The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two

by Sarah Pinborough

  For the first time Cass saw a hint of bitterness in Marlowe’s smile.

  ‘Or wouldn’t,’ he added. ‘My liver disease is apparently my own fault, and that tends to make people less sympathetic.’

  Cass said nothing. The man was sick, but that wasn’t Cass’s problem. He didn’t know Edgar Marlowe, and he didn’t care – he wasn’t Christian. He didn’t feel the suffering of strangers.

  ‘Anyway, about seven months ago I got a call from your brother. It was perhaps three weeks or so before he died. It was from a payphone, which I found odd, and he sounded quite unsettled, which concerned me even more. He wanted to meet me, and I went, of course. At that point I was feeling quite good about things. I’d been told that the prospect for a transplant was good, and that I was moving quickly up the list. I’d stopped drinking. I was feeling positive about the future.’

  ‘What did my brother want?’

  ‘He gave me this.’ Marlowe pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket. ‘He told me that if anything should happen to him or his family, then I was to give it to you. He was a bit drunk, I think, and he said some things that I really didn’t understand. He said that he didn’t know what to do about it. He said he wasn’t sure he could change anything, and that it wouldn’t be fair on either of them if he tried. But what I did understand was this: Christian said that if anything ever happened to him, then you’d know what to do about it. He said you were good at things like that. And he said I was the only person he could trust to make sure you got it.’ He paused. ‘I never saw him again after that.’

  Marlowe had been speaking slowly as he replayed the memory, as if determined to get it exactly right. Cass leaned forward and carefully took the envelope from him.

  ‘Did you look inside?’

  ‘No.’ Marlowe shook his head. ‘I might not have your brother’s integrity, but I am a lawyer. I’ve handled many sealed envelopes in my time, and I’ve learned that often they are Pandora’s boxes. Sometimes they shouldn’t be opened at all.’

  ‘Are you saying that after all the effort you’ve gone to find me that I shouldn’t even open it?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Marlowe smiled, his lips whitening as they stretched. ‘That’s entirely up to you.’

  Cass looked down at the envelope. Expensive. It felt like linen between his fingers. He’d felt paper like that before.

  ‘Did you tell anyone about this?’ He’d seen the way The Bank operated. They demanded one hundred per cent loyalty from their employees.

  ‘I should have done. And I did think about it.’ Marlowe’s smile twisted bitterly. ‘Why do you think it’s taken me so long to bring it to you?’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Things change – my diagnosis for one. It appears that things are worse than the doctors thought.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘I’ve got two weeks left, maybe three at a pinch. A transplant won’t save me now.’

  ‘So there’s nothing they can offer you in return, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Perhaps. Life is a healthy bartering tool. But I think I’d made my choice already. Even back then when Christian gave it to me I think I knew I’d be here one day. Some things should be left to unfold uncontrolled.’

  Marlowe pushed away from the desk, flinching slightly at the effort of getting up. He held out his hand. ‘I doubt we’ll meet again. Good luck.’

  His palm felt cool and greasy, and Cass thought the lawyer would be lucky if he made it through the two weeks. They walked in silence to the front desk and Cass nodded a silent goodbye to the dying man. As he watched him move slowly down the front steps the envelope felt heavy in his hand. What could Christian have found out that he didn’t want to tell Cass while he was alive? And why didn’t he want to do anything about it himself? It wouldn’t be fair on either of them. On whom?

  Instead of going back up to his office he headed into the toilets and locked himself in a cubicle. The sudden silence buzzed in his ears as he stared at the envelope. He didn’t have to open it; he could tear it up and flush it and let the past lie – the lawyer would be dead in a couple of weeks and no one would be any the wiser. Cass looked down at his shoes. For a brief second, he thought he saw red splashes on them.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. Not knowing something wouldn’t change the truth of it. He tore the envelope open and tugged out the contents – a piece of notepaper, folded in half, the size paper used to be when people wrote letters with the lined sheet underneath to make sure the writing stayed straight and even. His heart thumped so hard he was sure his shirt was moving with the beat. He unfolded it. One sentence stood out in black ink against the white, printed in Christian’s neat writing.

