“I don't mind going!” retorts Graeme.
“Sure?” jeers Steve. “Some of the lads say you bloody well shat yourself the other night! Brown-trousered you were, over them spooks you keep seeing!”
“I'll do the tunnel!” shouts Graeme, striding off.
“Aw, don't be daft!” says Steve, but when Steve glances back to shout a few well-chosen phrases the other teenager is already fading into the smog.
“Arsehole, I'll show him!” mutters Graeme, checking his bag of detonators, then his watch. He has less than five minutes to put the first explosives on the line, and he hurries up to make it to the tunnel mouth with plenty of time to spare.
She knows I'm a man, doing a man's job, he thinks. That's enough for me.
He places his first detonator, then stands back, hoping the next train that appears will not be filled with the dead.
***
Bryce and Charlotte meet for lunch at a trucker's cafe off the Old Kent Road, a noisy place frequented by busy men even with most other traffic off the roads. It's a new rendezvous point for Charlotte, but then it usually is. She sits opposite Bryce at a dim-lit corner table and orders coffee and a fried egg sandwich. They wait, making strained small-talk, following Bryce's rule that you never exchange information before being served. Bryce has a half-empty coffee cup in front of him, a plate with the remains of a bacon sandwich.
A few other customers glance round at them.
Taking in our clothes, ages, accents, maybe even my looks if they've survived the last few days, she thinks. Not mention his scar. They probably think we're lovers cheating on at least one spouse. At least that makes sense.
Her order arrives and when the waitress leaves, they lean in close and start to talk, using a kind of verbal shorthand they've developed over the years.
“Tonight, both out til late. I've got the eye drops,” she says.
“Good,” he replies, “make sure you pack necessaries. Address, new place. Safe few days.”
He hands her a folded piece of paper, which she pockets.
“Complication,” she murmurs, over the lip of her cup.
He raises an eyebrow.
“RB's father is here from the States,” she explains. “Joint duty.”
“Distract him, an errand?” he suggests.
“In a strange city, where send?” she counters. “No, need to drop both.”
“Careful with volume,” he says. “For both. You're solid on ratios? Know his weight?”
“I can guess, to within a few pounds,” she replies. “Fashion model days, you never forget.”
And so the discussion continues until the waitress comes up with a knowing smile and asks if she can refresh their cups. As the woman heads back into the kitchen, Charlotte wonders if she'll gossip about them later in the pub. “There was this posh couple, obviously cheating, he looked like a war hero, she was a proper lady, lovely manners, but you could see the toll it was taking on them.”
“You regret this?” asks Bryce, for the first time putting his hand on hers.
“Never,” she says, looking into his eyes.
They finalize their plans while ordinary people around them discuss the weather.
***
For the first time in its long history, the Order of Eschaton meets for the second time in a day. Garmouth offers perfunctory thanks to the dozen other attendees for skipping their lunch, gesturing to some food on a buffet table.
“We must keep our strength up, after all,” he adds, helping himself to sandwiches and coffee. He tastes the latter, grimaces. “When we take over, we can at least rid ourselves of the restrictions of rationing, eh, gentlemen?”
“Won't be enough plebs left to justify it,” observes Skelton, tucking in to a piece of pork pie.
The thirteen sit and eat at the conference table, another first. There is an air of expectation, or even celebration, but also a touch of hysteria. The members talk more loudly, laugh more shrilly, than usual. There is a sense of brittleness at this make-or-break moment.
“Very well,” says Garmouth, setting his coffee down, turns to Skelton. “I assume the fake minutes are ready? Good, hand them out.”
There's a slight ripple of protest. Garmouth signals silence.
“I know! We probably will never need to show them to anyone, but formalities must be observed. Details, gentlemen. Now, to business. Burnside?”
“Everything is going well, sir, I believe the final phase can go ahead as planned.”
“Good!”
Garmouth turns to Wetherbell.
“How goes our carefully-planned health crisis at the Ministry of Health?”
Wetherbell shuffles some papers, clears his throat.
