The Lore of Prometheus

by Graham Austin-King

  It wasn’t much. Cresswell was never one to let his emotions play on his face, but the muscles down by his jaw flexed momentarily as his eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, you were especially mean there, I felt,” the fat man replied. “I believe you broke young Alexander’s leg quite badly.”

  “He shouldn’t play in the street then,” I grunted, and glanced around the small office. Not much had changed; the same collection of battered filing cabinets crowded up against one wall, and Cresswell’s odd collection of aged and antique furniture filled the rest.

  “Are these really necessary?” I asked, tugging at one wrist.

  “Merely a precaution, Jonathan,” Cresswell murmured with a small smile. “You never can tell how someone is going to wake up.” He gave a nod to someone behind me, and large hands reached to cut the ties free.

  The mountain of meat that loomed over me was everything that Cresswell wasn’t. I doubted if there was more than an ounce or two of fat on him.

  “You kept Lurch!” I beamed up at the minder. “I hoped you would. I think he brings a certain lumbering elegance to the place.”

  Lurch, for his part, ignored me as he cut the ties free and stepped back to stand at the door.

  “I think that’s about enough banter, Carver,” Cresswell cut in. “Where’s my money?”

  “It’s only the third, Cresswell,” I said with a shrug. “Payment isn’t due until the fourteenth.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” Cresswell snapped. “You’re bloody broke. You owe me four grand in less than two weeks, and that’s mostly interest.”

  Cresswell sucked a deep breath in through his nose, and pulled a drawer open to take out a packet of cigarettes. Where most of the country seemed to have switched to the electronic variety that filled the streets with clouds of vapour, Cresswell had stuck to his beloved Marlboros.

  He flipped the lighter and shook his head as he sucked the cigarette into life. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me, Carver. Too much bloody stress. I didn’t get into this game for the stress.”

  “Why did you, then?” My mouth asked before my brain gave it permission.

  “It wasn’t for fucking altruism, that’s for sure.” Cresswell hauled himself out of his chair and made his way out from behind the desk to prop himself up on the front of it. He glowered down at me for a minute as he sucked on the smoke and puffed like some kind of human volcano. “I’m not a bloody charity, Carver. What the hell are you doing in a bloody casino pissing away my money?”

  “It’s not your money until—”

  “Bullshit!” Cresswell roared, spraying spit into the air and dropping his cigarette. “Fuck,” he muttered, grunting as he reached down to retrieve it.

  This wasn’t going well. Cresswell’s moods were mercurial; though so far, I’d never seen them drift even close to cheerful. This wasn’t one of his better ones.

  The cigarette was too much, filling the room with the harsh stink of it. I’ve been in some foul-smelling places, smelled things far worse than unwanted cigarette smoke, but it had been a rough night and the ammonia they used to wake me up wasn’t helping. Fifteen years ago, I was smoking along with everyone else—now the smell was almost enough to make me throw up the dinner I hadn’t had.

  Cresswell finished dusting off the cigarette with his fingertips and sucked it back to life. “You’re in for fifteen grand, Carver. Fifty percent interest monthly until you clear it. You’ve already missed payments and given me incomplete amounts. This isn’t how I do business. You make this payment in full or I take the car to pay your interest. You miss a payment after that, I’ll have some boys visit you and put a hammer to your legs.”

  I closed my eyes. It was better to look defeated right now. The car was nothing special. A Mercedes from when I’d been feeling flush and stupid. These days I’d be lucky to get more than seven thousand for it; less than half my debt.

  “I’ll make the payment,” I said, though God knows how I was going to.

  “And don’t let me catch you in another casino until you have.”

  I frowned at that. How had he known where I was? My brain was still catching up with the situation. Being clubbed in the head with a brick will do that to you.

  “The security guard,” I said, as realisation dawned. Captain Security, in the casino. He’d been reaching for his phone as I left. At the time, I thought he was phoning the police.

