‘Well bizarre—’ muttered Rob vaguely. Smelly was a slow thinker. Explaining anything to him would drive you up the wall.
‘Yeah, but it’s not really Ax. It’s meant to be England, so that makes… Er. Either of you two know what leg-iti-mate succession means?’
‘It means bollocks,’ Dilip yelled at him, beyond endurance. ‘It’s bollocks—’
‘Oh,’ said Hugh, meekly. ‘Right… I was only asking.’
‘Hey,’ Rob gripped the mixmaster’s arm, ‘calm down, DK.’
Chip and Verlaine came into the area. They saw Fergal and went right up, pleased to note that he had several fully tooled-up media persons in close attendance. They’d thought hard about what they had to do. They knew it was on the cards that they’d end up getting shot. Or macheted to pieces: some of the weapons around the Irishman were not very civilised. But they had to confront him in public, in a way that didn’t involve the others; and where they had a chance of being heard before the minders intervened. Backstage at Mayday was their choice. They were sure this was what Ax would have done: take the direct action, sort the details later.
‘Uh, Fergal,’ said Chip. ‘We want to show you something.’
Verlaine laid a pair of gleaming cells on the plastic tabletop in front of Fergal, and held up a third so the sunlight brought the colourful image to life.
‘These are scans of your brain, Ferg. Taken in that hospital in Sweden, where you got your natural, organic memory machinery burned out.’
‘We can only think of one reason you’d do that,’ said Chip. ‘We think you’ve got a big implant. We think you went all the way, ditched your human self, and it’s just a bunch of evil, futuristic anti-Gaia microchips that’s talking to us—’
‘Because otherwise you can’t be walking around, with scans like this.’
The Adjuvants had scripted this with care, trying to make the language simple but arresting. They spoke loudly and clearly, but with good-humoured calm. They hoped they sounded like Tarantino gangsters, interesting gangsters, not the kind that instantly needed shooting… They had calculated rightly. Nobody pulled a gun, Fergal himself seemed fascinated. By the end of their delivery the whole crowd around Fergal, celebs and minders, liggers and media folk, was attentive, silent and mystified. The music and the muffled crowd noise from the arena surged up, suddenly vivid. In the background Fiorinda was on her feet, white as milk, Charm and Gauri holding her back—
‘So we want you to take a new scan, F-fergal,’ said Chip, beginning to quake.
‘Prove it isn’t true,’ explained Ver. ‘But if you’re not this person, who are you?’
Fergal stared at them. There was a murmur of astonishment from those onlookers who could see his face. ‘Fock—’ he whispered. ‘Fock—’
A slack-jawed old man with sea-green eyes, his voice as thin as a reed. His head began to jerk and nod—
‘Fergal!’ said one of his own men, grabbing his arm. ‘Come on. Get you out—’
But Fergal didn’t get up. He fell down. He fell from the chair like a suit of clothes folding.
‘Heart attack—’ cried someone, urgently.
‘Oh God, what’s that smell—?’ cried someone else.
Fergal Kearney lay on the bruised grass, shrinking like a wax model held in the flames, his clothes wetly stained, his face melting from the bones. He lay there, in seconds, dead and putrefied.
Fiorinda had stopped struggling and stood transfixed. No one was looking at her yet. A bunch of the politicos rushed up to the body, Benny Preminder at the fore, brandishing his dogtags—an absurd gesture, but he didn’t look absurd.
‘I’ll take care of this. I’m Ben Preminder, Countercultural Liaison Secretary, this is mine.’ He stooped over Fergal, theatrically grave, and stood up again. ‘Someone call the police. This man may have died by witchcraft!’
A babble of disbelief, a surge of people trying to get a look, or to get away.
‘No one leaves!’ cried Benny. ‘There are suspects who must be questioned!’
‘Come on, princess,’ muttered Charm Dudley, putting a ferocious lock on her singer’s upper arm and hauling. ‘Out of here.’
‘What? Why should I—?’ gasped Fiorinda, shaking, mulish, resistant.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ hissed Gauri. ‘Just don’t argue.’
