The Magnus Protocol 26 - Catching Up

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The Magnus Protocol

Episode twenty-six Catching Up

How are we looking?

Pretty much there.

You?

Close enough.

Right, let's go before anything more comes in.

Did you just categorize that last one as dog?

Got a problem with that?

No.

Good.

It's just.

dog.

That's it.

It was about a dog.

Not cross-linked with, like, teeth or.

All dogs have teeth.

I guess, but.

Look, do you want to go and meet Helen?

Or do you want to stay here and discuss dogs?

Because either way, I'm happy.

Yeah, all right.

All right.

Dog.

You okay?

Ah, you know me.

This stuff makes me nervous.

Yeah, me too.

Really?

So,

anything particular that you're worked up about?

No.

Yeah,

not sure.

I just don't think I can face another dead end.

Hey, Alice.

Planning another daring heist?

The crown jewels aren't gonna steal themselves.

Oh, that's good to hear.

I was worrying for a moment that you were magnusing.

Uh magnusing?

Magnusing.

Verb.

To insist on poking around stuff to do with the Magnus Institute, despite Alice's continued efforts to stop you getting yourselves killed.

Alice, we've been over this.

No, you're right.

It's fine.

You know how I feel, but you're both grown adults.

You can make your own choices.

Just make sure you take protection, okay?

Jesus Christ, like a big knife or something.

Don't worry.

Oh, wow.

That'll do it.

Okay, then.

Maybe don't get it out at work, though.

We'll be careful, Alice.

I promise.

Fine.

Off you go then, I guess.

See See you tonight.

Yeah, see you later.

Celia,

are you sure that thing is legal?

Witness statement of Alexander Rumens.

Date of birth, 10th September, 2000.

Occupation, accountant.

Address, 17 Granston Avenue, Hackney, dated 14th April, 2024.

My name is Alexander Rumens.

I've...

I've never done one of these, so I'm not quite sure what I am meant to say here.

I'm 23.

I'm male.

I've lived in London my whole life.

I have two sisters, one older and one younger.

My dad died when I was 15, and my mother still lives in the house I grew up in.

And yesterday...

God,

even saying it makes me feel horribly nauseous,

I saw someone die.

I saw someone die right in front of me, and there wasn't a single thing I could have done to help.

The worst thing is that I know him.

Knew him.

How long does it take until I speak of him in the past tense?

I knew him,

and now

I don't anymore.

The dead person is...

was

Jared Smith.

He was an athletics coach who trained young runners.

I know because I was one of them.

At a very young age, I realized I could run faster than anyone.

It was like I could take a deep breath that spread into my chest, my legs, and shot through me like an arrow.

By the time I was ten, I could outrun most teachers and all the older boys in the big school next to my primary.

It became a bit of a game for them.

No one could ever catch me, except Mr.

Jarrod.

I only knew him as my PE teacher then, the new PE teacher who had started in my final year of primary school.

That was the first time we had athletics rather than football or rugby or gymnastics.

I won, of course.

I was faster than anyone.

No matter how many times he asked me to race again and again until finally he placed himself next to me and simply shouted, Go.

That shot of adrenaline went through my chest, my legs pumping faster and faster until I realized Mr.

Jarrod had passed me.

No matter how much faster I tried to push my legs, I lost.

Afterwards, spitting and sputtering, I managed to say, can you teach me to run faster?

It wasn't easy getting permission from my parents.

They didn't understand why I needed to train after school, and they certainly didn't have any money for special clothes or shoes.

But Mr.

Jarrod had a spare pair of training shoes, and he promised he would bring me home every day after training.

So my parents, exhausted by their double shifts at Tesco, agreed.

And that's how it started.

Three times a week, Mr.

Jarrod would meet me on the playground outside the gymnasium, with the track already marked and his stopwatch at the ready.

If it was raining, we moved inside.

If it was cold, I'd wear an extra layer.

But we never, ever missed a session.

It was just a few months later that I ran my first race.

Only my sisters were there to watch me win.

That was the first time I remember feeling proud of myself.

It's not a feeling I've had for a long time.

Despite seeing each other almost every day, I knew very little of Mr.

Jarrod.

All I knew was that he was there at the track three times a week and that he knew how to make me faster.

First I became the fastest in my borough.

Then I won the London Athletics Meet.

I was the youngest to ever win the meet and the sponsors were salivating all over themselves but Mr.

Jarrett told me to ignore all of them and just to focus on running.

The next year, just before I was due to run the meet again, to come back and defend my title, my father died.

I had just completed a personal best at the 100 meters.

I turned and saw my older sister standing at the edge of the track.

I will never forget the look on her face.

Her eyes, always so brown, looked darker than ink, and her face was almost entirely slack.

I'm not sure how she managed to say the words, but I heard them nonetheless.

It's dad.

We have to go home.

I ran.

The streets were a blur as I barely dodged cars and pedestrians, as if by running I could reach my father and he'd be alive.

I honestly don't remember the following days.

The funeral came and went.

My sisters went back to school and to college.

