A=They Ate the Truth

"They Ate The Truth"

"I understand, " she says, "That you have a Licence."

She's a looker, that's for sure. First client of the day and it starts
out this way. I don't go for beautiful women generally. I know that
sounds kind of stupid, but I'd rather look at something quirky than
something perfect. This one though, I'd be a moron if I didn't enjoy
looking at her.

Although the door is shut, I get up to close it just a little more, in
case my secretary Rachael is too close.

"That's a risky thing to be understanding, " I say, "I think you've
probably got that wrong. "

"Come on, " she says and she gives me a look that makes me realise why
she might be needing my particular services, "I can pay and I'm very,
very discreet. "

I worked damn hard to get this licence and the terms are very strict
these days. No use without prior authorisation and no private work.
Just what the Government asks me to do. Eight months ago, it was a
different story, so long as you were very quiet about it. But then
someone not as careful as me got himself eaten and the State got
twitchy. I went to the inquest and I've never seen so many people with
mirrored shades sticking out of their top pockets.

The investment I'd had to put in to get the licence was crippling me,
to be honest. I have to keep the fellows in very special containers,
make sure they can't get out without my say-so and that doesn't come
cheap. In short, I needed the cash and the fellows could stand a little
exercise. I'm easily tempted.

"Now, " I say, "Just supposing I knew what you were talking about -
which I don't. And just say I had some? insects. What exactly would you
want doing? Sweep, Purge or Retrieval ? "

I already knew it was Purge but I wanted to hear her say it. She looked
like a movie star - Grace Kelly but with a touch of danger - Grace
Kelly if she'd been in more noir films.

She looks me straight in the eye and it is me who looks away. "Mister
Chandler, I've had an affair. I was foolish. I regret it now and I
would hate for my husband to learn of my little? indiscretion. "

Not so long ago, my detective agency was all about finding out - where
someone was, what they were up to, whether they were faithful. Now I
was branching out, going the other way. People who had secrets and
didn't want to be found out, I helped them. Mostly it was cleaning,
covering their tracks. Getting them clean credit card bills that seemed
genuine but missed out the flowers and hotel bill, losing love letters,
that kind of thing.

The insects were just a stage further on - well, about twelve stages
further. But I have the licence and none of my competitors do.

The fellows are insects, they have a Latin name that I don't like but
translates as Eaters-of-Truth. Genetically modified, engineered. Hush
hush, hi-tec, bloody dangerous. Just one of them in the wrong hands
could cause a lot of trouble.

I've got a hundred and sixty of them.

About four years ago, some Dutch guy discovered that Guilt creates
something, its own pheromone, a signature scent. The mere act of
feeling guilty leaves a presence around the objects a person handles or
rooms they've been in. The more guilt, the more pheromone is
produced.

The insects are engineered to like the pheromone, they're engineered to
eat the pheromone. They eat fast and move quicker. They need very
careful handling and they are a mixture of deep deep black and copper
colour. For some reason they remind me of the innards of clocks - there
is something utterly beautiful and precise about them, but also a
danger - what is a clock doing but killing you second by second ?

The other thing you need to know about the insects is that they will
turn on you if they smell that guilt. That's their nature. They will
eat it right out of you. Forget all that stuff you've heard about
piranhas. So, if you want to be a bug-handler, you have to make sure
that je ne regrette rien. No guilt, no secrets. They'll find them and
you'll lose them.

The police were using the insects, under very prescribed conditions,
but they had found out that their handlers simply weren't up to the job
of opening the boxes and letting the insects loose. You don't get to
that level of counter-terrorism or fraud investigation without moving
outside of morals. There were some? incidents. So the State started
looking, discreetly for people who might psychologically be up to the
job.

Which means people who either have a completely clean past and
blameless life, or people who simply have no conscience.

If you keep the bugs in a glass case, you can move them round the room
and see how much they want to get out. That's called a Sweep.

If you let them out, they will make for the incriminating evidence and
eat it. After they've been out, you can walk around with a fresh box of
bugs and they won't smell a thing. That's called a Purge. And it is
very, very appealing with secrets to hide. You need to be sophisticated
to do this safely.

And if you are very, very sophisticated, you can do something called
Retrieval, which means doing a Purge, getting the bugs back and
reconstructing what's in their guts back into data - all of the guilt
put into a nice pattern for you. Need a big computer for that.

I'm very, very sophisticated. And I have a big computer.

So yes, I am tempted. And she has great legs, long and smooth. And she
is writing a cheque without even asking me how much it should be for,
which means she is confident that the number she is writing is one I'm
not going to say no to.

I don't say no to it.

* * *

It is nice to give the bugs some proper prey. At the moment I feed them
on scraps. Literally. If I see someone tear something up, there's a
good chance there's guilt on it, and so bank statements, greetings
cards, phone numbers scrawled on a slip of paper, sour love letters,
they all go to the bugs. But they'd rather hunt for themselves.

In the box, which is almost shoebox sized, the shiny carapaces of the
bugs click together like scrabble tiles being shaken in a drawstring
bag. They know there is something in this house for them.

Just before I open the box, I take out a photograph from my pocket. An
iceberg, the size of a cathedral, chiselled and burning white, with
pink dancing where the light hits. Nothing relaxes me more than looking
at icebergs.