  Cresswell gave me a smug little smile that made me want to smash my fist into the middle of his fat face. “I like to keep an eye on my investments, Carver. You more than most.”

  He gave a nod to Lurch, who dragged me out of my seat, marched me down the back stairs, and shoved me out into the street. It was growing light already, a shitty start to the day but at least I was mostly intact.

  Eleven days. Not even two weeks to get four thousand pounds together.

  I was fucked.

  Cresswell’s office, if you could call it that, was in a grotty area of London just five minutes from Canary Wharf. His own little financial district just outside the actual financial district. I’d probably been bundled into the back of a car to get here but getting home meant a long, cold walk.

  Ten minutes later I was on a train headed back towards Bow and home. I hadn’t paid. It was a stupid thing to do but I was in a foul mood and stupidity often goes hand-in-hand with that. The Docklands Light Railway (or DLR) trains in London are driverless; something that takes a bit of getting used to, but which does make it possible to not buy a ticket. Most people use contactless payment, just touching their bank card to a sensor—which makes ‘contactless’ a stupid name for it I suppose. It’s faster, and on the DLR at least, there are often gates that only open once you’ve paid. There are ways past those if you’re really determined, spot checks, and the fines are hefty if you get caught, but I really didn’t care.

  I grabbed a coffee from a little place outside the station with a crumpled up five pound note I’d found lurking in a pocket of my jacket. I took this as proof that God wasn’t a complete arsehole. Small mercies like random fivers discovered in pockets are the things that keep us going.

  Home was a little flat in Bow, in the east end of London; a gorgeous place in what was once a Victorian match factory. If you’ve ever heard of Swan Vestas matches, this is where they first got started. There’s a little plaque telling the story of the place just inside the gates, though I’ve never read it.

  The flat was a one-bedroom place that I had nothing to do with picking out. Susan found it. She’d made the appointments with the agents, organised the viewing I vaguely remembered going to, and paid the rent. A year’s worth in advance. It was somewhere to take the pressure off, a place to decompress and adjust back to civilian life. At least, that was what she’d said.

  She’d left, of course. Who wouldn’t? It had taken a while, and a bit of effort—or a lack of, on my part—but I’d managed to fuck that up, too. The flat looked like nobody lived there, which was true: nobody did. I haven’t lived in a long time; existing doesn’t count.

  Pearson sat in the corner, watching me. He was hunched down into his usual position, arms gripping his knees as he looked up with that ever-present terrified expression. The hole in his head was a new development. He normally had his combat helmet on and a stream of blood running down his face.

  I could have lived without seeing the hole, to be honest. I sank down into a chair and cradled the coffee cup to my chest. What the hell was I going to do now?

  “Well, you’re pretty well fucked, mate,” I said to myself.

  Most people talk to themselves but it’s usually just rehashing old conversations, or planning future ones. I’ve been known to have full conversations with myself; even to the point of winning, and losing, arguments. It wasn’t a good sign and I knew it. But talking to myself was better than talking to any of the visitors… although I suppose, in a way, it amounts to the same thing. I’d done a pretty good job of lying to myself and avoiding the truth of my condi
tion, up until now, and I didn’t plan to change that anytime soon.

  I needed money, that much was obvious. My living costs were more or less covered. The rent wasn’t an issue for another few months. I had enough set aside from my last run of luck at the casino to cover food and minor bills, but that wouldn’t stretch to four grand. And given Cresswell’s mood, I wasn’t about to try and give him a partial payment. My luck at the casino seemed to have worked itself dry, and I didn’t have the time or the resources to try and win what I needed.

  What I needed was a job. An actual job, not this half-arsed card sharp routine I’d been running. The obvious solution drifted through my mind like a dead fish in a pond; an unpleasant, unwanted, but undeniable reality.

  I railed against it as I sat in the chair, my coffee passing from lukewarm to cold, my mind running through scenarios that ranged from the unlikely to the absurd, knowing all the while I only had one choice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was light when I woke. I checked my watch and grunted. I’d gone the rest of the day, and then the whole night, in the chair. I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise, I hadn’t had any sleep the night before—being unconscious doesn’t really count.

