‘Get in, Bradley. I’ve got one more thing I need you to do.’
Bradley’s frown disappeared and he grinned. There were still some hours of daylight left, plenty of time in which to make whatever mischief his boss required.
‘Anything, sir.’
The door clicked shut.
Hours later, when night had fallen, Mr Bright stood on the roof of Senate House and stared out over the city. It glittered in the falling rain and he wished for a moment it would bring him more pleasure. He thought of Adam Bradley. It wasn’t remorse that he felt, perhaps something close to passing regret, but the boy’s death couldn’t be helped. He’d had a few months longer than he’d probably have managed if he’d been left on that estate with a needle deep in his arm. As it was, right from the start he’d had a part to play in something much bigger than his own short, pathetic life.
Somewhere in the tangled network of streets below, Bradley’s body lay waiting to be discovered next to an over-flowing skip. He had no identification on him and his neck had been cleanly broken. At least there had been no need to make him suffer. From the flat in Canary Wharf, various items of his possessions were being moved to a smaller council flat in his name that he’d never known about. His bank account details had been amended and a sum of cash placed in a drawer of the flat he’d never seen. New truths were so easy to create.
Castor Bright wondered if he should be feeling a small sense of satisfaction that things were going according to his plans, but now, when there were divisions and mistrust everywhere he turned, it was hard to find the excitement he’d had in the early days. New truths were so easy to create – they always had been.
He turned his back on the city and headed inside. He needed to find out who was using the Interventionists against them. He wouldn’t be hearing from Cass Jones again, not just yet, and certainly not about Abigail Porter. But then, whether Cassius Jones could find Abigail Porter or not had never been the point of the meeting. It was just a convenient excuse.
He allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. If Mr Solomon were here, then he would be laughing and slapping Mr Bright on the back for his masterful control of the pieces of the game. The Solomon of old, at any rate, before the testing got out of hand and the Dying took hold of his sanity. Back when they had been brothers, Solomon, with all his gentle charm and charisma, would have appreciated with Mr Bright was doing. He would have ‘got it’. Sometimes people had to be immersed in the fire before they could rise out of the flames, better and stronger than they ever had been. That was Mr Bright’s plan for Cassius Jones.
Of course, sometimes – it was Mr Solomon’s voice that rose unbidden in his head, the Solomon of aeons before, whose voice was filled with light and humour – if you put something in fire, it just screams and burns.
Mr Bright ignored the thought and pressed the button to take him down. Later, he would check in on the Experiment, but for now he thought he’d go and sit with the First. It was peaceful in there with his old friend. They understood each other. And he listened well.
*
At Cass’s flat, there was no evidence of a break-in. Whoever the fucker was who had stolen his kitchen knife – glaringly absent from the block – he had used a key. Cass had chucked the knife into a bin several miles away from Powell’s house. Now home, he regretted the action. He should have brought it back and bleached it clean, but he’d just wanted rid of it. Left with no choice but to destroy the rest of any potential evidence, he grabbed the block and remaining knives and shoved them into a carrier bag before going back outside into the rain and dumping the bag in the wheelie bin belonging to one of the flats in a block much further down the street. Back upstairs, he locked the door and put the chain on. He stared at it. It was like closing the fucking gate after the horse had bolted. Someone had been inside his flat. His blood simmered. He wanted to rip the fucker’s head off. Who was trying to play him now?
In the kitchen he washed the soles of his shoes and then stripped off his clothes. He’d been careful in Powell’s house, but he knew better than most how easy trace evidence could be picked up, as well as left behind. After scouring every room for any sign that more of his possessions might be missing – or, conversely, that something else might have been planted, he finally had a shower, forcing himself to try to relax under the hot stream. Maybe he should have called Powell’s death in and trusted in his colleagues to find the truth, but there were too many secrets wrapped up in this, and he had too many enemies on the force who’d be more than happy to see him go down for a murder he didn’t commit.
