You'll Never Believe A Man Can Fly: Chapter Fourteen by Lee Barnett

Chapter Fourteen

The detritus of coffee cups on the table of Monkton and Doncaster would normally have signified great activity and large amounts of brainstorming. Davies knew this, if only because of the number of nights that he’d worked late in this very room, frantically sketching out press campaigns and media defences.

He still recalled the time when they’d been hired to represent a computer manufacturer whose chief executive had given an interview during which he’d admitted that the machines were never designed to last longer than a couple of years. Davies had known what the man meant: since software increased in power and memory requirements every year, the latest up to date machines this year would be effectively obsolete in three years. But the public, understandably, saw this as a company admitting that their products were useless, what was known in the trade as “doing a Ratner”.

After fourteen hours, Davies was the one who’d come up with the solution: an entire campaign based around the idea that most computer purchases were brought by families, and even then, the most frequent users were young adults. What did they care about? Fashion. So the campaign led on the dual concept that “we redesign them to be the most fashionable… and don’t you always want to be ahead of the crowd?” and for the mature adults, “we design them from new every year because we’re the best… and you deserve the best.”

The campaign had been a runaway success and had made his name in the agency. And Davies calculated that during those fourteen hours, he’d drunk a little under a hundred cups of coffee.

So when he’d been in a meeting with three others for only two hours, and there are, after only that length of time, the remains of over fifty cups of coffee either on the table or in the bins, Davies knew that meant that they should have gotten somewhere.

Except they hadn’t.

For a start, it had taken him twenty minutes to stop laughing, and when he’d finished, he’d spent another five minutes wiping his eyes. After that, he’d let Monkton talk. And after he’d finished, Williams took over, by now a fervent convert to the idea. Patt had then added his views, though far more cautiously.

And for the past couple of minutes, there had been silence in the room. Davies stood up, and the others stood as well. He looked at them. “Sit down, please, I’m not going… yet. I just wanted to stretch my legs.” Patt and Monkton sat down, the latter fiddling with a pen. Williams stayed standing, at least for a minute or so, before Davies, who’d started pacing, noticed him. He said “I said ‘sit down’,” and Williams sat, though not of his own volition. He’d simply found himself shoved down into his chair.

Davies continued pacing, the other three staying silent, even when they noticed that Davies was so deep in thought that he’d actually left the carpet and was pacing the air, as if on an invisible gentle slope. He got higher and higher and just before he banged his head on the ceiling, he blinked. There was a soft “oh, shit,” before he fell to the ground.

Williams jumped up and made as if to move to him, but Davies stood up and grinned ruefully, “That’s the second time that’s happened.”

He sat down and looked directly at Monkton. “I’ve considered your comments carefully,” he said, “but as of yet, I’m not convinced that anything you do will help the situation. Apart from anything else, there are four things that concern me.”

He lifted his index finger, obviously intending to count them off on his fingers. This was a habit of his, and though he didn’t know it, it irritated the hell out of both Williams and Monkton. Both of them, however, wisely decided to say nothing about it.

“First, any credibility I wanted in what Peter accurately described as a public,” he winced at the word, “identity has been utterly destroyed. If today is anything to go by, then if I appear again as the Public Defender, all that’s going to happen is that more people will take the piss out of me.”

Monkton started to say “Yes, well…” but stopped as Davies looked at him. “Let me finish, please, Peter. You can shoot me down in flames after I’ve concluded, ok?”

Monkton nodded, and gestured for him to continue.

“Number two,” Davies said, extending his middle finger and touching the opposite index finger to it, “as you’ve realised, and as no doubt one or more of the news media will report soon, The Public Defender is me. Ian Davies. I can say goodbye to any private life I had. And despite what you might have guessed from comic books or movies, I don’t have a huge backup to get myself a new identity.”

