What kind of man wore a suit to bed?
He brought minions. Aldermen: nameless, stone-faced men and women. How we loathed Aldermen.
“Where’s Kemsley?”
I jerked my head at the door. I’d had to let the light go out in my fingers, too tired to hold it. I’d found a bit of wall that didn’t look like it was going to collapse immediately, and made it my friend. The Aldermen had torches. They hurt our eyes.
“In there. There’s a nurse looking after him. You’d better not be too rude. The NHS has a policy on rude visitors.”
Earle gestured at the chipboard door, and one of the black-coated silent Aldermen detached himself and drifted through it, pulling it shut behind him.
“What about Anissina?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“What about my—”
“I don’t know. One is dead, at least. We got separated. Mr Pinner was waiting. I guess he must have known we’d go looking again after Nair died there. I guess he didn’t mind, until we got too close to the flat where the kid stayed. Then he did his thing.”
“What about this kid?”
“Not there.”
“So at least one of my men is dead for nothing?”
“No. At least one of your men is dead for confirmation that Mr Pinner is a mean son of a bitch who would probably have a bit of a giggle at a strategic nuclear strike. Also for confirmation that Nair was killed by this . . . thing. And to prove that the kid is connected; to conclude that this whole bloody thing has been tied up in a way that gives me a migraine just to think of; and to find that there was a CCTV camera in the stairwell. I know it’s not like dying to save puppies and children, but I’d go to the funeral and we’d honour their memory with true gratitude.”
“You’re gabbling, Swift,” snapped Earle.
“I’m a little fried.”
“How did you survive?”
“It was all a bit of a blur.”
Earle glanced quickly at Oda, who turned her head away. It meant something, that movement — I just didn’t know what. Add it to the list.
“This CCTV camera” — the guy could prioritise — “It was working?” “When I last checked. You people have a thing for this, right? I mean you’ve done the assault rifles and stuff” — we wanted to laugh, or possibly cry, or some hysterical thing in between, a madness on the edge of my voice — “so you’ve gotta be up there with the whole spy surveillance shit, right?”
“We can probably manage something.”
“Good. You should probably do it soon. I’m guessing Mr Pinner is kinda pissed that anyone survived. He’ll probably come looking. And we’re not in any condition to fight, not against a guy who can’t die.”
“There are scratches on your face.”
“Paper cuts.”
“He . . .”
“Yes.”
“What is he?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes. You were Bakker’s apprentice, and whatever he was in life, there is no denying that he was an expert in these matters. Do you have any idea what this Mr Pinner is?”
I thought about it long and hard. “No.”
“No?”
“Not a clue. Not a finch’s fart. He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?”
“From the sounds of it, yes,” murmured Earle thoughtfully.
So we laughed. And realising that what we really wanted to do was cry, we laughed just that bit harder, so no one would see the truth.
Safe places.
Strange how these things get redefined. A guy walks behind you in an empty street and safety is the home. A couple of kids burgle your house and safety is with Mum and Dad’s home. A bomb goes off at the end of the street and safety is in the countryside. A guy comes looking for you who bleeds paper and shredded the last bloke with your job title like an unwanted telephone bill, and safety is . . .
Thinking is trouble.
The Aldermen found me a place to stay. They didn’t want me in the office, and I didn’t want to be there. I had no home of my own, hadn’t had one since my death certificate had been put on file. So, grumbling all the way, they found me a hotel to spend the night.
I wanted to sleep.
I wanted to feel safe.
And as safe goes, it wasn’t bad. It ticked the mundane choices — twenty-four-hour security staff, police station practically across the road, busy streets outside, CCTV surveillance up the kazoo and Aldermen stationed on the corridors and doors at all times. It also met some mystical choices — the River Thames only a few yards away in one direction, the lights of the West End only a few yards the other way; and, just down the road, Charing Cross station, generally accepted as the heart of the city. There was power in that, even if it wasn’t true. Ideas are power, and the constant burning of the lights gave the place a magic that we could practically float on, an electric- orange lick in the air. Look out of any window, and whether you saw reflected lights on the water or the flashing signs of the Strand, it was beautiful. Even we could sleep, safe in so much busy, beautiful life around us, trusting to strangers and their ways to keep us from danger.
And whaddayaknow?
It even had room service.
As a rule, I dislike hotels. Too much money, too little soul. Plus the bed had ten layers of sheet and blanket that needed a hydraulic pump to pry them away from the mattress, and the radiators were turned up too high. But it was peaceful, and it was safe.
So we curled up beneath the sheets, and we slept.
Sorcerers are supposed to have prophetically insightful dreams.
I guess I wasn’t in the zone.
My dreams were drenched in terror. They woke me every half-hour, gasping for breath, face burning and arms goosebumped, without being able to name the dread that hunted me across the synaptic snooze of my mind. When I went back to sleep, turning in the wrecked mess of blanket, it would come back, beating against the edge of my skull the chant:
Another thing to add to the list of things that needed to be thought about, and about which I did not want to think.
We slept.
Morning began at three in the afternoon.
Still here.
Still not dead.
