by Matt Whyman
For a moment, all eyes are on the insect’s looping path, which is why they all respond with a gasp when it connects with a swat brandished by a boy on rollerblades, who knocks it into oblivion.
“Gotcha!” Billy crows, and glides to a stop now. “I won’t tolerate pests in my canteen. Didn’t I say I run a tight ship here? Always have done. Always will do.”
“My fly!” Mikhail presses both hands to his head. “You swatted my fly!”
Billy looks at him quizzically. “It’s not like I just maimed a puppy or anything. What’s the big deal?”
“I think the fly was special to him,” says Livia, trying hard to mask her amusement. Even the light surrounding her quivers like it’s primed to explode. “He brought it back to life.”
“Aaaaah, I see.” Billy nods to himself, like it’s beginning to make sense to him now. “That old trick, huh?”
“It was a perfect demonstration!” wails Mikhail. “Until you blundered in.”
“It’s a deception,” Billy counters, and takes a seat on the bench beside Yoshi. “What happens is this: you catch a normal fly, and pop it in the freezer for a minute or so. No harm comes to it. The drop in temperature simply causes it to go into a deep sleep. Next you plant it near your punters, and talk up the feat you’re about to perform. When you scoop the fly into your hands, your body heat and breath effectively defrost it. After that, all you have to do is watch it buzz away.”
“Unless you’re in the vicinity,” mutters the Russian boy bitterly. “In which case it doesn’t exactly cheat death, does it?”
Billy shrugs, and then appears to think of something that removes the grin from his face. “Hold on a minute. Did you use my galley freezer to ice your fly?”
“Erm, well yes,” he admits sheepishly. “It’s the only one in the bunker.”
“That’s gross.” Scarlett wrinkles her nose, scowling at Mikhail. “What are you? A street magician or a slob?”
With his cheeks heating up now, Mikhail backs away from the bench. “OK, so perhaps this isn’t an illusion to perform in restaurants or burger bars. But you have to admit I nearly had you there. I figured you’d be on the lookout for a switch or sleight of hand. The last thing people expect to see is some kind of resurrection.”
“It’s an impressive illusion,” agrees Yoshi, and catches Livia’s eye. “Let’s just hope that only flies can be revived in this world.”
She frowns, sensing that something is troubling him, and her aura darkens considerably.
“Forget about Aleister,” she tells him under her breath, and leans in to clasp his hands reassuringly. “He’s gone for good.”
10
RISE AND SHINE
The guard on duty in the Foundation lobby is finding it hard to keep his eyes open. He’s been here all night. With dawn cracking over the city chimney pots now, it won’t be long before he can head home and flop into bed.
There had been a time, however, not so long ago, when he feared he might never live to see another day, as did the entire security team. It was all down to the most troublesome resident that the Foundation had ever housed. Yoshi was his name. One of the remote viewers. His psychic ability hadn’t caused all the problems, though. It was his flight for freedom that started it all. One day, the kid just takes off. Literally flinging himself across a chasm between two buildings where nobody else dared to follow.
If his escape angered the man in charge of the programme here, the boy’s return drove him close to insanity. Not only did Yoshi drop back in one night, he brought a bunch of street performers with him who had made out that vampires were among them. The guard smiles to himself now at the stunt they’d pulled to support their claim, but at the time his knees had been knocking. Despite the uproar they caused, conjuring fiendish-looking shadows from the wings, he had to admit it was some distraction. That so many kids had used the opportunity to break for freedom themselves was just unfortunate. Then again, he wasn’t entirely surprised. This place was supposed to enable gifted youngsters to get to grips with their psychic abilities, but sometimes it seemed like the director had an agenda all of his own. In many ways, it had come as a relief to the entire security force here that Aleister’s pledge to track down the ringleaders behind the breakout had kept him away for so long. Since he went off in pursuit, the Foundation had assumed a more relaxed atmosphere. Sure, the security in here had been doubled, but the kids who remained seemed less jumpy without that brute of a man breathing down their necks.
