Million Eyes

by C. R. Berry

  And she had a voicemail. The timestamp on the message was yesterday evening at 7.43pm, not long after she left Ferro’s.

  She pressed to listen to the message, swallowing hard as the voice of Gregory Ferro rippled into her ear.

  “Jennifer, we need to talk. Urgently. Someone just called me. He wouldn’t give his name but said he’d hacked into some encrypted emails that implicate his company in Princess Diana’s death. The emails also made reference to the company having secretly invented a means of travelling through time.”

  “What is it?” Adam asked, frowning. “Who is it?”

  Jennifer didn’t answer.

  “And that’s not all,” Ferro continued. “He managed to override the company’s security and discover a lot more. It turns out it has secret departments that ninety per cent of the workforce know nothing about. And these departments have undercover operatives everywhere – inside the police, the security services, the armed forces, even… Parliament. He thinks… Jennifer, he thinks the UK government is accountable to it. He thinks the company is manipulating everything that goes on in our country – and has been for a long time.”

  Jennifer’s heart raced. Who? What company was he talking about?

  Finally Ferro answered her question, “I don’t know if I was surprised or not when he told me the company’s name. It’s Million Eyes.”

  She looked at Adam. He’d been working for Million Eyes for the last two years.

  “Jen, who the hell is it?” Adam asked, wide-eyed.

  “This proves we can’t trust anyone,” Ferro continued. “We need to meet and work out wha –”

  Ferro fell silent mid-sentence. Jennifer couldn’t even hear him breathe. She glanced at the screen of her phone – the voicemail hadn’t ended. She returned the phone to her ear, waiting.

  “H-hello? Is… someone there?” Ferro’s words were shouted but far away. She realised he wasn’t addressing her.

  “Beth, is that you? Maggie? Ryan?”

  Further silence.

  Jennifer waited, chewing her bottom lip.

  Suddenly Ferro whispered fast, phone at his mouth again, “Jennifer, they know.”

  A piercing hiss crackled down the phone, followed by a crash and a thud. Jennifer jerked, startled, and the phone slipped from her hand.

  “What the fuck was that?” Adam asked. He’d heard it as well. It was so loud that the patient next to Jennifer probably heard.

  She brought the phone back to her ear.

  The voicemail had ended, followed by the usual recitation: “To listen to the message again, press one. To save it and move on, press two.”

  Jennifer sunk her teeth into the skin around her thumbnail. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Jen, for fuck’s sake, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Fired by urgency, Jennifer flung off her covers and lifted her legs – which felt like they had five-kilo dumbbells attached to them – out of bed. Her bare feet stung when they hit the freezing hospital floor.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “You have to help me.” She examined the two IVs in her arm and hand and – as carefully as she could – pulled out the needles. She groaned as sharp pains knifed through her body and blood dripped to the floor from the wounds.

  “Jennifer, stop! I’ll get whatever you need as soon as you get back into bed.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m in danger here. Someone deliberately tried to kill me. Same person who murdered Ferro.”

  “What are you talking about? Murdered Ferro? You don’t know that he was murdered.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What exactly was in that voicemail?”

  She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not till she’d worked out a plan. Million Eyes were his employers. If she told him anything, she’d be putting him in danger as well.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just need to get out of here. They’ll be back for me.”

  “Right. Jen, stop being a crazy person and get back into bed – now.”

  “No, I can’t. I have to leave. I have to get out of Deepwater.”

  “Out of Deepwater?”

  “Yes. It won’t be long before they realise I’m alive. If I stay here – or go home – they’ll find me. I need to – aaahh!”

  Jennifer was bending down to fetch her handbag from the floor and instantly her chest was on fire with the pain. She doubled over, falling against the side of the bed.

  “Jen, you’ve been hit by a fucking car and you have two cracked ribs. Get back into bed. I mean it. You’re perfectly safe here. It’s a hospital.”

  “You – you don’t understand –” She had to push her words through gasps for breath.

