Chapter Text
It would be years before Agent John Locke would sit down in a quiet country house in Essex, casually wipe the lenses of his reading glasses with a handful of shirt, and start writing what would become the thrilling bestseller Memoria Damnum. As far as books went, this seemed to have three separate volumes packed into one. Part memoirs, part philosophical treatise, and part exposé on the hitherto unrecognised field of ideaspionage, Agent John Locke’s first and only published piece of writing garnered almost as much controversy as it did sales.
The layperson would tell you that the controversy was due to the fact that many major governments were prepared to swear on their election results that ideaspionage did not exist. Others would dispute that John Locke was a real person, for when reporters combed the London suburbia for the chance of an exclusive interview, they found no trace of the man, leading many to claim that the book was fiction masquerading as fact. These were the casual critics.
But the causal critics, the hardcore critics, the critics with long, grey beards you could trip over and the capacity to devour essays in a single afternoon like they were a sidebar of tweets; they would bring you into a dark corner of their wall-to-wall libraries, and, over a snifter of aged brandy, whisper fervently that the real reason for the controversy was that nobody could agree on how it began.
In his book, Agent John Locke had written that it had all started from the explosion. One faction argued that the story could not possibly have begun with an explosion, because explosions weren’t just some “big bang”; explosions were an effect, and thus something must have caused it. And whatever caused the explosion would have had a cause as well, and that would have its own cause, etcetera, all the way back to the whatever first caused the chain of events to occur.
Their opponents argued that it was written down in the book that it all started with an explosion, and who were we to disbelieve the guy who wrote it? They reasoned that it is not like we were there to see it, but the writer had, and so if he says it started with an explosion then it started with an explosion! End – or, more appropriately, beginning – of story.
It is an argument which has raged for some time, and, as such arguments tend to be, will go on for some time more.
There was a small, third faction whose thoughts were more inclined towards literary pursuits, and they reasoned that if a writer wanted to start his story in medias res, then he jolly well could.
Agent John Locke dived into a nearby hut as the shockwave hit, carrying with it a shower of shrapnel and splinters. The walls swayed and creaked, but, miraculously, the structure stood. And after a few moments, so did John Locke.
He risked a cautious peep out the doorway. Most of the village had been flattened by the explosion; bits of wood and thatch littered the muddy earth, sending up little streams of smoke. It was a good thing that the village was empty. The locals had all but fled in terror earlier from the man who was now walking up to the shiny golden statue. It was all that remained of the shrine now that it was spending its time as a smouldering crater.
John Locke focused on the man, who was now inspecting his nostrils in statue’s reflection. The high forehead looked familiar, and so did the bald spot on the top of his head, a bare patch of skin hemmed in by a fence of hair that make him look like a friar. The attire was new, though; it gave the vague impression of military fatigues, cut and thrown together from many different interpretations of what a soldier should wear. But what sealed the deal for John Locke was the mad glint in the man’s eye, a glint so malevolent that it appeared to have a life of its own.
Sighing, John Locke pulled out a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket, brushed some dust off his immaculately-pressed suit – which, against all odds, was still immaculately-pressed – and strode out nonchalantly into the debris.
The other man was staring fixedly at the golden idol and speaking into a handheld radio. John Locke managed to catch the words “...yeah, landin’ site’s clear o’ buildin’s an’ trees an’ stuff. ‘Ead fer the smoke. Don’t know how th’ bird’s goin’ ter carry this, though...” before he flicked open his lighter and lit his cigarette, causing the other man to look up.
“Afternoon, Bill,” John Locke said casually, proffering his packet. “Care for a stick?”
“As I live an’ breathe,” said the man called Bill, snapping his radio shut. He spoke cheerfully, as a father would to a long-lost son. But the mad glint had leaped forward almost immediately, inspecting the newcomer from all angles and sizing him up. “If it ain’t young Johnny Locke, m’ bestest pupil. Yer scared th’ livin’ daylights out o’ me, yer did. What can ol’ Mister Ockham do yer fer, out here in th’ middle o’ nowhere?” He gestured vaguely at the charred grass.
“Oh, you know, the usual,” said John Locke, exhaling and doing nothing to improve local air pollution levels. “Dropping your weapons, surrendering, coming along quietly and telling me who hired you, that sort of thing.”
Bill Ockham laughed, a loud booming laugh that nevertheless failed to contain a trace of humour. “Yer know I can’t do that, Johnny m’boy. Yer know ‘ow yer boss’s always sayin’ that all th’ things o’ this earth are pointin’ towards good? Well, I’m choosin’ ter act knowin’ly towards m’ ultimate evil, so’s ter speak.”
“He used to be your boss, too,” said John Locke, sticking his free hand into his suit pocket. “How’d you break out, anyway?”
