Chapter 3

I awake. Apparently I fainted. Someone shoves a mug of tea into my hand, which is shaking, spilling some onto my white shirt. What the hell am I doing here? People are just bustling about, doing whatever it is that they need to and I’m just here, doing nothing and getting out of the way. This may only be reception, but I know straight away that I don’t belong here. I catch a sight of my reflection in some glass and just cannot bear to look at it. My reflection is just an acknowledgement of my presence, and as long as I can’t see it, I can pretend that I just don’t exist. 

I continue sipping my mug of tea, uncertain whether or not I should be doing something. I’ve been out for half an hour, meaning that I’m now an hour and fifteen minutes late for starting, even though I am here now. Am I at the mercy of others, or should I be taking control?

I check for my letter, as that at least is proof of my existence here right now. But I can’t find it anywhere. I check through my bag, underneath the one pair of underpants that I brought up with me, but it’s not there, nor in any of the side pockets or my trouser or jacket pockets. I look around me, nothing, before my gaze settles on the receptionist, still chewing her gum. Oh, that’s right, she’s the one that pulled a gun out on me. I’m too afraid to approach her, and there’s no-one else in the room. 

I do have serious doubts about all this. If this is the kind of place where even a receptionist is ‘packing heat’, what the hell am I going to be up against? I know that I’ve let myself get big-headed before now about all this, but I pray this is the kind of work-experience where all I’m required to do is make the tea. Unless I need to test it first for arsenic. They can’t seriously want me to go out on missions, would they?

The receptionist makes a sudden move, causing me to reflex defensively, bringing my arms against my chest and drawing in my legs. But she’s only picking up a phone receiver, so I attempt to casually rest back into this sofa they have. She looks at me, calling me over. Oh God. Oh God, Oh God. I stand up, adrenalin pumping through my body. I smooth out my clothes, giving my shaking hands something to do. I walk over, but carefully, not wanting to give to much trust to my shaking legs. I reach the counter, fixing on the best smile I can.

She opens and closes her mouth, possibly a slight release of air as she does so before seamlessly going into “… A.K.A. Squiggle is ready to see you now.”

“A.K.A. Squiggle? Who’s that? Is that like a codename, or something?”

She points at the signature on my letter. So that’s where it got to.

“I can’t read it”, I say. “It looks just like a squiggle, and there’s no name underneath.” Realization hits. “Oh. That is his name? Like The Artist Formerly Known as Prince?”

“That’s classified information. Now, he tells me that it’s a shame that you couldn’t go through the little initiation that he had set up for you, but if you could just go to room number one, down that little corridor through there, and wait outside until he calls you in. I’ll buzz you through.”

I go through the corridor. There are no doors until much further down, for some reason. Ahead of me are two other people, dressed smartly in suits. Paranoia hits me, and I check the smartness levels of the clothes I am wearing. Travelling for close to four hours, not to mention fainting hasn’t been kind to the ironing I spent ages doing last night. They do not see me, but stand outside the door closest to me. They pause, it is obviously not their office. I slow down. That might be the door I need to stand outside of and, being unknown, I don’t want to feel awkward standing in a corridor with strangers. The couple do not knock on the door, however. Instead, the female of the two, she looks Oriental from here, takes a few steps backwards. She stops, her head bowed down, one hand reaching for the right hip and gripping something. She seems to be counting underneath her breath as the other, possibly, is trying to talk her out of this. Giving up, he knocks on the door. Suddenly her head jerks up she sprints forward and before I can even fathom it, she’s gone into a fly kick, breaking through the door. I can’t see her as she’s inside the room but I would bet my life that it’s her screaming “FREEZE! F.I.B.!” which echoes down the hallway as her partner shakes his head. 

It probably won’t surprise anyone to know that by this time I have stopped dead in the hallway. It may be one thing to feel awkward in a hallway with other strangers, it is a completely other thing to be sharing your personal space with a psychopath. Both having gone in, I continue to make my way, praying that door number one is much, much further down the hallway. However, logic dictates that it is, after all, the one closest to me. The first door, you could say. I await my calling, listening to the conversation through the unclosed door, avoiding the mirror that is nearby me.

