Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1)

by Paul Mannering

  ‘We believe that agents of Godden may try to steal the living oak desk that has been in your family for several generations. Our research indicates that it may contain some information that the Godden Corporation does not want made public.’

  ‘How long have you been working on this?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, months and months. We have had our top people on it,’ Diphthong said.

  ‘Great procrastinating pandas,’ I muttered. I pressed my palms against my eyeballs and took several deep breaths. Pointing out that the Godden Energy Corporation could have stolen the desk at any time during the last two days seemed like a waste of energy.

  ‘I realise this must come as quite a shock to you, Miss Pudding,’ Diphthong said, his face racked with concern.

  ‘The hardest bit is coming to terms with how completely incompetent you are. Instead of dropping me a note, or warning me weeks ago, you turn up tonight. After – not before, mind you, but well after my life has been through the kind of turmoil usually reserved for a potato in a chip factory!’

  ‘We had to be cautious. We may be under surveillance,’ Diphthong said defensively.

  ‘Under surveillance? I was a prisoner of the Godden Energy Corporation until a few hours ago. Just what have you been investigating? What conspiracy are you and your so-called organisation focused on?’

  ‘We suspect that empathic energy is more than positive emotions and is in fact some secret source of power for the Godden Energy Corporation. We think they are using people,’ Diphthong said.

  ‘Well of course they are using people! GEC are the biggest employer in the country!’

  ‘Not as employees, but as an energy source. They take the souls of the living and turn them into raw empathic energy.’

  I blinked. Of all the whacked-out and ridiculous notions that ever hit me in the backside like a squirt of icy bidet water. ‘You think that empathic energy is actually people? Real people. Not just happy thoughts and positive connections with empowered technology?’

  ‘We are sure of it,’ Diphthong said nodding. ‘Independent laboratories have been unable to replicate the synthesis of the double-e flux. GEC refuses to share any details, citing commercial sensitivity.’

  ‘Where are the missing person reports? Where are the bodies?’ I demanded.

  ‘We’re not sure. But they are getting their empathic energy from somewhere. This is a global corporate citizen with over one hundred years of experience in encouraging people to not ask questions. What do you care where your energy comes from provided your hairdryer works or your car runs cheaply?’

  He was right. No one cares. We only notice when our cars stop running, or the toaster eats the toast.

  ‘I can assure you I am well aware of the danger I am in. I’m not sure you can help, and frankly right now I am too tired to care. I’m thinking of following Drakeforth’s example and going to sleep. Maybe when I wake up the world will be different.’ I showed Diphthong to the door. He assured me that his group would keep my house under surveillance as regularly as possible and protect me from harm, depending on their availability. He was explaining how they were putting together a roster system when I thanked him and closed the door in his face.

  I closed the vault and spun the lock shut before heading upstairs. Drakeforth hadn’t moved, so I went to my room and passed out on my bed. My last conscious thought was, Tomorrow can't be any worse.

  Chapter 12

  Dawn brought the usual muscle weakness, lethargy and voicemail from Doctor Hydrangea requesting I make a follow-up appointment to discuss the latest test results. Ignoring all three was my way of refusing to accept the obvious, if not the inevitable.

  I showered and dressed in fresh clothes. I encountered Drakeforth on my way downstairs. He stumbled out of the guest room, looked at me with wild and confused eyes and stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door in his wake. I went downstairs and prepared tea and toast. When he emerged, washed and combed, we ate breakfast in silence.

  ‘Why haven’t the police come back?’ Drakeforth said eventually.

  ‘Why haven’t the agents of Godden followed us and dragged us back to whereever that place was? And why is the desk still here? They could have stolen it at any time while we were gone,’ I replied.

  ‘Two reasons come to mind. Well, one for the police – clearly they have been told to stay out of it. Pretense seemed adamant that they would not steal the desk; you had to hand it over. I think perhaps the Godden Corporation is waiting to see what we do next. If they were prepared to steal the desk then we would no longer be relevant.’

  ‘They haven’t taken the desk. I don’t know why. I would think that was what they were going to do the day they kicked my front door in.’

