Simon Green - The Dark Side of the Road

Some of my jobs I liked more than others. I tried to do things I could be proud of. If I was going to be a man, I wanted to be a good man. So wherever I went, and whoever I worked for, or whoever I was supposed to be, there was always a line I wouldn’t cross. Things I wouldn’t do. And then it would be time for me to move on again. Become someone else again.

I’ve spent the last fifteen years working for the Colonel and his Organization. Doing good and necessary work. The longest I’ve ever stayed with one person, or one organization. The Colonel kept me busy and kept me protected. Because no one ever messed with the Colonel’s people. I suppose … I should have asked more questions. But I trusted the Colonel; and I owed him so much …

There. My story, such as it is. An alien, passing for human. Of course, there is another explanation for all of this. I could be crazy. Completely loony-tunes, with a head full of hallucinations. Making up incredible stories to explain a simple case of amnesia. I have seriously considered this explanation, from time to time. But; there still remain all the things I can do that normal people can’t. The things I see and notice, that other people don’t. And, I really don’t age.

I pulled myself forward until I was sitting on the end of the bed again, and studied my reflection in the mirror on the dresser at the opposite end of the room. A very human face looked back at me; one that hasn’t changed in the least since I first saw it in a mirror, in 1963.

I remembered Alex Khan from when we both worked for Black Heir, from 1982 to 1987. We’d seemed the same age, then. He was … intelligent, arrogant, very keen to get on. To succeed. He always saw his time in Black Heir as merely a stepping stone, on the way to inevitable greatness. But when he finally did leave it was just two steps ahead of being discovered and disgraced. Because he just couldn’t wait. He had to go for the gold ring, and to hell with the consequences.

And I remembered Diana Helm, as she was then: a beautiful young Englishwoman, who gave up ballet to dance at the Crazy Horse, in Paris. A real scandal, in those far off days of 1969. We were lovers, for a while. I honestly hadn’t recognized her at first in the drawing room. She’d changed so much, and I hadn’t. We were happy together, for a while. I left her because she started asking too many questions about my past. Where was I from, who were my family … And she started to talk about our future, when I knew, even then, we couldn’t have one. I hadn’t learned to lie so easily, in those days. So I did what I always did when I felt threatened; I ran away. Didn’t even leave her a note. After all; what could I say? Sorry; I’m not what you thought I was? I had to learn the hard way that I can never allow anyone to get close to me. That it’s safer for everyone, if I stay alone.

So many people come and go in my life that I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised if some of them reappear. Mostly they don’t recognize me. When they think they do, it’s easy enough for me to pass as my father, or grandfather. It’s one of the reasons I keep moving; so they won’t notice that they’ve aged but I haven’t. I move on because I can’t afford to look back. Because human beings have lives, with a beginning and middle and an ending; while I’m … just passing through.

Though I have to say, it did amuse the hell out of me that the Colonel’s mother should turn out to be one of my old loves.

I’ve been tormented by the dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are, all my human life. Glimpses of the world that was once mine. Of the ship that brought me here. The dreams rarely make any sense, and they’ve never been any help. I find it hard to hang on to them; they fade so quickly. I have tried writing them down immediately afterwards, but when I read back what I’ve written, it’s always gibberish. I destroy the notes, immediately after reading. No sense in leaving ammunition behind for those who are always on my trail.

I had a sort of feeling that I might have visited Belcourt Manor before. Some of it did seem familiar. But I’m used to feeling that way. I’ve been to so many places down the years that the memories just jumble together. I’ve always found it easy to move on; to leave people and things and places behind. I can’t afford to get attached, because it’s so painful when I have to give it up.

I didn’t change for dinner, because I didn’t have any other clothes. I made an effort: splashed cold water in my face in the bathroom and pulled a comb through my hair. I studied my face in the mirror. Who are you; really? And then, I went downstairs to dinner.

I went tripping back down the stairs, making more noise than was strictly necessary and pulling faces at the family portraits. And then I came to a sudden halt at the foot of the stairs, where Alexander Khan had set himself to block my way. He stood his ground firmly, with a very serious face, so I stopped on the step above him and raised a single eyebrow. The best kinds of insult and arrogance are the ones your target can’t legitimately take offence at.

Khan fixed me with his fiercest scowl. ‘I want to talk to you, Mister Jones.’

‘Well,’ I said cheerfully. ‘It’s nice to want things.’

‘What?’

‘What do you want, Khan? Speak!’

‘Are you following me?’ Khan said abruptly. ‘Have you come all the way down here, in this abysmal weather, just to pursue me? Won’t you people ever leave me alone?’

I gave the matter some thought. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I look at you and I see a face from my past,’ said Khan. ‘A man I worked beside for the best part of five years. But that was some thirty years ago … so you can’t be him. Who are you, really?’

‘You have me confused with my father,’ I said firmly. ‘A man I never knew. I have, however, heard of Black Heir through my work for the Colonel. I know who they are and what they do … And I know that the first rule of Black Heir is: you do not talk about Black Heir.’

‘I’ve been out for far longer than I was in,’ said Khan. ‘But once they’ve got their hooks into you, you’re never really free of them. I left the organization under something of a cloud. And seeing your face, so familiar … it brings back bad memories. The likeness is uncanny.’

‘So I’m told,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t know. Take it from me, Khan: I didn’t come here for you.’

Khan looked like he would have liked to say more, but a movement further down the gloomy hall caught his eye. He saw who it was and raised a hand in something like a wave. It was Melanie, standing at the far end of the hall. She didn’t see me. She only had eyes for Khan. He looked quickly back at me.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, Ishmael. I must have a word with our hostess …’

He didn’t look in the least bit furtive as he hurried down the hall to where Melanie was waiting. Not furtive at all. I was just getting ready to wander casually down the hall myself, to find out what it was those two needed to talk about so urgently, when I saw Walter and Jeeves standing together in an open doorway, some distance down the hall. They didn’t even glance at Khan as he hurried past. They were far too wrapped up in their own business. What particularly interested me was that they didn’t look in the least like master and servant. Jeeves looked a lot more like a soldier making a report to his superior officer. Which was … interesting. So I stayed where I was and listened.

They thought they were safe, far away from anyone who might overhear their quiet words, but I can hear things at a far greater distance than most people. And no one notices me, unless I want them to.