  I’m always the same when I wake up anywhere but my bed. There’s a process, a system. I listen first, for absences as much as for sounds. Sometimes a silence can say more than any shout. My eyes move before my head, checking the surroundings for visible threats before I commit to moving. My arms and legs shift ever so slightly, checking for restraints.

  Then, and only then, do I move my head; checking the corners first, and the exits second. It’s not a conscious decision, it’s something my body has decided to do on its own. To be fair, it’s probably tired of having the shit beaten out of it.

  I was still holding the remains of the coffee. It’s very rare for me to spill a drink, even when I fall asleep holding it. Spilt coffee would be bad. Spilt whisky would be a bloody travesty.

  I groaned as I hauled myself out of the chair, bruises combining with the aches of stiff muscles to make every movement a slow agony. I must have looked about ninety as I staggered into the shower. God knows I felt like it.

  Twenty minutes under hot water did some good but not enough, and I huddled under a towel as I searched through the cabinets for painkillers. Ibuprofen 600s—little capsules of joy. You can’t buy them in this country, but I’d brought them back from Spain where they are more sensible about these things. I stood and admired my bruises in the mirror for a minute. My face was a mess, but my ribs were spectacular. The left side of my torso was turning a lovely shade of purple. I probed at it gently with one hand and took an experimental deep breath. None of the ribs seemed broken, which was something at least.

  The flat wasn’t really cold. It didn’t ever get truly cold. The ones above, below, and to either side worked to heat it, but it was too cold to wander around in just a towel, especially in the condition I was in. I threw some clothes on that smelt like I could get away with wearing them again, and stood for a minute considering the kitchen. I needed coffee, and the ibuprofen would work better with something inside me. I spent a pointless couple of minutes opening and closing cupboards and looking into the fridge. A can of beer, some bacon that really needed throwing out, and a bottle of milk that I wouldn’t even consider opening. I glanced at my watch. It was almost half-past seven

  “Get moving, Carver,” I muttered. “Before you talk yourself out of this.”

  I threw on my jacket and left, my feet doing all the thinking for me. There was only one other solution to Cresswell, one I’d avoided thinking about yesterday. I needed money, and realistically that meant either a job or something shady. I wasn’t quite desperate enough for something shady. Not yet, anyway.

  I’m not really designed for the real world—for the civilian world. Fifteen years in the army changes a man in more ways than one. I carry my scars well enough, some of them are even visible. It’s more than just the scars, though. I have skills that most people wouldn’t even think about. Being able to assess a situation for threats and hostiles in a glance; knowing a variety of ways to disarm and neutralise a man in moments; or assemble a weapon in thirty seconds, aren’t the most transferable of skills unless you want to work in security. And I didn’t.

  The sun hadn’t done much of a job of heating London up yet and I shrugged myself deeper into my jacket. A homeless guy in a doorway glanced up at me as I passed, watching me from where he’d bundled down into his sleeping bag. He was an older man, with long hair poking out from under his hat. I looked away, avoiding eye contact. Avoiding the thoughts seeing the homeless gave me.

  I’d done better than some people who come out of the forces. I had a roof over my head, though admittedly I didn’t pay for it. I had a bit of money, though that came with more debts than I cared to admit. And I hadn’t fallen apart, although seeing dead people and talking to myself probably meant I was well on my way.

  So, yeah, okay; maybe I wasn’t doing that well.

  If you talk to the homeless in London, you might be surprised at how many are ex-forces. Look under Southwark Bridge on any given day and you’ll find at least one in amongst the other homeless and lost. I’ve met a few people who claim this is just laziness. Sleeping rough is what we’re trained for, after all. They say choosing that life once you’re out of the forces is just a refusal to adapt, to get on with it. I generally ignore people who come out with shit like that, though I’ve punched one or two.

