Jack Turning

Jack Turning did not appreciate his little meetings with the representatives from Huang Enterprises. They always sent some weedy, humourless man in a creaseless suit who never knew more than the information he had been sent to give. Jack had met one earlier that day, in an empty hotel conference room. The man was like all the others, dressed as if he was about to climb in his coffin, with a disposition just as cold and bloodless.

Jack had joined The Borrowed Gun with a belief in the cause—a powerful statement to the world that third-world countries would no longer tolerate the rape of their land and their dignity—but somewhere along the way, things had become complicated. Suddenly it was a non-profit movement backed by the most profit-hungry corporation on the planet. But they needed the corporation. Its intelligence. The weaponry. The money. They were consorting with the devil to buy a ticket into heaven, he knew. But the pressure from his Borrowed Gun comrades was growing too. It needed to be done, he was told. The Borrowed Gun was now larger than ever, with factions arising in cities across the world. The price they had to pay to save the rest of the world would have to be their few souls.

The meeting was short, thankfully. The representative from Huang Enterprises expressed his appreciation of The Borrowed Gun’s compliance. He’d heard about the raid on the Gausen Tower, and said it was an unfortunate business, but there was a saying about omelettes and broken eggs.

Jack didn’t feel the same way. A protest outside the telecommunication tower had been planned, but things had gone wrong, badly wrong, and now people were dead. Too many bloody people. It was a tragic mess, and they were all accountable.

The man in the suit nodded.

A tragic, tragic mess, indeed.

The plan had been to cut the power to the tower and raid the offices, not to murder people, but tensions had risen, violence had erupted, and more than sixty people had met the grisly end of their lives. Jack Turning hadn’t been there himself, but he’d heard about it from his friend Charles, and he’d seen it on the news. No. It had been a disaster, and now the nation would overturn every table and crash through every door to find anyone in the region associated with The Borrowed Gun.

The man in the suit said not to worry.

There was a place they could go to, to stay low.

“There’s an island,” the man in the suit said, sitting in that conference room in front of Jack. “A floating island, perfect for your needs. And for ours.”

Jack Turning sat in his parked car and explained the outcome of the meeting to Charles. Charles was a comrade, someone whom Jack could trust. Charles had been there when it happened. He’d tried his best to calm the crowd, temper the increasing agitation, but in the end he had been powerless to stop the horde. He’d even been injured in the process. A long red laceration ran from his forehead to his ear. His eye was blue and swollen. His clothes, ripped.

Jack grabbed a box of cigarettes from his top pocket. The lighter shook in his hand as he lit up. “The island’s a few weeks away by ship. It’s ours if we want it. He promised. You, me, your family, friends. We can take it. Make a new home for ourselves.”

Charles sighed and closed his eyes. It had been a long day. A long and terrible day.

“Why? Why would Huang give us an island?”

Jack dragged on his cigarette. “It’s owned by a former Huang employee. The guy’s a geneticist gone rogue. Had the island built. Stole equipment for himself and is now sailing the ocean at Huang’s expense. He’s dangerous, they said, needs to be stopped. So that’s the deal. We take him out, and we take the island.”

“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I don’t know.”

“Look. Today was bad, and it’s not going to end. They’re going to hunt us down for what happened. We’re not safe here anymore. But we can be—you, Jane, Anubis. I guarantee that, Charles.”

Charles stared out the window into the night. “How we gonna get there?” he asked.

“A ship. There’ll be a ship in two weeks. That’s a lot of time to hang around here. We’ll have to lay low.”

“Jesus. This wasn’t what we wanted, Jack.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to help this world.”

“And we will, we will. Once we’ve helped ourselves. We’ll make it what it’s meant to be, do what we have to do, but for now …” He didn’t finish his sentence. He’d said enough. Charles was hurting and exhausted. They were parked outside Charles’s house, a pretty little single-storey on a quiet street that offered no hint of the madness and mayhem that had occurred only a few hours earlier, less than twenty kilometres away.

“I’m going in. I need to see Jane, and Anubis,” Charles said, and unlocked the door.

“Okay, my friend,” Jack said, his hand hovering over the blue console beside his wheel.

“Come in,” Charles said. “Come say hi to Jane.”

“No, I—”

“Come on, Jack. Have a coffee. You need to come down from this. You’ve got a long drive back.”

“Okay, just a quick cup, then I need to get going.” The two men walked up to the house. Jane opened the door and Charles hobbled in. Concerned and confused, she led him to the bathroom to clean his cuts and find out what had happened.

