Stephen stepped up from
Green Park tube into the light. It was another fine morning. 8am
exactly. As per his routine Stephen cut away from the crowds, people
hurrying along to work, and the leafleters and newspaper barkers
already at work. He stood at the park gates and felt a gentle, happy
swell. Unlike them he had time, precious time. He looked at his watch
again, 8:02am, and set off.
One of the major
non-outlined benefits of being a civil servant was you could set your
own time. Stephen needed time. He needed time for space. Normally he
was dogged, every second of the day. People:
1) emailed him
2) texted him
3) phoned him, quite often out of hours
always wanting things outcomed, authorised or deferred. That was what he was paid for. Stephen was a rising star. But his time was filling up, meeting after meeting. Not that he didn't make them work for his wisdom.
1) emailed him
2) texted him
3) phoned him, quite often out of hours
always wanting things outcomed, authorised or deferred. That was what he was paid for. Stephen was a rising star. But his time was filling up, meeting after meeting. Not that he didn't make them work for his wisdom.
Every morning, prior
to work, Stephen self-tabled to go jogging. He would justify it
to anyone who asked by saying it kept him fit but he'd seen the
pollution charts and Stephen knew that exercise in central
London was a mixed blessing. He went jogging though because it
allowed him to look inward. He was an outgoing man with an outgoing
job. He had to be many things to many people, responsibilties he
couldn't turn his back on. His time was quantised, down to five
minute slots, and given away. There was so little left it made
him query what was at the centre of it all, who was he, what bit
of him was him?
The more he looked though the stranger it got. He cleared his mental chart by jogging and yet what came to the surface was work stuff, the ticklish problems, ones that, being honest, he enjoyed. Things like:
a) rail subsidy negotiations
b) air-traffic immunology
c) car-theft algorithms
see this week's case-conferences (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Perhaps this was him, perhaps it went all the way down like a fractal, a never-ending pattern. But perhaps he was hiding something from himself, something he didn't want to see or acknowledge. Why would he do something like that though? He found these questions fascinating. Stephen tried applying some adjectives to how he felt thinking this. His non-definitive list included:
i) cold
ii) precise
iii) involuted-pseudorecursive
but he wasn't sure about the last one. He didn't know what it meant.
It took, how long did it take, Stephen looked again, 8:04am, it took at least two minutes for his mind to settle, and it had settled on the problem how to develop an equation for the inverse ratio of efficiency. It was really just another variation on the old problem of administration: how to quantify everything? In fact Stephen was due at an inter-departmental meeting at 11:30am to discuss this very issue.
The more he looked though the stranger it got. He cleared his mental chart by jogging and yet what came to the surface was work stuff, the ticklish problems, ones that, being honest, he enjoyed. Things like:
a) rail subsidy negotiations
b) air-traffic immunology
c) car-theft algorithms
see this week's case-conferences (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Perhaps this was him, perhaps it went all the way down like a fractal, a never-ending pattern. But perhaps he was hiding something from himself, something he didn't want to see or acknowledge. Why would he do something like that though? He found these questions fascinating. Stephen tried applying some adjectives to how he felt thinking this. His non-definitive list included:
i) cold
ii) precise
iii) involuted-pseudorecursive
but he wasn't sure about the last one. He didn't know what it meant.
It took, how long did it take, Stephen looked again, 8:04am, it took at least two minutes for his mind to settle, and it had settled on the problem how to develop an equation for the inverse ratio of efficiency. It was really just another variation on the old problem of administration: how to quantify everything? In fact Stephen was due at an inter-departmental meeting at 11:30am to discuss this very issue.
As he plodded along,
down the hill, through the gap between the field of
stochastic death chairs (death chairs?) deckchairs and St
James's Palace, he pondered the matter. The fact the... the park
was quiet, very few people around. The fact of further
efficiency savings meant of course that departments would find it
harder to meet their statutory requirements with regards to the
services they provided. Onto a path and right toward the Canada
Memorial. In the long run it was just a... matter of changing those
requirements, but how and when... and in what way? Lots of public
services... were difficult to measure, health, education...
sanitation and... Canada, culture and so on were...
Were those footsteps?
