by Tim Waggoner
Merlin watched her for a moment, charmed, and then quietly walked over to join her. He began singing as well, and she turned to him, surprised and a bit embarrassed. But the two of them continued to sing together, finishing the song with gusto. When it was over, they looked away, suddenly shy.
“I love that song,” Merlin said.
“Really?” Ginger didn’t sound convinced.
“I have two things to thank The Muppets for: Beaker, that got me into science, and John Denver, who was always on the show.”
“I have Olivia Newton John to thank for ‘Country Roads,’ but I would gladly be your Dr Honeydew.”
Merlin frowned. “Who?”
“Dr Bunsen Honeydew. Remember? The scientist who always blows Beaker up.”
They smiled at each other, but the moment, lovely as it was, passed, and it was time to get back to being professionals.
“How is he?” Merlin asked.
“I gave him a sedative.” Ginger sighed, sounding weary and defeated. “He was delirious. We need to run more tests.”
“It’s definitely related to the skin condition,” Merlin said. “The news wire said there were reports coming in from all over. Whatever it is, it’s spreading to the brain. Find any correlations with the other victims you contacted?”
“Only… recreational drug use,” Ginger said. “I know. Not very Statesman-like. Tequila is our resident bad boy. But if drugs are the cause, we’re not talking about a single bad batch. The victims used a wide range of substances, hard and soft.”
Merlin thought for a moment. “Don’t think this could be connected to the Golden Circle, do you?”
Ginger frowned. “A drug cartel poisoning their customers? Makes no sense.”
Maybe not, but Merlin’s instincts told him there was a connection; they just needed to find it.
* * *
Eggsy hurried outside to find Jack leaning against the hood of a Bronco, smoking a cigarette. The American agent wore brown sunglasses, a leather jacket, white T-shirt, jeans, and brown boots. He still wore his cowboy hat, though. He’d refused to part with it. Eggsy was dressed in equally casual style: red flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, with faded jeans, white sneakers, and a red ball cap.
As Eggsy approached the car, Jack tossed the cigarette to the ground and extinguished it with his foot. “You always bang your contacts?” he asked.
“What are you on about?” Eggsy said.
Jack pointed at Eggsy’s shirt. “It was tucked before you went in.”
Eggsy looked down, saw Jack was right, and hastily tucked his shirt in.
“She’s my girlfriend,” he explained.
Jack gave him a disapproving look. “At Statesman, we have strict rules about relationships.”
“Course. Same at Kingsman. But me and Tilde… that’s a special case.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Says who? You?”
“I rescued her from Valentine’s HQ. She saw everything. She knows what I am. Apart from classified stuff, I can tell her anything.”
There was a knock from the window above them, and the two men looked up to see Tilde, wrapped in a sheet, smiling and waving cheerily down at them.
Jack stepped close to Eggsy, leaned in toward him, and spoke in a low, threatening voice. “You ever compromise Statesman, kid, in any way, I will not hesitate to take action. I make myself clear?”
Eggsy stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated. “Crystal. Let’s get on with the mission.”
He hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble between them, but if there was, he was ready for it. They got in the car.
“Look in the glovebox,” Jack said.
Eggsy did so and found two small boxes. He removed one, opened it, and saw what looked to him like the world’s smallest condom.
“Fucking hell, bruv. I thought everything was supposed to be bigger in America. No wonder you overcompensate with them big cars.”
Jack ignored the gibe. “Goes on your finger. There’s a tracker in the tip. Apply light pressure for three seconds to release it.”
Eggsy nodded. He put the box back, started the car, and they were on their way to Glastonbury.
* * *
Eggsy had never been to Glastonbury before. He’d known it was big, but he’d had no idea how huge it actually was. Every year in late June, over 175,000 people—most of them in their twenties—swarmed to the fields of Somerset to party hard for five days. From classic rockers like The Rolling Stones, The Who, Lou Reed, and Bob Dylan to more contemporary artists such as Gorillaz, Beyoncé, Kanye West, and Lady Gaga, the roster of musicians who had played at Glastonbury read like a who’s who of pop culture. Other arts beside music were represented at the festival, too, such as dance, comedy, theater, circus, and cabaret. Glastonbury had developed out of the hippie and counterculture movements, and—thanks to the presence of a small megalith structure similar to Stonehenge—it was also a New Age site of interest. It was the perfect place for someone like Countess Clara, an aristocrat who fancied herself to be spiritually evolved and highly attuned to the rhythms of the universe, when in reality she was just a spoiled rich kid looking for a good time.
