Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

Bridget parks herself on the other side of the desk from Angleton, and leans over him. "Violation of departmental procedures. Security breaches. Misuse of Internet access. Poor timekeeping. Absence without official leave. Breach of protocol and abusive behaviour toward a superior amounting to gross misconduct."

"I… see." Angleton's voice is cold enough to freeze liquid hydrogen.

Out of the corner of my eye I find Andy trying to catch my eye. He seems to be twitching his cheek in Morse code-telling me to keep my mouth shut.

"He's a loose cannon," Bridget insists, in a Thatcheresque tone of total conviction. "He's a menace. Can't even fill out a time sheet accurately."

"Ms. Brody." Angleton leans back, looking up at Bridget across the expanse of his desk. That's odd, why is he relaxing? I wonder.

He holds something up. "You appear to have overlooked something." The thing in his hand is small and walnut coloured: a tuft of hair sticks out of one end of it, bristly and dry. Bridget inhales sharply. "Howard works for me now. He's on your budget allocation, I agree, but he works for me, and you will henceforth confine your relationship with him to issuing monthly payslips and ensuring that his office is not accidentally re-allocated, unless you wish to wind up emulating the fate of your illustrious predecessor." He jiggles the thing in his hand.

Bridget's eyes are fixed on the thing. She swallows. "You wouldn't."

"My dear, I assure you that I am an equal-opportunity executioner. Eric!" The elderly security officer shuffles forward. "Please remove Ms. Brody from my office before she makes me say something I might regret."

"You bastard," she snarls, as Eric places a hand on her shoulder and urges her away from the room. "Just because you think you can go outside channels and talk to the director, don't let that fool you-"

The door shuts behind her. Angleton puts the wizened thing down on his blotter. "Do you think I'm bluffing, Robert?" he asks me, his tone deceptively mild.

I swallow. "Uh-uh. No way. Never."

"Good." He smiles at the shrunken head before him. "Something the pen-pushers never seem to get straight: don't threaten, don't bluff. Isn't that right, Wallace?"

The shrunken head seems to nod, or maybe it's just my imagination. I take a deep breath. "Actually, I was meaning to see you. It's about Alan."

Angleton nods. "He took five hundred rems, boy. They tell me that ten years ago that would probably have been fatal."

"Has anyone told Hillary yet?"

Andy coughs. "I'm going round there in a couple of hours." My expression must be sceptical because he adds, "Who do you think was best man at their wedding?"

"Oh. Okay." 1 feel an enormous letdown, as if some tension I'd barely been aware of has been released. "Well, then. That's the main thing."

"Not really."

I glance back at Angleton. "There's more?"

"Bad timekeeping." He looks contemplative. "So you visited Alan first off, then came in to work. I'd say you've done a full day's work today already, Howard. Better go home before you're too late."

"Home?" Then I realise. "How long has she been back?"

"Two days." His cheek twitches. "Better hope she isn't angry with you."

AS I STICK THE KEY IN THE FRONT DOOR LOCK, I look up at the roofline-both infinitely familiar and strangely alien. I've only been away one week, I tell myself. What can have changed?

The front hall is full of petite tank tracks. They're about twenty centimetres wide, covered in dried-up mud, and they run past the hulking Victorian coat rack and the living room door to stop just short of the kitchen. I stumble between them as I close the outer and inner doors, try to find somewhere to stow my bag that isn't covered in leftovers from the retreat from Moscow, and remove my coat.

There's most of an engine block on the kitchen table. Whoever put it there for dissection had the good sense to spread a couple of copies of the Independent under it; a headline peeps out from under one oily corner: AMSTERDAM HOTEL GAS BLAST KILLS FOUR. Yeah, right. Depression crashes down on me like a black tide: I suddenly feel very ancient, old beyond my years' span in centuries. The kitchen sink is full of unwashed dishes; I turn on the hot tap and swirl it around in search of a mug that's more or less cleanable, then go rummage in my cupboard for some tea bags.

A new crop of bills has sprouted in the fertile soil of the cork notice board. I'll have to read them sooner or later-later will do.

There's a small pile of letters with my name on them in the usual place-half of them look to be junk mail, judging by the glossy envelopes. And there's no water in the kettle. I fill it, then sit down next to the engine block and wait for enlightenment to spring on me. I am, I realise, tired; also depressed, lonely, and afraid. Until a couple of months ago I never saw anyone die; for the past couple of nights I haven't been able to dream about anything else. It's exhausting, physically and emotionally. One of the doctors said something about stress disorders but I wasn't listening properly at the time. I wonder if the engine block belongs to Pinky or Brains: I've got a mind to give them a chewing out over it when they come home. It's antisocial as hell-what if someone wanted to eat lunch in here?

The kettle boils, then clicks off. I sit in silence for a moment, feeling a chill in the air, then stand up to pour a mug of tea.

"Make one for me, too?"

I nearly scald myself but control the kettle in time. "I didn't hear you come in."

"That's okay." She moves a chair behind me. "I didn't hear you come in, either. Been back long?"

"Back in the country?" I'm rummaging in the sink for another mug as my mouth freewheels without human intervention, seemingly autonomous, as if it isn't a part of me. "Only since this morning. I had to visit Alan in hospital first, then I went in to work for a couple of hours. Been in meetings. They've kept me in meetings ever since…"

"Did they tell you not to talk about it-to anybody?" she asks. I detect a note of strain in her voice.

"Not… exactly." I rinse the mug, drop a tea bag in it, pour on hot water, put it down, and turn round to face her. Mo looks the way I feel: hair askew, clothes slept-in, eyes haunted. "I can talk to you about it, if you like. You're cleared for this by default." I drag another chair out from the table. She drops into it without asking. "Did they tell you what was going on?"

"I-" she shakes her head. "Tethered goat." She sounds faintly disgusted, but her face is a mask. "Is it over?"

I sit down next to her. "Yes. Definitely and forever. It's not going to happen again." I can see her relaxing. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

She looks at me sharply. "As long as it's the truth."

"It is." I look at the engine block gloomily. "Whose is this?"

She sighs. "I think it belongs to Brains. He brought it home yesterday; I don't know where he got it from."

"I'm going to have words with him."

"Won't be necessary; he said he's going to take it away when he moves out."

"What?"

I must look puzzled, because she frowns: "I forgot. Pinky and Brains are moving out. By the end of the week. I only found out yesterday, when I got back."

"Oh great." I glance at the collection of papers, pinned like butterflies to the corkboard: there's nothing like a change of flatmates to induce feelings of fear and loathing over the phone bill. "That's kind of short notice."

"I think it's been brewing for some time," she says quietly. "He said something about your attitude…" She trails off. "Hard to live with, so they're going to leave you to your cosy domesticity, unquote." Her eyes sparkle for a moment, angry and hard. "Know any sensitivity training camps with watchtowers and armed guards? I think he could do with an enforced vacation."