“See you in a bit,” she said. “Go with Joseph.”
The boy seemed satisfied. He grinned before being led away again by Fat Joseph.
Michael King watched them go.
“I hope Carol is dead,” he said. There was no emotion in his voice. “The other possibilities don’t bear thinking about. Tell me something my friends – was she alive when they took her?”
Barboza nodded. “She was.”
Michael King cursed quietly to himself. Then he shook his head and smiled.
“I cannot thank you enough for bringing Charlie back to us,” he said. “He’s a good boy.”
“You’re welcome,” Barboza said. “It was the least we could do.”
Barboza looked at Walker. There was a strained look in her eyes, and he had the feeling she wanted to tell him something.
“Can you give us a moment please?” she said, turning to Michael King. “I just want to have a quick word with Walker.”
Michael King nodded. “Of course,” he said.
The Bedlamite retreated to an old shop space about ten feet back. No sooner had he arrived there than at least six or seven asylum seekers rushed over, eager to talk with him about something.
Barboza turned back to Walker. He was surprised and a little embarrassed when she lifted his hand into her own.
“I’m going to stay here,” she said. “I’m going to stay with Charlie – I think he needs me more than you do.”
Walker’s heart sank a little at the news, even though deep down he’d been expecting it. And regardless of his feelings, it was the right thing to do. He’d seen the close bond that had developed between Barboza and Charlie in such a short space of time. Carol was gone, and there was an important role that needed to be filled.
It would get her off the streets too, away from the killing. Maybe she needed that most of all.
“Aye,” Walker said, looking her straight in the eye. “I thought you might say that, sooner or later.”
“I’m sorry Walker,” she said. “I’m letting you down aren’t I? I’m bailing out on you to stay here with the good guys. To stay safe. Guess that makes me a coward and disloyal, doesn’t it?”
“You’re a good soul Barboza,” Walker said. “You don’t belong out there.”
“It’s too real,” Barboza said. “Soldiers and gangs trying to kill me. I’m just an actress for God’s sake – not even that good an actress, not really. I came here to work, not to die.”
“Not that good an actress?” Walker said. “You could have fooled me. You did fool me.”
She smiled.
“When you’re outside the M25,” she said. “When you see London on TV every day and you know it’s horrible, but it’s okay ’cos it’s not your problem. It’s okay because you can switch the TV off if it all gets a little too real. You can close the laptop and put your phone in your pocket and forget about it. Until next time. And if you do that, London goes away. But it’s not going away, not now. Not ever. I killed a man yesterday Walker.”
Walker gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be fine here,” he said. “Stay.”
“But I owe you,” Barboza said.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Walker said. “Remember? Hatchet owes me – he’s the only one who does.”
He let go of her hand. Then he looked over towards Michael King, who was being hounded by the asylum seekers. Walker caught his eye immediately. The Bedlamite winked at him, then said a few words, excusing himself to the people around him.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Aye,” Walker said. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Oh,” Michael King said, smiling. “My fan club? They just want to say thank you for letting them stay here last night. So they say it, over and over again.”
He turned around and waved at the asylum seekers, all of who waved back.
“Look if it’s still okay,” Barboza said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer of staying here. I’d like to help Charlie, now that…well you know? He needs a guardian and we get on really well.”
Michael King smiled as he offered an outstretched hand.
Barboza shook it.
“Charlie’s very fond of you,” Michael King said. “I can see it in his eyes. But what about your trip to the Hole? What about Hatchet?”
“I’ll go on alone,” Walker said.
“Supplies are being prepared for you my friend,” Michael King said, turning to Walker. “Food, water, clean clothes and other things you might find useful.”
“Thanks,” Walker said. “I’ll be heading off then.”
“Yes of course,” Michael King said. “But it’ll take a short while to get these things together and to bring them down onto the concourse. We have ten minutes to spare at least. And that’s good. Because there’s something that I’d like you to see before you go. Something that you deserve to see, considering what you’ve been through.”
Michael King looked at Barboza. “You should see this too, especially if you’re going to be living here with us. ”
Walker and Barboza exchanged confused glances.
“What is it?” Walker said. “What’s this thing?”
Michael King smiled and it left Walker feeling uneasy.
“Come this way,” Michael King said, gesturing towards the other end of the station. “Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”
Chapter 21
Michael King led them down the concourse.
They walked past hundreds of people, lying or sitting scattered around the old shops on either side of the station. At the end of the concourse, Michael King took a sharp right, passing an old WH Smith that temporarily housed about fifty people, half of them sitting on the floor playing cards, using marbles instead of money prizes.
They travelled down a set of stairs, underneath a large sign that said ‘Way Out’. At the bottom of the stairs, a long corridor led them to one of the station’s other exits.
They stepped into the morning sunlight.
Walker saw they were on a small side street, about a minute’s walk off Bishopsgate.
Michael King hadn’t spoken during their short journey through Station. Now he led them back towards the main road, specifically to a massive red brick Victorian building that stood next to the train station. The lower section of the building was notably different than the rest of its red exterior – it was pale, stucco and stone with a design that looked classically inspired.
