The policemen had guns. They were, to Sam’s disappointment, aimed at him, a stranger with bloody hands, crouching over a dying man.
‘Erm…’ he began.
They didn’t seem to want to listen.
FIVE
Hospital
H
is sword was in the boot of the car. So was his bag. It had been searched, and the Molotov cocktails and Coke cans discovered. That had just about clinched it. His hands were cuffed behind his back. The two policemen in the front of the car didn’t look the least sympathetic as they wove through the traffic towards the station. There’d been three cars and two ambulances outside the club when Sam was marched out of it at gunpoint. He’d wanted to explain that the ice spells and general disruption were nothing a good cup of coffee couldn’t deal with, and that the only real casualty was Hindsonn. He’d have been more inclined to add that if Hindsonn died, he’d be really, really pissed off.
The policemen had searched him, but there’d been nothing a bit of illusion couldn’t disguise. His dagger was still in his sleeve.
Sam shifted position slightly, so that the fingertips of his right hand could touch the lock of the left cuff. Tendrils of force were sent out from his fingers’ ends, restrained, slipped into the lock, pushed. The lock clicked, its sound muffled behind his back. He slowly pulled his hand free, pressed it against the other cuff and clicked that open as well.
So far the two policemen hadn’t noticed anything.
Sam turned his attention to the doors. He leant forwards, keeping his hands behind his back, and peered through the grille that separated him from the front of the car and the controls to the central locking. Seeing a button with a picture of a car key on it, his eyes narrowed. The button depressed, the doors unlocked.
‘What’s that?’ demanded a policeman as the doors whirred. The car slowed in front of lights. Sam waited until it stopped, then turned his attention to the front passenger door, pulling at the handle with his mind. It flipped back and he shoved the door open with all the mental muscle he could muster.
‘Christ!’ yelled one of the policemen as the door slammed back on to its own hinges. The car pulled over and both policemen got out.
With the driver’s seat empty, Sam carefully opened one of the back doors. The policemen turned as he made a run for it. One just had time to yell, before Sam, several paces away, tugged his feet from under him with a gesture. Seeing the other fumble for his gun, Sam held out a hand. The gun leapt out of the man’s holster and flew towards Sam instead.
Feeling the weight of the gun in his hand, Sam beamed at the policeman. ‘I’m really not a bad person,’ he explained. ‘And under different circumstances I’d stop to explain. Now get in the car. And drive me to wherever Hindsonn was taken.’
The policeman didn’t move. Sam sighed. ‘Once you’re dead, what use can you be to anyone?’
‘You’re the kind of sick bastard who’d kill just for kicks,’ hissed the copper.
That was the trouble with good people in a bad situation. They simply acted heroic.
‘I could say I’m out to save the world, but it wouldn’t help, would it?’ He turned the gun on the policeman’s fallen comrade and held it trained on the man with a nonchalance that took more acting than actual skill with a gun. ‘Now will you drive?’
Sam cuffed the policeman he’d knocked over, touched his hand and plunged him into a shallow trance. Shallow, because the man might have to be woken quickly if Sam needed a hostage. He motioned to them both to get in the car, where the other man drove, aware that behind him sat, for want of a better description, a madman with a gun.
‘And no funny business,’ said Sam brightly. ‘Because for all you know I might be a psychopathic killer.’
‘In which case we’re dead anyway,’ said the man at the wheel.
‘If I really were bad, to prevent any escapes I’d have broken at least one bone in each of you. I’d like you to take that into account.’
‘You seem very relaxed.’
Sam knew what the policeman was trying to do: talk him round, find flaws in his armour, and by indirect means persuade him to be nice and reasonable. But having just been under attack from a madman possessed by War herself, two mortal policemen were hardly a priority. The threatened end of the universe, then the Berlin constabulary.
‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through recently,’ Sam said.
‘Why? You hurt?’
‘Nope.’
‘You going to finish off Hindsonn?’
‘No. And while we’re on the subject he stabbed himself.’
‘The sword?’
‘Family heirloom. I was trying to sell it to Hindsonn.’
‘Why did he stab himself?’ asked the policeman, failing to hide his disbelief.
‘Would you believe me if I said he was possessed by ghosts?’
‘Do you think I should?’
Sam sighed. ‘You concentrate on driving.’
The policeman said nothing. But Sam knew that several of the things he’d just seen were worrying him, and probably would until the day he died. He was half tempted to explain it, shatter the man’s world view and drive profoundest doubt into his soul. Of course it would eventually cause a family crisis, and divorce from his wife, which in turn would lead to drink, a dishonourable dismissal from the police, separation from his children and his eventual spiral through debt into madness and —
The car turned a corner and into a hospital car park in front of broad canopy over an entrance identified as ‘Accident and Emergency’. There were a couple of ambulances outside, lights flashing. Sam pulled off his jumper, goosebumps crawling along his cold arms. He wrapped the jumper a few times around his hand and said, ‘Okay, out.’