  ‘Then why did they replace the door afterwards? Are we a threat?’

  I put down my half-eaten toast, the bread sticking in my throat. ‘How can we be a threat?’

  ‘There is something about the desk that they don’t want anyone to know, but at the same time they don’t dare destroy it,’ Drakeforth mused.

  ‘We can return to the Monastery of Saint Detriment and get Brother Hoptoad to hide the desk. That should be the end of it,’ I said. Despair, and the idea of risking life and limb for something as absurd as an antique desk, had drained the last of my energy.

  ‘Are you okay? You look paler than usual.’ Drakeforth sounded genuinely concerned for the first time.

  I mustered a smile and said, ‘I’m fine, just didn’t sleep very well.’

  ‘If we break the desk up, reducing its mass would reduce the co-efficient of the double-e flux and therefore—’

  ‘Render the desk completely useless. Yes I understand how Marbeld’s Law of Reducing Cognisance works.’

  ‘As long as Pretense doesn’t have the desk, we don’t need to steal it back,’ Drakeforth mused, ignoring my interruption for once.

  ‘But why doesn’t Pretense have the desk?’ I sighed in frustration. ‘Why did they say I need to hand it over, and then say I had no choice? You can’t ask someone to do something and then tell them they have no choice. It kind of negates the entire purpose for asking them to do something in the first place.’

  ‘Unless …’ Drakeforth’s eyes narrowed, ‘They had no choice.’

  ‘Oh good grief,’ I muttered, and poured myself a fresh cup of tea.

  ‘Your desk is living oak, the original, natural empathic material. From the mighty oak came many timber house frames, wooden corkscrews, souvenir desk lamp bases – and when people realised what it was worth, there was talk of turning chips of the stuff into currency.’

  ‘I don’t think my family ever kept the desk a secret,’ I replied. ‘We didn’t encourage people to come and paw over it either, mind you.’ I sipped my tea.

  ‘And for as long as your family has had the desk in their possession, no one has tried to buy, borrow or bugle off with it?’

  ‘As far as I know.’ I drank more tea, sure that Drakeforth would reach his point eventually.

  ‘Living oak. It gives off a natural double-e flux field. It affects and is affected by people around it.’

  ‘Apparently.’ I wondered if having a chocolate biscuit so soon after breakfast would be frowned upon.

  ‘Well, you understand why they need you to hand over the desk then.’ It took me a moment to realise that Drakeforth was making a statement, not asking a question.

  ‘Uhm … yes?’ I tried. Given what I had been through the last few days, I felt I had earned a chocolate biscuit. Maybe even two of them...

  ‘Pudding, pay attention. You have an empathic quotient off the charts. You spent a considerable amount of time forming a bond with a natural source of empathic energy. That goes two ways. The desk has a bond with you. Without your presence, the desk simply won’t function.’

  ‘The desk’s form is its function, Drakeforth. You pull up a chair and use it as a platform for putting papers on. Besides, it muttered a few recorded words for you.’

  ‘Ah!’
Drakeforth raised a finger in victory, ‘But you were present and curious to hear what the desk had to say.’

  ‘If what you are saying is true, can we expect the agents of Godden to kick in my door again any moment and take me and the desk into custody?’ The tea in my tummy curdled a little at the thought.

  ‘Hoptoad’s solution is the best one.’ Drakeforth stood up and started pacing my kitchen. ‘We hide the desk at the Monastery of Saint Detriment. We slip it out of the house and spirit it away, so you can be with it in peace and quiet and patchouli oil. We would need some people to help shift the desk. It’s quite heavy,’ Drakeforth concluded.

  ‘We could hire a truck. What we really need is someone who specialises in the removal of antiques …’ I trailed off, a horrible thought coming to mind. My appetite gone, I stood up and started loading the dishwasher, which burbled happily at the attention.

  ‘They wouldn’t raise the suspicions of Godden agents,’ Drakeforth said.

  ‘What if they are Godden agents? Even if they aren’t, and we hire them to steal the desk, they will simply take it somewhere to be locked away forever. Or break it up and burn it!’ Neither option bore thinking about.

