by Kim Curran
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “The agency gave me the wrong address.”
Delacroix looked me up and down. “Well, hurry up then. Get your apron. Can’t stand around here all night.” He threw a black apron in my face. I slipped it over my head and wrapped the strings around my waist. The chef looked at my trainers and sighed. “You’re washing up. And bring those glasses.” He pointed at a cardboard box. I picked it up and heard a gentle clinking from inside.
“Right, that’s the lot. Come on then.” He slammed the boot of the van closed and stormed off towards the entrance.
I hefted the box and followed him inside.
The first gallery we passed through was filled with Buddhist sculptures. Golden crossed-legged figures and stone carvings of men on horses lined the walls. I carefully manoeuvred the box of glasses, worried I’d knock something off a plinth. The next room was lined with white marble statues that looked like figures out of Greek or Roman myths: muscular men wrestling snakes and impossible creatures. In the low light they looked as if they were waiting to jump off their stands and go to battle.
This led into the cafe. Huge stained-glass windows let in light from the garden outside and the ceiling was painted with gold flowers and swirling patterns. I’d been in here once with Mum and Katie, when Mum decided we needed educating about something or other. We’d only got as far as having a cup of tea in here and buying a postcard from the shop.
“You going to stand around all night?” Delacroix said.
“Where do you want the glasses?”
“In the kitchen! Seriously, agency staff these days. Oi, you! Where do you think you’re going with those oysters?” he shouted at another guy walking towards the party with a white polystyrene box.
I followed the trail of catering staff into the kitchen and placed the box of glasses on the side. Everyone was bustling about, chopping vegetables and placing lumps of meat in steaming copper pans. The kitchen doors swung open and a girl dressed in a black skirt, white shirt and the same black apron as me came in.
“More champagne glasses. These greedy buggers are knocking it back like it’s going out of fashion. I’ve gone through a whole crate already,” she said.
“Er, here!” I said, peeling open the lid of the box I’d carried.
I pulled out a couple of glasses and showed them to her.
“Well, come on then. Get them on a tray and fill em up. We don’t want them causing a riot if they run out of Cristal.” She shoved a black rubber tray into my chest.
If this was what a normal job was like, I was starting to regret leaving ARES. I filled the tray with glasses and she did the same, topping each one off with bubbling golden liquid.
“It’s Prosecco,” she whispered to me. “But they won’t know any different.”
I laughed like I knew what she meant and picked up the tray. It slipped in my hand and the glasses nearly fell over.
“First time, hey?” she said.
I gave a weary shrug and the glasses rattled. “Yeah.”
“Well, don’t look so nervous. They don’t bite. Much.”
She cackled to herself, scooped the tray up onto one hand and carried at shoulder height. I followed her through the swinging doors and towards the reception hall.
I’d only gone a few steps when a red-faced man, wearing a tuxedo that looked at least two sizes too small, stopped me and took two glasses. He knocked the first one back and waved the second in my direction. “Cheers,” he slurred.
“That was Lord Cuthbert,” the waitress said, as I caught up with her. “He pretty much owns Scotland. Some big oil baron. But watch yourself around him. He’s got a thing for cute boys.”
I tried not to blush at the compliment as we pushed forward and into the party proper.
The circular entrance hall was even more impressive than the exterior. Hanging from the huge domed ceiling was a massive tangle of blue and green glass. It reminded me of Thomas Jones’s rainbow song. Where would her father be now? Watching over Aubrey from afar? Or stalking me, to make sure I finished the job. I looked around for a tall man with shabby hair and piercing eyes. But there’s no way he’d have been allowed in here. There were maybe three hundred people, all milling about and dramatically air kissing each other as they drifted from group to group. No one seemed to be actually looking at each other. Instead, they were scanning the room, as if waiting for someone more interesting to turn up. A string quartet was playing in one corner, but I could hardly hear them above the chatter.
