COSMOS magazine

Friday, June 20

Nerves shrilling, Nathan Pritchett watched the man named Wayne Elliot saunter past him into his office. Because it wasn't Elliot, not exactly. This man was trying his best to hide nervousness. Understandably. So what was he doing here? Why take the risk of revealing himself?

"I don't believe we've met," he said.

"Name's Payback."

That made him blink. Not an instant's evasion. Nathan forced himself to breathe easily, to find his own centre.

"That's an unusual name."

Gravel voiced: "Well, my real name's probably something different. But I'm called Payback."

Much as this fragmented personality dislikes needing my help, Nathan decided, he's chosen to face the facts: there's now no one else to turn to. Maybe I'm the first person he's ever known, including both his wives, who didn't mistake him for Wayne.

Nathan settled into the chair facing the man who was not at this moment Wayne Elliot. The hair on the back of his neck was bristling; this was a distinctly dangerous situation.

"Like a nickname?"

"Yeah."

"Good to meet you, Payback. I'm Dr. Pritchett."

"Yeah. I know. Listen, Nathan, I need your help. Wayne's been thinking about killing himself."

Again, Nathan was shaken. He felt the polite look stiffen on his face. In a scratchy voice, speaking with deliberate simplicity to the demented child across from him, he said, "Do you think there might be anything you can do to help Wayne, so he won't feel like killing himself?" That was an outcome he needed to head off at the pass.

"That's what I come here to ask you. If I already knew what to do, I wouldn't be here."

"Sometimes the most useful thing I can do," Nathan heard himself saying, on self-protective automatic pilot again, "is to help you unlock knowledge you already have. Do you know why Wayne's thought of killing himself?"

Payback shrugged. "He thinks he's going nuts."

"Right. He's found out about you."

"Maybe. See, up until just lately I knew everything about Wayne, but the moron didn't even know I was here. Whenever I was in control of things, Wayne just sort of blacked out. Know what I mean?"

Nathan nodded, holding expression from his face.

"So a month or two ago, Wayne started dreaming about stuff I did a long time ago, stuff he never knew about, and now sometimes he can hear me. Not out loud, you know, but inside our head."

"Could you tell me more about what he's dreaming?"

"Just dreams, dude. Stuff happened when we were kids. And when Melody died."

"Your wife," Nathan said carefully.

"Our wife. Wayne's wife." The terrifying man got to his feet. Nathan knew what must be going through Payback's head: Damn shrink, poking into all sorts of things that are none of his business. That insight calmed his hammering heart. He declined to tell Payback to sit down. I'll show the cocky devil one of my cards, he thought.

"Wayne has many of the signs of having been abused when he was a child."

"His daddy was a real asshole. Beat the shit outta him over the least little thing."

Not that it took any great insight to recognize the origins of dissociative disorder this explicit.

Payback shrugged, sat down again.

"And some of the dreams are about his daddy?"

"Maybe."

Try as he might to keep a poker face, Nathan felt his eyes dart away from Payback's for a split second. Damn. "I see. Would it help, do you think, for Wayne to talk to me about the dreams?"

That suggestion badly frightened the madman. Jesus, what the fuck has he been up to? If it was bad enough, Payback would do anything to prevent Wayne merging with him, seeing into his own suppressed history. Nathan was glad he had a can of Mace ready in his drawer. He felt his hand slip of its own accord toward the right side of the desk, locked it in place by sheer will power. They give you a hard time for fucking your patients, but they're even less sympathetic when you Mace them.

"Look, doc, I gotta take a leak." Payback was on his feet. "Maybe I could come back some other—"

Hastily, Nathan rose, opened the door to the utility areas at the back of the small office. Not now, not when he was so close. "Through there." Doubtfully, Payback went into the dim corridor, eyes jumping from side to side. After a time, the toilet flushed. He returned, wiping wet hands on his trousers, and sat down again.

"I was hoping you could give Wayne some kind of shit to calm him down," Payback said.

Nathan cleared his throat. Since the recent unpleasantness, he had been afraid to recommend meds for any of his clients. He said, "Yes, I work with a psychiatrist who could prescribe medication. But even when medication is used, the best results are almost always obtained through a combination of the medication and talking."

"Long as I'm in control, everything's fine. But you let Wayne take over... no telling what he'll do."

What Wayne might do? "It might help Wayne if we could... introduce you to him, explain to him what's going on, so he won't think he's going nuts. I get the impression you're stronger than Wayne. Emotionally, I mean."

"Smarter too."

That was highly unlikely. But allow him his delusions of omnipotence. "Maybe if you could share your greater strength and intelligence with him—"

"How can I do that if he thinks he's going nuts just hearing my voice?"

"I believe explaining things to him would help. Could we ask Wayne to come out and talk to me now, Payback? Since you know everything he knows, you'd have a better understanding as well."

"Fuck, no! If Wayne takes over he might kill us. I told you, you dumb asshole, he's gonna commit suicide."

