London Falling

by Paul Cornell

  ‘Marcus Junius Brutus. Or Brutus of Troy. Or Brutus Greenshield.’

  Sefton tried to remember what he’d seen on telly about Roman history. ‘What, you’re the bloke who killed Julius Caesar? Was he—?’

  ‘From Troy? No. Those three names I gave you are those of three different people.’

  ‘Do you mean that you aren’t . . . real?’

  Brutus sighed. ‘You’ve probably realized there’s an element, to all this, of you finding what you set out to find—’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of Brutus Greenshield!’

  ‘—and there’s also an element that was chosen by me. I need you to realize that this isn’t entirely an expedition into your own mind. The Romans never had any difficulty in seeing omens. In fact the call from outside themselves was something they welcomed. But people from your time do have this tendency to regard everything as internalized. You think you’re making the world yourselves, at every moment. Sorry, but no.’

  ‘I didn’t think that at all,’ Sefton said carefully. ‘In fact I came here to find out things I don’t know.’

  ‘Excellent. So where do you think you are?’

  ‘London. Roman London?’

  ‘Correct. Well, to the extent that it’s what this place is pretending to be at the moment: the city I founded in the country I founded. Britain, the country of Brutus! Did you know that was what people once thought? I thought it would be enjoyable to make the place look like that for you. But really, this is one of many . . . yes, places – let’s call them that, since there’s some truth to that – places that orbit London. They affect London, they make it the way it is because of their proximity.’ He looked playful all of a sudden. ‘Did you notice that while you’re here you’ve lost the Sight?’

  With a jolt, Sefton realized that it was true. It was why he’d felt no threat from this place. To be told he’d lost one of his senses made him feel – instead of the relief he’d been anticipating – suddenly vulnerable.

  ‘The definition of the Sight is being able to sense something that has a connection to, that takes power from, one of these other worlds I spoke of – like this one – while you’re in your own world. That’s meaningless here because we’re actually in one of those other worlds.’

  ‘So this is, like, another dimension?’

  Brutus put a finger to Sefton’s lips. ‘You only get one question, so don’t waste it on physics.’

  Sefton closed his mouth.

  ‘You were very brave to come here without understanding where you were going. You’ve obviously realized that the quest isn’t a matter of tramping over hill and dale, but that it’s within you. Your world – I mean the planet – is getting smaller and smaller with so many people living on it, slower and slower as everything runs out, also hotter and hotter, and that’s your own fault. You may have to start to find new adventures to aspire to, to find new shapes for stories. To overcome the inertia of history will be tremendously difficult for you. And there are those who are meanwhile taking advantage of this time of transformation and opportunity and horror – who are trying to turn the wheel in their own direction.’ He put a hand to Sefton’s face again, turning his head left and right, as if examining a horse. Sefton let him do so. ‘You know what Hell is?’

  ‘I don’t believe in it.’

  ‘Good. It is time that defines whether something is real or not. Time is what makes what people experience a tragedy or a love story or a triumph. Hell is where time has stopped, where there’s no more innovation. No horizon. No change. I sometimes think Hell would suit the British down to the ground, and that, given the chance, they’d vote for it. You’d better make sure they never get the chance, eh?’

  Sefton took the hand from his face. It felt cool to the touch. He took care not to frame what he wanted to say now as a question. ‘I wish you’d just tell me who you are. So far, you keep contradicting yourself. You’re pleased I don’t believe in Hell, but then you tell me all about it. You’re playing with words . . .’

  ‘I am a word.’ Brutus leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips again. This time Sefton let him. The kiss continued, long and hard, and Sefton started to wonder if this was going to be a significant part of whatever this out-of-body experience was. But, as he started to connect emotionally with the man he was kissing, to think about what Joe might have to say about this, to let his guard down, he thought he glimpsed something in his mind’s eye: the answer to who this was!

  He stepped back, staring and panting. But he couldn’t afford to ask the question.

  The man’s voice turned gentle, supremely careful. ‘As the song goes, I am what I am. At the moment, just for where we are now, I’m that Roman chap who killed his friend for the sake of the law, to save the people and to let their will prevail. I have all those memories, of a complete life spent in Rome, including its end. But, clearly, that particular Brutus didn’t talk as I do, and he had all sorts of dimensions to him that I don’t represent. Because I’m also something else that has continued further, and that goes back further. I also remember being that other Brutus, the Trojan, making that first footprint on that muddy British shore, with my expedition of Romans behind me, all following me, their noble foreign captain, as we arrived in a new land for the first time. And, in yet another direction, I also remember my father, King Efrawg of the Britons, who raised me in Britain, in the British tradition, to carry a green shield. Do you see what I’m being here, what I’ve decided to be, in order to meet you safely? I’m the son of the British, and the father of them, and also someone entirely separate from them.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’re . . .?’ Sefton stopped himself. That had nearly been a question, and he didn’t want that to be his permitted question, because he didn’t want to hear the answer. This was crashing against things he knew to be good. ‘I won’t . . . I won’t believe in some sort of higher power, you know . . . ever.’

