by Tim Major
It was true. There must be thirty people watching open-mouthed from the cars still backed up at the lights. Gerry cursed inwardly and pulled the car onto the grass verge. Ayo leapt out as soon as it stopped.
Her legs shook a little as she jogged to catch up. The air was bitingly cold; steam rose from the bonnet of the black Bentley, along with smoke. One of its front wheels had found its way into a ditch so that the vehicle tipped to one side. Some onlookers exited their cars to watch, but nobody approached the crashed car.
As they neared it, one of the back doors cracked open, then swung out fully due to the downwards angle.
A man emerged. He wore a tweed suit and bow tie and his dark hair was cropped short. He crawled free of the wreckage but then slid slowly into the ditch, out of sight. Ayo accelerated to a run.
Gerry was more hesitant. Through the tinted windscreen she could still see the two other occupants. They weren’t moving. She moved to the passenger door and eased it open gingerly.
Both men had slumped sideways so that their heads met, making a triangle of their bodies. The driver’s face was streaked with blood and they both appeared unconscious. She noted that neither man wore his seat belt.
It took her a few moments before she noticed.
They were identical to one another, and identical to the man she had seen crawl into the ditch. The same tweed suits and bow ties, the same goatee beards, the same faces.
A shadow fell across them. Gerry spun around. It was Ayo.
“He’s gone,” he said. “The one who crawled out of the car. He must have been able to run.”
If Ayo noticed that the men were identical, he didn’t show it. “It’s the same guy who questioned me at the care home.”
“Do you think they’re dead?”
Ayo bent into the car, peering at each man without touching them. “No. I found someone with a mobile telephone – they've already called an ambulance. Best not to move these two until the paramedics arrive.”
“We have to get away from here.”
Now that the initial shock had passed, Gerry experienced an adrenalin burst again. Something sparked in her mind, which must still be processing the puzzle unconsciously. What had she said to Ayo, before the collision? I don’t think Caitlin knows herself. Caitlin had no concept that she, too, was being hunted by the Party. She and her Skin were fleeing in order to ensure Kit’s freedom until she ashed.
And where might a panicked seventeen-year-old, possibly suffering an identity crisis, hide out? Somewhere that reinforced her sense of belonging to something. Somewhere that resonated with her current dilemma.
“I think I know the answer,” she murmured.
Ayo either didn’t hear or he ignored her. “We can cut straight through that street over there on foot. It’ll be faster than trying to drive. The crossroads is a mess.”
Gerry frowned. “On foot? To where?”
“Dodie’s house, of course.”
“Why on earth—”
Ayo interrupted, speaking slowly as though she were a child. “These men saw us go into her house, Gerry. And one of them’s conscious and on the move. My money’s on him heading directly back to Dodie.”
Gerry gritted her teeth. “But I think I know where Caitlin Hext is heading.”
Ayo slammed the car door. Gerry peered through the window, terrified that he might have woken the concussed men, but there were no signs of movement.
“I understand,” Ayo said. His voice was little more than a hiss. “I understand now. To you, this whole thing is still about getting a story. That, and some childhood wish-fulfilment. I get that you worship Charmers. I get that you don’t give a damn about Skins – do you think I didn’t see how little you care about the prospect of them being murdered at January? But I never should have let you talk me into coming to Dodie’s house. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to hare off after Caitlin Hext, leaving that poor woman at the mercy of who-knows-what. Caitlin and Kit are safe. You following them can only endanger them, just as you endangered Dodie.”
Gerry’s mouth opened and closed. Her muted reaction about the extermination of Skins, following her initial adrenalin rush of deduction, was in part related to her assumption that the response of the general public would be similarly conflicted, if the policy were announced. The argument would be that Snakeskins were unnatural; that it was a relief that they quickly turned to ash; that if they didn’t, their demise ought to be hastened. But none of this could possibly defend her actions to Ayo.
