by Guy Adams
‘I’m not stupid,’ the man said, grumpy again.
I’m doing so well today, Toby thought.
The man took the fingerprint out the back and Toby was forced to pace up and down for a couple of minutes while listening to the distant sound of whirring and clunking as the scanner did its work.
Eventually, the man returned and pointed at the computer closest to the door. ‘I’ve sent it to that one. Folder on the desktop marked “Shared”.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Toby, holding his hand out for the fingerprint. The man grunted, went back into his office and fetched it.
Toby put it back into his pocket and sat down at the computer, waggling the mouse to get rid of the screensaver of a spiralling cat. He clicked open the folder and opened the image to check it. It was a bit smudged but not half bad. Certainly good enough to work with. ‘That’s perfect,’ he said. ‘You’re a star.’
‘Yeah,’ the owner replied. ‘I know.’ He went back behind the counter and Toby wondered whether he was already telling people about the weird policeman he was dealing with. This whole thing was a security nightmare. The grumpy sod was bound to have kept a copy of the fingerprint, too. If need be, he could have a word with some people in tech support and see if something horribly viral could be sent over to the shop’s computer network.
He opened a web browser, logged on to his email and sent the file to Ben.
That done, he cleared the browser history, just to pay some lip service to security, and went back to the counter.
‘All done,’ he said.
‘Fair enough,’ the man said, returning from his back room. ‘Murderer or something, is it?’ he asked.
‘Nothing so exciting, just a man who’s sleeping with my wife,’ Toby replied. ‘How much do I owe you?’
c) Sheep Street, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire
Toby met Fratfield back by the car.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘sorry to be a pain but I need to hang around for a little longer. Half an hour at the most. Can I buy you a coffee or something?’
Fratfield shrugged. ‘I guess we’re both a bit superfluous for now back at the Hall anyway. Why not?’
They walked a little way up the road and into a coffee shop filled with faux-aged prints of Royal Shakespeare Company posters.
‘Apparently, this place has something to do with Shakespeare,’ Fratfield joked. ‘There was a giant teddy bear down the road dressed in doublet and hose.’
Toby looked at the menu and smiled. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ He looked up at the waiter who had arrived at their table. ‘I’ll have a black coffee please.’
‘And a cappuccino,’ said Fratfield. ‘It’s all Shakespeare themed,’ he said looking at the menu. ‘Dear God, the hamburgers …’
‘The Full Pound of Flesh.’
‘With extra cheese.’
‘Or the Merchant of Venison?’
‘Bit obvious, that one. I dread to think what might be in the Titus Andronicus pie. And what about the ice creams? Oh, Christ … the chocolate is called an Othello Sundae.’
They both laughed and continued to work their way through the most choice items while they drank their coffees.
After a while, Toby checked his watch. Ben had had fifty minutes, give or take, that would have to do. He was probably only drinking hot chocolate anyway.
‘Don’t suppose you have a payphone, do you?’ he asked the waiter.
‘My friend has to make a quick Corialanus,’ Fratfield said, his face utterly straight.
‘You just wait Lear,’ Toby replied, following the waiter past the bar to a phone near the toilets.
He called Ben.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘I know it hasn’t been a full hour.’
‘That’s not the only thing you need to apologise for,’ Ben replied, clearly stressed. ‘That bloody print lit up the system like it was Christmas. I’ll probably have GCHQ kicking down my door come the morning. I’ll be found dead from isotopes. Knocked off as a bloody security risk.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was one of your lot, that’s what I mean,’ said Ben.
Toby ignored the fact that Ben shouldn’t really know what ‘his lot’ were. ‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Bloke by the name of Rowlands. Mark Rowlands. Know him?’
‘Shit, yes,’ Toby tried to keep his voice calm. ‘It must just be a mistake. Can you skip entering a log for it?’
‘Already did. Obviously. I don’t want people thinking I’m a bloody terrorist, do I?’
‘Nobody’s going to think you’re a terrorist just because you look up someone’s fingerprint, Ben, you know that.’
‘That’s what you say. I’ll have MI5 kicking down my door tonight.’
‘Never happen.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Because they’re not really called MI5, they’re the Security Service. Bye.’
He hung up and took a minute by the phone to try and process what Ben had told him. It must just be a mistake. Rowlands must have checked the light when he went in the room. Obliterating any other print. Yes, that was the logical explanation.
He went back to their table.
‘All’s Well That Ends Well?’ Fratfield asked.
‘It was Much Ado About Nothing,’ Toby admitted.
d) B49, Alcester, Warwickshire
Toby and Fratfield spent a good deal of the drive back to Lufford Hall chatting and joking about their time in service. Toby had felt relaxed around Fratfield from the first time he’d met him but the jolly half an hour in the coffee shop had sealed the deal. He enjoyed being able to be completely open with his fellow officer. Fratfield, in turn, seemed genuinely interested and amused about the work Toby performed in Section 37. As much as Toby knew Shining was quite right to insist that the approval of others didn’t matter, it felt good to be able to discuss his work with someone that didn’t immediately dismiss it. That was not to say that Fratfield was completely convinced, Toby would have been surprised if he were, but he didn’t laugh it off.