The waitress squeezed her way through the people, stopping every now and then to offer a guest another glass. I followed her, scanning the room for any sight of Frankie. I caught a glimpse of a woman with long, sun-kissed hair. But when she turned around to gather a man with long dreadlocks into an embrace, I saw she was nearing eighty, with eyebrows that had been plucked out and drawn back on, and thin, purple lips. I turned away as she popped a large prawn into her mouth. And saw Hamid.
It was strange to see him without his mirror twin. He was standing on his own in the corner looking uncomfortable. I didn’t blame him. The guests didn’t bother to hide their disgust as they stared at his deformed head. Some even gathered around him and pointed, as if they were looking at a living art exhibition. He shouted at them in angry Arabic before pushing through the group. They gasped in mock shock and laughed as if it was all part of the show.
A man waved me over with two fingers, demanding another glass of champagne, and I shoved the whole tray into his hands. He shouted after me, but I didn’t stop to look back. I wasn’t going to take my eyes off Hamid because he would lead me to Frankie.
He walked around the edge of the crowd, brushing his hand along the carved walls, keeping his head down and turned away from the partygoers. I stayed as far back as I could without losing sight of him. Not that it was hard. There weren’t too many kids at the party, let alone ones who looked quite as distinctive as Hamid. He left a trail of shocked onlookers as he pushed through, many of whom were still staring his way as I caught up. I wanted to shout at them for being so shallow. Only, the truth was, I’d been a lot worse when I’d first seen him and his brother.
Hamid kept glancing up, and I wasn’t sure if it was just my paranoia, but it looked as if he was following someone too. Ahead of Hamid, a man was barging his way urgently through the crowd. I couldn’t be sure from behind, but he looked like the same man I’d run into earlier, the oil Lord with the wandering hands. He was swaying back and forth in a way that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with the gentle music that was playing. He tripped out of the double doors and into the gardens outside. Hamid followed him. And I followed Hamid.
The garden was illuminated by moving spotlights and strings of lights hung from tree to tree. Small groups of people were huddled together, blowing cigarette smoke into the rain-filled sky.
Hamid looked over his shoulder and I ducked behind a sculpture of a woman holding a vase just in time. I peered out as Hamid turned back to the drunk. The lord plodded through the flowerbeds, crushing daffodils under his clumsy feet, and stopped next to a large tree. With one hand, he steadied himself against its trunk and a moment later, I heard a trickle as he emptied his bladder.
Hamid stepped over the flowers, more careful than the man he was hunting, and stopped just feet behind him. I wondered what on earth he was up to. His twisted face looked even more distorted in the leaping shadows.
The man still hadn’t realised he had company: he was too busy whistling and letting out happy sighs. I watched through the arm of the statue as Hamid reached behind his back. When it reappeared he was holding something. A passing light illuminated both Hamid and the thing in his hand: a slim plastic tube with a thin silver needle. A syringe. Hamid clasped it with both hands and raised it above his head. His one eye was closed and he was shaking, fighting against whatever he was about to do.
I tried to call out. Tried to scream – but only a rasping came from my throat. The moment hung there for what felt like
an age: the man whistling; Hamid’s hands hovering over the man’s back. No one else was paying any attention. They were too busy in their own worlds.
Hamid was going to strike at any minute and I seemed incapable of doing anything to stop him. He arched his back, ready to plunge the syringe into the man’s neck. There was a high whistle from across the garden. Hamid opened his eye and a relieved smile spread over his face. He lowered his hands, turned around and threw the syringe into the flowerbed.
There was a lightness to his step as he crossed the garden heading back toward the party and toward the direction of the whistle. When he arrived at the doors, Hazid, his brother, was waiting. The two greeted each other by resting their foreheads together, united once more. They straightened up and disappeared back inside the museum.
