by Gavin, Rohan
“Tilly, you don’t have to run anymore. I know it’s you,” Darkus said to the shape.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” The shape emerged from the darkness to reveal Tilly in her black leather jacket and leggings, her hair an interesting shade of orange. How she had managed to change its color again and still track him across London was beyond Darkus’s powers of comprehension.
“Why are you following me, Tilly?”
“Because your dad wasn’t straight with me,” she said defiantly, silhouetted against a flickering fluorescent light.
“About what?”
“About what happened to my mom.”
“It was six years ago,” he contended. “The investigation said it was an accident.”
“I’m not interested in what the investigation said. I’m interested in the truth.”
“She was the closest thing Dad had to a partner.”
“That’s why they killed her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Her car left the road during an ice storm—”
“I’m talking about the Combination.”
“You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“I know a lot more than you think. I’m going to help you find them.”
“I don’t need a partner, Tilly.”
“Fine. Then you won’t need this.” She took something from her jacket and walked under the fluorescent light, revealing an almost maniacal smile. She was holding a manila envelope.
“What is it?” asked Darkus, curiosity getting the better of him.
She tossed the envelope to him. He peered inside and then slid out a neatly color-coded folder containing a series of printouts: web pages, social-network profiles, online searches. “Those two cops who took your dad’s precious hard drive,” she explained. “I tracked them down. They’re not local, they’re Special Constables—they’re volunteers. I know how to find them.”
“How?” said Darkus.
She shrugged. “You just have to know where to look.”
“Like you found me, I suppose.”
“That was simple. I overheard you talking about The Code. Chambers is MIA. The next logical port of call was his literary agent.”
Darkus nodded. She’d followed his train of thought exactly. He leafed through the pages, then stopped. “There’s no address here.”
“That’s right,” she replied. “It’s an Internet Protocol address.”
“Of course,” said Darkus. “An online address—a set of numbers leading to a precise geographic location.”
“A-plus,” said Tilly. “And you don’t get it until you agree to fully cooperate.”
“With what?”
“With me. We’re after the same thing. The only difference is, I don’t trust anyone. Not even you. And whoever’s responsible for my mom’s death—I don’t want them brought to justice, I just want them dead.”
Darkus couldn’t deny he was impressed by her resolve, even though it wasn’t exactly conducive to calm, reasoned investigation.
“And why should I trust you?” he asked.
“Because you don’t have a choice. One call to Social Services and I could make a world of trouble for you, and you know it,” she warned. “Or we can work together. Like your dad and my mom did.”
“By all accounts, your mother was a brilliant woman,” Darkus said, examining her doubtfully.
“I know that,” Tilly said, biting her lip—something Darkus had seen her do before when she was under stress. Her eyes suddenly welled up, but she controlled them. “Maybe some of it rubbed off.”
“You’re resourceful,” he admitted, “if lacking some of the qualities of a seasoned investigator.”
“Like what?”
“Patience. A firm rein on your emotions.”
“Don’t underestimate emotions. You and your dad could use some.”
“Emotions are unpredictable,” Darkus answered. “We’re disciples of reason.”
“Evil can’t always be reasoned with.”
Darkus nodded, realizing she could be right.
“Look, I’ve only got a matter of hours before Dad realizes I’ve gone AWOL. If we’re done negotiating, can we get out of here? I’m not getting any younger.”
Chapter 11
Prelude to a Clue
Darkus used the secure phone to email Tilly’s tip-off to Uncle Bill, then led her by Tube to his father’s office. On the way, he gave her a brief account of his investigation into The Code and the strange occurrences surrounding it—much of which she had already pieced together from her own research. She absorbed the rest of the information with a minimum of expression, aside from the intermittent readjustment of her hair.
Darkus concluded his account by counseling against a rush to judgment on the supernatural qualities of the book. However, Tilly confessed that she was quite open-minded when it came to paranormal phenomena, and in fact the five senses would never be enough to account for every unexplained incident in the world. Darkus resolved to prove his point with hard evidence, as and when it presented itself.
As dusk fell, they arrived at 27 Cherwell Place, and Darkus rang on the narrow blue door. On cue, Bogna’s voice came through the intercom.
“Knightley Investigations, hello?”
“It’s Doc,” he replied, and the door buzzed open.
Having thought she’d seen enough ghosts for one week, Bogna beheld Tilly and did another double take. “Mój Boże, it is . . .”
“Tilly.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you again.”
“Mój Boże . . . ,” Bogna repeated, shaking her head in amazement. She tied the strings of her apron and asked Darkus, “I make extra round of sandwich, yes?”
Darkus nodded. “How’s Dad?”
“They bring him in his taxi-car. He upstair now. He hasn’t made a peeps. Not even when I give him bed bath.”
“I’d like to see him.”
Bogna led Darkus upstairs to his father’s office, where Knightley’s unconscious form was laid out on the sofa, still wrapped in the tartan blanket. His motionless face was raised to the heavens, his jaw proud and composed, his chest heaving and falling at regular intervals. His brow was furrowed, as if the inner workings of his mind were engaged in a conundrum that required every last reserve of his power—even having stolen the use of his body.
