Cuckoo Read online

  After a moment of confusion, during which he had to remind himself that he was the one who was supposed to live there, he darted back to the living space. Several moments of frantic searching went by, until he found the cordless phone on the second shelf of the bookcase, neatly propped next to The God Delusion.

  Picking it up felt strange, as though he were some sort of intruder to this flat, but it was important to answer. Whoever was on the other end might hold a key Greg needed to open the mystery a little further.

  “Hello. Gre...Richard here.”

  “Rich? Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been phoning for four days now. Decide to take a holiday and not tell anyone? You missed our Friday lunch for Christ’s sake!” The venom of the verbal barrage shocked Greg from his complacency. Remembering the diary entry for Friday, he hazarded a guess at the identity of the caller.

  “Stewart?”

  “Who the hell else would it be? Jesus Rich, I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?”

  “It’s...hard to explain. The last few days have been a bit of a blur.”

  Anger turned to concern. Stewart sounded genuinely worried. “Shit, sorry, I never thought. Are you okay? You haven’t been hurt or anything? It’s just…”

  “I know, you were worried.” Part of Greg wanted to lace his voice with sarcasm, but common sense told him to play along a little longer. “Look Stewart, I really am sorry, and I really can explain. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Uh, there’s a press conference in the morning to cover the launch of the DP5, but I’m free all afternoon.”

  “Perfect. Where shall we meet?”

  “Usual?”

  Quick thinking saved Greg, and he parried the question with pleasing ease. “No, I feel like a change.”

  “Fair enough. How about De Marco’s then? It’s the new Italian place off Oxford Street. Do you know it?” Of course he did. He and Georgina had eaten there just a few nights ago.

  “Sounds great. Around three then?”

  “Sure. Just make sure you show up.”

  Greg forced what he hoped was a good-humoured chuckle. “I’ll do my best. See you then.” He hung up.

  Breathing a deep, trembling sigh of relief, Greg gave himself the credit he thought he deserved. That had been handled well, and the meeting might finally provide some answers. Tomorrow morning could also be put to good use. For the evening before him though, he would make use of the facilities around him. After all, it would be a pity to waste the efforts that must have gone into the façade of ‘his’ penthouse, and after several days in the same set of clothes he was in dire need of a bath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SWEET, SAD WISHES

  It knows itself to be nothing more than a tool, a device to further the activities of the mistress, but it is content with this fate. Minor damage has been repaired now, and it is better able to perform whatever tasks lie ahead. This pleases it, for existence is a tool to be made use of.

  In her own way, the mistress loves it. In this too there is satisfaction. Only one regret gnaws at it. It cannot give the mistress what she truly needs, and she must go beyond it for that vital service. That is a compunction easily dealt with, for the function is far beyond the perimeters of even its greatest abilities.

  It is curious, watching the mistress and the burning man, and wonders if it will ever be able to experience the unique relationship in which they are engaged. It supposes not, a knowledge that saddens it in small but tender ways. Lying dormant, knowing it is not needed at this present moment, it watches, waits, and wishes sweet sad wishes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ERUPTION

  Waking early after sleeping better than he could have imagined, Greg discovered that the well-stocked kitchen provided ingredients for an indulgent fried breakfast. It was with some surprise that he realised how little he had eaten over the past few days.

  Feeling healthier and happier for a decent meal, he left his temporary place of residence later that morning, managing a cheerful greeting to the doorman on the way out. Under his arm he carried a package containing two of the photographs from the bedroom wall. In his back pocket he carried his wallet, with which he planned to test an important theory. What he needed now was transport. A vague memory from the taxi drive of the previous day called out to him, and he turned left at the end of the path outside the building.

  He was right. Not fifteen minutes walk from the apartment was a reassuringly expensive looking car hire store. Time to test his hypothesis. Walking in, he joined the short queue and waited for service.

  “Yes sir, can I help you?” An attractive girl in her early twenties swung her attention his way.

  “Probably. I need a car for a few days.”

  “Certainly sir. Have you seen our list of available vehicles?” She gestured at a poster on the wall, but Greg already knew what he wanted.

  “Ford Focus. Blue, if you have it.”

  “Of course. If you’d like to fill in these forms I’ll have your car brought around the front.” Making short and discrete work of filling in Jameson’s details from the documents in his wallet, he signed the car out for one week.

  Then came the test. Having found a four digit number tucked into the back of his wallet, he could only pray it was what he thought. “I’ll pay now, if I may? I’ll cover any extras when I hand it in.” Handing over Jameson’s platinum American Express card, he tapped the number into the keypad, and held his breath.

  The funds went through. While he had hoped they would, it still left him reeling. Jameson’s wealth, at least some of it, was his to use. What kind of opponent would give him those kinds of resources?

  Exasperated by the mixed signals he was receiving, he drove his new car into the city. He knew where he was going by heart, having memorised the route before he left. Parking proved problematic though, and he was forced to abandon his vehicle in a multi-storey car park some distance from his destination.