The guard stirs from his thoughts as one of the residents appears at the foot of the stairs, carrying a mop and bucket.
“Mornin’!” pipes the kid in question. He’s no more than six or seven, like most of the residents left behind, and beams when the guard nods at him.
“Are you on cleaning duty again, Rufus? Surely it’s someone else’s turn?”
“I don’t mind,” says the lad, sitting himself on the lowest step. “It’s good practice.”
“I suppose it is,” the guard agrees. Shielding his gaze against the glare from outside now, he watches the kid go to work. The front of this cathedral-like building is constructed from glass, and the rising sun is really beginning to dazzle. It makes it hard for him to keep his eye on the mop as it glides across the marble floor. Still, it’s something he just has to watch, and on a daily basis too. Usually, it leaves him wondering whether just anyone had the potential to do this kind of thing, or was it really a gift?
“Let me know if I miss a bit,” the boy requests, and opens the comic he has brought with him to read.
For the mop is swishing efficiently across the lobby under its own steam, so it seems, while the lad controlling it with his mind sits on the lowest step and waits for the floor to be finished.
“Rufus,” says the guard after a moment, “I couldn’t care less about the quality of the polish. Just watching how you do this is what impresses me.”
“It took a while to master,” the boy says absently, on leafing through the pages. “Now it feels like second nature.”
The guard nods to himself, wondering if the boy is aware that this telekinetic ability of his is in its infancy. In a few years from now, he supposes, the lad could well be lifting trucks off the ground. It was the same for all the kids, no matter what kind of psychic promise they showed. Maybe it was the hormones or something, but adolescence always seemed to trigger their full potential. It was also when a lot of them became hard to handle, as the escape hatched by four of the eldest residents had proven. Yoshi, those fire-starting twins and the intense girl with the aura were all just into their teens, and frankly a peace had settled over this place in their absence. It was nice, just watching those little ones left try out tricks like this. Quite why the man in charge made such a big deal about losing the stroppier ones was beyond him. In his shoes, the guard muses, he’d make the place a kindergarten for psychics. It made life so much easier, after all.
“Whoa there, squirt!” he is moved to comment, as the mop sloshes dangerously close to his shoes. “Pay attention, will you?” Rufus looks up from his magazine, and the colour drains from his face.
“Oh no!”
The guard shows him both palms. “It isn’t a big deal, kid. Easy now! I’m not concerned about the finish, like I said. In fact, there’s only one man uptight enough to give you a hard time about that, and he’s nowhere to be seen. So relax. Don’t be so twitchy. I’m just asking you nicely to go easy with the mop. Otherwise people will think I’m not shaking properly after taking a leak.”
He had meant it as a cheap joke. A means to make him laugh, because frankly right now little Rufus looks all set to burst into tears.
“I think I’ve left something in my room!” the lad squeaks, before turning to scramble up the stairs.
At the same time, the mop clatters to the floor, as if invisible strings have just been cut.
“Hey!” the guard calls out, and stoops to reach for the handle. “What’s got into you, Rufus? Anyone would think you’ve just
seen a ghost.”
He sighs to himself, and then snaps back to attention with a squeak when another voice says: “Maybe he has.”
The voice comes out of the blinding light, but it’s hauntingly familiar to him. Only one individual hissed his words in that way, and now here he is. Back from the dead, it seems. The guard is forced to shield his eyes, facing as he is into the glare from the sun. Even so, there’s no mistaking the identity of the looming figure cast in silhouette before him. From his broad frame and bald dome, to the all-too-familiar cut of a full-length coat, it could only be one man. The Foundation’s Programme Director.
“Mister Aleister . . . sir! We weren’t expecting you.”
“So it seems.”
The brute begins to circle the shaken guard, who has just got it together to stand to attention. The poor man sees his boss slide out of shadow now, and tries hard not to swallow on sensing those tight blue eyes lock on to him. Aleister moves in close, and breathes into his ear. “I trust I won’t be disappointed by the standard of security throughout the building.”