My mother picked up more shifts at Tesco.

But I stopped running.

What was the point?

Running didn't do anything to help my dad.

Mr.

Jarrod came to visit once, a few weeks after the funeral, before I went back to school.

He knocked only once and spoke to ask if he could come in.

I didn't answer the door, and he didn't knock again.

That was the last time I saw him.

Until yesterday morning.

I haven't run for such a long time, you see.

I've been working as an accountant since I graduated.

Don't get me wrong, it's an incredibly boring job, but now my mum doesn't have to work at Tasco, and neither do my sisters.

I like to take walks in the morning before work.

Just stretch my legs a little.

Not run, though.

Never run.

I went this morning as usual.

Nothing strange about that.

Till I saw him.

Mr.

Jarrod.

I recognized him instantly.

His stride, his dark skin glistening with sweat, his pace.

I couldn't believe it.

Seven years since I saw him, but I still felt that old thrill at the idea of racing him.

Mr.

Jarrod, I shouted.

Mr.

Jarrett, it's me, Alex.

But he didn't stop.

He didn't so much as slow down.

He thundered past me, his legs moving smoothly.

I have never been a superstitious person, but for some reason, when I looked at Mr.

Jarrett run faster than I had ever seen him, a cold and slimy shiver went down my back.

He seemed to be running for his life.

I don't have any explanation for why I think that, but he seemed more frightened than anyone I have ever seen.

I could smell the fear coming off his skin as he thundered past me again.

His shirt was completely soaked, as were his shorts, and you could see the flecks of sweat fly off his face and arms even at a distance, even at the speed his legs were moving.

He wasn't being chased.

I looked around, but the entire park was completely deserted.

It was only moments after five in the morning.

There was no one to ask for help, and I had a sudden thought that if I took my eyes off him, something truly awful would happen.

I had only one choice.

I'm nowhere near as fast as I was.

I was gasping before 20 meters had passed and sweating by 50 meters, and I just couldn't keep up.

Mr.

Jared, please.

Stop, I begged, as my legs started to seize up.

But in all the years years we trained together, I could never catch Mr.

Jarrod.

And today was no different.

I grasped at the air as he pulled further away, missing his t-shirt by inches.

I stopped again.

I felt as if I would never take in enough air.

That's when I realized that he was running laps of the park.

I didn't need to catch him.

I just needed to meet him, so I turned and ran the other way.

I drew closer and closer, and suddenly I was knocked completely off my feet.

Mr.

Jared ran straight over me.

I think he ran through me.

I tried to stand up, but had to sit down again, a dizzying rush of pain swooping through my body.

I called to him, but of course he couldn't hear me.

I don't think he could hear anyone.

A few moments later, he ran past me again, his breaths gasping and heaving, as if it was taking every ounce of strength and energy to keep his body moving.

His face was contorted in complete terror, and that's when I could make out that his mouth was moving.

Words seemed to tumble out in a cascade, like he was telling some awful story, but they were lost under his labored breathing.

Our eyes locked for a moment, just as he stumbled and fell.

Was there recognition?

I don't know.

He hit the ground headfirst, and even at that distance I could hear the sickening sound of his skull splitting open.

Every step sent a shard of horrible pain through my head, but I ran until I reached him.

Mr.

Jarrett's forehead had a horrible cut, with the blood freely flowing into his eyes.

Even so, he was struggling to get up, to continue running, and his mouth kept forming words.

I dropped to my knees, trying to stop him from moving.

Bloody and shaking, he pushed me away, weakly trying to get up again, but he barely made it to his knees before he fell over again.

And all the while he kept muttering.

I could make out a few of the words now.

They're coming now and getting close, so very close, and when I slow and when I stop, they will catch me and they will hurt me.

There was more, but I didn't hear it, because I saw that we were no longer alone in the park.

I don't know how it came up so close without me seeing it.

A figure, tall and and thin and still in shadow even in the morning sun.

I couldn't make out its face, but I felt it, looking at me, looking at me from everywhere.

It was holding a tape recorder to Mr.

Jared's mouth, like it was trying to catch his dying words.

Who are you?

I asked it.

An archivist, it replied.

I wanted to ask more questions, to confront it, to strangle it for what I knew it had done.

But that was when he screamed, his mouth tearing wide open.

I screamed too.

I screamed for a very long time.

And when the paramedics finally brought me to my senses, it was gone.

Hmm.

I don't remember the last time I saw you bothered by a case.

And I suppose you're just cucumber cool about yet another visit from your murderous tape recording pal.

Is that it?

There are plenty of dangerous monsters out there, Alice.

It's not worth obsessing over one of them.

I'm not obsessed.

I'm just irritated because there isn't a code for archivist.

So, collector, librarian, eavesdropper, just pick one of those.

But it said archivist.

It said archivist.

I heard you, Alice.

I just stopped caring.

It was us.

What?

The Institute, the

archive.

That's why it's so interested in us.

We set it loose.

I need to call Sam.

How are you holding up?

I'm okay.

Yeah.

I heard you and Alice on the phone.

