Fiorinda had been in Lambeth, having an unpoisoned drink and a nice spliff among friends, when her baby went over the edge. She spent the first thirty six hours after the Berkeley Square incident looking calm for the cameras, saying things as anodyne as the situation would bear (!), and cursing herself furiously for leaving them to cope with the suits alone. Sage had been okay, just dumb misery, but she had fucking known that Ax had about a quarter of a hair-trigger left before he snapped.
She knew they hadn’t been caught. She wouldn’t have believed anything the police told her, in their solemn voices of awed dismay, but she trusted her instincts. She set certain arrangements in motion, severed herself from contact with the Few, and waited, with a strange feeling of lightness—as if something terrible had been averted; not committed. On the second morning she went to Brixton market, with Doug for a bodyguard, and while she was buying vegetables a woman shrouded from head to toe in black silk slipped a message into her hand.
That afternoon she was at Battersea Arts Centre, giving her rock ‘master class’, as if nothing was wrong. The group comprised fourteen youngsters and three mature students. Six were in b-loc. The rest, including the boy in the wheelchair, and the autistic girl with her Mentor Carer, were real South Londoners. Fiorinda sat on the small stage and showed them how she would take a phrase (from ‘Stonecold’), and make it the basis of a solo. You have left the…babies stone cold. Those five notes, that’s plenty, you’re using the pentatonic scale (sorry, I’ll explain these terms again if you need), you make it fly, but you don’t forget where you began—’
She watched herself in her monitor, foot on a rest, dark red curls falling round her face, her left hand in close up, the dancing gleam of her gold-braided ring as she broke into demonstration. The viewpoint pulled out, her fingers leaping up and down the neck of the old Martin. In the other half of her split screen, behind the students, she could see the armed police at the back of the hall; engrossed. Maybe she ought to suggest they bring guitars… Someone paged her. She looked to the side, the music dying, and tugged off her headset. One of the Centre staff had come quietly to the wings. She put the guitar down.
‘Excuse me.’
In scuffed, utilitarian darkness she was handed a radiophone, and told that someone was waiting for her at the back entrance; she spoke to Doug Hutton. The Battersea Arts Centre person looked scared to death: having handed the phone, she said nothing more. Fiorinda didn’t say much either; just asked Doug could he wait a minute or two. Doug said he could, just about.
She returned to the stage and looked out at her audience; sorry, class. Twenty six of them, counting the police: seen worse. What happened to the proverbial dog? Curious, respectful eyes all fixed on her, her students awed and dismayed by the turn of events. Except for Ira, the autistic girl, who didn’t know anything had happened. ‘I want to do something different for a moment,’ said Fiorinda, with a calm little grin. ‘And then I’m going to take a short break.’
She stood, hands by her sides, and sang, pure and strong.
As sweet Polly Oliver
Lay musing in bed
A sudden strange fancy
Came into her head
Nor father nor mother
Shall make me false prove
I’ll go for a soldier
And follow my love…
And so goodbye, Utopia. She zipped up the Martin and shrugged it onto her shoulders; collected her tapestry bag, another guitar case and a flat oblong satchel which held Sage’s visionboard. Thus laden, she walked off. The police didn’t make a move to stop her: Doug was waiting just out of sight.
They met Ax and Sage in a caravan-café on a layby on the old A24. The fugitives had shed their best suits. They were dressed inconspicuously, and wearing anonymous-looking digital head-masks. There were no other customers. They stood up as Fiorinda came in: the masks vanished. She had that feeling of lightness, a lifting of something dreadful, as she walked up and took their hands.
‘I’ve done some of the emergency things, not the most spectacular ones. Lucy’s out of the country, as Doug will have told you; Hobart’s Funnies are dispersed. Well, d’you think you killed him?’ She had no reliable information on Jack Vries’ status. Possibly he was dead, or in a coma. Possibly he was fine, and lying low for his own protection
‘I don’t know,’ said Ax. ‘But I know I broke his neck.’
Fiorinda nodded, with satisfaction. She hugged him, and his head went down against her shoulder, briefly. Sage’s blue eyes were saying everything’s all right.