“Sir, we have guards posted on the roof garden now, just in case Yoshi comes back for the remaining residents and attempts to drop in that way again. You’ll also find all the drains fitted with steel mesh to stop any accomplices popping up from the sewers like the last time. It’s safe to say the Foundation is effectively a fortress now, from top to bottom.”
The breathing in his ear stops for a moment. When it returns, there is a sour note to it. “Then how come I just breezed in through the lobby doors?”
The guard is lost for words. A chill grips his chest, and seems to spread like an ice flow through his arms and legs. “Ah,” he says. “The sun momentarily dazzled me but I’m—” Whatever it is that has seized him suddenly focuses on his windpipe and stops him from drawing breath. He rushes his hands to his throat, as if real hands are attempting to strangle him, but finds nothing there. He appeals to Aleister with his eyes, his face turning slowly crimson, but the Programme Director simply stands there and observes. There’s a hint of concentration in his eyes, as if somehow he’s making this happen using the power of his mind.
“Now I have your full attention,” he hisses. “Let it be known that I do not expect any more slip-ups from this moment on, do you understand?”
The guard’s eyes are bulging now, this force practically lifting him up on tiptoes. He struggles to nod, but even that doesn’t serve to release him. What does bring him back to the ground gasping is the sound of the lobby doors flapping inwards and the appearance of a man in a bad golf shirt. He’s struggling with two suitcases, while conducting a conversation into a mobile phone that’s pinched between his shoulder and one jowl.
“Dude, there you are!” he calls across to Aleister, interrupting his own call, and promptly drops his cases to return to it. “Yes, honey baby,” he can be heard to say. “Of course. Would I lie? The sights can wait a little while. I’m searching for them right now.”
“This is Otello Tempesta,” the brute informs the guard.
“Hey!” beams the new arrival, briefly covering the phone mouthpiece. “Call me Otto.”
“He’s father to the missing twins,” continues Aleister. “I’ve invited him here to help me track them down.” He stops there, waits for Otto to go back to his mobile conversation, and then speaks in a whisper. “Whatever you may think of him, remember he’s a guest. I need him at my side to find them, so no more slip-ups, is that clear?”
“Yessir,” croaks the guard. “No more slip-ups.”
“Very good,” says Aleister after a moment. “Once he’s finished assuring his wife that we are doing everything in our power to locate poor Scarlett and Blaize, I shall take him on a tour of the Foundation. Naturally, he’s very concerned that we should lose his children like this, which is why I want him to find everything in order.” He pauses there, his eyes narrowing thin as needles. “Everything is in order, isn’t it?”
The guard feels just a trace of pressure on his throat once more, which leaves him no choice but to assure him that he won’t be disappointed. At the same time, this pasty-looking guy in the golf shirt shuts down his phone and crosses the lobby floor to join them. The guard stands to attention, hoping his eyes will stop watering.
“What can I say?” says Otto, spreading his hands as he shrugs. “You know how it is when you call the wife. As soon as she starts talking all you can do is agree with everything she says until she hangs up.” Otto chuckles at his observation, tucks his mobile into the front pocket of his shirt, and takes a moment more to compose his worried expression. “Marlene is desperately concerned.”
“I sympathise entirely.” Aleister cups Otto’s elbow and steers him to the stairs. “We’re sorry this unfortunate situation ever happened in the first place. Still, the good thing is you’re here in London. As soon as we’ve settled you into your quarters, perhaps we can head out onto the streets and begin our search.”
“Absolutely,” agrees Otto. “Will it take us anywhere near the Tower of London?”
“The Tower?” Aleister frowns, confused by the enquiry, but decides not to pursue it. “What matters now is that we get you out and about,” he says, encouraging him up this first flight now with a hand between his shoulder blades. “Once the twins learn their dear father is in town, I feel sure they’ll surface.”
“Well, if we do happen to pass by,” his guest says hopefully, “I’d love to report back that I’ve seen a Beefeater.”
