“A shard.”
“In physics,” Naz continued, “of what remains after a process of evaporation; in law, that which—again—remains of an estate after all charges, debts, etc. have been paid. Residuary legatee: one to whom the residue of an estate is paid. Resid…”
“Accrued,” I said.
“What?” Naz asked.
“Go on,” I said.
“Residual analysis: calculus substituting method of fluxions, 1801. Residual heat of a cooling globe, 1896. Residual error in a set of observations, 1871.”
“It’s because the time of year had changed. But that’s not how he used it.”
“Who?” asked Naz.
“The short councillor,” I said. “He used it like a…you know, like a thing. A residual.”
“A noun,” said Naz. “What short councillor?”
“Yes, that’s right: a noun. This strange, pointless residual. And he pronounced the s as an s, not as a z. Re-c-idual. Have it looked up with that spelling.”
“What spelling?” Naz asked.
“R-e-c-i-d-u-a-l.”
Naz tapped at his mobile again. I looked away, back up at the sky. A mile or so away, on the main runways, aeroplanes were taxying, turning and taking off, these huge steel crates all packed with people and their clutter moaning and tingling as they stretched their arms out, palms up, rising. Planes that had taken off earlier were dwindling to specks that hung suspended in the air’s outer reaches for a while, then disappeared. I thought back to my stairwell, then to the tyre and cascading sticky liquid re-enactment that we’d done in this same warehouse. I’d told Annie and Frank to come up with something, some device, that would stop the blue goop from falling on me—make all its particles go up instead, become sky, disappear. Frank had thought of feeding it up through a tube towards the ceiling and then through the roof, transforming it into a mist.
“We could do that,” I said.
“What’s that?” Naz asked.
“All vaporize and be sprayed upwards. When we have to disappear, like you said. Remove traces, all that stuff.”
Naz’s eyes went vacant while the thing behind them whirred. Another plane passed overhead, moaning and tingling.
“Or just take planes,” I said. “They’ll take us out of the picture.”
Naz’s whole body tensed. He was completely static for a while, his musculature suspended while the calculating part of him took all the system’s energy. After a while the body part switched back on and he said:
“Planes are a very good idea.” He thought for a while more, then added: “Two planes. No, three. We’ll have to separate the re-enactors who’ll have been at the bank from the others. They can’t mix before they board their flights.”
“Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”
“And then…” Naz began; his phone beeped. He looked at it, then slipped it back into his pocket and continued: “And then we’d also have to separate…”
“Is that the dictionary people?” I asked him. “What do they say?”
“Word not found,” he said.
“What do they mean, not found?”
“‘Recidual’: word not found,” he repeated.
I started to feel dizzy.
“It must be there,” I said. “A noun: r-e-c-i…”
“I spelt it that way,” Naz said; “just as you told me. They say there’s no ‘recidual’ in the dictionary.”
“Well tell them to go and find a bigger dictionary, then!” I said. I was really feeling bad now. “And if you see that short councillor here…”
“What short councillor?” Naz asked.
I leant against the replicated bank’s exterior, against a white stone slab. The stone was neither warm nor cold; it had an outer layer of grit that kind of slid against the solid stone beneath it. Nearby, the cars turned and cut.
“I should like…” I started. “Naz…”
Naz wasn’t paying attention to me. He was standing quite still, looking out across the runways. Luckily Samuels turned up just then, put his arm around my waist and held me upright.
“You should go home,” someone said.
I was driven back to my building. Naz came by a few hours later, in the middle of the night. He looked dreadful: sallow-cheeked and gaunt.
“What have you found?” I asked him.
“There’s just one way…” he began.
“One way to what?” I said. “What’s this got to do…”
“Just one way to stop information leakage. To be absolutely certain.”
“Yes, but what about ‘recidual’?” I asked.
“No: this is more important,” Naz said. “Listen.”
“No!” I said. I sat up on my sofa. “You listen, Naz: I say what’s important. Tell me what they found.”
Naz’s eyes rested on a spot vaguely near my head for a few seconds. I could see him running what I’d just said past his data-checkers, and deciding I was right: I did say what was important. Without me, no plans, no Need to Know charts,