  ‘I have a plan,’ Drakeforth grinned.

  ‘Did you ever think that life would be so much easier if you had a hamster called Clarence instead?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Theoretically, if hamsters were not kept in cages and ultimately neglected by forgetful children, they would breed at such a prodigious rate as to take over the world. Entire ecosystems would be threatened by plagues of the small rodents.’

  ‘We could always farm them for food, and then use their skins to make very small shoes and handbags.’

  Drakeforth regarded me steadily, ‘Pudding, there are times when I don’t think you take me at all seriously.’

  I straightened up from the dishwasher. ‘Drakeforth. I swear I have never taken anything more seriously in my life than your concern for the environment.’

  ‘I think you should call the couple with the interest in antiques,’ Drakeforth said.

  *

  I recognised Benedict’s voice when he answered on the second ring. ‘EGS Benedict and Associates.’

  ‘Mister Benedict? It’s Charlotte Pudding. I’m calling you about the unresolved agony of a certain possession.’ I tried not to look at Drakeforth, who was silently applauding in the background.

  ‘Miss Pudding, I am so pleased you called.’ Benedict sounded intrigued.

  ‘Could you come with your assistant and remove it from the premises? I need it gone. Today, if possible.’ I could hear the muted snapping of fingers and rustling of papers on the other end of the line.

  ‘Ah, let me see. Would right now suit you?’ Benedict asked.

  ‘I guess. I … I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on …’ I stifled a sob and waved frantically at Drakeforth, who was miming playing a violin.

  ‘We understand, Miss Pudding. Your emotional stability is our only concern. We will see you shortly.’

  I hung up and Drakeforth’s laughter filled the kitchen. ‘You should be an actor,’ he declared.

  ‘This had better work,’ I said.

  ‘Of course it will work. What can one very small man and one unpleasant woman do against the might of two crusaders for truth such as us?’

  I didn’t have time to start listing all my concerns. Instead we moved on to what Drakeforth called phase two of the operation.

  Drakeforth vanished into the office. It was a small and cluttered space, and I couldn’t think where he might hide. I paced up and down, rehearsing a dozen speeches, feeling a range of emotions and convincing myself that this was all going to end badly.

  When the doorbell rang I managed not to scream. I did manage to answer it, and found myself belt to nose with the well-practiced and deeply concerned expression of EGS Benedict.

  ‘Mister Benedict, thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘The easement of your suffering is paramount to us,’ Benedict said.

  ‘Where is Ms Coluthon?’ For obvious reasons I could see she wasn’t standing behind him.

  ‘Turning the truck around,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ I stepped aside and ushered him into my hallway.

  ‘No cutting equipment today?’ I said too brightly. Benedict turned and stared up at me.

  ‘Will it be necessary? We can bring it in, if you like.’

  ‘No, no, just a little joke.’ I flinched at my unfortunate choice of word and flushed red. ‘I’ve opened the office for you.’ I hurried over to it and pulled the heavy vault door aside. ‘What will you do with the desk? Once you take it away?’

  ‘We will place it in storage, have it valued and possibly restored. We then sell it – a rare item like this should do well at auction.’

  ‘Oh, that will be nice. I hope it goes to a good home.’

  Benedict stepped into the vault. I thought for a moment he might be rubbing his hands together in glee, then I realised he was putting on white cotton gloves.

  He started by running his hands over the panels and carved trim of the desk, then moved on to removing and examining each of the thirty-four drawers in turn, turning them over and peering at each side before slipping them back into place. He raised the desk’s curved lid, sending it rattling back out of sight. With a slight grunt of effort Benedict vaulted up onto the exposed work surface. I envied the way he crawled inside the special place that I hadn’t fitted into since I was a child.

  On hands and knees Benedict peered and touched the interior curve of the desk’s many nooks and crannies. I waited, fidgeting nervously and wondering where Drakeforth had vanished to.

  ‘Do you own a small white dog?’ Coluthon said in my ear. I jumped so hard I stumbled against a bookshelf.