If they could have got her onstage they might have made it. The enemy wouldn’t have wanted their own goons grabbing the princess in front of that crowd, and it would have been a brave Thames Valley police chief who allowed the arrest of Fiorinda on Red Stage at Reading Festival Site. But they didn’t think fast enough, and Fiorinda was screaming to the Few and friends that they were to LET THIS HAPPEN! SORT IT LATER! So what support they had was scattered and uncertain. It was DARK against the world, and of course they lost. The police turned up and took over. Fiorinda was escorted to Rivermead, where she spent the next days in her rooms under armed guard, while Benny marshalled his evidence. Then she was formally arrested and charged with the murder. This would be the first ever attempt to enforce the witchcraft law. No one knew how the case should be handled, they were looking back hundreds of years for precedent.
But Benny thought he could make it stick.
NINE
Love Minus Zero (No Limit)
The Heads tried to race back from Caer Siddi, but they were stopped at the border on the English side, hassled, kept waiting for personal transport permit vouchers; and finally informed there was a curfew due to Fergal Kearney’s death, so they couldn’t travel until the next morning. In the end it took them three days to reach London. They found the Insanitude crawling with strange hippies, who said they were looking for evidence of criminal magic. Allie had called the police, but the Met declined to intervene.
Of course there was stacks of ‘evidence’: as for criminal, it depends where you draw the line. The hippies left eventually, taking random items that had caught their fancy. A set of bongos, several expensive fx generators; scented candles.
Fiorinda had been taken from Rivermead to a grisly Victorian remand centre on the outskirts of Reading. She had been allowed no visitors, and she hadn’t been allowed to speak to a lawyer—on the grounds that there was as yet no procedure for dealing with someone who could kill by magic. The Heads got in because the assistant governor was a fan. She was very confused about Fiorinda, but she couldn’t resist George, Bill and Peter; fresh from Caer Siddi, where her hero Aoxomoxoa was pursuing his thrilling quest.
They met the heartbreaking sight of the rock and roll brat literally behind bars. At least the screws left the room, so they had some illusion of privacy. ‘It’s to protect you,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Iron’s supposed to be proof against witchcraft.’
‘Does it work?’ asked Peter.
‘Well, I’m still here. I haven’t turned into a bat and flown away.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ said George. ‘We’ll get you out, my love. This is ludicrous.’
‘Fiorinda,’ said Bill, urgently, ‘don’t talk like that. Don’t be a fucking idiot. Nobody has a sense of humour when you’re on the wrong side of the law.’
She smiled. ‘Py kefer Myghter Arthur? Ny wor den-vyth an le—’
It was the first half of the Cornish couplet that served as password and countersign for the secret resistance. George felt as if someone was squeezing his heart in a vice, ‘Whath nyns yw marow; efa vew, hag arta efa dhe.’
Where is Arthur? No one knows, but he lives and he’s coming back.
‘I’ve been working on my Brythonic intonation. How am I doing?’
‘Not bad,’ he croaked.
Unfortunately they were no longer in touch with ‘Lurch’, the American girl who was convinced that Ax Preston was alive. The Insanitude direct link with the US had been spotted and closed down. There was no more solid evidence that Ax was alive than there’d ever been—but they knew how Fiorinda had been clinging to that lifeline.
They would not tell her it was gone, it would have bee
n needless cruelty.
The situation looked ominous. Fiorinda’s personal popularity was immense, but Fergal had died and rotted in minutes, in seconds; before upwards of a hundred witnesses. Millions had seen his death now, televised. As for Chip and Verlaine’s bizarre story, forget it. The autopsy had beeen scrupulously correct. The inside of Fergal’s skull had been soup, nothing could be said about strange brain surgery, but there’d certainly been no microchips. Meanwhile Benny was amassing witnesses who would recount ‘strange rumours’ about Fiorinda going back to when she was fourteen; denouncing the Few as traitors who had been getting rich off the Reich (helped by Fiorinda’s evil magic); setting himself up as the defender of Ax’s honour.
A few brave media folk were holding out, but this rewriting of history was published and broadcast widely. Worst of all, no one had talked about it, for obvious reasons, but most of her closest friends had suspected for a while that Fiorinda was ‘a witch’. She must go on denying it, they must all deny it, there was no question of coming clean now: but it wasn’t a good start. Some of the Few would be in real problems if they were questioned under oath.
