Dates unknown, 1971
It was the brightness that woke me up. I had been dreaming for what felt like forever, an intense fantasy where everything seemed real. The grass between my fingers, the sound of the gathering crowd, my feet slamming against the stairs as I raced upward, the heavy jerk of the wood against my shoulder as I pulled -
I blinked warily and immediately jammed my eyes shut again, struggling to adjust to the glare assaulting them. Everything was blinding white. I squinted, jamming my eyelids together to allow just the merest glimmer of light through. Gradually, painfully, I was able to relax the muscles of my face as I became used to the blazing whiteness around me. While I waited for my eyes to get used to the glare, I used my other senses to assess my surroundings.
I was lying in an unfamiliar bed - a thin single mattress on a sprung metal frame judging by the protesting squeak of springs every time I shifted. The sheets were brittle and roughly starched, the blanket thin and scratchy in my hands. The smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils - an acrid assault. Combined with the paper-thin gown I was wearing, all these details added up to one conclusion: I was in a hospital of some kind.
Gingerly I put my hands up to my face, lightly running fingers over the swelling on the side of my head, and across the bridge of my shattered nose. Although I could not remember how or why yet, I knew my face had been injured recently. But touching it caused no pain. My nose had been re-set and I could feel no contusion. The injuries had fully healed, yet I felt like I had only been unconscious for a few hours - how was this possible? How long I had been in this place?
Squeezing open an eye, I began to look around me for the first time. I lay in an old, cast-iron single-bed, one of two dozen identical beds lining opposite walls of a long, silent room. The beds were empty, all stripped bare bar one which was fully made up for another, unseen occupant. The floors were covered in black-flecked white linoleum squares, reaching out to the white-tiled walls. Above me the ceiling was made of clear glass sheets in a metal latticework, hence the glaring brightness. I was completely alone.
What the hell was going on? Last thing I could remember was going to New Scotland Yard, waiting to see a CID man... With a jolt of fear I recalled the appearance of the C19 operative from the secret doorway, the brutal beating I had received at his hands, and the intervention of a familiar voice. I knew I had heard the voice before but its identity remained frustratingly just outside the grasp of my conscious mind. It was lodged inside my memory, but right now everything was a jumble of images and sensations - it was hard to separate fantasy from reality.
Groping around by the side of the bed, I find a plastic cord ending in a small white box with a button set into it. A call switch? Not knowing the answer, I pushed it to see what would happen. A few seconds passed and then there was a rattling of keys from the doors at the end of the corridor. Perhaps I was in a prison hospital, I wondered. At least that would explain the other empty beds and the locked door.
The double doors swung open to reveal a stern-faced nurse in a crisp white uniform, pushing a metal medical trolley. On it I could see a range of pills, bedpans and medical equipment. I relaxed and smiled quietly to myself. For an irrational moment I had almost been expecting torture tools. The nurse pushed the trolley up to the edge of my bed and smiled at me.
'Mr Stevens, awake at last! You had us worried there for a while, didn't you?' she said chirpily.
'Did I?'
'Oh, yes. My word, we weren't sure if you would pull through.'
'Pull through? From what?'
The nurse smiled as if she thought my thinking had been impaired by whatever ordeal I had been through. 'From the accident of course! Still, you're nearly better now. Here, let me take your temperature.' She shoved a cold thermometer into my mouth. I tried to ask her another question but she hushed me to silence for the next minute. As she counted off the seconds on a watch fastened over her left breast she held my wrist and monitored my pulse rate. Eventually, the thin tube of glass was pulled from my mouth, examined and placed back on the trolley, rattling inside a kidney-shaped stainless steel dish.
'Well, you're nearly fully recovered, Mr Stevens,' the nurse said. I examined her uniform carefully but could find no name badge by which to address her, just a curiously large white belt around her waist.
'Does that mean I can go home soon?' I asked.
'Go home? Of course you can't leave, Mr Stevens,' smiled the nurse, slipping into her voice for simpletons again. Her next words sent a cold thrill through me. 'You're in the Glasshouse, Mr Stevens. Nobody ever leaves the Glasshouse!'
With that she bent over to look for something on the lower level of her trolley and I saw the handgun holstered politely behind her back. Turning my head I realized that the metal latticework on the glass ceiling was actually a series of bars to prevent escape; the heavy lock on the door to keep me in, not to keep others out. I was a prisoner in the Glasshouse.
'Help! Somebody help me!' I screamed over and over without response, my cries echoing around the empty ward before gradually dying away to nothing. The nurse straightened up, holding a large hypodermic needle in her right hand. Her thumb pushed the depressor upwards and a short squirt of liquid shot out of the end of the needle.
'Now, now, Mr Stevens, no need to shout. Nobody can hear you, you know,' she said soothingly, but I was having none of it. I screamed even louder as she plunged the needle into my arm, but I was still too weak from weeks of constant sedation to fight back.