“Our much-vaunted National Health Service is fighting a losing battle, sir,” he says, with relish. “Our deliberate tangling of the chain of command, plus the mass distribution of useless masks, means over a thousand weaker specimens have already died. Mostly smaller children, the elderly, plus some with respiratory disorders and so forth. Tens of thousands more weaklings have been incapacitated. Let me add that the lack of armed forces medical support has proved invaluable, preventing evacuation of any significant numbers of patients.”
Wetherbell nods across the table to Burnside. The former general permits himself a modest smile.
“Excellent, I think we can expect panic to set in very soon,” says Garmouth. “Skelton?”
The science minister looks uncomfortable.
“All in all, expert opinion has been silenced. But I'm afraid that Colonel Bryce has been in touch with a former colleague, the archaeologist who was involved in the Duncaster incident. She has probably been able to provide him a few scraps of useful data,” says Skelton. “Not that it will do him much good at this late stage.”
Garmouth examines his fingernails for a moment, then says, “You waited until now to tell me this?”
“I didn't think it was pertinent, sir,” Skelton begins, but Garmouth cuts him off with a glare.
“I decide what is pertinent to our project!”
Garmouth jumps up and strides to the window again.
“London must fall. The Star must shine. Ensure that Bryce is dealt with, Burnside, any way you like. There's a crime-wave going on out there, the police are almost powerless now they're blind. No need for subtlety, just make it clear to the colonel just how weak his silly spying ways are compared to our more sophisticated methods of intelligence-gathering. And then, begin the final phase!”
“Yes, sir!” says Burnside, half- rising before he suppresses the impulse to salute.
Garmouth turns, defuses the tension with a grin.
“Now, let's finish up that buffet before we go about our various tasks, shall we?”
Chapter 11: London Calling
“Are we going to listen to Mummy on the wireless tonight?” asks Emily.
Nate looks at Charlotte.
“Well, honey, I just don't know if that's part of the deal?”
Charlotte looks blankly back at him, then shakes her head, smiling.
“Now, Emily, you know that the Ghost Man is too scary for you and Bradshaw, not to mention that it means staying up after your bedtime. And you've already had one late night this week, I'm told!”
“Well, there's you answer,” says Nate, with a grimace. “You can't fight City Hall.”
Emily looks puzzled.
“Why would I want to fight a hall? Is it causing trouble?”
“Yeah, some city halls are downright mean,” replies Nate. “Best avoided. Now let's get this puzzle finished. Normally, I'd object to this much blue sky, but it's kinda nice to be reminded what it looks like without this smog.”
Emily and her grandfather return to the jigsaw puzzle while Charlotte gets up, saying she'll warm up some milk. In the kitchen she's out of sight, but still feels as if she's being scrutinized as never before.
This is how a traitor feels, she thinks. No matter what the cause, this is how it feels to be a liar, a
skulker. How does Bryce stand it?
She shoves the thought away, takes out the small brown bottle, and puts three drops of clear liquid into Emily's Winnie the Pooh mug. Then she makes two coffees and puts six drops into Nate's cup. She takes the drinks back into the living room, places the tray on the edge of the table, the drugged drinks in front of man and child.
“Drink up, people, it won't stay hot for long!”
“No, I guess not,” says Nate, picking up his cup. “You've sure got thin-walled houses for such a cold country!”
“Are some parts of America really hot?” asks Emily, ignoring her milk. “New York gets lots of snow in winter, Mummy showed me pictures.”
“Hot in summer, cold in winter,” says Nate, after taking a sip. “But we've got way to keep things mellow indoors. You don't seem to go in for that so much. Say, this is kinda bitter.”
“Sorry,” says Charlotte. “I'm afraid we get rotten coffee. Partly down to rationing, but the fact that we're addicted to tea doesn't help.”
God, I sound so shrill and fake, she thinks. He's bound to guess! Hell, so is Emily!
“You okay, Charlotte?” asks Nate. She can hardly meet the old man's clear gray eyes.
