by Guy Adams
London never truly slept but, like any city, it hit an early morning lull, the winter darkness draped across it, chilly and inhospitable, where the only people still moving feel adrift in their own worlds.
Sonia was no different as she ran through the programme for the day ahead and wondered whether Sir James was going to be in a good mood or not. He was a good employer, better than many she’d worked with, but he was a man of moods, most especially at times like this and she considered it important to try and second-guess them. She hadn’t got where she was today without being able to anticipate the needs of those she worked with. It was, as she often told her three-year-old son, her superpower. He tried to look impressed when she told him this but made no bones about the fact that it would be way cooler if she were able to be invisible. In a way, she tells him, that’s exactly what she is.
She entered South Wimbledon Tube station, offering a distracted smile at the bored-looking guard in the booth who was staring into his flask of coffee as if it held the secret to happiness.
She pressed her Oyster card against the reader, passed through the barrier and made her way down the escalator to the platform.
There was no one else there. She wasn’t surprised. The only people travelling into London at this time were people aiming for trains or planes. It would be another hour or so before things got busy.
She sat down on one of the benches and glanced up at the electronic sign jutting out above her head. The first train would be along in five minutes. It felt like five minutes she could better have enjoyed in bed but she fished her papers out of her briefcase and ran through the itinerary of meetings.
She was lost in distracted, sleepy thoughts when, all of a sudden, her mobile buzzed. She pulled the mobile out of her coat pocket and tapped in her passcode. The text message appeared on the screen, a strange mess of what looked like undecipherable smilies. Suddenly, the phone grew hot in her hand and, unable to stop herself, she flung it away. It skimmed across the tiled floor and dropped over the edge of the platform.
‘Oh shit,’ she sighed, angry at herself. She put her papers back in her briefcase and walked over to the platform edge.
She squatted down, grimacing as her hands touched the dirty floor. Stretching out over the edge, she could see the phone, its shiny black surface glinting in the sooty dirt of the concrete beneath the rails.
She glanced up at the electronic sign. Only one minute until her train was due. Not that she thought she would be stupid enough to climb down and get it. The track was electrified and, as much as she couldn’t bear the thought of admitting she’d been so clumsy as to hurl her phone under the tracks, it would be better to be embarrassed than to be dead. Maybe there was time to ask the guard to help?
Just as she decided it was worth running up the escalator to ask, water began pouring down on her. She jumped to her feet, startled. Her shoes slipped on the shiny surface of the painted platform edge and, yet more ignominy, she fell on her back, landing painfully on the concrete floor with a yell.
It must be the sprinkler system, she thought, set off by accident. And yet, as she looked up, covering her face with her hands, she could see no sign of any such thing.
Great. Now she was definitely going to be late. There was no way she could go in to work wet and dirty. She’d have to run back home and change.
‘Hey!’ she shouted, meaning to call the attention of someone. ‘There’s something wrong with the …’
There was a woman stood on the tracks a short distance away. She was dressed all in white, her hair was long, black and straight, hanging over her face as the water rained down on her.
‘Get up from there!’ Sonia shouted. ‘The track is electrified!’
But that seemed the least of the woman’s problems as a blast of cool air pushed along the platform ahead of the distant sound of the approaching train.
‘Quickly!’ Sonia shouted, not caring for the state of her clothes any more, moving along the platform, and holding her hand out to the woman. ‘The train’s coming, you’ve got to move.’
It briefly occurred to her that if the woman took her hand and touched the electrified rail, they could both be killed. She pushed the thought away – she couldn’t think about that, not if there was a chance she could get this girl to safety.
Absurdly, she thought of her son, impressed by Mummy’s real super heroics when she tells him about this later. To hell with being invisible, she thought, I’m Underground Girl and I’m the best hero in the business.
The woman in white looked up at her extended hand. Her movements were slow. Was she drugged?
The sound of the train filled the platform, only seconds away.