  I try to avoid the homeless, if I’m honest. I don’t like facing the truth about my life unless I absolutely have to. It’s a simple philosophy but it’s served me well enough for the past few years. Learn to lie to yourself and life is infinitely more bearable.

  Ten minutes walking through cold streets got me to the underground. Another thirty minutes crammed onto a tube train, listening to a recorded voice announce the stations whilst I was pressed closer to sweaty men in suits than I’m really comfortable with, and I was in Westminster. London is a strange place. In most parts of it you can go from abject poverty to grandeur in a few minutes walk. In Westminster they try to keep the abject poverty hidden away under bridges or on the back streets.

  Westminster is the heart of government. Parliament, Whitehall, the Supreme Court, and even the Queen herself, are all within a mile of each other. It’s also home to more consultants than anyone would expect. There’s nothing like the government to hire in external experts at five times the price it would cost them to do things themselves.

  Paragon was just one of two dozen or more consultancies that worked closely with the Ministry of Defence. It was also the only one I had a contact in, and the one place I promised myself I’d never step foot in.

  The building was nondescript; just another featureless concrete and glass block. I made my way through the glass door and scanned the list on the wall. I don’t know why I looked, really. I knew where Paragon was. The lift was crowded, men and women in expensive suits giving me odd looks as if I were a stray dog that had wandered in from the street.

  Paragon had its offices on the fourth floor. A stunning receptionist glanced up at me as I made my way in from the lift. Dark brown hair and a tight black dress contrasted with her scarlet lips. She looked like she’d escaped from a Robert Palmer video. Her eyes flicked to the side and behind me for the briefest moment, and I caught the minute nod before a false smile spread over her lips.

  “Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

  I didn’t need to turn to know that the security guard was watching me.

  “I need to talk to McCourt. James McCourt.” My voice came out as a rasp, like I’d spent the night in a gutter sucking the last drips out of a whisky bottle. Her smile didn’t falter, like it was some kind of mask she could hide behind. “Do you have an appointment, mister…?”

  “Carver,” I told her. “And no, I don’t, but he’ll see me. I’m an old friend.”

  Her frown was the single flaw on her perfect
ly made-up face. Faintly disapproving, like I should be ashamed for coming in here and disturbing her. She tapped away at her computer for a moment and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr Carver. I don’t think it’s going to be possible today. Mr McCourt is very busy.”

  I sighed. Somehow, I’d known it was going to be one of those days. “Just give him a call and tell him I’m here, please?”

  She gave me a long look, weighing things while she ran her eyes up and down the length of me. She wore a faintly disgusted expression, like a bad smell had just reached her. Maybe it had. “I’m sorry, he’s very busy. You’d need to make an appointment.”

  I took a deep breath and sighed again, tapping my fingers against my thumb inside my pocket. It was better than screaming at her, but I’ve never had the patience for things like this. “Fine. When is he free?”

  “If I could just ask what this is concerning?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry?” Her shock at my rudeness broke the perfect mask for a moment, putting her on the back foot.

  “You don’t need to know what it’s about. You’ve got my name.”

  She tapped at the keyboard again. “The earliest he might be free is Friday next week.”

  A week on Friday? Jesus. Cresswell would be kicking down my door by then. The panic was there, building inside me, but for now it was trapped beneath a rising tide of irritation.

  “Can you give me a direct number for him, at least?”

  Another frown. “I thought you were a friend?”

  This was getting old. My patience was slipping, and it was showing on my face. Susan had called it ‘the danger sign’. When my jaw began to clench and the furrows around my eyebrows deepened as I frowned, she’d known the stress was getting to me. She’d make fun of me, calling me ‘stress-head’ and poking me until she made me laugh.

  Susan. Shit. What had made me think of her, now of all times?

  The receptionist shook her head, her own disapproving frown firmly in place. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t simply hand out contact information, and if you won’t tell me what the meeting is regarding, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to make an appointment for you.”