Surprise!
Our heart missed a beat as we opened the bathroom door, but no, no flayed victims or vengeful pinstriped . . . things waiting for us.
Surprise!!
I didn’t get up in a hurry, reasoning that if Earle had anything heartbreakingly important to tell me, he would. It occurred to me that, it now being three in the afternoon, Earle might already be dead along with the rest of the Aldermen and for all I knew the remainder of the city, and we were all alone in the ruined remains of London — but the water ran hot from the shower and the slippers were too fluffy for this to be Armageddon quite yet.
Besides, there was a phone call I had to make before the end of everything, the death of the city. I made no conscious decision to do it. But I knew, with the certainty that comes over you in a hot shower after a long day, that it had to be done.
While I slept, someone had cleaned my clothes, even my coat. Polishing my shoes had been out of the question, but the worst of the dirt seemed to have been scraped off with a hard brush, my trousers folded and my “What Would Jesus Do?” T-shirt, for which we were starting to develop a strange and uncomfortable fondness, smelt of fabric softener. They’d even managed to shift the worst of the blood from the cuffs of my coat. I was impressed. Suspicious, but impressed.
There was an Alderman on the door, when I opened it. He had a face that had been polished in olive oil. He glanced at me, I stared at him. He didn’t smile. I guessed he was one of the ones who’d voted to have me shot. I guessed he wasn’t currently a fan of the democratic process. I said, “Have we met?”
“No.”
“I’m Matthew.”
“I know who you are.”
Five words were four too many to prove that this line of enquiry would get nowhere. I gave up on good manners and snapped, “Where’s Earle?”
“Mr Earle is working.”
“At what?”
“At the current situation.”
“Where can I find him?”
“His office is Harlun and Phelps. Overlooking Aldermanbury Square. We’re under orders to keep you safe.”
“Whose orders?”
“The majority’s orders.”
“What’s Harlun and Phelps?”
“Trust fund managers.”
“The Aldermen are trust fund managers?”
“It pays to be paid.”
Couldn’t argue with his reasoning. “Has he found the boy, Mo?”
“I would inform you if he had.”
“Has he found Anissina?”
“No. But then, he hasn’t found her body. Unlike those of four others of our employees.”
I thought of the mercenaries skidding down the cable into the smog of Kilburn. “I’m sorry.”
“They were just employees.”
The Alderman intoned it like a bored priest too indifferent to care that he’d lost his faith. He didn’t look at me, but focused his attention on a part of the wall just above my left ear. He had a ring on his left hand; it carried the twin crosses.
“Where’s Oda?”
“She had to consult with her employers.”
“Why?”
“We need a coordinated strategy if we are to tackle the current situation.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Everyone.”
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“I would not presume to question your judgement,” he replied.
I took a deep breath. “Fine. I want to talk to Loren.”
Loren wasn’t in her flat.
The Aldermen had moved her.
Sure, they’d moved her to a reasonably comfortable B & B just north of Mornington Crescent and made sure her boss didn’t mind; but they’d still plucked her out of her home and dragged her, strangers, to a strange place, and not bothered to explain themselves.
Which explained why, when I rang the number that the Aldermen had given me, she said: “WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?!! I SWEAR I WILL GODDAMN KILL YOU, I’LL KILL YOU I’LL . . .”
“Loren?”
The shouting stopped. There was a long pause, full of a rapid and distant drawing of breath. Then, “Who’s this?”
“It’s Matthew.”
“Jesus,
“Are you all right?”
“No. I am very much not all right. I am the least all right I think I have ever been in my whole life, and it’s been pretty shit so far anyway. Where’s Mo? Have you found him? I’m in this place in Camden, these men turned up and they . . . they said they were the police then I asked for ID and they said they weren’t but that I’d have to come and . . . have you found Mo?”
“Not yet. No. I’m sorry.”
“God. But you haven’t . . . I mean, you haven’t not found him because he’s . . . I mean, you haven’t not found him and you’re just not telling me because you think I can’t . . . look, I want to know, OK, I need to know whatever way it is if you’ve . . .”
“I haven’t found him. In any sense, I swear. I’m trying. I’m . . . getting there.”
“But if you can’t, then why . . .”
“Loren, I need to know some more things about him.”
“Matthew, what’s going on? Anything, but . . .”
“The guys who took you to Camden did it, for all their screwed-up reasoning, to keep you safe. You’ll be safe.”
“What’s not to be safe from?”
“There are things happening. Different things; I mean, different. But I’m looking, they’re looking all the time. I promise.”
“This is . . . there’s mystic stuff, right? Bad?”
“Maybe.”
“Involving Mo?”
“Perhaps. Yes. Probably.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s . . .”
“You told me the truth, Matthew. When that thing came up from under the street you turned and said, sorcerer, magic, monster, just straight out. And I thought ‘hell, this guy is either so whacked off his own head that he just can’t tell the difference any more so might as well run with it or, shit, this stuff is real, deal with the madness’. That’s the only way, do you see? I thought about it. If I don’t know then I’ll just imagine, all the things I might not know, all the terrible things that are out there, without limits, without reason, I need to know that it makes some sort of sense!”
There was no reason not to tell her.
No sensible reason.