“Is this the hotel?” Walker asked. “Your hotel?”
“The same,” Michael King said. It was a relief to hear him speak again after such a long silence. “This my friends, is casa de Bedlamites. If you like, think of Station as the office and this old place as home. Well, that’s how I see it. C’mon, follow me.”
They walked inside the building. Walker was immediately struck by the elegance of the interior and how well it had been preserved despite the passage of time. It was like stepping into a hip temple of serenity – something apart from the disaster that had befallen the rest of the city. It was clean and everything looked to be in order – so much so that Walker might very well have been setting foot inside a functional hotel beyond the M25. The lobby itself was quirky and stylish. There didn’t seem to be any reception desk located in the foyer, just a variety of different items of trendy furniture – brown leather sofas, multi-coloured tables with stools. It looked like the perfect place for lounging.
But Michael King was in a hurry. He marched straight through the lobby, leading Walker and Barboza towards an elevator further inside the building.
“This was originally the Great Eastern Hotel,” he said. “It opened back in 1884 and it was also built over the old Bethlem madhouse. In more recent times, the hotel was known as the Andaz – this was just a few years before the London riots took place. There are exactly 267 rooms in our hotel. We fit several people into most rooms although some of us – myself included – have a room to ourselves. A little reward we allow ourselve
s for the extra responsibilities we take on.”
“And the lift still works?” Walker said. He was looking at the silver elevator doors up ahead.
“Yeah it does,” Michael King said. “The Bedlamites are fortunate enough to have a lot of skilled people in our midst. We still have a few of ’em who understand things like electrical motors, braking system, cables – and who can ensure our safety in using such old-school technological wonders. Nothing to be afraid of here.”
Michael King pushed the round button on the wall with the arrow pointing upwards. Then he turned back to look at Walker and Barboza, a wicked smile on his lips. Moments later, the elevator pinged and the doors slid silently open. Walker felt increasingly uncomfortable but he followed Barboza, who stepped inside the lift behind Michael King.
Walker kept the axe ready at his side.
Michael King pressed the button for the first floor. Then he stepped away from the panel and nobody spoke as the elevator hummed upwards.
It was a short ride to the first floor.
The elevator doors slid open and Michael King led them out into a carpeted hallway. Walker and Barboza followed him down a narrow corridor, past the doors of numerous hotel rooms. About a minute later, they stopped outside a large pair of double doors at the end of another corridor. It looked like someone had used a catapult to launch a barrage of white paint cans at the doors. The paint had run down the wall, creating a chaotic, splattered effect that reached the floor. The Bedlamites had at some point, painted something over this sloppy white background – three words printed in bold letters, using red paint:
‘THE SPOILS OF BATTLE’
Walker and Barboza kept their distance.
“What’s going on?” Walker said. He pointed his axe towards the doors. “What’s in there?”
Michael King turned around.
“Don’t worry my friends,” he said. “I assure you, you are in no danger here. There is something behind these doors that you should see – something you deserve to see as friends of Chester George. This is my favourite room in the entire hotel – my favourite room in the world. This is the Masonic Temple, otherwise known as the Grecian Temple when the hotel was up and running. This room is special. For years nobody knew it existed and it was only discovered by accident during a restoration when engineers noticed a few discrepancies with the blueprints. They found a forgotten chamber – a Masonic Temple, built in 1912. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“How do you know all that stuff?” Barboza asked.
Michael King laughed. “Travel books mostly,” he said. “Hotel guidebooks that I found in the remains of book shops and newsagents. I was curious about our new home and wanted to find out more about where we’d be living. Like if the hotel was haunted or not.”
He laughed again, and still Walker felt uneasy.
“It’s not important now,” he said. “Are you ready to go inside?”
Michael King didn’t wait for an answer. He turned around and with both hands, pulled the double doors open.
Walker and Barboza came forward, stepping inside the old Masonic Temple. Upon first glance, the room itself took Walker’s breath away. It was indeed something special – a jewel of neoclassical luxury. It must have been an incredible moment when it was discovered again. The room looked like something out of a fantasy novel; the sort of place where a king or queen might easily be sitting on a golden throne and not look out of place. The checkerboard floor and pale walls were constructed of marble, as were the numerous columns that ran along the circumference of the room. There was a long, rectangular shaped space in the middle where Walker imagined the old Mason’s table had once been. There were all sorts of other remarkable things: an organ, hand-carved chairs, and silver and bronze candelabras with clawed feet at the base. One of the most striking things of all was a blue and gold dome on the ceiling, displaying a five-pointed ‘blazed star’.
But as lavish and eye-catching as it was, the Temple’s fancy decor wasn’t the most remarkable thing on display. Walker looked up at the ceiling and at last, he saw what they had been brought there to see.
He almost dropped his axe on the marble floor.
Barboza gasped.
“What the hell?” Walker said, looking up at the ceiling.
