The Crash of Hennington. Patrick Ness
that the world could not, would not, and should not ever be counted on. Luther, perhaps even subconsciously, accepted that whatever Archie gifted him with was bound to be snatched away sooner or later, a feeling that was probably responsible for his extraordinary success in business. He had unwittingly given up having any stake whatsoever in the outcome. Therefore, his work was relaxed and confident and bravely risk-taking. He made Archie Banyon a breathtakingly huge amount of money, and he never, on some level, expected to see a penny of it.
And then suddenly, everything changed the day he met Peter, a spur of the moment appointment that Luther had allowed himself to be privately talked into by Thomas one unlikely Boxing Day at Archie’s house. Peter had opened up a future, an actual one, not the fantasy ones he expected to evaporate at any precarious second. Peter ignited something – why not, let’s call it love – deep down somewhere in Luther’s dusty internal file room. Whether it worked out, whether Peter reciprocated, aside from being wished for, hoped for, longed for, was in some ways beside the point. In an instant, Luther remembered himself. In a second, he saw how past futures had failed to fall away as he had expected them to. In a moment, he realized how vicariously and almost posthumously he was living. In a day, he knew that he didn’t want the future as it was now laid out before him. He woke up from nearly three decades of willful self-ignorance.
This was what he had to tell Archie Banyon before the spring board meeting next Wednesday, the board meeting where Archie was going to name Luther Acting Chief Executive Officer, responsible for all business of Banyon Enterprises until Archie Banyon’s death, at which time the ‘Acting’ would be removed from Luther’s title. What Luther realized, at long, long last, was that he did not want it, not any of it. He loved Archie Banyon dearly, would do almost anything for him, but that future was not his. It was a proxy future, a temporary one that had been allowed to run on too long.
The only problem with telling Archie that this future was impossible was that telling Archie was also impossible. And if both his choices were impossible, what was there to do?
They were coming for her.
She couldn’t open her eyes, but she knew they were in the room. She could hear them, almost like a breath, almost like they could breathe. More, she could feel them, knowing their presence like she knew her own. These weren’t the Lions. The Lions she could handle. These were something else. They wanted her. And they were here. Why wouldn’t her eyes open? It was so much worse in the dark. A scurry across her bare foot. A twitch at her bare hip. A twinge on her oh God bare cheek. The rustling of their movements filled the room, and with just the slightest change in the air, they were on her.
Jacki finally thrust open her eyes but only appreciated the briefest moment of relief before she realized the nightmare had followed her. Numbers, black, filthy, crawling, clamoring, skittering numbers flooded the room and covered her body in a writhing, undulating mass. She leapt to her feet, barely able to keep her balance from the extra weight. The numbers stuck to her like frenzied leeches. She tried to brush them off with her hands, but they burst under her palms until she found herself covered in their viscera. She opened her mouth to scream, and the numbers poured in and down her throat.
—My God, what’s wrong with her? Is it a seizure?
—Looks like it. Can you hear me, Ms Strell? Ms Strell?
The numbers crawled down to her stomach, up her nose, and into her ears. They had somehow gotten beneath her skin, and she saw their shapes pushing out from the palms of her hands. They wormed their way beneath her eyelids, and she could feel them making their way to her brain. I’m dying, she thought. I’m going to die in terror and agony. Help me help me help me help me. She reached back for a final scream and mercifully lost consciousness.
—Give her the water.
—Ms Strell? Can you take some water? I don’t think she’s awake yet. Ms Strell? Jacki?
Jacki was aware of some vague shaking at her shoulders. Something slapped her face. You’ve got the wrong one, she thought. Meg from the stables is the one who gets slapped.
—What was that? It looked like she was trying to talk.
—It was all slurred. I think she’s drunk.
—High more like it. I mean, that sound she made, like she was seeing something horrible.
—Which one does that to you?
—Katzutakis? No, wait, I think Forum is the big hallucinating one.
—Katz is the one that makes you frantic. It must be Forum, but why would she be on Forum?
—Why do you think?
—Surely he can’t make her do clips.
—He makes everyone do clips.
—But we’ve got the immigration thing. What would he have against her?
—That she’s a Forum addict.
Jacki felt cold all over. She began to tremble, growing more violent as the seconds crawled on.
—Uh-oh.
—Should we call him?
—No way. This is probably somehow his fault. She needs a hit.
—Where in the world are we going to find a hit? I wouldn’t even know what one looks like.
—If she’s addicted, she’s got to have some on her.
—She’s naked.
—I mean check her desk.
Jacki could hear some sounds in the background, echoes wrapped in echoes. The numbers were gone, but she was so cold. Her vision began to go white.
—This has to be it. And here’s a syringe.
—Give it to me.
—You’re going to inject her?
—Look at her. She’s going to die otherwise.
—Do you know how?
—No, but I can take a guess. Hold her arm still.
—Oh, my God.
—Here goes nothing.
—Oh, my God.
Honey ran through her veins, and she was warm again.
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