by John Luxton
* * *
For a full twelve hours it had been raining relentlessly and Lorna was cold and damp. The forecast for the evening was that the weather front would clear away and that launch of the Joe Canoe Activity Apparel could take place under blue skies. That was only the weather nerd’s opinion though and on the ground, at the centre of operations by Putney Bridge, a light drizzle was still falling. This was the spot where the flotilla would converge and at dusk a life-size hologram of Joe, paddling his cosmic canoe, along with various other characters from the story, would materialize above the river and the celebrants would then begin their quests. There was, in addition to the flash crowd river party, a national campaign of advertising and social media engagement, which had already commenced, and tomorrow the clothing range would be available in every high street.
So tonight was the night and Lorna knew she should be sharing in the elation of the imminent occasion. But the truth was that she and Agim were exhausted, and so too was Jada who had quit her job at Hammerfall to work on the project fulltime. The true nature of the enterprise had remained hidden however; Skyshine was a shadow component operating ‘in the cloud’ and any content that was uploaded by the players exploring the Loa with Joe and Crow would begin to build a data bridge. And in time as the grid developed they would approach the Omega Point when the power of difference would be dissolved, unity restored and the power of the shadowy Blake Organisation negated. Lorna had long come to terms with the fact that she did not fully understand the mechanics of this process, but this was not bringing her down, or the rotten weather: It was that there had been no word from Joel, and beyond the fact that he needed to see his creation made manifest, she feared for his safety.
She had already walked from the office to the pier and back three times, but now she pulled on her cagoule and set off again; this time to check up on Big Vern who was in charge of security, and also to feel like she was busy.
As she crossed the main road and followed the footpath down to the pier she saw a long slim boat passing under Putney Bridge. It was out in the centre of the river and she watched for a moment as it glided by, then the pier buildings obscured it, but she had the feeling that there was something familiar about the figure standing at the stern. The drizzle kept on falling so she pulled up her hood and broke into a trot because she could see that the three event boats were lined up on the up-river side of the pier. After ten minutes on board Lorna wanted to leave, she could not put her finger on it exactly but something was troubling her. She watched as the fatigued Jada had transformed into being a public relations goddess, effortlessly captivating and controlling the media folk. The build up had been impressive, the crowd were primed and expectant, even weather had lifted and soon it would be the slack tide; that time when the waters of the river were held in suspension. The tide was to be high too, to the extent that the large cruisers were trapped between the river’s bridges because the headroom was so reduced by the volume of water. It was during this tidal pause, as dusk fell that, Agim would orchestrate the appearance of the holographic Joe and his canoe.
As she slipped away the noise level was rising and she was glad to be away from the hyped atmosphere. She spotted Big Vern at the entrance to the pier and he winked at her and gave her a smile as if to say – lucky you. Really she just wanted to be with Agim, who was due to be out in midstream in the technical boat, but as she trotted along she saw that his boat was still on the slipway of the rowing club. Maybe she could catch a ride with him.
Making her way along the embankment she saw Agim. He was stood on the concrete apron, river water gently lapping round his Wellington boots, and he was talking to a slim figure wearing blue overalls and a grey woollen hat. When he turned she could see a grey-bearded face; he looked like an old sea dog washed up here from the distant past. But he and Agim seemed to speaking like old friends, and Lorna had to circumvent them in order to be even noticed.
“Hi,” she said nervously.
“Your timing is superb,” said Agim. “Lorna, this is Colin. I have a task for you.”
* * *
Lorna and Colin walked together away from the pier and the boats and the people to where the houses and boathouses stopped and the road and pavement turned into a tree-lined track. The ground was wet from the day of rain and in places the high tide had spilled over carrying with it a layer of river detritus. Colin could walk pretty fast for an old boy, but Lorna was smiling as she followed behind him, in order to carry out the mission that Agim had charged her with.
Colin suddenly turned off the path and headed off into the undergrowth; ten yards in he had hidden his bike and trailer. The problem was, he had collected a puncture and the rig could go no further. This was of course fixable but the snag was his cargo. Beneath a green plastic sheet was the most enormous tote bag that Lorna had ever seen. Like the ones she had seen coaches of kids football teams struggling with; loaded with seven footballs and kit for the whole team.
“Can’t carry it on me own,” was all Colin would say.
According to Agim’s instruction the cargo had to be transported post haste to the boot of his Mercedes that was parked in a back street nearby. They grabbed a handle each and half dragged, half carried it out onto the path.
“OK,” said Lorna. Colin nodded.
They had barely staggered thirty yards when they heard the low chug of a large capacity trail bike at low revs, coming along the towpath from behind them. This was unheard of; motorised vehicles were prohibited on the riverside paths. Lorna and Colin ploughed back into the bushes and crouched down. There were two bikes in fact; military looking BMWs, the riders’ eyes raking the trees and bushes: They were carrying out a thorough sweep. Their radios hissed static and a distorted voice carried to Lorna and Colin as they peered out of their hideaway, then the bikes came to a halt.
“On the towpath, approaching the road, nothing to report. Where are you?”