  “I do understand. I have no idea what spooked you in that voicemail, but this is Deepwater, not an episode of 24.”

  “But –”

  “Nope. You’re not going anywhere.” Adam helped her back into bed. At this point, she was in no state to resist.

  “Everything alright in here?” said a nurse passing Jennifer’s bay. She noticed the blood from where Jennifer had removed her cannulas. “What are you doing, Miss Larson?”

  “It… it was an accident,” Adam lied.

  “Ah ha,” said the nurse dubiously. She was probably used to patients pulling out their IVs. Having tubes sticking out of your veins was one of the most unpleasant and uncomfortable feelings ever.

  The nurse unhooked the clipboard of notes from the end of Jennifer’s bed and flicked through them. She had heavy lips, large breasts and a mole on the left side of her nose. Not really Jennifer’s type, but clearly Adam’s – his eyes were stuck to her every curve. He dipped his head so he was in eyeline with her name badge and said, “Katie. That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you,” she replied flatly, either oblivious to Adam’s interest or deliberately ignoring it. She replaced the IVs in Jennifer’s arm, which involved puncturing two new veins. Jennifer was starting to feel like a pin cushion.

  “Can I get you anything?” Katie asked. “Cup of tea? Coffee?”

  “Your phone number?” Adam chimed in.

  Jennifer gave a pained smirk and murmured weakly, “Sorry about him, nurse.”

  Katie looked at Adam with a coy half-grin, blushing slightly. “That’s alright.”

  “And no,” replied Jennifer to her earlier question, “I’m good on the drinks front, thanks.”

  “No worries. Make sure you keep drinking your water. You need to stay hydrated. And try not to have any more” – Katie raised her eyebrow disapprovingly – “accidents.”

  Katie left and Adam’s eyes followed her gently wiggling arse up the corridor. “Jesus, there are some hot nurses here. Any chance you can get run over more often?”

  That should’ve made Jennifer laugh. Adam’s ability to make light of the most horrible situations was one of the things she loved most about him. But – as unbelievable as it sounded – the world’s most powerful computer company had just murdered Gregory Ferro and tried to murder her. And now her own injured body was trapping her in this hospital. It was difficult to see the funny side.

  Adam kissed her forehead. “It’s late. You’re tired. I’m tired. I’m gonna go home and get some sleep. And you’re gonna get some sleep as well, okay? I’ll be back first thing.”

  “Okay…” she whispered sleepily.

  “Good. And no more panicking about people trying to kill you, alright? No one’s out to get you. I don’t think anyone would dare mess with Jennifer Larson. Not if they know what’s good for them.” He sniggered.

  Jennifer uttered a small, breathy murmur in reply. Through half-shut eyes, she picked up a dim image of Adam grabbing his jacket and leaving.

  Staff Nurse Katie was standing near the main entrance of the hospital as Adam made his way out. She caught his eye and he switched on that playful smile from earlier as he started to approach her.

  She had her phone to her ear, but it looked like he was going to come talk to he
r anyway. She said sweetly into the phone, “I love you too, baby,” loud enough for Adam to hear.

  Adam’s smile straightened, eyes flickering with chipped pride. He plunged his hands into his pockets and veered off his path towards her, heading for the hospital car park instead.

  “What was that about?” said the man at the end of the line.

  “Oh, this guy was about to come over and hit on me,” said Katie. “I wanted to ward him off.”

  “Right. I take it you’re calling ’cause you’ve found Larson?”

  “Yes, sir. I just paid her a visit. Larson was brought in to Deepwater Hospital last night. She was pretty beaten up, but the doctors are saying she’ll make a full recovery.”

  Her boss, Robert Skinner, replied with a not-surprising note of worry, “I’m hoping you’re going to change that as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said confidently. Skinner had promised to wangle a nice big promotion for her if she finished his job for him. “She’ll be dead before the end of the night.”