  ‘What? No. Why?’

  ‘No reason. We moving this thing or are you going to just leave here in it, Eggs?’ Coluthon pushed past me and eyed up the desk.

  ‘It is in remarkable condition, Miss Pudding. You and your family are to be commended,’ Benedict said as he slid out of the desk’s writing cavity and dropped to the floor.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You can rest assured that this desk will trouble you no longer.’ He smiled kindly at me while reaching up and to pull Coluthon’s hands back down to her sides as she started to mime playing a violin. Coluthon’s smile flashed and soured as quickly as a bowl of rotting fruit in one of those time-lapse camera shots.

  ‘Do you need a hand getting it out the door?’ I said.

  ‘Sure, that would be great. Tell you what, why don’t you carry it out yourself while we make a cup of tea?’ Coluthon replied.

  ‘No need, best leave the removal to the experts,’ Benedict said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I couldn’t see it happening. The tall, toxic-tongued woman and the man who could walk under my kitchen table without knocking his head were not going to be able to carry the antique desk out themselves.

  ‘Stand back,’ Benedict said. I backed into the hallway as Coluthon seized the far end of the desk and Benedict squatted at the other. He counted down from three and they lifted the desk. Benedict grasped it at the bottom, while Coluthon held her end about halfway, keeping the desk level as they shuffled across the office floor. I could see the strain they were both taking. Benedict, for all his short stature, was a ball of muscle. His arms and legs swelled like bread dough in a warm cupboard. Taking small steps, and giving each other unheeded advice, they reached the circular doorway of the office.

  ‘How close are we!?’ Coluthon shouted.

  ‘To the door?’ I asked.

  ‘No, to the Zebredian Meridian,’ she snapped back.

  ‘Door’s a couple of inches … one more step,’ Benedict twisted his neck, and took another small step. ‘Right, I’m on the threshold.’

  Inch by inch they carried the desk out into the hallway. I remembered it had taken five men with two trolleys to move it from my paren
ts’ house and install it here when I moved in. Seeing Coluthon lose that pearlescent shine to her skin and actually sweat a little gave me a deep sense of satisfaction.

  ‘Set her down. I need a breather.’ Benedict lowered his end and Coluthon set hers down a moment later. They both leaned on the desk and panted.

  ‘Sprog it,’ Coluthon said, breathing deeply. ‘I say we leave the barnacle thing here. Set it on fire. Let the princess claim insurance and we take a cut of the pay-out.’

  ‘Except that would require burning the entire house down. Living oak is renowned for being almost fireproof,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t see any flaws in my suggestion,’ Coluthon replied levelly.

  ‘It’s worth more as it is,’ Benedict said, flexing his knees in a series of deep squats. ‘Right, sooner we get this loaded on the truck, the sooner we can break for lunch.’

  The desk wobbled and then levitated again, Benedict now walking forwards as Coluthon worked her way backwards towards the front door. They negotiated the front door and the three steps to street level. Coluthon had parked their covered truck across the street, blocking both lanes, with the back of it pointing at my front door. A small queue of traffic had built up on each side. The drivers were getting out and starting to demand someone move the truck. I saw Mr Haberdashery from two doors down out on the street with a leash, calling and whistling for his dog Snowflake.

  Benedict and Coluthon ignored them all and manoeuvred the desk on to the truck’s hydraulic loading platform. With the desk in position, Coluthon pressed a button and the platform whined up to the level of the truck’s deck. Some final heaving and they vanished into the dark interior, my desk disappearing with them. For Drakeforth’s plan to work, something had to happen pretty soon. He hadn’t been clear on the details, but he had assured me it was fool proof. The cynic in me was awaiting the arrival of a better fool.

  Coluthon emerged from the gloom of the truck’s rear. I watched as she finished arranging old blankets over the desk and tying it down with cargo straps. The desk looked small and abandoned in the dark cavity of the moving truck.

  Benedict rode the hydraulic platform down until he was at eye level with me. He made some final notes on a clipboard form, then handed it to me for a signature.