“‘It was simple, really,” said Bill, flashing him a smile. It was a dagger of a smile: small, glinting, and dangerous. “I cut m’ own way out.”
John Locke blew a puff of smoke. He remembered William “Bill” Ockham. It was hard not to. He insinuated himself into your memory like a knife between ribs. He had been one of the Consortium’s best and most ruthless melee fighters, and had been John Locke’s personal trainer in close combat training. He was a devil with a blade. Many a gunman had borne down on Bill Ockham, sneering, and they would inevitably taunt him with some quote like “you shouldn’t have brought a knife to a g-” and before they could finish, they’d be clutching at their necks, trying to stop the blood spurting. Of course, this was all before the arrest, but the man did not seem to have let his skills waste away.
Bill Ockham was a simple man, and people mistook that for “safe”. Bill Ockham was simply dangerous. He had a mind like a razor blade. It was smooth, it was sharp, and it could kill.
“Yes, I recall your escape. The cell bars, three titanium security doors, a reinforced concrete wall, and the throats of six guards. The cleanup was a nightmare.”
“I weren’t supposed ter be in there, anyways.”
“How do you figure that one out?”
“Well, I reckon ‘s because of th’ guv’ment, ain’t it?” he sniffed, idly scratching his chin. “All I did was ‘ave a bit o’ nominal religious standin’. Tha’s all! A religious position, was all I ‘ad! Oh, I might’ve killed a coupla people,” he said airily, “but I reckon it ain’t th’ guv’ment’s place ter lock me up.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“It’s ‘cos the guv’ment’s not supposed ter tell me what ter do, I reckon. That’s God’s job, that is, ter tell right from wrong, not th’ guv’ment’s.” Bill Ockham’s face radiated innocence. “All’s they supposed ter be able ter do is ter say whose stuff belongs ter who, and pick who’s gunna take their place. That’s all. So I simply decided ter cut out th’ middle man and hightail it out o’ th’ country, thought that’s neither ox or donkey now.”
At the word “cut”, John Locke’s eyes had caught movement; Bill had produced a small object from his person. It seemed like an ordinary barber’s razor, but as Bill began flicking it open and shut absentmindedly, John Locke could hear the blade whistling as it slid through the air, accompanied by a faint sizzling sound on the edge of hearing, like a kind of background static. He thought it sounded like the screams of air molecules as they were sliced in half.
“I don’t think we can be any judge of religious standpoints, Bill,” John Locke said, moving around statue, partially to give it a closer inspection, but mostly to keep something sturdy in between him and Bill Ockham.
It was a sculpture of a leg, life-sized, from the knee down to the foot, and intricately carved in such fine detail that he could have accounted for each and every one of the leg hairs, if he wanted to. It was one of the strangest statues he had ever seen; he had witnessed his fair share of dismembered body parts in his line of work, but none of them had been cast out of solid gold.
“And I think the government is very clear when they say that this, uh, stuff–” he gestured at the golden leg, “–doesn’t belong to you.”
John Locke tapped his cigarette, adding a drop of ash into the ocean of cinders. Aside from the crackling of Bill’s blade, John Locke became aware of another sound, the low throb of a helicopter, getting louder. He hoped that it was his reinforcements, and not Bill’s.
“What’s your game, anyway?” he asked. “How did a once-valued combat instructor and concealed edged-weapon specialist at the Consortium become a glorified thief and henchman for some shadowy higher power? Who’re you working for?”
“What makes yer think I’m workin’ fer someone?” Bill drawled, slowly. He had also heard the whirring of the blades, and flashed the dagger smile. “Like I said, innit? Ol’ William Ockham’s ‘is own master, an’ ‘e answers ter no-one.”
“Oh please,” said John Locke scathingly. “This hasn’t got your name all over it. You wouldn’t muck about with explosives. You wouldn’t hire a mercenary chopper, assuming that’s your chopper and not my reinforcements. And even if you did, you wouldn’t have the brains or foresight to clear a landing zone for it. As evil schemes go, it’s too elaborate for you.”
“Why, we’ve got a regular Sherlock ‘Olmes ‘ere, ‘aven’t we?” Bill was still smiling, but his amicable voice had soured into a growl.
“If this was your heist,” said John Locke, still stalling for time, “you’d stroll in under the cover of darkness and head straight for the target, slitting the throats of anyone who got in your way, and then hightailing it out on foot.” The sound of the helicopter was much louder now. John Locke could see that it wasn’t the sleek black Consortium chopper, but a unfamiliar dark green. He kept his composure and said simply, “This isn’t your style.”
Bill Ockham stared at John Locke with a murderous look in his eye. This was to the surprise and delight of his mad glint, who had long been the only optical anthropomorphic personification around these parts, and gladly welcomed a colleague who appeared to share its homicidal interests.
“Think yer’ve got me bang ter rights, do yer?”
