Evensong

The Dead had the most simple and self-contained part of the process, though it was physically impossible for anyone else.The parts before and after were more complex, less clear-cut, and didn’t end. The people who undertook them couldn’t go back into a comfort zone afterwards.

“Forty-love to me, I think,” Carne murmured.

But this time, Anwar would have to do the before and after parts himself. He couldn’t just guard her reactively. He had to identify and locate those who threatened her. And here was one of their minor functionaries. Clever and self-assured, and more experienced at this than Anwar; but there might be a way. When the instruments came. Until then...

“So you’re a member of the Johnsonian Society.”

“Yes."

“So am I.”

“Really?” Carne was mildly, but genuinely, surprised. “I haven’t seen you at any functions.”

“I don’t often get to London, but I’ve been a member for years. I keep all the Society’s newsletters.”

“You’ll have seen my articles, then.”

“Yes, that’s where I remembered your name…What makes you a Johnsonian?”

“Oh, that’s easy. He had an opinion about everything. His own, original opinion.”

“Exactly,” Anwar said, nodding enthusiastically. “Always an original opinion. He was High Church, High Tory, but anti-slavery. Risky, in those times. For a man of his class and profession.”

Carne was now genuinely excited. “Did you hear about my talk the other day? It was called...”

‘Mask: The Nature Of Individual Identity In Postmodern Literature.’ Yes, I saw it advertised in the newsletter. No offence, but I thought it sounded rather pretentious.”

“None taken. I was never really happy about the title.”

“Also,” Anwar continued, “it didn’t sound like the kind of literary criticism Doctor Johnson would have recognised…Ah, here are the things I asked for.”

He turned as Gaetano wheeled in a hospital trolley full of surgical instruments.

“What is it she usually says?” he asked Gaetano.“Leave us. Give us this room.”

Carne was looking at the surgical instruments, almost as dispassionately and appraisingly as Anwar.

“Let’s save time,” Anwar told him. “I’m supposed to ask who you’re working for, and you’re supposed to say nothing. So let’s assume we’ve had that conversation. Now we move to the part where I help you.”

Gaetano had arranged a good selection of laser scalpels on the surgical trolley.

“Never mind these things here. I promise I won’t kill you, and I won’t cause you pain. I do have the necessary surgical skills...”

There were even some antique stainless steel scalpels. All arranged neatly.

“...and before I start using these things, I’ll give you a local anaesthetic. So. No death and no pain. This is what I’m going to do.

“I’ll trap you, permanently, inside your own head. No light, or sound, or touch, or words, or communication of any kind. I’ll give you to yourself. You’ll inhabit yourself, and nothing else.

“How will I do that, Mr. Carne? Your Eyes. Eardrums. Tongue. Hands. Feet. I’ll surgically remove them all. I’ll leave your eyes to last, so you can see everything I’m doing.”

Carne said nothing. His expression hadn’t changed.

“I could leave you in some stinking twitten or catcreep in the Lanes,” Anwar went on, “but I won’t. I’ll leave you near a hospital, where people will find you and care for you. But you’ll never be able to communicate with them. Or with anyone, except yourself.”

Carne spoke at last. “You know, I’ve actually done things like that; but I bet you haven’t. You’ve only read about them.” He smiled. “I must read the same books you do.”

Anwar had thought that would be his ace. He’d remembered it from a biography of Parvin Marek, who’d used the threat very successfully in interrogations. And Carne had just batted it back.

“And you couldn’t do it,” Carne added. “You can keep me for twenty-four hours, then you have to place me in the custody of the local police. They’d probably notice if you’d removed my—what was it?—hands, feet, tongue, eardrums and eyes.”

“Then we’d ship you by VSTOL to Kuala Lumpur and do it there.”

“No you wouldn’t. Even Rafiq wouldn’t sanction it.”

“The Controller-General wouldn’t know.” Anwar didn’t like the ease with which Rafiq’s name rolled off the other man’s tongue.

“Yes he would. Rafiq knows everything. Or you think he does. Actually, about now Rafiq is probably beginning to realize he doesn’t know everything.”

Anwar’s turn not to answer.

“I know what you are,” Carne added conversationally. “Only a few like you in the world.”

“Yes, I heard the first time.”

“Two less, now.”

“What? What did you say?”

Carne smiled but didn’t reply. Still, he hadn’t tripped any poison implants yet.

Desperately, Anwar ramped it up. “There are surgical techniques to restore some of what I’ll do to you. New eyes and eardrums and tongue. Prosthetic hands and feet. But they’re expensive. When the hospital identifies you from your DNA, they’ll check your bank accounts, but the UN will have emptied them.”

Still Carne smiled but said nothing.