The guard remains stock-still until the pair round the stairs and disappear from sight. Then, he breathes out as if he might deflate entirely. He’s sweating badly, he realises, but it has nothing to do with this infernal sunshine. Indeed, the way he’s feeling right now, counting the minutes before he can go home, the heat inside this glass lobby just doesn’t come close to the kind he’s just suffered from the man in charge. It’s left him feeling so shaken that when Aleister barks his name again, he reacts like a charge of electricity has just shot through him.
“Sir?” The guard looks up and around to find the bald brute leaning over the balcony, his meaty paws spread wide across the railing.
“Will you bring Mr Tempesta’s luggage to the guest quarters?”
“Of course,” he replies, with some relief, and resists the temptation to suggest young Rufus might conjure it up there much faster.
11
THE KEY TO UNLOCK THEM ALL
Julius Grimaldi sits alone in the Map Room. He has been here through the night, poring over maps, newspaper archives, engineering blueprints, astrological charts and leather-bound books. Among his tools are a set square, a ruler, a calculator and a compass. Every now and then he studies a chess set, as if using the game in progress to focus his thoughts. At other times, mostly the frustrating ones, he spins a desk globe as if wishing the world would turn at his bidding.
Julius works by candlelight, at a round oak table flanked by towering bookshelves. A rail runs along the summit of each one, with a ladder attached so this old urban explorer can access the dustiest of tomes. Behind him, at the far end of this subterranean chamber, the wall is clearly just a great big slab of steel and rivets. A flight of boilerplate steps leads to a service hatch back there, which is sealed shut by a flywheel.
This is the bunker’s exterior flank, buried deep under Chinatown. Since his arrival, this excavated space has served as a gateway for Julius to explore all the spaces and places to be found on every level under London. It begins at the far end of the Map Room, in fact, where a tunnel has been mined through the clay. It leads so deep that the Chinese lanterns glowing under every wooden shoring appear to wind on for infinity.
High above the old man, a slab of thick glass squares brings some daylight inside. Just enough to tell him that morning has broken, and summoned the start of the rush hour. This is evident from the soles of all the shoes that continue to criss-cross the glass squares, embedded as they are in the pavement up above. Even so, it is doubtful that anyone would p
ause to consider the seam of activity that exists beneath their feet. Julius arches one eyebrow, as he ponders life at street level.
“Lord, if you can hear me,” he mutters under his whiskers, “help me out down here.”
An A–Z street map rests before him on the table, to which he turns once more with a sigh. A jagged star shape, scrawled by marker pen, spans north, south, east and west across the capital. With a bony forefinger, and a nail encrusted with grime, Julius follows the lines from one point to the next. At each point stands a church, which he name-checks in turn. “Christ Church Spitalfields . . .” he mutters. “St George’s . . . St Anne’s . . .” He pauses on this third point for a moment to consult his thoughts. “Oh yes. I remember now. Of course. It’s at the foot of the stairs in the crypt.”
Julius continues to trace out the star design, and any recollection he has of where each keystone is located. This is the source of strength and support for a vault or an arch in a building. It may look like any other slab or brick, but forces converge here. Without it, the structure would simply collapse. Indeed, the architect behind these churches invested a very special kind of importance to his keystones. Not only did he play around with the positioning of each one, as if taking other forces into consideration, he also scratched a seven-pointed star design into them – just like the one scrawled across the city on the old man’s map. It’s only when Julius reaches the seventh and final point in the marker pen pattern before him that his expression clouds. He taps his finger over the location on the map, but something about it clearly gives him cause for concern.
“This must be the one,” he says to himself. “It just has to be the waypoint that unlocks them all.”
A knocking sound from behind the bunker hatch distracts him briefly from the question. He looks up, barks, “Enter!” and returns his attention to the map. The flywheel squeaks but that doesn’t disturb him again. Nor does the sound of the hatch opening and then footsteps descending the steps. It’s only when a strange light creeps over him that he turns to find Livia peering over his shoulder. Yoshi stands beside the girl with the aura, both eyes on the map.