  15

  August 30th 1888

  With a crack, the uncrowned boy king, Edward V, fell on his knees against a hard stone floor. His arms and legs were weak, tingly, his ears ringing. He couldn’t breathe. His chest and throat were burning and he saw nothing but white.

  Then, thankfully, his throat opened a fraction and he drew in as large a breath as he could.

  The ringing faded. A moment later, “Edward… Brother, are you there? Edward, w-what happened…” Richard’s voice, but quiet, gurgling and undulating, like Edward was underwater.

  Slowly the whiteness dispersed and he could see his hands, his white fur cuffs and black sleeves, his hose-covered knees, and the floor beneath him. The burning in his chest softened to a dull ache, his throat opened wider, permitting him more air, and the muffled voice of his brother sharpened.

  Edward lifted his head. Richard was next to him, also on his knees, head in his hands. Edward was near enough to extend his arm, stiffly, and touch his brother’s shoulder. Richard looked up, met Edward’s gaze, a dazed expression on his face.

  Edward rose awkwardly to his feet, legs like lead pipes. He checked that he still had his leather satchel. He did. It hung from his shoulder, the box and the pot of red pills still inside.

  “We’re alive,” he whispered.

  He scanned the room. Definitely the same room. Same shape, same fireplace, same mullioned window. All the ghosts – thank the Lord – were gone. But so was all the furniture, including their bed, chest and the table where they ate. It was bare, but for a single wooden chair and unlit candelabra. And hanging near where their bed used to be was the painting of the two frightened boys in royal finery. The one Edward had seen while they were among the ghosts and thought looked like him and his brother. Other paintings dressed the walls, ones that weren’t there before, all depicting the same two royal boys.

  “Father’s speculations were right,” murmured Richard, pulling himself to his feet and nodding towards the door. “Those red pills have effected our escape.”

  Edward looked. The door was open. Richard sprang for it and began hurtling down the narrow staircase that corkscrewed to the bottom of the Garden Tower.

  “Richard, wait!” Edward, disconcerted by what had happened, had no choice but to follow his eager brother.

  At the bottom of the staircase was the guardroom, empty. Edward followed Richard into the tower gateway. All looked much the same.

  A raven skipped towards them and cawed, flicking its head. Edward noted that its slick black feathers and charcoal eyes had a slight orange glow about them, the light of sunset washing through the Tower.

  Sunset? It was night when they ate the pills. The sun was definitely down. How long did they spend in the realm of ghosts? Was this a different day?

  Edward looked through the gateway into the inner ward. The White Tower was still there, but several buildings behind and around it Edward had never seen before. And high above the White Tower, some unsightly distortion of England’s flag waved in a light breeze, the red cross of St George encroached upon by blue triangles and red, diagonal stripes.

  “Come on,” said Edward, taking his brother’s hand. “I think we should go.”

  They passed underneath the raised portcullis in the gateway. It looked rusty and old – more so than when Edward last saw it – but its nasty iron spikes could still skewer a person into the ground.

  At least all the ghosts were gone from here too. No Romans or dragons or giant red carriages that could drive themselves. No mysterious woman calling herself queen.

  Stepping onto Water Lane in the outer ward, Edward slowed and glanced around. He noticed the grey plaque on the exterior wall of the Garden Tower, just above the arch of the gateway. The plaque displayed the words Bloody Tower. Edward knew the word ‘bloody’ but ‘tower’ was unfamiliar.

  “Edward, come on,” said Richard, yanking his arm. Now it was Richard who was anxious to leave.

  They walked up Water Lane – then someone shouted something behind them.

  They whirled round.

  A sentry had rounded the curve of the Wakefield Tower and was staring right at them, clad in a peculiar uniform: tall, wide-brimmed hat, shiny shoes and a knee-length tunic that was dark blue with scarlet trimmings, the letters VR embroidered across the chest. He was wielding some kind of spear and shouting something in a language Edward didn’t recognise.

  Foreign sentries? At the Tower?

  Perhaps there had been an attack. The city captured. That could explain the flag on the White Tower, too.

