I go back to my desk, pale and sick with fear, and sit like a sack of potatoes for the next hour while I try to mentally digest. At which point it gets to be too much, so I hang out a DO NOT DISTURB sign, lock my office door, and give myself a timed crying jag. Another makeup refresh, and I feel well enough to unlock the door and resume the robotic semblance of business as usual. But I still feel as if I’ve been mugged, or discovered Bob was cheating on me, or something like that.
Later that afternoon I manage to sit through a meeting without losing it, and although Mhari gives me a few strange glances I don’t think anyone else really notices. When it’s time to go home, I collect Lecter from my office safe, and I manage to navigate my way via bus and tube without jumping at shadows more than three or four times: anyone who notices it probably puts it down to one triple-shot latte too many (or to my nonexistent nose candy habit). I shovel the violin case into the safe, lock the front door, then inspect the wards on all the walls and windows twice over before I can relax enough to take my jacket and shoes off and make a pot of tea. The sleeping pills get a workout that night, despite Spooky’s best attempts to wake me up so I can play with her at four in the morning, and I’m still a little groggy when the alarm wakes me at six thirty. But at least I don’t have any more horrible dreams about performing naked in front of the Police Federation at the Albert Hall or dancing with Lecter in doomed Carcosa; and with sleep comes a sense of normality resuming, or at least the routinization of fear.
The fearful takes another step towards becoming the new normal when I return to the office that morning, violin slung over my shoulder. I deliberately vary my routine: leave at a different time, walk to a different bus stop, catch the tube between two different stations, and cover the last mile by taxi (and damn the expense). I stow Lecter in my office safe, neither opening the case nor trying to talk to him in my own head: let sleeping curses lie. And I get on with my life, pointedly paying no attention to the Damocletian sword the SA so helpfully drew to my attention.
The SA is not so easily ignored. We still have some paper mail to process, and a small padded envelope arrives via my in tray. When I open it a plain-looking metal band falls out: silver, I think, like a very plain wedding ring. I recognize his fussily old-fashioned handwriting on the note that is spindled through it like a treacherous promise.
Dominique, this is the sympathetic link ring I mentioned yesterday. I requisitioned it from its previous holder; Ms. Murphy already wears the counterpart. It will enable you to contact her in event of the emergency I mentioned. I have requested the preparation of a set of four linked rings for your entire team, but they will take at least ten days to arrive.
I scowl at the ring, then on impulse raise it to my nose and sniff it. My fingertips prickle slightly: I get a sense of Mhari’s presence from it, but why is there someone else, someone familiar? Damn Dr. Armstrong, damn him to hell. I slide the ring onto my right ring finger, where it fits snugly, despite having been sized for a male hand when I shook it out of the bag.
Barely thirty seconds pass before my desk phone rings. I pick it up.
“Dr. O’Brien.” It’s Mhari. She’s using my surname, which is unusual these days: the weeks of after-work drinks have, if nothing else, put us on a first-name basis.
“Yes, Mhari?” My finger twitches. “Is it the ring with the sympathetic link?”
“The—” I hear her sharp intake of breath. “Yes. Where did you get it?”
I chew my lip for a moment. “The SA gave it to me. He’s concerned about our ability to coordinate in an emergency—if one of us was on the tube, for example, unreachable by phone. He’s getting us a complete set, for the entire team, but it’ll be a couple of weeks. He said in the meantime I should get used to this one . . .”
“I, uh, I see.” She sounds slightly taken aback. “Why me?”
“Why not?” I reply, with forced levity. “We’re where the buck stops.”
“I suppose so.” But she sounds doubtful—suspicious, even—as she puts the phone down. Yet another item to add to the list of questions I’d really like to put to Mhari but can’t justify asking for fear of wrecking our working relationship.
Around ten o’clock, Ramona whirrs gleefully into my office. “They’ve arrived!” she cries.
“What have arrived?”
