Sam set his glass down on the table. “I don’t know,” he said, sliding out from under Jeeves’ heavy arm. “I don’t think I’m your man. You’d need someone with more talent than me to pull off whatever it is you’re planning.”
“You might not see your own potential, but I do.” Jeeves leaned back in the booth with a knowing look on his serpentine face. “You just need time, and you have a little. Come with Benson the next time he visits my kingdom. We’ll talk again.”
Sam let himself smile a little. “We’ll see. I’m not making any promises. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better find my flatmate and make sure he hasn’t caught himself a new STI in the last twenty minutes. The worst things happen when I lose track of him,” he explained.
“Suit yourself,” said Janus Jeeves, receding into the shadows. He was not concerned. Once he hatched a plan, the plan would commence. The players cast would play their roles, the pieces would fall into place. It was only a matter of time.
The tide would turn, the scales would balance, and Janus Jeeves would have justice—in this life, or the next.
Chapter Three
BREEDING GROUND FOR ADVERTS
The toilet lever was broken again. Tied string, rubber bands, and duct tape had failed to provide an economical means of repair, and now Kit had to call the landlady, a task she dreaded. As per usual there was no one at the receiving end, just the loathed automated voice instructing her to leave yet another message.
“Hi, Mrs. Harrow, this is Kit Alysdair again, from downstairs. It’s about the toilet, again. Please call me back.”
The girl’s flat was falling to pieces. Bits of carpet coming up round the edges, chipped paint on the shutters, anything with a pipe hell-bent on leaking, squeaking, or busting. The lamps were shoddy and the upholstery on the chairs was torn and over ten years old, but replacing them was out of the question. Every few months, items cost a few more quid while salaries remained the same.
Kit imagined a sad Russian symphony, a bowl of ripe berries with clotted cream and a shiny new tabletop—dark lacquered cherry wood. She then scorned herself for her idleness and superficiality. Before her parents had passed, they’d taught her better than to waste energy pining after trivialities.
She typically left eight minutes late for work, and would be even later today. Four different transfers on the Tube—all the way across the city, to sit at a desk and exchange a barrage of phone calls and emails with ignorant, demanding customers. Every day she swore she’d find a way to get out of I.T. but she was trapped—her C.V., as with all others, offered only one path, and taking time off work to go back to school would make the high cost of even the most frugal lifestyle nearly impossible.
Everyone does it, she told herself. Everyone does it.
Another Monday afternoon found her stuck in front of a coworker’s station, fighting with their virus-ridden OS while the hours dragged slowly, as they do at VipTech.
“Got time for tea?” her office mate, Jim, asked.
“Not really,” she said. “This one’s a tricky bastard.” She swiped away another barrage of pop-ups on the outdated holo monitor in front of her.
“S’always time for tea.”
“Right. Gimme a sec.”
“‘Ey, how come you never wear skirts to work? Something wrong with yer legs?”
“How come you never wear a skirt to work? A little pleated schoolgirl number would suit you well,” she remarked, a steady gleam in her eye.
“Alright, alright, fair enough. See you downstairs,” said Jim.
The number of people gathered in the kitchen made the break less enjoyable—backs crowded up against countertops smelling of Dettol surface cleaner—and they were out of PG Tips. And spoons. VipTech ran near empty on most things, from food and office supplies to funding and new clients. Kit had narrowly escaped being a casualty in a redundancy sweep three times in the past thirteen months.
“Mr. Dottier, I quit,” she said quietly into her teacup.
At twenty-six years old it seemed her path was already decided—and that said path lay buried in the digisphere like the fate of so many others. Pretty but not pretty enough for London—her hair too dark and frizzy, the curves of her body slight and slender, the bright, pale face of a neglected doll. Smart but lacking ambition—above average in a world where average was exalted whenever it was accompanied by insatiable drive and a set of fake tits.