“Fine,” Ayo said. “Get in your car. Good luck with the story.”
With a final hard look, he turned and sprinted away, picking his way through the cars and towards the cul-de-sac.
When she climbed into her car, Gerry tried and failed twice to start the engine. There was nothing wrong with the car – it was only that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She had no idea whether it was from shock or excitement.
The wheels spewed up mud from the verge as she wrestled the car onto the road and away.
* * *
The Doppler effect of the sirens of two fire engines that hurtled along Cowley Road disoriented Russell momentarily. This confusion, combined with Clive’s leaden weight, almost made him topple to one side. Clive grunted and clung on to Russell’s arm tighter.
“Nearly there,” Russell whispered.
Clive only nodded. Or perhaps he was about to pass out.
Russell looked down at the Skin’s left foot – or rather, the space where his left foot had been only forty-five minutes before. It had taken Russell a long time to bind the wound after he had finished sawing through Clive’s ankle and he was far from certain that the tourniquet would staunch the blood. He glanced behind them. It was too dark to see whether or not the pavement was stained.
Every few minutes, an image reappeared in Russell’s mind’s eye: Clive’s sawn-off foot balanced on top of a workbench. Still in its shoe, its radio tag still blinking blue. Nobody on the street paid either of them any notice. Darkness had fallen and the drunks were out in force, wheedling money out of passers-by and trying to force their way into the pubs that once would have been full of students, when Oxford had been a university town. Russell wondered if there were any Party members in there, relishing a taste of the seedier side of Oxford, as opposed to the rooftop bars and converted churches in the city centre.
Clive was becoming heavier with each minute that passed.
“Can you go faster?” Russell whispered. He wished he could have parked closer, but the office car park was always locked after dark.
The Skin didn’t answer, but he lolloped faster on his single foot, leaning forwards so that his momentum forced a quicker pace. He would certainly collapse soon.
The security guard did a double-take as Russell and Clive entered. He scrambled to his feet.
“Sir? I don’t understand.”
Clive waved a hand. His teeth were gritted tight. He jerked his head to indicate the corridor. “Key.”
“Oh. You need yours now? Absolutely, sir.” The guard fumbled with the wall safe, getting the code wrong twice before hauling the door open.
A black puddle was spreading on the carpet beneath Clive’s stump. The desk creaked as Clive put his full weight onto it. His face was white.
The guard placed a black box on the counter.
With difficulty, Clive lifted his right hand. His thumb hovered over the fingerprint scanner on the top of the box. Russell could barely watch. How would the guard react if Russell helped Clive move his hand? Seconds passed.
The Skin breathed deeply. Then, with surprising accuracy, he pressed his thumb onto the scanner. It beeped and the lid of the box flicked open. Clive’s body slumped and Russell darted forwards to support him. With his free hand he plucked the silver key from the box.
Russell didn’t allow himself to look back as they staggered together along the hallway. He didn’t know if the guard saw the smear of blood.
He saw no sign of light or movement within the banner-print
ers. Clive continued hobbling along the corridor towards Ellis’s office, using the wall for support.
“I’ll come and find you as soon as I get out,” Russell whispered.
Clive didn’t turn but raised a hand. He was barely able to keep his injured leg above the floor. Every couple of steps the stump grazed the carpet, leaving a black comma.
“I promise I will,” Russell said to himself.
He waited until Clive had stumbled into the Redevelopment and Funding office before he unlocked the door to the banner-printers.
Thin strip lights cast a yellow pall over the enormous printer in the centre. Russell edged around it with his arms spread out to prevent him from knocking into the printer or the surrounding cabinets. It had begun to rain outside; droplets hitting the windows made a drumbeat, underscoring more fire-engine sirens. Three or four of them must have passed along Cowley Road now.
As Nell had instructed, Russell ignored the banner-printer itself. He headed to a featureless door on its far side.
