read about them in a newspaper, couldn't catch a glimpse of them on television, without her whole body starting to tense up, often to the point of trembling. For her it was as much of an instinctive reaction as dread of a shark or revulsion at a snake. She was not alone in that — certainly not in this room.
'You knew already,' said Barrington, both a question and an accusation.
'How?'
'I don't know, maybe you're the bloke that brought us all here. You act like you are.'
'I'm as much in the dark as any of you,' Ramsay said. 'Just trying to fumble my way towards the light. The Olympians hurt someone you care about. Maybe did worse than hurt. Correct?'
Barrington crumpled and gave a sullen nod. 'Malc. My brother. Older brother. Only member of my family worth a tinker's fart. Couldn't have been my vicious bastard of a father who got killed, could it? Couldn't have been my drunk of a mother or my slag of a sister who'll drop her grundies for every root rat that comes sniffing round. Had to be Malcolm. The only person in the world I've ever had any respect for.'
'I'm sorry for your loss.'
'Me bloody too, mate.'
'Was it… intentional?'
'Nah, Malc just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hercules was having one his hissy fits, storming through downtown Sydney flinging cars around and punching holes in buildings. His latest bumboy had given him the elbow, that's what I heard; ended their affair, so off Herc the Jerk goes, taking it out on property like he does, the great arse. Malc was working on the third floor of an office block on George Street, fixing a water cooler for a legal firm. A fucking Toyota ute came flying through the window. Killed him stone dead.'
Barrington's face had gone a deeper, fiercer shade of red. His voice was a balled fist.
''Act of god,' the police report said. 'Act of bastard' more like. Still, four lawyers died too, so it wasn't a complete disaster.'
Around the table there were looks of sympathy, and of empathy. Sam could feel it as strongly as Barrington did: the rage, the pain, the sense of injustice and impotence. Ramsay was a clever man, just as she'd thought. He'd immediately guessed the common denominator that tied all twelve of them together. Although, if her hunch was correct, it wasn't the only common denominator.
'You lost somebody too, eh?' Barrington said to Ramsay. 'That's it, isn't it? That's how you knew.'
'My son. Ethan. He was seven years old. He would have turned twelve next month.' Ramsay's tone was matter-of-fact, and Sam wondered how hard he'd worked to be able to keep it that way while talking about this subject. 'Not a day goes by that I don't think of him, wondering how he'd look now, things he'd say, what he'd be interested in. He was a great kid, handsome like his daddy, biggest brownest eyes you ever saw… and one afternoon he was at school, it was recess, he was out in the yard messing around with his pals, swapping baseball cards, talking 'bout comics, whatever, doing boy stuff — and the monster got him.'
'Monster?' said Fred Tsang. 'Which one?'
'The Lamia. Goddamn bloodsucking, child-murdering bitch. Ethan's elementary school was right on the shore of Lake Michigan. Lamia came out of the lake, went into the schoolyard, grabbed a kid, one kid only — mine — and picked him up and drained the life out of him, right there in front of the whole class. Threw his empty body back down like it was a Coke can and was gone, back into the water before anybody could so much as move.'
'I lost a child too,' said a man in his early forties with salt-and-pepper hair. A product of the English boarding school system by the look and sound of him. Imprinted with the classics, corners knocked off him on the rugby pitch, licked into shape by the headmaster's cane. 'A daughter. My wife along with her. We were on holiday. Crete. Poseidon and Zeus were having a blazing row, somewhere down the coast from us. One of their spats, you know how those two are — Poseidon feeling unappreciated, his old complaint about when the gods were dividing up the earthly regions all he got was the sea and none of the land, kicking up a fuss about that and Zeus having to read the riot act, bring him back into line. Poseidon went off in a huff. Decided to end the argument with a tidal wave. I was taking a nap in the hotel at the time, blissfully unaware of what was happening just a few miles to the west. Debs — my wife — she and Megan were down on the beach. Beautiful hot day. Then suddenly this noise, this enormous roar of water. By the time I'd got to the balcony to look out, the beach was gone. Just… swept away. Sucked out to sea, leaving bare rock behind. The sand all gone, and everyone on it as well. It's Chisholm, by the way. Nigel Chisholm. I used to be a pilot. Still am, technically, though I haven't flown a plane in years.'