Within seconds I could feel the strength leaving my limbs, my arms thrashing uselessly about in impotent rage. As darkness engulfed me again, the nurse leaned over my face and smiled at me, her teeth like large, yellowing tombstones.
'We can't have you getting all upset now, not when the director will want to see you later. No, we can't,' she said.
Then, just blackness...
* * *
'And how is Private Cleary doing today? Is the conditioning taking complete control yet? We have a very important task for him...'
The voice which awoke me was warm and rich, full of dark, mellow tones with just a hint of menace to its edges - a threat underlying its smooth, persuasive words. Keeping my eyes shut, I strained my ears to hear what was being said. Any information I could gather might be useful in helping me to get out of this place; to escape this nightmare.
It seemed ironic that I had been searching for months for hard facts about the Glasshouse, but now that I was being held captive here, I was desperate to escape its harsh realities. I concentrated on keeping my breathing even and regular while listening intently.
'Yes, Director. The implants are working perfectly and the cover story is now well set in the patient's subconscious,' a female voice replied. My nurse from earlier, I realized immediately. She was talking with a man whose voice I knew, but from where did I know it? The sedative given to me earlier was still clouding my thoughts, impeding my search for the answer I knew was locked inside my own head.
'That's excellent. One or two more treatments and Private Cleary will be ready for the outside world. He's making good progress, very good progress. Soon he can go back to UNIT,' the director said. I was startled by this, but did my best not to show that I was conscious yet.
Had I heard right? Were soldiers from UNIT being held here against their will, being forced to undergo mental conditioning for some ulterior motive of the director? This was the man Dodo had described as controlling the Glasshouse through a reign of terror, yet his words were soothing, and his tone friendly and charismatic.
The sound of leather steps on the linoleum floor interrupted my furious thinking. They were coming over to my bed. I did my best to maintain the fa\xE7ade of still being asleep, but without success.
'It's alright, Mr Stevens, you can stop pretending now. We both know you're already awake,' the male voice purred. I opened my eyes and gasped as I saw the face of the director. The dark, gleaming eyes, the black hair swept back from the forehead, the neatly-trimmed goatee beard and moustache: it could only be one person.
'Victor Magister!'
'I am usually referred to as the Master,' he said.
'Is that right?' I replied, trying to keep my voice casual.
'Universally.' Magister smiled, as if this were the punchline of some private joke. 'But you can call me Director from now on.'
'Aren't you meant to be imprisoned at a top secret location somewhere in Britain, awaiting trial?'
'True, and I will be imprisoned again soon. But one advantage of my line of work is the ability to slip away unnoticed, while the simple-minded fools meant to be guarding me maintain the pretence of my incarceration. Your kind are so easily manipulated,' he sneered.
'You were the one who came into the interview room at New Scotland Yard, just as I was passing out,' I said.
'Yes, that was taking a risk, but I had to take you out of circulation. You came very close to blowing my cover during your appearance on that ridiculous television programme, and then my associates failed to finish you with the firebomb attack on your home. Sloppy, very sloppy,' he said distastefully, shaking his head. 'I could ill afford another bungled attempt on your life so I had you intercepted and brought here instead.'
Finally, I knew where else I had heard Magister's voice before. 'You were the mystery caller - the person who phoned me with tip-offs while I was working at the Chronicle!'
'I was wondering how long it would take for you to remember me. Yes, I was your mystery source. You have proved very useful to me over the last two years, Mr Stevens. You've helped me create no end of difficulty for those bumblers at UNIT; I must thank you for all your assistance.'
I was outraged at his smug insincerity. 'You used me.'
'But of course, Mr Stevens. What else is your kind for but to be used?' replied the director with a shrug. 'But you wouldn't be happy with acting as my conduit to the press, my mouthpiece in the media. No, you had to get above yourself with your petty little investigation; your search for personal glory as an "investigative journalist", your ridiculous notions about UNIT and my operatives within C19 working together.' The director was laughing at me now. 'You really are a most amusing individual! I even tried to warn you off, remember? And still, you wouldn't take the hint. Now you will have to suffer for your stubbornness.'
I cursed at my tormentor until he stopped laughing. 'Why not kill me now? Why keep me here?' I demanded. I tried to get out of bed to attack him but was still too weak from the drugs to do more than sit up.
'Sadly, you still have a part to play in proceedings - one more pawn to be sacrificed before the endgame. I cannot kill you yet, so you've become a missing person for the meantime. I'll say goodbye now, as I doubt we'll see each other again.' The director turned and began striding out of the ward, followed by the nurse. 'Do enjoy your stay here at the Glasshouse, Mr Stevens. It will be a long one.'
