The Knowledgeables the book I'm working on at the moment

[etienneflyte]

Part One

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There isn't much time. What I have left I intend to put to good use. This is a compilation of my diaries, jottings, my understanding now of what happened in the past, our relationships and the consequences of our lives and deaths - at least if I put this together in some sort of readable format it will be remembered and others of my race may learn. Perhaps even humans will see it. I'm not sure now if that is such a bad thing, although the others may not approve. Perhaps humans should know of us. All of us. But would they believe? I certainly didn't, back when I first met Etienne Flyte.

My time is running out. I have to compile and write this out before I'm finally gone. My name is Tracey Anderson.

*                         *                                  *                                  *

Strangers On A Tram

The deep pain that throbbed in my temples made me feel weak and nauseous, a bit like the onset of a migraine. If I concentrated on the location of the pain though I found that it did not actually seem to exist anywhere. Well, at least it gave me an excuse to leave work at the bank early and go to my local clinic. I hoped the doctor would dole out some miracle drug and relieve me of the mystery pain-that-wasn't or at least tell me the cause. Something I ate, maybe, or hay fever. Something in the air. It may sound stupid but not knowing was almost worse than the pain. I hated not knowing something. I always have.

I hoped he wouldn't diagnose me with a malignant brain tumour or some other condition that required more than an hour or so of rest and a couple of cheap tablets. At least I was away from the bank; I just wished I could enjoy my afternoon truancy.

As I travelled on the tram to the clinic near home, in the back of my mind I kind of knew it was not a tumour just as I knew it was not cancer. As I considered new maladies I found I was able to cross them off my mental list but each thought made my head ache all the more. Aneurism? No. Brain cysts? No. Haematoma? No. Teratoma? No. Migraine? No. Something I ate? No. Perhaps... was it the thinking doing it?

I massaged my temples wearily and tried not to think about vomiting on the seat in front of me. Tried not to think because that only seemed to make things worse. I attempted counting the stops between me and the clinic, telling myself I just had to hold on for another kilometre or so. If no one wanted to get on or off my tram I'd be there in just over a couple of minutes. All I needed was a distraction for two minutes.

Glancing up I noticed the other people in the carriage. Most were sitting, some standing, but none looking too eager to disembark. Less than two minutes, then. Good. They looked like everyone else I had seen since coming to the big city; all just ordinary people in their own little worlds doing their own things. Nothing to do with me - which summed up my entire life, really. The only intersection between their lives and mine was the coincidence of being on the same tram out on Chapel Street.

I had always felt like an outsider, like someone peering in at the lives of others and wondering why I wasn't a part of it all. Not that I necessarily wanted to be a part or ever tried to be but sometimes the urge took me, usually after watching something American and wholesome on television. On TV everyone was close friends with everyone else, always hugging and being close and sharing secrets and laughing together. So unlike reality - or was it just my reality that was so different?

I grew up in a country town of tobacco and cabbage farmers, goat-herders and sheep shearers. Tangamballa, a close-knit community that I never felt integral to. Even my extended family, a mainstay of the neighbouring communities in the district and loved by the Tangamballa locals, seemed somehow distant to me - as if I were only a close friend of the family but not an actual part of it. Not through any fault of theirs, I assure you. Country hospitality does exist and we do look after our people, but I never quite fit in. I never felt quite 'country' enough, I guess.

I tried over the years to be near to people and to be a community-minded person because that was the norm up there but in the end I realised that was simply not who I was. That was not my norm. For some reason I always fancied I was being treated differently, suspiciously, especially in my latter years there, and in return I stayed just a little removed from the others. I hoped that by keeping people at a distance it would prevent them from discovering what I could do. Maybe stop the distrust and jealousy that gathered around me during high school. A vain hope, as it turned out.

In such a small town there was no escape from gossip. Everyone knew what I was even if they didn't say it to my face, but I had heard it whispered for as long as I could remember. At first it had been a mark of praise but as I got older and restrained myself less it was used as a derogatory title. I was a smart arse. A know-it-all. How dare I be so smart - and unashamedly so - without even trying? In my little hick town that was almost a crime.

