by Oisin McGann
As she turned away, he reached up and pulled the cover off the case, revealing a wide metal tube like a gun barrel protruding from the top of a squat box. There was a hopper mounted on the side of the box, and on the back of the case were two silver gas cylinders. Gas cylinders.
The man looked straight at her and smiled. Her heart gave a mighty thump. His hand slapped a button on the top of the weapon. There was a loud bang. A stream of something erupted out of the barrel. Screams burst from the crowd as the air filled with . . . the air filled with money. The machine was a confetti blaster – powered by carbon dioxide. And it was shooting money.
The screams hesitantly turned to laughter and whoops of joy. The people reached up, snatching the ten-, twenty- and fifty-pound notes out of the air. The money swirled around, floating lazily down towards thousands of giddy commuters. Amina joined in, grabbing a fifty-pound note as it spiralled down towards her. She looked at the paper and then over at the man who had fired the cannon. He was laughing. She stared back at the paper again. There were words printed on it in translucent blue ink:
'Web search: There Is No War'.
'Do you remember?' a voice beside her asked softly.
Amina turned to face the man who stood there. It was Ivor McMorris. The man she'd interviewed not long ago, who had dragged her into a mess of delusions, lies and paranoia. She should have felt disgust at the sight of him, but instead . . . she felt a need to see him smile.
'Do you remember?' he asked again, his face hopeful.
She rolled her tongue around her mouth, feeling the healing scar where she had bitten it. Looking around her, Amina could see that other people were reading the words printed on the money. They appeared puzzled – curious. Many were taking pictures of the scene with the cameras on their phones.
'I . . . I remember . . . that . . .' She struggled to make sense of a memory that didn't fit. 'I think this was my idea. Money talks.'
'Yes,' Ivor said, smiling in that slightly sad way she knew she loved. 'Money talks. This is happening right now in three other railway stations. Thousands of people will pull this money from the air. And it was all your idea.'
It would spread like a virus. Unlike the leaflets she'd seen John Donghu's boys printing, these would never become litter. They would be carried by these travellers to every corner of the city, and to the country beyond. They would never be thrown away, but would instead be spent – passed on to others. Some could circulate for years.
People would begin to search – some with real curiosity, others just for a laugh. The phrase 'There Is No War' would become famous. And even if the information they found was scoffed at, maybe a few – just a few troublemakers – would demand to know the truth. And a few troublemakers was a good start.
'I remember . . . things . . . things about you,' she mused aloud. 'But they don't seem real.'
'Because somebody made you forget,' Ivor said. 'But we'll help you remember.'
Amina did not want to remember. It was uncomfortable to even try. She did not want to fight her own mind.
'Let's start now,' she said, holding up the fiftypound note. 'Come on. I'll buy you breakfast.'
They walked away through the crowd, watching those around them stooping to scrape up the cash that was littering the floor. And so it was that the word was spread.
was packing his bags. He had a private jet scheduled to leave the country from a small airfield in an hour's time. He slapped a clip into his automatic pistol and threw it on top of his jacket, which lay beside the open suitcase. It was an empty gesture. If it ever came time to use the weapon, it would already be too late.
Striding across his severely, but expensively decorated bedroom, he opened another drawer and started pulling out some socks. His mobile rang – the no-nonsense electronic ring-tone making him start. Walking back over to his jacket, drew the phone out and looked at the screen. The number wasn't displayed. People in his business withheld their numbers as a matter of routine. Biting his lip, he took the call.
'Yes?'
'Is this Admiral Robert Cole?' a woman asked.
'Who is this?'
'Admiral Cole, this is Helena Jessop. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about VioMaze and the experimental mind-control programme it's running for the military?'
Cole stared at the phone, wondering how the bloody woman had got his number. For a moment he was tempted to go on record. Maybe even go to the police, ask for protection. Get it all out in the open.
But the moment of madness passed. He hung up on her, throwing the phone beside the gun.
'You did the right thing,' someone said from behind him.
