Free The Fuller Memorandum by Stross Charles

last time I looked. Is that exact enough for you?”
    “Probably . . .” I hear keys clicking hastily, a keyboard on a desk near his phone. “Listen, you aren’t cleared for this, and I can’t do it over the phone. Normally you would be cleared but that enquiry that’s pending has screwed up your—look, I’m tied up right now, but I’ll send someone round immediately, as soon as I can find a warm body. Can you hold the fort for an hour?”
    “Who are you going to send, exactly?”
    “The office bloody intern if I have to, as long as they’ve got an Oyster card and can carry a Letter of Release, will that do you?”
    I sigh. “It’ll have to. Better hurry, though, or you’re going to be short-staffed next week.”
    I go back to the living room. Mo is sitting on the sofa, immobile, in exactly the position she was in when I left. I shove the coffee table aside and kneel in front of her. “Mo? Talk to me?”
    She’s staring right through me at the fireplace, vague and unfocused. “Can’t,” she says.
    “I called Andy. The reason it won’t let you talk to me is the pending enquiry on my record.” It being the simpleminded geas someone in Plumbing dropped on everyone who witnessed the scene in Amsterdam. “I threatened to kick his arse and he’s sending a courier with a Letter of Release just for you.” A physical token that will release her from the geas. “He said it’ll take about an hour, maybe a bit longer. Can you wait that long?”
    Abruptly, she makes eye contact. “Oh thank God,” she says. Then she slowly slumps forward, like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
     
     
    THIRTY MINUTES LATER, THE DOORBELL RINGS. I’m upstairs in the bedroom, sitting up with Mo, when I hear the chimes. It took a while to get her up there and into bed, propped up on pillows with the duvet pulled up to her chin—still wearing most of her street clothes—and a mug of coffee to hand. She’s shivery and a bit shocky but the color has begun to return to her cheeks, and ten minutes ago she asked me to bring her violin. She doesn’t like to leave it unattended, and she’s right—fuck knows what would happen if one of the local lowlifes put a brick through the window and snatched it, the thing’s about as safe as a loaded machine gun with no safety catch. So it’s sitting on the bed, and she’s got one hand on it, just to maintain contact.
    We’re talking inconsequentialities, waiting for the letter to arrive. “A weekend would be good,” she agrees.
    “If I can find a bed and breakfast—”
    “In Harrogate? It won’t be cheap but it’ll be quiet and there are places to walk, and it’s not far off the East Coast Main Line.”
    “Maybe York, instead?”
    “York, in summer? It’ll be sunny, but the river smells —”
    Ding-dong .
    “That’ll be the letter,” I say, rising. “Back in a minute.” I’m through the door and taking the stairs two at a time. That was fast, I think, eagerly reaching for the door handle.
    My head hurts. Then the next thing I think is, That’s funny. Why am I on the floor?
    I’m looking up and my vision is blurred, like a migraine. Uncle Fester leans over me, pointing a gun with a fat barrel at my face.
    “Где же она?” he says.
    “Uh?”
    Actually, my face feels like it’s split open. The bastard shoved the door in my face, hard.
    Uncle Fester pokes my forehead with the gun, provoking a bright metallic flash of pain.

    He looks like Niko Bellic’s mad uncle, the bad one with the child abuse convictions and the questionable personal hygiene, not to mention a bright red-glowing zit in the middle of his forehead. And I am utterly fucked, because I don’t understand a word he’s saying: but I’ll swear I saw him or his twin brother at the bus stop yesterday—
    He’s pulling back the gun. I can see its barrel looking huge and dark, and if I knew where my hands were there’s this neat trick you can do when some idiot points an automatic at you at