That night they were on Shoreham Beach, the long shingle bank that lies alongside Shoreham harbour on the coast of Sussex. It had been a fashionable seaside address, but was falling into dereliction from fuel starvation. They were in the kitchen of a rambling stucco pad, once the home of a music biz demi-god, a friend of Allie Marlowe’s. The demi-god lived in New Zealand now (sensible man). A slight hitch had arisen. They couldn’t sail, the wind and tide were contrary. The little boat that would take them out to the bigger boat in the Channel needed liquid marine fuel, a petrol-substitute that was strictly controlled and involved getting the right documents stamped. This problem had been fixed, the juice was on its way. It was about two am. The kitchen had a lot of glass around the walls, but the blinds were tightly closed. The light was electric, one white fluorescent tube.
Doug was leaving with them. Given his role in the Reich, and his part in this operation, he couldn’t stay behind. He was a solitary fellow, serial monogamist. He’d had a different steady girlfriend every year or so since they’d known him; had no children that he was aware of; no other ties. He’d just revealed the contents of an extra suitcase he’d been jealously lugging around. It lay open on the demi-god’s kitchen table, displaying a cache of firearms and ammunition. A classic .38 automatic pistol, a big spidery modern Mauser. A small Dutch plastic automatic, simple in use and okay for a lady’s hands. Then in the second layer of the chocolate box the heavier, more esoteric items. ‘I know my new career as a pacifist hasn’t had a very auspicious beginning,’ began Ax. ‘But Doug—’
‘I’m with Ax,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I don’t know how, I’ve never tried, so it would be stupid for me to carry a firearm around.’
‘You don’t have to know anything, Fio. It’s just point and squeeze.’ Doug looked at Sage, hoping for support. ‘Tell her, Sage.’
Sage shook his head, smiling.
‘I’m only saying,’ pleaded Doug. ‘I’m only saying, in case of emergencies—’
His radiophone, lying where they could all see it, began to flash. They’d left a camera trap on the single road onto the beach. There were vehicles approaching, and no chance it was anything but trouble. Time to get out. No exit except by sea, have to do without the engine. Before they could move they all heard, above the wild sound of the wind, a rush of many footsteps. Lights shot through the blinds. They were surrounded. Some of the federales must have come out by boat, and must have already captured the landing stage.
It turned out, later, that it was Faud Hassim who’d betrayed them. Maybe his feelings had been hurt, because unlike the Few he hadn’t been on Ax’s need to know list about Lavoisier. Maybe he’d been upset by the way Ax schmoozed with the bad guys after the debate. Maybe he’d decided his responsibility was to the CCM, and it would be dangerous and useless to protect the Triumvirate any further. Anyway, he’d known more than he should have known, and he’d ratted on them.
The four people looked at each other. For a moment all of them, even Fiorinda, felt that a last stand, Ned Kelly shoot out was an excellent idea. Out in a blaze of glory, fuck it, end it, why not? The moment passed. Ax sighed. ‘You’d better shut that lot and try to think of somewhere to hide it, Doug. We’ll have to go quietly.’
They thought they would be taken back to London. But they weren’t.
PART TWO
SIX
Insanity
The deputation came at evening, to the suite of rooms designated f
or the Triumvirate. Lord Mursal and Lady Anne Moonshadow were accompanied by Mairead Culper of Glastonbury Council, Boris Anathaswamy, the fusion scientist from Culham (his presence alarmed the three more than anything that had happened yet); and Faud Hassim. The humbled rockstars were grubby and dishevelled, the visitors were soberly and formally dressed, and backed by an entourage: armed security, and black-and white Wallingham servants, no doubt also armed.
It was a reprise of their first nightmare initiation into State Affairs, years ago, after the Hyde Park Massacre. Except that they were alone, and except for the horrible twist implied by that “Neurobomb Expert”.
They need not have been alone. They’d already been given the opportunity to chose companions for their detention, or ritual exclusion, or whatever this was—the situation was still raw and uncertain. They had reviewed the list of approved names, and declined the offer. They didn’t know what had happened to Doug, and this preyed on them. He’d been their last responsibility, and they’d screwed him up.