Jack stood in the living room by himself. He looked at the framed pictures on the walls. Charles, Jane and their young son Anubis.

“What happened to my duh-duh-dad?”

Jack turned and saw a boy standing in the doorway, wearing a yellow nightshirt and blue shorts. The boy was no older than eleven, perhaps twelve. Anubis. Jack once asked Charles why they’d named their son after a jackal-headed god and Charles said his wife simply liked the sound of it. She thought it was strong. Jack wasn’t so sure; he thought it was weird. A weird name and a weird kid, but then what did Jack know about kids?

“Your dad was a hero today.”

“Bed, Anubis. Now!” Jack smiled awkwardly as Jane rushed into the living room to usher her son out of the room. He sat on the sofa, grabbed a magazine from the coffee table, flipped through it, and then stood back up. He could still hear Charles and his wife in the bathroom. She was crying and he was saying, over and over again, “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

Jack walked to the bathroom. The door was open and he could see Charles sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Jane was dabbing his cuts with cotton wool.

“Charles,” Jack said. “I’m going. You get some rest.”

“Okay, Jack.”

“And remember what we talked about. Think about it. It’s the smart thing to do.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, Jane,” Jack said. “Everything will be all right.” She bit her lip and nodded.

Jack closed the front door behind him and walked quickly down the path. The moment he was in his car he lit another cigarette. He inhaled deeply, filling the car with smoke. Then he flicked the butt out the window and started the engine. The car hummed to life and Jack pulled out of the quiet street. Before long he was on the highway that would take him back to Beaufort West where he’d been staying for a few weeks, in a tacky dive called the Blue Caribou.

As he drove through the dark night the rain began to fall, lightly at first, and then harder, heavy sheets pouring down. Jack thought about his meeting with the Huang representative, the man’s thin white skin, his unflinching eyes. The way his hands sat on the table, as if he had imprisoned some small powerless creature under his cupped palms. The man was unnerving. Zombie-like. Jack smiled wryly. Fanciful, maybe, but the bottom line was he didn’t want to have anything further to do with them, much as they wanted him to maintain contact. The Gausen incident had gone too far. Too bloody far.

He hoped the representative had meant what he’d said about the island. He didn’t trust the man, but in Jack’s experience they didn’t ever lie. Not outwardly at any rate. Outward lying was for amateurs. No, there was an island, and they could probably have it, as discussed, but Jack would be a fool if he didn’t think Huang Enterprises had reserved the best part of the deal for themselves, whatever that best part might be. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to go back to the motel and pour a tall glass of rum and coke, forget about it all—get a good night’s sleep. If he wasn’t awoken by a squad of police vans outside the motel in the morning, he’d figure the rest later.

The rain kept coming.

Jack passed wind-battered farm stalls and rolling open lands, all blurred shadows in the stormy night. He instructed the car to increase the temperature and demist the windows. At least another hour to go before he reached the motel that sat on the edge of the desert. It was nothing special—his room had only a bed and a bathroom—but at least nobody asked too many questions. The place was run by an elderly man who dozed behind the counter and his elderly wife who made sure there were always fresh flowers in the hallways. The only other tenants were businessmen and their mistresses and a few loud-mouthed families who reserved their holiday budget for booze and petrol. He rarely saw the same face twice. They came and went, and he sat by the piss-filled pool and observed them from behind his sunglasses over a warm beer. He’d been in Beaufort West a while already and people-watching was about as much entertainment as he could wring from the rags of that town.

After a few minutes, the rain stopped. The road curved and walls of trees flashed past on either side of him. He was driving along a mountainside now, weaving around corners, dipping and rolling. In the distance, further below, he could see the bright lights of a recharge station.

His receptanode rang.

“Private call,” Jack said.

“It’s me.” It was Charles.

“How are you, my friend?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be okay. The family’s shaken up, but we’re all fine.”

“What can I do for you?” Jack asked.

They both knew it was best not to use names and specifics. There was no such thing as secure communication, not in this world.

“I want more information on the proposal,” Charles said. “The vacation we were chatting about earlier.”

“Okay. I can arrange that. You’ve spoken to your wife?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s sure?”

“Nobody’s sure,” Charles said, and no wonder. There wasn’t a sure thing left. “But for all intents and purposes, we’re in.”

“Good. I’ll send details to your palm-plate. We’ll need to make moves. I’ll book with the travel agent.”

Book with the travel agent: dance with the devil.