A big booming voice is saying “Well done! Well spotted. If the kettle’s boiled, I’ll take two sugars.”

Another male voice kicks in. “Fear not! T’is us, hear to save thee from thy mortal remains of Hell itself!”

And then a female voice, presumably the psycho-woman. “Is it because I’m a woman?” There is a loud thump. Has she just kicked something? 

The big booming voice continues. “Ah! My two agents. Now listen, laddie, I was twice your age before I even got to the position you are in, so don’t go acting all the cocky cuckoo with me. I know half as much as you, which is twice the amount you’ll learn in a quarter of that time. Okay?” A squeaking noise further down the hall distracts my attention momentarily, but it is just a tea lady pushing a noisy trolley towards me. As she gets closer, the sound of the squeaky wheel cuts over the voices inside, forcing me to lean into the door to be able to hear. I already have my excuse in place, just in case I’m caught, and it’s a justifiable and verifiable excuse as I genuinely don’t want to miss my cue when my name is called. In this place, who knows what may actually happen. The booming voice is continuing. “And you, young lady, my lad. History goes round in circles. Once women were equals, then they became oppressed. They liberated themselves. Now they deem their superiority by belittling men, oppressing them until one day they will become oppressed and the cycle swings round to conclude its path. So let’s just nip that in the bud and keep you down there, okay? Besides…”

The tea lady has come to a halt outside this particular door. Yet she does not knock on the door or go straight in. She stands there outside, pushing the trolley back and forth, building up momentum in the trolley. Expecting something bad, I step back out of the way. Just as well I do as finally, she leaps forward with the trolley, smashing through the door. I recoil backwards, automatically throwing my arms in my face. All I can hear is a frail voice screaming the words once again “Freeze! F.I.B.!” Too mortified to look, I can only imagine a little old lady hiding behind her trolley brandishing a tea pot. Would they give tea ladies guns in this place? It is a thought I dare not contemplate. But then a scarier thought hits me. Is this how I am expected to enter once I am called? Yet her entrance is apparently normal as Mr Boomy Voice reacts quite simply. “You look like the tea lady. Come on now, out you go. Now is not the time, but I’ll take a KitKat, thanks.”

What is this place? And how come I am here? What is it that these people actually do? I thought it was some kind of investigation agency, but they act as if they all long to be commandos. Do they solve cases? Do they go out on cases? Or do they just spend all day, as so far is the impression, running around waving their guns in each other’s faces even in the simple act of making a cup of tea?

The lure of my reflection is too tempting. I know that an image of me stands in that mirror behind me. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of looking at it. I am more than that image as it is just a superficial and highly unflattering representation of me. Of course, it shows no more and no less than anyone will ever see of me, but I possess the ability to move beyond an image. To connect with people on a mental or emotional level. Unlike my reflection, I am in control of my actions. I must remember that my reflection, my image is under my control, and not me under it. Yet this is much more difficult than it could ever sound. As I allow my reflection to taunt me, to remind myself that to anyone else I will never be more than that. And as I lack self-confidence, any kind of esteem, even I know that there is little more of me than the miserable, shaking, pathetic wreck that stands in the mirror. 

It is as I try to fight back, giving in and looking at my reflection, but only to confront it head on, that the tea lady exits the room. Stood next to me, I pay her little attention as she shuffles around with her trolley, possibly checking her inventory or making sure the water is hot enough; whatever tea ladies do. I stand there, telling myself I can do this. Telling myself that I am good enough to be here. No, that is too weak. My reflection mocks me with its glint of fear in its eyes. I know I can do this. I know I am good enough. The reflection shows me only hatred. A reflection of my hatred towards it. But this is stalemate. As long as I hate it, it hates me. The circle isn’t broken out of yet as all that self-loathing is still there. For me to win, I have to get the reflection to accept me, to be proud of me. But I can only do that if I reciprocate those feelings, something I do not want to do, and am not ready to do yet. 

