‘If you remember,’ Mr Craven said, ‘until the First started sleeping and death found us, no one was interested in finding the way back.’
‘We’re lucky,’ Mr Bellew added, ‘that they turned their attentions heavenwards at all.’
‘It’s never luck,’ Mr Bright said. ‘We pushed them that way.’
‘Sometimes I wonder if – after everything – they are still a mystery to us,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘Perhaps some part of them remembers.’
‘Who knows?’ Mr Bright leaned back. ‘But the Experiment is not why we’re here. We discussed that a fortnight ago with the full Cohort.’
‘So why exactly have you dragged us here?’ Mr Bellew lit a thin cigarette. ‘We’re all busy.’
‘These bombings in London and Moscow are a concern.’
‘I don’t see why,’ Mr Craven said. ‘We know they’re violent. They always have been. They were always more like us; that’s how we all came to be here in the first place.’
‘Don’t you find it somewhat peculiar that no one knows who’s responsible? That none of their terror groups have come forward? We don’t even appear to know …’
‘We’ve been distracted,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘And London is your responsibility.’
‘To be honest,’ Mr Craven said, frowning, ‘this was never about looking after them. We all have our own ventures to manage.’
‘This is true,’ Mr Bright conceded, ‘but the leaders of these nations were suggested by the House to have the capacity to calm the current downward spiral. We all worked hard to ensure they found power. Now it looks like these attacks have been aimed at unsettling the balance we’re creating. There are some far more hot-headed candidates eagerly waiting in the wings …’ His eyes lingered on both Mr Bellew and Mr Craven for a second before he continued, ‘And that could cause us far larger problems. No one wants that.’
‘You think too much,’ Mr Bellew said dryly.
‘I’m the Architect. I built it—’
‘— and it would be ironic if after all this they destroyed it.’ Mr Dublin smiled.
‘Maybe we’ve given them too much freedom.’
‘But freedom was always the point,’ Mr Bellew said. ‘For all of us. And we’ve always kept our eye on things.’ He evaluated the silver-haired man in the impeccable suit sitting opposite him. ‘You’ve always been confident you have everything under control. The First’s right-hand man. You and Solomon …’ The sentence trailed away. ‘Well, I’m sure we can all rely on you to get to the bottom of whatever you think is going on here.’
‘What do you think is going on?’ Mr Craven leaned forward. ‘Are you suggesting that one of us is behind these attacks?’
‘It’s a consideration that perhaps one of our wider number is.’ Mr Bright remained impassive. ‘There’s no denying we are less cohesive than once we were. Those who are sick are becoming desperate. We have been sitting back over all this time and watching the effect fear and sickness can have.’
‘You want us to see if anyone is acting of their own accord?’ Mr Dublin asked. ‘You’re suggesting we spy on our own?’
Mr Bright said nothing, but looked at each of them. ‘Nothing that extreme,’ he said at last. ‘I just think it’s time we tightened the reins a touch.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Mr Dublin smiled.
‘I don’t believe in luck. I never have.’
The meeting over, the four individuals made their way onto the quiet side street where gleaming black cars awaited them, always invisible in the dark until the headlights came on, set by set. Mr Bright left first, watched by the other three.
‘Are you flying straight back?’ Mr Dublin asked.
‘No.’ Mr Craven’s thin lips almost disappeared as he grinned. ‘I think I’ll stay a couple of days and remind myself of what this First City has to offer.’
‘Don’t draw too much attention to yourself.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed, ‘there are still those who willingly give me their children.’
Mr Dublin sighed. ‘We all have our secrets. Perhaps even Mr Bright.’
‘Perhaps even the sleeping First,’ Mr Bellew added. ‘Goodnight. Until next time.’
The car doors closed one by one and the limousines slipped out onto the brightly lit main road, losing each other as they headed their separate ways.
In the back of one, the occupant sighed and poured a whisky, sipping it thoughtfully before pulling a phone from his pocket and scrolling down to the required name. He typed one word, TOMORROW, into the text message screen and then pressed send. He leaned back against the soft leather and smiled.