“Our uniforms! Come on, come on, don’t you want to see how you look in skintight Lycra?”
I really don’t—I really, really don’t—but I go anyway because staff morale trumps personal body-image issues: when you’re the chief exec, you can’t afford to balk at superficially innocuous activities that you’ve prescribed to your staff. So I follow Ramona out to her office, where Mhari is unpacking a big brown cardboard box full of plastic-wrapped stuff. “What,” she says, “am I expected to wear—”
“Mo? This is yours!” Ramona nudges her wheelchair towards another shipping carton. “We’ve got another four for the B-team—this is for sizing; if they don’t fit properly, I’ll send them back for adjustments before we put through the full order. You can change in the bathroom stalls.”
I bridle at that: “Excuse me, but I have an office of my own!” I pick up the box Ramona’s pointing at and head for the door. Best get the indignity over in private. The box is surprisingly heavy. “You and Mhari can meet me in my outer office in half an hour,” I tell her. “In uniform.”
I will say this for Ramona: her prototype uniform for the Transhuman Police Coordination Force resembles a police assault uniform much more than the G-cup-bustier-with-mini-skirt that I’d been dreading. It is not skintight, apart from the fireproof rip-stop leggings that go under the cargo pants and gear belt. It protects vital assets with anti-stab ceramic inserts rather than letting them all hang out on display. The gloves are nice and flexible, and the helmet is full of exceptionally expensive-looking milspec Google Glass work-alike electronics, although you can take them out and wear them strapped to your face, Borg-style. The boots are sourced from one of the suppliers where the cool Special Forces kids go to spend their pocket money when they’re unhappy with their Army-issue combat boots. I pull it on without undue difficulty, fasten everything up, and discover to my surprise that it actually makes me feel like I’m ready to kick down doors and arrest supervillains. It’s got GPS and Airwave radio and built-in cellular digital and even supports a bolt-on night vision monocular.
There’s just one problem with it, as I tell my executive team (aside from Jim, who is at ACPO headquarters for some kind of meeting today): “The HomeSec’s focus group will take one look at this and tell you to sex it up.”
Ramona’s version of the uniform is tailored to her anatomy: hers is skintight in places, but it’s the skintight fit of thick layered neoprene rather than nylon or Lycra, because it doubles as a wetsuit for a mermaid. Mhari raises an eyebrow at me. “Why do you think that’ll be a priority?” she asks.
“You know perfectly well why—” I only recognize her ironically raised eyebrow once I’ve opened my mouth, so I bull on just in case I’m misinterpreting her. “For the same reason they want a balanced team rather than a competent one. It doesn’t fit the cultural agenda they’re trying to impose. We look like police officers trialing some kind of experimental next-generation tactical uniform—”
“Because we are—” Ramona interrupts.
“Thank you! . . . But the point is, we’re supposed to look like we stepped out of a superhero movie. We don’t even have capes. Which is good, but it’s not what they ordered so it’s a lever to use against us.” I cross my arms defensively: “I can pull the Health and Safety defense but I’m not sure I can make it stick.”
“So don’t tell them just yet,” Mhari suggests. “I mean, let’s at least see if they’re workable on operational deployment? If it works in the field, they’ll have a much harder job spiking it. And”—she shrugs, sleekly statuesque, and for a moment I almost see her as some kind
of far future space marine—“I for one really don’t want to be told my uniform needs to show more bare skin for the teen gamer demographic.”
“Oka-a-y . . .” I think for a moment. “How about you try this on the B-team and get their feedback, Ramona? I’m going to wear mine around the office today and see if there are any obvious adjustments needed for chafing or wear. If we get called on active deployment, we’ll trial it. Otherwise, though, we keep it under wraps. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” Mhari echoes, nodding her approval. I feel a flash of gratitude, then annoyance: I don’t need her approval. It’s still pleasant, though. “How about I go and roust out Bee and Torch? I’ll send them up to your office, Ramona. Then we can go and have a fashion parade and scare all the analysts!”
