So he sprinted, focused from beneath his lowered eyebrows only on Fireman Carlsen.
You're a runner.
His thighs were springs, pumping. The carpet was a blood-red blur, arrowing ahead.
So run fast.
Pumping hard.
Faster than ever.
More hands reached, table knives and forks stabbing in his directions – spectators getting into the spirit – while he sprinted on.
Yes, faster.
And then he was paces from the dais.
Go.
Fingers tried to hook him but his leap was massive, an antelope escaping from a lion, but that was he wrong because he was the hunting cat, the predator, and in that moment something changed in Fireman Carlsen's eyes, as Josh spread his arms and stopped.
"It's a shame about the elephant," he said, "since I prefer pink gardenias–"
"Huh?"
Josh's movement became underwater-slow, unthreatening like a tai-chi master.
"–since it doesn't matter whether you blink now or in a second – that's right – while the more you wonder what it's not worth wondering about and don't wonder what is worth wondering" – he gestured downward with his hand, his voice growing mild – "is no wonder you're feeling sleepy and my voice goes with you as you wander deeper… and deeper… into a state of deep… relaxation, that's right… all the way… and… soften as you…"
Carlsen's chin dropped to his chest.
"…sleep now."
Success. He hoped Suzanne could see.
"All cameras are on you, Josh."
"Good."
Off to one side, Ice Pick McGee was blinking. The prime minister, Billy Church, sat with his mouth beginning to open. The elder Tyndall, Zebediah, was struggling to rise from his chair; while the younger Zak was on his feet, snarling.
At least someone understands.
But this was the PM, not just a couple of entrepreneurs, and his close-protection teams were élite. Four men in suits were already moving into position between Josh and his targets. All four had guns drawn; and if his own weapon had been visible, they would have gunned him down already.
"Freeze. Do not move!"
"I'm doing it," said Josh.
"Down on the–"
"Everyone's watching." He stared straight at Zak Tyndall. "Game over, you bastard."
" –floor."
Palms at the back of his head, Josh knelt, then sat back on his heels.
"This is it," said Tony. "Smile for the cameras."
On the giant wallscreens all around, secondary panes blossomed. In them were images of labs, children on slabs, shots of cash changing hands, displays of bank transfers, and lists of names and dates, amounts and descriptions, and overlaid diagrams of corporate structures, the false identities linking legitimate companies to crimelords. The scenes from Africa were the most harrowing.
"Virapharm labs." Josh's face was huge on the screens, his voice echoing as the system picked it up, magnifying his words. "Children, living children, used as factories, incubators where the Tyndalls' employees force-evolve new drugs by unnatural selection. Zebediah and Zak Tyndall, supporting and supported by the great and the good… and up on the screen, isn't that our prime minister going into one of those torture labs?"
Zak was muttering urgent questions, using a throat mike and earbead, then glancing up at the screens, teeth baring, and shouting: "That's not good enough! Cut it now!"
"The world," said Josh, "can still see everything."
Zebediah put a clawlike hand over his chest.
"Relax," added Josh. "You don't have a heart. And just think of the ratings."
In his earbead, Tony chuckled. "I got rid of the fivesecond delay. You wouldn't believe the numbers logging in. It's a microblog cascade."
More tables and graphs flicked across the screens. Later, when people analysed their downloads in detail, these would clinch the evidence, the minutiae of unethical and outright illegal transactions, following the complicated routes of money. Everything he and Philip Broomhall's people had uncovered was here.
All of it.
Let's see you whitewash this, you fuckers.
Fat Billy Church was pale and red at the same time, blotching as though his body could not decide how to react.
For Sophie.
Whatever happened now, he had done what he had to do for her.
"You bastard," said Zak Tyndall. "You can't manufacture false data and expect–"
"Let the people do the digging. They'll find out what's true."
"You–"
But Tyndall's father took hold of his arm, shushing him.
Wise, but too late.
Behind Josh, something moved.
"Hold still." A woman's voice.
A ring of coldness on the back of his neck. Gun barrel.
"Lower your hands. Keep them behind you."
He did, and plastic bindings locked home.
"Now stand–"
And that was when the change occurred.
"They're trying to force a cut-in," came from his earbead. "All-channel webcast."
"Stop them."
"I'm sorry, mate. Not this time."
The screens blossomed with new pictures.
Plumes of smoke.
A ruined cityscape.
And a voiceover relating destruction.