Mr Bright’s shoes clicked gently against the marble floor of the lobby of Senate House. Once part of the University of London, now it was owned by The Bank, and its functions were diverse. The university still used the north part for overseas studies, and some of the south side floors were used for various research projects. UCL had tried to stop the take-over of the building when The Bank had demanded these premises if it were to bail out the financially beleaguered university, but as it stood, they hadn’t done too badly out of the deal. The building had certain advantages for The Bank – and therefore the Network – and one of those, as far as Mr Bright was concerned, was having the university occupying part of it. All the secrets of the world were hidden in plain sight, and young people were notoriously self-absorbed. They rarely saw the business of others.
His footsteps had an echo that continued when he stopped, and he turned to face its source.
‘I’ve been waiting here for hours.’
The almost familiar figure walked towards Mr Bright. The once-dark olive Arabian hue of the skin had turned pale, almost sickly; the hair had thinned and lost its lustre.
‘Monmir,’ Mr Bright said. ‘I thought you were in Damascus.’
‘I wanted to come here first.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘He is here, isn’t he?’
Mr Bright nodded.
‘Can I see him?’
Mr Bright looked into the desperate yellowing eyes. ‘Of course. Although he’s still sleeping.’
The lift doors closed behind them. Mr Bright pushed the button on the small remote control in his pocket, the silver back panels slid open and they stepped through to the second lift beyond. It whirred silently upwards, and neither occupant broke its hum with speech.
The floor they emerged onto was brightly lit despite the late hour, but apart from the large men positioned outside the doors and the woman working quietly behind the glass desk who nodded a greeting at them as they passed, the corridor was empty. No one stopped Mr Bright and Monmir, nor spoke to them.
At the furthest door Mr Bright scanned his thumbprint and punched in a code. Inside, a nurse looked up from her station, recognised Mr Bright and went back to filling syringes. He smiled at her as he passed and led Monmir to the glass window beyond.
‘You might be shocked by his appearance.’ The air shivered as he spoke. ‘But he’s still very much alive.’ Mr Bright pulled up the blind.
‘Jesus,’ Monmir said, after a moment’s pause.
Mr Bright’s eyes widened slightly, and then he smiled at the memories. ‘No, not Jesus. Not any more.’
Monmir didn’t take his eyes from the view. The figure in the bed was barely visible. Thin arms lay still on the neatly tucked bedding, poking out pathetically from short-sleeved blue pyjamas. Tubes ran from the inner elbows to drips hanging from tall stands on either side of the hospital bed, and a pulse monitor was clipped to the tip of one finger. A mask covered the occupant’s face, thick coils connecting it to a tank hanging on the wall behind, which in turn was almost obscured by the bank of machines displaying silently changing numbers and lines of activity.
‘This isn’t sleeping.’ Monmir’s sickly breath settled as condensation on the glass. ‘This is life-support.’
‘It’s all perspective,’ Mr Bright said. ‘And most of this he doesn’t need.’
‘Then why is it th
ere?’
‘It’s better to be safe than sorry, wouldn’t you say?’
There was a long pause after that.
‘We used to think he could do anything. How did it come to this?’
Mr Bright stared through his own healthy reflection at the figure in the bed. ‘He can do anything. He’ll wake again when he’s ready.’
‘We were so full of energy, weren’t we? We were unstoppable. And now look at us. Everything’s crumbling and so are we. Maybe it was never meant to last.’
Mr Bright looked at the sad acceptance in Monmir’s face. There was pain etched in its once smooth surface.
‘This doesn’t have to happen to you, Monmir.’ He spoke softly. ‘It’s a trick of the mind. You can stop it.’
Monmir turned. ‘Is that what you said to Mr Solomon?’ Mr Bright didn’t answer.
‘You can’t control everything, Mr Bright.’ There was something close to pity in Monmir’s voice. ‘Not you, not the First, not even with the bloodline traced, with the promise of the boy.’
Mr Bright’s eyes widened slightly.
