The Artisans

by J G Alva

  Bob looked at Pat. Reluctantly, he nodded. He didn’t want to hear this, it was embarrassing, but with the dam opened to allow a trickle, it seems as if they were now witnessing the inevitable flood.

  “She was very nice,” Bob said. “Very…sweet. I cared for her. But when I tried to stop her from doing the Oxford Laboratory raid, she turned on me. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was…she went crazy. That’s the only way I can describe it. I’d never seen that side of her, had never suspected it existed…she was spitting, shouting, throwing things at me…And that was when it hit me. Everyone who was there, who was part of that group – they were called LightSavers, can you believe it? what a terrible name, it’s almost like a bad joke, but it was their whole philosophy, following the path of light, and they were fanatical about not changing the name – anyway, all of them involved in this group, they were zealots. They dressed it up, they said it was for a cause…but they might as well have been Flat-Earthers. Something was missing in them…and the LightSavers, and their beliefs – as benign as they seemed on the surface – filled these gaps. I reported back to NPOIU the next day, and told them about the upcoming attack. We were meant to come up with a long story about how I was leaving to work in America with my cousin – it was a detailed escape plan, with letters and references and everything to back it up – but I couldn’t stand to be around them a minute longer, so I just walked away. When they were arrested outside the laboratory, they knew I’d betrayed them. It couldn’t be anybody else. That’s when all the shit came out: that raid in Camden, the affair with the…woman. That was about the worst three months of my life. Rachel moved out three weeks into the trial, and she won’t talk to me, even now.” There was pain in Bob’s eyes, and for an alarming moment Pat thought he might cry. But he shook his head as if to clear it, and the moment passed. “Don’t underestimate this cult, Pat. If they’re even half as devoted as the LightSavers, then they’ll go to some pretty extreme measures to fulfil their remit.”

  “Which is what?” Pat said. “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know,” Bob said, shaking his head. “But this boy is an important part of it. Whatever it is.”

  “Do you think?”

  “I do. Just look at the lengths they’ve gone to to try and get him back.” Bob’s eyebrows rose a full inch on his head. “It smacks of desperation, don’t you think?”

  “Have either of you read the novel?” Darren asked.

  Bob nodded but Pat admitted, “only the summary in the file.”

  “It’s a pretty good novel,” Darren said. “As far as science fiction novels go. It’s basically about a class war: the Ravenans, the ruling class, are the technological elite; their lives are easy, without strife or suffering, and monitored by complex machines that run everything; the lower class, called the Artisans, are pretty much slaves, and they live a miserable life maintaining the machines for the Ravenans, to keep their society in good working order. They’re treated terribly, of course, like animals, and there’s some instances in the book where they’re secondary to machines: the Ravenans talk to their machines, have relationships with these AI constructs, and even have sexual relationships with some of the more advanced ones. You know, robots that look and act like humans. It’s pretty messed up.”

  Pat was shocked; he hadn’t read that in the file.

  “Anyway,” Darren continued, “the books is about a revolution by the Artisans against the Ravenans. They’re forced to live in sewers under the cities, and live off of protein paste derived from other dead Artisans. You know, sort of like Soylent Green.”

  Pat said, “Soylent what?”

  Darren shook his head.

  “Never mind. Now, the revolution is started because one of the elite, one of the Ravenans, is relegated to the status of an Artisan, due to a computer glitch. He has to go and live with the Artisans, and once he sees how they suffer, and once he gets to know them – and ends up befriending them – then he helps them to rise up against the Ravenans. Obviously, he knows how their society works, its weaknesses, etc., as he was once one of them. His name is Fahl. The thing is, he’s a sixteen year old boy.”

  There was a thoughtful silence as Pat digested that.

  He said, “you think…they believe Toby Matheson is this Fahl character?”

  Darren nodded.

  Bob looked impressed.

  “It makes sense,” he said. “It would explain why they’re so desperate to get him back. His coming to the Cult must make it seem like what’s written in their sacred book is coming true, is happening again.”

  “The only trouble is,” Darren said, “Fahl dies in the end of the book.”

  ◆◆◆

  There was a path running along the side of the house to the back.

  Mindful of being seen, the lightening sky working against him in that regard, Sutton quickly ran to the end of it, stopping at the corner of the building.

  Fast growing conifers followed three sides of the fence, as tall as the house itself, so there was no danger of being seen from the street. The back garden itself was about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide, on two levels: an elevated level at the back, in the shape of a wide oval of grass; concrete steps led down to a patio that ended at French Doors.

  There were small fragments of broken glass glittering on the patio stones directly underneath the French Doors.

  Trying to see everything at once, Sutton scooted up to the French Doors, quickly discovering that whoever it was in the house had smashed a hole in the glass of the doors and then reached in and unlocked them. Sutton did a quick head-juke: he saw a beige carpet, a dark blue sofa, bookcases, goose neck lamps, and a long hall going to the front of the house.

  But no people.

  Carefully, he entered.

  It was completely silent.