"–of the San Andreas Fault at dawn this morning, eruptions taking place across California, spreading north. Los Angeles is destroyed, repeat, LA is gone. In Washington State, Mount Rainier's eruption is orders of magnitude greater than predicted by–"
Great clouds were covering California: a whole string of locations along the Western Seaboard. Grainy footage that might have come from someone's phone showed the moment of Mt Rainier's eruption in a single massive fireball.
A blaze of energy that curled down as it grew.
No. They… couldn't have.
Rose and curled to create an iconic image that had not been seen for so long.
A mushroom cloud.
"–from President Brand, who is quoted as saying 'The Sodom and Gomorrah that infested our sacred land are now burned from the Earth. For the moment, we have no more to say.' The whole world will be wondering the exact meaning of those–"
Pandemonium encircled the tables. Atop the fighting platforms, the competitors had put down their knives. Everyone stared at the screens.
Behind Josh, several men and women in suits were gathered, firearms trained on him. One held out ID to the PM's close-protection team.
"Special Branch," she said. "We've got this bastard."
The CP men glanced up at the unreeling disaster on screen.
"Take him."
"–bigger than a hundred Hiroshimas combined, or a hundred Tunguska meteorite strikes. While the immediate death toll must be in the millions, no one knows if further–"
Rough hands tipped Josh off balance, dragging him away.
It's all gone wrong.
Not just his plan, but the world.
[ THIRTY-ONE ]
The "Special Branch" team had a large, nondescript van parked in the loading bay. They bundled Josh inside, then climbed in themselves: Suzanne first, then Raj and Hannah, while Vikram went up front with Tony and Big Tel, who was driving. Raj undid his tie.
"I hate wearing suits," he said.
"Really? I think you look handsome, all dressed up," said Hannah.
"Well…"
The van swung into motion.
"Did you all see?" Vikram held up a phone, showing aerial views of cloud cover over California, ash falling from the sky. "You saw the mushroom clouds?"
"Not even Brand is that fucking insane," said Tony.
"Are you sure?"
"Well, no."
Josh opened his mouth, found himself with nothing to say, and just sat there, letting the motion of the van take him where it would. Everything had changed, and whatever would happen, would happen, que sera, sera, while he no longer had the energy to do anythin
g but watch.
His arms, he noticed from a distance, were trembling all by themselves.
"Oh, Josh." Suzanne was holding him. "Oh, my God."
"You did good," said Hannah. "Amazing."
Josh blinked.
I feel nothing. It's all over.
Both tiredness and energy were gone, leaving him in a state of nothingness, of neither-nor. His brain seemed to be floating.
How very strange.
"The only amazing thing," he said, "was that I didn't get cut."
Hannah and Raj looked at each other.
"What?" said Josh.
"Darling." Suzanne's eyes were wet. "They cut you to pieces. Can't you tell?"
He looked down at himself, soaked through with what he had thought was water.
"Oh, God."
"Josh, you're going to be all–"
Oh, God.
Blackness grew inside him like a mushroom cloud.
[ THIRTY-TWO ]
Monday, and Richard's first day back at St Michael's. He sat in the back seat for several minutes after the car had stopped outside the gates.
"You sure you're all right?" asked Lexa.
"Yeah. Dad's going to have an interesting day, isn't he?"
"I should think so."
Shareholders to confront, legal coups to make public, revelations that he had already – in secret, via proxies – regained control of his corporations, even before the nose-dive in Tyndall shares across the globe. It would be a day of triumph, muted by the general geopolitical shock of the ongoing disaster in North America, none of which seemed real.
Here, as Jags and Bentley Electros pulled up at the school, everything was weirdly normal. Perhaps the sky was greyer than you might expect, but that was all.
"See you later," said Richard, climbing out.
"Later." Lexa winked goodbye.
Some of the other boys glanced his way, but no one said anything as he walked through the gates. Ahead were the proud old buildings, and he realised he had missed them.
He thumbed his phone, selecting Opal from his contacts.
"Hey." A bandaged face smiled at him. "Are you OK?"
"First day back. I'm just going in."
"You'll be fine. Call me later?"
"Sure."
Her image winked out.
Boys jostled him, not deliberately but because he was in a bottleneck. He let himself be carried by the flow, into the old corridors where the parquet floors shone with polish. For some reason, the beeswax smell made him smile. He went through into a quadrangle.