  THEY took Luke.

  And the world shifted again.

  Chapter Six

  Lucius Dawson was the last one in, ten minutes after the briefing had started. The Prime Minister hadn’t waited for him, and Abigail wasn’t surprised. The mood had changed since the bombs, and as Alison McDonnell’s previously firm hold on the country was loosening, so the tension that surrounded her slowly tightened. People were grieving, angry and afraid, and the disruption caused by the damage to the Underground system was not helping the already fraught economic situation. And then there was the cost of repairs: Britain might have reached an agreement with the French about leaving the Chunnel closed, but London needed her tube lines working.

  Now that the initial mourning period was over, the vultures on the Opposition benches were gathering, even after the explosions in Russia, and the PM was going to have to come up with some answers soon. Russia was too far away for anyone to care about. Since the world economy had begun to crumble, people had become more selfish. Charity began at home. The noose might not yet be around her neck, but McDonnell knew it was dangling above her somewhere, and she’d lost a little of her natural calm.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said now, barely acknowledging the Home Secretary as he took his seat beside her. ‘All of this CCTV footage is time-coded and date-correct. There couldn’t be a mistake?’

  ‘No,’ Andrew Dunne answered. ‘It’s correct.’

  ‘Run it again. More slowly.’ She flashed a look sideways to Dawson. ‘I don’t think this is going to cheer you up.’

  The head of Special Branch typed something into his laptop and the images on the screen started moving again.

  ‘Okay, this is Ealing Broadway at 1.04 p.m. Security camera footage from the bank opposite and the Pri-Maxx clothes store where the first bomb went off both show this man exiting the store and heading left. Two minutes later the explosions started.’

  ‘He’s a big man,’ Dawson commented. ‘Moves well, though.’

  At the back of the room, Abigail didn’t look. This wasn’t her business, and she was tired. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she took it out. She stared at it for a second before the name registered. Hayley. What could Hayley want? Without answering, she put the phone away. It would have to wait.

  ‘Yes, too well,’ Fletcher added. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘This is footage from Goodge Street at 1.09 p.m.’ Dunne played a second clip. ‘One minute before three carriages of the Northern Line train exploded just as it pulled into Tottenham Court Road Station.’

  ‘But that’s the same man,’ Dawson said.

  ‘That’s what I just said,’ McDonnell added. ‘And this is where you came in.’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t end there.’ Fletcher leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘CCTV evidence also places him outside Liverpool Street Station minutes before the explosions there. And he’s seen leaving the 37 bus one stop before Ealing Broadway, one minute before cameras picked him up leaving the Pri-Maxx store.’

  Abigail’s phone buzzed again in the silence that filled the room. Hayley. She cancelled it quickly, but even as she waved an apology at the PM, her sister’s name stayed in her head. There was no reason for Hayley to call her – it had been a long time since her little sister had called her fo
r a chat, and if something had happened to one of their parents, Abigail would have heard first. There was a nine-year age gap between them, and although Abigail blamed Hayley’smove to London and starting university for their distance as she started growing up and leading her own life, deep down she knew that wasn’t the case. She was the one who had grown distant – she’d grown distant from all of them. Suddenly she felt sad, as if remembering a place that had once been special, and yet could never be returned to.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ McDonnell said. ‘He can’t be everywhere. There must be another explanation. There must be more than one of them.’

  ‘That’s the theory we’re working on,’ Dunne said.

  ‘They look identical.’ Dawson stared at the screen. ‘Even down to the clothes – and the way they move. It’s uncanny.’

  ‘Where do they go?’ The Prime Minister looked at Dunne. ‘Have you traced a route, either to or from any of the sites?’