“Why do you ask?” she replies, her voice almost breaking.
“Your hand, kind of a nervous thing?” he asks.
She looks down and sees her right hand clenched tightly, knuckles white. She opens her fist, picks up her coffee cup, and gives a nervous giggle.
“Oh, just a slight touch of cramp. I do a lot of typing, I think Rachel gets it, too.”
“What's cramp?” asks Emily.
“Drink your milk, it's nearly bedtime!”
Charlotte realizes she's almost shouting before she finishes.
“Sorry, it's just this smog, it's so awful. I just hate it!”
Emily picks up her mug and drinks silently, but after a couple of mouthfuls, she puts the mug down.
“I don't like it, it tastes horrible!”
“Hey, honey, don't upset Auntie Charlotte,” says Nate, patting the girl's hand. “You need to drink your milk if you want to grow properly. Calcium builds strong bones.”
Emily looks dubious, but picks up her mug and takes another mouthful.
A few minutes later, Charlotte has taken Emily up to bed, then returned to chat with Nate at the kitchen table.
“Well, she's a great kid,” he says. “But didn't Rachel say we shouldn't leave her alone at night?”
“Yes, she can be a bit of a handful, but she's lovely,” agrees Charlotte. “She went down straight away. You can pop up and sit with her for an hour or so, if you like? Then I'll bring you some more coffee?”
“Yep, I'm ready to go,” he declares, gets up, then clutches the edge of the table.
“Are you all right, Nate?” she asks.
“Whoa, little woozy here!” he admits, sitting again.
“Maybe that long journey and all this bad air's taken its toll,” Charlotte suggests, getting up standing by him. Oh god don't let him die, she thinks. Should I call an ambulance? But they'll be too busy anyway! What should I do?
“Maybe you should go to bed, too? An early night would do you good,” she says. “I could call you a cab? I'll be fine here by myself.”
“Nah, I'll be fine,” he says, uncertainly. “Just let me get to the sofa, a nap will do me some good. Hey, Rachel said not to leave Emily alone. You should get back up there Charlie, Charlotte, sorry. Wow, my mind's as foggy as the air, now.”
Charlotte helps Nate into the living room, chattering too much about the smog, the journey, Emily being disappointed.
As she sits him down, she says, “I'll go up and make sure she's all right, don't worry!”
She runs out of the room and up the stairs thinking, Oh god don't let him die, don't make me a murderer!
She arrives in Emily's room to find nothing out of the ordinary, and stands looking down at the child.
Snap out of it, he'll be here within the hour!
She starts gathering clothes, finds a bag, stuffs it almost randomly, then ponders toys. The fluffy rabbit? No, she'll definitely want Bradshaw and he sleeps with her, she think, looking back at the bed.
Three gaunt figures are standing around the child.
“Get away from her!” she shouts, and the closest Sentinel turns to show her its withered, ancient face. It raises its arm, points at Charlotte with a finger barely covered with leathery skin, hisses with a voice that hardly sounds human.
“The Star will not shine!”
“No!”
Charlotte swings the bag at the entity, but it dodges with preternatural speed and a skeletal hand grabs her wrist, forces her down.
Too strong, I can't stop them!
“Emily! Emily wake up!”
The girl stirs under the covers, and the two Sentinels standing over her move back a pace. Charlotte struggles but the bones cutting into her wrist are as strong as iron. She collapses to the floor, screaming and weeping.
“Wake up, Emily, run! You've got to run!”
Then four heads turn at the sound of an engine, loud in the deserted street. It gets louder and then the vehicle stops outside. A short pause, then a loud knocking at the front door.
“He's here, he's here! We'll take her away so they can't find her! You don't need to do anything, trust us! Trust him!”
Charlotte claws at the arm of her captor with her free hand, but the Sentinel ignores her, releases its grip, and glides towards the bedroom door. Its companions follow it as Charlotte staggers to her feet, goes to the bed, pulls back the covers, and picks up Emily.
Will Bryce be able to stop them? Will they kill him, kill us both? Oh god oh god oh god.