Moving to the city had only served to highlight how little I could assimilate with the general public even if I wanted to. Even if they didn't know about me. Restraining myself at work and at the rare social occasions I attended was tiring but as soon as I relaxed my guard I would drop into my norm and people would quickly sidle away. I was a know-it-all, couldn't help it, and it seemed no one liked someone who knew everything and didn't mind showing it. Certainly, I can attest that nothing drives away the opposite sex faster than a bit of intelligence. I knew I was fated to be alone and the idea both saddened and pleased me, depending on the day.

On this day I wanted to be alone.

'Is this seat taken?' A soft British accented voice broke into my thoughts.

Squinting up at the clean-shaven man standing opposite me I think I sighed in annoyance. He was reasonably tall, wearing a dark suit with a vibrant blue paisley tie and matching glittering cufflinks and tie clasp. It wasn't cold but he wore black kid leather gloves. I couldn't tell you how old he was as such - late twenties to, maybe, early forties - but older than me. His hair was short and chocolate brown, artfully messed and framing his pale oval face and grey eyes. He looked like a gay bank manager or even a barrister - someone who dressed for authority but too tastefully to be hetero for sure - but somehow I knew he was neither. Instantly three words popped into my head though I couldn't tell you why: elegant, impeccable and bloody irritating. Hang on, that's four.

'No,' I managed to say through gritted teeth, 'But I may throw up in a minute.'

The man sat smoothly. 'Good day to not wear sandals, then.'

I registered it was a joke but I was in no mood to be amused. With some effort I managed to sit back and cross my arms, eyes closed, trying to think of something other than the throbbing pain. If anything it was worse than before but still that element of hurting without hurting lingered. It made no sense to me but supposedly doctors were trained to figure these things out. That was why they charged a gazillion dollars an hour to hand out aspirin and tell you to come back tomorrow.

The man opposite said something more but it took me a moment to realise he had spoken to me. I pried open my eyes and peered at him. Couldn't he see I was in pain? 'What'd you say?'

'I said, you look like you're in pain.' There was a small smile of amusement on the man's face that annoyed me.

'I am.' I snarled through clenched teeth. The tram halted to let someone on. Only three more stops to the clinic, and counting.

'Oh, not feeling the best?' he said sweetly. Too sweetly, as if it were an act. He was laughing at me, I was sure.

'No.' Shut up and leave me alone, I thought. Two more stops.

'I'm sorry, I think I'm the cause.'

I was unsure I'd heard correctly. 'What?'

'Actually, I know I'm doing it to you. On purpose, mind, but fair's fair - you did it to me first without realising. You still are. Really rather painful. I do wish you'd stop.'

This time I just ignored him, frowning at the light and peering out the window. It was only one more stop. Just past the intersection. I could pretend he wasn't there trying to chat me up. I've certainly done that before. Not too often, mind you. I don't exactly beat them off with sticks.

'Headache without pain, isn't it, Tracey?'

At this I started, looking more closely at the prim Englishman that was scrutinising me. I felt like I was recognising... something. No, I didn't know him, but I recognised him somehow. Was he famous? In the papers or on TV? I didn't know and, as I mentioned before, I don't like not knowing something. 'How do you know…? Who are you?'

The man spread his hands benevolently. 'I'm your new best friend, Tracey, and you're going to hate me.'

I stared, caught between pain and sudden dread as I suddenly realised what he was. A crazy person. I didn't like them, the crazy people; the ones thrown out of sheltered workshops and mental hospitals by a caring government and left to fend badly on their own, sitting at bus stops and train stations and chattering to themselves. Stuck in their own private little worlds that no one else could see or be part of, busy with invisible friends and their swirling mad thoughts as they were shuffled back and forth from half-way houses to local parks to police station lock-ups.

I'd only started encountering them since my move to the city - a product of urban decay, I'd figured - and I loathed them. They made me feel uneasy for reasons I couldn't fathom and I did my best to steer clear of them. I realised how politically incorrect that sounded and I felt a degree of guilt in avoiding them, but crazy people made my skin crawl. And now I was trapped on a tram and actually talking to one of them - admittedly much better dressed than the usual nutter.

'This is your stop, Tracey. Come along, I'll give you a hand.'

It took a moment for me to realise not only that it was my stop and I had to get out, but also that the stranger knew both my destination and my name. Creepy. Stumbling to my feet and down from the tram, I squinted and jogged across the road to the footpath, the warm breeze lifting dust and sand from the tram tracks and making my eyes water. The man followed and strode unhurried across the road, halting on the path at my side.