* * *
Jim is back in the Force on Wednesday. After we tested the uniforms around the office all Tuesday, Ramona packaged them up and sent them for dry-cleaning (and in some cases, alteration or replacement)—so I invite Jim into my office to show him the video Nick recorded of our impromptu fashion show. His reaction isn’t what I expected.
“HM Inspector of Constabulary will have to approve these,” he says bluntly, “and I can tell you up front that the Uniform Committee will probably reject them, or ask for big changes.”
“Wait what?” I stop dead. “But we need—”
“Item: opaque face masks are right out, even for riot gear. Forbidden by policy, it makes it hard to identify officers from CCTV footage. Item: I see no badge numbers on display—ditto on identification. Ramona didn’t ask for the standards for uniforms, did she? Nowhere to show rank insignia, those equipment belts are all wrong, and there’s a standing directive to avoid looking like imperial stormtroopers.”
“Jim.” I try not to sigh: “I’m supposed to be running a superhero team. They’re supposed to look like they’re capable of lifting you by the throat and snarling you have failed me for the last time.” I minimize the window and stare at him. “What’s eating you?”
“Sorry: yesterday left a bad taste in my mouth.” He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge an annoying fly that’s buzzing around. “Our dog-and-pony show the other week made bigger waves than I realized, apparently. Several chiefs went home and started asking about civil contingency planning, and now they’ve got their knickers in a twist because we’re making them look as if they’re unprepared. So the first order of their day, after helping themselves to all the reports I’ve written on the subject for the past nine months, was to spread a little gloom around, which means making all this”—his sweeping hand gesture takes in the entire building—“redundant. So they’ve set up a working group on responding to extralegal paranormal activity, staffed entirely from within existing forces rather than borrowing from the Ministry of Defense.”
“Oh, for—” I bite my tongue, furious with myself for the sudden stab of relief at knowing I’m going to be off the hook if this goes through. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means there’s going to be a ministerial-level pissing match, and I for one have technically been caught offside. Which may actually work out in your favor, Mo, but only if you want to really make this fly as a police support organization rather than a stalking horse for your own department.”
“Well.” I fall silent, unable to think of anything else to say that won’t come across as bitter and cynical. After the SA’s bombshell on Monday this is exactly what I least needed. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour to discuss a deployment roster for the junior supervillain busters once they’ve finished their training period, but I’d rather just cancel and go home and hide under the bed, crying. (Not that that’s possible.) I look at Jim. “Is there any good news?”
“Oh, well, I was hoping you’d ask.” Suddenly he looks smug, as if he’s been plotting something.
“Come on. Spill it.”
“I, ah, acquired a pair of concert tickets.” Now he smiles. “For this Saturday evening. I know it’s short notice . . . but would you like to accompany me to the Last Night of the Proms?”
My jaw drops. “What. How . . . ?”
“I asked around and these two dress circle seat tickets sort of fell into my pocket.” He looks innocent, the kind of innocent you get when you collar a pickpocket.
“Fell into your pocket my ass! Um. Pardon my French.” (Do I want to go to the highlight of the Proms season with Jim? Do bears defecate in sylvanian ecosystems? as my husband once put it.)
“Yes or no?” he presses.
“I’m trying to decide between yes and hell, yes. You’re not making it easy!” I take a deep breath. “Of course I’ll go. Assuming. Um. You didn’t have to bribe or murder anyone to get the tickets, did you? There were no witnesses and you buried the bodies properly?”
The BBC Proms are not some kind of high school dance, but a century-old season of orchestral classical music concerts held every late summer around the UK—but mostly in the Royal Albert Hall in London. These days they’re the biggest classical music festival in the world, with over a hundred concerts and spin-off events in a variety of other cities.