A cloth is suddenly shoved in front of my face. As panic kicks in, I am suddenly aware of the tea lady behind me. She does not have much of a grip on me, but it matters little as blackness comes from breathing in the obnoxious fumes in the cloth. 

So sleepy, so tired. Must fight off sleep. I try to concentrate. The squeaking of the wheel, the door kicked down, the screaming of the F.I.B.. But little effect. My mind comes back into focus as colours flash in front of me, pulsing with a rhythm that is extremely fast and vicious, at once flying towards me and away from me. Knowing only the colours, this is all I can focus on. Soon shapes seem to appear there. But the shapes disappear or morph before I can even find out what they are. But now the colours are not the only thing in my world as my lips tingle, my arms and legs, building into an intense pins and needles session. And voices. Voices. Saying words. Fragments of sentences. Conversations between people not talking to each other. Just to me. Me. 

My eyes snap open. It takes a major mental adjustment for me to become aware of the fact that I am lying sprawled on the floor of the F.I.B. offices for what is the second time today. I am still in the hallway. The reflection will have gone, as I am not in direct sight of the mirror, but it shall be shortly resurrected. I have no idea of the passage of time that has just taken place, whether it was just a few short seconds or minutes.

I pick myself up off the floor, still shaken by what has just happened. The adrenalin and other chemicals no doubt still kicking around my body as I certainly feel extremely unsteady and shaky. The big boomy voice suddenly catches my attention. The conversation has obviously continued regardless. “I’ve decided to assign you an extra agent for this mission. It really is a good ‘un. But listen, he’s only a work experience lad, so go easy on him.”

This is me. I quickly smooth myself over, patting down my hair and trying to calm myself down as I can feel the sweat beginning to break out, my breathing shallow and my heart pounding violently. But I do all this without facing the mirror. This I just cannot cope with right now. 

The other guy speaks, but has lost his earlier pretentiousness, this time much more resigned. “What’s his name?”

“Crunchie?” says the boomy voice. My heart erupts again, and I prepare to reach for the door. But I’m bothered by something, as it came out more as a question. Perhaps he is just uncertain of my name.

The two agents certainly seem to have understood what was said. No doubt a part of their training. 

“Yes please.”

“I wouldn’t mind, actually.”

“They’re just over there.”

Disappointment as this is not my moment. More than that, though, I am trapped somewhere between wanting to run away and facing up to this moment and doing myself proud. Or just getting it out of the way as quickly as possible so that in two weeks time, I can just go back home and hide in my bed and forget that any of this ever happened. 

“Cool, so what was his name?”

“Crunchy.”

“Give us a chance.”

“Yeah, I’m only on my second, here. “

“His name is Crunchy. Nosferatu Crunchy. Surprisingly important figure. We need to look after him.”

“Still… Still sounds like a chocolate bar.”

This. This is my moment. I’m about to open the door, now surprisingly calm. I debate very quickly the option of kicking down the door as the others have done before me but I reject the option. I walk in, looking around the huge office with little more than a desk which the two agents stand around, and the vast amount of unused space. I keep my head up and march confidently in. I need to introduce myself. It is important that I get that in first, I’m not certain why. I adopt a smile. “I am not a chocolate bar. Nor any other kind of confectionary for that matter. I am a human being. And I am not to be eaten. If you were to bite into me you would find only flesh and blood, not any cocoa bean sediment.” 

“Oh god,” replies the male agent. I have fucked up. I intended it to be a joke. But now they probably think I am an arrogant son of a bitch. A work experience lad who expects to take over the company within a few short weeks. That’s not what I wanted. I just wanted to announce myself with a little joke, as if to say, hey, I’m one of you guys. Oh, shit, that’s hardly better. I’m still raising above my station. I am just caught in the headlights. I need to find a way to get out of this, dignity intact. But if first impressions count, then I’m fucked. I’m at least encouraged by the fact that the female one is smiling. Feeling that I should return the smile, hers just turns into a big grin. I look away quickly. 