Stephen listened as he jogged, the patter of feet on the path, there was someone behind him. He stopped for a second, falling into a crouch, have a breather, let them pass... but they didn't. It took a second to register. Without looking Stephen mopped his brow, it was warm, another fine morning, then glanced at his watch, 8.07am, shook his head and got back up again. The fact of further efficiency savings would... He listened again, there were the footsteps again, echoing his. Stephen glanced over his shoulder briefly. There was someone running behind him, about ten yards or so. He didn't catch the man's face, as they were looking away. He assumed it was a man... It was OK, not to worry, he was just jogging too, another jogger, dressed like him doing exactly what he was doing, that's all.
On, past the Canada Memorial. This was getting... the footsteps were still there. Stephen went across the grass toward the path parallel to Constitution Hill. He listened. The steps had followed him. The jogger had followed him. What to...? No. Stop.
Stephen listened as he jogged, the patter of feet on the path, there was someone behind him. He stopped for a second, falling into a crouch, have a breather, let them pass... but they didn't. It took a second to register. Without looking Stephen mopped his brow, it was warm, another fine morning, then glanced at his watch, 8.07am, shook his head and got back up again. The fact of further efficiency savings would... He listened again, there were the footsteps again, echoing his. Stephen glanced over his shoulder briefly. There was someone running behind him, about ten yards or so. He didn't catch the man's face, as they were looking away. He assumed it was a man... It was OK, not to worry, he was just jogging too, another jogger, dressed like him doing exactly what he was doing, that's all.
On, past the Canada Memorial. This was getting... the footsteps were still there. Stephen went across the grass toward the path parallel to Constitution Hill. He listened. The steps had followed him. The jogger had followed him. What to...? No. Stop.
Stephen stopped again.
Silence, except for the rustle of wind in the trees, no sound, except
for the purr of engines on the road, nothing, except the chatter of a
group of school children across the street. Stephen turned around,
carefully. No footsteps. Yes, there was the Person, the Jogger. It
was a man, he was dressed like him, his height and
hair colour too and perhaps even his age. He seemed oddly
familiar. He had his back to Stephen though. Did he know him? What
was this, a coincidence? Stephen turned back again. Facing away from
the Man he took two large, deliberate strides then turned quickly on
his heel. Snap! The Man, the Follower had done exactly the same. He
was following Stephen. A jolt, Stephen took off, briskly,
then in a ramping swell of panic he began to run.
Remember agent training... what to do if you're... Stephen looked around... the park was quiet... remember what to do if you're... he was alone... not alone... Stephen glanced back, quick as a flash. He was still being followed and at the same distance. He didn't see the Man's face. Zigzagging in waves through the trees... Stephen was panicking... He couldn't remember what to do it was so long since... He tried to sprint but the effort was beginning to tell and he was still being followed by... he couldn't quite... Get somewhere, yes, it came to him, get somewhere people could see you, that was it... or was it a false memory...? It made sense though. Had he done this before...? It was so long...
Stephen made for the Wellington Monument, still being followed. The lights on the crossing were green, good... there were people there too but, um... no one seemed to notice. No one could see he was being followed by... he couldn't quite see but he could hear... Stephen looked back again, longer this time. The Man was looking away, definitely looking away. Another surge of panic... Over the next set of traffic lights, they were red this time. Stephen had to dodge the traffic with nimble, adrenalised steps. He was running on... Lucky, but he was still being followed by... Through the garden, onto Rotten Row, out again onto Knightsbridge but he could still hear the footsteps just behind him... he was slowing now... he slowed... Somewhere around the French embassy he slowed... heavy breaths... aching legs... his footfall slowed... no one seemed to notice he was being followed by... His pursuer's footsteps slowed too... He slowed until he couldn't take it any more... Stephen... stopped...
Remember agent training... what to do if you're... Stephen looked around... the park was quiet... remember what to do if you're... he was alone... not alone... Stephen glanced back, quick as a flash. He was still being followed and at the same distance. He didn't see the Man's face. Zigzagging in waves through the trees... Stephen was panicking... He couldn't remember what to do it was so long since... He tried to sprint but the effort was beginning to tell and he was still being followed by... he couldn't quite... Get somewhere, yes, it came to him, get somewhere people could see you, that was it... or was it a false memory...? It made sense though. Had he done this before...? It was so long...