I’ve been to plenty of concerts at the Albert Hall before, and even to Proms concerts, but haven’t had time to do so this year due to the pressure of work—and I’ve never got into the last night, the climax of the season. There are queues for tickets at the best of times and no guarantees: and you can’t buy tickets for the Last Night at all, unless you can present ticket stubs from five earlier concerts. (See “pressure of work” above.) People with tickets—standing tickets at that—often queue overnight just to make sure they can get in. Dress code: anything goes, but fancy dress is recommended. There’s a lot of patriotic flag-waving, especially at the close when they play “Rule, Britannia!” Music: aside from the regular playlist there are pieces courtesy of everyone from the Pet Shop Boys to Prokofiev by way of Benjamin Britten and Beethoven.
Oh, and the Last Night of the Proms gets broadcast live on national TV and radio, with big-screen video repeaters at satellite concerts in other cities. As I said, it’s the biggest classical music cultural event of the year in London and has been so ever since the 1890s: in terms of excitement it’s the musical equivalent of a major Apple product release. For Jim to suddenly produce a pair of reserved seats is only marginally more plausible than for him to reach into his tunic breast pocket and pull out three live rabbits and a partridge in a pear tree.
So when he reaches into the aforementioned pocket and produces two familiar-looking concert tickets, I can’t help myself: I gape at him.
“I had to pull some strings,” he says, slightly smugly, “but I didn’t have to kill anybody or even blackmail anyone, honest. Actually, what happens is that a bunch of tickets get allocated every year to various London organizations—fire service, ambulance, you get the picture. Some of the private box holders donate them, or sell them and donate the proceeds to charity.” (Many of the boxes at the Royal Albert Hall are privately owned; I gather the leasehold on a box costs anything up to half a million pounds.) “The Met regularly gets about a dozen, most of which go in the charity raffle. I owe some favors if we take these, so if you don’t want them, I need to know right now so I can give them back and apologize—”
“You didn’t raid a raffle pot?” I stare at him, eyes narrowing. “Because if you—”
“No!” He sounds shocked. “I’d never do something like that. But between you and me, the Commish’s rather more fond of the Sex Pistols and the Clash than he is of Elgar. He’s a ‘Police and Thieves’ man.” Suddenly his eyes widen: “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ever mention that in front of any journalists? It’s really not the image he wants to project. If word got out . . .”
I manage to shut my mouth. Gaping is unseemly, and anyway, if I gape any wider, I’ll dislocate my jaw. London’s top cop has a secret fondness for punk rock? The timing fits: punk is forty-someth
ing these days, and the Boss would have been a teenager, bopping to 45s and spiking his hair with soap back in the day. “His secret is safe with me,” I manage, making a fist and holding it to my heart, “it will accompany me to the grave!” Then I succumb to a quiet fit of the giggles.
“So you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to the Last Night of the Proms, using a ticket rejected by a superannuated old punk?”
I hesitate momentarily. The SA is setting me up as bait: but whoever he’s stalking wouldn’t dare do anything at such a public event, would they? Besides, I’ll have Jim at my side, and as bodyguards go, Officer Friendly is pretty hardcore. “It’s a date.”
* * *
The rest of the week passes. I do meetings: back to the Home Office on Thursday for a relatively gentle anal probing by the aliens from Professional Standards, followed by a brisk session with a pair of auditors who, while far more innocuous than our own, are still capable of putting me in a very uncomfortable spot while reviewing my budget projections. I carry on reading my homework, remember to go to the gym, and order up a supermarket food delivery. I keep procrastinating and finding reasons not to pull Jim aside for That Talk, the one about K syndrome and wards and brain scans and not overdoing the superpowers; on the other hand, we’re not punching villains right now so it’s less urgent than it might otherwise be. And as the matter’s now on the radar, it occurs to me that Jim isn’t the only one at risk, so I add to my overflowing to-do list: institute regular K syndrome medical screening for all personnel. I even find time to go out for drinks with the girls on Thursday evening, although I keep my date with Jim to myself for the time being.
The Annihilation Score Page 38