‘Quickly!’ Sonia shouted again, shaking her proffered hand. ‘Grab hold.’
The woman in white just stared. Watching as Sonia, over-balanced, fell forwards. As the first Northern Line train to High Barnet exploded out of the tunnel, Sonia found herself slapped across the front of it. Later she will be discussed in angry tones by commuters irritated at the brief delay caused to their journey.
CHAPTER THREE: THE MEETING
a) Offices of Belgrade Entertainments, Soho, London
‘What you must remember, Mr Fisher,’ announced Belgrade, the renowned psychic, media darling and bullshitter, stroking at a waxed moustache, the only point of interest on a chubby face that looked to have been sculpted from butter, ‘is that I can only establish communication with the other side with your help. I need constant affirmation from you, I need to hear your voice, I need to feel you’re part of the conversation I am trying to establish and conduct. Does that make sense?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the man who was calling himself Mr Fisher. He unbuttoned his jacket, shifted forward in his seat and gave the psychic his undivided attention.
This was difficult in a room so filled with distraction. Belgrade (real name: Martin Lumpkin, a surname ill-suited to theatrical posters and onscreen captions) surrounded himself with the treasure of his profession. His office was every bit the equal of any theatrical stage he had performed on. Shelves were filled with copies of his books (in several languages, though the lies remained the same), stacked alongside other works of a suitably esoteric nature. ‘Mr Fisher’ had no doubt that Belgrade had read none of these other books, though it was clear that he had spent some considerable time making it appear as if he had done so, creasing their spines and filling their pages with bookmarks and Post-it notes.
At the end of every shelf, sculptures and busts held the books in place. From a phrenology head with false craquelure finish to a bust of Edgar Cayce, the effect was that of being watched by countless dead eyes, which certainly chimed with Belgrade’s reputation.
Aside from the bookshelves, there was a selection of theatrical posters, all featuring an air-brushed, bottle-tanned version of the man sat in front of ‘Mr Fisher’, and an enviable host of framed photographs of celebrity clients. Belgrade communed with more stars than your average tabloid astrologer (a role he had also performed in his time until more lucrative gigs came his way).
‘I just hope you can establish a connection with my darling Elisabeth,’ said ‘Mr Fisher’. ‘She always promised that if there was any way of getting in touch with me from the other side she would make the effort. I’ve been to several mediums, though not on a one-to-one basis, and have yet to receive a message.’
‘Ah.’ Belgrade’s face crumpled as if he had just been informed of the death of a favourite pet. ‘There are so many charlatans working today. Plus, of course, in a theatre it is hard to pass on a message for everyone. I see my live shows as a valuable way of spreading the positive belief that there is life after death. Sometimes that is just as important as delivering a specific message. Reassuring those who are left behind that their loved ones are somewhere beautiful, that they are happy, that they have found peace. I find them tiring but I think spreading the word is a duty, a responsibility that one such as myself needs to live up to.’
‘Mr Fish
er’ imagined the sizeable chunk of box-office revenue didn’t hurt either.
‘If you will give me your hand?’
‘Mr Fisher’ did so, noting the perfectly manicured nails of the psychic. This was a man who took to luxury with an admirable fastidiousness.
‘The physical contact is not always necessary but I find it can be a valuable extra focus.’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘Mr Fisher’ noted Belgrade looking at his ring finger. There was, unsurprisingly, no recent sign of him having worn a wedding band.
‘Poor Elisabeth left you some time ago didn’t she?’ asked Belgrade in that manner of presenting a question as fact. ‘Mr Fisher’ was quite aware that there could be no truly incorrect response to Belgrade’s query, ‘some time ago’ being a rather subjective phrase.
‘It’s been four years,’ he replied, having plucked the number out of thin air.
‘Four long years,’ repeated Belgrade, as if the information had come from him in the first place. ‘Four difficult years.’ The more he said it, ‘Mr Fisher’ knew, the more a susceptible client might be inclined to misremember the order of events. Later, when telling a friend about the consultation, many would have ended up giving Belgrade credit for the number.