Her place is certainly pretty fancy. The cheque doesn't seem that large
an amount now. The wine bottle I half slide from the rack probably cost
more. She's clearly in charge, I can see her personality stamped onto
every vase, picture, the shaping of the lampshades.

I can see the bugs dance - they are moving like popcorn in a wok.
There's a pattern to it, like bees. What I see is that there's a lot
here, a feast, but it isn't all that fresh.

Where to first? A lot of people go for the obvious - the telephone, the
drawers where people keep letters, the bed. Me, I go for mirrors.

If there's guilt in a building, the mirror is the biggest sponge. You
finish up whatever you've done and go to brush your teeth or unsmear
your makeup or even just to grin and say "You dog" and you look in that
mirror. And that mirror looks right back at you and says, Proud of
yourself ?

I won't have mirrors in my house. I don't trust 'em.

When I put the box near the mirror, the bugs go crazier than I've ever
seen. They make a strange little hungry yearning noise, like a cat
watching birds through glass and singing to them to try to lure them
near.

No matter how confident you are, opening that box is always a little
scary. These bugs are frenzied now and if I feel guilty about anything,
they'll turn on me. I always, always send my mother a birthday card,
just in case. Every damn month, just to be sure.

When the hardened criminals are faced with the glass box, they usually
cough right away, because they're scared of the bugs going for them. So
far as I know, the box has hardly been opened in that sort of
situation, though there are rumours of Gentle Bugs.

I figure they may as well get a taste. I open the box and they fly out.
Their wings seem so frail and wet, but they move damn quickly. They
cover the mirror in this copper and a black that is so dark it is
almost green, if that makes any sort of sense. They feast on the guilt
that's been poured into this mirror.

The bugs are an hour in the bathroom. Maybe I should have brought more
of them. I brought thirty and I've never needed more than eight on a
job.

I leave them in there, make myself a milky coffee, adding more and more
milk and look for something to read. There isn't a lot, but I find an
old copy of Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie and I can't remember
how it ends, so I sit in a leather chair that feels like a catcher's
mitt andread that. I had a look at the music, but as I thought, it was
all jazz and classical. That type of person always listens to music I
don't understand.

By the end of the day, this is the longest Purge I've seen. The bugs
are sated, long fat stomachs bloated up with guilt, like I could pop
them with a thumb nail pressure, they remind me of bubble-wrap. They
are easy to pick up and put back in the box. They get sleepy when they
are full.

I'm really curious. What secrets have these bugs got in their guts ?
How did this ritzy, perfect lifestyle flat get so many pockets of Guilt
?

* * *

"Right, " I say to her, putting the box on the table. The bugs are
still full, because otherwise they ought to be jumping - the Guilt in
her house, she ought to be reeking of Guilt to these bugs.

"These here, " I say, "Are the bugs that Purged your place. "

She takes a peek at them. Am I disappointed that she doesn't react
squeamishly ? She gives me a smile that I feel all the way down in my
shin bones.

"What now ? " she says.

"Generally, it's advisable to incinerate them, " I say (don't feel bad,
they're just bugs, don't get attached, certainly don't feel guilty),
"Some skilled people can retrieve the information from them, if you
know what you're doing. "

"Do you know what you're doing ? " she asks me and her teeth are just
so perfect I could nearly faint.

"I do, " I say, and open the desk drawer and take out a Zippo lighter
and a tube of lighter fluid.

"Listen, " I say, "You'd better leave. They could come after you. I
need to open the box for these and if your house is anything to go by,
the Guilt pheromone is all over you. "

She blinks, twice.

"I don't have anything to fear, " she says, "The only thing I feel
anything about is lying to you and I'm already way over that. You got
paid, I got what I wanted, your bugs got fed, so no guilt there. I'm
clean, mister. I need to see these juicy boys burn, so get to it.
"

Just to be on the safe side, I bring out a box of fresh bugs and give
her the Sweep. Nothing.

How the hell can she be living in that house, the nest of Guilt and be
totally clean ? Only bug-handlers can pass the Sweep. Everyone else has
got some minor niggle, that the bugs can smell.

"Ever hear of Cleansing ? " she asks, and I fumble in my pocket for the
iceberg picture, I'm in need of calming.

Cleansing is very, very hush hush. Nobody should know about it really.
I only know because I'm probably the third best bug-handler in Europe.
Cleansing involves getting the bugs to eat the very memories out of
your head - not just remove the Guilt on the surface, but get you to
the stage where you can lie most convincingly, because there's no
record in your mind of any wrong-doing.

It is the dream of the people behind the bug-project, because coupled
with Retrieval, what you have is an absolutely flawless interrogation
method where you pull every guilty secret out of the suspects
head.

Problem is, none of the attempts have ever had a survivor. The idea is
to do it with one bug, but even then, the process is too
traumatic.

"You've been Cleansed ? " I ask her. She should be either dead, or at
best, just drooling and eating baby-food off a plastic spoon.

"Apparently, " she says.

"And I don't know why, or what I did that warranted it. All of the
final proof is in that box, inside those bugs. So torch them Mister
Chandler, and get to it. "

I was in way over my head. I looked real hard at the picture of the
iceberg. It was necessary.