They tried to give her a hopeful spin. You’re the nation’s sweetheart, he’s just pissing around, he won’t dare to hurt you. Fuck, there’s an army of staybehinds and drop-outs who’d die before they’d let anything happen—
Fiorinda paced her share of the room, arms folded over her breast, head bent. She came up to the bars, and her eyes flashed in that strange Fiorinda way, pupils flared wide and then down to pinpoints.
‘George. Did Sage trust Alain?’
‘He’s not dead, Fiorinda,’ said George. ‘You got no reason to say he’s dead—’
‘Did Sage, who is dead or he would be here, trust Alain de Corlay? I think Alain’s okay, but I know I’m losing track, so help me with this.’
He gave up. ‘The boss trusts Alain. They got their differences, but it’s surface, playfighting, er, more or less. Alain’s solid.’
‘Good. I want you three to take Marlon and Mary to Brittany.’
‘Fio, I think we should stay in England,’ protested Bill.
‘You think wrong. Think mediaeval, idiots. I have no child. Ax has no child. One of the three has a son. Listen to what you’ve been telling me. Suddenly Benny is Ax’s champion. Legitimate succession. Get it? Now convince Mary however you like, but get Marlon out of the fucking way, before he’s a dead legitimate heir.’
She wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, and the Chosen can’t stay in Scotland, I’m afraid Benny could reach them there. Get them to Brittany too, and Sunny (Sunny Preston was Ax’s mum). I wish I could send all the Prestons to the US, but that’s a r-remote possibility. And don’t fucking argue with me.’
George accepted defeat, heartsick. ‘Okay, Fio. Anything you say.’
‘Clearing the decks,’ said Peter, nodding gravely. ‘In case things get dodgy.’
‘Yeah, Cack,’ said Fiorinda, with a very loving look, Peter’s old nickname bringing back the ghost of their happy days. ‘Just in case.’
She tried to think, she tried to plan, but it was like trying to jump back onto a racing, spinning fairground ride. She’d been able to think of getting the Heads out of the way, and Mary and Marlon, the Chosen and Sunny, because those tasks had been on her agenda. She could not form new ideas. She spent her hours staring at the opposite bed in her cell; which didn’t have an occupant. She could not believe that this body was her own again. It didn’t feel like her own. What am I supposed to be doing now? Refuse to admit I’m a witch. Ax’s girlfriend can’t be a witch. That would be a real fuck-up.
What else?
Nah. Don’t think there’s anything else.
She recalled the long evenings at Rivermead, and Benny Preminder’s secret little smiles. How he’d enjoyed seeing Fiorinda humiliated, how unfair that grass-cuts like that can still hurt when you’re in far, far worse trouble. Ax was always nice to Benny, and we didn’t understand but Ax knew it was the only answer. If you have to deal with people who hate you, make nice unless you’re going to flat-out assassinate them. But I was rude to him whenever I got the chance, and probably that’s why he turned against us and let Rufus in. All my life, every time I could do something wicked, or stupid, that’s what I did.
Every time I had a choice, I chose wrong.
She wanted to think about Ax and Sage, but the memories wouldn’t come: that part of her was dead already. All she could do was wait for Rufus. Every day, every hour, she waited for him, the way she had waited at Rivermead. The cell door would open and Benny Preminder—or a screw, or someone she loved; whoever magician chose to ride—would walk in. A smoke would fall from Benny’s mouth and Rufus O’Niall’s living ghost would be there.
He didn’t come that way, he came to her mind instead. She could see him: the big lordly man with the chestnut skin and shining black curls. She could hear his voice, rich and strong and so anciently thrilling, telling her that he had not abandoned her. This was a test. All you have to do is use your magic, Fiorinda. Iron bars can’t hold you. I’m waiting for you in Ireland. Remember when you were a little girl, how you wanted me to love you, and make you my bride?
We shall rule the world together.
I can’t do this. I can’t fight anymore. Please someone make it stop.
At the end of May Charm and Gauri and Fil visited her. She’d been moved again but it was the same set-up as the Heads had described: Fiorinda behind bars, like Hannibal Lecter, in a basement with no natural light. She was very thin, in her prison overalls.
‘You took your time,’ she said.
‘We’ve been inside ourselves,’ boasted Fil, who was sporting a cast on her arm.
‘What did you do?’
‘Fucking pathetic compared to first degree murder,’ said Gauri, two fingers splinted and a limp. ‘We got beaten up resisting arrest, and they sent us down for that.’