He still wasn’t in the clear. He chopped out the last of the cocaine into one long line and snorted it, hoping to quell the greasy fear in the pit of his stomach. He needed to speak to Dr Gibbs again. When he found out about his friend’s death, the first thing he’d think about would be the policeman who had been asking questions about the Flush5 ward. He’d tell him some bollocks, like he’d forgotten the address, and could he have it again. Hopefully, Gibbs would be too tired and busy to be suspicious of a policeman’s motives. It wasn’t good, but it was all he had unless a brainwave hit him by the morning.
In the meantime he had one thing he could do. He sent Perry Jordan a text telling him to find out the whereabouts of a London doctor called Richard Shearman, and to email him the details. He was probably working privately somewhere, maybe within a Flush5 hospital.
The numbness that crept over his teeth and up his nose was pleasant, as was the confidence that came with it. He’d find out what the fuck was going on and he’d deal with it.
He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and turned the TV on, needing the background noise to help him refocus. There was nothing more he could do tonight. He thought about trying Mr Bright again, but decided against it. There were no answers to be had there, and whatever deal they’d done, Cass didn’t trust him. Did he have something to do with this set-up, or was it whoever was behind Abigail Porter’s disappearance? Either way, for now his communication with Mr Bright was done.
‘I believe that Alison McDonnell has served her country well in the past, but it is with some regret that I say that I no longer trust that she is competent for the great office she holds.’ On screen the Home Secretary was trying to make himself heard over the jostling journalists pressing cameras into his face and shouting questions. ‘Yes, I do intend to challenge her for the leadership of our party. I believe that I have the support of those on our benches, both the front and the back, who want the best for our government and, more importantly, for the people of Great Britain.’
‘Do you have any comment on the alleged assassination attempt?’ a faceless voice asked from somewhere behind the thrusting microphone.
‘I can’t comment on that at the moment, but have called for an official inquiry into those events. I find it hard to believe that any politician would consider creating false terror in these already strained times in order to bolster their public opinion; however, there are several security issues that I will be raising with the inquiry.’
Cass swallowed his beer. Fuck, with friends like that, the PM really didn’t need enemies. By denying that McDonnell had been involved in whatever had led Abigail Porter down to Covent Garden Underground Station, he’d raised the question in the minds of those who maybe hadn’t thought it before.
The camera cut to the woman herself. She looked tired and beyond strained. ‘I have nothing to say at this time except that I’m confident that I will continue to have the support of my Cabinet colleagues and the rest of the party at this time.’
She didn’t look convinced, and neither did the tight bundle of people around her as they all disappeared back inside 10 Downing Street. One man turned, his eyes calmly scanning the small crowd of journalists who had been allowed up the famous road. He must have been Abigail Porter’s replacement, Cass figured. As the door closed, he could only imagine the collective slumping of shoulders on the other side. He sympathised with McDonnell – he knew only too
well how it felt to have someone coming after you, and whatever had happened on that Underground platform, none of it had been the Prime Minister’s fault. It wasn’t she who had arranged it. It wasn’t about her at all.
By the open window he lit a cigarette and peered out. Where was the musical tramp when he needed him? He might have seen whoever had broken in and taken his knife. But it looked like the old man had taken a couple of nights off, just when he might have been useful. The night air was cool; Cass liked its freshness against his skin. It made him feel alive when he was surrounded by the impatience of the dead.
Despite finding a link between the kids, they were still technically no further in finding out what had caused them to kill themselves, and his stomach tightened as he remembered the hope in the eyes of Cory Denter’s mother. It reminded him of another pair of pleading dark eyes, much younger, and long dead. Cass had blown that kid’s face away. He had no glow. Chaos in the darkness. The thoughts drifted in the dark spaces of his mind, adrift from the normal.
