by Mark A. King
“I would have been the inspiration in alchemy. The adventurous spirit of endeavour. The innovation and the dreams of progress.”
“Just the good stuff, eh? That’s handy.”
“Believe me, or don’t believe me. I am trying to explain. There are preternatural events and entities everywhere—but all you can’t see them—you choose not to see them. They are the answers you don’t want to hear. To the religious, preternatural events are the face of God in ordinary objects. To children, preternatural events are the demons and monsters of nightmares. To the atheists, they are the unfathomable emptiness of eternity, yet the stoic willingness to persevere. To me, I see them in the invention of every new technology—yet you are blind to it. You should not be able to see me. You should not be able to feel her. But you can. The incident on the train, where that person, that seemingly random person, jumped out in front of you. That was the trigger for seeing me, right?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. To respond was to admit he was real, to admit the impossible, to understand that there was no pill or treatment that could make this go away. To ignore him was to admit that I was ill, that all the recent events were murky and uncertain. It would be to admit that anything in my past could be wrong. “Yes,” I replied feebly. “Yes, that was the trigger. That was when I could see you, when I started to have greater problems.”
“So there was something different about this experience? I mean, you’ve had jumpers before. Why was this one different, Cal?”
I wasn’t exactly comfortable with this line of questioning, but what option did I have? I’d made my choice. And although I couldn’t be certain about him, I had no real option but to see it through. “Yeah, I’ve had jumpers. All Tube drivers have. Each one is worse. It’s like you get over the last one and you think you’re prepared for the next one, but then—then you’re left frustrated and angry with yourself because you’re weak and couldn’t cope with it as well as you thought you would. But this one was on another level. It was the way he looked at me. Like he was really happy. And—I know it sounds funny, but…”
“But, what?”
“It was sort of like he was trying to tell me something, something important. Then the train hit him. I felt the bump. I felt the screeching of the brakes. I can’t get him out of my mind. I should feel happy, as he seemed so peaceful. I absolutely knew just how calm and in control he was when it happened. I realise none of this makes sense, but it’s as if he wanted me to do something.”
“No. I completely understand. This is how it works, Cal. People like you are very rare. The power of empathy you have, the fact that you are unselfish and caring and that you already see the world in a different way. These are the signs. I have been here for a long time, Cal, and my time is drawing to a close.”
I gave up trying to argue with him about the implausibility of it all. “What does that mean? What exactly has happened to me? Why me? “
“I’m not immortal. Times change; eventually we change with them, or we die. Hundreds, thousands of years is a long, long time, Cal. Sometimes we see too much loss, too much hate. I am a Protector, a Guardian, but even I am not perfect. Sometimes we can’t stand the apathy, we become apathetic ourselves. We see the same mistakes, the people and buildings come and go, they become just more of the same, and our purpose is lost.”
“A Guardian? A Protector? Like a screwed-up angel?”
“Some people would say that, yes. What is an angel? A spirit seen in human form? An entity that can move between worlds? A being that acts as a guardian to people, lands, cities? You know that angels can kill and maim. They are not winged cherubs—but like man, they are more extreme versions of evil and good. In all honesty, I’d rather you didn’t use that word, Cal. It has—connotations. There are no real words to describe what I am.”
I went to stand, but he grabbed me back. “I am as real as the floor you stand on. I walk by and people do not see me, they can’t process. Can’t connect. I am a spirit. A feeling. The human mind makes patterns; it is programmed to try and make sense of the world. That’s why you see pyramids on Mars, why you see faces on the moon. Why you see a stranger and sometimes, you are convinced beyond all reason that you know him from somewhere—and no matter how much he tells you that you are mistaken, you persist and persuade yourself that if you only think hard enough, you will understand the answer.”
“What? The woman you were kissing—she sees you as some hunky Hollywood heartthrob or something?”