Darkus felt the familiar sick feeling in his stomach and went to rest his hand on Knightley’s shoulder. His dad felt warm but inert—just as he had for those four long years.
Tilly watched quietly from a distance, unsure how to react.
Bogna stomped in carrying a large TV, which she set up on a chair by the sofa.
“I make it as homely as possibles.” She plugged it in, then slapped her hand against her forehead, remembering something. “The book you ask for—I have.” She exited the room, returning moments later with a shopping bag.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Tilly.
Darkus reached inside and took out a fresh copy of The Code. “I had to purchase it at random,” he explained, “in order to validate the test.”
“What test?” said Tilly.
“Well, first I’m going to read it. And then so are you,” he said calmly. “At the first sign of madness, the sensible party must restrain the insensible one until the police arrive.”
Tilly looked at him, incredulous. “You’re serious?”
Darkus nodded. “Obviously, if we both suffer symptoms, it’ll be up to you, Bogna.”
“Mój Boże . . .” She crossed herself and descended the stairs again.
“Good.” Darkus took a seat at his father’s desk and angled a reading lamp.
Tilly’s phone started vibrating, and the word “Dad!” filled the screen. She clicked to reject the call. “Have I got time to freshen up?”
“The bathroom’s across the landing,” said Darkus. “I’ll read slowly.”
A thundering on the stairs heralded Bogna’s arrival with a tray of
mixed sandwiches cut into triangles. “The brown bread is dinner and the white is dessert,” she announced.
“I don’t eat wheat,” said Tilly.
Bogna cocked her head, while Darkus ignored the comment. “Thank you, Bogna. It’s going to be a long night.”
He opened the book at page one and began to read, impatient to find out what was inside. The first line began:
It was an effective opening. Intrigued, he continued.
He skimmed to the next page.
Darkus wanted to find the answer to this book; he knew that much.
Darkus felt lulled by the monotony of the book’s unrelenting message. It was a selfish message, thinly disguised as New Age philosophy and rammed home with the persistence of a jackhammer.
But it was having no sinister effect on him. There was nothing inherently evil about the book.
Fifteen minutes later, Tilly returned to the room as a brunette and was mildly peeved that Darkus didn’t appear to notice her transformation. His gaze remained focused on the book, his eyes steadily moving from left to right.
She examined him once more, just to be sure he wasn’t undergoing any transformations himself. Satisfied, she curled up in an armchair with her phone, while Darkus speed-read late into the night.
Bogna returned several hours later to find the investigators asleep. She examined them carefully for any unusual symptoms, then reached into her apron and quietly applied plastic wrap to the tray of sandwiches.
“Sleep tights,” she whispered, and closed the door behind her.
Darkus and Tilly were woken in the early hours with a start by the Armageddon-like ring of the secure phone. Bogna appeared through the door in a flash. Knightley was in the exact same position as before; Tilly pulled a pillow over her head, while Darkus fumbled for the phone and answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Aye, good morning to ye,” Uncle Bill’s voice blurted. Darkus rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. “Based on the information ye supplied,” Bill went on, “we now have an address under round-the-clock surveillance. We believe one suspect’s in the house, and the other’s in the vicinity. There’s still a chance they have the Knowledge on them. There’s a car waiting outside for ye.”
The suspects’ address was an anonymous suburban house off a busy road on the edge of the city. A nondescript Ford sedan pulled up at the end of the street, then Darkus and Tilly got out of the back and walked toward a white van parked on the corner. The van had a ladder strapped to the roof and a workman behind the wheel with his feet on the dashboard, reading a tabloid newspaper. The workman glanced over his paper and discreetly nodded to Darkus, who opened the rear door for Tilly, then climbed in after her.
The back of the van was lined with TV monitors and surveillance equipment. Uncle Bill was compressed into an office chair beside a lanky male technician at a computer keyboard.
Bill attempted to swivel his chair. “A’right, Doc. I’d offer ye a seat, but . . .” He trailed off, gesturing to the cramped confines.
“Proceed,” said Darkus.
Bill craned to look at Tilly. “Aye, yer Internet Protocol address led us here, to a safe house of some kind. You’re looking at the first suspect, Bogey One . . .”
The main monitor displayed an image of the house, but painted in blues, oranges, and reds, as seen through the lens of a thermal-imaging camera. Heat rose in pink waves from a radiator, and a glowing male figure, Bogey One, sat on a sofa, watching an orange square: his TV.
Bill pointed an unlit cigar at the screen. “What you’re seeing is the individual heat signature of the suspect—”
“I know,” said Tilly. “I’ve got an app like that on my phone.”
“Aye,” said Bill, slightly deflated. “Bogey Two is being tailed on the main road two miles from us.” He pointed to another monitor, which showed a surveillance image of the taller suspect, Bogey Two, walking past a row of stores carrying a large sports bag.
“It’s them, all right,” Tilly confirmed. “What are we waiting for? Let’s make the grab.”
