Cumberland. That was what it was like. Fucking Cumberland.
Not that it had been Cumberland, even then. Cumberland had ceased to be a geographic region a good fifty years before he found himself washed up there.
Jake sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. The countryside surrounding Cockermouth, that’s what it reminded him of. And Hinton’s Academy, their youth training school, there in the northern wilds.
He hadn’t thought of it in years.
Rough skies, and cloud and rain. And running in the mud, tired beyond belief, but keeping going whilst voices yelled encouragement, because to give up would be to fail.
Oh yes, he remembered it all too clearly.
Remembered the thickness of the walls, the old buildings built like blockhouses against the winter weather, and that strange feeling of living on the frontier. Everything about it so elemental. Fourteen he’d been when he first went there. Fourteen and fragile. Not exactly a loner, just locked in; the shell he’d made for himself making it hard to socialize. And they understood that somehow. Coaxed him out of himself, bit by bit.
Church and hymns and readings from the big bible on the lectern. And the cloaks they’d worn: black for the boys, mauve for the masters.
Another world, even then. The hardships and the slow education in self-reliance. Learning to stand on his own two feet. Only one’s own two feet weren’t anything like enough, not when the world underwent such changes. Such seismic shifts.
Maybe. But what I learned there certainly helped. There’s no questioning that. Those years in Corfe… what else was it I drew upon but that? That education in self-reliance. If I’d not had that…
Eyes closed, he could still see his friends from those times. Edward with his soft blond hair and boyish charm. Chas with his effervescent good humour and his ability to turn the worst situation into a challenge to be overcome. And Will. Perhaps the best of the lot, never fazed, never troubled, dark-haired and handsome, a leader of men.
What had happened to them all? Had they too been on Tsao Ch’un’s list? And were they dead now, their fine bones rotting in the earth?
He hoped not.
It was there, in the Academy, that he had first experienced it: the datscape, or CDL – ‘comprehensive data landscape’ – as it was formally known. There that he’d first known the high that was total data immersion.
Yes, and it was there that he’d discovered just how good he was. How natural it felt, being inside that world of coded information. How his nerve-endings had sung in those early days.
A world of boys and bicycles, beef and beer.
‘These are words beginning with a b…’
Jake opened his eyes, remembering. Wondering how it was possible he could have forgotten. Only that was the way of this brave new world of theirs. It was all one long process of forgetting.
Particularly the songs. Because songs were so evocative, weren’t they? So precise in locating old memories.
Like that night in the Red Lion, in the high street of Carlisle Enclave. The night of his eighteenth birthday. He had been there with Will and Ed and Chas. The first time he’d got drunk. And the songs. He could still see the old jukebox in the corner. Still see the list of songs – perhaps the best selection of songs he’d ever come across, hand-picked by the landlord… what was his name now? Joe Turnbull, that was it!
Jake sat forward, surprised by how vividly it all came back. How perfectly it had been preserved, there beneath the wall-like layers of forgetting.
Elephant Talk. That was that song. Robert Fripp and King Crimson.
It made him wonder if a single copy of the song remained anywhere in the world, or whether it was only in his head now. One of those many things that would die when he died. Like in the Borges story.
He couldn’t recall now who had mentioned that to him. Someone had, only…
Jake stood up, looking about him. There was only a small gap between the bed and the wall. Barely enough room to turn. No. He’d go mad with claustrophobia if he didn’t get out of there for a while.
Besides, he ought to phone Mary. Let her know what was happening.
The thought brought back the conversation she’d told him about, with Peter, the previous evening. He was sure Peter was keeping something back. He had news; something he was dying to tell them, but couldn’t. Which was fine, because it made it easier to keep all this from Peter.
Gods, I hope we prevail, he thought, pulling on his cloak, then reaching out to unlock the door and patting his pocket as he did, to make sure he had the room key. Because if we don’t, we’re fucked.
Jake had a quiet beer in a nearby bar, then, feeling restless, decided he’d visit Advocate Yang.
Yang Hong Yu’s offices, he knew, weren’t far away. Not that he’d ever visited them – they had done their business face to face on screen – but he had Yang’s card. With a little help getting directions, he found himself standing at Yang’s door half an hour later.
Stepping out of the lift, looking about him at the state of things, his heart had sunk. This was downlevel with a capital D. As he made his way along the corridor, beggars assailed him, pestering him until he’d been forced to yell at them to leave him be. And that was only part of it. The stale smell, the tattered look of everything. It felt like a place where people had given up all hope.
And here, amidst it all, was Yang’s.
Jake reached out and knocked on the plain plastic panel of the door. There was movement inside, and then the door opened a crack.
‘Yes?’
It was a woman, Jake realized. An elderly-looking Han. Yang’s wife, possibly. She looked old enough.
‘Forgive me, but I’ve come to see Advocate Yang. I am his client, Shih Reed. I…’
‘Oh, Shih Reed…’ Yang said, pushing the woman aside and stepping outside into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have met you.’
Jake looked past Yang at the door. In that brief moment when he had squeezed through, Jake had seen past him.
‘Is something wrong, Yang Hong Yu? Are you… in trouble?’