“She sees what she wants to see. Just like you see what you want to see. I don’t look like this. It’s your mind making sense of it. You’d be shocked if you saw what I looked like. Listen, I’m sure you could talk about me all night long. I am no more real to millions than a gust of wind, a random traffic-light sequence, or a flickering power surge. These are not the answers you want. You asked why you? What has happened? That jumper was trying to reach you, Cal. The city is under threat and you can help. The suicide was no accident. You need to think about that event, Cal. Start from there and you’ll get the answers you crave.”
“Does this mean that that I’ve become like you?”
He laughed, “No. This isn’t some form of wizard shit, where supernatural powers are passed down through green beams of magic from Latin spells or magic wands or human spirits passing through train drivers. No. There is a theory, it’s based on science. Biocentrism states that time and space are not linear and sequential, indeed they are just our consciousness. Even death itself is just an illusion. It is we who makes the world real, not the other way around. How else do you explain the fact that sub-atomic particles can be in more than one place simultaneously? Science is not the answer to everything, it can’t explain most of our world, and therefore anything is possible.
“Our city is at risk, Cal. Intolerance is rife and the disparity between rich and poor has never been wider. These are the times of political turmoil. Perhaps, in these times of disbelief and blindness, it’s time for new energy, a new Guardian. That’s why that woman is trying to attack you, attack us. It’s in her interests for you to fail before you learn. You’ve been under the earth for too long. You need to find the light. You need to be the light.”
My head was swimming. If his batshit crazy words were true, then what else was happening? “Who was that woman on the lake, Abna?”
“That woman on the lake ... is the worst of mankind. A demon. The darkness of the city. The evil in people. Everything that humans are drawn to, the things that make them seek debauchery and crime. The things that turn the normal good folk of the city into snakes, into monsters, into people that they’d never dream of being in the daylight. She is the feeling that drives people to cheat on their partners. To drink, to gamble, to lie, and to deceive. To turn the city and all its potential into everything that is wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She is real. As real as I am, and you are in grave danger.”
“What does she want with me?”
“She wants the city to fester. She wants to break everything down, to seduce the inhabitants into darkness. You? She wants you because you can see her. You have the ability to see the monster she really is. She wants the world to believe that it is safe and real. That such creatures as us don’t exist. There should be no lucid awareness of what we are, what we can do. If people were aware they were being influenced or manipulated by her, then her very existence would be called into question, as would her place in the future of the city. If people could feel the darkness, they would look for the light. They would find me, Cal. They would find hope, and everything that I represent. Then ... she will have lost.”
Jimmy
Jimmy couldn’t stop thinking about the witness, Charlie, or the missing girl, Maria Mathan.
While he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t directly responsible, he knew he couldn’t wash his hands of Ryan’s actions. Ryan was one of his men, one he trusted with his own life. Yet Ryan had screwed up by hiring junkie wasters w
ho thought holding up a newsagents’ was a bright idea. It was worse to think that the money from the robbery was supposed to be used to fund criminal activities abhorrent to Jimmy. All the more reason for Jimmy to break his silence.
What would become of Charlie? He’d sent Ryan to watch over her. Normally this would be as reliable as a cat chasing a laser dot, but Ryan had let him down. Then there was the dream—Jimmy had seen behaviour in Ryan Thistle that reminded him of the early days.
After meeting her, Jimmy thought Charlie was strong and determined—not afraid to stand up to him. He could recognize those who were strong, those who put up a front, and those who would run and hide. The fact that she’d intervened in a robbery was sign enough that Charlie was of the solid, dependable, moral type.
Maria Mathan—she was different. That’s why he’d sent his other trusted employee, Josh, to get Iona. Westbourne wouldn’t stop until all the witnesses were removed. Jimmy had already decided to turn informant—a grubby traitor—but it would be worth it if Iona could use the information to save Maria Mathan and save the city from sinking further into the mire of human exploitation.
Ryan strutted through the ward towards Jimmy’s bed.
