Ellena Restrick is a first year undergraduate Creative and Professional Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. She has self-published two novels under the names of 'Darkness' and 'Regret' and is currently working on the third novel in this trilogy.
‘What they never told you about the New World Order’
Subject 01304AK. Code name: Lebensborn. Legal name: Genesis Böhm. Target acquired by London Metropolitan Police after being found wandering dazed through Piccadilly Circus, covered in blood. Recommended course of action: Indefinite term of confinement at Broadmoor institution (*Consider for potential collaboration with MI5 if she co-operates*). The subject is not to be harmed under any circumstances.
Interview to commence at 1846, March 13th 2017.
I finish reading the target’s file, a red mist starting to descend. If even half the things documented are true, she should leave this place in a body bag, to be thrown into an unmarked grave somewhere along the bank of the Thames. I place the tape in the recorder. There’s an audible click as she rolls her neck and relaxes back into her chair.
“You know what you’re here for Ms. Böhm. You laid your terms and the powers that be are willing to accept them. Freedom in exchange for your confession.” I tap my pen on the desk in time with my heartbeat. The way she’s looking at me. She still thinks she has the upper hand, after everything. Poor deluded bitch.
“Really?” She sucks her teeth. “That really doesn’t sound like something I would say. Are you sure it was me?” I look up at the security camera. Huh, Big Brother is watching, always watching.
She sighs and leans back in her chair.
“You know of Operation Paperclip? Obviously you do, stupid question. Nobody wanted to believe that it was true. Nobody wanted to believe that the American elites would make a deal with the devil. Humans do the strangest things for information. It’s in your nature. Nothing ever really changes; the play remains the same, only the names and faces alter.
I was created for one purpose: to be genetically superior. Introducing a new strain into the breeding ground. They could not have predicted how perfectly their little ‘experiment’ would turn out. Evolution at the hands of a narcissist. Doctor Karl Eisenmann. My father. Bastard.
Theoretically, I am immortal. My cells renew as soon as they experience cell death. Some people would dream of it; to be frank, being stuck like this is complete shite. Functional fucking immortality. If only my father had lived long enough. Allied soldiers strung him up like a dog. Believe me, they changed their tune when they realised his scientific abilities. How useful would a race of people like me have been in the Cold War climate? Perfect soldier with no genetic abnormalities. I couldn’t die even if I tried and, believe me, I’ve tried.
I was transported to the States under an assumed identity. Operation Paperclip. Area 51. Mind control and aliens and all that shit. Believe what you want to believe. I experienced it first-hand. It took me ten years to get out of that place. I never had a concept of Hell until that place. Trust no one. That’s what I have learnt over my lifetime. Trust no one.
Even fucking loses its appeal after the thousandth man. That distraction faded away pretty bloody fast. Then again, I guess that is the nature of distraction; it’s not something that is supposed to be permanent. I have been so many things in my time: a wife, a mother, a rebel, a Satanist (that was an interesting year) and a whore. There comes a time when you run out of masks to wear and I’ve only been at this for less than a century.” She stops to clear her throat. She wants my pity; I can see it in her icy, dead eyes. Unlucky.
“Can I have a cigarette? I’m absolutely gasping. It’s almost like I didn’t come here of my own free will…wait.” She pauses for a few moments to gage my reaction. “I figured there was no reason to deny myself anything. I have been the victim to all manners of vice and perversion…actually, no. Victim is the wrong word. I have been…open to all manners of vice and perversion. I’m not a victim. It seems disrespectful to them. They’re who you really want me to talk about, aren’t they? You claim leverage but you know nothing. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I have all the power here and you lot fucking hate that. I’ve made it clear I’m confessing to nothing. Keep me here as long as you like; I’m not like to die of old age waiting.”
I shift in my chair, uneasy. She folds her arms. It is taking every inch of my self-restraint not to lean over this table and knock her teeth down her throat. Crack her head on the table and spool her brains out. I’d be doing the world a favour. I take a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of my top pocket. I light the cigarette and pass it to her. She takes a drag and exhales.
“The power to create and destroy life. Every human on this pathetic lump of rock has this power and yet only a few will ever make use it. I’ve never understood it. Maybe I have another level of clarity. To take life is divine but you reject your divinity for placidity. It’s illogical. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like? To watch the life leave somebody else? I’ll give you an example. Human context, if you will. Adolf Hitler nearly died seven times before 1945. Seven isolated incidents. Seven different opportunities and everyone failed. Imagine this world if only that Tommy hadn’t granted the gift of mercy in No Man’s Land…conscience doth make cowards of us all.”
