The Radical (Unity Vol.1)

by Lynch, S. M.

  I walked further into the conurbation and saw crude extensions had been added to many of the old buildings. Nearly all the boutique shops of the past had been eradicated to make way for huge apartment blocks ‒ and grey concrete, glass and black metal obliterated the once architecturally diverse city, no longer the tourist hotspot of old.

  It was undeniable ‒ the power of the recycling industry was great. A cylindrical grey-green plant lurked furtively in the distance, rising up from the mound on which used to stand Clifford’s Tower. The rise and fall of an arm allowed vapors and steam to escape from a hatch in the roof, perhaps some 15 floors up. That was the only other sound that invaded my ears, otherwise the silence was deafening, and it made my skin crawl. It seemed unholy, somehow. Inhuman. Unedifying.

  I felt totally out of place as I wound my way through the streets. With my leathers on (jacket, boots and fingerless gloves), no doubt people could tell I had some money, while they wandered around in their worn-out canvas plimsolls, boiler suits and other assorted rags.

  I strode at full height, assessing everyone with a critical eye. I somehow felt a fraud and a phoney and was pre-empting an attack from some poor low-level worker who wanted to educate me on what the real world was like. Maybe I was doing these people an injustice by not getting on with my investigations back home.

  And so I followed the rusting signs for the Shambles, seeking its curious, overhanging buildings. After picking my way between various people sat or sleeping on the narrow side streets, I arrived at the antiquated cobbled lane and my jaw dropped. I had never seen anything like it and had not realized my aunt’s place of business was so vast. It was the last remaining Tudor-era building on the street and looked as though three or four units had been melded together somehow to create the large bridal house. Situated on the corner of an extremely narrow lane which had been renamed Eve’s Place a long time ago, the bridal house dominated the view. It was immense.

  Its medieval black beams remained and the wooden frames of the main front windows were painted a romantic off-white, surrounded by dainty fairy lights, beckoning visitors in. Meanwhile tiny windows of the numerous rooms upstairs retained their misty plate glass. The whole façade was shining, welcoming and magical, offering solace amongst the madness, just as Eve had done for me. The three-storey bridal house also still held on to its slight tilt.

  I stood outside the main window admiring a dress on display. Hanging on a lifelike mannequin, the gown was delicate and had not an inch of fabric untouched by Eve’s magic. It was pristine, glistening, and showcased high workmanship – and looked so extraordinary against the background of this mad alley of various fast-food stations, virtual cafés, express nail bars and self-service salons.

  There were people inside the shop, but a notice warned:

  “Due to bereavement, we are closed for the foreseeable future. We hope you are not too inconvenienced. Our re-opening will be announced within due course.”

  I knocked nevertheless and hoped someone inside would answer. Within a flash, Camille opened up and began to gesticulate with an air of annoyance. She pointed at the sign, barely looking me in the face.

  ‘I’m sorry, but as you can see, we are closed.’

  I knew there was something about this woman. When she called me I was suspicious, and then, even more so. Perhaps she was unable to lie because she could barely look me in the eye. She was French alright, waving her delicate hand like I was a mere trifle for her to deal with that day. It didn’t fool me. She knew who I was, no doubt.

  I was clearly not of that city, nor was she. She was packed with muscle beneath her clothes, more than me even. I could see the way her neck resembled that of an Olympian. That said something, in this backwater town. The woman was more bodyguard than assistant.

  She wore a long, grey belted cardigan, white shirt, skinny black jeans and grey suede ankle boots. Camille must have been 50 years old and yet, carried herself in such a way to make her seem younger. She was as graceful as a ballerina.

  Jetlagged and ratty, I could feel myself bursting with the impulse to shout my fucking name at her, especially with the woman already closing the door on my face.

  ‘I’m Seraph, Eve’s great-niece!’

  Camille’s pronounced cheekbones and small pointed nose came to life and she stopped in her tracks, changing appearance instantaneously.

  ‘Oh, well, of course you are! I’m Camille. I didn’t expect you so soon!’