  He could smell cordite, very faint, but unmistakable: gunfire.

  A little nervous sweat started on his forehead.

  Glass littered the carpet directly inside, and he was careful to avoid it. No lights had been turned on, so the room was in relative darkness. As he ventured further in, the entranceway to the kitchen appeared on his right.

  On the floor was a body.

  It was as if a hurricane had quickly whipped through the kitchen, with this person at its centre: cereal boxes and plates had all been dislodged and heaped on the body…as if he had pulled them all down on top of himself.

  He was barely sixteen years old.

  A typical Cult Disciple: blonde, tanned, fit, young. His unlined face was like that of a child, especially in repose. Sutton thought he looked vaguely familiar. The bullet had gone in under his left armpit. There was a lot of blood. It was flat, and reflective, like a dark red mirror.

  Sutton turned back to the hall.

  Halfway down, the head of an overturned chair could be seen blocking the doorway. There was a light on in the room, but it was small, and turned away, as only the faintest tungsten glow touched the dark fabric of the seatback.

  At that moment, the quiet of the house was punctured by a gargling cry of pain coming from that room.

  Goosed, Sutton stopped. He waited for a full minute before proceeding. If there was someone with a loaded gun in this house, he wasn’t going to be rushing anywhere…not without due caution.

  He approached the doorway halfway down the hall.

  The hall floor was laminated, but there was movement enough between the boards to give out faint groans and ticks. He winced every time one was produced.

  The open door revealed a study.

  Behind a large Walnut desk, a man had died.

  He was wearing a grey three piece suit, and had a pinkish, freckled face. He was in his fifties. He had multiple stab wounds across his chest, and a knife stuck out of his ribs. His face had formed a tortured rictus; it looked as if he had died in agony.

  Sutton checked the room; there were two other bodies in evidence: another boy in his late teens, and an older man with white hair. The old man w
as wearing a sports jacket and slacks, the boy was wearing burgundy shorts, trainers (no socks), and a light cotton T-shirt; the boy had a gunshot wound to his stomach and the older man had a machete buried in his shoulder. The fucking blood…there seemed so much of it splashed about the place that Sutton would not have been surprised to see discarded ten litre buckets of the stuff dotted around the house.

  The old man in the sports jacket gave a hitching, juddering breath suddenly…like an old car trying to start.

  Sutton rushed to him, getting down on his knees next to him.

  Who was this man? The man behind the desk must be Alfred – there were photographs on the desk to attest to the fact that this was his house – but Sutton did not recognise this man. A friend? One of Alfred’s security team? He seemed too old.

  Then he saw the gun on the floor next to the bloody left hand.

  The man coughed, and blood foamed at his lips. He was in the midst of something, some fit, Sutton thought; his body juddered as if he were being electrocuted. His eyes – bleary and bloodshot – found Sutton. He didn’t have long…and by the look in his eyes, Sutton thought that the man knew that too.

  “Other,” the man coughed, spitting blood over himself.

  “Other?”

  “Hm.” The man nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if searching his memory. “Other…boy…”

  The other boy…

  “He’s dead,” Sutton said. “In the kitchen.”

  The man grunted.

  Who the hell was he?

  Sutton searched the man’s pockets until he found a wallet. The man protested, but his protestations were feeble, and Sutton found a wallet in his front left pocket.

  The identification was a bit of a shock: Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Kent.

  A hand came up and patted the wallet.

  He was trying to tell him something.

  But what…?

  “Mr Kent, my name is Sutton Mills,” he said, grasping the older man’s flailing hand and squeezing it. “I was working with Greg Matheson to-“

  But Sutton could tell by the change in his eyes that he knew the name, knew who he was.

  “Team…” The old man breathed.

  “The team?”

  Raymond Kent nodded, but then he pointed to Alfred Alger’s body.

  “What?” Sutton said, looking from the dead man to Kent. “I don’t understand.”

  Kent pointed to the dead man again.

  “Team…”

  “You?” He said. “You and Alfred were getting a team together?”

  Kent nodded.

  “To go and get Toby?”

  Kent nodded again. He looked relieved.

  “Po…po…police…”

  “What about them?”

  He pointed to Alfred’s body again.

  “Tray…”

  “Tray?”

  “Tray…” More coughing.

  Sutton thought he had it.

  “Traitor?” He offered.

  Kent nodded vigorously.

  “Was Alfred…?”

  Kent shook his head: no.

  “Po…lice…”

  “You think someone in the police is involved with the Cult?”

  Kent nodded again.

  “Team…” He breathed, and started coughing. It was like he was never going to stop…and then he did. His body began shaking again, as if he had a severe case of palsy. His grip on Sutton’s hand became painfully tight momentarily. “Pat…” Kent closed his eyes against still more pain.

  “Pat?”

  Kent’s hand was cold…and growing colder.

  “Pat….Pat Harris. Oh…” He winced in pain, and then coughed. “The only man you…can trust. Pat…Harris…”

  The old man arched his back then, his eyes fixed on Sutton, his eyebrows so high on his forehead that he looked almost comically surprised.