“Mr. Kinsella. I’m here with an update, as requested.” Ryan’s scowl was low and rutted.
“I’m okay, son. You look like crap. What’s up?”
Ryan ducked his tall frame and dragged a chair towards Jimmy. “I’ve been checking on the witness downstairs—”
“Charlie,” Jimmy said.
“You know they’ve got a rent-a-bod from some third-rate security firm doing the rounds. Skinny, spiky thing—he looks like a discarded bog-brush,” Ryan said.
“You reckon that between your visits and his you can keep her safe?”
“I can’t guarantee it, sir. No.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that she intervened in something that had nothing to do with her. She’s found out there are consequences. All I’m saying is that I’ll do what I can.”
Jimmy didn’t have the energy to fight Ryan. The oxygen levels allowed him to talk, but they dried his mouth and throat. He wanted to say more. To tell Ryan how to run the business after death took him. But what was the point? He’d do it his own way.
For some time Jimmy had let go of running everything he’d built up. He’d given Ryan responsibility and trust. Up until this incident it had always been repaid. “I know you’ll do everything you can, son. Is there any word from Josh and his task to bring me Detective Stone?
“Funny you mention that, Mr. Kinsella,” Ryan replied. “He called me a few minutes ago as I was walking into the hospital.”
“And?”
“I’m worried, sir.”
“About?”
Ryan shifted uneasily in his chair. “Can I speak frankly, sir?”
Jimmy nodded. “Are you going to give me another lecture on talking to the police?”
Ryan grumbled under his breath. “But it’s important, sir. It’s this whole thing. You know people in our line of work don’t have many rules. But talking to the police is one of them. It makes me feel sick. Even if I could get past that, there is the matter of Westbourne. You think someone that is capable of those crimes will sit back and allow you to turn grass? You have to remember, sir, that I did this for you. I wanted to keep you safe. Unless I did the job, you would be dead by now. It was my decision to hire those tossers. They screwed up. I screwed up. By helping the witnesses and turning grass, do you think you’re helping any of us? It’s hardly in my own interests to protect witnesses is it?”
Jimmy coughed until he thought someone had yanked his insides out. He composed himself and took a sip of water. “I allowed you to speak your mind, son, not be disrespectful. I might be on my way out, Ryan, but it would serve you well to remember where you came from. You’re only where you are today because of me. When I’m gone, you can fucking well do what you like. While I still have breath in my body, you will do what you’re told. Call it pay back. Call it loyalty. Call it respect. I don’t care. Just do what I ask of you. I wouldn’t knowingly put you in danger would I?”
Ryan leaned back and puffed out a sigh. “No, sir. I’m sorry for my inappropriate behaviour and my lack of gratitude. Of course. Whatever you want, Mr. Kinsella.” Ryan bowed his head and gazed at the floor.
Jimmy scanned through the newspaper. Rustling hastily through the pages, resisting the urge to check the sports results. The newspaper editors had already moved on from the horrific events at the newsagents’. They were reporting on a meaningless war in some faraway place. What about the wars here? What about the streets and offices littered with soldiers carrying out the orders of organised crime lords, in plain view? Jimmy had once been part of the problem, but nothing on this scale—his wars were only ever fought against competitors or those who got in his way. Either the corruption was so widespread that the media were under the indirect influence of people like Westbourne, or there was such apathy that sexual exploitation, modern slavery, and trafficking were not newsworthy. “Iona is someone I once knew,” Jimmy said, trying to lessen the tension between him and Ryan.
Ryan looked up. “She’s not—you know—“
Jimmy cocked his head. “My daughter?” Ryan shrugged. “No, although I’d be proud to call her that. I never had kids, thank God. This is no life for a kid, is it?” Jimmy tried to sit up, but he was finding it increasingly difficult. Ryan rushed to support him. “Look in my drawer, son. Grab my wallet. There is something in it I’d like you to see.”