The room within was crammed with desks and a dozen or more computer terminals. There were no windows and Russell realised he couldn’t hear the rain or sirens any more. In its place was the low hum of technology on standby.
He approached the nearest terminal and pushed at its tracker ball. A bright white icon appeared onscreen – a padlock against a crimson background. He tried others, all with the same result.
On some of the desks were piles of printouts. Russell flicked on the torch Clive had given him and leafed through the papers. Calculations and jargon.
As he moved further into the room he kept glancing at the door through which he had entered. If anyone followed him in, his only chance would be to dive beneath one of the desks. None of the printouts contained any information he understood. Perhaps he should just take whatever he could carry. Perhaps Ellis’s Skins, or Nell, could make sense of it all? But whatever their suspicions about Ellis and the Party, none of them were experts. They were operating as much in the dark as Russell was right now.
Two things made him stop in his tracks.
One was a pinboard at the shadowed end of the room. Upon it were large, square images. Maps.
The second was the doorway beside it. It was only visible due to the hairline of light at its edges.
He held his breath. He heard the hum of voices.
He crept closer. The door must be thick. It sounded as though there were at least three people speaking. The volume suggested that they were close to the other side of the door, but none of the words were audible.
He ought to run. Whoever was in there might come out at any moment.
He held up his torch to light the pinboard.
The first map showed Oxford and its surrounding towns and villages. A red outline, a polygon with many sides, formed a rough ring around one particular area. Woodstock, to the north-west of the city.
The ‘target’, as they had called it at Ellis’s house party. It must be.
The second map showed the entirety of the British Isles. The same polygon had been redrawn on this map, correspondingly smaller. The only difference was that on this map it was labelled APR.
There were other rings. The one marked 05JUN was far larger. It encompassed an area that spanned from Coventry to the south coast vertically, and from the west to the east coast horizontally. Russell tried to judge its centre. He remembered what Ellis had told Angela McKinney over the phone. The centre of the target area is now identified as the western outer edge of the capital. Close to the M25 at West Drayton. It fit.
Another ring was far closer in size and location to the first one. It was drawn in blue pen and labelled 14JUN.
Affixed to the map with small pins was a transparent plastic sheet. A shape had been drawn on it, freehand and ragged at the edges. Instead of a ring it made a sausage shape, rounded at its lower end which coincided with the first outline, and open-ended at its upper end. Placed as it was, it described a sort of corridor leading north from Woodstock. Its label read 16JUN. Yesterday.
Suddenly, light flooded from the doorway, making Russell wince.
“Oh, Russell,” a familiar voice said.
Ellis Blackwood stood in the doorway, framed by Angela McKinney and Michael Trent.
“Sir—”
It was impossible to make out the expression on Ellis’s face. “I rather thought something of this nature might happen. What a shame.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Russell felt a flush of shame that his first instinct was for his own safety.
“Do?” Ellis said in a mocking tone. “You believe we’re monsters, don’t you?”
Russell had no idea how to reply.
“You’re human, Russell,” Angela McKinney said. “You have no reason to be afraid.”
“That sounds like a confession,” Russell managed to say. “So you mean if I was a Skin, I ought to be afraid?”
She shrugged. “Depends on whose Skin you were. I’m a Skin myself, as is my colleague Mr Trent here. And, to be frank, we haven’t a care in the world.”
The thought that Snakeskins might be complicit in the killing of others like them, those who belonged to less valuable humans, made Russell’s skin crawl.
“But he’s an originator, not a Skin!” Russell said, jabbing his finger at Ellis. “Ellis Blackwood is just like any normal person, coming to work each day, knackered. His Skins hate his guts.”
Angela smiled. “Yes, they did.”
“It’s all out in the open now,” Ellis said. He placed a hand on Russell’s arm.
Russell shrugged him off. “What do you mean, did?” he said to Angela.