  Fletcher and Dunne exchanged a glance. Abigail forgot the phone call; that look intrigued her. Dunne often showed his feelings, but never Fletcher. They looked like men who knew they were in trouble and there was nothing they could do about it.

  ‘Unfortunately, we can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean? Not even for one of them?’

  Silence hung in the air until Fletcher finally broke it.

  ‘No. The one link we have is that they all go into the nearest Underground station – and then we lose them as the cameras transfer. In one frame they’re there, and then in the next they’re not. And we’ve had teams trawling the footage of people leaving the stations that day. There’s no evidence of even one of these men coming out of the Underground system at all.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fletcher agreed, ‘it is. And so there must be some explanation. We just haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘Have you got enhanced images?’ Dawson asked. ‘Can you bring them up through the overhead? I want to see two of these men side by side.’

  Dunne started tapping and a few moments later the large LCD screen on the wall burst into life. Abigail stared, ignoring the phone that was now vibrating persistently against her leg.

  ‘I know him,’ she said, the words tumbling straight from her brain to hang in the silent room.

  The four heads who had so far ignored her turned her way. She stared at the screen. The suit fitted neatly in both images. His skin looked sickly, mottled and shiny, on his face and neck. His eyes were dark, beyond brown, the pupils leaking out into the surrounding irises like black ink soaking into blotting paper. The images were undeniably identical. One man. Not two.

  The PM spoke softly. ‘You know him?’

  ‘No,’ Abigail said, ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Where?’ Fletcher was on his feet. ‘When?’

  ‘The night of the bombings. He was just standing in the street when I ran home. Near my flat.’ Her words felt like water trickling down a drain. Her insides cooled. For a moment she was back there, out of breath and sweating, feeling again that blissful sense of emptiness she’d had when he looked at her. She remembered his finger rising to his lips. Her own pupils dilated and she bit the side of her tongue to shut it up.

  ‘What do you mean, just standing in the street? What was he doing?’

  Abigail moved closer to the screen and frowned. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him. It might have just been a fat man …’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘No.’ Her phone buzzed again and this time she reached for it. ‘Can I take this? It’s my sister. She keeps ringing. Maybe something’s wrong?’

  ‘Be quick,’ McDonnell said.

  She felt all four sets of eyes watching her as she slipped out into the corridor. She’d lied, and she was going to keep on lying, and she didn’t even know why. It was the same man; she knew it. She remembered the rise of his finger. There was a promise in that, just as there was in the empty Hotmail account. One day both would deliver something, she knew that deep down somewhere in a part of her she didn’t understand. But not if she told. If she told, then whatever it was would never happen.

  ‘Hayley?’ Her voice sounded calm, normal. It surprised her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I saw it all.’ The breathing at the other end was wet and heavy.

  ‘Hayley? Is that you?’ Abigail stared at the closed door. They were waiting on the other side for her lies.

  ‘I remembered.’ It was Hayley, but the words were strained, as if she was having trouble forming them.

  ‘What did you remember?’ Abigail frowned. She really didn’t have time for this. ‘Are you stoned, Hayley?’

  ‘Chaos in the darkness.’ Hayley’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘That was it. Chaos in the darkness.’

  ‘Hayley?’

  The phone clicked off at the other end.

  The door opened. Fletcher looked at her. ‘All okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll call her later. Maybe she was drunk or something. She’s a student.’

  ‘This man you saw—’

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ Abigail said, cutting him off. ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have spoken like that without being sure. The suit’s all wrong – and I think the man I saw had brown hair.’

  ‘You sounded pretty sure in there.’ His eyes were evaluating every move of her face, looking for some kind of tell.

  Abigail didn’t underestimate the man. ‘I can take another look if you’d like, but I’m pretty sure it’s a different man. It was the size of him that made me think I’d seen him before.’

  ‘Maybe we should do that,’ Fletcher said, ‘see where the differences lie.’

  ‘Sure.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She tucked her phone away. It didn’t ring again.

