Genesis. Volume 2

October 29–30, 1986. London. The Black Anchor pub. Late evening. The pub was as dark as a stomach. Jenny had never been inside a stomach, but she had descended into the basements of the Genesis mansion, crawled through the coal tunnel beneath the Palace Theater, and stood in Barnum's Circus when the lights went out and only darkness remained. This place was different. Not crushing—viscous. The air was thick and layered: stale tobacco, rancid frying oil, beer that had been spilled on the counter and left un-wiped for decades. Underfoot, linoleum worn through to holes, and Jenny studied it while she waited, because she didn't want to look at anything else. They had taken a table against the wall—Arthur, Lisa, Max, Emma, Sasha, and her. Liam hadn't come. Emma didn't speak of it, but Jenny noticed how her fingers kept stroking the edge of her jacket pocket, where the dog tag lay. "What time did he say?" Max asked. "Nine," Arthur replied. "It's quarter to." "Then in fifteen minutes." Max twirled an empty matchbox in his fingers, picked up from a neighboring table. The lid opened and closed with a dry, rhythmic click. No one asked him to stop. Jenny was almost grateful for the sound—it filled the silence without demanding a response. Lisa drew with her left hand. On a napkin. A portrait of a man she hadn't yet seen. Jenny glanced over her shoulder: the lines were abrupt, nervous, nothing like before, when her right hand had traced smooth, confident arcs. "Who are you drawing?" Jenny asked. "The intermediary," Lisa replied. "That's what Elias called him." "Do you believe in intermediaries?" "I believe someone has to meet us. Otherwise, why did Elias give us the coins?" Jenny felt for her coin in her jeans pocket—silver, stamped with a symbol she didn't recognize. The edge was cold against her thigh, but the moment the metal touched her skin, it warmed. She didn't take it out. She didn't want anyone to see. At nine o'clock, the pub door opened. No one entered. The door stood ajar for several seconds—damp October air blowing through the gap—then slowly, with a creak, it closed again, as if someone had held it and then thought better of it. "Draft," Max said. "In this hole?" Emma snorted. "There aren't even windows here." Jenny kept her eyes on the door. It opened again. A man walked in. At first glance, he was ordinary. Average height, middle-aged, a face that was hard to remember: no scars, no striking features, everything correct and nothing at all. A dark wool coat, gloves—Jenny noticed them immediately, because it was stuffy and warm inside, and he wasn't taking them off. A scarf wound twice around his neck, higher than the weather required, hiding his Adam's apple. He walked straight to their table. Didn't ask if the seat was taken, didn't introduce himself. Simply sat down on the empty chair—the one at the end of the table, between Arthur and the void. "You're from Brookfield," he said. Not a question. A statement. "Alistair?" Arthur asked. "Yes." Alistair looked at each of them in turn. His eyes were brown, dull, like old buttons. His gaze moved quickly, without lingering—over faces, over hands, over the way they sat. Jenny couldn't tell what exactly he was assessing. "Elias said you'd bring an envelope." Arthur pulled the envelope from his jacket's inner pocket and set it on the table. The paper was slightly crumpled and damp from the London humidity. Alistair didn't take it immediately—he looked at it for a few seconds, then slowly, as if checking it wouldn't explode, reached out a gloved hand. "I need to verify," he said, "that you are who you claim to be." "How?" Jenny asked. "Name the number Elias gave each of you before you left." Jenny exchanged a glance with Arthur. Arthur looked at Lisa. Lisa was silent. "Numbers," Alistair continued. "One per person. They add up to a key." "Two," Max said. "He gave me two." "Seven," Emma said. "Three," Jenny said. "Five," Lisa said. Arthur hesitated. Then he said: "Six." Alistair nodded—short, barely perceptible. He took the envelope, opened it, read quickly, like a man who reads not words but the meaning between them. His lips didn't move. Then he folded the letter and tucked it into his coat's inner pocket. "Correct," he said. "You are who you claim to be." He pulled a package from another