The Fuller Memorandum

candle is strictly optional if you’re reading from a backlit screen, and the bell’s a synthesized tone.

Finally, after squeezing between the Lightning and a tarp-shrouded jet engine on a trolley I fetch up where I started from, back by the workbench. “Last words.” I pick up the microphone that’s plugged into the signal generator, flip the switch, and say, “Piss off.”

There’s a bang and a blue flash from the grounding point on the airframe, and my PDA makes an ominous crackling noise. Then the thaum field dies. “You nailed it,” says Hastings.

“Looks that way,” I agree, turning to face him.

He looks past me. “What about the—Hey, what are you—”

Now here’s where things go wrong.

Muggins here didn’t bother to set up a ward around the workbench with the contaminated cockpit console before he sorted out the airframe, because he thought that he could do the two jobs separately. But they’re not separate, are they? The law of contagion applies: the cockpit instruments had been physically bolted to the airframe for a number of years, and things that form a unitary identity for a long time tend to respond as one.

More importantly, nobody had thought to tell Muggins precisely what Squadron 666, Royal Air Force, did with its planes. Escorting the white elephants. Muggins here still thought he was dealing with a simple spontaneous haunting—bad memories, terrified pilot in near-death experience, that sort of thing—rather than secondary activation caused by overexposure to gibbering unearthly horrors; the necromantic equivalent of collecting fallout samples by flying through mushroom clouds.

But I’m second-guessing the enquiry now, so I’ll shut up.

Warrant Officer Hastings survives the explosion because he is still inside his protective pentacle.

Muggins here survives the explosion because he is wearing a heavy-duty defensive ward around his neck and, in response to Hastings’s call, has turned to look at the open doorway where little old Helen with her tightly curled white hair is standing, clutching a tea tray.

Her mouth is open as if she’s about to say something, and her eyebrows are raised.

I will remember the expression on her face for a very long time.

Beauty may be skin-deep, but horror goes all the way down to the desiccated bone beneath, as the eerie purple flashbulb glow rises and her eyes melt in their sockets and her hair and clothes turn to dust, falling down and down as I begin to turn back towards the airframe and reach for the small pouch around my neck, which is scalding hot against my skin as the air heats up—

There’s a dissonant chime from the signal generator on the bench, unattended, then a continuous shrill ringing alarm as its safeties trip.

The hideous light goes out with a bang like a balloon bursting, a balloon the size of the Hindenburg.

“Shit,” I hear someone say as I grab the ward and feel a sharp pain in my hand. I blink furiously as I yank, breaking the fine chain. There’s a clicking in my ears and I blink again, see white powder everywhere—like snow or heavy dust on the floor, a patina of corrosion on the aircraft wings stacked in their jigs around me, white on the workbenches—

“Helen!” shouts Warrant Officer Hastings, stepping over the boundary of his protective perimeter.

I don’t need to look round to know it’s too late for her but I still cringe. I drop the ward and gasp as air touches the palm of my hand and the spot on my sternum that’s beginning to sting like a kicked wasps’ nest. My ears are ringing.

I turn back to the bench with the signal generator to check my PDA for the thaum field. Unwelcome surprises come in threes: Number one is, the bench is a centimeter deep in white dusty powder. Surprise number two is, my PDA has gone to meet its maker—it’s actually scorched and blackened, the case melted around one edge. And surprise number three—

A thin, wispy trickle of smoke is rising from behind the (scorched, naturally) canvas screens around the Lightning’s cockpit instruments—ground zero for the pulse of necromantic energy that has just seared through the hangar like a boiling propane vapor explosion.

Here’s Hastings, kneeling and clutching a dented steel teapot that looks as if it’s been sandblasted, sobbing over a pile of—

The ringing in my ears is louder, and louder still, and the big hangar doors crack open to admit a ray of daylight to the crypt and the howl of the airfield fire tender’s siren, but they’re too late.

I GET HOME LATE, REALLY LATE: SO LATE I END UP EXPENSING a taxi to take me into Birmingham to catch the last train, and another taxi home at the other end. Iris will probably give me a chewing out over it but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. The emergency response team kept me at the first aid post for a couple of hours, under observation, but I’m okay, really: just scooped out and full of a numinous sense of dread, looping on the bright purple flash as I looked round and saw the door opening, Helen standing there for a moment as the thaum field on the instrument console collapsed, sucking out the life from anything within a fifty-meter radius that wasn’t locked down and shielded.

(Hangar Six isn’t going to have a rat problem for a while.)

The unshielded instrument console entangled with the shielded airframe I’d just exorcised. And the seventy- something lady in the pink slippers, shuffling forward with a tea tray and two mugs she’d carefully poured for us—

Too clever by half.

As I open the front door, I can feel the house sulking. I switch on the lights and hang up my coat in the hall, fighting the urge to hunch my shoulders defensively. It’s Mo, of course. This is her house as much as it’s mine— okay, it’s our maisonette, two civil servants can’t possibly afford a house in London even if they’re both management track—and it reflects her mood. I canceled Pete and Sandy but I can’t cancel Mo. She’s got a snit on, perfectly justifiable. I really ought to go upstairs and apologize, but as I bend down to untie my shoelaces I find my hands are shaking.

An indeterminate time later I open my eyes. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with an empty glass in my hand. The quality of the light just changed.

“Bob?” It’s Mo, wearing a dressing gown, rubbing her eyes. “Shit. Bob”—her tone of voice changes, softening slightly—“what’s wrong?”

“I—” I clear my throat, force air through my larynx: “I screwed up.”

The bottle of Talisker sitting beside my left hand is half-empty. Mo peers at it, then takes a step closer and peers at me. Then she picks up the bottle, pops the cork, and pours a generous two fingers into my glass, bless her.

“Drink up.” She pauses with a hand on the back of the other kitchen chair. “Am I going to need one too?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

She goes to the cupboard and takes out another glass before she sits down. I blink at her, red-eyed and confused.

“Talk.” She pours a shot into her own glass. “In your own time.”

I glance at the kitchen clock. “It’s one a.m.”

“And it’ll be one a.m. again, at least once a day for the rest of your life. So talk, if you want. Or drink up and come to bed.”

I sip my whisky. “I screwed up.”

“How badly?”

“I killed a bystander.”

“A by—” She freezes with her glass halfway to her lips. “Jesus, Bob.” Pause. “How did you do that?”

She looks appalled, but probably much less appalled than your spouse would look if you confessed to killing someone over the kitchen table. (Mo is made of stern stuff.)

“Angleton sent me to do a routine job. Only I missed something and fucked up my prep.”

“But you’re still—” She bites her lip, and now she looks shaken; my ears sketch in the missing word: alive.

“Oh, I almost got it right,” I explain, waving my glass. “Warrant Officer Hastings