  But captured by whom? And how could they have changed everything so quickly?

  This wasn’t the time to find out. Edward grabbed his brother’s hand. “Run!”

  They hurtled up Water Lane to the Tower at the Gate. The gateway was open – they were able to run straight through.

  Edward hesitated. The wooden drawbridge to the Middle Tower was gone, replaced by a stone causeway that traversed a waterless moat now covered with grass.

  This doesn’t make sense.

  He glanced back to see if the sentry was pursuing. He was.

  They ran across the causeway to the Middle Tower, itself substantially reshaped. Again, they were able to pass straight through the open gateway.

  What?

  They found themselves on a road, ahead of them a building with signs displaying the words Ticket Office and Refreshment Room. What in the world was a ‘ticket office’ and a ‘refreshment room’? And where was the Lion Tower? The semi-circular building that was home to the Royal Menagerie was apparently no more, pinched from existence in the blink of an eye.

  To their left, the River Thames was busy with boats, far more than there used to be. Odd-looking sailboats mostly, and boats with tall, round chimneys billowing out smoke – extraordinary! On the other side of the river, countless new buildings and structures made dramatic and menacing silhouettes against the setting sun, which was bobbing behind them like a fat blood orange. Edward found himself entranced by two enormous, rectangular towers climbing into the sky from both sides of the river, each tower consisting of beams and columns that appeared to be made from metal, the tops resembling the long snouts of two dragons reaching to sniff each other.

  “Edward, come on!” cried Richard, pulling Edward in the direction of some kind of entrance gate.

  They raced through the gate, across another road and onto a street that was bustling with bizarrely-dressed people and remarkable horse-drawn vehicles quite unlike those they were used to. There were strange-looking houses all joined together in rows and the streets remained lit even as the sun was going down, courtesy of curious metal poles mounted with glass lanterns that had been fixed to the sides of roads.

  Realising that their pursuer had either lost them or given up, they slowed to take it all in.

  “Edward, this is not the London I remember,” Richard murmured. “Not at all.”

  “No,” Edward agreed. “No, it
is not.”

  The sun finally sank, spots of pink and orange light rippling across the sky. Clouds rolled in, threatening rain, though none fell. The air was still and humid.

  Edward didn’t want to draw attention from the exotic populace so they huddled together in the porch of a house at the end of a row, out of sight. The house was dark, quiet, its occupants either out or sleeping. In case it was the latter, the princes made sure to keep their voices low.

  Richard whispered, “Do you still have the red pills?”

  “Yes,” said Edward.

  “Let’s use them again. I think we should leave this place.”

  Silently agreeing, Edward pulled his leather satchel across his lap. He reached inside for the pot of pills. As he pulled it out, his arm was shaking fiercely.

  “Brother? What’s wrong?”

  As Edward tried to steady his trembling arm, which he supposed was some after-effect from the pills, the satchel slipped off his lap and tumbled down the porch steps, the box lurching from inside onto the pavement.

  “No!” Edward cried, bolting to his feet.

  A man with a long face, pointed nose, and bushy patches of facial hair that stretched from his hairline to his jaw was walking along the pavement in front of the house. He stopped when he saw the box slide in front of his feet.

  The man’s clothes were as eccentric as his facial hair. Loose grey hose, black, scuffed boots, some kind of brown, knee-length coat buttoned over a white shirt and strange necktie, and a brown hat with a bowl-shaped crown.

  The man bent down and picked up the box with gloved hands. He said something in another language, his chevron moustache twitching as he spoke. Another foreigner, no doubt. Perhaps he hailed from the same place as that sentry at the Tower? It was looking ever more likely that London had been captured by invaders.

  The man brought the box to his ear and shook it, realising something was inside. He tried to open it. He couldn’t, of course. Edward had the key round his neck.

  Edward furtively handed the pot of pills to his brother – he didn’t want the man to see that as well – and started down the steps from the porch, commanding, “Hand that back to me at once.”