There was a wooden cage. It was suspended from the ceiling, hanging on by a bronze chain that was connected to a steel hook fastened onto the centre of the blue and gold dome. It was like a giant birdcage, no more than six feet tall and three feet in width.
There was a woman inside the cage.
She was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties or early sixties, but it was hard to tell from so far away. Her hair was lank and long, falling all the way down her back. It was so dirty and dull that it was almost colourless. The woman’s skin was greasy and covered in black grime; it looked like she’d been there, unwashed and untended for a long time.
The woman didn’t acknowledge their entrance. She was sitting down with her back pressed up against the bars of the cage. Walker saw the thousand-yard stare on her face – her eyes blank and unfocused, pointing at the wall or something else on the other side of the room.
A thickset Bedlamite stood guard at the back of the room. He was dressed in black biker leathers and as the visitors entered the Masonic Temple, Walker spotted his eyes briefly looking their way and then returning back out front.
“What the fuck is this?” Walker said.
“The spoils of battle,” Michael King said, looking up towards the cage.
“Who is she?” Barboza said, her voice little more than a whisper. Her eyes were wide open, puzzled and frightened.
“She’s the grand prize,” Michael King said. “Look Walker. Don’t you recognise her?”
Michael King was grinning, but his eyes were ablaze with contempt.
“You must remember Sadie Hobbs,” he said.
Walker looked up at the dishevelled shape that was trapped behind the wooden bars. He felt his jaw drop open.
“I remember,” he said.
Sadie Hobbs. The woman who’d fought against Chester George and The Good and Honest Citizens in 2011. At the height of the London riots, she’d written anti-Chester George articles in newspapers, rallied against him on social media, and appeared several times on television speaking out against him.
And she’d been there that day. Piccadilly. Sadie Hobbs had marched into Central London with thousands of followers, gathering on the outskirts of Piccadilly Circus. She’d stood at the head of her people, who were being contained by the armed forces and police. That was the last Walker had ever heard of Sadie Hobbs.
Until now.
“How did you find her?” Walker said.
“It took a while,” Michael King said. “She was a real slippery little snake. But I was always looking for her. Always. Somehow I knew that she’d survived the sinking ship – I just knew it. Eventually I pinned her down in the old West End. We got word out and she was flushed out of a lovely little house in Chelsea with some of her friends.”
“How long has she been here?” Barboza asked.
“Five years now,” Michael said. “My Sadie. She’s my most treasured possession in the entire world. This is Hell for her you know – living alone in a cage like that. Nobody sees her, nobody hears her but us. Her thoughts and opinions don’t mean shit anymore. All that attention and everything she used to feed off? She gets none of it. She’s my little pet, and she only ever gets out to eat, piss and shit on my say-so. And that’s how it’s going to be right up until the day she drops off her perch for good.”
Barboza’s hand was cupped over her mouth.
“How can you do this to someone?” she said. “To anyone? Put them in a cage for five or six years!”
“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Michael King said. “And it sends out a message to all the other gangs in Bedlam. To all the people who would try and hurt me or take what I have. It shows them that there’s nothing I won’t do to hurt my enemy.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Walker said, tearing his eyes away from the cage. “It’s time to go.”
“Your supplies should be ready by now,” Michael King said. He didn’t even look at Walker as he spoke. He was still staring up at the cage, his eyes gleaming with twisted joy. “They’ll be waiting for you at the main entrance.”
Michael King raised his hand, like he was waving goodbye.
“You guys take off,” he said. “I’m going to stay here for a little longer. You’ll come back Walker, I hope. And tell me about Hatchet’s slow and painful death.”
At last, Michael King turned to Walker.
“Of course,” he said. “You could always bring him to me alive. Let me take care of him for you. And for Chester.”
But Walker didn’t respond. He turned around, as did Barboza, and they both hurried out the door of the Temple, back out into the hallway. But they didn’t stop or slow down there. They kept going until they’d reached the elevator further down the corridor. Walker – who was finding it hard to breathe – hit the button but when it didn’t ping right away, he decided to take the stairs instead.
They ran down the stairs, rushing through the lobby. Nobody looked over their shoulder on the way out.
Barboza eventually stopped outside the hotel door. She turned around and stared at Walker, leaning onto the wall for support. She looked like she was about to throw up all over the pavement.
“Jesus,” she said, gasping for breath. “What was that?”
Walker seized her gently by the arm. “Are you okay?”
“Was he deliberately trying to frighten us?” Barboza said, ignoring Walker’s question. “Or was he actually bragging to us about having a woman trapped in a cage, hanging from the roof of his hotel?”
“Listen Barboza,” Walker said. Now it was his turn to ignore a question. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay here after all. You know?”
But there was a defiant look in Barboza’s eye.
“I’m staying,” she said. “But I’m staying for Charlie, not Michael King or the fucking Bedlamites. I don’t give a shit about any of them, not if they know what he’s got up there in that hotel. His prize.”
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 55
