Part Five: Miracles will happen as we speak.
Bernie Taylor arrived home feeling annoyed, and his mood didn't improve when his sister called.
"Yeah?"
"Oh wow, you sound pissed off."
"I am," said Bernie, opening the 'fridge door and looking for something - anything - with a use-by date within the last calendar month. "A bit, anyway. What do you want?" Beef stew and dumplings. He had some issues with the 'British Classic' by-line, but it fell into his 3-day zone of safety, so into the microwave it went.
"Nothing spectacular, but Deralyn wanted you to know that she thought your shorts were very funky."
Bernie frowned, trying to remember who the Hell Deralyn was. Then it hit him - the pseudo-date his sister had arranged last weekend.
"Y'know, she's got my number. She could've told me herself."
Silence on the line. Never good.
"Bernie..."
"Look," he said, watching the countdown timer on the microwave and grabbing a fork from the draining board, "I know your world view barely functions without everyone in it being in a soul-destroying, so-called stable relationship, but I've got to tell you, I couldn't care less. Three years since I parted company with Jess, and I really haven't looked back. At all. I'm okay, sis, I truly am. Thanks for your efforts, but you've got to stop with this ersatz matchmaking bullshit, okay?"
More silence. Guaranteed shitstorm.
"She likes you, but you freaked her out talking about Nietzsche, and being overwhelmed by the tribe. Her ex-boyfriend is a neo-Nazi, for fuck's sake!"
"Well, I had no way of knowing that, did I?" Ping. Beep, beep beep, beep, beep. "I gotta go. Dinner's ready."
He pressed the hang-up rounded square on his 'phone before she could get into that familiar diatribe about their mother being 'right' all along.
Sitting on the sofa, prodding at his unappetising dinner with his fork, he scrambled through his 'phone for Deralyn's number. As he did so, a text came in from his boss, David Cutter:
"Sorry to bother you on downtime, but this is BIG. Routledge is AWOL. I need you to data-scramble Sara Ryland, all bases. Meet me back at office 22:00. Bonus if you need it. 1K."
Bernie poked at a lump of what once might've been beef, and stared at it.
"A thousand pounds for doing what I do best, but off the books? Fuck, yeah. I'll see you as something else in the Chicken Shack, Sloane Square, covered in BBQ sauce, baby."
Less than a mile away, at that exact moment, Dikas froze at the keyboard.
"They're coming, Miss Ryland. Many forms, many directions. Many purposes."
She looked up from her back-up Mac, surprised.
"What?"
"For you, for him, for us."
Sara slammed down the lid of her Mac.
"Could you be a little more...specific?"
Dikas leaned back, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time.
"This is a bad place, Miss Ryland. Hard to defend. Not what Fate would like."
She glanced at her Ikea shelf units and rugs from the Warehouse.
"Right now, I feel like telling Fate to go fuck itself."
Dikas grimaced, and shut down the laptop.
"This is never easy. It never gets easier. This, I have noticed. It's the burden of impromptu physicality in a digital world, but no less intimidating. We need to go."
Sara Ryland stood up, shoving her Mac back into its bag.
"Go where? Do I need to pack anything?"
"Essentials," said Dikas, "However you define them. As for where we should go, I have some options." He hesitated, taking in her expression. "Most of them you'll hate, but one is totally off their..." He paused again.
"Radar? That's the expression. 'Off their radar.'"
"Such old technology!" laughed Dikas, clapping his hands.
"Yeah, sure," said Sara, "Now you're up to date with all the whiz-bang horrors of the twenty-first century."
He widened his eyes.
"Excellent point. Best leave your 'phone behind."
She busied herself around the flat, grabbing bits and bobs and shoving them into an old Spirit of St. Louis holdall. By the time she'd finished, Dikas was standing at the door.
"So where are we going?" she asked, checking that her Oyster card was still in her pocket.
"You won't like it."
"Try me."
"Kilburn."
"Well," she said, "That could be worse."
Dikas looked sheepish.
"Kilburn, North Yorkshire. I have access to a cottage." He produced a set of keys, jangling them in front of her as she let out a resigned sigh.
To be continued...
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