‘We all hear the stories – you and Mr Solomon and the First, yes, you keep your secrets well, but there will always be rumours that even those outside the Inner Cohort hear. We trust you. We trusted you then, and in the main we trust you now. Most of us have been happy to simply fulfil our obligations to the Network and enjoy the power we have while you manage the bigger picture. But you mustn’t forget free will. It’s what brought us here, after all.’ He paused to catch his breath.
‘I have always respected you. From before you were Mr Bright, from the times and places that are getting so hard to remember. And I won’t turn against you now. But be careful and tread softly. And keep your eyes open.’
‘What are you trying to tell me, Monmir?’ Mr Bright asked. His eyes twinkled. They always did.
Monmir watched him thoughtfully. ‘Probably nothing you don’t already know.’ He smiled. His gums were pale. ‘Perhaps I’m just being human. I think I’ve finally begun to understand what that means.’ He winked, for a moment a shadow of his former self. ‘Dying can do that to you.’
‘You don’t have to die, Monmir. You’re just allowing it to happen.’
‘No,’ Monmir agreed, ‘maybe I don’t have to die. Maybe I’ll use what strength I have left and try for the walkways. If I can become myself again.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Others have tried, you know that. It’s not safe. You won’t make it.’
‘You think dying is better?’
Mr Bright said nothing.
Monmir smiled. ‘You think you understand, but in reality, you know nothing. You built it, yes, but until you’re dying, you will never understand all its magic and madness.’
‘I never took you for a poet, Monmir.’
They stared at each other.
‘I’ll find my own way out.’
The sickly figure turned without looking back through the glass, and Mr Bright watched him go. He waited until the lift was headed back down to the ground floor before he carefully lowered the blind and turned away. Back in the corridor, he paused outside one of the guarded rooms. He slid back the small panel and peered in. Mr Rasnic sat propped up against the back wall. His face twitched slightly, and small tics at the corner of his mouth hinted at unformed words.
Mr Bright’s own mouth pursed slightly. It was unsettling seeing him like this, in this endless state of nothingness, his body a dull shell. The Glow had gone. Mr Rasnic had volunteered to try and find the walkways in the early days of the Experiment. He’d been strong and powerful and full of wit. He’d shone, even when small.
Not any more. Five years on and there had been no change. Mr Bright didn’t expect any. Mr Rasnic was empty. Just like the others who had tried afterwards.
He slid the hatch shut and glanced at the other doors. He didn’t need to look inside. Had there been any changes he would have been informed. At least they’d stopped trying to claw at their dead eyes. That had been unsettling.
He sighed and turned away. He had never been tempted to try for the walkways himself. Neither had Solomon, back then, when his old friend was still sane. Sometimes he wondered if anyone actually remembered how it had really been, beyond the power and the glory. He smiled. He would always choose to take his chances here.
Chapter Eight
Dr Tim Hask swallowed the last of his third vodka and tonic, coughing in his enthusiastic need to speak, and then delivered the punchline of his rambling shaggy dog tale. It must have been funny, because Ramsey burst out in the kind of laughter that can only come from a joke well told. Cass forced a smile of his own and drained his pint. It was good to see both men – Hask’s presence had been a surprise. After the Man of Flies case had come to its unusual end, the profiler had returned to Sweden, but following the bombings, he was back at the behest of the government for psyche evaluations for any potential suspects – not to mention the numerous corporations who were prepared to pay big bucks to have any of their employees who were caught up in the trauma that day checked over: heaven forbid post-traumatic stress should cause any financial errors to be made. Like the world wasn’t fucked-up enough already?
It was good to see him again, but Cass just wished they’d met up another night. There was too much filling his head to concentrate on his friends, and the note the dying solicitor had given him was sitting like lead in his pocket. And then there were the suicides. Everything about them was all wrong.
‘Does the phrase “Chaos in the darkness” mean anything to either of you?’ he asked at last, when the humour of the conversation had faded and they were left talking around the up-coming trials that they weren’t supposed to discuss.
‘No,’ Ramsey said, ‘should it?’
‘A girl on your patch killed herself a couple of weeks ago. She wrote it on the wall.’
