by Mark Lingane
“You’re in,” Eddie said. “Now get away from me.”
He walked through the turnstile, followed by his colleagues. A security guard gave them a quick scan and waved them on.
Hanson turned away from the turnstiles and approached the security station. She banged on the desk. The guard looked up and gestured for two others to join him. They put their hands on their weapons.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said.
“Aren’t we all, love?” he replied. He gave her a thin-lipped smile. His hand disappeared under the desk and an alarm sounded. Protective shields slid over the windows and doors.
She sighed and displayed her warrant card. “I’m looking for someone who can assist me with my inquiries.”
“I’m sorry, love, but you’re not allowed in here under any circumstances.”
“I’m a police officer in pursuit of a crime. You’re duty-bound to assist me, especially as a member of a subset of the national security and intelligence service.”
He sighed. “I’ve been in security, successfully, for over forty years. And now here I am in this highly paid job. Do you think there’s a chance I know what I’m doing? Play any games, flash any papers you want, I’ve seen it all before. Your warrant won’t work here. Even if you dragged Her Majesty herself here and she commanded me, I would still say no.”
The guard smiled and gave her a wave goodbye as she left the building.
12
DEFEATED, HANSON FOUND that her footsteps had taken her to Guys and St. Thomas’. The day had gone.
The receptionist didn’t give her much hope; she was blocking everyone who came in, often relying on abusive language to do so.
“Are you family or a relative?” she asked Hanson.
“Neither, but I was the one who found him in the car.” She flipped open her police identification.
The receptionist hesitated and glanced up at the monitors rotating the news. “Are you the one who rescued him? From the helicopter crash?”
She nodded. “People seem to be saying so.”
The receptionist looked around. “Okay, but you have to be quick. He’s in the north wing. Room C1.” She indicated a door to the side and pressed a button under her desk. The door clicked open.
The corridor was full of military people striding quickly to places unseen. Hanson wound her way through the combination of green-and-white uniforms that formed streams of purposeful efficiency. Bodies lay on stretchers. All dead.
She found C1 and pushed on the door. It was unusually weighty. Inside, the room was empty except for the large hospital bed containing Cally, and a person dozing in a chair on the other side of the bed. The room was bereft of any machinery. When she saw who was in the chair, she stopped in her tracks.
“Chambers, how did you get in?”
“Huh?” He sat up, waking from his light doze. “Yeah, good to see you, too, Inspector.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m just checking on the boy.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned widely.
“Why? He’s nothing to do with you.”
“Who else will?” He shrugged.
“There are people who deal with this kind of thing.”
“Where are they?”
She paused and sighed. “You have a point.” She looked down at Cally. “You heard about the military taking over the investigation?”
Chambers nodded. He stood up and made his way around the bed, moving in behind Hanson. They looked down at the fragile boy lying in the bed. The brittle fluorescent lights washed out his already pale complexion. His arms looked like twigs.
“Where’s all the equipment?” she asked.
“If they put any machinery too close to him it doesn’t work properly. He’s sort of radioactive.”
“And the gray material on the walls?”
“Lead-lined sheets. They’re concerned that he might contaminate people or something.”
“Are we safe?”
“Yeah. We’ll all be dead soon anyway.”
She looked at him. “Have you had an uplifting day?”
“It makes sense. No one’s claiming responsibility. So who’s left? Aliens, that’s who.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not aliens. My boss said so.” She returned her focus to the young boy. “Hopefully, he’ll remember something. It’s all we’ve got. I feel sorry for him.”
“Imagine, he could be ours,” he said, wrapping his arm around Hanson’s shoulders.
She lowered her head onto his shoulder and sighed. Then her brain switched on. “What are you doing? Get off me.” She shrugged his arm off her and turned to face him. “I could report you for harassment, you know. But I’ll put it down to fatigue and stress.”
He smiled and moved close to her again.
“Stop it,” she said, pushing him away. “You’re being weird and annoying. And unprofessional.” She smoothed down her clothes.
“Not if we’re off duty. And since it’s nine at night, I’m off duty, and since you’re not out arresting people you’re off duty also.”
“The police are always on duty,” Hanson said stiffly.
“The police are, yes, but not every individual in the police. Police are people, too, and last time I looked, people needed sleep.”
“We’re duty bound. Serve and protect and all that. We have a responsibility to assist whenever and wherever we can.”
“I am a po-lice ro-bot. You are not ha-ppy. You have three se-conds to com-ply.”
“Hey, I am happy.”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“I am.” Hanson placed her hands on her hips.
“Prove it.”
“Prove that I’m happy?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“See? You don’t even know how to show happiness.”
Her eyes darted around the room. “Ha-ha-ha.”
“Was that a laugh?”
“Er … yes.”
“Very natural. You do know a laugh is more of a sound, rather than just a word you speak awkwardly.”
“Well … show me how you’re happy.”
“Okay. Let’s go to the pub. Ha-ha-ha.”