I get a dizzy feeling, the room briefly spinning around, every sense taking on a particular clarity as, once again, the situation seems to be too unreal and I feel as if I should be not here. Apparently I am not the only one thinking this. Taking a hold of myself, I wait for somebody to take control. Nothing happens. I feel as if I should introduce myself, but I already have. “I’m Nosferatu Crunchy,” I pointlessly repeat. Suddenly aware of manners, I straighten my back which has gone into its typical hunch and thrust my hand out. Realizing I need to be more specific, I aim my hand more towards the guy behind the desk. The one with the big boomy voice, and he certainly has the body to match, with every single cliché slotted nicely into place. The over fed body, the red cheeks, a bushy moustache with attempts made to curl it at the ends. And of course the comb-over. It takes a few seconds to work out what is wrong with it, slowly realizing that rather the more classic side to side comb-over, this one is from the back. The suit, naturally, is wool and brown. 

The thrust out hand seems to have some effect, even if it is ignored, as Boomy Voice springs back into action. “Right, so as we were. My name, as I’m sure you’ve gathered is” he does the open mouth expellation of air thing “A.K.A. Squiggle. Crunchy, this is Mitsuko Nakagawa; Japanese as I’m sure you can see. Therefore the only notable thing that her country has ever done is to bomb the Americans on their own ground.” I can’t help but deny she is cute. But despite the smile, there is a stare in her eye, as if she is trying to look into me, work me out. A brief panic comes on as I pray that they don’t hire psychics here. But her trouser suit is smart as if she is deliberately dressing to impress. I hold out my hand once more. It is ignored once more. “And Emming A. Hemmingway. A rising star in our bureau, but I shall only applaud him once he has taken my job away from me. Right, the video.”

Mitsuko turns to Squiggle. “Sir, is this really necessary? I mean, I’m sure he’s a great and talented guy, and all that,” from this angle, I am uncertain, but I believe I can see her crossing her fingers behind her back, “but he is an outsider. Do we really need all our secrets revealed to an outsider?”

Squiggle leans towards her. “I don’t like your attitude, young lady. It’s your bad attitude that gets us a lot of bad press. I’d rather not have any, as you yourself pointed out, we are a secret organisation. But if we have to be known about, wouldn’t you want an ‘outsider’ to say something nice about us? Perhaps even about yourself?”

She stands there for a moment, silently fuming, but attempting the maths in her head. I do the same. They want to stay secret, but they want me to say good things about them?

She must have figured it out. Perhaps overly keen, Mitsuko heads off to a concealed closet somewhere, and I take this chance to approach the male agent more casually. Turned away, he seems to be running something through his mind. His suit is shabbier, cheaper, looking as if it has been thrown on. He, too, has red cheeks, but these are of burst blood vessels. He has the demeanour of a washed-out alcoholic going through a sober phase. His whole vibe seems to be screaming that he has something much better to be doing right now. As he is still turned away from me, I am not sure how best to get his attention. Should I pat him, poke him? A polite cough? All these actions seem to suggest a more friend based or superior approach, so instead I settle on going around and leaning my head in front of his. “Um… hi,” I smile. “Er, Emmingay, wasn’t it?”

“No, Emming. Initial A.” Barely a smile.

“Oh. So, what does the A stand for?”

“That’s classified information.” He heads off to help Mitsuko Nakagawa bring out a TV on a wheeled stand and a couple of chairs from the concealed closet. Uncertain whether or not to help, I look to Squiggle for guidance. He gives a reassuring thumbs up to which I reply with the by now standard weak smile. 