Eggsy and Jack pulled into one of the festival’s parking areas in the late afternoon. They left the car and headed for the VIP camping site, wearing the entry wristbands that Tilde had procured for them. The site was like a mini-fortress, enclosed by anti-climb fences topped with razor wire. Wouldn’t want the wrong sort getting in now, would we? Eggsy thought. Beyond the fence was a small city of camper vans, tipis, and tents. All of them the best that money could buy, of course. Eggsy checked his phone as he and Jack headed for the security gate.
“According to Countess Clara’s Instagram, she’s in here, at the VIP bar.”
But when they attempted to enter the camping area, one of the security guards at the gate stopped them. He was a tall, muscular man in his early twenties with a shaved head and an I-Don’t-Take-Shit attitude.
“Wrong wristbands, gents,” he said in a thick Brummie accent.
Jack shot Eggsy a dark look, as if to say, Your girlfriend didn’t just screw you; she screwed us both. He then turned back to the guard.
“How much are they to buy?”
When the guard didn’t reply, Jack reached into his pocket and withdrew a rolled-up bundle of American money.
“Let’s call it a thousand,” he said, holding the money out for the man to take. The guard looked at the cash as if Jack were offering him a large dog turd.
“Let’s call it ‘Fuck off and don’t come back,’ old man,” the guard said, practically growling.
Jack scowled. “I’m sorry, my hearing aid must be busted. How about you say that again a little bit louder. And maybe without the weird-ass accent.”
Sneering, the guard leaned in close to Jack. “I said, ‘Fuck o—’”
A little puff of gas jetted from an invisible hole in the rim of Jack’s hat and clouded the guard’s face. The man’s eyes rolled white, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.
Jack looked around, feigning alarm. “Hey! Help! This guy just collapsed!”
Other security guards rushed over to see to their fallen comrade, and in the commotion, Jack strolled through the gate without anyone noticing. Eggsy followed, impressed despite himself. They were in.
* * *
Eggsy and Jack headed across the field to the VIP bar.
“I say we both make an approach, and whoever gets on best with Clara goes for it,” Jack said.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a competition, bruv, does it? Shake hands with her, pat her on the shoulder, whatever. Job done.”
Jack stopped walking and stared at Eggsy, as if trying to determine whether the British agent was messing with him or not. Eggsy continued walking for several paces before stopping and turning back around to face him.
“The hand is not a mucous membrane, Eggsy. Nor is the shoulder. They teach you anything at Kingsman?”
Eggsy frowned in confusion. �
�What are you talking about?”
“Our trackers are designed to enter the bloodstream. They circulate harmlessly, providing full audio and GPS.”
Jack started walking again, and Eggsy followed.
“But… mucous membrane is like… inside your nose, innit? How am I supposed to put my finger up her…” Realization struck him then. “It ain’t just your nose, is it?”
“No, Eggsy,” Jack said, sounding amused now. “It ain’t. They train you in seduction?”
“Yeah. Rule one: be attractive. Rule two: don’t be unattractive.”
Jack sighed. “Great. I’ll take first crack. Only fair, since I’m the one whose balls ain’t been milked yet today. Watch and learn, buddy.”