‘You can never truly be prepared for such a loss,’ said Belgrade, hedging his bets as to whether the fictional Elisabeth died suddenly or from a long-term illness.
‘Indeed not,’ agreed ‘Mr Fisher’, aware that the psychic would have hoped for more information than that but willing to play dirty.
‘We all know that there will come a time when we are to be separated from the ones we love,’ Belgrade continued, happy to take another stab at the technique, ‘especially if our partners are struck by a serious illness.’ A statement that could later be claimed as psychic awareness or simply a general comment. ‘Mr Fisher’ decided to help Belgrade out a little.
‘It was cancer,’ he said. ‘She suffered for such a long time.’
‘I know,’ Belgrade replied, rather cheekily. ‘I can sense the relief, the end of suffering endured.’
‘Mr Fisher’ had already made his decision as to Belgrade’s abilities but he had little else to do that morning so decided to play along further. Then his mobile phone rang in his jacket, a digital reproduction of James Bernard’s theme from Dracula.
‘Do forgive me,’ he said, ‘I was sure I had turned it off.’ He kept hold of Belgrade’s hand, pulling the mobile from his pocket, noted the number with interest and then sent the call to voicemail. The call had changed his plans, though – returning it was a far more interesting use of his time than continuing this charade.
‘I’m afraid I dislike such distractions,’ said Belgrade, scowling. ‘They damage my concentration.’
‘We wouldn’t want that,’ agreed ‘Mr Fisher’.
‘Indeed not.’ Belgrade suddenly flinched, having decided to reclaim his client’s attention with some more aggressive theatre. ‘Oh …’
‘Are you all right?’ asked ‘Mr Fisher’.
Belgrade held up his free hand and waved it in the air as if the question was akin to the troublesome attentions of a mosquito. ‘I am making contact. Elisabeth? Is that you?’
‘Mr Fisher’ took the opportunity, while Belgrade’s eyes were closed, to retrieve a small syringe from his jacket pocket.
‘Yes!’ Belgrade shouted. ‘I can hear you my dear! But only just … You must come closer …’
‘Mr Fisher’ popped the cap from the syringe, turned the psychic’s hand upwards and inserted the needle into Belgrade’s wrist.
‘What the fuck was that!’ Belgrade shouted, betraying a touch of the Liverpudlian in his accent.
‘Nothing life-threatening,’ ‘Mr Fisher’ assured him, replacing the cap on the syringe and popping it back in his pocket. ‘Just a little chemical inducement to speed this along.’
‘What … are … you …?’ Belgrade sat quite still, his face taking on a vacant air as he slumped back in his chair. He looked as if he was gazing at the wall behind his client’s shoulder, entranced no doubt, by the autographed photo of a forgotten pop star that hung there.
‘Mr Fisher’ reached for the ornate desk lamp that Belgrade kept on his desk, switched it on and turned the light on the medium. ‘It has come to our attention,’ ‘Mr Fisher’ said, ‘that you have been claiming to have gleaned secret information from some of your more “influential” governmental clients. You have claimed this in order to sell falsified information to other, less friendly, governments. A brave and creative move on your part. Also a stupid one. I had little doubt that you were a fake but you will understand that, in such situations, it is my job to investigate. While the notion of a “celebrity psychic” as a serious security leak is somewhat absurd, it pays to dot one’s “i”s and cross one’s “t”s.
‘An awareness of your rather obvious attempts at cold reading and a predictable reliance on Barnum statements was proof enough. Your willingness to pass on a message from my dead wife was a fun addition.’ ‘Mr Fisher’ smiled. ‘It was a miraculous task that failed to take into account the fact that I have never had a wife, nor indeed am ever likely to.’
‘Mr Fisher’ leaned forward. ‘You can thank your lucky stars,’ he chuckled, ‘the next time you consult them, that I acted before your potential buyers did. I can assure you they would not have been so tolerant. A slap on the wrist from me is much easier than a bullet in the forehead.
