After five days they pronounced us “free and liberated”. Just like the Pentagon, I thought. We shouldn’t have any more trouble they assured us. But just in case, they gave us each a silver medallion to wear around our necks, charged and sanctified in the SDA laboratories and triggered with our own special enactment prayer. We had to say the prayer when we woke up or went to sleep or ate anything (“even a piece of chewing gum” my caseworker told me) or washed our hands or went to the bathroom—but especially if we felt afraid. “Remember,” my caseworker said, “fear is the danger sign. Don’t ignore it. Don’t convince yourself it’s nothing or it’s just nervousness. In all likelihood it will be nothing, but don’t ignore it. Any time you feel afraid, say your protection.”
We were standing on the lawn and she was giving me a last-minute lecture, but I was really just looking for Paul. I knew my folks had finished, but where was Paul? Suddenly I saw him, in the doorway shaking hands with his own caseworker. He was laughing.
“Paul!” I shouted, and ran over and hugged him. I felt like a dumb kid, but I couldn’t help myself. He looked so wonderful, so healthy. He separated from me, grinned, then hugged me again. He was wearing a shirt I’d never seen before. It looked new and I wondered if his caseworker had given it to him.
Ms Birkett’s people drove us home. I wanted to ask how they liked working for her and stuff like that, but it didn’t feel like the time. My folks said almost nothing, just stared out the window. Paul did most of the talking. He talked about getting back to work, about whether he should give back the promotions (he laughed when he said it, and then added “But why shouldn’t I get something out of this? I’ve sure as hell suffered enough.”), how great it was not to feel scared all the time, how he almost wished he could have seen Lisa’s face when they banished her from the building. And yet, when he stopped talking and turned to the window, I could see him trembling.
I didn’t see Paul too much during the next few weeks. We talked a couple of times, and he told me a little about all the questions they’d asked him about Lisa and what he’d done with her. But nothing about what had happened to him over the five days in the safe house. And then he stopped calling me, and to be honest I didn’t call him.
I didn’t see Alison Birkett, either. I don’t know why, I kept wanting to call her, to make up some excuse why I had to go downtown so I could visit her. But somehow I never did it. It wasn’t because of what had happened by the river. At least I don’t think it was. I mean, I knew very well that the thing with Black Dust 7 was not Alison Birkett. But maybe I thought if I saw her I would have to tell her. I don’t know. So instead, I went to the library and read about her, everything I could find.
I also didn’t see much of my friends. The thing was, I still couldn’t tell them. The agreement with the government demanded that we keep the whole thing secret. I guess I could have made up some story how I’d met Alison Birkett, but what was the point if I couldn’t give the real reason? And I didn’t feel much like talking with them if I couldn’t talk about everything that had happened. So I mostly went to the library, or stayed home and watched TV, or else rode my bike down to the shore.
And every day I said my words. And did my enactments and made my offerings.
Three weeks passed before the “incident” happened. That’s what the newspapers called it later. There were two, really, mine and Paul’s, but Paul’s was more spectacular. My incident took place in a teashop on Northern Boulevard, near my home. I’d been down in the library, feeling sleepy, so I thought, I know, I’ll go have some tea. Ye Village Tea Parlore (no kidding, that’s really what they called it) had just opened, selling lots of herb teas and gooey cakes and yoghurt and blueberry scones.
So I was sitting there at a glass-topped iron table in a pink chair that hurt my back, when this kid came in. He looked about my age, but he sure didn’t look like anyone from this neighbourhood. He wore a torn T-shirt and dumpy jeans and shoes with big holes in them. And he started to spray paint graffiti all over the walls. I couldn’t believe it. Just coming in off the street like that. I turned around, figuring someone would come charging from the kitchen to throw him out. Instead, the waitress and the owner just stood there, watching. And then they turned to me. And smiled. With my face. They looked just like me, except they were versions of me all pitted with disease.
I looked again at the graffiti. My name was all over it. And the rest of it—it went on and on about blood and filth and lot of things I don’t want to repeat. Behind me one of the women laughed, an hysterical giggle.
Don’t panic, I ordered myself. You’re protected. I grabbed hold of my medallion. It felt hot in my hand—like it was angry. I whispered my private formula. The boy’s grin faded. Behind me the laughter stopped. I said the protection again, louder this time. The boy’s face spasmed and he dropped his spray can. Wow. I grinned. You bastards, I thought, I’ve got something that can make you hurt.
I was tempted to go after them, but instead I just got myself out of there. I backed out of the door, and when I got to my bike I held on tight to my medallion and kept saying the words while I fumbled open the lock. Finally I got it free and rode off as fast as I could.
When I got home I dropped the bike on the lawn and ran up to my room where I called Alison Birkett. “Damn,” she said (in the middle of everything I really liked an adult cursing and not apologizing). “This should not have happened. This is not going to happen again.”
“Can I come see you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please do. And I’ll start making some phone calls. I apologize to you, Ms Pierson. This should not have happened.”
I called my mother and told her I’d be back a little later than I’d thought, then rode my bike to the train station. When I got to the office, Ms Birkett had just heard from Paul. He’d been in a taxi which had started going faster and faster, until he realized the driver planned to drive it straight into the side of Paul’s office building. At the last moment, Paul said his protection and the taxi suddenly blew out all four tyres so that it grated to a stop halfway up the sidewalk. In the middle of all the screaming people Paul escaped the car and ran up to his office, where he locked the door and called Ms Birkett.
While she told me the news, she kept her fist clenched. I kept expecting her to bang it on the desktop. She also told me how Paul had encountered signs all week long and ignored them. The phone would ring and he’d hear nothing but liquid sounds, like running water. Once, he was taking a shower and the water became incredibly sweet, like perfume. And one night he was watching TV when instead of a commercial he just heard a soft voice calling his name over and over.
“That’s one way they work,” Ms Birkett said. “They lure you off your guard with subtle seduction, and then they attack. Your cousin should have called me immediately. I suspect his laxness emboldened them to attack you as well. But”—and she pointed a finger at the air—“that does not excuse this happening. The government assured us that the Beings would control Black Dust 7. If anything, it sounds like they’re helping her.” She picked up the phone. “Marjorie,” she said, “get me Jack Morally on the phone. Right now.”
Wow, I thought. The head of the SDA. “Do you want me to wait outside?” I said.
“No,” she said, and switched on the speaker. “I want you to hear this.” For eight minutes (I timed it) she shouted at Jonathan Moralty. She was sarcastic, she threatened him, she sounded like a school principal putting down a gym teacher. At the end, he swore to her that it would not happen again, that the defence would hold, that he could and would compel “the other side” to keep their commitments and constrain Black Dust 7. He promised to investigate, to let her know (“in days, not weeks” she told him) who had let down their guard, what had happened, what he was going to do about it, and on and on. It was incredible. “Wow,” I said as she hung up the phone. I grinned at her. “Wow.”