He’d picked up speed as they were talking and the AV was swinging around the mountain, screeching on the corners. The night ran on ahead, barely illuminated by the glowing headlights of his car.

“And Charles,” Jack said, then stopped. He’d used his friend’s name when he hadn’t intended to. “I mean—”

The recharge station was just ahead of him now, bright and empty beside two big rigs and one lone autovehicle.

“Thanks again for everything. Goodnight. Sleep well. We’ll chat later,” Charles said.

“Right. Absolutely—”

Thump. A small sound.

Jack shuddered as his car struck something in the road. His heart jumped, but then he realised he was still on the road. Whatever it had been had taken the worst of the collision. He looked in the rear-view mirror but saw nothing behind him. Nothing but darkness.

“Everything okay?” Charles said.

“I—” Jack looked in the mirror again. “I hit something.”

“Are you okay?”

“Ja, ja, I’m fine. It’s just …” He turned his head back over his seat. The recharge station was disappearing behind him, the lights dwindling in the distance. “It must have been an animal or something.”

“Did you stop?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Jack said, “I probably should, but it’s pretty far back already.”

“Maybe it was a dog,” Charles said.

“Ja, a dog. Maybe. Dammit.”

“Well, take it easy on the road. Get home in one piece.”

“I will. Thanks.” He looked back again. It was too late to see anything now. Charles was right. Probably a dog. A baboon, maybe. Or the branch of a tree. I should stop. Turn around, go back. But the car sped on and Jack could think of nothing better than getting back to the Blue Caribou and pouring himself a nice tall, stiff rum and coke.

What a bloody day.

The next morning he woke up in his drab room and looked out the window. No squad cars. No sirens. Nothing but dust and desert. He took a shower and ordered bacon and eggs from the elderly lady in the empty dining hall. As he sat and sipped his coffee, the morning news flashed up on the television against the far wall.

“Volume,” Jack said. “Louder.”

They were interviewing a tall dark man with dreadlocks. He was standing beside a blonde-haired woman. His wife probably. A young boy was leaning into his mother.

“We just pulled over,” the mother was saying, sobbing. A reporter held his mike closer and her voice grew in volume. “On our way to a lodge. She climbed … she just climbed out. We didn’t realise … It all happened … It was too fast.”

Her burly husband put his arm around her and pulled her in close. The boy looked at the cameras, unblinking.

Jack Turning sipped his coffee and watched them, trying to grasp the story. Their names appeared on the screen: Kayle Jenner. Sarah Jenner.

Jack put the cup back on his saucer. The old woman arrived with his breakfast and placed his plate neatly before him. The toast was on its way, she assured him.

“And this car just came out, it came out of nowhere. Speeding around the corner,” Sarah Jenner said, fighting through the tears. “Speeding! If he hadn’t been … he would have seen her, had time to swerve, stop … And then …” She turned and buried her face in her husband’s broad chest. The reporter moved the mike up to Kayle Jenner.

“I didn’t see the car,” he said. “I ran as fast as I could. But I couldn’t see it. And then I saw Maggie …” His face creased and he turned away from the cameras, holding out his hand, palm up to ward them off.

The old woman returned with his toast, but Jack Turning didn’t notice her. He began to sweat a little, his blood suddenly boiling with a horrifying notion.

The reporter took over and spoke to the camera: “At approximately eight thirty-five last night, Kayle Jenner, professor of Theology and Folklore at the University of Tulbagh, and his wife, physiotherapist and business owner Sarah Jenner, were parked at this recharge centre on the R44 pass when a car struck and killed their five-year-old daughter, Maggie Jenner. The car sped from the scene, and police have no clues as to the whereabouts of either the vehicle or the driver. The police have urged anyone with any information to—”

The basket of toast fell to the ground.

Jack pushed his chair back and ran to the parking lot.

He stood in the blistering sun and studied the side of his car. There it was. Definitely. A dent in the side, just above the right front wheel. He’d hit something hard. And with sickening certainty he knew exactly what it was. He looked around. Was anyone watching him? Jack stood there a moment longer, scanning the dry land. Then he turned and sprinted back into the motel.

He returned to his room and paced the floor. What should he do? Should he come forward? Was he even sure it had been him? What if it hadn’t been? He’d be forced to disclose his connection to The Borrowed Gun. Anyway, it might not even have been her. Who’s to say when that dent happened, anyway? I’ve been so distracted over the last few days … It was just a dent. Nothing more.