“But it’s Friday night.”
“That’s generally when people go.”
She stared back at him. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
13
HANSON SAT STIFFLY on the edge of the ancient wooden chair that had been worn smooth over the decades. A glass of red wine was in front of her, and her hands were clasped together around the stem. The dim yellow lights reflected off tiny ripples in the red liquid as passing patrons bumped the table.
“Are you going to drink all of that?” she said.
Chambers looked at his pint glass. “Yes.”
“But it’s huge. How can you stay in control if you consume so much?”
“Some might argue that you’re missing the point. I, on the other hand, would debate tolerance. I’ve drunk so much over the years that I need a half dozen of these for them to have any effect.” He raised his glass and drank deeply. And continued until he had drunk the whole glass. He slammed it down on the small table, nearly upsetting her untouched glass of wine.
She looked at him in disgust.
“You’re not going to drink yours?” he said.
“I—”
“In that case, I’m getting another one.” He swiveled in his seat and prepared to stand up.
“Another?”
“Unless you have at least one sip of yours.”
She looked around uneasily.
“Okay, I’m getting another one or two.” He stood up.
“All right! Just sit down. You’re causing a scene.” She slowly lifted the glass to her lips and paused.
“What now?” he said.
“Does this count as coercion?”
“Maybe bullying. Or peer pressure.”
“Don’t let me do anything stupid.”
Chambers grabbed her by the waist
and pulled her out of the pub. She was screaming and whirling her fists, and getting in the occasional kick.
“Sorry,” he shouted to the bouncer, “I’ll get her home.”
“We don’t tolerate her kind ’round ’ere.” He leveled a threatening finger at them and rubbed his injured shin. “You’re both barred.”
“Barred!” Chambers cried.
The front door slammed closed and the bouncer glared at them through the glass.
“That’s a bit harsh. Oh, well, it was only my most favorite place ever.”
“Let go of me.” She shook herself free as Chambers released her. “I know people at the food-government-drink-closing-you-down place,” she shouted at the door.
“Calm down.” Chambers steered her away.
“He shouldn’t have said that. It was mean.”
“He was just being honest.”
“Well, people shouldn’t be honest if they’re going to be mean.”
“He was merely putting forth his opinion about your singing voice.”
“I have a great singing voice.”
“Yeah, grate. You shouldn’t have handcuffed him—”
“He was asking for it!”
“—to the urinal pipes. Then kicked him into the trough. And held his head in the …” He shivered.
“It’s a horrible place. They should be used to it.” She shouted the last bit for no apparent reason to no one in particular. Then she started to run back to the pub entrance.
He lunged after her and steered her away from the door. “Maybe in Essex, but we’re in W1. Most of those people were solicitors.”
“That would explain the wigs and dresses,” she said, and poked him in the chest. “I thought they were sub-par transvestites. I wondered why that man was shouting ‘not the silk.’ I thought he was obsessing over a dress.”
A light mist had rolled up from the Thames, allowing the streetlight to throw a halo around them. She looked up at him. Her eyes grew misty and she raised her hand gently toward his face.
“You know …” she paused. She let out a sad sigh and turned away. “Let’s go.”
The two figures wandered side by side along the Thames. One staggered, shouting randomly at the ducks. The red glow of fires and the accompanying smoke rose from the crash zone on the other side of the great river, with the glittering floodlights punctuating the skyline. The smell of smoke hung over the city. She was no longer part of it; deemed unworthy. The view hit Hanson hard and she turned in toward the city center. The blocks slowly drifted past and she allowed herself the indulgence of sentimentality.
“Chambers?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, good. You’re still here. You know, you’ve been everywhere I’ve been over the last days.”
“Not everywhere.”
She snorted and held her hand over her mouth. “You’re right, you weren’t in my bed.” She let out a laugh. “That sounded a bit rude, didn’t it? Shh, don’t tell anyone. It could be embarrassing. For me.” She took a few more steps. “You’ve been everywhere important. Where are we?” She spun around, using a streetlight as support.
“Mayfair.”
“Oh, my.” She pulled out her phone and opened the maps app. She squinted as she zoomed in. “It seems all blurry for some reason. Gosh. We’re close. Follow me.”
She staggered off down a series of small alleyways until she emerged on one of the upmarket residential streets. She walked along quietly, counting the houses in her head until she stopped in front of one. She ran her hand over the old brickwork, tracing the brass number screwed into the wall.
“I grew up in this house,” she said eventually. Her voice dripped with melancholia.
“In Mayfair? What did your family do?”
“My mother did nothing because she was dead.” She waved her hand in a definitive slash. “And my father …” She sighed. “My father was ex-military. A brigadier. Honorable discharge. He was injured fighting insurgents in the Middle East. He hated being retired. Well, he hated everything.” She lowered her head. “Hated being wounded. Hated other people having fun. Hated wayward teenagers sneaking out at night. Hated when his commands were not carried out instantly. Hated results less than A-plus. Hated hugging. Hated saying, ‘well done.’ Hated, hated, hated, until he …”
She turned to face Chambers with tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry for you.” He patted her shoulder. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He hugged her awkwardly.