I shouted abuse after him, but got no response. The director left, followed by the nurse, who locked the doors after her. I lay back in my bed, furiously going back over the events of the past two years. Had I really been acting as an unwitting agent of Victor Magister, or whatever his real name was? Was I just another pawn in a larger game, unable to see what was really happening beyond the narrow boundaries of my own vision? It was hard to accept yet I knew that the director had no reason to lie to me now. I was already his prisoner; I could be eliminated at his whim.
Something else was nagging at me. If Victor Magister was also the director of the Glasshouse, why had Dodo not recognized his face when it appeared on television after his arrest at Devil's End? She had always said her memories of the Glasshouse and its feared leader were vague at best, but were the director's powers so strong he was able to make her forget him completely? I put this insoluble problem aside to consider more pressing matters. What was happening in the outside world? How long had I been missing for? What was Dodo doing in my absence?
I had not seen her since leaving on that fateful morning to report the firebomb attack. I remembered kissing her as I set out for New Scotland Yard, and my arms ached to hold her now. I made a vow to myself to get out of this madhouse as soon as I could and get back to her. Knowing how fragile her grip on reality could be, I did not want to imagine what she was going through while I was 'missing'.
A moan from the other occupied bed in the ward got my attention. I slipped out of my bed and breathed in sharply as my bare feet touched the cold floor. Slowly, painfully, I managed to walk over to the bed opposite me, using the metal bedstead to support my still-weak legs. Slumbering on it was a man in his mid-twenties, heavy-set with closely cropped jet black hair and bushy eyebrows that nearly met in the middle. A smattering of freckles over his cheeks gave his features a boyish aspect. Like myself he was clad only in a white hospital gown.
I shook his shoulder, gently at first and then more insistently but without response. Whatever 'mental conditioning' the director was subjecting him to, it was obviously physically draining. I looked at the locker beside Cleary's bed. On top of it sat a chunky metal bracelet with fine copper wiring worked into an intricate pattern around its outer ring. Inside the cupboard I found a full set of clothes and some other items.
The bulk of the locker had been taken up with an army uniform of khaki green: tunic, trousers, hat, socks and boots. Four letters were embroidered on an oval patch sewn on above the left breast pocket of the tunic: u. n. i. t. A clear plastic bag held more personal belongings, probably the contents of Cleary's pockets, I guessed. There was a simple silver watch, a signet ring, and a small billfold containing some cash, a family photo and an identity card. The family photo showed Cleary in the midst of a laughing throng of children, all with similar facial characteristics. Some of them were too old to be his own children - could they all be his brothers and sisters? A look at his identity card seemed to confirm that theory. the Master's puppets all the time we were lovers? No, I would not, could not believe that. This was just another of the Master's mind games to try and turn me away from what I must do.
Time seemed to slow down around me. It was now or never. There were only seconds left before the first shot was due to be fired, had to be fired if history were to be saved.
All my life I had been a bystander, reacting to what others had done, reporting the deeds of others but never doing anything myself. All my training had hammered into me a basic tenet of journalism: be objective, don't get emotionally involved in your stories, always show both sides of what happens. And make sure you never mention yourself in a story.
But here I was: forced to take an action, forced to make a real decision for the first time in my life. Even if that decision was to take no action at all, even if I simply let matters run their course, I still had to choose. I had to decide what was right and wrong, not simply present both sides of a case. No one else could make the decision for me.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I knew what I must do. I put my fingers to the trigger of the rifle, took careful aim through the telescopic sights and fired.
* * *
The bullet spat out of the Italian-made rifle and flew towards its intended target. But the sights on the rifle must have become slightly misaligned when Cleary dropped it and the bullet smashed into the sidewalk and bounced up into the air harmlessly.
I had missed my target. I had missed the Master.
At the sound of my gunshot, a flock of pigeons flew up into the air from the roof of the Book Depository. Within a few seconds of my shot, another rang out, then a third almost on top of the second. By now the limousine was past the Master's position on the edge of the grassy knoll, accelerating away from me.
I watched in horror as history unfolded before me. John Fitzgerald Kennedy's head exploded, a spray of blood, bone and brain matter flying up into the air like a fine pink aerosol as his body jerked backwards towards me. A gaping scrap of scalp and hair flapped from the right side of his head as he slumped over into his wife's lap, blood still pumping out of the fatal wound, pouring over his suit and shirt, matting his hair.
President John Kennedy was dead. His heart just didn't know it yet.
Jamming my eye against the telescopic sight, I swivelled round to see where I thought the shots had come from - the tall wooden fence behind the grassy knoll. I glimpsed a puff of gunsmoke still hanging in the air and for a second a face appeared above the line of the fence, looking up at my position in the Book Depository. Then the face withdrew again. I had recognized it, but could not believe what I had seen.