Conflicting emotions crossed Yang’s face and then he sighed, deflating a little. ‘It is… what do you call it?… an occupational hazard. Take on the big boys and you court trouble, neh?’
‘Trouble?’
Again there was a moment’s conflict in the old man’s face. Then, sighing again, he opened the door, gesturing to Jake to step inside.
Where there was chaos, papers strewn everywhere, files torn and defaced. And over everything, the smell of shit. Of human excrement.
‘Aiya!’ Jake said, shocked by what he saw. ‘Who did this? Do you know?’
‘The local tong… Triads, you know? Probably hired by the Changs, though who is to know, neh?’ Yang, looking about himself at the mess, seemed close to tears. ‘I have had this before… several times… but not for years. I thought…’
Only he didn’t say what he thought. Instead, he shrugged. A shrug expressive of lost hope.
Poverty and distress, Jake thought. Signs of an honest man.
And poor Yang Hong Yu was paying the price for his honesty.
Jake looked down. ‘Do you think I should accept their offer, Advocate Yang?
Yang shook his head. ‘No, Shih Reed. This makes no difference. If anything, this hardens my resolve. Such men…’ There was a sudden bitterness in Yang’s face. ‘Such men shame us all. But the sage does not bow before adversity. And neither does Yang Hong Yu. I am still your Advocate, Shih Reed, and I advise that you reject their offer firmly.’
‘Reject it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever it is?’
‘Whatever it is.’ Yang looked suddenly stern, determined. ‘This is a matter of principle, now. Of honour. To even think of backing down…’
Yang Hong Yu bristled with anger, then looking to Jake again, he smiled. ‘You go back to your room, Shih Reed, while we tidy up here.
I will send Chi Lin Lin to let you know when the case begins again. For it will begin, have no doubt. These scum… they can shit on us all they like, but we will have them in the end. See if we don’t!’
Sitting back in the bar, Jake couldn’t find it in himself to be so positive, so certain of the end result. It looked to him, rather, as if their chances of prevailing were diminishing by the hour; that there was little the Changs wouldn’t do to prevent a decision from going against them in this matter.
No, they intended to set a precedent. To win the war with a single, decisive battle. To nip things in the bud, as the old-fashioned saying went. And they would be as ruthless as they had to be to get that result.
‘You want another drink?’ the barman asked, seeing that Jake’s glass was empty. ‘A Dragon Cloud?’
It was piss water. Nothing like a proper beer. But there was no choice in matters like that these days. Real ale, like real music, had been done away with.
Only what did it matter? His world was crumbling about him once again, and there was nothing he could do. Yang’s bravery – his defiance – was admirable, but the truth was they were going to be crushed. Like bugs beneath some giant’s thumb.
‘Yeah. Give me a beer. A Dragon Cloud’ll be fine.’
‘You here for a hearing?’ the barman asked, turning to take one of the distinctive plastic bottles from the shelf.
‘Is there any other reason to be here?’
‘You might work here.’
‘Only I don’t. I don’t work anywhere any more. I’ve retired.’
The barman turned back, handed him the uncapped beer. Jake took it, smiled, then sipped.
Some other time, back in the old world, he’d have started a conversation. They’d have talked about music and events and all kinds of things. Only Jake couldn’t play that game any more. If he had a beer or two he’d get maudlin for the past, and then he’d say something he shouldn’t have. He’d done it before and got into trouble. So now he avoided it. Walked away, before they started opening doors that shouldn’t be opened.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You got a newscast?’
The barman reached beneath the counter and pulled out a slate, handing it across.
‘What do I owe you?’
Usually there was a deposit charge for borrowing a slate, but the barman shook his head.
‘No charge. I trust you.’
‘Thanks.’
Jake took the slate and his beer across to a table in the far corner. It was shadowed there and the screen on the wall above the table was dead. As he took his seat, Jake realized he was the only person in the room aside from the barman. Then again, it was early yet.
Thinking about his days at the Academy had made him recall all kinds of things. Things that he shouldn’t, perhaps, have brought up out of those walled-in depths.
Things like his grandfather’s death.
It was strange how, after the accident, he had gravitated towards his grandfather rather than his nan. Strange but understandable, for his nan had always been a much sterner person than his mother, and if he’d expected her to help him – maybe even to take his mother’s place – he’d have been much mistaken. But his grandfather, with his quiet and gentle manner, had somehow helped Jake to get through, if only by being there.
Only then, when he was fifteen, his grandmother had died. She had not been well for some time, but suddenly she went down with something – a virus, maybe, there were a lot of them about back then – and within a week she was dead.
He’d been at the Academy by then, and the news, when it reached him, had been a shock. A real shock, for she had always seemed made of much stronger stuff than those about her.
Jake had gone home for the funeral, given four days leave by Mr Cahill, the Headmaster. He had travelled back, fearing the emotional fallout, knowing just how much his grandfather had loved his gran. That lovely gentle man – Jake knew how much he must be hurting. Only, arriving home, he had seen at once just how bad things were.
It had been awful.
