Archangel (A Ghosts of London Novel)

by Amy Cross

  Grabbing a white coat that was hanging on one of the walls, Quix was about to drape it over Katie's shoulders before stopping as she spotted two small plastic objects that seemed to be embedded in the girl's back. Reaching out, she ran a finger over one of the objects and felt fragile flakes of new skin crumbling away.

  “It's here,” Katie gasped breathlessly, trying to get to her feet but stumbling. “It's in this building.”

  Quix quickly draped the white coat over Katie's shoulders.

  “I was talking to it,” Katie continued, finally managing to stand. Turning to Quix, she had a shocked, terrified expression in her eyes. “It was talking back to me, too. I heard its voice, it was like it was reaching into my head from somewhere close.”

  Quix tilted her head slightly, like a dog trying to understand a command.

  “I spoke to him,” Katie added, her voice trembling with fear. She waited for a moment, before turning and looking over at the door. “I think it was God.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Hello?”

  Stopping at the open door, Robinson knocked and waited. After a few seconds, receiving no answer, he leaned through and saw a dark, mostly empty room with just a few chairs at the far end. Frowning, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, and quickly sent another message to Milhouse.

  “This is getting silly,” he muttered, pausing for a moment as he listened to the sound of someone creeping up behind him, followed a second later by the faint click of a gun being readied. “I wonder where Mr. Hanson is, surely he must have -”

  “I know you know I'm here,” said a voice firmly.

  “But do you know that I know you know I'm here?”

  “Give it a rest. The time for games is over.”

  Slowly, Robinson turned to find Hanson standing behind him, with a gun aimed at his face.

  “Now why would a man of faith need a gun?” Robinson asked. “Surely you could just trust your god to arrange things nicely for you? Guns and faith really don't seem to mix.”

  “Is that why you're here?” Hanson replied. “To mock me?”

  “No, I'm here to get my friend back and stop all these horrible experiments. Mocking you is just a hobby.”

  “Move,” Hanson continued, stepping back and indicating with the gun that he wanted Robinson to go along the corridor.

  “I should warn you,” Robinson replied, “that I came with someone who has a very big gun, much bigger than yours, and she -”

  “Move!”

  Raising his hands, Robinson began to make his way along the corridor. “You know,” he continued, “kidnapping homeless people to use in your little project was a bad move. Did you really think no-one would notice?”

  “No-one noticed the last time.”

  “Oh, the last time,” Robinson replied with a faint smile. “I suppose you're referring to the original form of this company, aren't you? The one founded by Harrington Cole himself back in, when was it, the middle of the nineteenth century?” He turned to Hanson. “Following in the great man's footsteps, I see. Tell me, how did you come into contact with his work? I thought everything was burned more than a hundred years ago.”

  “You know about Mr. Cole,” Hanson replied. “That's unusual. When he completed the first stage of his work in the nineteenth century, he covered his tracks very well.”

  “Well, I was around at the time,” Robinson explained. “I was starting to poke around, but then he upped and disappeared. I never expected to hear anything about him again, but I suppose you must have stumbled onto some remnant of his experiments and decided to continue his legacy.”

  “He's continuing his own legacy.”

  “Seems tricky, for a man who's been dead since -” Stopping suddenly, Robinson turned to him. “Or has he?”

  “Harrington Cole was born in the early nineteenth century,” Hanson continued, with a faint smile, “which would make him more than two hundred years old today.”

  “An impossible lifespan,” Robinson replied, “unless he'd done something to himself.” He paused for a moment. “Cole's still alive, isn't he? He's here, in this building.”

  “When he disappeared all those years ago,” Hanson continued, “it wasn't because his experiments had failed. It was because they'd succeeded, and because he needed time to grow as he waited to begin the next phase. He went into hiding in his new form, and fortunately I was lucky enough to be the one who heard him calling out.”

  “Calling out? What did he do, phone you up? Or did you just answer a spam email and get very lucky?”

  “He reached his mind out across the whole of London,” Hanson explained, “into every crack, brushing against the thoughts of every single person in the city, looking for the one who'd be able to hear him. I was that person.”

  “And then he explained how you could restart his experiments?”

  “I had to find him first. He'd hidden himself very well, so it took a while.”

  “And what's so special about you?” Robinson asked. “Of all the people in London, why were you the one who heard him?”

  “I was a kindred spirit. I'd lost my way, I'd just fallen out of the church, my faith was in tatters... I was ready to hear the truth.”

  “So you set this place up with his guidance,” Robinson continued, “and continued his work, under his direction. So how is Mr. Cole? I can imagine the years have done a right old number on him.”

  “Keep moving,” Hanson said firmly. “You'll find out soon enough.”

  “You're very different when you've got a gun,” Robinson continued, making his way along the corridor. “Is this any way to treat a man who gave you a priceless bone?”

  “You didn't give me the bone,” Hanson replied. “You were merely the agent that was directed to do so. Harrington Cole arranged everything, he put the bone in your possession and then he steered you to our door so that you'd hand it over. It was his divine intervention that brought everything together.”