She didn’t want to wind up bitter, afraid she already had. Yuppie whites working in tall office buildings had so much, and still there were endless complaints. The nonstop wandering eye of the too-complacent, the lifelong search for the next bit of entertainment when too much leisure time is afforded by way of everyday labor assigned to apps and washing machines. If she’d had to work out in the fields all day just to put bread in her mouth, she might not wonder what if, because then there was no what if, only what was.
It used to be different.
She used to play before thousands, under bright stage lights.
Kit placed her teacup in the sink.
“I’ll see you later, Jim,” she said. I’ll see you later, VipTech.
Or never again, as it were.
It had been years since any member of the Royal family had stepped foot into the Palace of Westminster for any reason other than a cup of tea. While the people were thoroughly absorbed with their every move, and stories about them filled the tabloids, each year the dwindling connection they had with Parliament grew ever smaller. Referred to still as His Majesty’s Government, though the King of England was more often spotted in attendance at football matches than within the halls of Westminster. He now supported Arsenal, to everyone’s surprise, though not surprising in light of the fact that his oldest son played defence for the indomitable club.
The King did not meet on a regular basis with Prime Minister Harold Waterman. Prime Minister Waterman seemed to everyone the kindest accidental tyrant one would ever meet. He was unusual-looking for a politician, in good shape and ineffaceably young-looking. A good 1.87 meters tall with brown hair and blue eyes, yet somehow his face did not seem either handsome or memorable. It was this, the having of all the correct parameters, plus the tendency to fade from people’s minds, that made him so successful at his job.
Prime Minister Waterman’s office looked like something out of a posh catalogue—everything was expensive and nothing appeared to be uniquely indicative of the room’s occupant. Not a speck of dust to be found, a personal trinket in sight, a stack of paper askew, or an article of clothing tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. Everything was in its right place.
Seated now in his Italian leather armchair, the Prime Minister removed his tie, leaned back, and reached for his glass of Polish vodka—two shots on the rocks.
Just as he was starting to relax, his assistant poked his silly blonde head into the office. “Sir, your wife is calling,” he said.
Waterman had been an investment adviser before he became a politician, and like all investment advisers, he was a wizard at insider trading. He was part of a secret social network of brilliant mathematicians and general right-place-at-the-right-timers, a global community whose deep sense of philanthropy caused them to provide support to one another by sending hired hands to mop up each other’s shyte on a regularly scheduled basis. Outwardly, their philanthropic hearts manifested themselves in displays of large charitable donations, which were of course, tax deductible, and often did not find their way to the actual charity at all.
It was not Harold Waterman who’d created the old boys’ rules. He simply conformed in the manner which was expected, as generations before him had. What else was there to do?
“Sir. Mrs. Waterman on the line,” his assistant repeated.
“Tell Amelia to stop fretting; I’ll be home at eight,” Waterman said, dismissing the man by touching an icon to rotate his chair around 180 degrees.
Harold Waterman went home at eleven-thirty, after some time spent at the W
indsor Club having drinks with the special advisers on his staff he could stand to be around. Amelia would hardly mind. They’d been married twenty-two years; she barely noticed his absence as she noticed his presence, unless something he did was not to her liking.
Harold Waterman ruled His Majesty’s Government with a light hand; a well-oiled machine needs not much tinkering. He controlled your salary, he controlled your rent, he controlled what you ate and how much you slept. He controlled your girlfriend and he controlled where you called home. He did it all from his armchair, with a remote control. He did it all using his cleverband, and you didn’t even know.
Chapter Four
THE MUSIC OF THE ARCANA
Any metropolis was a utopia and a cesspool, an unavoidable 24-hour broadcast of the ever-widening gap between men who spent three hundred quid on a haircut and thought nothing of it, and men who could not keep a roof over their heads and froze in the streets at night, who ran like dogs through alleyways chased by bookies, trails of smoke and dust and racial slurs left behind in their wake.
Sam found himself on the cesspool’s edge, somehow managing to tread just above it. No one was better or less than Sam, everyone just made choices and had to stick by them. He was a good listener, a man who always saw both sides of the coin, who could always see your point.