‘Didn’t land on my desk – but then, a suicide wouldn’t. Although it’s about the level of case I’m getting these days.’
‘You and me both.’
‘If it was in my part of town, how do you know about it?’
‘A girl killed herself in mine last night and those were her last words. Eagleton called me. He’d photographed your girl. He made the connection and thought there might be something in it. He figured I’d be bored enough to dig around.’
‘He’s a good kid,’ Ramsey said, ‘and I guess he was right.’
Cass looked at Hask. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘No, not without researching it.’ The fat man leaned forward, threatening the stability of the wooden pub table. ‘Is this what’s got you so preoccupied tonight?’
‘Partly, yeah,’ Cass admitted. ‘Not that it matters. The DCI won’t allow it as a case.’
The beer had given him a sombre buzz and he could feel his mood sinking. For the first time in months he wanted some cocaine.
‘I think I might head home.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s good to see you, Hask.’ He meant it too. ‘Let’s do this again.’
‘Of course we will.’ Hask grinned cheerfully, the expression forcing its way onto his vast cheeks, but Cass could feel those clever eyes digging into him. Hask was curious – well, let him be. Cass had nothing to share at the moment. There was no point talking about a case that couldn’t run, and the letter was private. He said farewell to Ramsey and headed out onto the pavement.
Despite being walking distance from the hubbub of Oxford Street, Marylebone High Street was quiet in the evenings, and Cass enjoyed the peace as he walked through the warm air towards the Marylebone Road, where traffic would be rumbling on all night; he’d be able to grab a taxi there. He stared into the dark city and wondered at its secrets.
THEY took Luke.
He knew who THEY were: the Network; the shadowy – he fought against the word supernatural, despite what he’d seen when Solomon died – group behind The Bank, who was in turn behind most governments, banks a
nd big businesses, as far as he could see. And The Bank itself was also the owner of the X accounts, connected to a strange file called Redemption which he’d found on Christian’s laptop six months ago, just after his brother was murdered. Cass hadn’t wanted anything to do with them: the Network might have had files on the Jones family, but Cass had no wish to be drawn into whatever game they were playing, even if the mysterious Mr Bright had been claiming to be looking out for him. After all, that ‘special care’ hadn’t done his parents or his brother any good. But now it appeared he wasn’t being given any choice but to step back into that fray.
His soul was weary as he trudged past the shops and the last of the restaurants into the quieter far end of the High Street. A church loomed dark in the shadows, shrouded by trees and shrubs. Cass didn’t look up. Faith hadn’t done his family any good either.
THEY took Luke. It was a statement of fact, not a question. Christian had been a meticulous man, so to leave that note for Cass, he must have been certain that the boy he’d raised wasn’t his biological son. Cass paused to light a cigarette and watched as he expelled the first lungful of pale smoke into the night. He also understood what Christian had meant when he’d had that last conversation with Marlowe: he loved Jessica and Luke – the boy he’d raised as his son – too much to destroy them with news like this, no matter how much it might have been tearing Christian apart.
Cass had always known he was different from Christian, but over the last six months he’d begun to realise how great those differences were. One was blond, the other brown; and they were light and dark in every way. Christian knew that Cass – the brother who had slept with his wife – would be able to do what he couldn’t: find the baby stolen at birth, regardless of cost. Cass had believed they’d become strangers as adults, but that wasn’t true: Christian really had understood Cass. It was only after his baby brother had been murdered that Cass had come anywhere close to understanding Christian.
THEY. Even Christian had been wary of using names or mentioning the Network, and he’d been so much more open to all of it than Cass had ever had. The boys see the glow! Yay! Their mother had scribbled that excitedly on the back of an old photograph, but in that picture the small dark boy had been frowning at it, while the blond boy looked excited. One had embraced the glow and lived with it, while the other had shut his mind to it, completely denied its existence. And now one was dead and one was alive. That was the comparison that held the most weight for Cass: the Network was dangerous for him on a personal level. He might not understand why, but he knew this to be the truth in every nerve and fibre of his body, and he did trust his instinct. That rarely failed him.
The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two Page 7