‘It was your arrest we were resisting,’ Charm had a support collar, a bad split lip not yet healed and a crop of yellowing bruises. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Vaguely. I never had a degree before. Hey, does by witchcraft rates an A*?’
‘Triple First,’ said Fil. ‘Summa cum laude. Defo.’
But tears started in Fiorinda’s eyes. ‘Why doesn’t Allie come to see me?’
‘She can’t,’ said Gauri. ‘None of the Few are allowed.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ve had Benny Prem. He asked me why did I hate my common-law husband, and why did I start a riot? I kind of pointed out I didn’t start the riot, I tried to stop it, and he hinted maybe I should plea bargain.’
An uncomfortable silence. ‘Maybe you should,’ said Gauri.
Fiorinda took this on board. ‘No, I won’t do that. I didn’t kill Fergal. I can’t tell anyone how he was killed, but it wasn’t me. I’m innocent.’
The screws stayed by the doors. They were very upset about the way Fiorinda was being treated, but they wouldn’t leave the room. There was a painted line on the floor, which DARK were not to cross, but it wasn’t alarmed. This room had nothing electronic in it, on the theory that magic interferes with that kind of stuff. They’d been warned not to try and touch her, or give her anything. The visit struggled on painfully. When time was up, Charm stepped over the line and shoved her hand through the bars, closed in a fist. ‘Quick. Here. Take it.’
It was Ax’s carnelian ring.
Fiorinda pushed the hand away. ‘No, it’s no use. The screws would take it from me, and anyway, I’m not the same person.’
That was the last anyone saw of Fiorinda. They heard she’d been moved again, but nobody could find out where. The situation was hardening. It was a case of get out and hope for the best, or stay and end up in the same boat, unable to help her anyway.
Ax was rescued in the middle of July. He had been chained up in that room for a year and two months. He spent a week in hospital, and then flew back to Europe in a gas-guzzler jet plane from the President’s fleet: Ax and Lurch and a coupl
e of minders alone in the forward cabin. They came in low over the south-west of England, in a clear blue morning. Ax looked down through the window beside him at a place that looked like Narnia. Such a golden green, such enchantment of light and shadow, it couldn’t be real, it could only be a cutscene from a fantasy game. Oh my God, there’s Silbury Hill. There’s Avebury. He was gripped by an emotion that had no problem co-existing with his terrible grief and fear, so it couldn’t be joy. But it was something.
He realised that the plane had stopped losing height.
‘What’s happening?’
Lurch had just woken up. ‘I’ll find out.’
She had a throat mic. He couldn’t make out the murmur of her questions, or anything of the replies. Apparently Lurch had some difficulty herself. She left her seat and came back after an agonising five minutes.
‘We can’t land.’
‘We can’t land at Heathrow? Well…where then?’
‘No. We can’t land. New update, it wouldn’t be safe. It could be disastrous.’
‘Shit.’
She was saying that if he landed in England it would be Fiorinda’s death warrant. The bastards would be pushed into finishing the job.
‘Have we enough fuel to get us to Paris?’
‘Just about. We can reach Alain de Corlay now. Do you want to talk to him?’
‘Yeah. I’ll talk to Alain.’
They landed at Charles de Gaulle. Ax was taken at once to a gravelly urban campsite on the outskirts of Paris, where a fair-sized contingent of the barmy army was quartered, under the command of one of Richard Kent’s staff officers. Richard had stayed in Yorkshire. It must have been staggering for the barmies to see Ax alive. He didn’t feel a thing. He walked round, seeing all these faces bewildered by amazement, so gripped by fear for her that the last year had collapsed into nothing. He talked to people he knew as if he’d last met them a week ago. He knew he was freaking them out, but he couldn’t help it.
The tale of what had happened in England beggared belief…yet he had seen it. That morning at Dupont Circle, when Fiorinda called him on the bi-loc, she’d asked him a question about Fergal Kearney. His mind (maybe chip-driven) had leapt into overdrive, snatching a new picture, a whole gestalt shift, from clues like that garbled bar-story he’d heard in Amsterdam. He’d seen that Fergal was an enemy agent: he’d even known who had to be running the bastard. He’d known his darling was in terrible danger, from a vindictive devil who had already once destroyed her—
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