He was heading towards letting Mrs Denter down, unless it began to look like Cory Denter might have been murdered too, but that was unlikely. Whatever had happened to Cory had been something less ordinary than murder. A breath of smoke drifted free for a brief moment before being ripped apart by the London breeze. Murder. Within a couple of days it was possible that someone might be coming after him for that if he wasn’t careful, and then the dead kids would be someone else’s problem. They could take hold of someone else’s soul. He wasn’t sure they’d leave quietly, though; the dead seemed to like his company.
Powell’s dying face refused to stray far from his mind, and as it rose up once again, Cass remembered the power he’d felt knowing the man was dying: that overwhelming sense of anger and vengeance. Even now, so many years and so much guilt later, he was still Charlie Sutton. He’d shot that kid, and he’d felt almost nothing watching Powell die. That wasn’t natural. How much black was there in his soul?
His thoughts froze and he frowned as an image filled the screen. It was a photograph, a head-shot of a man laughing: Dr Andrew Gibbs. He sat down and turned the volume up.
… stabbed to death by an unknown stranger in the hospital car park after finishing his shift in Accident and Emergency. His death is prompting calls for better security … Two images came up, obviously taken from the cheap car park cameras that should have been replaced ten years ago. The first was of two men standing beside a car. The other showed a tall man with shoulder-length dark hair in a long overcoat as he walked away. His face wasn’t visible, but he looked nothing like Cass.
Mixed emotions thudded through his veins as the news moved swiftly on. The doctor’s death had had its allocated fifteen seconds. The relief that there would now be a suspect in the Powell case other than him was good, but it didn’t pierce the web of grey worry that clung to him: Gibbs was dead, as was Powell, so what was the purpose of their murders? Was it simply to implicate Cass, or was that just an added bonus while stopping the trail to Luke? Was someone else looking for the boy, too? Why were they so interested in his brother’s child anyway – what the fuck was it the Network found so special about the Jones family? And who was the woman who’d called him? The boy is the key. Don’t let them keep the boy. Her words echoed those his dead brother had spoken six months and a lifetime ago. Redemption is the key. There were too many keys to unlock too many secrets.
The answerable questions hung around him in the flat that felt much less like home since a stranger had been inside. The chair beneath him was an unfamiliar shape. The colours in the room were a shade off-kilter. The world was shifting again, leaving the ground unsteady beneath his feet as something unseen nudged him into his place in the game. He felt entirely alone. It wasn’t the first time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elroy Peterson finally stopped screaming as the machines around him powered down and one of the technicians slowly removed the various pieces of equipment from over his eyes and head, as well the monitors from his chest. There were no goosebumps on his bare torso, but Mr Bright wasn’t surprised – the Experiment rooms were kept hot. The students were able to travel further that way. Perhaps it was the contrast with the cold out there. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t need to understand why; it was enough for him to know that it helped. His remit had always been the bigger picture.
The boy’s eyes were wide and dark and there were flecks of blood lining the edges of his pupils. His whole body trembled and sweat dripped from his hairline. The doctors had been unanimous in agreeing that the procedure was causing the subjects brain damage, and Mr Bright wasn’t surprised. They never came back whole, and with each attempt it looked like they left a little more behind. In this, they were all united: this boy, the ones who had killed themselves, and those like Rasnic, whose Glow had been ripped from them, leaving them empty and mad and very, very human.
The young man sobbed quietly, and Mr Bright felt pity for his pain. Still, within an hour all memory of his time here would be forgotten and he’d be free of the Experiment until his feet led him back to take part again. He’d been a good find, this one. He’d gone further than any of the rest as the equipment sent his consciousness up and out through the Hubble to the darkness beyond.
‘What did you see?’ he asked. He didn’t normally take much interest in the subjects themselves, but as he was here and this one was unusual, his curiosity got the better of him. Perhaps the events of the day had made him nostalgic.
‘It was beautiful,’ the boy breathed. ‘It was terrible.’ His forehead knotted as he searched for a word in his damaged mind. ‘Chaos,’ he said eventually.
‘Yes, that’s it.’ Mr Bright smiled.