  Brutus drew closer again. He smelt clean. Sefton could see the smallest pores in his face, the hard line of his jaw, the depths in his eyes. He so wanted to feel that connection again, to feel that love. But he was angry at it, too. He didn’t know how you could avoid being angry with something so much bigger than you were. Not a lot of difference between this thing and Losley, not at his present size.

  ‘Kevin,’ said Brutus, ‘I wouldn’t expect anything more or less of you. This information you’re taking in while you’re here, it’s rough stuff. It’s being pulled screaming out of nature only because of what you’ve undergone to get here. I’m just something that intervenes sometimes to make it all a bit easier. For you, I’m a slippery stepping stone in a very choppy river, not a bridge you have to cross.’ He gestured around him. ‘Things are complicated. Not everything is known . . . and not everything will pass through this conduit. Although I’ve tried to make this communication as easy as I can, by giving you a place in which to have it, a person to have it with, some of it was always going to be garbled, incoherent, contradictory. Now, come on, you’re ready. So ask your question.’

  Sefton wondered if he should ask something about the nature of the smiling man or, more practically, about Losley’s location. But, no, he hadn’t come here with any grand desire for illumination, and finding her was the only objective on the Ops Board they might be able to accomplish on their own. He’d come here with a specific purpose. He’d come here to save Quill’s child. ‘How,’ he asked, ‘do we defeat Mora Losley?’

  Brutus inclined his head in approval. ‘You remember the bookshop? What you felt there?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That’s another question.’

  ‘Tell me! Just bloody tell me!’

  Brutus wandered away, shaking his head and laughing. But it was good laughter. He was laughing at Sefton’s courage, the policeman realized. ‘If you want to find me again, you’ll have to find another way. It must get harder every time, because otherwise, what would be the point of wisdom? You’re now an initiate. You have an instinctive
understanding of these things. Now you must work.’

  ‘But I don’t know if I’ve understood . . . almost anything here.’

  ‘You were brave,’ said Brutus. ‘That’s always a good beginning.’

  Sefton woke up with a start. He jumped to his feet and looked around. He was at the bus stop, he’d never left the bus stop, he’d leaned back against the wall of the shelter and fallen asleep!

  No, he was actually somewhere different. He was leaning against the metal edge of a bus stop, but . . . it was a completely different one. The sounds and smells of London flooded back. People were walking past, all around him, glancing at him, wondering what was up with him. He took a few faltering steps and saw that he was just along from Cannon Street tube station, near a mobile phone shop and a business that called itself ‘London Stone’.

  Well, maybe that was someone’s way of saying that what he’d just experienced had been real. But he felt disappointed, unfulfilled. He didn’t know if he’d discovered anything that could help Quill. He felt the Sight back inside his head, but there was a difference now. Just a slight one. He felt more confident about it, as if he’d calibrated something inside his head by . . . switching it off and turning it back on again.

  He’d gone down into the hole and he’d faced his fear and he’d come out changed. He’d taken a first step. Already a lot of what he’d experienced felt like a story, something that had happened to someone else. He took his special notebook from his pocket, and started to write down all he could remember. But he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to show it to anybody.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  With the cage holding the cat, Costain stood at the empty Boleyn Ground, in the gap where Losley’s and Toshack’s season-ticket seats had once been. Match day was tomorrow, and there were already preparations being made. He unbolted the cage. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘out you get.’

  The cat looked at him in surprise for a moment, then did so, dropping lightly on to the concrete. ‘Are you releasing me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve got nothing further to contribute to the inquiry. And maybe I’m looking for some good karma. You’ll know from your radio plays that Brits always treat animals decently, even when they’re being shits to each other.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. Another unexpected kindness.’

  ‘Will you go back to her?’

  ‘I’d like to, because I agree with her that she should have me around. But that all depends on whether or not she spots me here. It was a reasonable choice of site on your part. As any true Irons fan would, she does look in on the ground from time to time, remotely as it were. I shall remain here and see what transpires.’

  Costain squatted to smooth the creature’s head. ‘Good luck, Tiger Feet.’

  ‘Thank you. You have been very kind. You are not as bad as you have been painted.’

  Costain smiled and headed out of the ground. When he’d driven a significant distance away – further, he hoped, than Losley would ever notice if looking in on her beloved turf – he stopped the car, and took the receiving station for the locator bug from out of the glove compartment. The GPS showed the tiny flash of light at the Boleyn Ground repeating. He didn’t know how long it took for food to make its way through a cat’s digestive system, but he hoped Losley would take the bait before then. She would surely want to retrieve something that she’d invested so much in creating. And there the cat would be highly visible, in a place she paid great attention to, and seemingly free to take back. She might even think she could learn a few things about the coppers from it, but Costain hoped that the friendship he’d so carefully developed with it would protect them from any devastating revelations. And, to be honest, they were utterly vulnerable where she was concerned, anyway. Losley would take the cat back to wherever she was hiding, and the locator bug would then tell them where that was, so they could all swoop in and save Jessica. That was his plan. But, standing here now, it seemed a pretty distant hope.

  His phone rang. ‘If you’ve finished your own secret project,’ said Quill, ‘then get your arse back here. Ross has called in, and she’s got us a solid lead.’