“We’re keeping a safe distance,” Bill explained, “till we know what’s in the bag.”
“Sounds logical,” said Darkus.
“In the meantime, Doc, I suggest ye two approach the safe house and attempt a swatch.”
Darkus and Tilly looked at each other, unsure of exactly what Bill had said.
“You want us to go in?” said Tilly.
“No one suspects a kid.”
“He’s right,” agreed Darkus.
Back at the office, Knightley’s chest heaved and fell at long intervals. Bogna sighed mournfully from an armchair, then slotted a videotape into the machine at the base of the TV, which was set up at the end of the sofa. A dated-looking title sequence appeared on the screen, and she sat up in her seat a little.
A large clock dial filled the frame, surrounded by a jumble of letters and numbers. A punchy theme song accompanied the ticking clock, then ended with a flourish as the letters came together to form the title. The presenter smiled at the camera. “Hello, and welcome to Countdown.”
Bogna produced a notepad and pen and prepared to join in.
The presenter continued: “. . . the game where the right combination of letters or numbers will put one of our contestants in the champion’s chair . . .”
Bogna hovered over the notepad with her pen poised.
Knightley’s eyelids fluttered with an eddy of recognition. His right hand tensed up into a silent gesture.
On the screen, a male contestant said, “Can I have a consonant, please?”
From the sofa, Knightley’s lips began to curl into a malformed word. “Coh . . .” He repeated: “Coh . . . mmm . . . !”
Bogna started. “Matka!”
“Coh . . . mmmmmm . . . ! The Combination!” Knightley sat bolt upright, causing Bogna to scream.
“Alan!!”
“What am I doing here? Where’s Darkus?” Knightley threw off the tartan blanket and looked around.
Darkus and Tilly stepped out of the back of Bill’s white van and walked across the road toward the target address. Tilly went up the garden path first and rang the doorbell. Footsteps could be heard approaching the front door. A few moments later it opened.
“Can I help you?” the stocky suspect demanded, wearing a mesh tank top and permanent-crease trousers.
“We’ve lost our soccer ball,” Tilly announced innocently. “It went into your back garden.”
The suspect examined them closely, and Tilly tensed up, fearing he might have recognized her. But instead he just looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching them. “Well, you’d better come inside and get it.”
“Thanks,” said Tilly, and Darkus hesitantly followed her in. The door slammed behind them.
In the van, Bill shifted in his chair, watching their heat signatures on the monitor—which made for uncomfortable viewing. A bagpipe melody announced itself from somewhere on his person, and he started patting himself down until he located his cell phone and took the call: “Alan . . . ?!”
Inside the safe house, Darkus instantly detected the acrid smell of body odor, which strangely complemented the familiar metallic taste in his mouth, the slight weakening of his bladder, and the constant whirring of the catastrophizer—all signs that indicated only one thing: fear.
“The garden’s that way,” said the suspect, pointing to a grubby kitchen.
Black smoke drifted past the back door from a bonfire of some kind. Darkus and Tilly exchanged a glance. Then Tilly walked through the kitchen to the back garden, while Darkus waited in the living room.
The suspect kept an eye on him as the news played on the TV in the background. All the curtains were drawn. The rooms and hallways were piled high with cardboard boxes. Darkus decided he would need a better look around.
“Excuse me, sir?” he asked. “May I use your facilities?”
“Facilities?”
“Your bathroom. If it’s not
too much trouble.”
The suspect grimaced. “Up the stairs, on the right.”
“Much obliged,” said Darkus, and moved toward the hallway.
“Hold on.” The suspect looked down at Darkus’s shoes, then back to his face. “What are you really doing here?”
Darkus paused. “Retrieving a soccer ball, just as she said.”
“You play soccer in those shoes?”
Darkus looked down at his flawlessly polished brogues and realized the game was up.
Tilly returned from the back garden empty-handed. “We must have the wrong house,” she said, until the suspect grabbed her, gagging her with his massive forearm.
“Who sent you?” he demanded, forcibly restraining her.
Darkus answered calmly, “You can cooperate, or we can make life difficult for you. Your decision.”
“You? Make life difficult?”
Darkus turned toward the wall of the living room and waved at it. The suspect watched, baffled.
In the van, Bill saw the brightly colored shape waving on the monitor and instantly barked into his earpiece, “Go, go, go!”
In the living room, Darkus turned to see the suspect manhandling Tilly move forward in order to ensnare them both. The catastrophizer was already flicking through potential self-defense scenarios. He remembered the diagram of the fist and the upturned hand from the Knowledge, but now, in the heat of the moment, the surge of adrenaline had left his limbs feeling leaden. Before he could settle on a solution, the front door burst open, and the workman from the white van walked straight into the living room. Darkus stood back as the man took a device from his construction belt and aimed it at the suspect. Tilly stamped her boot down on the suspect’s foot, dislodging his grip, and stepped to one side. The workman fired, and a pair of Taser wires shot across the room, attaching to the suspect’s mesh tank top, and hitting him with several thousand volts of electricity. The suspect fell with a static, clattering sound.