He looked at the others, as if challenging them to disagree with anything he’d said. Sensibly, they all stayed silent, Williams scribbling on a scratchpad and Patt taking a large swallow of coffee. Only Monkton was looking directly at him. Davies had always liked Monkton, although with the necessary fear that came along with working for a self made man who never missed an opportunity to remind you of it. But this evening, he was developing a respect for the man that far outweighed any previous feelings. He seemed to be the only one that was unafraid of him. Though how much of that was pretence Davies didn’t know.

He touched the tip of his ring finger with the index finger of his other hand and went on. “Number three. As well as the end of any private life, I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do for money.” At this, all three of them looked at him, and he laughed at the idea that they were about to protest. “No, don’t insult me by pretending that I can continue here. I’ve enough experience in this game to know that if I stayed here, the agency is finished as a serious player in the market. And I respect and like this place too much to allow that to happen. And so do you. When were you planning on firing me? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

Monkton and Williams looked at each other. Of course, Davies was right. No-one would ever take them seriously again with Davies as an employee. It was partly for that reason that Monkton had offered their services as representatives. As an employee, it was hopeless. As a client? The possibilities were almost endless.

Davies didn’t wait for an answer, and extended his last finger. “Fourthly. As far as I know, and I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, I’m this planet’s first real super-powered human. And yet I don’t know really how I got my powers, nor what their affect upon me or others is going to be.”

Patt couldn’t help himself. He interjected with “or others?”

Davies turned to him. “Of course ‘or others’. I’ve no idea whether or not anyone else can be affected just be standing near me, for example. I doubt there are any effects, simply because if there were, I think we’d know about them by now. After all,” he said, looking directly at Patt, “I spent a day working here before there were any big effects on me, and I was working with other people during that time…”

Patt suddenly looked even paler.

“But,” Davies said, “what my main point on number four is… it’s that I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. In the space of thirty six hours, I’ve gone from having the odd scar or shaving cut heal up, my body healing itself from a bullet wound, to being able to move small things with my mind, to being able to fly to… well…” He looked at the three of them and they were lifted out of their chairs before being gently put down in them again.

Monkton looked at his watch, and stood up. “OK, Ian – let me suggest this much. You’re in a spot of bother.”

Davies laughed, a harsh sound.

“Ian, you asked us to let you finish…” Davies smiled and nodded, so Monkton continued. “Can I suggest you let us think on this for the day and then come back tomorrow? After work, I think would be best. Say seven o’clock?”

Davies nodded again. Twenty four hours wouldn’t make a lot of difference, he thought.

“Where are you staying tonight?” Williams asked.

“Do you know, that hadn’t even occurred to me,” said Davies, truthfully. “I can’t go home and any friends’ places are out for obvious reasons.”

Williams’ next words surprised him. Williams pulled out a set of keys, detached two and tossed them to Davies. “Stay at my London flat. I can stay with Peter tonight. That ok, Peter? You can relax, Ian, and take it easy for the night.”

Monkton, who had a large town house, signified his agreement to the arrangement, thinking that it was a superb idea. At least they’d know where he was and could get hold of him. But Williams had already thought of that. “And do yourself a favour – take the phones out of the sockets and turn your mobile off.”

“I left the mobile at the hospital,” Davies said, remembering now where he’d left it.

“There’s food in the fridge, but there’s an all night place about ten minutes walk away, in case you want anything else,” Williams added, scribbling down the address and directions to the shop. He handed the paper to Davies, together with five twenty pound notes. “By the way,” he asked, “out of pure curiosity, when was the last time you shaved?”

“Erm, the day before yesterday, just before I came to work, why, do I look rough?” Davies asked, going to rub his chin.

“No, that’s just the point. You look like you shaved five minutes ago.”

Davies realised it was true. His chin and face were completely smooth.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Williams said, “it looks like everyone else has left. So you can use the door on the way out, ok?”

There was complete silence in the large briefing room as Grable froze the image from the DVD on the screen. It was interrupted by the release of several sharp intakes of breath, including that of the Prime Minister.