“The conclusion was inevitable,” said John Locke, slowing reaching into his suit to replace his cigarette pack for his handgun. “The evidence was obvious.”
Unfortunately, Bill’s eyes caught the movement. His razor flicked open. “Oh no yer don’t-”
The helicopter burst over the edge of the clearing. Smoke and ash rode on the updrafts, swirling into John Locke’s face as he stumbled backwards, spluttering. Bill ducked around the statue and pounced on him in an instant, wrestling them both to the ground, his razor singing through the air like scythe of Death itself. John Locke’s arm came up and caught on Bill’s wrist, but Bill Ockham had a grip like the stocks of a guillotine, and John Locke only managed to stay the execution temporarily.
From his time in Colosseum, the Consortium’s training facility, John Locke knew that fighting Bill was a struggle to stay on top, because Bill Ockham was the kind of man who was always looking for that extra edge. Unfortunately, he quickly had John Locke pinned to the jungle floor, his free hand clamped around John Locke’s throat. John Locke’s fingers scrabbled uselessly.
“I don’t think yer could’ve learned more’n what yer teacher knows,” said Bill, grinning. A large shadow was hovering at the corner of his eye, and John Locke knew that Bill Ockham’s helicopter had touched down nearby. Bill glanced around for a second, and the dagger smile flashed across his lips.
“Because I’m a decent sort o’ bloke, I reckon I could give yer one last piece o’ advice before I take a bit too much off th’ top,” he said, leaning the razor on John Locke’s neck. A pearl of blood glistened where the metal met flesh. “I never told yer, did I? Do yer want ter know why I use a blade?”
John Locke was keenly uninterested. He could see men in ski masks jumping off the helicopter, and some were already hauling the golden leg across the mud. Bill was paying them no mind.
“Y’see, guns are too quick. Yer can’t savour all th’ little... emotions. They’re too complex, they are. Yer never ‘ave ter strip down a razor an’ assemble it back again in the dark night. Ways I see it, all things bein’ equal, an easier way ter kill yer is far better than one that’s complicated.”
John Lock wriggled in his grip, but to no avail. “Go to hell,” he spat.
Bill Ockham just grinned. “After you,” he said, and slashed.
At that point, time, it seemed to John Locke, slowed down. It is said that nothing focuses the mind like an impending hanging, but a good case could probably be made for an imminent beheading, if only a few more people could stay alive long enough to testify.
John Locke was unable to see the blade, but he could feel the cold steel dragging across his throat, and he was dead certain that if it sliced open his jugular, he wouldn’t be very certain and also very dead. He could see Bill Ockham grinning, his teeth glinting like a stiletto in the moonlight.
At least it wasn’t a stab in the back, he thought.
Then his heightened senses caught something. A hole had erupted in the shoulder of Bill’s leather jacket, followed by the low popping sound, like a firework from far away. There was a low, drawn-out bellow of pain, and as Bill arced backwards his razor slowly tumbled in the air, gleaming as it caught the sun.
He rolled over, left hand clasping his neck, and picked up the razor where it fell. He looked at it quizzically, as if he wasn’t currently in the immediate danger of bleeding to death. His eyes, which realised that they probably weren’t going to be around for much longer, turned in their ten-second notice and conceded him one last detail: the small letters engraved into the base of the blade in a flourishing, cursive script: “Fleet Street’s Finest”.
He pocketed it as he staggered to his feet. His vision was going dark around the edges, and his mind was flailing about erratically. What kind of sharper tool could have etched calligraphy into an already sharp device? Not now, I need information on blood loss! What engraves the engravers? Some method of staunching a jugular in the middle of the jungle would be nice! Was this an ontological analogy for something or other? Please try to recall what the agent’s medical handbook had to say about severed throats! Also, by the way, just thought I’d mention it, don’t want to be a bother, it’s a tiny little thing, but Bill Ockham is getting away.
That last thought lodged at the forefront of his consciousness. He couldn’t let his target get away. In his line of work, fatal injuries were seen as a minor handicap to completing the mission.
Time was still crawling. He swung round to the general direction of the helicopter. If he ignored the pain, he could just about make out Bill Ockham, a blurry blob surrounded by a sea of fuzzy dark green. He stumbled forward.
There was a shout from behind him, which sounded like “Get down!” in slow motion. He turned around, and was greeted by the sight of a dozen men dressed in about fifty shades of grey, all pointing rifles in his direction. But what worried him most was the woman, the rather attractive woman in the black, form-fitting combat suit, soaring towards him in midair, her brown hair billowing out behind her.
She collided into him, and as he fell gracefully towards the ground for the third time that day, he heard the low whine of bullets sailing overhead, and wondered if there were worse ways to die than from blood loss while being tackled to the ground by mysterious, rather attractive women.
Then his head hit a rock, and his mind went blank.