  ‘Me, too,’ he said, and managed to describe what he’d just done without committing the sin of pride. Not much. As he drove off, though, he wondered about sins committed against cats, and whether or not whatever went around really did come around. He hoped he’d get a chance to prove otherwise.

  Ross marched into the evidence room to find Quill, Costain and Sefton standing surrounded by all eighty-three stationery boxes. ‘Still can’t find anything,’ said Quill, looking at her almost angrily. ‘Who’s this source of yours?’

  For a moment, she wanted to lie or say nothing at all. But then she realized that it was just a ridiculous reflex, that she had no reason to. So she told them everything. She saw that Sefton was looking as if he understood, as if he’d been through something enormous himself. Costain looked sombre as she described her dad’s circumstances. When she got to the bit about the boxes, she went and picked one up, and turned it over in her hands. She put her hand inside it, feeling all the way around. Frustrated, she put it aside and picked up another.

  ‘So what are we looking for?’ asked Costain.

  ‘It must be something . . . normal. Last time we looked, we were so into having the Sight, but Toshack didn’t possess that . . .’ She stopped and realized that, as she’d been talking, she was actually looking straight at what she’d been talking about. ‘Look.’

  In biro, on one side of the box, there was a tiny X.

  ‘X marks the spot,’ said Costain, uncertainly.

  ‘See if you can find any more,’ said Quill.

  They found twenty-nine boxes with Xs marked on them. They made a pile of them. They worked fast, aware of the ticking clock, the football match approaching, and what any single goal would mean. Ross discovered that most of them had two Xs, on opposite sides. Four of them, like the one Ross had picked up first, had only one X. The Xs came in two colours, blue and red. Always the same colour on both sides, except—

  Ross held up the special box and spun it to show them all four sides: two blue Xs opposite two red ones. ‘Do you see?’ she said. The others watched as she put it all together. The special box, with four Xs, went in the middle of the space they’d cleared on the evidence room floor. She placed a row of boxes, red X adjacent to red X, running right through it, so the special box remained in the middle. Then she did the same with the blue-X boxes.

  They now formed a single large X.

  As soon as she shoved the last box into place, something happened. There was a little noise . . . as the boxes all shunted closer together. She gently tried to move one of them. But it was stuck against the box beside it, and also to the floor. She stood up and looked at the others.

  ‘Kick arse,’ said Costain.

  Sefton sniffed. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Fresh air,’ said Quill. ‘Didn’t recognize it for a second.’

  It was coming from the boxes, Ross realized. She leaned over to sniff . . . and leaped back as the construction . . . started to move. It was spinning on the floor, like something badly animated in a children’s show. The lines of boxes were sweeping around, faster and faster, without making any sound to suggest their bases scraping against the concrete. She blinked . . . Okay, so the concrete underneath the boxes seemed to be moving too. The X spun faster and faster until it was a silent blur, just a circle of movement on the floor. At the same time a pleasant wet winter breeze was wafting into the stuffiness of the nick.

  They kept watching it. They waited. It kept going. Nothing else happened.

  ‘What’s this for, then?’ said Costain.

  ‘I think it’s some sort of . . . travel thing,’ said Ross. ‘Dad tried to say it was Toshack’s way of getting himself to a lock-up that we haven’t yet found.’

  Costain picked up one of the other boxes. ‘I think I heard him working this,’ he said, ‘th
rough the door to his den. This must be why he spent so much time up there.’ He took an awkward run-up at the spinning shape, and threw the box into the air above it.

  The box vanished.

  They walked around the spinning boxes for a while.

  ‘We’ve got to see if it sort of . . . does it all in one go . . .’ said Quill ‘. . . or if someone’s going to get their arm chopped off if they make an extravagant gesture.’ He got a mop and, holding it gently, moved it towards the air above the spinning boxes. The end of the mop vanished into thin air. He pulled it back, and there was the end of the mop again. Ross felt relieved. There was a line around the circumference of the boxes: outside it, things were visible; inside, they weren’t – and those things could be safely retracted again.

  ‘So that leads to—?’

  ‘Still somewhere in Greater London, judging by his travel time when he used the car instead,’ said Costain.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Sefton. He ran out, and returned a few minutes later with his holdall, from which he produced the vanes that Quill had taken off the bloke who’d attacked him in Westminster Hall. ‘I’ve been wondering if these were meant to be a weapon, or if . . .’ He held them towards the spinning boxes as if they were dowsing rods, and took a step forward. The vanes turned in his hands, crossing each other. ‘X marks the spot again,’ he said.

  ‘And does that mean this is safe?’ asked Costain.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Could you find Losley with those?’

  ‘I think it’s kind of short range. So . . . only if she’s right in front of me. And then I think I’d know.’

  ‘All right,’ said Quill, chucking away the mop, ‘who’s up for doing this? Oh, right, no time to draw lots, so that’d be me.’ And, before anyone could say anything, he’d taken a few steps back and then run at it.

  Quill had jumped while hoping that, if they were wrong about this, then at least it’d be quick. He was thinking of Jessica. Of how little he knew of Jessica. Of wanting to get to know her.