"Payback, are you concerned that he might talk about things you'd rather leave alone? That would be understandable but—"

Shit, busted flush. "Listen, Dr. Rutherford, I gotta go now." Payback sat forward on the edge of his chair, muscles moving in his shoulders. "It was a mistake coming here. Should've known nobody could help."

Hastily, Nathan said, "I'm not going to ask you to stay if you're uncomfortable here, Payback. But I do want you to know one thing." He paused for a solemn moment, meet the man's eyes. "I understand your fury about Melody's terrible death. There are bad forces at work in the world. You could be a saviour for this damaged world, Payback." Was this the moment for one more touch of the needle? Let's see. "By the way, my name is Pritchett, not Rutherford. You might think about that."

Payback hesitated. Fascinating! He hadn't even registered that slip of the tongue. The man looked dead on his feet.

"How long have you stayed awake, Payback?"

"Smart little shit, aren't you?"

"I do know that you can't keep Wayne quiet indefinitely. How long, Payback?"

"Don't push me, pal. Forty-eight hours straight, this time, and I've got plenty more in me. Things to finish and miles to travel."

"Maybe not." Nathan leaned back in his chair, a show of command, probably unconvincing. This animal needed to be behind bars. "You know you can't keep it up much longer."

"Yeah, well." The defensive personality watched him warily, then abruptly rose. "Whatever. I have stuff to do, Doc. You'd better unlock the door."

Hastily, Nathan slid out from behind the desk and saw Payback on to the street. He deadbolted the door and started shaking. After five minutes and a stiff jolt of bourbon, he found Fern Elliot's work number

"Fern, this is Dr. Nathan Pritchett. No, not at all, my pleasure." Something rattled out back. He peered around the open door, saw nothing. Of course, there was nothing to see, he was safely alone now. "Mrs. Elliot, I'm afraid there's something we need to work through together. No, no, your husband is in excellent health—physically, at any rate. I'm rather concerned, though, for his state of mind." A footstep? Jesus, I'm jumpy, he thought. Don't be ridiculous, there's nobody else in the place, I've got the damned door deadbolted.

He cut through Fern's witterings. Time to cover his ass. "Well, the truth is, I'm rather fearful that he might harm himself. Normally I would be obliged to preserve your husband's confidences absolutely, but I must inform you that he is suffering a... well, call it a deep depression. Well yes, that's what disturbs me, too, it's possible that he might. I must ask you to let me know if his conversation does ever turn to suicide, or to violence against others. Now Fern, please don't be alarmed, I'm sure we'll handle this stressful situation together." As quickly as he could, he got the weeping woman off the phone, sat back, chair squeaking.

His nerves shrilled. Jumpy as a cat, he stood, went to the door, tested the deadlock. A shadow fell over his desk. Oh shit, he thought, appalled. The bastard unlocked the goddamn back door when he was... Shrieking in terror, he leaped sideways, cracked one shin painfully against the desk corner. The Payback creature's face was covered with a dripping handkerchief. Oh Jesus, he was prepared for Mace!

"Don't hurt me," Nathan shrieked. "I'll tell you everything I—"

"You interfering scum," the man said, voice muffled. "You're one of them. You say your name is not Rutherford, but I tell you it is."

Payback moved, then, like a leopard. Nathan Pritchett felt a spike of excruciating pain as his neck was broken. A face hovered scowling just over his own; it shifted, like an image in a funhouse mirror. Nathan saw that it was his wife Lisa, whom he had betrayed so often and so bitterly, come back to find him after all these years. He opened his mouth to say her name, but couldn't form the word, only a gurgling sound that echoed into darkness. She took him in her arms and rocked him.

Friday, June 20

Except for the air conditioner's low drone and the sounds of Drew Chang's own movements—tapping the keyboard, the occasional squeak of his chair as he shifted his position—MTJ Lab 2 was whisper quiet. An abrupt beep from his cell phone was jarring.

He picked it up, pushed the talk button without shifting his eyes from the monitor. "Drew here."

"Hey!" Maureen's voice had an edge to it. "You haven't forgotten our dinner date?"

Drew blinked, tried to shift focus.

"Tonight at eight?" His girlfriend certainly didn't sound happy, and who could blame her. He gritted his teeth and felt like slapping his forehead in a meaty Homer Simpson D'oh!

"Oh my gosh, Maureen! I'm so sorry. Ed got those tumour specimens prepped for me this afternoon, and I completely lost track of time. Damn, what time is it?"

His watch had stopped working a week ago, and he hadn't found time to buy a new one. Once he'd have purchased a battery instead of a whole new watch. Disposable nation. A small part of his mind tutted reproof, an echo of his moralizing father.

"It's almost 7:30," Maureen told him.

"Listen, I'll finish up here and be there in an hour—if you'll forgive me for being late."

"I'll cut you some slack this time—if you'll stop on your way here and pick up a quart of ice cream."

"Vanilla. Chocolate topping."

"Perfect!"

"See you at 8:30." Drew put the phone down and was immediately absorbed again in the image on the monitor, a segment of the head of a mutant fruit fly magnified 5000 times.