As they pulled off the main road from Stratford and onto the quieter road that led to the Hall, Toby found he was extremely relieved to feel that at least there was someone else in the building that was on their side. That was a rarity for Section 37.
‘It’s remarkable,’ Fratfield was saying. ‘You’ve almost got me considering a transfer.’
‘You’d never get one. There were enough people angry that I was put on the books; they’re certainly not going to stand by and let an officer of your reputation join up.’
‘I’ve got a reputation?’
‘Certainly better than I had. Though that’s not hard.’
‘We all make mistakes.’
‘I know. It was the number of them that was the problem.’ Toby shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. That’s all behind me. Now I don’t have even half a career to worry about!’
‘Oh, you’ll be taking over Section 37 one day. Shining can’t go on for ever.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Anyway, once he goes they’ll probably close it down. He’s the only thing that keeps it running. Some edict that says the section will operate as long as he’s alive to run it. If it wasn’t for that, they’d have closed us down years ago, for sure.’
‘More fool them.’
‘As I said before, whatever reports we file, nobody can ever really believe the things we’ve seen without experiencing it for themselves.’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to. Hey – what time is it?’ Fratfield glanced at the clock on the dash. ‘Don’t you think it’s getting a bit dark for three o’clock?’
Toby leaned forward and peered out through the windscreen. ‘The light’s fading really quick.’
‘Jesus!’ Fratfield shouted as something collided with the left-hand side of the car, making it veer towards the verge. Fratfield wrestled with the steering wheel, trying to pull the car back on track. ‘What the hell was that?’
Toby had spun in his seat
, trying to look behind them but the fading light was making it difficult. As far as he could tell there was nothing behind them. He had a feeling that Fratfield was about to experience the world of Section 37 whether he liked it or not. ‘Just keep your eye on the road,’ he said. ‘Something’s not right here.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Fratfield turned on the headlights, trying to pierce the darkness that had fallen all around them. ‘Night doesn’t fall this quickly.’
The car was buffeted again, this time by something on the right. There was a crunch of metal as whatever it was punched a dent into the chassis.
Toby shifted in his seat.
‘You armed?’ Fratfield asked.
‘No,’ Toby admitted. ‘I don’t tend to requisition a fire arm when I go shopping. Not that it would probably do much good if I was. Whatever this is, it’s more my field than yours and a lot of what we face doesn’t care much about being shot at.’
The car veered again and Fratfield gave an angry shout as it left the road, mounting the verge. He hit the brakes – better to be a sitting target who was still alive than a crash victim. ‘What now?’ he asked. ‘You’re the expert.’
A position Toby in no way felt he could live up to.
He stared out of the window. It was now completely dark outside, they could see nothing beyond the glass.
‘Well,’ said Toby, ‘we haven’t got a lot of choice, have we? We can’t just sit here.’
‘You want to go outside?’ Fratfield was shocked. ‘Without knowing what’s out there?’
The car rocked as something jumped on the roof. Above them, the roof bowed beneath its weight. Then the rear windscreen imploded and they were showered with glass.
‘You think we’re any safer in here?’ Toby asked, opening the door. He pointed with his hand. ‘The road was there, hopefully it still is. We make a break for it, move as fast as we can.’ He climbed out and ran in the direction he’d pointed. Behind him he heard Fratfield following.
They could see no more out here than they had from inside the car. It was like running through a void. Except, thought Toby, they knew it wasn’t quite empty, didn’t they? It contained something strong enough to punch its way into a car.
He looked over his shoulder. Fratfield was catching up. ‘Come on!’ Toby shouted, ‘before whatever it was that was attacking us catches—’
He felt something hit his side and he was suddenly spinning through the air.
Behind him, Fratfield was shouting and there came the sound of gunfire. It seemed that Fratfield was a man who was only too happy to take a gun on a shopping trip.
Toby rolled along the grass verge, trying to keep his body loose, fall like a drunk, it was the best way to avoid breaking bones.
He could get no sense of the size or shape of what it was that was attacking him. It just felt like a pressure, a weight, beating at him as he tried to bring his arms up to defend himself.
‘Toby?’ he heard Fratfield shout.
‘Just run!’ Toby replied. Whatever this thing was, he had no doubt there was little Fratfield could do about it. At least if there was only one of them, the other man might be able to break for freedom while it was concentrating on Toby.
‘Yeah right,’ he heard Fratfield say, much closer now. ‘I can’t even see it? Where is it?’
Right on top of me you silly bastard, Toby thought as the thing bore down once more and slowly suffocated him.
e) Who knows?
Toby awoke. In itself this was not entirely expected and he took a couple of seconds to appreciate the fact.
He suffered no illusion that he had found himself in the afterlife – as open-minded as he now was, he was quite sure Heaven wasn’t a place of splitting headaches and bruised palms. It also helped that, after a few moments of confusion, he recognised exactly where he was. It had been just over a year since he had last been here but he would never forget this cold, marble floor. It helped that the last time he’d seen it was in similar circumstances, lifting himself up from it after a considerable trauma. He looked up and noted the oil-paintings of classical composers, the bookshelves filled with sheet music and the empty plinth where, once upon a time, had stood a …
He was suddenly aware of the sound of someone creeping up on him. Just a soft brush of shoe on tile. No, he thought, not this time.