Here, some of the boys were on a bench, comparing notes on homework. Others were moaning about the Knifefighter Challenge being ruined, or talking about the rogue fighter who had done so much before bringing the event to an off-kilter end.
"My father says it's the election that's the important thing."
"There was no election, dummy. They cancelled it. Nothing happened."
"That's what I'm talking about."
Richard thumbed his phone again, selecting Suzanne.
"Hello, Richard. You must be at school by now. Feeling good?"
"I'm fine. Really fine."
"I did feel confident on that score."
"How's–?"
"Take a look." The image swung to another bandaged figure. "Here's the man himself."
"Hey, Josh."
"Hey, Richie."
Richard grinned at him.
"Can I ring you again tonight, and talk for longer? I've got to go class now."
"Sure you can. We'll talk later, pal."
"Bye."
He put the phone away, still grinning; and that was when the mood changed. The sky above the open quadrangle seemed to darken, but perhaps that was an illusion, caused by the other boy's bulk, and the hardness of his voice when he spoke.
"Well, fuck it," said Zajac. "Little turd's come back, two days after we was supposed to meet. How about that?"
From the far side of the quadrangle, Mal James called: "Leave the poor bugger alone, why don't you?"
Richard – no, from now on he was Richie – looked at Zajac from beneath his eyebrows, his chin lowered and his shoulders hunched. Zajac was sneering and smiling at the same time.
"Think you can get away with it, do you, little turd?"
Richie straightened up.
"Not really," he said, his tone light.
Something changed in Zajac's expression, as though the ground had shifted.
"Just because there's gym class today don't mean–"
"Forget it," said Richie.
"Ha. I was right about–"
"Let's do it now."
All voices stopped. Faces grew pale.
"Without armour?" said someone.
"What's the matter, Zajac?" Richie stared into his target's eyes, aware of the pulsing throat, the solid body, even the position of the feet. "Are you scared?"
"No, I–"
"Back off," called Mal.
"No." Zajac ripped his knife free. "You've had it now, Broomhall."
"Richard," said Mal. "Run inside to a teacher."
"My name is Richie." He drew his own blade, scarcely hearing the gasps. "And I'm fine here."
This is it.
He began to circle Zajac. Around them, boys formed a perimeter, defining a fighting arena. From the distance, Richie might have heard Mr Dutton's voice calling for them to stop; but he could not be sure, because his hearing was filled with a hiss like surf. This was a sure sign of stress, and he knew it was natural, so he could continue.
Zajac leaped forward and Richie spun away.
"I knew it," sneered Zajac. "Cowardly little f–"
Richie's blade sliced open the back of his hand. Zajac screamed.
It's called defanging, you bastard.
Then Richie slammed his hilt inside Zajac's right wrist while slapping the back of the hand with his left. Zajac's knife spun away and was gone, clattering to the flagstones. Then Richie's foot stabbed into a knee, and Zajac was down.
Got you.
Richie held his blade against Zajac's throat, preternaturally aware of how soft the skin looked, how easy to slit open, and what it would look like if he did.
"This," he said, "is the carotid artery. One and a half inches to penetrate. Five seconds till loss of consciousness. Twelve seconds to die." He shifted the knife to Zajac's arm. "Brachial artery. Penetration, half inch. Fourteen seconds, unconscious. Ninety seconds dead. Radial artery–"
A third of the way through the Timetable of Death, Zajac fainted.
Good.
There was a long, extended pause; then everyone in the quadrangle cheered.
"What's this?" Two teachers finally pushed through. "Broomhall? What's happening?"
"Nothing, Mr Dutton."
"It doesn't look like–"
"Hush, Jack." The other teacher, Mr Keele, touched his sleeve. "It doesn't matter."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?"
Mr Keele stared upward, then down at Richard.
"You're off the hook this time, Broomhall. Just this once, all right?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
On the ground, Zajac, bizarrely, had begun to snore.
"Cool," murmured someone, and several boys laughed. But Mr Dutton was looking up, just as Mr Keele had.
"You're exactly right," he said.
The two teachers stared at each other. Then Mr Dutton addressed the boys.
"I'd say global cooling is here."
"Salvation?" said Mr Keele.
"Or a different kind of doomsday." Mr Dutton smiled. "Maybe a cup that's half empty or half full."
Now everyone's attention was on the lead-grey sky. And then…
It's not possible.
… Richard held out his hand, and felt the specks descend upon it. They were so soft, when they touched his skin, that he felt nothing, nothing at all.
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