'Leave me alone,' I muttered, palming my eyes. 'How do you know who I am?'

'Head still hurt?' He was removing his gloves.

'Of course,' And it did. Remembering I was in front of the clinic I turned to go. There were more important things to think about than crazies on trams. As my hand touched the door handle of the surgery the man rested a bare hand on my left temple.

'I'll wager it's gone now.'

And suddenly the pain that wasn't a pain wasn't there anymore. I blinked and pulled myself upright, away from the man, breathing deeply and feeling around for any symptoms. No pain, no nausea. Nothing but my most recent feelings of paranoia, though I assumed they were unrelated to the headache. I had been feeling uneasy for some weeks, sure that someone was watching me. Following me.

Initially I had blamed the notions on the move to a new suburb in a new house away from the countryside, but now I'd settled in the paranoia seemed only to be worse.

I'd also blamed the local homeless refuge down the road, mostly populated by crazies and drug addicts, for making me uncomfortable. Now though, glancing back at the strange man who knew my name, I began to wonder just how much of my paranoia was based on fact.

'It is gone. Who are you? How do you know who I am?'

'My name is Etienne Flyte and I'd rather like to have a word with you if I may. If you are feeling better.'

'I am. How did you do-?'

'It was easy once the cause of the problem was identified.'

'And what was the cause of the problem?' As I asked Flyte I also asked myself, you know, as you do in your head. Instantly the headache returned like a kick to the temple.

Flyte winced, a hand to his own forehead. 'Ow. Well, that was silly. You did that to yourself then, and to me. Until you are better prepared you really must stop asking yourself so many reckless questions. Ask me, by all means. I'm less painful. Now, if you would just relax a little.' I flinched as he put a hand on my temple but again the pain dissipated.

'How did you do that? The Vulcan nerve pinch or something?' I pulled back. This was disturbing in so many ways. I wanted to get away before this crazy decided to kiss me or something worse.

'Tut-tut. You are so ungrateful. Some people would simply say, "Thank you, Etienne," for doing that, but not you. How sad.'

'Look, I don't understand what you did or if you even did anything, but I do know that you seem to know more about me than you should, and as you're a stranger that just freaks me out. So, thank you for whatever you might have done but I really don't want to see you again. Bye.'

'But I'm your best friend, Tracey…'

'And I hate you already.'

'I'm not a crazy.'

I started at the use of my own private turn of phrase but, rather than ponder how he had seen into my mind, I retreated. I spun and strode swiftly away without a look back at the man left behind, just in case it somehow encouraged him to follow. But I did listen for footsteps. To my great relief there were none.

Flyte simply watched me go, not needing to follow to find where I lived. Soon I would consider, ponder and question and then once more we would both be in pain. Curiosity might kill the cat but Etienne knew it would also cause us both a lot of unnecessary agony, and braced for more of the same.

Minutes later I was at the door of my home, a white single-fronted terrace house in a small leafy street overlooked by beige and boring council flats that huddled on the opposite side like the poor neighbours from hell. Honestly, I hadn't really thought about the low-rent flats when I moved in as I was so taken by the refurbished and quaint Victorian cottage I shared with my cat, but as time passed I fancied people inside the tall blocks were watching me through the fly-screened windows. Studying me.

In my heart I knew it would only be months until I looked for somewhere else to live. Somewhere safe. But safe from what? I shuddered, feeling as if I was slipping towards being a crazy myself. And not for the first time.

Opening my gate, I cast my gaze around but the street was empty. In my tiny front yard I fumbled through my bag for the house key while my big fluffy cat appeared with a squeak and bumped into my shins. Obligingly, I picked him up and blew in his ear to tease him, and he gave another squeak. Nuzzling Dr. Parker, I unlocked the door and swung it open, letting my mind wander back to events of the day: my work in the job I barely tolerated; my migraine. The trip on the tram. The man with the posh voice... Etienne something-or-other. A gay name as well as a gay accent, but I suppose all English people sound like that.