It was only then I found I could breathe again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
That was the final confirmation. Hamid was a good kid. A bit weird, but who wouldn’t be if they’d spent the first half of their life in a freak show? And he and his brother loved to annoy each other, but there was no way he’d go around injecting strange men if he hadn’t been told to. As for why he hadn’t gone ahead and done it, I had no idea. Maybe it’s so that Frankie could force him to change his decision later. Or rather force Hazid to change it for him. What would that be like, I wondered, having your choice Shifted by someone else? If it was Hazid who made the Shift, but Hamid who’d done the act, which one of them would be the real killer? The thought was making my head hurt. I didn’t know what was going on. All I knew was that I needed to find Frankie and stop her. Fast.
I raced back into the hall, not bothering to sneak anymore. I ignored the complaints from the guests as I pushed them aside, knocking glasses and canapés to the floor, then finally saw her.
She was at the far end of room, dressed in a long purple gown that fell to the floor. Her hair was bundled up on her head, like a Greek goddess. She was chatting with a man I recognised from the newspapers: a billionaire who owned two football clubs and an energy company. This must be the Vladimirovich Jake mentioned. Frankie threw her head back and laughed at one of his jokes and he smiled, pleased with himself.
I pressed forward and stumbled as a tall lady wearing ridiculous heels tottered and fell against me. I pushed her roughly out of the way, but when I looked back, Frankie was gone. I darted my head around trying to find her again.
Vladimirovich was leading her through the crowd towards the exit. Only then did I see that she wasn’t alone. She had some of her kids with her. Hamid and Hazid, walked shoulder to shoulder – standing tall now they were together again, and laughing at the weird looks they were getting. Ella and Kia followed them, chatting amongst themselves. Kia’s smile, which could light up a room, was missing. She looked tired and tense. Prestige came last. He was walking bent over, his shoulders hunched, as if he was carrying a heavy load. Gone was the proud, dignified boy I’d met just a few days before, replaced with this twitching, nervous kid.
I had to dodge a large man wearing a black kaftan and lost sight of Frankie and the kids for a moment. I panicked, thinking if I didn’t catch up before she made it onto the street I’d have lost her. But instead of heading for the revolving doors, Vladimirovich led the group left and towards a long corridor. A black rope blocked access into the rest of the museum, but as Frankie and Vladimirovich approached, one of the museum guards unhooked the rope from its gold stand and let them pass without a word. The children moved to follow Frankie, but Vladimirovich held up his hand and I could just about make out what he was saying.
“Make yourselves busy, kids.”
Frankie pointed at the museum shop. Ella nodded and led the kids off that way.
Even better for me. Apart from the billionaire, Frankie would be alone.
I ignored the man clicking his fingers in my face and sidestepped a tall skeletal woman in a short silver dress.
By the time I made it to the edge of the hall, the security guard had replaced the rope. I saw Frankie and Vladimirovich turn left and out of sight.
“No access,” the guard said, holding up his hand to me.
“The caterers told me I have to get something from down there,” I pointed at the long room behind him, which was filled with sculptures. As he turned around, to look where I was pointing, I unhooked the rope and slipped past.
“Wait!” he called after me as I started jogging down the corridor.
“I’ll only be a second,” I shouted back. He seemed to hesitate and then turned back to the crowd.
I slowed as I approached the exit Frankie had taken. I peered into the room. Soft spotlights picked out glass cabinets. I heard the clack of Frankie’s heels and the gentle murmur of conversation up ahead. I counted to thirty and then crept into the room. If I got this wrong, I couldn’t just Shift my way out of it. I had to be extra careful.
A glass box in the centre of the room contained an enormous red carpet, protected from ever being walked on again. I wondered what its maker would have thought of that. Something made to be used now locked away, unable to fulfil its purpose.
I snuck past the carpet towards an arched doorway that led into the next exhibit. The oriental room, judging by a sign on the wall.
Frankie and Vladimirovich were standing on the other side of yet another display cabinet. I ducked down, hiding behind a suit of Samurai armour, and listened.