The rest of his words were drowned out by a huge roar that rose in volume until it seemed like it was everywhere, as it faded Colin mouthed to her silently, “Craven Cottage.” When she failed to show any cognition he added. “Fulham Football Club, big match tonight.”
Yes, of course it is, she thought, and gritted her teeth. They were directly across the river from the ground. The two bikers seemed to come to a decision; one turned his bike and headed back, the other chugged off towards Putney.
“Who are they?” began Lorna, straightening up and brushing leaves from her jeans. Colin remained crouched down, then she realised he was having difficulty getting out of his crouched position. She took his arm.
“Baba’s storm troopers, at a guess,” he replied grimly, when finally upright.
They grabbed their load once again and continued on their way, all the while listening intently for the sound of Baba’s scouts returning.
Chapter 51
Detective Z felt in his pocket for another mint; he had pledged to himself to stop smoking and now sought comfort from the itch of a life-long addiction. Basil however was standing, legs akimbo puffing on a huge cigar as he spun the brass and walnut wheel, steering his boat around an orange buoy.
“Transmission’s a Borg Warner, silky aint she?”
He blipped the throttle and the vessel performed a banked turn. It was the kind of power-launch that aging but handsome and wealthy retirees seemed to prefer; that is if the pension company adverts in glossy lifestyle magazines were to be believed. Detective Z had accepted the invitation from the avuncular Basil to sail up the river in the newly purchased man-toy because he felt there was possibly something of value to be discovered, even though a morose Colin had advised against it at some point during their afternoon drinking session at the Laughing Pig. Also Detective Z needed a job; times were tough and he could not afford to wait the outcome of his disciplinary review, even though he was suspended on full pay. In fact the Met had a grand history of retiring officers going to work for the very people they had been investigating.
&nbs
p; They were now almost at Putney and Basil brought the craft to a halt and spoke into the radio.
“So nothing. Go and take a look at the boats at the pier.” He turned and smiled at his guest. “Some of my lads, on a scouting mission,” he said by way of explanation, then took a flask from the pocket of his blazer and shook it invitingly. “Care for a tipple? Brandy, it fortifies the spirit, you know.”
The detective took a drink, it tasted good; he took another and handed the flask back, nodding his head appreciatively. Strangely Basil put the container back in his pocket and turned away, revving the boat and steering towards the far bank. He noticed that although the sun had not set the floodlights of the football ground on the north bank were blazing; it was at this point he realized that his thoughts were becoming viscous and confused; the drink, he thought. He saw that Basil was watching him.
As Ex Detective Z began to sink to the floor of the boat a phrase came back to him through the ether: Remember to never forget. Or was that the wrong way round. Although debilitated he was not unconscious, he gathered all his strength and brought his attention back into the present. Basil was again speaking on the radio again.
“A boat load of geeky faggotts, you say? Right, right and a giant bird projected in the sky. You mean like the Batcall over Gotham City. Right, right, it sounds pathetic. Take some pictures and I’ll look at them later, I’m going home. He stopped talking and smiled down at Z.
“Anything you might like to tell me detective? Maybe something about that daughter of yours; you know I have something special in mind for her; the lovely Lorna.”
Receiving no reply he increased the revs and spun the wheel. Then stood over his prey and said in an insinuating voice. “Early days my friend, soon you will want to tell me everything.”
Detective Z gradually felt the weight on his frontal lobe diminish and was able to open his eyes fully and look around, seeing as he did that they were passing beneath the centre arch of Hammersmith Bridge. In front, silhouetted against the light, Basil had his broad back to him and was looking straight ahead. Somehow the detective was able to raise himself and crawl forward until he was close enough to unleash an uppercut, straight into the soft and ample target of Basil’s testicles.
That got his attention. Basil sank to his knees gasping in pain, his features contorted. After a couple minutes he had recovered enough to kick the semi conscious detective in the face and then roll him to the gunwale and tip him over the side of the boat. He watched the detective sink beneath the surface, then restarted the engine and set course to Mortlake. The packet of mints had fallen from Detective Z’s pocket in the struggle and the movement of the boat caused them to roll against Basil’s foot. He bent down and picked them up, frowned at them for a moment and finally threw the green tube into the river.
The effects of large doses of Burundanga have been know to last for several hours, but due to the icilin in his stomach, which is an active ingredient of peppermint, the veracity of the drug was very much reduced. Breaking the surface spitting copious amounts of river water Detective Z paddled doggie style for a couple of minutes and watched the stern of Basils launch disappearing up river. Then he began to swim slowly towards the floating pontoon on the northern side of the bridge, the slack tide persisting for just long enough for him make the shore; shivering and bleeding from a cut on his mouth inflicted by Basil’s boot, but very much alive.
* * *
Early that morning Joel had entered lock 101 where he and the Second Chance had been lowered gently to a point where they could be released into the tidal Thames. Finally he was entering London on a rising tide and it felt fantastic; but by the time he reached Chiswick Reach the tide had turned, and so had his mood. This was the place where, according to the news clipping, the Alembic Valise had succumbed and submerged. Joel had studied the dream artefact a hundred times but as he approached the moorings that were mentioned in the text of the article he was uncertain of what he may find.