  Forced to walk the rest of the way, he found himself less claustrophobic than he usually was in crowds. Normally he would have felt frustrated and uptight after only a few minutes of immersion in the throng, but new purpose brought with it new tolerance. Taking positive steps to solve the mystery of his life had rejuvenated him. In his own eyes he was no longer the helpless victim.

  Though claustrophobia left him mercifully untouched, he still felt strange and abstracted as he passed through the crowds. Knowing paranoia for what it was, he found it easy to dismiss his suspicions of the people around him. Where his gut wanted to cast each new face as a player in the conspiracy against him, his head was firm in discarding such notions. Still, he could not help wondering if he were the only one. Crazy as it was, he could not dismiss the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was experiencing an ordinary part of life, which everybody went through at some stage but nobody ever spoke about. Twice he found himself wanting to grab somebody and demand of them, then and there, why they had never told him about this.

  He restrained himself. He would have little chance of discovering the truth if he were to spend the rest of his days eating mush in a padded white cell.

  Central London always had the disorientating effect of turning him about several times, but eventually he found his destination. Messop & Son Photographic Studios. The small shop front was discreet, and Greg felt reassured as he pushed open the door. It swung inwards, a small bell announcing his presence. A comfortable, if clinical, waiting area waited for him.

  An old man, eccentric in a pair NHS prescription glasses, glanced up at him from behind the counter. Placing a wrinkled brown hand in one of the voluminous pockets of his white coat, he gave Greg a critical once over.

  “Hm. How can I be of service sir? Let me guess. A wedding? No, no ring.” Greg looked down in surprise, wondering when he had removed his wedding band. “Christening? Public function?” Stroking his thinning grey hair with the back of one hand, he waited for Greg to fill in the details.

  “No, er, sorry.” The old man
, who he presumed was Mr Messop, raised a critical eyebrow.

  “Not for you to apologise, hm? As long as I can be of assistance.”

  Taking the photographs from the envelope, Greg arranged them on the counter. “It’s these I’m interested in.”

  “Are you indeed?” Messop bent attentively over them. “Fine work, very fine work. But, forgive me, these have already been developed. What do you wish me to do with them, hm? Reproductions perhaps?”

  Greg smiled. “I need them examined. I think they’re forgeries, but I’d like an expert confirmation to back me up.” Messop’s eyebrow, already raised, twitched a notch higher. Again, he bent low over the pictures.

  “Forgeries, you say?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Well, who would have thought?” The man’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Quite the challenge, hm? I’ll look at them tonight. If you could come back tomorrow I’ll give you an answer.”

  “So soon? Wonderful!” Greg was relieved. Part of him had thought the old man would dismiss him as a crank. “How much will that cost?”

  “I think we’ll settle that tomorrow. We don’t have a set price for this sort of service. It’s a request we are rarely asked to fulfil.”

  “Rarely?”

  “Never.”

  Greg grinned again. “Tomorrow then.”

  “Any time will do. Have a pleasant day.”

  Nodding his thanks, Greg left the shop. Wanting to laugh, he instead breathed great lungfuls of the city air. That had been easier than he thought. Once he had professional evidence verifying the nature of the conspiracy against him he would be able to consider the authorities as a means of settling the matter. It was a relief to think that somebody else might do the hard work for him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was just past two, more than enough time to take a casual stroll to De Marco’s and arrive early. It would not do for him to be late. If Stewart were there first then Greg would be forced to join him. Difficult, especially as Greg had no idea what the man looked like. If Greg was the one already seated then Stewart should have no difficulty in recognising him. Why should he? Nobody else seemed to. Pleased with his own cleverness, he set a brisk stride through the hordes of November shoppers.

  Forty-five minutes later he was seated inside De Marco’s, mineral water in hand, at a table facing the door. From there he had a good view of the half-full restaurant, and was easily seen from the outside. It was better not to secrete himself in one of the more private alcoves, despite having several intense questions for this Stewart. Instead he wished to be in view of as many witnesses as possible in case of trouble.

  Not knowing quite what to expect of this meeting was frustrating. Unable to make any firm plans, he would have to take a flexible approach. For all he knew, Stewart would buckle at the first challenge. Greg wasn’t counting on it. He would have to fight for his answers. Bracing himself, he waited.

  It would have been easier if his imagination had not been trying to convince him that every man who came through the door recognised him. Twice now he had grinned at a complete stranger with an air of what he hoped was easy familiarity, only to be rewarded by blank stares and nervous nods. At least he could reassure himself that he was getting plenty of practise at this kind of deception. Sipping at his water, he decided that the best way forward was to ignore everybody who did not actually sit opposite him, and he turned his attention to the restaurant.

  Traditionally decorated in an Italian style, the room was both comfortable and rustic. Greg felt fortunate that Stewart had chosen to meet there. It felt like he was on home territory.

  Then Stewart did arrive, appearing so abruptly in the chair across the table that Greg jumped. Perhaps five years younger than he, this man had a lean muscularity about him that was both powerful and controlled. His neat, grey business suit hugged his figure as he sat. The easy smile he gave bespoke confidence.

  Covering up his surprise at the sudden appearance, Greg tried to think of something to say. For some reason the man was familiar, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was something about the eyes. Reflecting on this, he made an opening gambit.