pocket—brown paper, tied with twine. He set it on the table. The package was heavy; something inside shifted with a soft metallic clink. "Here is a map and a route. And something else. Use it carefully." "What 'something else'?" Max leaned forward. "You'll see." Alistair stood. Jenny reached for the package—instinctively, without thinking—and her fingers brushed the back of his hand. The skin was cold. Slightly yielding under pressure. Not alive. Not dead—Jenny knew the smell of dead flesh, knew how it felt under her fingers. This was different. Silicone, warmed to roughly room temperature, but still not alive. A dense, simulated substance. A shell. A wave of revulsion hit her—sharp, uncontrollable, like a gag reflex. She didn't drop her glass only because her other hand was gripping it so hard her knuckles went white. Jenny swallowed. She looked at her hand, still touching his palm. She pulled it away. Alistair turned his gaze to her. Long, calm—without surprise, without question, without interest. He just looked. Then he nodded—not to her alone, but to all of them—and left. The door closed behind him and didn't open again. There wasn't even a draft. Jenny looked at her palm. Where she'd touched the foreign skin, a sensation remained—not pain, not cold, but a presence. As if something had stuck to her, seeped into her pores. She rubbed her palm against her jeans. "What's wrong?" Emma asked. "Nothing." "Don't lie." "Just cold." Emma didn't believe her, but didn't press. The package lay on the table. Arthur picked it up, untied the twine, and looked inside. There was an old map of London, folded in four, several handwritten pages with a route, and a metal object wrapped in cloth. "Not here," Sasha said. "At the hostel." Arthur nodded, put the package in his backpack. They sat for another half hour. Finished their cold tea. Emma ordered another portion of chips, but ate slowly, without appetite, just to keep her hands busy. Jenny rubbed her palm against her jeans again and again—not noticing she'd done it five times already. "Stop," Lisa said quietly. "He's gone." "I know." "You'll rub your skin raw." Jenny looked at her fingers. They were red, chafed. She didn't remember when she'd started rubbing so hard. "It's fine." "It's not fine," Lisa said. "But that's okay." Jenny didn't understand what that meant. And she didn't ask. At the hostel, they split up for the night. Jenny sat on the bed, staring at the wall. Then she stood and went to the bathroom. She turned on the tap. Hot water didn't come right away—first it hissed, then spat out a rusty stream, then turned normal. Jenny soaped her hands. Thoroughly, with soap, for a long time. She scrubbed her palms, her fingers, her wrists—every crease. The suds washed away, but the feeling of the foreign skin didn't go. She knew it wouldn't. Not today. Maybe never. She dried her hands on the towel—gray, rough, institutional. She looked in the mirror. Her own face—pale, with blue shadows under her eyes—she almost didn't recognize. "Are you okay?" Lisa's voice from behind the door. "Yes," Jenny said. She opened the door. Lisa stood in the hallway, in an old gray pajama with long sleeves. Her right arm, in its cast, hung in a sling; her left hand pressed her sketchbook to her chest. "You were in there a long time." "I was thinking." "About what?" "About how Alistair's skin doesn't smell. At all. Of anything." Lisa was silent. Then she said: "Maybe because he's not human?" "He was human. Once." "And now?" "Now he's an intermediary. Elias said so." "Elias leaves a lot unsaid." Jenny nodded. That was true. They went back to the room. Jenny lay down on the bed, pulled the blanket over herself. Lisa turned off the light. In the darkness, Jenny rubbed her hand against the sheet again—mechanically, without noticing. She fell asleep toward dawn. And she dreamed of a palm that belonged to no one—just lying on a table, without a body, without fingers, smooth as silicone. She stared at it, and the palm began to move—slowly, as if trying to say something, but unable. Jenny woke in a cold sweat. Outside, the sky was turning gray. Lisa was asleep, curled in a ball, her cast white in the twilight light. Jenny looked at her own hands. Normal. Warm. Alive. She breathed in and out. And didn't rub them anymore. At least, not right now.