by Tony Moyle
He was already an expert helmsman for a boy so young. His parents hadn’t encouraged him, it was just natural for a boy on the island to show an interest in the sea. Since the age of four he’d commuted every morning and afternoon back and forth to his school on the next island. That school boat was just the beginning of his infatuation. To truly explore the islands you needed your own dinghy. His was called ‘Unicorn’ and it was just big enough for two. Rarely, though, was that the case. Other than the occasional holiday family, there were no boys of his age on Bryher and he was forced to enjoy his own company. Grace had a very different personality and didn’t tend to join in.
The island was littered with possible destinations. There was the small, uninhabited island of Gweal just across the water from the house. Despite meaning ‘place of trees’, Gweal had a grand total of none. Across the channel, on the western side of Tresco, was Cromwell’s Castle. He spent hours in the seventeenth-century gun tower pretending to fight off the Roundheads or the French ships sneaking up the channel. None of these were his favourite. There was only one ‘go-to’ place when the tide was in and the sun was out, Hell Bay.
It was named so for a reason. On their approach to England this was the nearest point for ships travelling the Atlantic. Unprotected by other land masses, its seas were notoriously difficult to navigate. Sea currents amalgamated in union with the unpredictable weather patterns to contrive against the fragile, wooden galleons that sought the protection of the island. Many succumbed to the jagged rocks submerged like hungry crocodiles under the swirling surf. The legend of this place was more compelling than the actual evidence. Few wrecks had ever been found, but it didn’t stop a young boy from looking. Today, unusually, the Unicorn had two explorers.
Outside of her own thoughts there were few places where Grace felt truly comfortable. Where Scrumpy revelled in the excitement a small island had to offer, Grace hid from it. She’d always been socially awkward, a characteristic she’d inherited from her mother. People didn’t make sense to her. They moaned about things they had no control over or turned into hysterical wrecks at the merest sign of adversity. Her brain just didn’t have any time or empathy for them. Scrumpy was the only person she opened up to.
Officially he wasn’t really her brother. He’d been adopted by Fiona and Violet when he was two years old and Grace was just four. They’d grown up together, although one had managed it better than the other. All children on the nearby islands attended the same small primary school situated on Tresco. Mixed-age classes meant they spent more time together than most siblings of different ages. Although Grace showed little interest in the other children of her own age, there was something about him that intrigued her.
Adults made terrible subjects for assessment. They had too much anxiety and followed complex rules that no one understood. If she was going to expand her knowledge of how people worked, she needed a purer example. Scrumpy, was it? There was just pure joy in him. No agenda, no politics, just joy. If she was going to learn why she was different, she could think of no better teacher.
“Do you want to pull the mainsail, Grace?” said Scrumpy as they floated smoothly out into Hell Bay.
Grace was unmoved, as if the message was aimed at someone who shared her name. She sat erect and uncomfortable in the stern seat, arms by her side and white hair blowing into her face. Her pale complexion camouflaged her against the whitewashed paint of the six-foot dinghy. Other than white, the only colour that distinguished her features was the sky-blue irises in her eyes that gave the impression of great age and wisdom.
“Why do you enjoy this?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s exciting.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Let’s be pirates,” begged Scrumpy.
“Why would I want to be a pirate?”
“So we can find some treasure.”
“The chances of finding treasure are low.”
“I found treasure before, though.”
“You found bits of wood last time,” she answered.
“Still treasure to me.”
“How does that work?” she asked curiously.
“Everything is treasure. I found a bottle last week with a map in it. Reckon it leads to some proper treasure.”
“Was that the one you threw into the sea yourself last week?”
“No,” lied Scrumpy.
Grace’s mind attempted to connect the pieces of information in order to predict the likelihood of what he’d said being true. The answer came back as less than half of one percent. She confused his sense of wonder with a delusional need for hope. Why would he do that? What was the point? Was his brain just not as developed as hers? Or was she missing something? She made some notes in her book and went back to a complicated-looking grid with numbers all over it.
“What’s that?” he asked as the boat swung gently back into the cove with no obvious movement from the captain.
“Puzzle,” she answered.
“Word search?”
“No. It’s a cryptogram. It’s exciting.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I like them.”
“Why?”
“To see if I have the skill to solve it. You know where you are with a puzzle. Just apply the right solution and the answers are there. People don’t work like puzzles. The solution is random and always changes.”
“Your mum is a puzzle to me.”
“She’s not a puzzle because there is no solution for working her out. Not even Mr. Stevens can understand her and he’s a professional.”
The boat picked up speed as a gust surged into the small sails. They sailed out of the horseshoe-shaped cove of Hell Bay and into a complex and ruthless maze of rocks that jutted out of the ocean. Only someone with a deep, local knowledge could navigate them with the ease that they did. In the distance, bathed in sunshine, was the back of their distinct white cottage. A forlorn figure sat alone in a deckchair.
“I wish we could stay out here a little longer,” said Scrumpy, having consulted his wristwatch.
