The worst thing? Preston had wimped out. Rather than give as good as he got, he’d turned and left so Ryan couldn’t see him looking defeated. In the cafeteria, Mace had forgotten his chips.
“They were here. Alice was here,” Preston said, as Mace joined him beside the tag. He swallowed back the bitterness of the memory and turned away from the wall. The roof was punctuated by glass pyramids designed to let as much light into the upper-floor rooms as possible. Some of them were huge plates of impenetrable glass caked in the grime of the city. Others had opening windows installed. There was a chance they could force one.
“We need to get in,” he said, “and find out what’s going on.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Course I’m sure.” Where Ryan went, Alice did. This was the way forward, he was sure. Going in meant this place.
“We get trapped in there, we’re 404.”
Preston shook his head—404 was geek-speak for lost or toast. Whenever Mace was away from a computer or an Internet connection, he tended to get antsy. “Listen, Mace,” he said. “Alice was up here. I know it.”
“Jesus,” said Mace, swearing through his teeth. He looked scared. “Everything’s about bloody Alice. She’s gone, Press. You’re not going to swoop into a room and rescue her, you know. She’s gone!”
Preston put his hands on his hips, breathed out. “What, so we give up?”
“What else can we do?” Mace said. “This is crazy. There are guys in that building”—he thrust his finger at the floor—“who might kill us.”
Preston rolled his eyes. “Please!” he hissed. “Not the New World Order or government cover-ups again.”
“I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this.” Mace was pacing now, his eyes flashing. “Bloody Alice,” he said again. “You should forget about her.”
“I swear I’ll punch your lights out if you say that again.” Preston was surprised at the vehemence of his feeling. His hands trembled as he squeezed them into fists. He hadn’t fought with Mace for months. Well, weeks.
“Come on, then, big man,” Mace said, striding toward him and thrusting his chest out.
Preston hit him in the mouth.
Mace doubled over. “Christ!” he said in a high voice, holding his face as if it was coming apart in his hands. “That was big-time unnecessary!”
Preston looked out across the city, trying not to yell. He had to admit something. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Big-time unnecessary!” Mace repeated, pointing to his split lip.
“You don’t understand,” Preston said. He swallowed hard. It needed saying. “This is all my fault.”
It’d happened on Friday night, just after Alice had gone. She’d left her phone behind by accident. Then Dad had gotten onto him to do the dishes and grab some takeout for dinner, and pretty soon it was close to bedtime and he hadn’t taken it back.
Just before ten, Preston was getting ready for bed, slinging his clothes into the laundry basket, putting the atlas back, tidying his stuff, when he saw the phone again. A sleek black one—a real grown-up’s phone. Just like Alice to have it, Preston was thinking as he toyed with it.
Then its screen had lit up and it had vibrated.
At first, Preston had put it facedown on his bedside table and watched it spin slowly as it rattled—Alice’s texts were nothing to do with him; he’d learned his lesson after the embarrassment with the secret notebook—but eventually he couldn’t resist. He picked up the phone and turned it over.
A text was on the screen. From Ryan. I need help, it said. Come get me no kidding.
Preston had stared at it. It didn’t look like a joke. It was for real. And it meant Ryan was in some sort of trouble.
For a second, Preston was ready to call Alice’s mum and dad and tell them. She was his oldest friend, after all. But then something happened. His phone was in his jeans pocket, tangled up at the foot of his bed. He didn’t go and get it. He didn’t call her. He stood in his boxer shorts looking at the text message on Alice’s phone, thinking about her and Ryan, and he felt something cold and hard knot up inside him.
He clicked Reply. Go get dead, he typed.
For a moment, his thumb hovered and he didn’t breathe.
Then he had hit Send.
The shame had come quickly. The heat of it made him sweat. He deleted the outgoing message. Not that it would make any difference—it was sent now—but Alice shouldn’t see it, he thought. But then she’d see Ryan’s initial text when he gave the phone back. Preston deleted that one as well. Christ—things were getting worse. He’d have to slip it through her letter box to avoid handing it over in person.