‘The drug I have injected you with is a simple affair, making you extremely susceptible to influence. A state you will be familiar with in your line of work, I’m sure. It will wear off in a few minutes after which you will have no memory of our conversation. You will, however, be left with a mental suggestion that you will find impossible to break. The suggestion I am going to leave you with is a simple one: if you ever claim to possess an ability in mediumship, or indeed, any form of psychic power, you will find yourself faced with an irresistible urge to strip naked.’ ‘Mr Fisher’ paused for a moment. ‘No, it’s childish but I simply cannot resist, you will then go on to attempt an act of copulation with the closest piece of furniture.’
‘Mr Fisher’ got to his feet. ‘I wish you all the best for your next theatre tour.’
He removed his phone from his pocket as he left Belgrade’s office, redialling the missed call.
‘Detective Sahni,’ he said. ‘It’s Charles.’ August Shining had so many cover names. ‘Sorry to have missed your call. I do hope you have something interesting for me?’
b) Section 37, Wood Green, London
In the Section 37 office, bored from a morning of scouring internet forums and other, assorted web traffic, Toby Greene was spread out on the sofa in front of the window trying very much not to think about the woman who lived upstairs. This was not unusual.
Tamar had become an obsession ever since the conclusion of his first mission as a member of the section. In an operation so convoluted and fantastical that his brain still hurt to think about it, he had been forced to use a device that allowed one to view history. It also, as Toby had proven, allowed one to interfere with it. The risks had been high but the alternative worse. Toby had acted. All had been well. At least until it had become clear that Tamar, an Armenian woman that August Shining had rescued from the Russian Bratva many years earlier and who frequently assisted them on missions as an ad hoc agent, was no longer living in the flat above. It hadn’t taken them long to discover that the woman still existed, she had just never met Shining and was therefore still stuck in the hateful life he had once rescued her from. After that, Toby had felt he had no choice: how could he not do everything possible to restore the freedom she had lost?
Shining had agreed, despite the fact that the operation would have to be run off the books – there was no way the British government would have signed off blowing a chunk out of one of the most prestigious hotels in Russia just to rescue a single woman who had no strategic asset.
The mission had bee
n successful. Tamar was back where she should be, living in the small flat above the office. But she wasn’t the same woman Toby had met on his first day in the department. How could she be? With several more years of abuse and a drug addiction that she was only just showing signs of recovering from, she was a troubled soul.
On that first night onboard the cruise ship they had used to leave Russia, she had offered herself to Toby. He had woken up to find her hand in his boxer shorts and a look of fatalistic acceptance on her face as she proposed sex. She had simply expected it would be the price for her rescue. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so miserable.
He had put her back to bed and then held her during the long hours until morning. He had hoped she might cry, show some kind of release, some kind of emotion. In fact, she had simply stared at the wall of the cabin. Until, that was, the morning, by which time she was so desperate for a fix she was almost uncontrollable.
It had been a difficult few months.
And he felt responsible for all of it.
He listened as she paced up and down on the floor above, a woman still at odds with her environment, unable to fit into her new life. Toby didn’t know what to do.
When the door opened downstairs and he heard Shining’s feet making his way up to the office, he was struck with a desperate hope that his superior might bring some news that would distract him from standard duties. Section 37 was in a slump and it wasn’t helping Toby’s mood. He needed something to take his mind off the real world. It seemed a reasonable hope given the special directive of the department.
The door to the office opened and Shining breezed in, his usual dapper self. Today offered a black three-piece suit and a violently pink shirt. As always, the old man made Toby look at his own grey suit and wonder what he was doing wrong. He had gone through a phase of trying to live up to his section chief’s sartorial ambitions but had stopped after Shining had pulled him to one side, taken a forgiving look at the green frock coat he had been wearing and suggested he pop home and change. Some people had it, Toby had decided, while others were forced to just watch.
