My phone buzzed in my pocket, catching a signal after the ZDC restrictive zone: four missed calls from Obe, two voicemails, and two texts—one from Adam asking if I’d heard anything and another that told me Ben’s mother would be arriving in two hours. She’d been on the overnight train from Edinburgh when the lockdown was declared and had got stuck in Milton Keynes. I went online and found confirmation that the lockdown had been lifted, although the city was still on yellow alert—everyone was advised to stay home but it was no longer compulsory. Then I sent Adam an update via text message.
He called me back almost immediately. I glanced at the screen and slid the little button on the screen to answer.
‘Did you see my uncle?’ he asked.
I closed my eyes. ‘Yes. His mind’s gone. I’m sorry.’
There was a deep intake of breath on the other side. ‘I suppose it was only to be expected.’
I expressed my sympathies again, then told him what Jillie had told me, leaving out Malcolm’s odd claim. He killed me.
‘All right. I’ll start looking into youth clubs.’
‘I can do it,’ I said. There was silence from the other end of the phone.
‘It’s okay. Ben’s family. You have been really helpful but—’
‘I’m happy to help.’
‘Alright.’ He didn’t sound happy about it. But all I could think of was Malcolm’s mangled words and the one that might have been brother. Something was rotten in the family of Brannick, and I wasn’t going to be happy until I found Ben and knew he was safe.
It was only when I hung up that I realised I hadn’t told him how Jillie or his other cousin were coping, and he hadn’t asked.
I turned the phone over in my fingers, knowing I should return Obe’s calls, but then, cowardly yet again, I just sent him a quick text message—On my way to office now. Talk then—and put it back in my pocket.
I managed to get on a Southern Rail train just as the doors were about to close. With the exception of a young man snoring softly in a table seat, the carriage was empty. I moved a pile of free newspapers from a seat, and sat, grateful for the sudden warmth. Ben had been wearing nothing but jeans and a thin shirt. The trains had stopped during the shutdown. No open shops, no running trains, no libraries. Nothing. There were no public places Ben could have gone to keep warm.
Ben brought it down with him. Jillie thought the unlabelled meat was rabbit. It wasn’t. Was that why Malcolm had gone for the cat? Because he didn’t know Ben had killed for him? Ben clearly knew Malcolm was dead. It was the only reason he would have stayed in London, the only reason he would have been at the house, ready to rescue his father from the NRTs. He wasn’t a stupid kid. He would have known Malcolm wouldn’t have been able to keep control without human meat.
The first time I met Ben he was five and sitting in Malcolm’s chair at the Lipscombe. I had said hello to him and he’d tucked his head to the side, as if too scared to even talk to me. The next year I got a smile and the next actual words, but even then all I ever heard was a returned hello and then pleases and thank yous when I offered drinks or biscuits. He never did anything other than sit quietly, drawing when he was younger and then graduating to reading as he grew older.
Habi brought her nephew in sometimes and the kid ran around like a maniac, jumping on the furniture and using words I hadn’t heard before and was sorry I looked up after.
That one I could imagine growing up to be a murderer. Ben, not so much. He was a nice, polite boy. I swore softly under my breath. The more I found out about this, the less I knew what was going on.
The train rattled over the rails, past streets where the post-Christmas shoppers weren’t paying much attention to the yellow alert, although the pedestrians seemed to be looking up a lot more than usual. Londoners will stay home if they face imprisonment and have a legitimate excuse to take the day off work, but a single maybe-zombie in a city of millions— meh. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle we’re not all dead and shuffling already.
I exited at East Croydon and made my way to the office. The usual crowd of protesters were hanging about outside the building entrance. I ignored them and ducked into the greasy spoon next door, where I picked up two enormous cups of coffee. I’d been up since three—my eyeballs felt like they were beginning to dry out, and I hoped the coffee would relubricate them. On the downside, it likely meant I’d be popping to the loo for a wee every five minutes for the rest of the day. I considered a hot breakfast too, but the stink of the ZDC was still soaked into my nostrils and the eggy smell made my stomach contract.