Despite being located in the middle of a field, the bar resembled a proper pub, Eggsy thought. Except for the grass on the ground. And the fact that everyone here had money and were trying awfully hard to look like they didn’t. After all, VIP didn’t stand for Vastly and Irrevocably Poor. The men and women in the tent were young, and while most of them dressed down in grubby shirts and (deliberately) torn jeans, many wore clothes inspired by the fashions of the sixties and seventies. A number of the festivalgoers in the tent had patches of weird blue blotches on their skin. Eggsy had never seen anything like it before. He took a couple pictures with his eyeglasses to send to Merlin. An attractive blond woman wearing a short, tight dress with a riotous blend of color that could only be described as psychedelic sat at the far end of the bar: Countess Clara Von Glucksberg. She had a mostly empty wine glass in front of her, and she was bent over her phone, thumbs flying across the screen as she texted or posted on Instagram. Eggsy hung back while Jack made a beeline for her. The American agent took the stool next to her and lost no time in getting down to business.
“Miss?” he said. “Forgive me for troubling you, but what time are you playing?”
Clara turned to him with a laugh. “I’m not in a band! Oh god! Who did you think I was? Oh please say it’s not someone ghastly!”
“Well, now I feel like a fool! Truth be told, I just assumed that a woman with your charisma just had to be somebody.”
She laughed again, louder this time. “Right! Thank you.”
Jack smiled. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to make me feel like a dumbass. How about you make it up to me by letting me buy you a drink?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. “Are you hitting on me?”
Jack’s smile became a grin. “Well, ma’am, I believe I am.”
She paused to finish the last of her wine. She put the empty glass on the counter and returned her attention to Jack. She then swiped her finger to the left. Jack looked at her, confused, so she did it again. When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m swiping left? Don’t you have Tinder in America?”
Jack frowned. “Tinder what?”
Eggsy was close enough to hear their conversation, and he winced inwardly at Clara’s savage takedown of Jack. But he knew a cue when he heard one. He headed over to the two of them and slid next to Clara.
“I think it’s a generational thing,” he said to her. He turned to Jack and spoke loudly and slowly, as if to an old person. “She’s saying she ain’t interested, mate.”
Jack was only in his forties, but Clara was in her early twenties, and if she thought Jack was too old for her, then—for the time being, at least—Eggsy did too. Jack locked eyes with Eggsy for a moment. Eggsy grinned and Jack gave him a glare before turning back to Clara. He touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “Be good and be cool,” he said, and moved off. Eggsy quickly slid onto the stool Jack had vacated.
“Thanks for that.” She looked Eggsy up and down, and evidently she liked what she saw, for she smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Clara. Hi.”
Eggsy shook her hand. “River.” When they were finished shaking, he took a quick look at his phone. “Bloody hell, is it only four o’clock? I’m so jet-lagged, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”
“Where’ve you been? Anywhere nice?”
“South America. I’m sort of living there for a bit? Training with a shaman, connecting with my spirit animal, you know.” He tapped his chest. “Crow. And something tells me yours is a… jaguar?”
Her eyes widened in delighted surprise. “Oh my god, seriously? That’s amazing! It totally is! How did you even know that?” She turned and tugged her dress off her shoulder to reveal a tattoo of a black jaguar.
How did I know? Eggsy thought. You post enough bloody selfies on Instagram.
“Ino Moxo,” he said. “The black jaguar. Nice.”
“You read Manuel Córdova-Rios? You know what, I’m going to buy you a proper drink.”
Eggsy smiled. Score: Britain 1, USA 0.
* * *
Merlin and Ginger stood side by side in a dark room. They both wore night-vision goggles, and, to them, the room appeared bathed in a strange greenish light.
“I thought our tests were eccentric,” Merlin said.
A huge bull lay on the floor, sleeping. And sitting on the animal’s back—still wearing his gray tracksuit—was Harry, head down, eye closed. A rope lashed Harry in a seated position to the bull’s middle.
“Oh man, seriously,” Ginger said. “You should see this when we do it with a full class of candidates.”
“Not sure I even want to see it now,” Merlin muttered.
Ginger smiled and stepped toward the bull. She drew a pair of hypodermic needles from her pocket. Shifting one to her left hand, she deftly lifted the fabric of Harry’s tracksuit and injected into his hip. The effect was instantaneous. He raised his head and opened his eye. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles, which meant that to him, he’d awakened to total darkness.
“Oh god. Now what?” he said. He pulled against the rope tying him to the bull, then reached down with his free hand to pat the animal’s hide. “What is this?”