Sam would soon see the world through Janus Jeeves’ mismatched eyes.
Jeeves conducted business in his deceased brother’s flat on the fourth story of a building whose three lower floors had already collapsed, the fourth floor held precariously aloft by weathered beams and perhaps the sheer force of will of its lone occupant. The place was accessible via rope ladder; groceries and the like were brought in via a pulleyed freight lift with a max allowed weight of twenty kilos.
“The duffel bag’s not gonna make it,” Benson said, staring forlornly at the lift.
“What’s in it?” asked Sam, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Just spare parts, man. Stuff for building contraptions. No big deal. The boys’ll bring it up later.” Using all his strength, Benson pushed the bag behind a large cement post.
“Just spare parts? Not an electromagnetic explosive?” Sam joked.
“EMPs aren’t this heavy,” Benson said. He gripped the bottom rung of the ladder and started climbing. Sam followed on Benson’s heels.
For the past few days he’d been hard-pressed to think of anything but Janus Jeeves’ strange offer—what it might mean, where it would lead to, if it was for real. Maybe the Arcane Society was just what he was looking for—a chance to make something happen, escape from the endless monotony of adverts and Dot purchases and overpriced coffees.
Inside, the place smelled of fire and spices, liquid metal and black witch incense. Window coverings were a mosaic of stitched-together scarves in bold colours and abstract patterns. Not a single piece of art or furniture matched; it was as if all locales and time periods had been mashed together, a Postmodern Renaissance Baroque Art Deco yard sale.
Sam followed Benson into the kitchen, where a pair of twin young men dressed in clashing paisley sat at a wooden blue picnic table eating chicken masala, yellow dal, and some fire-red mystery dish.
“Did I miss supper?” asked Benson. “This is my mate, Sam. Where’s Jeeves?”
The twins only stared while shoveling in spoonfuls of food at a steady, alternating pace. The sound of a low D on a squeaky piano resounded from the adjacent room, effectively answering his question.
“Have a seat and have something to eat,” the twins said together.
“Jeeves’ll be out in a mo’ I’m sure,” Benson said. “He takes a while to get into the right headspace.”
Sam extended his hand to the twin on the left. “Chuffed to meet you,” he said, smiling.
The twin stood, clasping Sam’s hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. “Well chuffed indeed! I’m Jack-of-all-Trades. An’ this here’s my brother, James.” The pair linked hands, waving their joined arms together like a pair of connected marionettes, then resumed their meal.
“Can you really do all trades, mate?” Sam asked.
“No, I can only flip burgers and build explosives. We work for Jeeves,” James said.
“He’s our father,” Jack added.
“And our mother,” said James.
“He lets us stay here for free.”
An ominous melody drifted in from the sitting room. A black sound, a crashing storm, a dissonant dirge you only wanted to hear once, yet were sure you dreamed of it almost every night since.
Sam and Benson turned around in their seats.
Janus Jeeves was seated crossed-legged at an old wooden piano. The keys squealed and cried as he banged on them in turn, and his hands moved so fast it seemed there were six of them.
The song ended with a bang. Jeeves dropped his hands to his sides. He swiveled around on the uneven piano bench, leveling his gaze directly at Sam.
“Everybody out,” he said quietly. “Except for the newcomer.”
“But we haven’t finished our supper,” James protested, though he was already grabbing his bowl, linking arms with his twin and ambling into the next room.
“This could fix your money problem,” Benson said to Sam over his shoulder as he left with the twins.
Jeeves sauntered into the kitchen, all bright-colours, twitches, and flowy sleeves. He grabbed a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Come,” he said, motioning for Sam to follow.
Sam followed Jeeves into another room as red and gold and hideous as the rest of the flat he’d seen so far. It had a high-vaulted ceiling with shelves of books on two adjacent walls, and was decorated with large-scale maps, old tapestries, ancient artifacts from the Bronze Age, the Industrial Age, the New Age, and the Age after that. His study, Sam realised. The Arcana’s leader was certainly intriguing—a gangly, odd professor type who seemed to vibrate with frenetic energy.