'My husband,' said the blonde woman next to Sam. Her accent was Teutonic, with that slight American lilt typical of Europeans who'd learned English via Hollywood. 'Dietrich. Army officer. Killed six and a half years ago during my country's final, stupid show of defiance against the Olympians.'
'The Munich Massacre,' said Ramsay.
'So,' she confirmed. 'Nine thousand of our troops and almost as many civilians were slaughtered that day, all so that our Chancellor could pretend he had a dick bigger than my little finger. Dietrich was just one of the nine thousand. A small fraction of the total. A tiny, insignificant statistic. But he was my husband. My soulmate. My name is Kerstin, if you must know. Kerstin Harryhausen.'
'You what?' exclaimed Ramsay. 'You're shitting me.'
'No. No shitting,' said Harryhausen. 'Why, is it an amusing name?'
'No, it's just, well, ironic.'
'Kerstin is ironic?'
'Harryhausen. You mean you haven't heard of…?' He stopped. 'Oh. I get it. You're messing with my head, aren't you?'
'I am messing with your head, Mr Ramsay,' the German said, deadpan. 'Of course I know the Harryhausen you speak of. The great stop-motion animator, hmm? You aren't the first to remark on it, and you surely won't be the last.'
'I apologise for being so unoriginal. Moving on…' Ramsay turned to Kayla Sparks. 'How about you, Miz Sparks? What's your story?'
'Grandmother,' she said. 'Aunt. Uncle.' She fingered a tiny gold crucifix that hung on a chain around her neck. 'The Hydra got them, few years back.'
'And you?' Ramsay said to Fred Tsang.
'My family, most of my relatives, my friends — more or less everyone I ever knew.'
'Hong Kong, yeah?'
Tsang nodded. 'The Obliteration. Back near the start, when the Olympians were just beginning to exert their influence. I was out of the province on a trip to mainland China, escorting a Beijing man home, a bank robber who'd skipped bail. I should mention I was a senior inspector with the HK Police Tactical Unit. The Olympians, as you know, decided to make an example of a city, to demonstrate just what they were capable of, to show they were not to be trifled with. Hong Kong was the city they chose. And Hong Kong…'
'…is no more.'
'Precisely, Mr Ramsay. Hong Kong is no more. All those houses, those skyscrapers, several million people, just so much rubble and dust. I'm one of the last few Hongkongers left.'
Tsang's face appeared placid but there was no mistaking the bitter anguish in his eyes.
'I'm still kept awake at night,' he said. 'By guilt, mostly. I find myself wishing I had been there when it happened and had died with everyone else. To a certain extent I did die. A part of me has not been alive ever since.'
A pang swelled to fill Sam's chest. Tsang had articulated something she herself had long been feeling.
'I myself did not lose any relative,' said a sombre-faced man with a receding hairline. He sounded, to Sam's ears, Scandinavian. 'I lost men. By which I mean troops I was responsible for. Anders Sondergaard. I was a tank commander with the Danish Jydske Dragonregiment — the Jutland Dragoon Regiment. My squadron was wiped out during the Battle of Sj?lland, as were so many others. My own tank, a Leopard Two, was destroyed by Ares himself, with three good crewmen inside. How I survived — it was a miracle — although a miracle that left me hospitalised for six months. I still bear the marks.'
He rolled up one shirtsleeve to show an arm sheathed in warped, waxy skin from wrist to elbow — scar tissue from second-degree burns.
'And believe me, that's not the worst of it,' he added, re-buttoning his cuff. 'To say I hate the Olympians would be an understatement. I despise them.'
The admissions continued. A Cameroonian by the name of Soleil Eto'o — moon-face, tight short cornrows,
