Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

his belt was a can of CS. He had a chain with a huge number of keys. “Shall we, sir?”

The politeness was baffling. It had been three days since David had had a conversation. “Shall we what?”

“Shall we go?”

As they walked out, the WPC said, “I’m Mary. This is Jonathon.”

“Hi Mary. Hi Jonathon. Sorry if I don’t shake your hands.”

His captors led him to the front of the police station where a van was waiting. David had guessed that he would be loaded from a secure courtyard, but the scene was the utterly mundane West Main Street. Twenty years ago, he had lived on an estate less than a mile away. He watched the cars, the shops, children led by their parents, the cold Scottish sunshine, the hubbub of life. He felt saddened.

He had been denied his phone call or email. He had been under the tightest security. The police at the station had no idea what crime he had committed. He was certain of that, because he had seen the sergeant’s charge sheet. His name was not on it.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday. Step into the van, please, sir.”

Awkwardly, David clambered inside. It was warm and smelled of diesel. He imagined his autopsy report. Suspect falls awkwardly: dies from crushed windpipe. Suspect enters van: dies from accidental exposure to exhaust gases. Mary and Jonathon got in too. “Shit, stinks in here,” Mary said. The spell of fear was broken.

There were two benches running each side of the van. David sat down and they fed his leg chain through a study hook in the floor. It seemed to be connected to the chassis.

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Ten minutes?” she asked Jonathon. He nodded and fastened his seatbelt.

“Sorry?” David had assumed they would cross into England. Down to a court in London. He closed his eyes but still saw them leading him into the woods, telling him to take a piss, loading their guns, blowing his brains out, burying the body.

“The church. Five or six miles away, I reckon.”

“Sorry, church?”

“Yes, for the funeral.”

“Whose funeral?” he asked carefully.

Mary gave him a wry smile. “I can’t remember what the bloke was called. He died in a climbing accident. I think there was a special request from his family that you should attend. Shoda?”

“Shaida, I think,” offered Jonathon.

“Shimoda? Bruce Shimoda?” asked David. “Died in a climbing accident?”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Did he or didn’t he? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Mary...” said Jonathon.

“Well, there can’t be any harm in asking.”

“Yes, there bloody can, lassie,” Jonathon warned.

She turned to David, who was thinking hard. “What are you then, a spy? Did you get caught?”

Do I look like a spy? he thought. “Give me a cigarette.”

Red leaves rained as the wind blew into the face of the church. A blue sign read:

A warm welcome to a Congregation of the Church of Scotland. All here are a part of the Presbyterian familly of the World-Wide Church of Jesus Christ. We have a history stretching back to 1658, and we’re confident of God’s Blessing for the next 300 years!

There were some community notices underneath it. The day was dull. The van had stopped in a large gravel car park outside the churchyard proper. It had taken twenty minutes, the last five up a steep hill through a collection of lovely houses, each more postcard perfect than the last.

“Can I take the chains off?” David asked.

“Sorry, mate,” replied Jonathon. “They need to stay on while you’re walking about. Orders are orders.”

David took a breath and span in a circle. High trees rose on three sides. Their leaves were red, bleeding in heaps. To the left, the valley wided. He looked up. Something moved in the air. For a moment, he thought he saw a pterodactyl. But it was a man-made glider, riding the thermals in increasing circles.

They walked inside. It was gloomy. An organ played. The foyer was carpeted red. Wooden panelling appeared here and there, almost at random, decades old. An elderly Asian gentleman was resting on a cane and dabbing his brow with a red handkerchief. As David shuffled in, the old man turned myopically in his direction and gestured that he should come forward.

Jonathon and Mary stepped quietly into the background.

“David. David Proctor.”

David did not know what to say. He could not meet his gaze. He muttered a Japanese greeting. “Shimoda-sama.”

The man bowed. “I asked the Japanese ambassador to arrange for you to attend. I am pleased he succeeded Did you kill Bruce?”

“Yes.”

Keiseke Shimoda considered this. “I loved my son, David. I did not always agree with his choice of profession. You remember the arguments we had. It appears we will have no more. That is sad.” He paused. “In my country, in our past, we had the ritual seppuku.”

“Ritual suicide,” David said. He wanted – needed – to say something more, but he knew that nothing would work. There were no words that could communicate his grief or assuage that of Bruce’s father. Language had its limits.

“Ah, suicide. That is the word. Seppuku is a brave death, David. Do you understand? It takes great courage to disembowel oneself. My father did so this way in 1945, following the surrender of Japan. He felt it was his duty. It is often the case that a relative will stand by, with a sword, and complete the death if one’s strength fails. For my father, my mother stood by. For Bruce, you stood by.”

“I...” David felt a dryness in his throat and desperately wanted to reach out to this man. But the other’s body language was quite closed.

“I would not have my father dead, David, or my son. I would have them alive, and perhaps we could share a drink and a meal. That will never happen. I do not believe that my son should have killed himself, but he did, and I am glad you ended his suffering cleanly, and with courage. Your chains are your distinction. You must wear them proudly.”

The old man