“There’s no rush,” said Grace, placing a finger to her lips.
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN -
MONACO
Many cities of the world are defined by money. New York, with its iconic high-rise Manhattan real estate. Dubai, with its mock landmarks and fake, man-made islands. Not forgetting Las Vegas, fully advertising its cash appeal from every neon bulb. All have a good case to be counted as the world’s money capital. None of them, though, quite compares to the small principality that hides like a tax evader in the cliffs of the Côte d’Azur.
It isn’t enough to have money in Monaco. Money is the physical commodity most of us use in exchange for buying stuff, whereas the rich use it to fuel their wood-burning stoves in winter. The value of cash was an unknown and pointless concept to most of the residents affluent enough to be allowed to live there. It isn’t enough to have money to be accepted here, it was all about wealth.
Everyone has money, in one form or another, but very few people have proper wealth. Wealth in Monaco wasn’t measured in volume but in vulgarity. The more vulgar you were, the more wealth you had. If someone bought a big yacht you had to up the pressure and buy a bigger one. One aquatic Russian Doll trumped the next until all of them were too big to fit in the harbour. When they stopped competing with the size of their yachts, they moved on to people. If one billionaire booked The Rolling Stones for a private party their peers would pay vast sums in an attempt to resurrect the deceased former Beatles, just to prove a point.
The vulgarity machine becomes normal, churning out an endless line of clones each eager to outdo the last. No one raised an eyebrow if you wanted a solid gold jet ski, irrespective of its inability to float, or a working Rolex fabricated out of raspberry jam and marshmallows. Nothing was unattainable, including peace from your own demons. Wealth wasn’t the only thing prevalent here. The Serpo Clinic had more than a few clients in the city.
Monaco hadn’t been
Victor’s first stop. When you had six hundred customers dotted over the world you had to be organised. You couldn’t just fly around willy-nilly just because you liked the idea of the location. There were many clients in the United States that he’d got to first before moving on to the European leg of the extermination tour.
None of his targets had caused him any problems. When you had secret service training and a general disregard for life you could get into almost any place in the world, if you had the right planning and connections. Once you’d achieved that, faking deaths was easy. There was no resistance. Victor had already taken it, and their money, sometime ago.
The last month had made him realise that he’d missed the thrill of it far more than he’d thought. Earning vast quantities of money was all well and good, but it lacked the thrill that came from more devious acts. It wasn’t hard to sell Emorfed: the results were proof enough. There was way more pleasure in taking their lives than in taking their money. Plus, his new employer was paying him anyway. Clients gave him money for cranial peace at the front end of the supply chain, and Byron gave him the same amount for the rest of their soul at the other. All with the added bonus of air miles.
Byron was always close at hand, even if he wasn’t always seen. It was a little baffling to Victor why the Devil didn’t do the work himself. The only reason for his involvement appeared to be the list that contained all the details of his clients. If Byron took it, he could easily have completed the task himself. Or maybe he couldn’t? Was there something stopping him physically killing or was there an ulterior motive for involving Victor? This fact had troubled him for a while. It may not be exactly the same Byron he was travelling with, but the same flesh had betrayed him once before. Maybe it had something to do with John?
Byron had already explained his inability to speak to John directly. Apparently it was something to do with apples. This talent certainly worked well enough on Victor: he could personally attest to that. Byron was forever popping up in his head to give him last-minute pointers like an invisible back seat driver. Perhaps this gap in the Devil’s weaponry would turn out to be the real reason for his involvement? Time would tell and for now he was just having too much fun to worry about it.
On top of revisiting his former life, he was also inventing innovative new ways for people to ‘commit suicide’. They didn’t all have to be suicides as long as they all looked accidental. So far he’d ticked off poisoning, falling down stairs, electrocution, jumping from a moving train, crushed by falling masonry, trampled to death by a herd of startled buffalo, accidentally wandering into a live Army firing range and being impaled by a wayward javelin. It was getting harder and harder to come up with something original. Aptly for the location, today’s chosen method involved water.
“Are you ready?” asked Byron, attempting a whispered tone that for some reason he found extremely hard to perfect. It must have been a side effect from the mild case of tinnitus he’d developed as a result of overexposure to high-pitched screaming.
“Of course,” replied Victor.
“According to your list there are six clients currently based in the city, although I think it would be prudent to deal with only one tonight. Might be a little suspicious if six billionaires all commit suicide at the same time,” replied Byron, silhouetted by the moon’s light seeping into their luxury apartment from the balcony.
The streets of Monaco housed more tower blocks than the laws of physics would normally grant permission for. Each had miraculously carved out a foundation for itself, immune to what might be obstructing it on all four sides. They weren’t finished either. Even though Monaco didn’t appear to get any bigger by area, more and more buildings were being erected. It even baffled Byron who was from a world where the laws of physics were routinely ignored.
“How do they do it, though?” said Byron.
“Do what?” replied Victor.
“Squeeze so many in,” he replied, counting the buildings he saw in the immediate vicinity of their balcony with his finger. “They must be bending the fabric of space somehow. They’re like a set of cosmic dominoes.”