‘So much darkness, and then chaos. Chaos in the darkness.’ He tilted his head. The technician continued to put the equipment away, paying no attention to the boy’s words.
Mr Bright leaned forward.
‘What else?’
‘They’re still screaming.’ Elroy Peterson gave no indication that he’d heard the silver-haired man’s words. ‘I’m still screaming. I can still hear it.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘It’s behind my eyes.’
‘Could you see the colours? Could you see beyond?’
‘Colours.’ The pupils widened again. ‘So many colours. New colours.’ His hands clutched at the sides of his head. ‘I remembered.’ Tears ran down his sweating cheeks. ‘I remembered.’
Mr Bright watched him impassively. In many ways they were dull and predictable, but somewhere in their circuitry these first flawed failures had the memory of all that had been. He felt a sudden wave of fondness for them, one that he hadn’t felt in very many years. Perhaps it was good for him to take time to remember.
‘You have to look for the lines.’ His voice was soft and filled with kindness. ‘Next time, you find the lines.’
‘I can’t,’ Peterson whispered, his voice thick with snot. ‘I can’t.’
Mr Bright stood, and stroked the boy’s hot head with his cool, dry palm. ‘Of course you can.’ If he couldn’t, then eventually one would surely come along who could. Despite his small wave of nostalgia, he himself had no desire to take the walkways, or even to see them again, but if anyone were to have the knowledge of where they were, then he wanted it to be him. He would protect that for the First in the ways he thought fit. He turned and left the disturbed young man to dress in peace, happy to get out of the stifling heat.
The walkways hadn’t crossed his mind in aeons, not until the Dying came and those among his own number had started clamouring for the Experiment to find their way home. Now he found that the very concept plagued him. The Network might not be able to find them, but that didn’t mean that there hadn’t been traffic from the other end. Who would know if there had been visitors among them, looking perhaps to see what they had achieved? He wouldn’t necessarily send an emissary, that wasn’t how he worked.
There were rumours, of course, but these days there were always rumours of something. But perhaps he
should take a little more care – if suspicion of the boy’s existence got back, then who knew what the outcome would be? Perhaps he would care, perhaps not: it was always so difficult to tell with him. His moods had never been predictable. Mr Bright stopped a passing technician.
‘Tell the doctors to raise the intensity on this one when we start up again. Undo his hypnosis for now, just like the others; I don’t want them coming here for a couple of weeks. But keep track of him. We’ll need him again.’
His mobile phone rang and he smiled as he listened to the voice on the other end. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back shortly. Deal with the arrangements; I don’t want any mess. You can access his passport information and bank accounts if you follow the instructions I left.’ He paused. ‘Good. I don’t need the details. I’m sure you can make it believable.’
On his way back down to the earthy grit of London at street level he considered calling the other three and confronting them, but whoever was attempting to betray him and their age-old alliance would never be drawn into admitting it. They were all too strong, and in these times of slow decay and ennui, teeth were being bared within all the Cohorts. He would not show weakness. He was not weak, and someone was underestimating him quite badly if they thought he could be so easily overthrown. Still, he thought as he left the bright confines of Senate House behind, they would learn. He ignored a small group of laughing students who jostled past him, drunkenly hugging and winding round each other with all the joy and power and false glory of youth. They in turn ignored him as he stepped into the sleek black car and let it speed him away into what was shaping up to be a very long night.
Two hours later he was feeling mildly exasperated by the man tied securely to a chair in what he still thought of as Mr Solomon’s office. Blood was splattered across the crimson carpet, but the mess was of no concern. Solomon had ripped a man apart in this room and his blood had been cleaned up easily enough. Scotchguarding, it would appear, really did work. Red’s frenzied crying had finally diminished somewhat. He looked somewhat thinner and more pathetic without his crisp shirt and couture suit. There were burn marks on his chest and three of his teeth were missing. It hadn’t been a pleasant process, Mr Bright was sure, but it had been necessary.
The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two Page 28