He turned, just avoiding the bust of Beethoven that, until recently had been sat on that empty plinth, as it was brought crashing down towards his head. It collided off his shoulder, exploding on the floor in a shower of fragments of porcelain sculpted to look like curly hair.
Toby spun round, his shoulder throbbing with the blow but its owner blessedly more conscious than the last time this scene had played out.
He put up his hands, his attacker barrelling into him with a cry of frustration. Yoosuf, Toby thought, intelligence asset, collector of sheet music and the man who had been instrumental in his career ending up on the rocks. Well, no, perhaps that was a little unfair, it was Toby’s mishandling of him that had done that. Still, braining him with a statue of a dead composer meant Toby still bore a bit of a grudge.
They rolled on the floor, Toby getting the upper hand, only to find the man he was wrestling was not Yoosuf after all. He wore Yoosuf’s clothes but the face that peered out at him from a nest of brightly coloured scarves was the scrawny, salt and pepper bearded, face of his father.
‘What are you doing?’ his father asked. ‘You silly bugger, you could have done me a mischief.’
At which point Toby gave up on the evidence of his senses altogether.
‘Right,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘The car’s attacked, I’m knocked out cold and now I seem to be at the mercy of a psychoanalyst’s wet dream.’
‘What are you talking about?’ his father asked, getting up and brushing himself down. ‘You never make any sense. Head in the clouds, that’s your problem. You’re a dreamer.’
‘That sounds about right,’ Toby admitted, looking around. The room was exactly as he remembered it. The shelves and paintings, the scattered china, the short run of steps leading up to the exit and the street outside.
‘Pay attention to me when I’m talking to you,’ his father said. ‘God know where we went wrong with you.’ The old man sighed. ‘We tried our best but you were always a disappointment. When your poor mother died the last thing she said was—’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Toby punching the old man as hard as he could in the face.
His father’s head cracked like the bust of Beethoven, the remains of which they were crushing into powder beneath their feet. Half of it fell away to reveal a hollow shell of oyster pink.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ his father said, the voice echoing around that empty skull so it sounded like an old gramophone record played through a trumpet. ‘Could you make more of a mess?’
‘Probably,’ Toby admitted, picking up a large binder of sheet music from one of the shelves and bringing it down on the remains of his father’s head.
The body toppled to the floor and Toby ran up the steps towards the front door, pulled it open and found himself looking out on a warehouse in Shad Thames.
This was familiar too … Of course, it was where he had first met what remained of Russian spy Olag Krishnin. His first case for Section 37. It had also been where August Shining had been …
A gunshot rang out and he saw the old man fall backwards, two bullet wounds to the chest. He hit the dusty ground of the warehouse, its insubstantial boards quivering and creaking.
Looking around, he saw Krishnin. The gun was in Krishnin’s hand, still smoking. The last time Toby had been in this situation he had been astral travelling, his body insubstantial. Not so this time. He wrestled the gun from Krishnin, turned it towards the man and fired.
Whatever this was, whatever imaginary world or mind-scape he had tumbled into, he really didn’t have the time or inclination to play its games.
Krishnin’s head exploded much as his father’s had
done, this time, a thick, black liquid poured over the little that remained of it, a jagged cup made from the man’s lower lip and chin.
Toby gave one last, sad glance towards Krishnin and then ran towards the opposite side of the warehouse where a wide-open hatch led to the outside world.
Toby jumped through it, not altogether caring where it might lead him.
He fell through the brightness of sunshine, a world of light that contained no distinguishable shapes. For a moment there was utter peace.
Then he hit the ground, back in the black emptiness he and Fratfield had found themselves in after the car had been attacked. He rolled along what felt like grass, coming to rest at Tamar’s feet.
‘You keep away,’ she said, folding her arms and giving him a look that, a day ago, had chilled him.
‘Shan’t,’ he replied, kissing the illusion on its sneering lips and running on into the dark.
‘Fratfield?’ he shouted, looking around – pointlessly, he knew but he couldn’t help it – for the thing that had attacked him earlier.
There was a groaning noise a short way ahead and he saw the SIS officer lying on the ground. No doubt he was imagining similar nightmarish images.
He grabbed him and, with a struggle, got the man into a fireman’s lift.
He stumbled on, Fratfield draped over his shoulder. Ahead the darkness seemed to fade, the black turning to grey.
Behind him there was a loud crashing sound. The car, he decided, breathing its last.
He could now make out the road in front of him. If he could just get there ahead of whatever thing this was that swooped around them in the shadows, he sensed they would be safe. Back in the real world, back on firm ground.
He sensed, rather than heard, that something was gaining on him. Perhaps it was just fear, paranoia, but he was certain that the presence was chasing after him, desperate to catch them both before they left its domain.
It was so hard to run with Fratfield on his shoulder. If he dropped him there was no doubt he could make it out, one last sprint and he would have the sky above him once more, the tarmac of the road beneath his feet. But he wouldn’t leave the man behind. He wouldn’t add to his memory of regrets.
