“I need to do a quick sortie,” she says, hoping her voice does not betray her nerves.
The lieutenant regards her with a vast indifference, his broad, flat face showing no emotion. “That’s not on the log,” he tells her curtly. He has little time for Khan and doesn’t try to hide the fact. Khan believes that this is because she is (a) not a soldier and (b) not even a man, but she doesn’t rule out other possibilities. There may even be some racism in there, however quaint and old-fashioned that seems in these latter days.
So she has anticipated his answer and prepared her own. She takes a list out of the pocket of her fatigues and hands it to him. “Medicines,” she says as he unfolds and scans it, his lips pursed thin and tight. “We’re doing okay for the most part, but the area north of Bedford saw a lot of bombing. If we can stock up on some of this stuff before we get into the burn shadow, it might save us a lot of heartache later.”
Khan is prepared to lie if she has to, but McQueen doesn’t ask her whether this is an authorised detour. He takes it for granted—and it’s a very fair assumption—that she wouldn’t prolong this little day trip without direct orders from either Dr. Fournier or the colonel.
So they stroll on a little way to the Mall, which is a mausoleum fit for an ancient pharaoh. Behind shattered shopfronts, flat-screen televisions and computers offer digital apotheosis. Mannequins in peacock finery bear witness, or else await their long-delayed resurrection.
Ignoring them all, Lieutenant McQueen leads the way inside and up to the mezzanine level. Once there, he stays out on the concourse, his rifle on full automatic with the safety off, while Khan and Phillips gather up the precious bounty of Boots the Chemist.
Khan takes the prescription drugs, leaving the private with the much easier task of scoring bandages, dressings and painkillers. Even so, she presses the list on him, assuring him that he will need it more than she does. That’s true enough, as far as it goes. She’s well aware of what’s in short supply and what they can reasonably expect to find.
But it’s only half the truth. She also wants Private Phillips to have his head down, puzzling over her shitty handwriting as he makes his way along the aisles. If he’s reading the list, he won’t be watching her. She’ll be free to pursue her secret mission—the one that has brought her here without authorisation and without the mission commanders’ knowledge.
The prescription meds are hived away behind a counter. Khan tucks herself away in there and fills her pack, quickly and efficiently. She mostly goes for antibiotics, which are so precious in Beacon that any prescription has to be countersigned by two doctors and an army officer. There’s a whole pack of insulin too, which goes straight in the bag. Paracetamol. Codeine. A few antihistamines.
With the official shopping list covered, it’s time to switch agendas. She was hoping she might find what she was looking for right here in the pharmacy area, but there’s no sign of it. She raises her head up over the counter to check the lay of the land. Private Phillips is fifty yards away, scowling over the list as he pads from rack to rack.
Khan crosses the aisle in shuffling baby steps, bent almost double and trying not to make a sound. Fetching up in front of a display themed around dental hygiene, she scans the shelves to either side of her urgently. Phillips could finish his task and come looking for her at any moment.
The part of her body she’s concerned about is a long way south of her teeth, but for some esoteric reason the relevant products are shelved right there on the next unit along. There is a choice of three brands. Ten long years ago, on the last day when anything was bought or sold in this place, they were on special offer. Khan can’t imagine how that can ever have made sense, given the very limited circumstances in which these items are useful. You either need them or you don’t, and if you do then price doesn’t really factor in. With a surge of relief, Khan grabs one and shoves it into her pack.
On second thoughts, she takes two more, giving her one of each brand. Ten years is a long time, and even behind airtight seals most things eventually degrade: three throws of the dice are better than one.
Popping her head up over the parapet again, she sees that Private Phillips has his back to her. Perfect timing. She steps out into the aisle and rests one hand nonchalantly on the pharmacy counter. Here I am, her stance says. Where I’ve been all along. Where I have every reason to be.
“Done,” she tells him.
Phillips doesn’t answer. He’s looking at something down on the ground.
Khan goes and joins him.
He’s found a nest, of sorts. There’s a sleeping bag, rumpled and dirty; an open rucksack in which Khan can see the tops of several plastic water bottles and the handle of what might be a hammer or large screwdriver; two neat stacks of clothes (jeans, socks, T-shirts and a few sweaters, nothing indisputably female except for a single pair of knickers and a black blouse with ruffles on the sleeves); a few dozen empty cans laid out in rows, most of which once held baked beans or soup, and a paperback copy of Enid Blyton’s The Magic Wishing Chair. There’s no dust here to speak of, but it’s clear that none of these things have been touched in a while. Dead leaves from a broken window somewhere have silted up against them, and tendrils of black mould are groping their way up the lower half of the sleeping bag.
Someone lived here, Khan thinks. The Mall must have looked like a pretty good place to hide, offering food and shelter and an enticing array of consumer goods. But it was a death trap of course, with a dozen entrances and few defensible spaces. This hopeful hermit probably died not too far away from where they’re standing. Private Phillips is looking down at the pathetic display with a thoughtful, distant expression on his face. He scratches his lightly stubbled chin with the tip of one finger.
Then he squats, sets down his rifle and picks up the book, riffling the pages with his thumb. He has to do this very gently because the decades-old glue has dried and cracked and the pages have come loose from the spine. Khan is amazed. She can only assume that The Magic Wishing Chair must have featured somehow in the private’s childhood; that he’s communing with some buried part of himself.
Something falls out onto the floor. A narrow rectangle of thin card, pale gold in colour. It bears the single word Rizla.