As I wondered I asked myself these questions in such a way, in such a manner, that I felt a certain twinge in my mind. A place in my brain that felt right, satiated. Obsessive-compulsive people felt such a sensation when they fulfilled their disorder; so I'd been unreliably informed by my Aunty Edna, an obsessive counter and hand washer. Also border-line crazy, I had recently decided, as I contemplated whether or not such a condition was genetic.

Only when every doorknob in her house had been counted and her hands washed several times could Aunty Edna feel a certain peace in her mind, a place that just clicked, she said. Now, however, as I found this place in my own mind the pain of the migraine began again.

I dropped the disgruntled Dr. Parker and sagged in the doorframe, letting my bag fall to the floor as I leaned my forehead against the white painted wood. Gritting my teeth I tried to ignore the pain that wasn't a pain and the nausea that wasn't nausea so that I could get in the house before Etienne arrived, because I knew that Etienne Flyte was right behind me, and that made my head hurt all the more. Unhurried footsteps approached and ascended the stairs to the porch, echoing on the wooden veranda, but I could not find the energy to move away. The pain was debilitating. It hurt; it hurt worse than before.

'Oh dear,' Etienne was indeed at my shoulder, sounding concerned. 'Can I give you a hand? Let's go inside and I'll fix you up again, all right?'

I had no choice but to agree. I simply couldn't stand the feeling in my head anymore and it no longer mattered that I had some crazy stalker following me. Nothing was more important than the pain. I let the man support me around the waist and lead me into the lounge room, lowering me to my big leather sofa and covering me with a throw rug.

'I'll make some tea,' Flyte strolled off as if he owned the place and knew where everything was. Dr. Parker watched the stranger and gave a squeak then curled up beside me. I groaned and wrapped my arms around my head, vainly trying to ward off the agony. 'What the hell is happening,' I whimpered, asking myself through clenched teeth.

The question just made things hurt worse. I sobbed.

*                         *                                  *                                  *

I couldn't have been asleep for long. When I awoke I was still on my sofa and the afternoon sun was still illuminating my window. On the coffee table in front of me was a hot cup of tea and several biscuits on a plate. Gingerly I felt around in my brain and brought myself upright, tensing for the inevitable stab of pain. It did not happen. I was amazed. Then I noticed my visitor in the armchair near my feet, sipping a cup of tea and looking out my window towards the street. He seemed miles away, lost in some sort of reverie and completely unaware of me waking. Then he spoke.

'I like the bars on your windows, Tracey. Some people would find they ruined the Victorian aesthetic but you seem to have gone for practicality over appearance. I'm especially fond of the little plastic fleur-de-leys on the ends of each bar. How fetching.'

'They're not for looks,' I muttered, unsure if he was being sincere or simply mocking me. 'It's because of the neighbourhood.'

'Ah. Delightful. A neighbourhood of criminals.'

'On the contrary. It's a very high-class area, but the criminals come here to pinch things. They're not going to break into places in their own cheap suburbs, are they? Nothing to steal.' I could hardly believe I was having such a stupid conversation with a stranger in my house after such a day and such an introduction.

He smiled at my reply, conceding the point. 'Makes some sense. Drink your tea, Tracey.'

I did. After feeling so crap all afternoon it was magical. Let no one dispute the soothing qualities of a cuppa. I was only slightly surprised that it was white and one sugar, just how I like it, and that my favourite butternut snaps had been picked out of my barrel of assorted biscuits and arranged on the plate. The thought of asking how he knew seemed to be redundant at this point; just more things my stalker knew about me to add to the list that was growing by the minute.

I was over it. I was beyond being scared or concerned. I was heading towards anger. I was also over his company - I wanted him gone. If he thought I was some weak, whimpering city woman he had come to the wrong house - a childhood of farm life had made me more than a match for some Eton-schooled ponce.

'Look, mate, I appreciate what you've done for me but at the risk of being rude I'd really like you to get out of my home now.'

He sipped his tea and smiled at what he seemed to think was a joke. 'No, I can't do that just yet.'

'I'll call the police if I have to, but I assure you I can look after myself.' I stood and tried to look as menacing as I could in my bank teller's uniform and Little Miss Naughty throw rug. I've changed wheels on tractors - I could certainly go get my cricket bat from behind the kitchen door and see out this bloke.