Stephen made for the Wellington Monument, still being followed. The lights on the crossing were green, good... there were people there too but, um... no one seemed to notice. No one could see he was being followed by... he couldn't quite see but he could hear... Stephen looked back again, longer this time. The Man was looking away, definitely looking away. Another surge of panic... Over the next set of traffic lights, they were red this time. Stephen had to dodge the traffic with nimble, adrenalised steps. He was running on... Lucky, but he was still being followed by... Through the garden, onto Rotten Row, out again onto Knightsbridge but he could still hear the footsteps just behind him... he was slowing now... he slowed... Somewhere around the French embassy he slowed... heavy breaths... aching legs... his footfall slowed... no one seemed to notice he was being followed by... His pursuer's footsteps slowed too... He slowed until he couldn't take it any more... Stephen... stopped...
Stephen stopped and
crouched in a way now pursuant to his actual condition of oxygen debt
through prolonged exertion and stress. Even in his present state
Stephen was able to ascertain that pedestrians, such as there were
any, still did not appreciably notice anything untoward in this
scenario. He checked his watch, as was habitual (habitual?), and saw
it was 8:23am. It took a further few seconds Stephen to also register
that that despite having stopped he was neither apprehended nor
hailed by his unknown pursuer.
He stood up again,
perspiring and still breathing heavily and looked, confirming to
himself that the Pursuer had indeed stopped. They were further along
Knightsbridge, just past the Hyde Park Barracks. The Man was standing
still, ten yards away, looking back down the road and facing away
from Stephen once more, the same pose as before.
After feeling a volley
of emotions Stephen was now uncertain, almost curious as to what was
going on. He had a feeling. Had this happened before...? Stephen
raised a hand to point and the Man did likewise. Shock reverberated
through him, it evanesced, yes he used that word, thinking it in
earnest, it evanesced into an even more potent fascination. Stephen
took a step forward and the Erstwhile Follower did the same. Another
step, another reciprocation. What was going on? Stephen was no longer
afraid, he wanted to know. Step, step, step, stride; people were
still passing by, unaware, but Stephen was now no longer afraid.
“Hey” he shouted.
“Hey...! You...!” But, for the first time, this did not draw a
response, there was no response. Fascination was now falling away,
curdling into anger. Stephen began to run, then sprint again, but he
could not reach the Man. They ran back down the road toward the
junction with Sloane Street. Stephen was now propelled by something
like rage, his tiredness fell away, faster, but still he could not
reach the Man. They crossed the junction, the lights seemed to turn
in the right order. People, now finally catching on, seemed to part
for the two men running, even if he wasn't catching... All the way
down Sloane Street, they kept running. A new flood of emotions washed
through Stephen, quickly, tossed around and barely registering but
they were there... grief, trepidation, joy, frustration, anguish,
pseudorecursion... Left at the round-a-bout, toward Belgravia. Still
in hot pursuit, he wasn't running in anger any more. He wasn't sure
what he was running on, the ground felt frictionless. Stephen called
out again:
“Stop...!” Another
turn now, down terraced streets, compressed mansions with elongated
doors and frictionless steps, places Stephen did not recognise,
unfamiliar... Faster, yet faster, yet, they were going too quickly,
everything was going too quickly... “Stop...! Please...! What...?”
Yes, Stephen realised something was going on. No matter how hard he
tried he could not reach the Man. Something was going on, something
strange... “Please” he said. “Please stop. I know... I want to
know... I...” He felt about five years old, pleading with the Man.
A left, a right, a left again: “PLEASE... Is this... some... can...
what...?” Another turn. The pair reached an alleyway a yawning dead
end, a brick wall, a strange place that perhaps shouldn't have been
there, yet, there it was... There they were. Both Stephen and the Man
came to a halt. “Please...” said Stephen, breathing hard, “I
want to know... Is this a sign...? What's going on...?”
“Turn around” said
the Man. He spoke slowly. “Twenty-to-nine, turn around and you will
see.” The Man had a familiar voice. Stephen did as he was told, he
turned and saw all the way down then back up as he stepped up from
Green Park tube into the light. It was another fine morning. 8am
exactly. As per his routine, Stephen cut away from the crowds, people
hurrying along to work, and the leafleters and newspaper barkers
already at work. Stephen stood at the park gates and felt a gentle,
happy swell. Unlike them he had time. He looked at his watch again,
8:02am, and set off.
