In the last moments before dawn, a man in a black trench coat slipped out from the
shadow of the old hotel. The grass was wet against his legs and the silence around
him was broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below.
He hurried.
If anyone was watching, they would have noticed how heavily his coat sat across his
shoulders, how his back stooped under the weight, and how the bulging pockets bumped
against his legs with every step. They may even have seen when – unnoticed by him
– a small glinting object and a flurry of eucalyptus leaves fell from the man’s pocket
and landed in the long grass.
But no-one was watching. Not even the sound of birds broke the spell as he stepped
into a grove of ancient magnolia trees and disappeared into their shadows.
He was a tall man, but so thin and angular the leaves hardly crackled under his feet.
As he walked, his hands kept straying to his pockets, patting them gently as though
reassuring himself that his cargo was still safe.
Hidden in a clearing beyond the magnolias was an old tin-roofed cottage – so run-down
and shabby it was really more of a shack. The man slowed, looking around carefully,
before stepping out from the trees and striding towards the cottage.
Before his hand reached the door it swung open from inside, and a scowling face with
a mess of grey hair appeared through the gap. ‘Where have you been?’
The man in the coat hurried inside, brushing past the grey-haired man, who locked
and bolted the door behind them.
‘You’re late,’ the grey-haired man grumbled.
‘Nonsense. My connection shall arrive momentarily.’
‘It should have arrived already. According to my charts –’
‘Your charts are wrong, Tom,’ said the man in the coat. ‘And they’re only going to
get worse. I, on the other hand –’
He paused as a deep shudder ran through the cottage, rattling the windows.
‘– am right on time.’
Tom opened his mouth and closed it again, a look of frustration passing over his
face. The cottage shuddered a second time, and a deep groan came from the far room.
Or not from the room: somehow, the sound came from under it.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show-off.’ Then he held out a weathered hand. ‘Give it to me.’
The man in the coat nodded and put a hand to his throat. No, not to his throat –
somehow he slid the tips of his fingers into his throat and felt around inside his
own neck. There was a clicking sound, a fizz, and the man’s face flickered as he
delicately plucked a small black and bronze cylinder out of his neck.
The moment he dropped it into Tom’s hand – the moment his own fingers lost contact
with the object – the man in the coat was no longer a man. He still wore the trench
coat but his pale skin and black hair had vanished, replaced by the glittering, metallic-blue
shell of an insect. His long white fingers had become the curved black hooks of a
beetle, and iridescent wings twitched beneath his coat.
Tom scowled at him, and then at the device in his hand. ‘Hey! This isn’t mine! Where’s
the one I gave you?’
The insect patted at its coat pockets and chittered, clattering its mandibles.
‘Fine, fine, you don’t have time to worry about that. You don’t have to convince me that the Krskn issue is more important. But you do realise the new owners arrive
today? Last thing I need is for them to find any clues that you’ve been here.’
The insect started to move towards the other room, picking its way through a bizarre
clutter of broken cuckoo clocks, wind-up toys and stacks of leather-bound books.
A gust of hot air swept through the cottage, and that terrible, abysmal groan sounded
again.
‘It’s here!’ said Tom. ‘Go on! Not that you’ve ever been bothered to wait for a connection
before …’ he added in a mutter.
The insect buzzed harshly.
‘No, I’m not asking any questions. Just go!’
The room beyond the doorway was empty. Bare floorboards amplified the noise of
shadow of the old hotel. The grass was wet against his legs and the silence around
him was broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below.
He hurried.
If anyone was watching, they would have noticed how heavily his coat sat across his
shoulders, how his back stooped under the weight, and how the bulging pockets bumped
against his legs with every step. They may even have seen when – unnoticed by him
– a small glinting object and a flurry of eucalyptus leaves fell from the man’s pocket
and landed in the long grass.
But no-one was watching. Not even the sound of birds broke the spell as he stepped
into a grove of ancient magnolia trees and disappeared into their shadows.
He was a tall man, but so thin and angular the leaves hardly crackled under his feet.
As he walked, his hands kept straying to his pockets, patting them gently as though
reassuring himself that his cargo was still safe.
Hidden in a clearing beyond the magnolias was an old tin-roofed cottage – so run-down
and shabby it was really more of a shack. The man slowed, looking around carefully,
before stepping out from the trees and striding towards the cottage.
Before his hand reached the door it swung open from inside, and a scowling face with
a mess of grey hair appeared through the gap. ‘Where have you been?’
The man in the coat hurried inside, brushing past the grey-haired man, who locked
and bolted the door behind them.
‘You’re late,’ the grey-haired man grumbled.
‘Nonsense. My connection shall arrive momentarily.’
‘It should have arrived already. According to my charts –’
‘Your charts are wrong, Tom,’ said the man in the coat. ‘And they’re only going to
get worse. I, on the other hand –’
He paused as a deep shudder ran through the cottage, rattling the windows.
‘– am right on time.’
Tom opened his mouth and closed it again, a look of frustration passing over his
face. The cottage shuddered a second time, and a deep groan came from the far room.
Or not from the room: somehow, the sound came from under it.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show-off.’ Then he held out a weathered hand. ‘Give it to me.’
The man in the coat nodded and put a hand to his throat. No, not to his throat –
somehow he slid the tips of his fingers into his throat and felt around inside his
own neck. There was a clicking sound, a fizz, and the man’s face flickered as he
delicately plucked a small black and bronze cylinder out of his neck.
The moment he dropped it into Tom’s hand – the moment his own fingers lost contact
with the object – the man in the coat was no longer a man. He still wore the trench
coat but his pale skin and black hair had vanished, replaced by the glittering, metallic-blue
shell of an insect. His long white fingers had become the curved black hooks of a
beetle, and iridescent wings twitched beneath his coat.
Tom scowled at him, and then at the device in his hand. ‘Hey! This isn’t mine! Where’s
the one I gave you?’
The insect patted at its coat pockets and chittered, clattering its mandibles.
‘Fine, fine, you don’t have time to worry about that. You don’t have to convince me that the Krskn issue is more important. But you do realise the new owners arrive
today? Last thing I need is for them to find any clues that you’ve been here.’
The insect started to move towards the other room, picking its way through a bizarre
clutter of broken cuckoo clocks, wind-up toys and stacks of leather-bound books.
A gust of hot air swept through the cottage, and that terrible, abysmal groan sounded
again.
‘It’s here!’ said Tom. ‘Go on! Not that you’ve ever been bothered to wait for a connection
before …’ he added in a mutter.
The insect buzzed harshly.
‘No, I’m not asking any questions. Just go!’
The room beyond the doorway was empty. Bare floorboards amplified the noise of
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