Somewhere outside a midsummer day was drawing to its close. Bees were droning as they left the flowers of the lime trees by the croquet lawn. The herbs in the Elizabethan Knot Garden were shedding spice and astringency into the sun-soaked air. In this dank room, deep inside the fortress, there was no natural light. The walls were hung from ceiling to floor in dark blue, with a woven pattern of the crescent moon and stars; the same pattern was repeated on a splendid, though worn, Vorsey carpet. The windows behind the draperies were shuttered and locked.
They hadn’t seen daylight since they were on the road to Shoreham. It seemed likely, right now, that they would never see it again.
Greg Mursal ought to be happy. He had the Triumvirate where he’d wanted them: isolated and under his control, in the Nouveau Royal Palace: but he seemed dissatisfied. Maybe it was because the Moon and Stars wasn’t one of the showcase suites: it had clearly been hastily prepared, and there were signs of dust and neglect.
Greetings were exchanged. The deputation treated President Ax with a sorrowful, knowing deference that set Fiorinda’s nerves crisping. She sat in a dark blue armchair, and idly counted the woven stars (though a whisper of intuition told her she ought to save this small pleasure). They were told that Jack Vries was not dead but he might not live; there were no further details for the moment. As to Mr Preston’s request for a personal call to President Fred Eiffrich—
Sometimes you have to lay that useless high card down. Ax’s friends would have been reasonably safe if he’d got away across the Channel. They were in grave danger now. Having no other recourse, he’d had to try an appeal to the Leader of the Free World—
‘We’ve spoken to Mr McCall, but I’m afraid we can’t reach the President.’
Ax frowned. ‘McCall?’ He did not know the name. He had hoped they’d get to Hana Rosen, Fred’s redoubtable Chief of Staff.
Greg nodded, exuding dark, suppressed satisfaction. ‘That’s right. Denton McCall, acting Secretary of State. Nobody you would know, Ax. Apparently there’s been some palace politics going on behind the screens, a little bit of a reshuffle at the top in Washington, we’re getting the real picture now. Nothing for you three to worry about.’
‘I see,’ said Ax.
The room, shrouded in midnight stars, rang with the silence of a shock that you can’t hide. So it was true: Fred was gone. The forces of unreason had dispensed with electoral process. What about his niece, Kathryn Adams? What about Harry Lopez, the golden boy with the hot White House connections? What’s happened to them all? It was as if they’d been told of a shipwreck, far off on black icebound seas. Did the unsinkable, beautiful monster really go down this time? Did our friends get to the lifeboats?
Boris Anathaswamy cleared his throat.
‘We’d better proceed to the matter in hand,’ said Mursal. ‘The matter in hand… Well, I don’t have my Wiccan Consultant, but Boris is standing in, as our chief neurophysicist. We’re lucky to have an authority on call.’
Fiorinda’s wandering attention was caught. She looked straight at Boris, with a sudden, warm and dazzling smile. The scientist flinched, and cleared his throat again. His eyes cast a flicker of longing at the double doors of the room. Guards stared back: no escape there.
‘Ahm, the condition is incurable.’
‘Condition?’ snapped Sage. ‘What condition?’
‘Commonly known as lycanthropy, the condition is a, not strictly a regression, but a, resurgence of the primitive, best recorded in Europe in the berserkers, naked outlaws, of Scandinavia. Men who are recognised as having become rabid animals; neurological outcasts. Physical effects that first seem signs of neglected grooming, as in overgrown nails and hair, are the heralds of actual transformation. Often periodic and linked to the lunar cycle, scientifically proven to trigger neuroactive change. We also see cases like the Maréchal de Letz, public fame hiding secret witchcraft: where self-control is unimpaired and supports a façade of normalcy for years. Compare the psychology of traumatised combat veterans, African child soldiers. Young males thrust suddenly into situations of extreme violence: supernatural heroism and berserker feats followed by sociopathy, psychosis, moral and mental degeneration. Recent Crisis in Europe has brought a surge of well-attested supernatural cases. Finally, uncontrollable fugue indicates the condition has become irreversible. Severe damage will be found to the amyglyda, seat of emotional roots of humanity, and typically more than 25% loss of brainstem tissue—’
‘Thanks, Boris. We remember Jack’s presentation.’
