Kéthani

Interlude

That Tuesday, Zara came home in a good mood. That in itself was reason enough for me to be suspicious. These days she was usually quiet, uncommunicative. I’d ask her what was wrong, and she’d reply that she was tired, or stressed out at work. For a long time now we’d lived what amounted to separate lives, going about our own interests and concerns without involving each other. From time to time I’d make the effort, attempt to rekindle the spark of bur early relationship; but her rebuffs left me feeling hollowed and isolated. Often my enquiries escalated into full-blown rows, as if she resented the fact that I was questioning the state of our relationship. Perhaps she was feeling guilty.

So that evening when she breezed in and smiled at me, I wondered what was wrong. She had left the front door wide open, and before I could ask why, two overalled delivery men shuffled in carrying something heavy shrouded in bubble-wrap. They deposited it in the lounge and departed, and I asked, “What is it?”

She was still smiling. Without replying, she knelt and tore off the bubble-wrap, revealing a sculpture in dark wood. It was a half life-sized representation of a man and a woman, entwined in the act of making love.

She dragged it over to the corner of the room. “What do you think, Khalid?”

I didn’t look at her. “It reminds me of something,” I said. “Let me think… Ah, that’s it. It reminds me of the time when we used to make love… How long ago was that, Zara?”

She just stared at me. “And whose fault is that?”

“Well,” I said, working to maintain my temper, “it certainly isn’t mine. I’m game, any time. How about tonight? Tell you what. I won’t go to the pub. We’ll go to bed now, if you like.”

She looked away. “You know it’s my study group night.”

“So miss it for once. Make love to me, instead.”

She approached the sculpture, knelt and examined it.

She said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I wondered if she were taunting me. She went on, “I managed to secure it for half its sale price. I know the artist. He comes to the study group.”

I tried to sound casual. “Oh? Who is he?”

“Simon Robbins. He’s quite famous. You might have heard of him…” As she said this, she reached out and caressed the sleek buttock of the male figure.

The name did ring a bell. “Wasn’t he the artist who was jailed for murder… what, twenty years ago?”

She nodded, abstracted. “He served his time, came out, and when the Kéthani came he killed himself. He… he didn’t like the person he was. He thought the Kéthani might cure him.”

I hesitated, then said, “And did they?”

She smiled. “Yes, Khalid, they did. He came back from Kéthan a changed man, became an artist. He’s a good person.” Her fingertips rested on the sculpture, and her eyes had a faraway look.

I crossed to her, touched her luxuriant hair. “Zara…” I was close to tears, for reasons I couldn’t quite work out.

She pulled away, stood hurriedly, and moved to the stairs. “Must rush. Can’t be late for the study group.”

She disappeared, and I fixed myself something to eat as she changed and left the house.

That night I arrived early at the Fleece and had downed three pints by nine o’clock before the others arrived.

“Khal,” Doug Standish laughed when he saw me. “Are you living here?”

I attempted a smile. “Feels like it sometimes.”

Elisabeth sat beside me and gave me a hug. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Long day at the ward.”

Dan Chester and Richard Lincoln blew in and Dan bought a round. They were talking shop. Apparently, Dan had been reading some paper put out by the government department that oversaw the running of the Onward Stations in England.

He took a long pull on his pint and said, “Interesting fact.” He looked around the table. “Okay, here’s a little quiz for you. How many returnees come back to Earth and commit crimes?”

The question brought to mind what Zara had told me about Simon Robbins.

Doug Standish frowned. “You mean, per thousand? What percentage?”

Dan shook his head. “No, I mean how many individuals?”

Elisabeth laughed. “In Britain, Europe, worldwide?”

“Worldwide.”

Jeff Morrow placed his pint precisely on its mat and said, “Well, it’s obviously low. So I’d say… God, I don’t know. How many returnees are there every year, worldwide?”

“In the region of a million,” Richard Lincoln said, helpfully.

“In that case,” Jeff said, “I’d guess around twenty, thirty thousand…”

Dan smiled and said, “Lis?”

“I don’t know, around the same figure.”

It went on like this, until all eyes rested on me. I said, meaning to be dismissive, “How about ten, Dan?” and hid behind my pint.

Dan slapped the table. “Well, Khalid’s the closest.”

Expostulations sounded around the table.

Ben said, “What kind of crimes are we talking about, here? Murders?”

“All crimes,” Dan said. He paused dramatically, then said, “The actual figure is precisely zero.”

Elisabeth laughed, incredulous.

Before anyone could demur, Dan pulled a pamphlet from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.

Elisabeth picked it up and read through it quickly.

Dan was saying, “The UN conducted a study recently. If you look on page ten, second paragraph, Lis,” he directed. “It’s an incontrovertible fact. Returnees do not commit crimes, of any kind.”

Jeff looked across at Doug Standish. “Can you confirm this, Doug? Have you arrested any returnees recently?”

Doug looked up from his pint. “The odd thing is… and this isn’t official police policy… but when I’m considering suspects, I tend almost always to discount those we know are returnees. I’m not even sure it’s a conscious thing.” He shrugged. “But I don’t doubt the report,” he finished.

For the rest of the evening we discussed what the Kéthani were doing to us, out there.

It is a paradox: it took an alien race to invest us with humanity…

I absented myself from proceedings before closing time, attracting a few worried glances at this untoward behaviour, and made my way down the main street. Instead of letting myself into the house, which would be cold and empty at this late hour, I slipped into my car and sat in the driving seat, considering what I was going to do next.

I was drunk, and hardly capable of driving safely, but to be honest this was the least of my worries.

I started the engine and drove from the village, then turned onto the bypass and headed towards Bradley. I drove slowly. It was a fine summer’s night, and a full moon illuminated the countryside, but even at this late hour there was other traffic on the road. In retrospect I’m amazed that I managed to drive the seven miles into Bradley without killing myself or some other hapless driver.

I parked across the road from where Zara and her study group met every Tuesday evening. It was a big Georgian terrace house, with a stained glass door and a flashy silver Porsche sitting by the kerb.

There were no lights on in the downstairs windows. But upstairs, in the main bedroom, an orange light burned.

I was filled with rage: part of me wanted to charge in and confront Zara there and then. But that intemperate action would have robbed me of my ultimate act of revenge.

One hour later, the bedroom light went out. I steeled myself. The light in the hallway came on, and a minute later the front door opened.

I saw Zara, and the man behind her. I wondered if this were the celebrated artist, Simon Robbins—the man the Kéthani had turned into a paragon.

I looked away. I didn’t want to see them say goodbye… I started the car and drove off at speed, so that I would arrive home before Zara.

I feigned sleep when she arrived a little later. In reality I lay awake, planning what I should do.

I find it impossible to write about what happened over the course of the next few weeks, even after all these years. Richard Lincoln was there at the beginning, and at the end, and I’ve talked to him about it over many a beer since then. So let Richard tell my sorry story…