The former professor, former addict, former factory man seated himself in a red leather chair by a tall window. He poured two tall glasses of wine, squinting at the amount of liquid to make sure they were equal.
Sam received the proffered beverage, sitting on the floor near Jeeves’ feet, a willing pupil for the time being.
“Do you want to be a rock star, Sam?” Jeeves asked, one of his long legs dangling over the armrest of the chair.
“Who doesn’t?” I’ve only dreamed of it all my life, like every other lad, Sam thought. He took a deep breath. “So, I think I have some idea what you guys are about. Been reading stuff…looked up more about the Arcana after that night we met.”
“Oh?” Jeeves steepled his fingers together, looking inherently pleased.
“I can see where you’re coming from. I mean, we’re told it’s a free market when it’s far from it; it’s custom-designed to benefit a privileged few. The lot of us may be warm enough, fed enough, but so are pet rats. Keep us in a cage, give us a wheel to run on, let us think we’re accomplishing something when we ain’t going nowhere. I get it.” He took a tentative sip from his glass, watching Jeeves out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re speaking my language, baby. We need a war, Sam. To set things right, you need a war. That’s how it goes. But...I am anti-violence.” Jeeves pressed his hands together solemnly like a monk. “I’m not able to gain enough followers for the Arcana as a grassroots society, Sam. But tell me now, what would gain me a massive following?” he questioned with a gleam in his eye.
“A witty BitBit account?” Sam joked.
“A killer rock band, Sammy. The big bold bombastic kind, the likes of which haven’t been seen in over forty years, the over-the-top outrageous ones a kid like you’s only heard about from his granpappy. We’ll give ‘em the ol’ razzle dazzle, we will. With stars in their eyes and fire in their hearts, with the right words and the perfect thrash-squeal of steel strings—we’ll have ‘em—we’ll promise to make good, and then we will—oh, how we will. The boys and girls of the future, the hungry kids waiting
to be fed, willing to follow where we lead ‘cause we make their hearts sing in ways almost forgotten in this dead-end century. We’ll give ‘em what they need, what they didn’t even know they needed before we sparkled and shook our way into their veins. That’s how we do it. That’s how we build our loyal army.” Jeeves’ speech was all hands and eyebrows. He seemed everywhere at once, perched on the edge of his chair like a raptor.
“What sort of army?” Sam asked, eyes darting back and forth with growing interest. “We start a rock band. Get a ton of fans, recruit them to the Society. Then what? Massive protests? Organised arson?”
“Do you want the job or not, kid?” Jeeves asked, suddenly dismissive. “If you don’t want an opportunity like this, there’s plenty of lads who do. It’s a chance to make music, to make a difference. A chance to be somebody. Not just another face in the crowd.”
“Now hold on a minute, I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. This gonna help me pay my rent?” he asked.
“It’ll help everyone pay their rent,” said Jeeves. He paused, drumming long fingers against his chin and considering for a moment. “You wait right here. I’ll be back in just a tick. Don’t you go anywhere.”
Jeeves soon returned with a small group of people in tow. His Arcana—an attractive, intelligent bunch, most younger than he was. They spilled into the room like decorations, adding pops of colour and light to the historic-looking study, lounging against bookshelves and chairs and one another, and looking like just the kind of people that were Sam’s kind of people.
Jeeves waved his chiffon-sleeved arm across the room by way of introduction. “These are some of the fine men and women you’d be helping. This here’s Ada, she used to own a fabulous Greek restaurant down at King’s Cross, but had to close up shop due to constant raises in rent. James and Jack-of-all-Trades here are reconstructionary artists, of course brilliant, but can barely afford a decent meal. And you know Benson. One of the smartest techheads in the world, but with all the red tape involved in getting his inventions to press, his genius is at a standstill.”
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 3