He’d stopped. Stupidly, he wiped the phone clean as if it was a crime scene weapon and put it down.
He’d watched it, waiting for the outraged vibrate of a response.
No reply came.
Instead, he’d imagined that he could see someone in his room—the outline of a faceless figure. Betrayal, a thin, dark specter rattling its chains at the foot of his bed.
“Jesus,” said Mace, wiping the blood from his mouth. “You really did that?”
Preston didn’t say anything. Telling the story had drained him.
“So … you think Ryan was in proper danger?”
“Could have been,” Preston said quietly. In a way, it was a relief to have said it at last.
“And now Alice has gone looking for him?”
Preston shut his eyes. This was why it was all his fault. “Maybe.”
“But Ryan thinks she told him to get dead.” Preston’s heart sank. He nodded. “Damn, Press. What were you thinking?”
Preston took a long, uncertain breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s not me you need to be apologizing to … ” Mace began, his voice rising, and for a second, it looked as if there was another fight on the cards.
Then a light went on.
Instinctively, both boys dropped to their knees. A nearby pyramid of glass was illuminated. Someone was moving about below them. The boys stared at each other. Mace spat blood and wiped his lip with the sleeve of his coat. Preston crawled carefully toward one of the windows, glad of the distraction. If there was one way he was going to fix this mess, it was by finding Alice. Confessing.
Below was a corridor lined with security-protected doors with keypads. Labs and offices. Preston drew back quickly. There was a figure down there. Some sort of security guard, by the look of his uniform. He had a walkie-talkie slung at his hip, and a gun, and he walked with his feet facing outward. A moment or two later, the lights went out. Preston could hear him clattering down a set of stairs nearby.
What sort of building had twenty-four-hour armed security? And keypads at each door?
Mace had crawled over to watch with him. “A guy with a gun!” he said through his split lip.
Preston stood up and brushed the gravel from his jeans. “But no alarms or movement sensors or anything, right?” He thought about Alice again. He had to fix this. “So we can at least have a look around.”
It took twenty minutes to force the window. They used their front-door keys, working them under the frame, twisting them carefully, levering them up in unison, swearing and cursing, trying again until finally they could get their fingers under and yank the buckled window hard. The drop from their rooftop perch was a big one, and it was hard to land quietly. Once inside, Preston beckoned.
Mace shook his head. “I can record my observations from up here,” he hissed. “A guy on the roof might be useful.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Mace scowled in response, lowering the window. It needed a good shove before it closed properly.
Preston was in a warm, whirring building, servers and processors pumping out heat as they flickered and hummed. He swiped his phone flashlight on and followed its glow toward an open space ahead. It was a reception area for the top floor, one wall entirely glass, looking down over the parking lot and gardens. Green sofas were arran
ged around a coffee table with travel magazines. Farther back was a sleek desk area with a laptop and intercom, a couple of desktop phones blinking with messages, and a little pile of business cards. Preston cupped the light of his flashlight, wondering if someone below might look up and see it bobbing. The desk drawers were locked. Next to the phone was an ID card on a lanyard, cast aside by its owner. Preston pocketed it.
Suddenly, farther down the corridor, a door opened. Preston was seized by a cold fear and ducked down beneath the desk. He crushed himself into a ball in front of the chair, closed his eyes like a child, and held his breath, his body pulsing like a drum. This is it. I’m 404 for sure.
“Yes, it’s a secure line,” a voice said. “Go ahead.” Footsteps padded. “Unscheduled?” There was a period of silence. “Yes. Yes.” Now, an exasperated sigh. “There is a protocol … ” There was a longer pause here, then the voice spoke again. It was a male voice; not a security guard, Preston reckoned. “I’m aware that’s what we stated in the service-level agreement, Minister, but I hardly think … ” Another pause, then, “Very well.”