'I've hidden your cricket bat,' he said, nonchalant, as if he had read my mind. 'And I do not doubt for one moment you could physically better me and eject me from your home. But really, Tracey, it is in your best interests to sit down, relax, and listen to what I have to tell you. I mean you no harm - quite the opposite, in fact. I'm here to help you be all you can be, and keep you alive. My price is simply a cup of tea or two and, hopefully, not being assaulted. Don't worry, I intend to leave. I've paid for a rather charming hotel room in a boutique establishment overlooking a shopping conglomerate in the heart of the city.'

His total lack of fear and his continued calm demeanour threw me. I hadn't dealt with anyone quite like him before. That and his mention of keeping me alive had me wondering just what he wanted to say. He didn't seem to be threatening me - but maybe in his round-about wordy way he was and I just wasn't catching on. It was frustrating - I thought I was smart! Anyway, I sat myself back down and dunked a butternut snap in my tea.

'All right then. Say what you have to say and then go to your rather charming boutique establishment overlooking a shopping conglomerate.'

'You have quite a good memory for my words.'

'Considering you use so many. Get on with it.'

'Very well. I ask that if you have any questions you ask me, not yourself. I'm tired of correcting you.'

'Whatever.'

He wrinkled his nose at my casual response but continued. 'Tracey Anderson, I have come here from overseas to meet you because you are the same as me.'

'God, I hope not.'

His raised eyebrow and pause indicated he was not amused by my interruption, which only served to amuse me. 'The population of the Earth is six-and-a-half billion, give or take a few hundred thousand, right?'

'You're telling the story.'

The same look.

'Go on,' I was sufficiently scolded.

'Approximately point zero-zero five percent of that are what we call Special People. They have a talent or a Gift which sets them apart from ordinary humans.'

'Which makes these people "Special". This game is easy,' I smirked. 'Oh, this is the stupidest conversation I've had since the one about bars on my windows. Has my tea got some sort of happy drug in it?'

'There are around four hundred thousand of us. You included.'

I laughed. 'I have no "talent" unless you count being a smart-arse and goat-milking.'

He continued. 'Most of them don't know they have a Gift and even if they did, they probably don't have enough to use. Only a small percent of Special People are aware enough that they can utilise their Gift, and only a small percent of them have the strength to do so effectively. If they knew how to. Most of them don't.'

'That must suck. What do you mean by Gifts, anyway? Playing the piano, painting, doing maths?'

'Clairvoyance, persuasion, healing, telekinesis... a variety of abilities.'

Although I was drinking tea I couldn't help laugh at this. I nearly snorted Earl Grey out my nose. 'You've got to be kidding. ESP and all that crap? You know, I somehow figured this conversation was going to be weird but I had no idea. Do we move onto Scientology now?'

He waited for me to settle down before resuming. 'I know it is difficult for you to give credence to these notions but it is only because you have little exposure to them. That is about to change, I'm afraid. This is going to be the hardest part for you to believe.'

'Try me.'

'We are both Special People with the same Talent or Gift, and that Talent defines the race we are. As you predicted in your own, tasteful, way, you are indeed a smart-arse. You are a Knowledgeable.'

'I'm not that knowledgeable on anything specific-'

'That is not what I meant. We are the definite articles, you and I. We are both Knowledgeables. We have the capacity to know everything.'

I had at least five sarcastic comebacks to this but the words froze in my mouth. I felt a part of my mind sated by this information, a click in my brain that seemed to tell me that, despite the fact I was being told some absolute bollocks, it was absolutely spot on. I was a Knowledgeable; it was undeniably true. I swallowed hard and found myself asking in my head...

The pain was immediate and intense. I dug the heels of my hands into my temples and gasped in agony. Flyte was at my side, grimacing. He pushed aside one of my hands and replaced it with one of his.

'I did say not to ask,' he tut-tutted. 'Tracey, you feel a part of your mind, when you ask questions, it feels correct to think in a manner that touches that part? It seems to be right? Find that place, ask a question now. Something simple. When you get an answer, keep thinking on the answer. Do it - before my brain melts out of my ears, if you please.'

'It hurts...'

'Just do it.'

I asked a question and I got an answer. God knows how I knew what it was or even if it was right, but I kept the answer in my mind despite the agony surrounding my thoughts. I swear, I thought I was going to throw up my butternut snaps back onto the plate.