Noticing that the two agents are only carrying two chairs with the TV, I head over as they close the door. The crack is barely noticeable in the doorway. I wonder if the hallway outside is long because of any more secret rooms hidden beyond the walls, or whether my sense of space-perception just sucks. Asking if there are any more chairs, I only receive a slight shake of a head from Hemmingway, and a big friendly grin from Mitsuko. I follow behind them, encouraged by the friendly grin. They push the TV and set up the chairs so that it is also in view of Squiggle, my optimism dashed when Hemmingway takes his seat as does Mitsuko, exaggeratedly settling into hers with another big friendly grin flashed in my direction. This time, however, I see the malice in the eyes. Something feels as if it has been hollowed out of my chest as I understand just how difficult the next two weeks are shaping up to be. The two agents have pulled notepads and pens from somewhere. I hover where I can clearly see the TV but am still able to maintain some kind of distance from Mitsuko.

Squiggle pulls out a remote control from a drawer in his desk and switches the TV on. We are forced to watch it, apparently to build our knowledge of the case in hand. A woman starts speaking. She has very bright tones, seems very enthusiastic, throwing her hands about and bouncing around in her seat. She keeps saying things like ‘mega!’ and ‘isn’t that exciting!’ I regret being here now. I feel that this too far above my depth. If I look over to Hemmingway, he appears to be taking notes. I wonder if I should also be taking notes. I have only my shirt to write on. I have only my blood to write with. I feel this to be unnecessary given the circumstances. If I could only concentrate and memorise what is being said. Instead I look at Mitsuko who appears only to be shooting imaginary bullets at the characters on the screen. I know that I have the power to stop this. Just to pull out the plug. To force ourselves into an obscurity of ignorance. But I fail to see the justification of this. 

I turn my attention towards the television once more, but I can only see the patterns of light shifting, it projects its images outwards, creating a visual wind that pushes me back, forces me away. To concentrate I must overcome this force. I stand right in front of the TV, there are complaints. But I have to ignore this. I try to push myself as far into the wind as possible. Finding incredible strength I am able to pick out visions, words. Bodies, dead bodies. Suicides, obsessed with mirrors. No weapons or any tools lying by, all just dead. Police ruled out murder, as no evidence, but all cases same, recent. We have been called in. The words hit me, as do the pictures with the force of a gale. A gale that is terrifying, soul-emptying. 

The words filter out. My strength begins to weaken. One of my legs buckles and I fall backwards. The wind flies above my head, myself caught in the peace that lies below. I see pictures, pictures of myself bending towards me, pointing and laughing. A bloody-nosed Mitsuko has turned towards me, pointing her gun at me and shooting, Hemmingway writing over my face, my arms. They say words. ‘Camden Barfly’ where my grandfather’s body was found some years ago. ‘Survivors’, but there were no survivors, they drove into the sun. And ‘investigate’.

I snap myself back into consciousness. Oh my God, now I just feel terrible, embarrassment poured all over me. You see, this… happens sometimes. I have little control over it. The world itself wants to just get up and attack me. It’s a genetic thing, passed on through my grandfather, whose wasn’t so severe – an unexplained madness, to the mother I never knew, whose was so severe that she barely existed, physically and spiritually as well as mentally, in this world. Then there’s me. Worse than my grandfather, but much more sporadic than my mother. How acute was this one, or was it just in my head? This is relatively minor, and I took much of the force of the wind. I don’t know what the others witnessed, but there are some things that are just undeniable like the words written in my blood on my shirt that I have no memory of putting there. 

Mitsuko has by this time jumped out of her seat, confronting Squiggle. “There, do you need any more reason than that freak show we just witnessed to get this thing out of here? He fell on me! His elbow caused this!” She points to her bleeding nose. “He is unstable, Sir! He’s written all over his shirt in my blood!”

Squiggle turns to me. “Crunchy?”

“My apologies, Sir. I’m sorry, Mitsuko. I must have… slipped.” Long gone are the days of mounting a defence by recounting my version of events. If people witnessed it, I just stay quiet and let them blame such weird events on random things like the weather. If they have not witnessed it, if it’s been more in my head, then I’ll stay quieter still. 

“He’s apologized, Ms Nakagawa. That’s good enough for me.”

“But Sir. No disrespect, but this actually looks like it could be a real investigation. I don’t need some freak screwing up the investigation.”