Ryan fumbled between the keys, the phone, the chargers, and the other unimportant stuff that surrounds a dying person, and found the wallet. He passed it to Jimmy, who rummaged deep within the other pockets. With his index and middle finger, he pulled out a folded, aged photo.
Jimmy remembered the times when photos were on walls rather than phones. “Here,” he said, passing it to Ryan, who unfolded it.
“This her?” Ryan asked.
“Yes, when she was younger. I knew her mother. Her mum was one of my earliest employees. She was messed up. But I—“ Jimmy struggled for the words. “It feels weird to say this—but what use is there trying to be hard anymore? If love is a real thing, then she’s as close as I came to feeling it. But love wasn’t something that her mum, Scarlet, understood. Scarlet needed help. I tried to help her, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do.”
Ryan tried to reassure Jimmy, “You can’t blame yourself, Mr. Kinsella, some p— “
“It’s okay, son, I know. Some people can’t be saved. But I spent many years thinking I could save her. She was into drugs, men, money. I thought if I could protect her, give her a chance to get out of that life ... but I failed. Her daughter, Iona, was different. She’d had a bad start. The chances were against her, but after her mum passed away, she was staring at a life in the care system. What sort of future would that have given her? I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t owe it to her mum, not even to Iona, but I needed to take care of that girl for myself. Guilt and responsibility are powerful things, Ryan.”
Jimmy watched Ryan, his face was still and his hands forceful as he passed the tatty photo back to Jimmy, “What happened to the mum?” he asked with the emotion of a cold-call sales person.
“She died. There was a fire. That’s how I got this.” He held up his arm and showed Ryan the scars. “You’ve seen them before. Probably assumed they were from arson or something. Thank you for having enough respect not to ask.” He rested his arm back down. “It’s not like I want to have Christmas dinner with Iona. I know she’s fine. I encouraged her grandparents to take her, even though they’d long given up on Scarlet. I gave them good money to bring her up the best they could. I set up a small fund to help with her education. She’s done well for herself. Sure, I opened a couple of doors for her, but I hear she’s a smart kid. She’s into cyber crime prevention—stuff I don’t even understand. The new war on criminals isn’t won using people i
n uniforms, Ryan. It’s not in rooms, with spotlights, tape-recorders, and interrogators. It’s won behind computer screens.
“Iona not only has the skills to get inside the corruption and take down Westbourne, but she’s someone I can trust. Westbourne has people at all levels. I’m lucky to have you and Josh, but Iona can harm Westbourne’s people in ways that we can’t. I feel for the city, Ryan. But right now, I feel obliged to help Charlie and that poor girl, Maria Mathan. ”
“We’ve always been there for you, boss. We might have limitations, but Josh is on this. I just hope he’s—“
“He’s what?”
Ryan looked at the roof like he was looking for divine inspiration. “Well I guess he didn’t know about the background. He managed to get hold of her.”
“What does that mean?”
“He did what Josh does, sir. I think he bundled her in his car. But she didn’t take too kindly to it. She attacked him. He’s chasing after her again.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Can’t you guys do anything right? Seriously. Dying wishes aren’t what they used to be.”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Kinsella?”
“Go help him out, Ryan. Don’t fuck anything up. Do it properly, or don’t do it all. Oh, and Ryan, check in on the witness, Charlie, before you go.”
Charlie
Charlie was very reluctant to leave her bed again after the incident with the crime boss, Jimmy. So she stayed in her ward, watching the new reports. She was certain she recognised the criminal, Leo, but she just couldn’t think why. Jimmy had seemed only interested in scaring her. What did Jimmy have to gain by saying Leo Jeffers was being sacrificed by his organisation? By removing an expendable criminal, then tackling the witnesses, it would remove the links between the organisation and the deaths at the newsagent. When Charlie considered it, there was an element of truth in Jimmy’s theories—it seemed convenient that the police had managed to identify the criminal involved in the attack, yet according to the news, there was little progress on the missing girl.