“And you can persuade him to take my deal?” I heard Vladimirovich say, his accent East London by way of Moscow.
“I can persuade him to take any deal. Miller has been most malleable. And I am, I have been told, very persuasive.”
“I do not doubt that.” A pause. A shuffle of feet. “And the coltan supply? Will that be a problem?”
“No, I have taken care of that too.”
“My, you have been busy. And what do you want in return?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you. No one does anything for nothing,” Vladimirovich said.
“Let’s just say that I believe in your deal and I think it will be better for everyone if he takes it. If you so happen to owe me a favour in the future, well, that’s just a bonus.”
I heard her heels on the tiled floor. They sounded as if they were getting closer.
The man laughed. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you, Mrs Goodwin.”
“That’s a good plan,” I said, stepping out from behind the cabinet.
“What the…?” Vladimirovich said. “Waiting staff shouldn’t be back here.”
I looked down at my apron and ripped it off. “I’m no one’s staff,” I said.
“Scott, how nice to see you,” Frankie purred. I swear she didn’t look even a little surprised.
“You know this boy?”
“We’ve met, yes. What are you doing here, Scott?” she said.
“I’m here to stop you.”
Frankie pouted her perfectly painted lips. “Come now, Scott. Don’t be silly. I thought we were friends.”
“No. You made me think we were friends. You made me…”
“But we are friends.” Her eyes bored into mine.
I shook my head. “Stop it. It’s not going to work this time. I know what you’re doing and I… I can do it too.”
It was a long shot. Sir Richard and his stupid game with the gun had shown me that I didn’t have any control over the power. But the question was, would Frankie know that?”
“I thought as much. I read the files on Greyfield’s, you know. Sir Richard gave them to me. It seems you are quite a special boy.”
“Will someone tell me what the hell–”
“Shut up!” Frankie said. And Vladimirovich’s jaw snapped shut.
“Just go back to the party, Anton,” Frankie continued. “We will continue this discussion later.”
Vladimirovich glared at me and then Frankie. “No woman has ever spoken to me like this. You may find your deal is off the table.” He pushed past me and wound his way back
through the exhibits.
Frankie watched him go and sighed. “It’s a shame my power only works on Shifters.”
“Is that so?” I said.
“Yes. Something to do with the shape of their unique brain. Or perhaps they are more susceptible to my instructions because they exist in a constant state of uncertainty. As soon as I give them a solid idea to hold onto they grab it, like a drowning man onto driftwood.” She mimed holding on to something, wrapping her arms around herself. “No one really wants that much choice, not really. Especially not children. They need absolutes. Boundaries. They want to be told what to do.” She sighed. “Dr Lawrence would have known, I’m sure. He would have explained it. Quantified it all and tried to replicate its effects. But then where would we be, Scott? You and I? Ordinary. Not special at all.”
“Make it stop,” I said. “Take back what you did to me.”
“Or what?” She glanced away and looked at a row of tiny statues in one of the displays.
“Or… or I’m going to tell everyone what you’re doing!”
“And what exactly am I doing, Scott?” I hesitated and she laughed. “You have no idea, do you? You’ve come running here, alone, and you think you can… what? Surprise me into revealing all? This isn’t a film, Scott. I’m not a villain.”
“Yes, you are. You kill people!” I shouted.
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
‘Then… then you get your kids to do it for you. Like Hamid and that fat man earlier. And Kia, did you use her to get close enough to poison Tsing Ken-ze?”
“I wouldn’t worry about Ken-ze. He’ll be returned once his father agrees to my plans.”
I flinched at her words. She was talking about life and death as if it was nothing more than changing what shoes she wore in the morning. “But why? If you bring Ken-ze back, then his father will just forget and whatever you’ve made him agree to will vanish. The whole thing will have been for nothing.”
“Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Scott. There are ways of making people remember. Especially when the event is particularly traumatic. I would have thought that you, of all people, would understand that.”