A distant relative, a great-aunt – one of his gran’s sisters, Jane, whom he had only ever met once or twice – had been drafted in to make all the arrangements. As for his grandfather…
He had watched his granddad fall apart. Before his eyes. The old man had stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped showing any kind of interest in the world. At the graveside he had stood there, in his mourning suit, clay on his boots, held up by one of the funeral attendants. As he stared into the open grave, a look of such bewilderment, such agony on his face, Jake could hardly bear to look at him.
Jake had gone back to the Academy two days later. And when the news came through of his grandfather’s death, eight days after that, it was no shock, for he had known. Known, from that awful moment at the graveside, that the old man could not bear to live without her. The woman he loved.
How well he knew that feeling.
After that he had put his head down, working hard to fill the emotional void, striving through work to find some kind of meaning to it all.
All dead. Everyone he’d ever loved.
Jake sighed heavily, then looked down at the slate and clicked it on. The surface shimmered, then lit up.
Talking heads, he thought, scrolling through to the channel he normally watched, then sitting back and taking a sip of his beer.
And stopped dead. He frowned, puzzled. It wasn’t anything they were saying. No, if anything the news seemed even blander than usual. But something was up. He could see it in their body language, could recognize – as Hinton had taught him, all those years ago – that they were hiding something. Something big. Some rumour, maybe, or…
Jake scratched at his chin. He really ought to shave. Just in case the Judge called them back. But it was a half-formed thought. He was staring at the slate now, trying to work out just what would have put them all on edge. For there was no doubt about it. Some big news item was brewing, but they couldn’t run with it. Not yet.
Only what in Christ’s name could that be?
Jake drained his glass. His instinct was to go home. To get to Mary’s side just as quick as he could. Only that was being ridiculous, wasn’t it? It was not as if he knew anything. And he needed to be here, for when the case began again.
No. He’d wait. Sit in his room and keep an eye on things. And if they changed?
If they changed, he would go home. Let Advocate Yang deal with things himself.
There was one final surprise.
There, in his rented room – and who knew how they’d found him, but they had – a message was waiting for him. He sat there, the large brown envelope in his lap, staring at the logo in the top right corner.
GenSyn. It was from GenSyn. But not from Peter. He knew that, because he knew Peter’s handwriting, and this wasn’t his. And besides, Peter didn’t know where he was. He hadn’t told him, and he’d had Mary swear not to tell him.
It was twenty years since that whole business. Twenty years since Gustav Ebert had died, burned to toast in the datscape. Twenty years since he’d got his severance notice from them. So what was this?
There was only one way to find out.
Jake slipped his fingernail under the fold and drew it across, then took out the single sheet.
‘Christ!’
He couldn’t help himself. It was from Alison. He saw that at once. Recognized the handwriting at the bottom of the page—
Whatever you want, love Alison.
He read it through, then read it through again. Legal aid. GenSyn were going to give him legal aid – whatever he needed to fight his case.
Jake laughed. ‘Unbelievable… fucking unbelievable.’
How in God’s name had she known? Who had told her? Had Mary mentioned something to Peter – mentioned it and not told him that she had?
That was most likely. Only what did it matter? Help. They were going to give him help!
He wondered if they knew just what that involved; how much time and mon
ey the Changs had invested in this case.
Maybe not. Only right now, any help was welcome.
There was a contact number at the top left of the page. He had only to phone it and let them know.
Jake stood. He would do it now. Right now, before another second passed.
He smiled. And afterwards he’d phone Mary. Let her know. That is, if she didn’t know already.
Chapter 19
THE FIRST DRAGON DECIDES
It was late, and in that huge, sparsely furnished chamber, surrounded by the dark, the First Dragon sat at his desk. Staring into the faint, wavering light of a single blood-red candle.
He was dressed simply, in the plainest of black robes. Not silk, nor satin, but a rough cloth, dyed to match the night. It was his only ostentation.
He was, as all previous First Dragons had been, a Han. Only there all similarities ended. For this Han was unconnected. He had risen not through alliance or patronage but by sheer ruthlessness, ability, and a reputation for absolute incorruptibility. He was also younger than any previous First Dragon; a good twenty years younger. In his fifties now, he had a gaunt, almost severe look. Hatchet-faced, some said, though quietly, and not in his presence. Others said he resembled, in his stretched and fleshless way, what he once had been before the Ministry had recruited him: an oven man.
And so he did, yet he had one final, distinguishing feature – a birth mark, on the left of his brow; a cluster of small dark shapes that, in a certain light (as now), resembled a distant star exploding in its death throes.
He had been sitting there for the best part of three hours thinking matters through. Considering, calculating, mapping out potentiality, as if he played wei ch’i in his head, assessing the impact of each stone he placed upon the board, each probable response.
To his right, discarded now, lay a pile of handwritten reports. They had been useful, to a point, but something in their hasty preparation had made him question their value even as he read them. They lacked the sharpness of vision this situation merited. Nor did they take into account the uniqueness, the unprecedented character of events. For all their accuracy and intelligence, they did not, in even the smallest fashion, convey an understanding of what lay before them.
Daylight on Iron Mountain Page 21