“I think it’s got more to do with having the best engineers money can buy,” said Victor. “Shall we get on with it?”
“Yes, of course. Let me review the list again,” said Byron, picking up a piece of paper and drawing a circle around a double-barrelled name with a black biro. “Grant Parker-Moore is your target tonight.”
“I remember this guy. He was one of the first clients we treated. I think he was a banker. Yes, that’s it. He crippled his multinational investment bank by engaging in reckless trading which he wasn’t able to cover up when the sub-prime shit hit the treble A-rated fan. He came to us because even here he couldn’t escape from the trolls. Even the millionaires of Monaco hate him.”
“I don’t really care what he’s done. He could be an award-winning humanitarian who donates all his money to orphanages for all I care,” replied Byron. “If he’s on the list, he has to die, simple as that. What have you got planned for this one?”
“I haven’t done drowning yet. Seems a good place to do it.”
“Excellent choice. Remember, no evidence. We don’t want the authorities thinking there was any foul play involved.”
“Why do you want them to look accidental?” asked Victor.
“I told you, I don’t want Baltazaar to suspect that I am behind their deaths.”
“Why not, exactly?”
“Because we are at war and Baltazaar has met Byron once before. This gives him a slight advantage over me.”
“They’ve met!”
“Yes. I suspect you even asked Byron about it once upon a time?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” replied Victor more than a little puzzled.
“Did you not ask Byron how he’d come by Emorfed? You knew that it wasn’t man-made. I suspect a man of your inquisitive nature wouldn’t leave that fact without interrogation?”
“Oh, that. All he’d say was he was given it.”
“Ta-da! And you have your answer.”
“Baltazaar, but why?”
“All part of the war. He knew that Emorfed would create an army of shadows and they’d only be able to go to one place. They’d rip Hell apart and he would have his victory. All he needed to find was someone malicious enough to release it. Thanks to John, he failed, although you did pick up his mission reasonably well afterwards,” said Byron with more than a hint of disappointment.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.”
“Well, you’re making amends now, aren’t you? What I didn’t expect was that John would make contact with him.”
“How did he do that?”
“When John used the Limpet Syndrome he opened up a channel to Baltazaar, and very possibly others also. The twelve have always been kept secret from him. If Baltazaar got to John first, he could use him as a weapon. A weapon that we have no way of defending against.”
“What do you mean the twelve?” asked Victor, peeling back further layers of mystery.
“When humans first developed a conscience we started receiving neutral souls. They had nowhere to go. The system wasn’t designed for logic. That’s when the Limpet Syndrome first came into being. When the soul’s purpose is not fulfilled it looks for ways to regenerate. Once that happened we built Limbo with the capacity to direct these neutrals as best we could. The system worked well. Twelve neutral souls were chosen as jurors to make unbiased decisions.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Baltazaar went wrong. Though it’s still not clear to me why. He and I don’t get on. Even being in the same location has a catastrophic outcome. What we know is Heaven closed its doors and it left the afterlife with a problem. We no longer just had to deal with neutral souls. We had to deal with all souls. By this stage the jurors had no power to choose, all souls had to go to Hell. Which, by the way, suited us fine.”
“And what happened to the twelve?”
“They served a differe
nt purpose. Somehow the human psyche worked out what was happening. The Limpet Syndrome started again. John and the rest of the twelve were the only ones capable of bringing them back. But there was a risk. The more we used them, the more we stretched them. Every time we needed to bring back a reincarnate we had to kill one of the twelve so they could return to Limbo. Eventually one by one they, too, started to develop the same conditions. Once they started using the Limpet Syndrome themselves they became extremely dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because every time they did it they opened up a channel to Baltazaar, and if they continued to do it they might just open up an even more dangerous channel. A third way. That’s why they had to be killed, captured or restrained in metallic boxes on level twelve.”
“And yet John has found a way to escape it.”
“Somehow?” said Byron sliding his crimson jacket on his shoulders. “Anyway, you must not keep Mr. Parker-Moore waiting.”
Victor, dressed in a way that suggested he was auditioning for a part in the Milk Tray adverts, picked up his bag and made for the exit. Byron watched from the window with the reassurance that if he wanted to talk to Victor he didn’t need the aid of a telephone. Victor closed the door and descended the fourteen floors via the lift and snuck through the foyer into the night.
Grant Parker-Moore’s yacht was permanently manacled to its larger cousins in the main harbour of Monaco. Nothing was far from the sea in this city. Several minutes after exiting the apartment block, Victor could smell the distinctive odour combination of sea water and power, that accompanied the heart of this playboy’s paradise.
Even at three o’clock in the morning the party was still in full swing in the bars and casinos that afflicted the city like a virulent rash. Victor made his way to the far end of the harbour walls where no boats were moored and the public only strayed in the day, or in the evening as the result of too much booze or not enough luck. There was no easy access to the yachts by land. All were guarded by man and machine. His route would avoid both.