Cole's shoulders slumped and he felt a sudden itch in the centre of his back. Turning slowly, he locked eyes with the man in the black tracksuit standing in the doorway. The man held a pistol capped with a stubby silencer. He wore latex gloves and plastic covers over his trainers.
'You don't have to do this,' Cole protested, raising his hands in a pleading gesture. 'You have nothing to fear from me.'
But those were his final words.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
You can't create a story from the outside. So when you've finished it, you need someone to take a look at it and tell you whether the tale you've woven in your head is the same as the one you're weaving in the heads of others. Before any editors get involved, my family are my first critics and I'd like to thank all of them, particularly my wife Maedhbh, for their sound advice, passion and their (mostly!) constructive criticism. They keep my feet on the ground.
My brother, Marek, does much of the work on my website (www. Oisinmcgann. Com) and keeps me up-todate with any online developments, gossip and scandal. I tap his brain on regular occasions and basically treat him like a free technical support centre for a range of issues.
Thanks also to my agent, Sophie Hicks, who, with the help of Edina Imrik and everyone at Ed Victor Ltd, guides me through the minefield of contract negotiations. Such straight-talking and diplomacy so rarely go hand in hand.
I've had conversations with many people about the subjects dealt with in this book – too many to name here – but they have all helped to hone and focus my ideas. The worst conspiracies are the ordinary, down-to-earth ones whose results we see around us every day. And there is more than enough truth being told about them if we know where to look. Thanks to all the writers, journalists and film-makers who've asked the awkward questions on behalf of ordinary people, and all those who've made me question my own perceptions of the world.
As ever, the staff at Random House made great contributions during the production of this book and the promotion of the last one. I'm grateful to Nina Douglas and Lauren Bennett for all their help with the publicity for Ancient Appetites, and for their patience, efficiency and pleasant demeanours over long, long days of travelling and talks, even when they know they'll be doing it all again next week. James Fraser continues to accept my design input with remarkably good grace and always knows how to do it better.
Clare Argar took over from Shannon Park as editor on this book at relatively short notice, and did so without missing a beat. Changing editor is an unsettling experience for any writer and I'm happy to say that Clare made it an absolute pleasure.
SMALL-MINDED GIANTS
Oisín McGann
Beyond the huge domed roof of Ash Harbour, deadly storms and Arctic temperatures have stripped the Earth bare. Sixteen-year-old boxing enthusiast Solomon Wheat is thrust into a dangerous underworld when his father – a daylighter who clears ice from the dome – goes missing and is accused of murder.
As Sol uncovers the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance, he gradually exposes more sinister secrets when it becomes clear that the Machine which keeps the city alive is running out of power. Strange messages start appearing from the rebellious Dark-Day Fatalists, warning inhabitants of their inevitable fate, while the elusive and dangerous Clockworkers seem intent on protecting the ailing Machine at any cost.
&nb
sp; Sol's search leads him into the bowels of Ash Harbour, where street-fights and black-market deals rule its skeletal maze, and the giants of industry who run the city bury their dirty secrets. Along with rebellious classmate Cleo, and Maslow, an unlikely accomplice, Sol faces the match of his life to uncover the truth.
The fight is on . . .
978 0 552 55473 2
ANCIENT APPETITES
Oisín McGann
Nate Wildenstern's brother has been killed, and the finger is pointed at him . . .
After nearly two years, eighteen-year-old Nate returns home to the family empire ruled by his father – the ruthless Wildenstern Patriarch. But Nate's life is soon shattered by his brother's death, and the Rules of Ascension, allowing the assassination of one male family member by another, means he's being blamed. He knows that he is not the murderer, but who is?
With the aid of his troublesome sister-in-law, Daisy, and his cousin Gerald, he means to find out. But when the victims of the family's tyrannical regime choose the funeral to seek their revenge, they accidently uncover the bodies of some ancient Wildenstern ancestors, one of whom bears a Patriarch's ring. The lives of Nate and his family are about to take a strange and horrifying turn . . .
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2007
WATERSTONE'S BOOK PRIZE
978 0 552 55499 2