  But the fear in his eyes…there was nothing comical about that.

  He relaxed just as suddenly, but the tremors continued endlessly: the machine shutting down; what historically would have been called death throes.

  Incongruously, a mobile phone began ringing. It was on his person somewhere, but it was as if Kent didn’t hear it.

  “Toby…”

  “I know,” Sutton said. The fact that he was watching a man die hadn’t escaped him. He felt woefully inadequate for the task. Untrained. Unqualified. This man needed a friend, not a stranger.

  “Toby…” Kent swallowed. “Good…boy…”

  “I know he is.”

  “Safe…” Kent was straining now, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets. There was blood everywhere, and judging by the smell Kent had just lost what remained of his control over his bodily functions. There was very little dignity in death, but what there was, Kent strained for it…for something more than himself. He must have been a formidable man, in life. “Keep…him…safe…”

  Kent gave a strange jerk, as if at a hiccup, and then fell forward into Sutton.

  By the time Sutton was able to right him again, he was dead.

  The phone continued to ring, like the ghost of Kent himself, and then that too was silent.

  ◆◆◆

  There was a large circle of blood on the knee of his jeans.

  He didn’t know how it had gotten there; he thought he’d been careful. Still, the blood was there, like a macabre full stop. He shouldn’t have been surprised. This place was awash with gore, avoiding it was almost impossible. He stood looking down at Kent. He could guess what had happened. Kent had come over to challenge Alfred, and when he was convinced that Alfred could be trusted, then they were going to come up with their own plan to save the boy. And then something had happened…Perhaps Bellafont had sent the Soldiers to check every location Clive had been able to extract from Toby during his Purge – it seemed reasonable, and he was not short of volunteers – but the two old men had been prepared to fight back. Kent had been armed, and that was probably what had stopped them being overrun, but still…

  Sutton suddenly heard footsteps on the front path.

  Fuck. He rushed to the hall door, but realised he still had Kent’s wallet in his hand. There was blood all over the wallet…He wiped the wallet – no fingerprints – and then placed it beside the body.

  Knocking at the door. He couldn’t be found here. He didn’t know who it was, but if anyone saw him, he was going to prison, irrespective of whether he was innocent or not. He would fucking burn, either way.

  He retraced his steps to the back of the house, and then into the garden. He couldn’t risk going down the path that ran beside the house, in case he came into contact with the visitor. Which left one other option…

  Sutton had to take a run at it, but he managed to grasp the top of the fence and pull himself over.

  He didn’t know it, but he had a full three seconds before the visitor walked down the path beside the house and into the garden…but by then, Sutton was already gone.

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 11

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Pat.”

  Rachel Costar held to the opposing kitchen counters as if for support. Her whole face and posture were guarded and defensive. He knew why: she thought he was here to talk some sense into her.

  She had two dogs, and they milled restlessly in the kitchen, sniffing at Pat and occasionally giving an indecisive huff or tentative bark. There was a Cocker Spaniel called Betty, and a Border Collie called Lacey. Rachel introduced them as if they were people. Which was fine.

  But they were undisciplined, which wasn’t so fine.

  “Has he been acting differently?” Rachel continued. “What kind of a question is that? He fucked a woman he should have been investigating.” Pat winced. “Does that sound like something he would have done? Because it doesn’t to me. If you ask me, there’s nothing about him that’s the same. Not since he came back from being undercover.”

  Rachel had been a shy, slim, insecure woman when she had been int
roduced to Pat as Bob’s new wife. Now, she was overweight, unhappy, jaded. She had dyed her hair jet black, and it didn’t suit her. She was wearing a pink hoodie and grey jogging bottoms, and that didn’t suit her either. In fact, from what Pat could see, there was nothing in her life that did suit her: the flat in Henleaze she was renting was cramped and oppressive; the interior was disorganised (which was a surprise, as Rachel had always been meticulously neat); she had told him she was working as a dentist’s receptionist, when she had experience as an office manager. None of the things in her life seemed to make any sense to him.

  The dogs were certainly boisterous. Betty jumped up on to his chest and almost toppled him. Lacey kept trying to sniff his crotch. He loved animals, but there was no excuse for undisciplined ones. He believed this was the owner’s fault, and showed a distinct lack of love on their part; they couldn’t spare the time to train them, so the conclusion he usually drew was that they couldn’t spare the time to love them either.

  And animals needed love, like any other creature.

  “I won’t take him back,” she said. “You can’t make me. You can’t.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Rachel.”

  “Then why are you here? I haven’t seen Bob in two months, except for ten minutes at the bank, when we had to sort out some financial stuff. I’ll be honest with you, Pat, I don’t want anything to do with him. Things weren’t great before, but they were okay…but when I found out about that…woman…well. Whatever connection we had just got automatically severed. That’s what it felt like. And I felt free. For the first time in forever. Do you want me to forgive him? Is that it?”