  Course you didn’t…

  The woman’s height almost equaled my own, while her high forehead seemed to suggest a quiet intelligence. As Camille peered over her slim reading glasses, I definitely spotted something hiding behind the woman’s enquiring, unwavering stare – a vibrant spirit that seemed distinctly out of place.

  My instincts always proved right.

  The Frenchwoman exclaimed, ‘I should have known who you are, look at you, you’re so much like her! Please, come in.’

  I had to duck to enter the front door, the supporting beam was so low. The décor inside was a subtle pink and a custom-made digital picture-board covered an entire wall, shining with an abundance of customers’ constantly smiling faces. Soon a swarm of predominantly middle-aged employees dressed in black surrounded me. I feigned smiles when they asked if I wanted any tea, whether I’d had a good journey and how nice it was to finally meet someone actually related to Eve. And an American… they hadn’t had one round those parts for a while. I was soon feeling overwhelmed and claustrophobic. Through the chatter, it became clear that Eve had been idolized and worshipped by her employees, and by many who knew her.

  Their niceness unsettled me. I was accustomed to dealing with harangued professionals, nefarious characters and assorted rogues. I didn’t trust these people, this place. There was something not right. My journalistic mind knew it, though my heart was too heavy to shout these people out and demand Camille explain why the hell she was built like a featherweight boxer. She was clearly the only person I would find affinity with in this quaint environ. The rest were happy with their situations; we were amongst the few warriors trying to break the hold that Officium held over the world.

  What resistance fighters there were, we were few. Some had allegiance, while others like me fought Officium unofficially though publicly. Singularly and ruthlessly. You could separate us from the masses. Most of us were like Camille and I, built for combat. We existed amongst the masses, doing jobs, while secretly moonlighting to undermine everything Officium had corrupted. Case in point, I was only alive because I had my failsafe xGen and its hidden secrets. I decided there and then that Camille was most definitely a resistance fighter, probably a known one too looking and acting the way she did – so unashamedly free of the soulless grip they held over most inhabitants.

  The staff were eventually dismissed by Camille and I took a moment to assess the ornate, oak reception desk, another piece of furniture built for purpose in that place. So, Eve had some money. I smoothed my hands along the craftsmanship and decided Eve had very good taste. It was handmade and reminded me of my own penchant for carpentry. However, a large chenille sofa opposite screamed out for my weary body to sink into it and I moaned as my limbs took succor, finally.

  ‘Are you a member of UNITY?’ I cut to the chase.

  Camille didn’t flinch while she poured tea into pink Wedgwood china, though she didn’t deny my accusation either. I finally allowed myself to take a breath, knowing I was with friends. She clearly represented the resistance movement in some capacity.

  ‘I am Camille Honoré, most trusted amongst your aunt’s people. We will get to the particulars in due course.’

  ‘In due course? That your fuckin’ phrase of the day?’ I smirked, but it didn’t entirely sit well with her. The woman had an immense air of propriety.

  Camille glanced in my direction and failed to stop the smile twitching her lips. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders, bypassing my offense.

  ‘It is truly as if she is here, right now. I use
d to hate the way she cursed nonstop, too. No amount of berating could prevent her.’

  Camille looked a little sad and I softened. ‘I apologize for my potty mouth, I’m sorry if I seem pissed, but I traveled coach, y’know? I’m oxygen-starved, exhausted, surviving on minutes’ sleep. Plus, she is dead. I need answers.’

  My index finger drilled into my own knee as I tried to figure out what was bothering me about this place.

  ‘Interrogation is lost on me, Seraph,’ Camille retaliated, barely enunciating the vowels of my name. She sipped while I guzzled. I needed coffee not watery swamp piss. I felt dog rough.

  ‘How much did she charge for dresses? I mean ‒ I don’t get it. This place must be worth an absolute fortune.’

  Camille grinned but kept quiet. I stared her down ‒ she made no move to correct or confirm my suspicions.

  All I knew was that nobody got rich unless they joined the enemy.