Docherty who had seen the video sequence before was still shaken. The Prime Minister, having watched it once, had asked to see it again, immediately. And, after that, a third time. Docherty admired the man’s fortitude. Once had been enough for him.

“How could…?” The Prime Minister stopped, wiped his forehead from the beads of sweat that had appeared and shook his head. “How could they…?”

Grable stood and answered. “If what you’re asking, Prime Minister, is ‘how could they do that?’ The answer is I don’t know. And more than that, I don’t know if there is an answer that is scientifically valid. The rats were dead. There’s no question of that. Their life signs had terminated.”

From across the room, a voice quietly said “they were ex-rats, they had ceased to be,” and unbelievably, there was a shocking and shocked burst of laughter from some of those present. Not from the PM though, who sent the speaker a look that could have curdled milk at twenty paces. “Thank you, Bernard.” The man who’d spoken coloured and dropped his eyes.

All eyes stared at the image and all thoughts were of the frightful violence that had presaged it. What was left of one rat looked directly at the camera with its sole remaining eye, as if it knew the camera was there. What was left of the other two rats was not in any state to even move, let alone stare anywhere.

“Bloody hell,” said the Chief of Staff of the British Armed Forces, neatly summing up the view of the room. He’d served in Northern Ireland at the most violent time of the Troubles, and seen the results of car bombs and terrorist attacks. But he’d never been shaken like he had been over the last fifteen minutes.

“And as well as that,” he pointed at the screen, “you’re saying that we have a human being with powers that compare to a comic book super-hero…”

“Or super-villain?” added the Leader of the Opposition.

“Well, yes…” Grable said. She didn’t think there was a lot to add to that, but in a day filled with surprises, there was one more coming.

“Doctor Grable?” asked one of the Americans.

“Yes,” she replied, not being able to remember whether this was the CIA man or the other one. His next question told her the answer: it was the other one.

“Can you tell us please the exact parameters of the experiments your team performed on these rodents?”

“Certainly,” she said. “We subjected the rats to an exposure of the material. They died. Next?”

“My apologies,” the American said, clearly not apologising in the least, “if I could prevail upon you for the exact,” he stressed the word, “parameters.”

Grable looked around the room, making a quick estimation. “With due respect, sir, you, Sir Anthony and maybe three or four others in this room might understand the implications of the question you’ve asked, but I’m pretty certain that only those people would understand the answer.” He smiled in polite acknowledgement of, and more than polite agreement with, her comment. She opened her folder and removed a set of stapled papers. She tossed them across the table to him, and he nodded in acknowledgement as he read them in silence, apart from a brief “These are accurate?” addressed to Grable about half way through his reading and a “Holy Christ!” towards the end.

After he’d finished reading, he said to the room, “We have a Condition Blue,” at which everyone in the room except Docherty, his Head of Section and Grable reacted. The first two didn’t react because they had been trained far too well for that; the latter didn’t react because she had no clue what that was.

Docherty looked at his boss and took the hint from the nod of his head. “If you’ll excuse us, Prime Minister, committee members,” he said, and whispered to Grable, “On your feet, Betty.” They left the room and went into a small ante-room. Grable noticed that the door to the room was immediately darkened by the presence of a large soldier.

“What’s going on in there now?” she asked.

“Now?” Docherty repeated, wishing desperately for a cigarette. “Now they’re discussing what to do. And how many.”

“What to do?” she asked.

“Yes, what to do,” he replied, and she knew that he wouldn’t say any more in answer.

“Well, what do you mean, ‘and how many’?” she asked, trying another tack.

“Well, if you are right about there being both a super-human and the human equivalent of those rats out there, and I think you are,” he responded carefully, “then what they’re considering is how many people are going to die before this is all over…”

This week's artist: David Callan
David Callan, who turned to art after leaving the army and working for a scrap metal dealer before... ok, no, no point in pretending - I hit a deadline crisis, but didn't want to leave you with no images to go along with it... This was something I mocked up for next week's chapter, but thought you'd like to see it anyway. next week, a real artist again.
- Lee