Sage cut the babbling off: it was a kindness. Anathaswamy might have thought he could do this, but he wasn’t coping. Sweat stood in drops on his blood-drained face.
‘But yer neuro isn’t up to yer physics, mate. Lose a quarter of the brainstem, you wouldn’t get a berserker, you’d get a stroke victim struggling to breathe unaided—’
‘Nevertheless, we are certain that this is lycanthropy,’ said Lady Moonshadow, with a superior smile. ‘Dr Anathaswamy’s diagnosis will be borne out by an unbiased neurological scan, which can easily be arranged.’
In a brief interview, shortly after the arrest, Greg Mursal had revealed to Ax the true nature of his relationship with Lady Anne: that she was his ritual consort, and they were joint heads of a certain, very low profile, élite Pagan community of worship—the branch of Paganism to which anyone who was anyone in government had to belong. Did that make Lord Greg and Lady Annd leaders of both Church and State?
Probably.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Ax, and the three waited for more, calmly accepting the news that they were beyond all legal process, without sharing a glance. Their air of being in telepathic accord disconcerted the deputation a little, making for pauses and hesitations: but it wasn’t going to deflect the leaders, or their puppets, from their script.
‘The situation is this,’ began Faud Hassim, huskily, eyes on the Moon and Stars carpet. ‘Mr Preston, is, is not guilty of assault, attempted murder, nor manslaughter. Not guilty, because he is very, very sick, he is becoming like a ravening animal—’
‘He is guilty of involuntary witchcraft,’ cut in Mairead.
‘The penalty is death,’ said Lady Anne. ‘We offer a painless assisted suicide by lethal injection. If preferred, should Ax wish, or should his wise partners so advise him, we can supply expiatory rites, in the manner of his death, to restore his human nature. Naturally, he is expelled from the Countercultural Movement. On his death, by either means, the Movement will be freed from the taint of association. There will be no further repercussions.’
Ah, so that was it. Nicely done, Faz. If you can trust them.
‘I’m offered the death penalty. What happens to my partners?’
The old lady shook her head. ‘That’s not for you to know, Mr Preston.’
‘No ugly publicity,’ Greg moved in to close the sale, eager and blunt. ‘No more show trials, eh? It’d be quiet and dignified, very private. Close family with you, if you like.’
>
The deputation waited, gazing at these fallen idols. What did they see? Two worn, unshaven men, in their mid thirties: both tall, one a gangling blue-eyed giant. Both looking older than their years. A young woman with tangled corkscrew curls, thickly marked brows, a stubborn jaw. Grubby and unremarkable, how on earth did they survive in power for so long?
Ax sighed, and said something, evenly and almost cheerfully. Nobody on the PM’s side recognised the language: for a revealing moment they all looked very scared.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only Greek. I said, “the appropriate penalty would be to pay me a stipend for the rest of my life, to support me in the criticism of individual citizens of Athens…” It’s what Socrates suggested to his judges, in the blasphemy trial, 399 BCE. Death was the proposed sentence then, too.’
‘He’ll be right,’ Sage assured the suits, helpfully. ‘Check it out. He knows his Classics. He had a stack of Ancient Greek and Latin stuff on his chip, the one the Mexican kidnappers took out of his head. If you have one of those implants for a while, a lot of data gets transferred to the grey matter.’
‘The Athenian judges expected you to bid for your punishment,’ supplied Fiorinda. ‘To grovel, and show a proper feeling. Socrates made them an offer, instead.’
‘Will you two please stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ Ax smiled at the Prime Minister. ‘Well Greg, in English, that’s my suggestion and it’s a good one. What do you say?’
They didn’t say anything.
Fiorinda glanced once from Greg to Lady Moonshadow, her eyes grey stones, the pupils drilled to points (a strange response to this dim light): and resumed counting stars. The Zen Self champion, long legs folded in a spiky half-lotus, in a dark blue armchair, tipped his head back to gaze at the ceiling.
Lady Moonshadow rose. ‘We shall of course give you time to think it over.’
The visitors departed, with their guards. The three stayed exactly where they were, wondering if that was all. Very shortly they heard returning footsteps. Faud Hassim darted into the room and stood with his back to the doors, wild-eyed.
Band of Gypsys Page 18