Then it suddenly stopped. All the pain, the nausea, the pressure - it was gone. I felt good again. And I had an answer.

'Your middle name is Gerard.' I said.

He pulled his hand away from my temple with a huff. 'There's no need for that. We don't ask questions of the Knowledge about Knowledgeables that we should be asking in person. It's a matter of ethics. We don't pry.'

I was still feeling a little bewildered. 'Whatever.'

'For a person with aspirations of being a writer you need to develop a better line of retorts.'

'How do you know so much about me?'

He sighed and moved back to his chair. 'You just found out my middle name and yet you still ask me how I know things about you. Tracey, this is what we are. Our Gift is to be able to question The Knowledge and receive answers. We have a connection with the most formidable reference library imaginable; all you have to do is know how to use it.'

'How do I find that out? Oh... yeah.'

'Precisely. However, I am here to give you a few pointers to begin with so you can do a bit of self-research. I shall teach you to question The Knowledge without inflicting pain and misery on every other Knowledgeable in the world. Especially me, while I'm so close.'

My cat walked in and bumped against my shins. I gave him a pat; Dr. Parker was suddenly my only piece of normality in my abruptly altered world. Everything Flyte had said was obvious nonsense but it was also accurate. I knew it - no, I knew it. I shivered and I don't think it was because the afternoon was turning into the cool of evening. 'Will this... will I... how long...?'

'I'll make us another cup of tea and we'll get started. It's been such an exciting day I just want to get back to my hotel and have a nap.'

If I didn't know better I would think he was being sarcastic.

*                         *                                  *                                  *

I lay in bed that night staring at the streetlights shining on the ceiling; Dr. Parker stretched out beside me preventing me from rolling over into a more comfortable position. Etienne Flyte had left at dinner time after some hours of holding my wrists and touching my head with his small hands. The day before I would have scoffed at everything he said and everything I was now accepting as truth. How quickly the world can change.

We had not really discussed anything further, he had simply instructed me. I still had many niggling questions but now that I knew how to use the Knowledge properly I felt a reluctance to do so. Before when I used it badly and randomly it was just 'me', but now it was like my evil twin suddenly awoken inside my head and enticing me to join the dark side... or something. I dunno. Everything was different now and somehow threatening. I was adrift in a world that was abruptly larger, weirder, and more convoluted than I had thought. It would take some getting used to.

I wondered if I should go to work in the morning or if I should take the day off and think about things. Flyte said he would contact me - but he didn't say where or when. I didn't even know where he was staying, just some hotel in the retail part of the city. I glanced over at my phone and concentrated on a question. When the answer appeared in my mind my heart skipped for a moment but I soothed my fear and dialled the number for the Langham Hotel. The night porter answered with a yawn after the ninth ring.

'Langham. Can I help you?'

'Yes... I wanted... um... Do you have a Mr. Flyte staying there?'

I heard paper shuffling then the same tired voice. 'No.'

So much for Knowledge. The first question I ask on my own and it's wrong.

Then he spoke again. 'There is a Ms Flyte.'

'No Etienne Flyte?'

'Yes, Etienne Flyte. Ms. Flyte.'

The man was an idiot but who was I to tell him Etienne Gerard was a male name? 'Could you put me through to him, please? It's urgent.'

I heard snorting then a series of clicks, and then the phone rang. A sleepy voice answered. 'Yes?'

'Etienne?'

'There is a time and a place for everything, Tracey. Now and my room are neither.'

'Should I go to work tomorrow?'

'As you wish.'

'Is it a good idea?'

'A better one than ringing me at three in the morning.'

'I just wasn't sure...'

'I'm flattered you wished for my advice. I'm equally chuffed that you used the Knowledge to find out where I was. Now I would be ecstatic if you'd hang up.'

'Sorry. I... just wanted to do the right thing.'

'This isn't it...' He yawned noisily and I had a sudden intuition.

'You know your night porter thinks you're a woman?'

'My night porter thinks I'm Canadian and that I'm going to give him a tip for his abominable service. Why are you still talking to me?'

'Because you haven't hung up yet?'

The phone went dead. I should never have given him the idea. I lay back in the dark and watched the streetlight on my ceiling making shadow patterns through the trees. I had too much on my mind to succumb to sleep.

*                         *                                  *                                  *