Preston waited. Where was the speaker now? Staring out the windows? Preston tried to make some sense of what he’d heard. The conversation had been brief, confusing—but protocol, agreement, Minister—they surely meant only one thing, didn’t they? Government. The company’s website had mentioned technological prototyping and development for criminal justice. So a government link might make sense; DNA testing, he’d first thought. Did the UK have a complete DNA database? Was that what the pinprick in the center of his palm was about? By the hum of the building and the temperature of its corridors, there was certainly enough gear to power something huge. Preston bit his lip.
“It’s me.” It was the man again, very close. He was leaning on the polished top of the reception desk just over Preston’s head. The lurch of terror seized him bodily. “We have an issue,” the voice said. “Armstrong’s on his way. He wants to observe the next delivery.” This time, the man was so close that Preston could almost hear the other speaker’s response. “Under an hour.” Pause. “No, it’s more than that. He wants to see the valve.” Further silence. “Yes, he has the latest figures. And the spending review’s due to be announced. It doesn’t look good. Yes. Yes. We need this one to go smoothly. Right.” There was the unmistakable clatter of a phone skimmed onto a surface after a call. Preston could hear the man taking deep, slow breaths. “Bloody hell,” he said to himself. Preston listened as he paced, wishing he’d leave. But he didn’t. The crouch beneath the desk was agonizing. Seconds dragged into minutes. Sometimes Preston would guess he’d gone—and be on the verge of standing up and rubbing his calves—then the guy would shift position again and Preston would freeze. He was at the window, Preston thought, watching for the visitors.
In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate.
He hooked it out and checked the time. It was just after eleven p.m.
Gates open cars coming in, Mace had texted.
That would make sense. This was the visitor the earlier speaker had been expecting, then. What name had been used? Armstrong? Mercifully, the man moved too—in response to the arrival, Preston guessed—setting off down the corridor. There was the beep and hiss of glass-paneled security doors, and the descending echo of his footsteps as he went downstairs.
Preston moved out from the desk, legs aching, checking the glow of the rooms farther down the corridor, where a few men in white coats appeared to be moving between labs and offices, working.
He made his way across their line of sight and out to the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he crouched against the arm of the sofa, getting as low as possible, staying back from the glass, craning his neck to see what he could.
He was directly above the sunken garden. He couldn’t make out the fire door where the kid had died, but he could see the low glow of uplighters along the path edges, the raised barrier at the security entrance, and the delegation of vehicles pulling in. Three black Mercedes with what looked like smoked glass. They pulled up. The back doors of the third opened and a man got out from each side. They both wore knee-length smart coats over dark suits and carried briefcases. One had a hat and carried an umbrella.
They crossed the parking lot and were met by two men in white coats striding out of the building toward them. There was a cordial shaking of hands—the kind of handshakes, Preston figured, that were firm and steely enough to indicate a display of strength. Everything about the meeting suggested it wasn’t a welcome one. Preston’s phone buzzed and glowed and he pressed its screen against his coat to hide the light. A text from the roof.
Government, it said.
The figures waited a moment, a huddle of four, talking with their heads bowed close together. Preston tried to work out which one was Armstrong, and which was the person who had made the call at the desk up on the top floor. Then a fifth figure emerged to meet them, and Preston recognized him immediately. It was the man he had seen the previous night, the one with the black boots and shoulder bag and the wasp-sting handshake. He was gloveless this time. He turned to indicate the building and grounds around him, pointed to the gates and fence, faced the uppermost office and lab windows and swept an arm out. Preston froze against the sofa. He was low enough not to be seen, he was sure. Plus, the room was dark. Glass reflects. Nevertheless, his heart gave a kick of anxiety. The man continued speaking. Whoever he was, he seemed to be an employee of M.I.S.T., and a prominent one at that. After a moment more, the five of them turned and began to walk inside. Preston could just hear the poc-poc-poc of an umbrella tapped against the floor of the foyer as they stepped inside. Once they’d vanished, the car headlights came on, and with a hiss, the vehicles reversed through the puddles and made their way back out through the security barrier.