She stared blankly at the old building. “He drank a lot. Sometimes it wasn’t pleasant. Mother died when I was thirteen. I had five years of hell while I finished cadet school, then I left. It’s better if you let some memories go and move on. Then he got cancer, and I was pulled back into the place like it was some horrible … horror movie. For two years I looked after him while he died in front of me.”
“That’s sad.”
“See that window?” She pointed up to the top-left window. “When he died and I came back to the empty house for the first time, I sat on the bed and looked out that window and cried until there was nothing left.” She looked up at the dark window.
“And you haven’t let go yet.”
She ran her hand along the brickwork of the Victorian fence. “I’m trying.”
“Yes. Very.”
She punched him on the shoulder.
He stared back at her, unmoving. “Considering your size, that was quite hard.”
“I train a lot. It keeps my friends entertained.”
“You have friends?”
Tracey smiled. “I have heaps.”
“Really?”
“No.” She sighed. “I seem to have a”—she tried to touch the tips of her index fingers together—“connection issue.” She burst into tears. “It all seems so lonely. What’s the point of it all? No friends. No family. I thought if I could have a family of my own it would make up for what I missed out on. But I couldn’t even do that right.”
She held him, reaching out for comfort. She could feel his muscles beneath the clothing, solid and shielding. Arms to be safe in. She closed her eyes and drifted off into fantasy.
“I’d better get you back to Rod,” Chambers whispered.
“Hmm, Rod who?”
“Your partner.”
“Yes, Rod.” She sighed dreamily, and then her eyes snapped open. “Rod! Oh, my God. What am I doing? What are you doing?”
“Don’t panic. I’m not doing anything. Nothing has happened.”
“This is completely your fault.” She stepped away from him and gave him a look of horror.
“It would be if something had happened.”
“Just leave me alone,” she cried. She turned and ran off down the street.
14
DAY THREE OF the disaster and humanity’s insidious nature was already taking effect. Somehow, the media had been able to make it about class. Yes, there had been gangs taking the opportunity to scavenge through the wreckage for valuables. But other parts of the community were doing the same thing, namely the politicians and celebrities. It always amazed Chambers how many fading reality stars quickly appeared at the center of attention when they had something to sell, even if that something wasn’t ready yet.
He sighed. The images of looters filled the front pages of the tabloid papers, juxtaposed against the hollow threats of the Westminster ’hood without the slightest hint of irony. In a time when society should be pulling together, the disaffected and bored youth took the opportunity to get a new set of trainers. Somehow squatters had moved in and turf wars were breaking out. And those from Eton looked down from the sanctuary of the Cotswold and declared their politically correct and vote-appeasing opinions. The media ran it all, with no distinction between friend and foe, as long as the stories shifted units.
Chambers picked up some of Cally’s uneaten breakfast. It was military food, so it was bleak, but it was still better than the kebab Chambers had had the previous night. He took out h
is phone. No signal. The corridor was better, with one intermittent bar, but his call went through to voicemail. He sent a text instead: Cally is awake. Come quick.
An hour later, Hanson cautiously glanced in through the door of Cally’s room. An Indian doctor stood beside the bed, holding a small silver box that clicked frequently. He glanced over at her and continued writing down his readings.
Chambers was staring at the TV monitor. Without looking at her, he said, “It’s just me here. You can take off your sunglasses. And unbuckle the belt around that ridiculously large trench coat. Possibly fold down your collar as well and remove the black hat. You’re not hiding from someone or planning on joining Spy vs. Spy?”
“I’m feeling delicate. I’ve brought you something.” Her voice was dry and raspy. Sheepishly, she brought out a small, cardboard coffee container from behind her back. There were two cups, a standard one and another four times larger. She handed the diminutive one to Chambers.
“I didn’t know they made coffee in that size,” he said. “One should see you right for the week.”
“One? This is my third.”
“You’ve had three of those in the last hour?”
“I … the last two days have been difficult. The chief gave me a blast this morning over some beat-up accusation about trouble I supposedly caused at Candle Fire.”
The doctor wheeled around and quickly left. Hanson was removing her sunglasses as he bumped past her. A moment later, something in his demeanor triggered a memory. She ran out into the corridor. It was still full of medical staff and the deceased. He was gone. She sighed and returned to the room.
“All okay?”
“Yeah, I thought I … that doctor who was just here reminded me of someone I met in the crash zone, except he wasn’t a doctor.”
“Who or what is Candle Fire?” Chambers said.
“It’s a little complex. Candle Fire is a weapons R&D company, and I have a feeling they’re wrapped up in this. Actually,” she said, looking in the direction of the door, “more than a feeling. I found an electromagnetic weapon, and it had markings on it that could link to them. Anyway, you Cally said was awake.”