  “His divine intervention?” Robinson asked. “You make him sound like -” He stopped suddenly, next to one of the doors, and turned to Hanson. “Harrington Cole wasn't trying to make angels, was he? They were just a side-project, something to decorate the grand plan.”

  “Harrington Cole has ascended to take his rightful place,” Hanson replied, with a hint of glee in his eyes.

  “And I stopped at the right door, didn't I?” Robinson continued. “I didn't just stop and turn to you because I was shocked by your latest revelation.” He looked over at the door. “This is the only door without a sign, but it also seems to have a particularly intricate security mechanism, so I doubt it's a broom closet. Tell me, is Harrington Cole on the other side of this door?”

  “Can't you sense his presence already?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then I pity you. Still, I'm sure I can give you a little help. Open the door.”

  “Really?”

  “Open it.”

  “I thought I'd have to trick you into letting me go into this room,” Robinson replied. “I was planning something elaborate, are you sure you don't want to pretend that -”

  “Open the goddamn door!”

  “Am I getting to see the things you wouldn't show me last time?” Reaching out, Robinson opened the door and found himself looking into a dark room. Immediately, however, he was struck by the sense of a presence, and a moment later he realized he could feel something at the edge of his mind, trying to make contact. “I hope you're proud of yourself,” he said finally. “Whatever you've got in here, it seems very powerful. Tell me, in what form has Harrington Cole survived all these years?”

  “You're not a man of faith, are you?” Hanson asked.

  “I told you before -”

  “I know, but this time I don't have time for your games.”

  Turning to him, Robinson saw that Hanson had removed a syringe from his pocket. “Oh, you're going to put that in me, aren't you?” he asked with weary resignation. “Listen, what
ever -”

  “Liquid faith,” Hanson replied.

  “Liquid what?”

  “Liquid faith. It took me years to develop the right compound, based on Mr. Cole's notebooks, but the stuff works remarkably well. It opens up all the necessary neural pathways and helps an unenlightened man to see the truth.”

  “You think an injection can make a person believe in god?”

  “I know it can,” Hanson said firmly, with a faint tremor in his voice.

  “Because you use it yourself?” Robinson asked. “What kind of faith needs to be delivered from a syringe? Faith should be -”

  “Don't lecture me,” Hanson spat back at him. “You don't have a clue. You have no faith of your own.”

  “No, but I've seen it in others,” Robinson replied, “in good people, in people whose faith came organically. That's the kind of faith I respect, not -”

  Before he could finish, Hanson stepped closer and placed the needle against his neck.

  “Don't fight this,” Hanson hissed.

  “I'm not going to,” Robinson told him. “I'm rather curious to see how your little injection works. I'm assuming from all the puncture wounds on your wrists and neck that the effects are temporary? Obviously you need to top yourself up regularly.”

  “It lasts long enough.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  Slowly, Hanson slipped the needle into the side of Robinson's neck. “I expected you to put up more of a fight,” he said with a faint smile.

  “Why?” Robinson asked. “I've always wondered what it's like to believe in something like this. Not that I think for a moment that your little cocktail will work on me, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt before I dismantle your organization brick-by-brick. Besides, I'm feeling particularly cavalier today. You've caught me at a time when I'm very willing to take risks.”

  “You're surprisingly confident;” Hanson muttered, pushing the plunger and delivering the serum into Robinson's neck before pulling the syringe out again.

  “I remember when the first reports of angels came in,” Robinson replied, “back in the nineteenth century. I started poking around, looking for answers, but then it all suddenly stopped. I traced the whole thing to Harrington Cole, but the man himself seemed to have vanished. It never occurred to me that he'd pop back up one day, or that -” Pausing, he seemed momentarily preoccupied by something. “He must have been...”

  Hanson waited for a moment, sensing that Robinson was starting to feel the effects of the drug. “Go on,” he said finally, with a faint smile. “I believe you were about to come to an epiphany?”

  “He must have...” Again, Robinson seemed unable to string a sentence together. Fumbling for his phone, he brought up Milhouse's number. “I think I might call him this time and hurry him along. It's vitally important that he gets here...”

  “Do whatever you want,” Hanson replied. “It's too late to stop any of this now.”

  Tapping the screen to call Milhouse, Robinson waited for the call to connect. A moment later, however, he heard another phone ringing in his pocket, and a sense of concern began to creep through his chest as he remembered taking Milhouse's phone a few days earlier. Taking Milhouse's phone out, he stared at it for a moment.

  “Oh,” he muttered finally. “Right, yes, I forgot I'd nicked his phone. I suppose he won't be coming, then. Oh, but still, it looks like he got a match!”

  Turning suddenly, he stared into the darkened room.

  “What's in there?” he asked, with fear in his voice. “I don't see anything, but I can feel it... Is this what it's like to be a bat?”

  “It's working, isn't it?” Hanson replied. “How does it feel, after all those years of godlessness, to suddenly feel true faith in your soul?”

  “It feels impossible,” Robinson whispered, stepping into the room. “There's a voice, something at the edge of my mind...” He paused, before turning back to Hanson. “It's Harrington Cole, isn't it? He's in here!”