The policeman glanced back at his unconscious colleague. ‘What did you do to him?’ he asked as Sam marched him round the back of the car.
‘Nothing that wouldn’t sound corny and unconvincing,’ said Sam. ‘Open the boot.’
The policeman didn’t move. Sam sighed. ‘Look, there are plenty of innocent people in the hospital for me to shoot at. Please don’t assume you can make trouble.’
Reluctantly the man opened the boot. Sam’s belongings were all there. Once he’d taken possession of them once more, he closed the boot and beamed at the man he was holding at gunpoint. ‘What’s your name – first name?’
‘Marc.’
Probably a lie, but who knew? ‘Well, Marc, because I don’t trust you one inch, I’d like you to accompany me through the hospital. Please don’t do anything silly, because I get nervous very easily.’
They marched in through the double doors and up to reception, Sam keeping the jumper low, where only someone who looked would see. ‘We’re looking for Hindsonn, just brought in.’
‘A moment please.’ The receptionist seemed hassled. She took in Marc’s uniform and turned to check a computer screen, scanning down it just as the phone rang. Muttering under her breath, she said into the receiver, ‘He what? No. No. No, he isn’t here. Look, give me the number, okay? I’ll pass it on.’
When she put down the phone Sam was still standing patiently, a smile on his face. ‘Well?’
‘Oh, yes. Hindsonn… Hindsonn – stabbing. He’s gone into surgery.’
‘How is he?’
The woman frowned. ‘Are you a relation?’
‘Friend. I work with him.’
‘Your name?’
Sam could see Marc looking hungry at this potential information. ‘Luke. Luke Satise.’ An unusual name, but too late to change it now.
‘Well, Herr… Satise… your friend was critical, but the doctors say there’s a good chance. He won’t be out of surgery, though, for several hours… yes, of course you can wait.’
He had to get Marc away from the crowded reception area. He guided the man downstairs towards the basement, right into the bowels of the building. Bright lights getting dimmer, scrubbed floors getting dirtier, white paint getting greyer. Sam p
ushed open a shabby green door and peered down a flight of concrete steps at a room full of boilers. Reluctantly Marc was made to walk ahead, down the short flight of stairs into the boiler room, stepping through a puddle from a dripping pipe. Sam closed the door behind them, found a bolt and kicked that shut.
Marc looked defiantly back up the steps, but Sam could sense the fear coming off him.
‘What now?’
‘We wait,’ replied Sam, sitting down.
‘For what?’
‘For Hindsonn to leave surgery.’
‘They’ll notice I’m gone. They’ll soon find the car.’
‘And no doubt they’ll search the hospital and look through footage from the security cameras, and sometime in the next three hours they might realise we never left the hospital. And maybe in four hours’ time someone will stumble on this place, but by then Hindsonn should be out of surgery and I can ask him some questions.’
‘What questions are those?’
Sam gave Marc a weary look. ‘Time above, you don’t give up, do you? Listen,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘there are things out there so big that humans can’t even begin to contemplate them. There are Powers moving through space that can destroy worlds on whim, and those that can create them. There’s always a war to control the universe, there are always wars for power. But not little power, not the power to make the sergeant the lieutenant and the lieutenant the captain. These are wars for the power to make suns live and die, wars for power over the stars.
‘This’ – vaguely gesturing with the gun – ‘is just a tiny, tiny dot on a tiny dot on a tiny dot on a tiny dot in the huge, endless battle between the Powers. And it is my unfortunate fate to be another tiny dot, but possessing the final and unique screw that makes the whole machine fit together. It doesn’t matter that the machine itself is a gigantic cannon with a tendency to backfire. All anyone ever wants is the screw, so that they can at least possess the cannon, even if they don’t know what to do with it. And this cannon – this cannon can engulf worlds, make the Powers themselves feel fear. So you see, the fact that the tiny dot is holding a gun on another tiny dot isn’t very relevant. It’s the missing screw in the dot’s coat pocket that gets people fussed.’
Marc was thinking, trying – or pretending – to turn confused words of other worlds and other things into logical Berliner sense. ‘Which matters more? The tiny dot that holds the screw, or the screw itself?’
‘In my own opinion, the tiny dot is infinitely more valuable than the screw. Unfortunately, not everyone sees it that way.’
‘You seem confused. There must be a reason why you’re risking so much to keep me alive.’
‘And you seem like a patronising bastard,’ sighed Sam, leaning against the wall. ‘And as for why I’m keeping you alive, the answer is twofold. One, if I’m caught it would be useful to have a hostage, especially one who can flash ID to get me access if necessary.’
There was silence. Then Marc said, ‘And the second reason?’
Sam seemed to have forgotten about it. He looked slightly surprised. ‘I don’t like loud noises, that’s all. Now sit down and wait. We could be here a long time.’
Marc evidently thought at length that it was safe to make his move. Sam, head leaned against the wall, eyes half closed, could hear his breathing and the creak of the leather in his shoes as Marc edged up the stairs towards him.