She starts to carry Emily onto the landing, then realizes that she's left Bradshaw and the bag of clothes. Can't carry both, she thinks, and decides on the teddy bear.
I can buy her clothes, buy her anything, god, if you'll just let her live! Let us all live, but especially the child!
Charlotte reaches the top of the stairs as another flurry of knocks echoes through the quiet house. She pauses, trying to gather herself, controlling her breathing despite the coal-smoke stink of the smog. Emily stirs in her arms, says something about pigs. At least she's having a happy dream, not a waking nightmare, thinks Charlotte, and starts to descend carefully, step by step. There's no sign of the three Sentinels. This doesn't reassure her.
Suddenly, the front door bursts open, slamming back against the wall. There's a clink as what's left of the lock falls onto the hall floor. Charlotte pauses, shocked, as a black-clad man wearing a gas-mask strides inside, followed by another, then a third.
“Bryce?” she says. Has he got more allies he didn't tell me about? And he said nothing about the masks.
Then she sees that the men are wearing medallions, strung around their necks. Solomon's Seal, she thinks. The same pattern we saw at Furniss. The way to summon demons, focus evil. Or perhaps to drive back the Sentinels?
“Bryce?” she repeats, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
The first man holds out his arms for the girl. He's wearing dark overalls and work boots, with a woolen hat pulled down low so his hair can't be seen. But Charlotte notices that he's shorter and stockier than Bryce.
She takes a step back, almost stumbles over the bottom riser of the staircase.
“Where's Colonel Bryce?”
The man lunges forward, makes a grab for Emily as one of his comrades squeezes past and seizes Charlotte by the throat.
“What the hell's going on here?!”
Nate Rubin is leaning against the edge of the living room door, looking bleary-eyed, alarmed.
The third intruder punches Nate in the face, a businesslike blow, brutal and effective. Nate falls backwards as Charlotte feels Emily torn from her arms, the fingers on her throat so tight that she can't take in any more tainted air. The dark hallway gets darker, night closes in on her terror-filled mind. Charlotte feels her world ending.
> ***
“Well here we are,” says Tom Kneale, showing Rachel into Studio Five.
A man stands up behind the bulky BBC microphone, smiles, gives a little courtly bow from a surprising height.
Wow, he must be six-five at least, Rachel thinks.
“Mrs. Rubin, a great pleasure to finally meet you!” says Herbert James.
Rachel is taken aback, staring like a schoolgirl, not just out of awe. The Ghost Man isn't the kind of man she imagined when listening to his deep, genteel voice on the radio. His voice had conjured up in her mind an avuncular figure, something like Chesterton or Wodehouse. But instead of a jovial English eccentric, the man towering over her is thin, almost emaciated, with a hairless skull, lantern jaw, and dark eyes set in deep sockets.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, too,” she stammers out. God, what an idiot I must look, she thinks. The fact that a man who grew up in the last century looks like a really old guy shouldn't have startled me!
“I was very impressed with your book, as I said last week,” says James, apparently oblivious to Rachel's reaction.
Maybe he gets that ‘gawping idiot look’ a lot, she thinks.
“Yes, I heard! That was really kind of you, my publisher's delighted,” she replies. “I hope it didn't get you into trouble with the BBC management?”
“Good lord, no,” puts in Kneale. “They know better than to mess around with a winning formula. Besides, book reviews are nothing new on the Beeb!”
“Quite,” says James. “Now, Mrs. Rubin, would you care to sit in on my reading tonight, perhaps preface it with a little chat?”
“Wow, that would be great!” she replies. “I've never done any radio work, though, so maybe your producer wouldn't like it?”
“Not at all,” replies James, turning to face the team behind the glass. “It's all right with you, isn't it chaps?”
Both men give a thumbs up sign.
“Very well,” says James. “We'll just spend five minutes talking about your book, then I'll launch into my latest little fantasy!”
***
Sergeant Dixon puts down the phone and heaves a sigh.
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 13