What now? said a text from Mace a few moments after the parking lot had fallen into stillness. Preston thought. What had the man on the phone said? That someone wanted to observe the next delivery? To see the valve? If they stuck around for a bit, there might be a chance they could see what that was. And that might begin to loosen the knot he was trying to untangle. It could lead him to Alice.
There was a windowless door behind the desk area. Preston pushed at it. Locked. He checked the frame, saw a magnetic reader, and touched the ID card to it. There was a click. He pushed the door open a couple of inches. Some sort of service stairwell, unheated and dusty. He slipped through. The air was cold enough to make his breath come in clouds.
Going in, he texted Mace, thinking, Hell of a way to spend a Monday night. Then he jammed his phone in the pocket of his jeans and made his way downward, moving as quickly as he dared. The building had four floors, he knew, and the thing he was looking for—the machinery, Mace had called it—was in the basement.
Wall-mounted service lights gave the stairwell a gray glow. The area wasn’t used often; there were fire extinguishers and a couple of pallet trucks for deliveries, nothing else. Every floor had a locked door and a magnetic card reader.
By the time Preston reached the basement level he was struggling to calm his nerves. He thought of Alice’s little book of maps and sketches. Had she been here, in these corridors, or was this all a colossal mistake? He fumbled with the ID card on its string and took a steadying breath. He’d find out, one way or another.
The basement door clicked. He pushed at it, and it opened.
It was dark beyond—dark, quiet, and very hot.
Preston pushed his way through and heard the door swing shut and the lock engage behind him. There was a huge room with a brushed concrete floor and banks of computer servers, all flickering. He broke into a sweat and unbuttoned his coat as he took it in. The place was the length of a football field and the entirety of the back wall was lined with tech, all whirring and blinking. The capability must be immense, Preston thought—it was like some subterranean supercomputer, stretching on into the darkness as far as he could see, the kind of thing that he imagined might power the national grid. Cable
s snaked across the floor, connecting subsections of the computers like arteries; black plastic downpipes on the walls spilled wires. The whole building was plugged into this vast basement machine. Christ, Preston thought, for all I know, the whole damn city could be plugged into this.
And then there was the thing at the end of the room.
It was the hulking outline of the machinery Mace had filmed on his phone. It was the size of a bus. A dark, iron bus—a house, even—supported by metal struts on a poured-concrete base. It seemed to have a mouth at its front end, steps rising to a strange sort of entrance. You could, Preston reckoned, go inside it, as if it was some sort of zero-gravity training chamber for spacewalking, or maybe a sealed quarantine pod for doctors to treat high-security patients. The words of the man upstairs came back to him suddenly. Armstrong’s on his way. He wants to observe the next delivery. He wants to see the valve.
It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen. It made his shoulders and back go cold with fear, despite the clammy air. It made him want to leave. He’d seen enough.
He turned to go. His hands were shaking as he fumbled the card against the magnetic reader. His legs felt weak. Whatever it was—the valve—it didn’t belong in a basement in Manchester. It didn’t belong anywhere. Something about its squat silhouette, its open jaw, the shape and feel of it, made him want to get as far away from it as he could. He was about to slip through the door when it happened.
The room was suddenly doused in light: bright light dropping in flat, broad blades from the high windows. Outside in the parking lot a vehicle had pulled up, its engine a deep growl. This wasn’t a sleek Mercedes. It sounded bigger, a truck maybe. There was the slam of doors, the low buzz of voices.
The next thing Preston knew, there was the sound of the fire door lock turning, and the heavy door was being hauled open, outward. Cold air flooded the room. Jesus. Preston squinted at the half dark that lurked in the corners of the open space. He needed somewhere to hide, and fast. If he sneaked out now, he’d be spotted for sure. So he ran, quick and low and terrified, and pressed himself into the shadows of the basement wall. It was an exterior wall, cold; nets of spiderweb fogged the brickwork and clung to his shoulders. The shadows hid him pretty well.
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