‘Don’t,’ said Sam, adjusting the position of the gun.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘That’s no excuse.’ Sam stretched and glanced at his watch. He was tired, he was overworked, and he was still uncertain what he could do to change anything.
It was two thirty. With luck, Hindsonn should be out of surgery. Sighing, he got to his feet. ‘If someone says we’re not allowed through, show them your ID and tell them it’s official police work. Let’s move.’
In reception Sam asked politely if Herr Hindsonn was out of surgery yet.
‘He’s in intensive care… Yes, he’s stable.’
‘Stable’ in Sam’s mind was a worrying term. Death was ‘stable’. ‘We’d like to see him.’
‘I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.’
Sam nudged Marc in the small of the back. Marc, slow and reluctant, pulled out his police badge. ‘Ma’am, this is official business.’
‘He’s unconscious.’
‘We’d still like to see him,’ said Sam quickly, filling the silence before Marc could. ‘We won’t wake him.’
The receptionist shrugged, clearly uncertain but not sure what she could do about it. ‘Down that way, first left, first right.’
They headed down a long corridor, Marc’s shoes squeaking on the plastic tiles, Sam blinking from fatigue under the bright white lights. Sometimes very sensitive eyes had their downside. A doctor exited a room ahead of them but after a glance at the two men she quickly looked away. A policeman and a plain clothes detective were no real surprise on the ward. Sam felt cold in just his shirt and trousers, his gun hand sticky with sweat under the tightly wrapped jumper. The place stank of disinfectant. Someone in the distance was coughing, someone else was crying.
They stopped outside a door with a glass panel. A nurse was leaning over a bed on which lay the pale figure of Herr Hindsonn, his eyes closed, tubes leading into his arms, mouth, nose. Machines beeped all around, impressive but to Sam’s eyes meaning nothing. He pushed the door open. The nurse looked up. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t —’
Marc waved his ID without being told, his face sullen.
‘Please leave,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll call if we need you.’
‘But I —’
‘Thank you,’ he said firmly, holding the door open.
‘I’ll come back in five minutes.’
The door closed behind her, and Sam looked down at Hindsonn, then up at Marc.
‘Cuffs,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, please. Give me the cuffs.’
Marc tossed them over, worry showing on his formerly empty face. Sam cuffed him to the radiator and said, ‘Look, I’m not going to hurt anyone, okay?’
‘I wish I could believe it.’
‘Have I hit anyone, have I killed anyone? Give me a chance, copper.’
Sam edged away from Marc, aware of the policeman’s eyes on him, and lay the gun in the jumper on the floor at Hindsonn’s bedside. He leant over the sleeping figure and carefully put his hands over the man’s face, fingers spread to get as much physical contact as he could. Closing his eyes, he let his mind sink into Hindsonn’s.
He’d been tempted to try and heal, but that ran the risk not only of draining him to the core but of the woken Hindsonn calling on War again. Sam knew better than fighting that fight once more, only minus his own regenerative powers. So he chose the more subtle solution.
By degrees he could feel Hindsonn’s sleeping mind. Gently he eased his own thoughts into it, saw as Hindsonn saw, felt as he felt, heard…
The sound of wind over an empty landscape. Sam looked around. Never had he seen such desolation. Huge craters full of mist and trapped pools of yellow gas, trees blown to pieces, barbed wire hanging limp around deserted trenches, shattered guns pointing skywards, sandbags blasted open, spilling their contents in a sodden landscape of torn-up mud.
Sam turned, searching through this landscape for Hindsonn. Heard a sound, other than the wind. A man in a helmet and army uniform was peering at him from the edge of a trench. He held a gun, aimed at Sam. Sam stared at him, refusing to feel fear. This wasn’t real, it was just part of Hindsonn’s mind.
‘Hindsonn,’ he said quietly, ‘none of this is real, none of this is you, you do know that, don’t you?’ The hands holding the gun were shaking, terror was on the man’s face.
‘You’ve sold yourself to War. I don’t know why, but it’s been done before. You feed your blood to a Greater Power, and receive some of their strength. Unfortunately they also gain a certain control over you. If the Power
s fought directly, their battles would probably tear worlds apart. So if they can fight through mortal agents it’s more convenient, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘She… she… she…’
‘She killed you. Well, tried. You called on her to protect you, and she possessed you, and so that you wouldn’t tell me anything, she killed you.’
‘I… I…’
‘You’ll live. This’ – Sam waved a hand at the ruined landscape – ‘is just a part of her power in you, the power of War. But Greater Powers can’t actively possess mortals for long, it leaves them exposed, weakened. So she’s probably not coming back for a while.’ He edged closer to Hindsonn, but the gun went up again, pointing straight at Sam’s face. Sam slowed, letting Hindsonn see his empty hands. ‘You’re in an intensive care unit. There’s nothing to fear.’
Timekeepers: Number 2 in Series Page 7