment and well-I'll-be-damned. Whatever Ian had morphed into now, Mike wasn't sure how to tell him, and Ian's first instinct was to look down at his hands in case he'd completely changed colour this time. There was nothing nearby to show him a reflection. It was the first time he could remember being so desperate to look at himself that he cursed the absence of a mirror or a window. Mike steered him into an office doorway.
"Before you kick yourself in the ass," Mike said quietly, "you might want to check this out."
He fiddled with his cell phone and handed it to Ian. For a moment, Ian thought he was looking for some video with an uplifting story behind it, but then he realised exactly what he could see – his own face, picked up by the front-facing camera.
He looked the way he had a week ago. He looked like David Dunlop again. He'd finally done it. It was just terrible, terrible timing.