I slumped to the floor in shock, the rifle falling from my hands. I had failed. I had made a decision for the first time in my life, I had carried it through and I had failed. My attempt to save JFK had proved to be just as futile and meaningless as the rest of my life. It all came flooding back to me now: how the sights on Oswald's rifle were later proved to be misaligned and how he would have had to adjust his aim to take account for this factor. Worst of all, I now knew the true identity of the assassin and there was nothing I could do about it.
From the window I could hear chaos in Dealey Plaza. I looked outside to see people screaming, crying, shouting. Some had thrown themselves to the ground after the first shot; others remained standing, as if unable to believe what they were witnessing.
In the open-top presidential limousine the First Lady had climbed out on to the wide black boot and clutched at a piece of her husband's brain which had been flung backwards by the fatal bullet's impact. A Secret Service agent threw himself on the back of the vehicle and pushed her down into her seat, at the same time slamming his fist into the boot lid in apparent rage and frustration. The limousine began to speed away from the site of the shooting, down towards the underpass.
It was over. History had repeated itself. The 35th president of the United States of America was dead.
I was blankly aware I should get myself and Cleary out of the building now. But the scene below held such a morbid fascination, it was almost impossible to tear myself away. Some of the spectators had started running up towards the grassy knoll and the wooden fence beyond it, believing they had heard shots coming from there, while others pointed up at my window in the Book Depository. The Master had disappeared in the mayhem following the shooting. Now, the police were starting to gather on the street below me - soon they would begin searching the Book Depository. We had to leave. Finally, it was a moan fer,' I replied. 'Mine.'
'Really, sir? And what's your name?'
'Stevens, James Stevens.'
'Mr Stevens. Didn't I see you on the telly last night? Talking about something called C19?'
'That's right. Can we please just get on with this? I've been attacked, left to die in my own home while it burnt to the ground, and I'm not feeling very well,' I said, my voice husky from all the smoke I had inhaled. Having to wear the same clothes I had on the previous night, I still stunk from the fumes of the fire.
'Very good, sir. I'll take you to a private interview room and get somebody from CID to come down and see you,' the sergeant replied. He led me through a series of doors and corridors before finally indicating a white room furnished with only an old oak desk and two hard-backed wooden chairs. 'If you just wait in there, somebody will be along to deal with you shortly, Mr Stevens.'
'Thanks,' I said and wearily sat in one of the chairs. I felt exhausted, physically and emotionally drained by the events of the past 24 hours. I had searched carefully throughout the house but there had been no sign of the revolver in the wreckage, which meant that the weapon was probably now in the possession of C19. I had not dared to tell Dodo - she was frightened enough already.
After waiting more than ten minutes, I became infuriated at being made to wait like this. I guessed they had forgotten about me in this obscure interview room. Typical! I decided to see if I could find anyone to complain to about my treatment. But when I tried the door handle, I discovered it was locked. What the hell was going on? I hammered against the door and yelled and shouted but got no response from outside. A familiar voice behind me got my attention.
'Persistent, aren't you, Mr Stevens?'
I turned to face my attacker from the previous night, a hidden door in the wall closing behind him. He was dressed in a regulation police uniform, with the insignia of a sergeant visible. He was smiling.
'You couldn't take a warning, could you? You just couldn't just leave this story alone. You wouldn't listen, no matter how many warnings we gave you. Now, we're going to have to take care of you - permanently.' The blond man slipped his hand into a pocket and pulled out a pair of gleaming brass knuckle-dusters, fitting them carefully on to his right fist. The legend C19 was carved into the glinting metal.
'What do you mean, take care of me? People know I've come here today; I made sure I told people I was coming here,' I said nervously.
'Nobody's going to save you, Mr Stevens. There are no knights in shining armour in real life, no cavalry, no heroes who burst in at the last minute and save scum like you. Reality is you and me and that's it. Nobody saw you come into this building, nobody will remember you at the front desk, and nobody ever remembers seeing me - not if they know what's good for them, anyway.'
The huge man strode across the room towards me, throwing the heavy wooden desk to one side. 'Officially, I don't even exist,' he said. 'And from today, neither do you.' He pulled back a fist and smashed it into my nose. The bones broke with a dull crack and blood began gushing from my nostrils, pouring hot and wet into my mouth and down my throat, making me gag. 'From today, you're just another missing person statistic,' the blond man confided. 'Goodbye, Mr Stevens. We won't meet again.' Then the blows came quickly, savage in ferocity yet quite clinical in their precision.
I fell to the floor, throwing my hands up uselessly to protect myself. Just before I lost consciousness, my face pressed against the floor, I saw the secret doorway open again and a pair of legs walked in. A boot was grinding my face into the floor, preventing me from looking up to see who the newcomer was. But when the person spoke, I knew its familiar tones immediately.
'Ah, the troublesome Mr Stevens. After all the assistance I gave you, that it should come to this!'
As blackness engulfed me, I realized I recognized the voice. It was -