Sounded bad.

It is.

She thinks one of the externals, the one with the tapes, the archivist, she thinks we might have let it out.

Or at least got its attention, brought it down here.

If she's right, that would mean all those people

would still be alive if I hadn't insisted on poking around.

How are you?

I don't know.

Something's off.

You can say that again.

No, I mean, something isn't right.

The external, the archivist, it's not acting how I would have expected.

Got a lot of experience with killer tapes, do you?

I just mean that.

Hi, sorry to keep you waiting.

Helen.

That's me.

I'm guessing you're Celia, so you must be.

Sam.

Hi.

Pleasure.

So, can I get either of you a cup of tea?

Coffee?

No, thank you.

How about you, Celia?

Celia?

Uh, no, I'm fine.

Thank

Helen.

Oh, uh

good.

Obviously, we'll need to know a little bit more about your budget.

But before that, are there any big no-nos we should know about?

Like heavy traffic, EK Warrior neighbours, that sort of thing.

Well, I mean, I don't really have an issue.

We're not here for a house.

Where not?

Maisonette?

No, we're here because.

Well, we're looking into the Magnus Institute.

I'm sorry, I'm a little confused.

You haven't heard of it.

Oh, no, no, I remember it very well.

I just thought they closed up shop years ago after the fire.

Some sort of academic outreach thing, wasn't it?

Bit of a quango?

Something like that, yeah.

Yeah, hmm.

I remember I found them a few commercial properties back when I was, you know, first starting out.

Surprised anyone's still interested, though.

Can I ask what this is about?

We're uh

making a documentary.

Oh, really?

A proper one?

Who for?

Uh BBC.

Oh, marvellous.

Well, why didn't you just say?

Do I need to sign anything or uh?

No, we're just in the early research stage at the moment.

Might not even go anywhere.

Oh, well, as I recall, they did have some odd requirements, bloody big basement, security options, that sort of thing.

Do you have any kind of contact details we could maybe follow up on?

Anyone specific you used to talk to?

Yeah, I'm not really supposed to give that kind of information out.

GDPR rubbish, you know how it is.

Of course.

Best I can do is tell you it's been a long time since we've had contact.

Twenty-odd years at least.

Any details we still have are all very much out of date, so wouldn't be much use to you.

Right.

Tell you what, though.

I think I still have the old listings filed away somewhere.

The ones I sent through to them?

Would it maybe help your research to know what sort of properties they were buying?

That would be great.

Didn't you say something about GDPR?

Of course, you're right.

I have no idea where your production team could possibly have got those files.

You're an absolute gem.

Just remember that, if you need any talking heads for the documentary, deal?

Deal.

And make sure you come to me if you're ever, you know, actually in the market for a house, eh?

Yes, young Jack.

Should you ever have need of a modest chateau or a cheeky little palace, do give me a goal.

Jolly good.

Do you like that?

Oh, dear.

Bad news, Celia.

What?

Your baby's a Tory.

Celia?

Hmm?

Everything alright?

Sorry, yeah, it's fine.

I just.

it felt like we were being watched for a moment.

We're okay.

We were very careful not to be followed.

It's just late.

Well, it's early, but you know what I mean.

And we're both tired.

Yeah.

Yeah, you're right.

Would you like a drink while I put Jack down for his morning nap?

Is that a good idea?

I mean,

I said a drink, Sam, not a piss-up.

Right.

Yeah, a drink sounds great.

Peace in the fridge.

I won't be long.

Come on, goblin.

Say bye-bye to Sam.

Bye-bye, Jack.

Re-examine your political views.

Come on.

Okay.

I know you're sleepy.

You're not gonna fall.

I would like a light.

You're welcome.

You're very good with him.

I'm just the cool new toy.

Cool is a strong word.

Ouch.

Maybe I should be putting you to bed.

Um, Celia, I realize I haven't really said thank you.

You don't have to.

I do.

Even after we knew how dangerous this might be, you still stuck around.

I know you have your own reasons, but I have a few.

But you're one of them.

I like you, Sam.

I

mean,

you know, like two, but that's.

I should get going.

You don't have to.

No?

Not if you don't want to.

I don't.

I think I want to stay.

Good.

The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 international license.

The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J.

Newell and directed by Alexander J.

Newell.

This episode was written by Muno Husson and edited with additional materials by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J.

Newell, with vocal edits by Lorianne Davis, soundscaping by Tessa Veroux and mastering by Catherine Rinella with music by Sam Jones.

It featured Billy Hindle as Alice Dyer, Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid, Anusha Battersby as Gwen Bouchard, Lori Ann Davis as Celia Ripley, with additional voices from Jonathan Sims.

The Mangus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J.

Newell, Danny McDonough, Lynn C., and Samantha F.

G.

Hamilton, and associate producers Jordan L.

Hawke, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, Cetius DeRaven, and Megan Nice.

To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit rustyquill.com.

Rate and review us online, tweet us at the RustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us via mail at rustyquill.com.

Thanks for listening.

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What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratchers from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

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Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

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