  Chapter Seven

  They sat in their usual places, one at each compass point of the large round table. For a moment there was only the drumming of Mr Craven’s fingers on the highly polished surface at the east.

  Then Mr Dublin spoke. ‘The others won’t like us meeting without them. Not at this time. Everyone’s a touch on edge, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘We met as a whole two weeks ago,’ Mr Bright answered, ‘and anyway’ – he sipped his espresso – ‘the more of us who meet, the harder it is to come to any decisions. Everyone wants to have a say. And for now, I feel some things should stay between us four.’

  ‘How’s Monmir?’ Mr Craven asked.

  ‘Going downhill fast. From what I gather he’s back in Damascus.’ Mr Dublin smiled. It was wistful and kind. ‘He always did like it there.’

  ‘I’ve heard that Morelo is ill.’ Mr Craven’s fingers still twitched nervously. ‘Collapsed overseeing the building of a new energy plant in Russia. Is that true?’

  ‘He’s having some tests.’ Mr Bright’s voice remained impassive. ‘Our doctors, of course.’

  ‘It’s happening quicker then.’ Mr Dublin’s smile dropped. His high cheekbones were like flashes of silver under the pale lighting. ‘The first ones didn’t die so fast. And there were always so many years between them.’

  ‘Some are saying it’s a punishment.’ Mr Bellew spoke softly. He leaned back in his chair and his tall, broad frame filled his seat. He looked at each of the others, his dark eyes finally resting on Mr Bright.

  ‘Even for him—,’ Mr Bright flashed perfect white teeth as he smiled at the dark-haired man, ‘—that would be an awfully long wait for vengeance. It’s ennui, that’s all. They started to believe they could die, and they started to fear it. And so they let it in. That’s all.’

  ‘Tell that to Monmir,’ Mr Craven muttered. ‘Tell him it’s all in his head.’

  ‘And what about the First? Is that what he thinks?’ Mr Bellew returned Mr Bright’s smile.

  ‘Childish game to play, Mr Bellew.’ Mr Bright carefully pushed his coffee cup aside. ‘The First is sleeping. But it is what he did think. And look at us. We’re perfect
ly healthy.’

  ‘Some are saying that perhaps there’s been a change of leadership, and that’s why these punishments are falling on us now.’

  ‘Some are saying, some are saying … There is always talk, and much of it is ridiculous, even if you won’t tell them so. Who would have led this supposed coup?’ Mr Bright asked. ‘Even you, Mr Bellew, the perennial politician, know that all the serious challengers are here.’

  ‘Since we allowed ourselves to become smaller,’ Mr Dublin sighed, running one hand through his ash-blond hair, ‘I find the notion of time has changed.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes I find it hard to be myself any more. It gets more difficult to remember.’

  ‘We’re still everything we once were, and this is still our kingdom.’ Mr Bright leaned forward, his eyes sharp. ‘If anything, we’re more than we were then. We chose this place, and I – we – built it.’

  ‘We were glorious.’ Mr Dublin finally smiled. ‘Weren’t we?’

  ‘We are glorious. And if we go back, then we go back to fight, not to beg forgiveness.’

  ‘Always if, if, if.’ Mr Craven sneered. He was the youngest of the four, perhaps in his early thirties, showing only the first hint of lines around the corners of his narrow, suspicious eyes. ‘If we find the walkways, if we can get back, if this crumbling kingdom doesn’t collapse around us before then.’

  ‘Speaking of getting back, how is the Experiment?’ Mr Bellew asked.

  ‘Complicated as expected,’ Mr Bright said. ‘We’re using the Hubble. The Bank’s scientific subsidiaries are also working on the development of a more powerful global deep-space remotely powered telescope. However, I’m hoping that won’t be needed. We are making some progress.’

  ‘We’re trapped, aren’t we?’ Mr Dublin’s voice had lost its wistful edge. ‘How ironic that we’ve had to wait for them to develop their crude skills to even think about getting back.’