The protesters perked up a bit when they saw me and shook their posters. I pushed past them and used my pass to get through the barriers to the lifts.
A handwritten sign was stuck to the reception door with sticky tape: Closed Due to Unforeseen Circumstances.
Habi stood in the middle of the reception area, vacuuming the floor, a pile of stacked papers and a plastic tub of pens and paper clips on the desk beside her. She wore a black suit I hadn’t known she owned. She looked up as I entered.
‘Oh, Vivvie. Poor Malcolm, poor, poor Malcolm.’
The hug was too tight, and she held on a few seconds longer when I tried to disentangle myself.
‘Have you seen him? Obe said you were at the ZDC.’
I nodded and gave her a smile I didn’t feel. ‘He’s gone.’ Nothing left but snarl.
‘Oh, no.’ Habi picked up a mug of tea from her desk, peppermint to go by the sweet scent. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea. Chamomile. That’s calming.’
‘No, thanks.’ I loved the smell of flavoured teas, but they tasted like heated fruit squash. I held up the coffee in my hand. ‘I’m sorted. Is Obe in his office?’
She nodded, and I made my way down the corridor. I tapped at his door, opening it without waiting for a response, my stomach in a knot.
The blinds were down and the lights off, so that the white light of his computer screen made the few patches of pasty skin not covered by beard even paler. Obe’s exposure to the sun could be measured by how close he managed to park to the front door. I moved a small forest of old mugs aside to find space for his coffee.
I breathed in. ‘I saw Malcolm. His mind’s gone. I’m so sorry.’
Obe shrugged. ‘We knew that was going to happen. Look at this.’
The knot in my stomach relaxed. I recognised this stage: research mode. The emotional explosion was coming later, but now Obe was firmly stuck in his own head. He turned the screen towards me. It showed a mock-up photo of Ben, his wings bleached white, a halo on his head.
I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. I’d seen weirder stuff.
‘Oh, this isn’t just some random meme. This lot are serious. They think Ben’s one of the first signs of the apocalypse. A harbinger of some sort. Apparently his death will prevent the end of the world.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Apparently so,’ Obe said. ‘But they’re in Canada, so Ben probably doesn’t have to worry about them.’
‘Any local weirdos?’
‘You mean other than the Human Preservation Front? Because they’re loving this.’ Obe switched tabs to show a mock-up picture of a pair of mechanical wings. ‘Just this one. Weird, but I don’t know if it means anything.’
The legend at the top of the website read ‘Universe Mechanica.’ I knew it. It was run by Per Ogunwale, a once promising surgeon who had been struck off the medical register for amputating his own legs. He now ran one of the bigger sites devoted to improving (their word, not mine) the human race. The locals spent a lot of time arguing about how to build better fingers or brains. It was all a bit Igor-ish as far as I was concerned. I thought my brain was just fine the way it was. On the other hand, some people I knew could have done with an improvement. Maybe once all their theories had been thoroughly tested and proved safe, I’d agree to an upgrade.
I peered at the schematic. ‘They look heavy.’
‘Yeah, they’re struggling to find a way to get
the strength and dexterity without the weight. The thing is some idiot has said Ben should give up his wings for research purposes. ‘Harvested’ is the word used.’
‘What? Why? The winged have been around for ages. Not a lot of them, but they should have more than enough information.’
‘Not really. The only real-life example for study was in the Natural History Museum, and they had to bury her after that court case last year. And you know what the winged are like. They keep to themselves. They’re not going to let some cybergeeks manhandle them for some daft theory.’
‘Huh. Do they sound serious about the harvesting thing?’
Obe chewed on his lip. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. They’d have to find Ben first. I’ll contact the site admin, see if they think there’s anything to it.’
‘I’ll mention both groups to Dunne,’ I said, ‘but they’re probably just the usual internet crazies.’