Ellis moved into the light. His expression was a mixture of menace and avuncular good humour. “You’re all mixed up. But don’t worry. For a time we considered it prudent to rely on somebody unencumbered by Charmer abilities – somebody who might actually consider themselves unworthy of such power – for fear of the risk of duplicity by somebody possessing more guile. Now that you’ve come this far, I think we’ll be obliged to take you into our confidence after all.”
Russell shuddered. At least he might learn the truth. Escape was unlikely, but the Party seemed in no mood to kill him. If he ever made it back to Nell, he was determined he would have something to tell her.
He pointed at the map. “All right. Take me into your confidence, then. You can start with this target of yours. What is it?”
“A good question,” Ellis replied. “As you can see, its location has changed over time – a mystery that has been exercising our minds a great deal, but which has now been cleared up thanks to Mr Trent’s sterling detective work. Anyway, the fact that it is now ‘on the move’, so to speak, rather accelerates our plans. Having you on board may have been necessary even if you hadn’t made this transgression.”
“What plans?”
“The plans to reach the target at the appropriate moment, of course. Along with our close friends. I believe you may know some of their names? They’re noted down on a disk, about so big.” Ellis held up his thumb and forefinger. “It’s quite all right, Russell. I know you won’t have been a tittle-tattle and confided in anybody. I trust you.”
Russell shuddered. “If I’m going to help you, you’ll have to give me more to go on.”
A phone rang. Ellis frowned and rummaged in his jacket pocket. “Excuse me for a moment, please.” He turned away from Russell to speak into the mobile phone. Russell eyed the door, but Michael Trent stepped forwards to block his escape.
“Yes, it is,” Ellis said into the phone. “This morning, after breakfast. Yes. Oh. Good lord. Good grief.” His face displayed no particular signs of concern.
“Thank you for calling me,” he said. “You must excuse me. I must be alone with my thoughts. Yes, I will. Thank you again.” He hung up, then held the bulky phone against his chest. He turned, looking first at his two colleagues, then at Russell.
“I’m afraid to report,” Ellis said, his face still expressionless, “tha
t there’s been a fire at my house.”
Russell remembered hearing the fire engine sirens. And there was another thing. When he had inexpertly accelerated Nell’s car away from the Blackwood house, he had had to swerve to avoid somebody struggling to carry what had appeared to be a heavy-looking suitcase. He realised now that it had been a fuel canister.
Ellis continued in a quiet voice, “And I’ve also been informed that my wife has been found dead.”
Slowly, a smile spread across his face.
FIFTEEN
Caitlin followed Kit along the rocking train carriage. Their change at Oxford had been delayed by a broken-down engine blocking the track, and so they had had to sprint along the platforms at Manchester Piccadilly to make the north-east-bound train. Once aboard, Kit had huddled beside a luggage rack while the attendant checked Caitlin’s ticket at the other end of the carriage. He hadn’t asked to see her ID, but on her way past Caitlin slipped the card to Kit before the attendant reached her; then she disappeared into the next carriage to avoid the attendant having a chance to compare their faces.
A line of sweat tickled her back under her T-shirt and thick tracksuit. The weather was too warm for her outfit, but she didn’t dare remove her jumper for fear of exposing any more of her skin than she needed to.
Caitlin dropped into one of a pair of seats with a table. The two seats opposite were empty. Before long, Kit joined her.
“Perhaps we should sit apart from each other this time?” Caitlin whispered.
Kit shrugged. “You can if you want to. I’m all right here.”
Caitlin glanced around the carriage. A few passengers glanced her way and one or two smiled. She deposited herself on the seat opposite her Skin. Even now it was difficult to overcome the sense of sitting before a mirror. Kit fished in her rucksack and pulled out the publications they had bought at Oxford station: Folk for her and Astronomy Tonight for Caitlin. Caitlin smiled her thanks but left her magazine lying flat on the table.
While she read, Kit fiddled with something at her neck. Caitlin saw a leather cord tied there. It was familiar.
“Was Evie there?” she said.