All that was left were the remnants of an inflatable boom that, as a helpful boat owner who was moored nearby explained, had been used to contain the fuel leaking from the stricken vessel. After which, at considerable expense to the taxpayer, she had been re-floated, craned onto a salvage barge, and finally taken to a boat yard in Gravesend to be scrapped.
“It was me that called the Port of London Authority,” Joel’s informant explained. “Every day she was lower in the water, then one day she just stayed on the mud, shame really. Did you know her owner?” Joel just shook his head.
The journey to Gravesend had proved fruitless; the Alembic Valise had been “disposed of”. Also the boat-yard owner, who worked closely with the river authorities, was trying to track down the registered owner to serve him with legal papers for payment to recover the cost of the salvage operation. A Mr Joel Barlow. And had he heard of him? Again Joel shook his head and left. Judas, he thought.
By early evening he was thoroughly weary, having chugged back into London and he was now wondering where he could moor for the night. The rain was finally easing and as he passed under Putney Bridge he knew that the next bend in the river would take him under Hammersmith Bridge and past the place where he had lived that long gone life aboard the Alembic Valise. Let’s get it over with, he was thinking, when the roar hit him; ah, Fulham have scored; this made him smile as he looked over towards Craven Cottage, remembering the times he and Dave had attended football matches there.
Onwards he sailed, and Joel only looked ahead; not towards his old mooring, and not behind where he would perhaps have seen a holographic image projected into the night sky above the city. But as he glided round the next bend in the river he looked over towards the causeway that had been the subject of Sophie’s lecture in those past times. He pursed his lips and hung his head, then looked again because something had caught his eye and had taken a few chugs of the engine to actually register in his shuttered consciousness, lost as he was between worlds. There was a figure on the higher most cobbles, standing still, slowly raising an arm, and beginning to wave. He leaned on the tiller.
Chapter 52
Three weeks later Baba was summoned; usually the meetings were twice yearly and the prospect of this impromptu weekend with bankers, masons, political fixers and intelligence creeps was ringing alarm bells in his skull; something was afoot. Of course the reason for this sudden call to action was known to Baba: Over the last few days all the companies controlled by the Blake Organisation had suffered sharp drops in their stock prices. The markets had been spooked by something, and of course the investors were looking for someone to blame.
As his chauffeur driven car with blacked out windows took him to the heliport he saw it again – graffiti on the side of a warehouse – Joe Canoe: Where have I seen that name before? Then remembered it was on the side of the disused brewery, situated upriver from the Ice Tower, in letters a yard high. Must ask one of my aides what it means, he thought. But he soon forgot all about it.
Just a quarter of a mile away, but on the northern bank of the river, Agim had been killing time, sitting on a bench chain smoking and attracting disapproving looks from the fitness fascists running and cycling past, but now he was in position. He was hiding behind a strip of Poplar trees that were lined straight along the rivers edge as a windbreak, and must be at least eighty feet tall. He knew that he had to wait until the helicopter was overhead, then there would only be chance for one shot and almost no time to aim. But he knew that the pilot would swing out over Dukes Meadow before beginning his journey, following the route along the rivers curve towards the Docklands City Airport. And that would be his opportunity to deliver his killshot. And then Baba would die in a ball of flame and twisted metal.
As he looked at his watch his ears picked up the rotors choppy pulse punching through the humid air. Hefting the launcher onto his shoulder he stepped from the shelter of the trees and stood waiting in the centre of the path.
In one smooth movement he swung around as the chopper broke
the tree line, catching the rotor tip in his viewfinder then quickly fixing onto the main body. He fired and then watched as the momentum took the falling target behind the trees, it’s wreckage falling into the river with a hollow roaring sound. He ran along the path down to waters edge to see a plume of smoke emanating from the centre of the river, his eye followed it upwards to see a black cloud that seemed to gather itself then form into a bird that writhed and thinned as it became caught in the crosswinds. Perhaps it is an avian cryptid like the Chernobyl Black Bird, or even Mothman himself, pondered Agim.
He had by now zipped the launcher into a tote bag and was sauntering back to his car, swinging the bag and whistling in the manner of someone who had spent a satisfying afternoon at the sports club. Slamming shut the boot he turned to see a man watching him from across the car park. Agim took a deep breath and walked towards him. Recognising him as he did so.
“Help you?” asked Agim.
“Cuthbert Mcluhan,” he held out a slim brown hand. “Technically I’m your Grandpa.”
Although the river was over three hundred meters away, and screened from them by trees, they could clearly hear sirens and the roar of motor launch engines. Agim nodded in the direction of the kerfuffle. “Thanks for the fire power. Only question is, did we get him, was he onboard?”
“That we cannot know. Would you care to drive me to Knightsbridge?” replied Cuthbert. In answer, Agim opened the passenger door for his Grandfather.
“Did you know he was my half brother, Baba, a corruption of Basil? It was our childhood name for him; he was always bad news, even back then.”