She picks at the skin around her fingernails before taking another draw. Aryan bitch. If the higher ups hadn’t given the express order that she was not to be harmed, I would have taken her out the back and put a bullet in the base of her skull. Wait for her to be incapacitated and then incinerate her. The only reason she’s still alive is because no one was really trying to remove her from the equation. They want to make others like her, utilise Nazi technology, to weaponize them. Preparation for war. Immortal soldiers. Why the fuck are the British the first to come up with this idea? One thing we did before the Americans.
“You’re staring at me again…what was your name? Agent Callaghan? That’s right, isn’t it? Confirm that for me.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“It was really quite simple. I can see it through your top jacket pocket. That’s how I know you also have a torn photo of people I assume are your wife and daughter. The fact that it’s torn indicates a break-up so ex-wife. Bitter break-up.” I pinch the top of my thigh. She starts laughing, flaring her nostrils. “Aw bless, I’m just fucking with you Callaghan. One of your colleagues mentioned your name before and you were looking at that photo outside. Am I wrong?”
She’s right. Divorced less than a year and she’s already run off to Canada with my daughter. She always was a vicious bitch, even in the best times of our marriage, hence why she screwed my best friend and every person in the street. She refused to put my name on her birth certificate to deny me any legal rights to my child. Bitter is a fucking understatement.
“You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m right. We don’t have to have a conversation but it might make it a little less painful for both of us. I like to think I’m a good conversationalist; I’ve been at this long enough to avoid awkward silences.” A few moments of silence pass. She slaps her hands down on the table. I lurch forward and pull her forward by her collar.
“You listen to me. You’re going to tell us exactly what you promised to and then you’re going to disappear. Things could be so easy for you if you just co-operate.”
“I know how this shit works, Callaghan. My life has never been my own; you people are never going to give me my freedom. Every government has promised me freedom and screwed me over. I don’t believe a fucking word that comes out of your mouth. I’m confessing to nothing.” She takes a drag of the cigarette and exhales, looking me up and down. “You can’t play a player; I’ve been at this way too fucking long.” She shifts in her chair again, placing her elbows on the desk. Before I can react, she stubs the cigarette out on her arm. She’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, prove her point that everything I can do to her, she can do to herself. She doesn’t react; she just watches my reaction, expecting me to be disgusted, to flinch. She said it herself; you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.
“Diagnosed or undiagnosed?” she says, leaning back into her chair, throwing the cigarette butt on the floor.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to get at,” I reply, not breaking eye contact. She runs her tongue over her teeth.
“You know exactly what I’m getting at. Don’t think you can lie to me either. Now answer the question: diagnosed or undiagnosed?”
“Diagnosed. Sociopathy is a benefit in my line of work. How could you tell?”
“I usually get a mild reaction when I’ve done that in the past. The fact that there was no reaction suggests an inability to empathise with pain reactions. A clear case of sociopathy. I was just interested to see if your employers were aware of your personality disorder.” I can feel her foot rub against my thigh. “We’re the same, you and I. Sociopaths are made, not born. I was made, not born. We’re the same.”
Maybe we are both victims are circumstance. Neither one of us asked for this life. I just made a better job with my lot. But there is one thing I know: we are not the same. We will never be the same. She stands up and walks over to me. There’s a moment, just a moment, when I try to stop my impulse. She’s tested her luck way too fucking much. I slowly take my knife out of my belt, not breaking eye contact. I grab her arm and force my blade deep into her chest. I twist it and pull it out. She staggers back, clutching her chest, wide eyed and terrified. Vermilion pouring out of her. She falls back, groaning. She was never going to co-operate; I just did my job. I could claim self-defence but the powers that be have already seen everything. Functional immortality, my arse.
“Clean up on aisle three,” I say, watching the camera. I stand up, dropping the knife on the floor, and walk to the door. It’s locked. It shouldn’t be locked. That was part of the deal; I wasn’t to be locked in with her. I bang on the door.
“Smith, you better open this fucking door right this second,” I say directly in my mouthpiece. I hear someone clear their throat behind me.
“What part of functional immortality do you not quite get?” I feel the point of the knife against my back. “You know what, this arrangement is really not going to work for me. Did you like my trick with the door? New skill, haven’t quite mastered it yet. As fun as this has been Callaghan, I’m going to go now. You understand, don’t you?” I can’t move. I can’t breathe. She places the knife on the flesh of my neck and slices across. A kiss from a cold, metal lover. I slump, leaning on the door. I can’t process it but I don’t need to. Death has always been a friend of mine.
“Next time, I kill every fucking one of you.”