Ginger switched hypodermics and plunged the fresh one into the bull’s flank. She then pulled it free and quickly stepped back. Merlin decided that gaining a bit of distance from the animal might not be a bad thing, and he retreated until he was pressed against the wall. The bull began to stir, groggily at first, but then its head seemed to clear and it rose to its feet.
“Oh no,” Harry said, almost pleading. “No…”
Ginger stepped to a door and shoved it open, flooding the room with light. The bull—fully awake now and mad as hell—charged forward, carrying Harry with it. Merlin and Ginger quickly removed their goggles and stepped through another doorway that led to a safety barrier where they could watch the action from ringside.
The bull ran into the middle of a rodeo arena—Statesman-owned, of course. The seats were empty, so there was no audience to watch as the bull bucked and twisted, trying to throw Harry off. At least he’s spared the indignity of being other people’s entertainment, Merlin thought.
Harry screamed and held on for dear life as the bull’s exertions became increasingly vigorous. Finally, and unsurprisingly, the bull won. Harry slipped free of the rope, and he went flying through the air. Tuck and roll, Harry! Merlin thought. Tuck and roll!
Harry tumbled as he came down and landed hard. But he didn’t stay down long. He scrambled to his feet and faced Merlin and Ginger.
“You bastards!” he shouted at them, his face purple with anger. “For god’s sake, is this a joke? What is wrong with you people?”
The bull had trotted off after ridding itself of Harry, but now it turned and started coming back toward him, picking up speed as it went.
“Harry, watch out!” Merlin shouted.
But his warning came too late. The bull smashed into Harry from behind, hurling him into the air like a rag doll. He hit the ground even harder when he came down this time, the impact sending up a cloud of dust. But the bull hadn’t finished playing with its toy yet. It angrily pawed the ground, ready to go at Harry again, and Merlin doubted Harry could survive another of the animal
’s attacks.
“I’ve got to help him,” Merlin said.
“Wait, wait…” Ginger said.
But Merlin couldn’t stand by and watch his friend suffer any longer. He vaulted over the barrier and into the arena. He waved his arms, trying to get the bull’s attention.
“Hey, hey! Over this way!” he shouted.
The bull looked at him, cocked its head to the side for a second as if considering, and then it charged.
“Oh shit,” Merlin said.
Just as the bull was about to hit Merlin, Ginger fired a tranquilizer dart at the animal, and the beast went down with a heavy thud.
“Good shot,” Merlin said.
“Thanks. You’ve got three minutes until the bull wakes up.”
“Right.” Merlin walked over to Harry. The man still lay on his back, but his eye was open.
“Harry, I think you and I deserve a drink. Don’t you? Come on.”
He helped Harry to stand and together they walked out of the paddock.
* * *
Merlin and Harry sat at a small table on the covered porch outside the distillery’s gift shop. Merlin smoked a pipe while Harry sipped a cup of warm tea. It had started to rain, and they watched riders leading their horses to the stables. After a time, Harry spoke.
“Merlin, you say you were my friend, but a true friend wouldn’t put anyone through this torture. Whatever your dream is for me, it’s proving to be my nightmare. Please, please… end this. I beg you.”
It tore at Merlin’s heart to see his old friend like this. He wanted to tell Harry that yes, it was over, and that he wouldn’t have to endure any further sadistic tests. As he looked into Harry’s one eye, he thought of how Galahad—this Galahad—had given his life in the fight against Richmond Valentine. Or nearly so. Maybe Harry would be happier this way, without any memories of the battles he’d fought in the service of Kingsman, the lives he’d been forced to take in the performance of his duties. Especially all those people in the South Glade Mission Church. Who would want to live with the memory of what it was like to be turned into a homicidal lunatic, trapped in your own body, aware of your actions but unable to stop yourself? It sounded like a living hell to Merlin. Maybe Harry deserved to retire from Kingsman without such a mental burden. And he had wanted to be a lepidopterist once. Now he could have a chance to live a life he’d originally turned away from, explore a road not taken. He could literally start anew, and how many people ever got that chance?