  “Stewart.” A nod accompanied the simple greeting.

  For his part Stewart looked tense, his shoulders taut, his hands shaping words even before he spoke. “Oh, come on. Stewart? Have I pissed you off? Look, about last night, I’m sorry. I was angry, but only because I was concerned. It’s not like you to just up and vanish like that.” When Greg remained silent, Stewart became more anxious. “Cut me a break here Richie! I’m not going to chuck out three months of trying to get you to talk to me again because you get sniffy over a heated phone call!”

  Greg made his decision. For now he would play along. “Look, calm down…” He made a guess, and stopped himself from holding his breath while he awaited the result. “...Stu.” There was no reaction to that, so Greg went on. “I was a little annoyed, I admit. But everything’s fine now. To be honest I was afraid you’d come in with a raging temper, furious that I left you in the lurch on Friday.”

  Stewart chuckled. “And I felt like I was standing outside the headmaster’s office, waiting to be told off for swearing in class.” Despite himself, Greg smiled. If he could only work out why this man was so damned familiar. He needed more information.

  “Well, we’re both forgiven then. Tell me about the launch.” Tell me about yourself. Tell me anything.

  “A success, I think. The media love it, and the bloggers are all over the thing, so word of mouth’s off to a good start. With luck it’ll be commercially available by the end of the month.”

  Greg didn’t have the first idea what the man was talking about, so he took the safe approach. “Well done. You must be pleased.”

  “Hell yes, I could retire on this one. Not that I would, don’t worry. You know I love coding this stuff.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “If I get my way, the next project will enhance the UI further. It’s not as friendly as it should be, given the extra year I asked for.”

  “Sounds exciting.” Software. Computers. Not much to go on, but more than he had started with. “Did you come straight from the press conference?”

  “Had to, it overran. Like I said, they couldn’t get enough of the thing.”

  “Ha.” Even to his own ears, his side of the conversation was becoming less and less convincing. There was nothing to be done about it. Until he got something he could use, he would have to keep nodding and smiling in the right places. Sooner or later though, Stewart was going to become suspicious. From the doubt already creeping into his eyes, it looked as though it would be sooner.

  “Well don’t look too ecstatic Rich, I’m only handing you the biggest market coup your company’s ever had.”

  Greg couldn’t help it. Before he had a chance to catch himself, his eyebrows shot up. He was supposed to own a software company? “My…”

  “Richard, this is bullshit. Why am I sitting here having both sides of this conversation? If something’s wrong then have the good grace to bloody well tell me what it is. What’s going on?”

  Greg stared. Stewart wanted to know what was going on? The man was sitting opposite him, employed by some unknown authority to convince him that he was a software tycoon, and he had the temerity to ask the very question that had brought Greg there in the first place? It was sublime. Drawing a variety of responses from the diners around them, Greg began to laugh at the sheer idiocy of the situation. With tears sluicing down his cheeks, he barely noticed Stewart shaking his head.

  “Oh. I get it. This is some kind of joke, right?” Again, the choice of words shook Greg’s funny bone hard, and he had to grip the table to prevent himself from toppling off his chair. “Right. Laugh it up big brother. And when you finish you might want to tell me why I’ve become an object of such hilarity.”

  Greg started to bring himself back under control. Jesus, the guy was good. The look of stoic upset on his face was frighteningly authentic. Pu
tting up a placatory hand, he prepared to try and salvage his own pretence. “Look Stewart…” It was then that his mind replayed the last snatch of conversation. He could feel his jaw slacken, causing his words to stammer over each other in sudden confusion. “My…brother?”

  “Come on, what are you pulling here? Brother. You do remember what that is, don’t you? Sibling. Fraternal relative. Kinsman. Brother. As in grew up together.” Sarcasm laced his voice, but Greg ignored it. An uncontrollable heat welled within him, and it was no longer amused. Who were these people? It was as if they had been inside his head, removed his greatest fantasies, and laid them neatly on a platter before him. The apartment had been one thing. Who didn’t sometimes dream of living a life where such luxury was available. The credit account and the new revelation of his owning a top software company had both followed that pattern, reinforcing the offer of his new life. But this was a final affront to his dignity. Growing up motherless from the age of thirteen had been a lonely nightmare. Through the years of solitary torture, one fantasy had given him succour. A family which loved him. Only when Jennifer entered his life did the loneliness recede. Now, having taken her away from him, they offered the only thing that might replace the security she provided. Violation slashed about his insides. How could they know?

  Stewart began to speak again, but Greg lashed out, grabbing his wrist and silencing him.

  “I do not yet know who you are or what you’re doing, but it ends. Here. Tell me.” Incomprehension flickered across Stewart’s face, a concerned frown dominating his lips. Greg was having none of it. “Yes, yes. Very good. But mull this over, you bastard. I am not going to allow it.”

  “Richard, you’re hurting my arm.”

  “And you’ve cut up my fucking heart. You aren’t leaving here until I know how and why you’re doing this, and if I have to pull your arm off at the elbow and beat the answers out of you with it, I will.” Reinforcing the point, he tightened his grip further, noting with pleasure the pain it caused.