  “Do you know what it's like to believe in God and then to one day lose that faith?” Hanson asked. “That's what happened to Mr. Cole all those years ago, but he decided to fix the situation. You must remember, the nineteenth century was a time of great industry, when men began to believe that they could create anything. Mr. Cole saw that God did not exist, so -”

  “So he decided to create him,” Robinson added, as he began to understand what was happening.

  “Using himself as the base,” Hanson continued. “He wanted angels, too, but the technology wasn't ready. Eventually he had to go into hiding and wait for the right moment, but that moment has arrived and now we're on the verge of a new era. Imagine if God not only existed, but actually spoke to his people? Imagine if, instead of hiding and just watching, God was an everyday presence, constantly offering his thoughts and guidance, always listening, always answering every prayer? Imagine if there was no doubt left. Imagine if every person on the planet could meet God personally.”

  “But God doesn't exist,” Robinson stammered, “he can't...” Turning back to look into the darkness, he realized that the sense of another presence was becoming stronger. “This can't be happening.”

  “Enjoy your conversation with Mr. Cole,” Hanson replied, swinging the door shut.

  “No!” Robinson shouted, taking a step back before stopping. Unable to see a thing in the dark room, he listened for any hint that someone else was near. He felt frozen for a moment, as if he was waiting for something to attack. “God doesn't exist,” he continued, trying to deny the growing sense of fear that was spreading through his soul. “He can't, it's not logical, the world...”

  He stood in silence for a moment.

  “You have come to me,” a voice said finally, whispering through the darkness. “I sense that you are stronger than the others.”

  “No,” Robinson whispered, trying to empty his mind and keep the voice away.

  “Are you fighting me?” came a reply, drifting through the room. “Why do you not embrace me?”

  Dropping to his knees, Robinson bowed his head and closed his eyes as he tried to focus on nothingness. He could feel the drugs surging through his veins, however, and he couldn't stop the slowly growing sense of doubt that was twisting its way up from his gut, expanding into his chest and filling him with a sense of possibility. Where some men struggled to keep their faith strong, Robinson was struggling to keep faith out of his heart.

  And he was losing.

  “You're not real!” he spluttered finally, with swear pouring down his face. “You're the crystallized shadow of a drug-induced dream!”

  “And yet I speak to you.”

  “You're certainly not God,” Robinson continued, taking a series of deep, long breaths. “You're just a mad Victorian inventor who couldn't see his own limits.”

  “No,” the voice replied, “I am a man who saw his potential. When I lost my faith, I tried everything to get it back. Eventually I was left with the feeling that even though God did not exist, he should. From that moment on, I dedicated my life to the task of creating him. It was only natural that I should use myself as a base.”

  “You're not a god,” Robinson stammered, “you're just another idiot who wanted to...” He paused, struggling to get the words out as he felt the serum starting to take full effect. “You're just... You just want to rule the world, like all the other megalomaniacs.”

  “But you believe in me,” the voice continued. “I can feel your faith.”

  “That's not faith,” Robinson said firmly, “it's just a drug-addled fantasy! What kind of God needs his followers to be high all the time?”

  “It's real.”

  “No, it's...” Pausing again, Robinson began to feel as if his normal thoughts were being drowned out; instead, he could feel something completely unfamiliar in the depths of his soul, as if despite his best efforts he was starting to believe everything Hanson had told him. No matter how hard he tried to fight back, true faith was bursting into every cell in
his body, and in his efforts to repel the new sensation he was starting to tear his own mind to shreds.

  “Let your faith blossom,” the voice whispered. “Let it flood through your mind.”

  “Show yourself!” Robinson shouted angrily, stepping forward. “Why are you hiding?”

  “I'm not hiding. You just haven't seen me yet.”

  “I can't see a damn thing,” Robinson continued, fumbling for his phone.

  “And now you react with anger,” the voice replied. “You're scared. Open your eyes.”

  Squeezing his eyes tighter, Robinson realized that he could sense a great light nearby, as if the darkness was being invaded. Finally, unable to hold back, he opened his eyes, only to find that he was in the middle of a blazing field filled with light and dark at the same time.

  “I'm not scared of anything,” he stammered, as his trembling fingers activated the flashlight app on his phone. Holding the device up, however, he saw that its light seemed constrained, as if the room was fighting back.

  “That thing won't help you to see me,” the voice explained. “You need to stop fighting the faith that is growing in your mind.”

  “It's not faith, it's a drug.”

  “Surrender to your belief in me.”

  “You're not God!” Robinson shouted.

  “Then why do you fear me?”

  “Because you're a trick, and because that lunatic Hanson injected me with something that's setting my nerves on fire. It's mimicking faith, but it's not faith!”

  “How would you know? Have you ever seen true faith in another person?”

  “No,” Robinson replied, before pausing for a moment. “Once. Maybe.”

  “And what did it look like?”

  “It looked like...” He paused again, trying to block the thoughts from his mind. “It was a long time ago, I don't remember. She...”

  “It's painful for you. Someone you cared about...”

  “Get out of my head,” Robinson whispered.

  “I can see her in your mind,” the voice continued. “Such beautiful red hair. What was her name?”