He drew the curtains and fell back on his bed. That sound—that dull thump. Where precisely had he felt it? Had it even been near the station? He didn’t know. No, no. He didn’t think so.

An hour later he was on the phone with the man from Huang. They were in, he told the man. All of them. They’d board the ship and find that island. They’d overthrow the geneticist and take it for themselves—go drifting around the world, far from their many sins.

Their Huang connection sent back the details and Jack forwarded the details to Charles. Then he switched off his ear node and went to the motel bar. He sat at the bar and ordered one drink, and then another and another. The alcohol went down easily. After Jack Turning had added an appreciable amount to his running tab, he went back to the room and passed out on his thin and uncomfortable mattress.

Jack Turning didn’t leave the Blue Caribou. He knew he was hiding out, but the longer he stayed, the easier it was to convince himself he was existing within the impenetrable fortress of his own isolation. If he put just one foot out of that place, he felt, the world would swallow him up. Charles called several times but Jack did not answer. He made no more contact with Huang Enterprises. Instead, he swam in the pool, drank at the bar, and sat on a white deckchair outside, staring for hours at nothing at all.

Two weeks passed and Jack knew the rest of them would be making their way onto the ship, bound for the island. He told the elderly couple that if anyone came looking for him, he’d prefer if they didn’t mention he was there. Not unless it was the boys in blue, of course. He couldn’t expect them to lie to the police—but anyone else …

Jack thought about his friends making their way onto that ship and starting their lives anew. He couldn’t say why he no longer wanted to join; perhaps it was because a part of him knew that running would solve nothing. Perhaps he was hoping someone would come knocking on the door and end his misery—call him out on every terrible thing he’d done and mete out the appropriate punishment.

Until then, he’d stay put, right where he was, in the Blue Caribou.

Months passed and nobody had come looking for him. He hadn’t received any more calls either, and assumed Charles, Jane and Anubis were now enjoying their time on their floating island, sailing around the world. He no longer thought about that little girl, that small thump … Besides, he was pretty sure it hadn’t been him in the first place. If it had been, someone would have come, he thought. By now, surely.

One morning, however many weeks later, he woke up and had his breakfast as usual. The old man had since died and the old woman was taking care of the place. The motel was no busier than it had ever been and she seemed to manage everything just fine. Jack did his best to demand as little from her as possible, and even assisted with the odd job around the motel.

Jack finished his breakfast but didn’t watch the news. He had never again watched the morning news after Kayle and Sarah’s story.

The old woman mentioned she’d be stepping out to get a few things from the store, and asked Jack to keep an eye for walk-ins. She left and Jack changed into his shorts to go for a swim.

The pool had recently been cleaned and he stood on the edge of it, soaking up the harsh morning heat. He plunged underwater and the cold water shot through his flesh, waking him instantly. He sat at the bottom of the pool and stared up through the silvery surface, into the blue sky. He closed his eyes and held the breath in his lungs for as long as he could. Maybe, he thought, he’d black out.

And then, suddenly, a screech. A deep, penetrating screech that slashed through his mind and forced the air from his lungs. He paddled to the surface and threw himself out of the pool. Holding on to the hot bricks at the edge of the pool, he clenched his teeth against the screech. There was heaviness—a throbbing heaviness that brewed and thickened and consumed his mind. The light of the sun was brighter and harsher, piercing through the closed lids of his eyes.

And then, everything in Jack Turning’s world went black.

Jack Turning was gone.

Now there was only a man in a motel, by himself, with no idea of who he was and how he had got there. He wandered the corridors, took what he wanted, slept wherever he wanted and gradually emptied the bar and the walk-in freezer. Every so often, a memory came back to him. Each new one arrived without warning—the memory of a son, or a wife. A dead daughter. Sometimes the man would be woken by the recollection of some new thing. Memories struck him like bolts of lightning, jolting him from his mindless inertia. Sarah. Andy. Maggie. Two horses. A wooden house. A hill. He remembered things people had said to him once, things he’d once said back.

More memories arrived and soon he had enough to paste together—a collage of who he had once been and where he had once lived.

One day he woke up, and there was a man standing over his bed. A man he had never seen. Tall and old, wearing round-framed spectacles and a long brown coat. The man told him to shower and he did as he was told. After that, the man asked him to get dressed and meet him at the pool. The visitor claimed to be from a group called the New Past—his group had the answers, he said.

The man asked how long he had been staying at the Blue Caribou and the man said he didn’t know. The stranger then asked his name and the man once named Jack, aided by his new memories, replied: “Kayle Jenner.”