“And he’s a welcome addition. Let’s just hope that he doesn’t turn into a replacement, right?”

Mitsuko is defeated as she nods her understanding. I suddenly start examining my notes as she shoots me a look of utter disgust and hatred. She puts a hanky to her nose, an attempt to stem the bleeding before heading towards the door.

“Ms Nakagawa, just wait.” She turns around in frustration. “Of course, we spent our entire budget on that video, we don’t even have enough to give you so much as a magnifying glass. I had to get my own from a Christmas cracker. But this is going to take more than a couple of days. So, I’ve set you up a safe house for you to conduct your investigation from. Off you go. Crunchy, you stay behind. You two, wait outside.”

Mitsuko is about to leave, but seeing Hemmingway go over to Squiggle, she hangs around, trying to overhear the conversation. Worried that I’m in trouble, I try to make myself as small as possible, particularly as I don’t want to be left alone with Mitsuko. 

“Sir, do you really believe that I’m the best person for this mission?”

Mitsuko cuts in with a sudden “Don’t you dare leave me alone with that!”

Hemmingway waves at her to calm down, before leaning conspiratorially towards Squiggle. “Sir, you know I’ve got the other… thing.”

In a position to look at Mitsuko, I can see her puzzled, slightly betrayed face. Whatever this thing is, its secret is obviously well kept. “Hemmingway, I need you on this case.” He looks towards Mitsuko and sighs. “Both of you. And I need you to look after this young lad as well. As for the other thing, well you can still do that at night, can’t you? I insist that you do. You don’t know how important things are.”

“But I can’t possibly manage two things at once, Sir!”

“You have to. Now get out of the office. I need to speak to the young lad alone.”

Hemmingway walks away, frustrated and angry, shrugging off an enquiring Mitsuko. They leave the room. I brace myself for a much fuller telling off. For allowing myself to act so crazy. For not having got on with the two other agents so well. For having turned up late. For being me and bothering to be here. Mostly the acting crazy part. Instead he just looks more concerned, his booming voice lowered to a raspier, flatter tone.

“Shape up lad, look at me. I’m as shapeless as a doodle. You’ve got to get some structure. Now, I know it’s your first day on the job and you’re excited, but I don’t want to see any displays of foolhardy arrogance. I want you to follow their lead. If they don’t write on their shirts, then you don’t. Okay? Do what they tell you and stay out of their way.”

I’m uncertain how to respond to a telling off. I resort to a disheartened army response. “Sir. Yes Sir.” I’d love to tell him about how Mitsuko was shooting me with her gun. That it wasn’t me writing on my shirt but Hemmingway. But now, as before, is not a time to start opening my mouth. 

“One other important detail. As an unofficial member of the F.I.B., we take great pains to ensure that you do not disclose any information or act in any kind of a manner that will endanger the existence of our once worthy organisation. At a moment when you would not have noticed, we have installed a little collar.”

I stare blankly at him, not quite understanding what he is talking about. A collar? But the man who is talking nonsense to me is looking expectantly at me, obviously waiting to continue only once I have made the next move. I start to feel uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. My neck feels tighter since I entered this office than it was before but I put it down to anxiety. Keeping my eyes focused on Squiggle, I reach up to my neck and something metal is there. I don’t know how much my eyes show it, but I do my damnedest not to reveal the panic that suddenly takes me. I reach around the collar, searching for a clasp, tugging at it, trying to get it off so that I can have a proper look, but it does not come off. 

“That’s right. Now, don’t panic. It is only set to explode” I suddenly jerk my hand away “should you inadvertently disclose any information about this case or any information about the F.I.B. Or, should you stray more than twenty metres from either Mitsuko or Hemmingway. Any attempt to remove the device will set it off, likewise should you be killed under any circumstances. We care only for your safety in this matter.”

I look to the door. That must be about seven metres away. Are the other two still outside, or would they be moving away? It hasn’t exploded yet.

“Okay. I think I’d better go now. Don’t want to keep the others waiting.” I sprint as fast as I can towards the door.