‘Probably.’ He didn’t sound convinced.
I pulled the chair out from opposite his desk and sat down. I measured my words. ‘Obe, did Malcolm ever have any allegations made against him? Dunne said—’
‘There was nothing to it.’
‘So there was something?’
‘No.’
‘Obe, you can’t keep that sort of thing quiet. If Malcolm—’
‘He didn’t do anything. He made some rude jokes. You know what he was like. They weren’t suitable for the age group. He didn’t touch anyone or suggest anything. He was just being stupid.’
Now that I could believe.
23
Zombies run to family when they’re in trouble. Malcolm said something about ‘brother.’ Maybe Adam was right. Maybe Malcolm wouldn’t go near his brother, but family means more than people think. I had at least two hours before I was due to see Ben’s mother. It couldn’t hurt to look up Neil Brannick.
If he was in thaumaturgical decontamination, the Lipscombe might have had dealings with him. I sat at my computer and switched to the ancient DOS-based programme that was the Lipscombe’s internal system and searched for Brannick.
After my PC took a few minutes to think about it, it spat out two Brannicks: Malcolm and Neil. I put an X next to Neil’s name, waited, and was finally rewarded with contact details.
He had a mobile number attached to his profile. I dialled the number, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a brief message and asked him to call me.
The short profile indicated he worked for Elior Services. I googled them and called the number on their website. The receptionist on the other end huffed at me the moment she heard Neil’s name, and I got the distinct impression I hadn’t been the first one to call. I explained to her who I was and that I wasn’t media, and after a significant amount of buttering up, she finally offered to pass on a message but couldn’t guarantee when he’d get it. The magical interference on-site made it difficult to get through.
‘He’s at work now?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I said I’ll pass on the message.’
His brother had just died, and he hadn’t taken the day off work. Maybe he was the type of person who needed to keep busy to keep his mind off things. It fit with what I knew about their relationship. Malcolm had never had a good word to say about his brother, although now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember the specifics. It was all ‘my bloody brother,’ ‘that asshole,’ or similar. I didn’t think Malcolm had ever told me what the man had done to deserve the epithets.
I reached over and dialled Dunne’s number. I’d helped him out enough times. He could return the favour. A few minutes later I had the address of a magic spillage site in north London.
I took the overland then the Northern Line, which was not only miraculously working, but I actually managed to get a seat and avoid any delays. Outside Hendon station, I followed the directions on my mobile GPS.
Sometime while I’d been underground, the sky had changed from grey to the dirty yellow that means snow, but none was in sight yet, though it was still bitterly cold.
I smelt the site before I saw it. The burnt-sugar stench of magic got stronger and stronger until, after about a ten-minute walk, I found myself outside a long row of white construction boards stuck with posters advising ‘Warning! Thaumaturgical Damage. Entrance to authorised personnel only.’
Judging by the buildings on either side, the ones hidden within the hoarding were probably Edwardian terraces. Three of them, if the dips in the pavement indicated driveways.
I strolled along until I found the door at the end of the boards and hammered on it until someone poked his head out.
The head belonged to a bearded man in his early twenties: too young to be Neil Brannick. He leered at me, but there wasn’t much heart in it, just the requisite leer certain men give all women under sixty. ‘This is a restricted site, love.’
I showed him my Lipscombe ID, introduced myself, and asked to speak to Neil. He disappeared behind the door for a moment, and I heard him shout, ‘Boss! Some bird is here for you. Not a reporter this time.’
Neil Brannick turned out to be a greyer, wrinklier version of Malcolm, but where Malcolm was merely tall, Neil was a giant with the stooped shoulders and poor posture of someone who habitually ducked under doorways. ‘Yes?’
His hard hat and coveralls swarmed with moving protective runes and sigils. His right hand held a cigarette, the other was withered into a claw, the fingers melted into too-smooth skin.
I held out my hand. ‘Vivia Brisk. I’ve left a few messages for you.’
Neil looked at my hand and ignored it. ‘I’ve already spoken to the police. I don’t know anything about what happened to Malcolm,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
He tried to push the door closed, but I was prepared and took a step forward and pushed it open with my hand. ‘Only a few minutes, Mr Brannick.’
I could see him thinking. ‘Fine, but you’ll have to follow me around. I’m on a schedule.’
‘Okay,’ I said, taking a step forward.
It wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Most people would rather cut off a hand than voluntarily go into a thaumaturgically damaged site: at least then you’d know what damage was going to be done. Raw magic could do anything.
Of course, if you were lucky, your hand might grow back.
Neil sighed. ‘This is a damaged site, darling. It’s not safe for girls. You might not come out the same shape you went in.’
‘That’s okay, darling. I’ll take my chances.’ His face darkened. ‘I mean, I should be fine,’ I said, reminding myself I’d come here because I wanted information from him. Pissed-off people don’t tend to be helpful. ‘I always carry protective gear with me. Risks of the job and all that.’
I pulled a battered robe from my backpack and draped it around my shoulders, its runes rippling as they detected stray magic in the air. The colours were faded after years of washing, and the end was frayed so it looked a little like I was wearing a raggedy old dressing gown—the type that you know you really should throw out but never will because it’s much too comfy. Despite its threadbare appearance, Neil was enough of a professional to be impressed. Impressed with the robe that is, not me.
‘And how much did that set the taxpayer back?’
‘It doesn’t belong to them,’ I said, not a little snarkily. ‘It was a gift.’
It was, and if I ever got desperate, it’d sell on eBay for a fortune. I was tempted sometimes, but I’d rather be poor and human-shaped than a rich puddle.
‘Follow me.’ He splashed into the water.
I did and sank into dank water up to my ankles. Too late, I looked down to see Neil was wearing a pair of knee-high rubber boots. He waded through the deep water, now almost to his waist. I thought I heard him snigger.
Until today I would have bet that out of Malcolm’s family, Malcolm would have been the one I liked least. Turned out I would have been wrong.
The ruins of the terraces were still there, and the shapes of the hal
f walls gave me a rough idea of where they had been. Dark moss grew in the cracks between the bricks, in some places hiding them all together. A single double-story wall, hung with flowered creepers, remained in the middle of where I guessed the terraces had been. As I watched, the creepers grew, flowered, died, and grew back again like a nature documentary on fast forward.
I sloshed through the water until I was standing beside Neil. ‘What happened here?’
‘Not sure,’ he said, pulling a cigarette from the top pocket in his overalls. ‘The neighbour on that side’—he indicated to the left with a nod of his head—’says his daughter was having a spat with the girl living in the middle. Prob’ly a curse got out of control.’
‘Any survivors?’
Neil shrugged and mumbled a little as he lit the cigarette with a match. ‘We caught some cat-bear thing. The thauromancer’s having a go at it. See if it’ll shift back. The family on the right had a poodle, so it could be that.’
Sweat trickled down my forehead, I wiped at it with one hand. I wanted to take off my heavy coat, but no way would I risk shifting any part of my protective gown.
Neil strode further into the swamp and began giving instructions to a small group of fluorescent-jacketed workers who were trying to shift a lodestone into the middle of the zone. A small digger-loader stood a few feet behind them, mired in the mud.
I raced after him, or would have if my feet hadn’t squelched with each step.
‘Mr Brannick, I need to speak to you about Ben.’
‘What about him?’ Neil turned his back against the lodestone and heaved. It didn’t budge.
‘Do you know where he might have gone?’
‘No.’ He stalked off through the water. I followed.
‘Are you sure? Anything you can think of might help. We’re very concerned about him.’
‘Uh-uh. You said you were Lipscombe?’
I nodded.
‘So what’s wrong with you then?’
‘Nothing.’
The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) Page 11