  She took a deep breath and folded her arms. There was definitely a chill in the air then.

  ‘My only concern right now is saying goodbye to Eve. The funeral will take place the day after tomorrow, it was confirmed earlier. Then hopefully everyone here will find out where their livelihoods stand ‒ we anxiously await the will.’

  I couldn’t help but notice Camille continually steal glances out of the window. She was more than a little nervy. She had been since the moment I arrived.

  ‘I never even thought… I just felt I had to come here, to say goodbye, but also to be here for her. Formalities didn’t even cross my mind. I mean, shit. I’m her only relative… but people give what money they have to conservation projects these days!’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable… and you know, if you’d like to see her, I can arrange…’ to see her body…? My heart sank.

  Camille read my fragile disposition without making me feel weaker. We both knew Eve’s passing had hit me hardest. Camille had the advantage of having spent time with her, I had not.

  I had seen one too many dead bodies in my lifetime already and so I declined, ‘No, no, I don’t need to see her.’

  ‘I really wish I could give you some time Seraph, but I’ve got a lot to attend to.’

  ‘Say no more Camille, I’ll get a hotel and come back tomorrow?’

  After having a quick look around the vast dressing rooms at the back, in a bid to amuse my curiosity, I was instructed by Camille on where to find a place to stay and to call her if I needed anything.

  CHAPTER 4

  A crummy Mercy Inn in York was where I found myself. The damn eyesore was where Cedars Court used to stand. I swiped my U-Card at the entrance and made my way straight upstairs to a room that the computer told me was available and had a queen bed and en suite. Despite the extras, the room was petite. It had everything that was necessary, but limited space meant limited luxury. From the bed linen to the walls, and the carpets to the curtains, everything was white with an artless navy stripe running through. The bed had about six inches of space all the way around and the bathroom just about housed a lavatory – but I would be required to stand over that while showering. I had been in worse, or less, like a sidewalk. At least Mercy Inns had self-cleaning filtration systems and a Delta6 maid service. The worst simply came with a box of recyclable bedding you had to make up yourself.

  After dumping my bag on the floor, I fell to the bed and wondered, what the hell am I doing here? Yes, Eve was dead, so what could I do for her now she was gone? I could have been back home still, tying up some more loose ends that would no doubt lead nowhere and into nothing…

  I had to admit that in actual fact Eve had saved me from a fate worse than death. I was so close to nailing this dirty senator with his despicable liking for hooker bashing. It would be just my luck however that he would wind up mincemeat before I got chance to interrogate him. That would be another fail and an end to another round of meaningless, pointless attempts to do something worthwhile. I had the constant urge to keep going, plow on and see if one day, just one day, some tiny bit of luck came my way. Maybe I would nail their asses to the wall with something that nobody was expecting. People would finally rise up against them and fight back. Oh, who was I kidding? Officium were entrenched in every level of society.

  I guess I acted on impulse, boarded a plane without thinking and then found myself stuck in that detestable chain hotel. I scrubbed my hands over my cheeks and smelt a residue on my palms which was truly foul. I sniffed my armpit and it stank. Goddam woman you are a walking cesspit. A vain part of me wondered whether Camille had picked up on my stench earlier. Maybe her sketchy behavior was due to the fact she was struggling to entertain the notion that I was indeed Eve’s niece, not some vagabond purporting to be her. If I had known one thing about my aunt, she was always well presented and neat. Not the type to resort to street dwelling, like me. She had been quite the lady and as I pictured her face, I felt her spirit surround me and knew she hadn’t quite left me yet.

  What it was about Eve, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I’d only met her a couple of times. All I knew was that after my folks were gone, she was there. Calling me up to check I was okay. Sending fruit baskets and other assorted goods that probably cost her a fortune to have delivered.

  My parents Vivienne and Hamish Maddon were heart surgeons, clinical leads at Mount Sinai. I was an only child. They were a presence in my life but there was always something missing, something fundamental. They worked, they were straitlaced and extremely predictable. I always thought them the same as all the other drones, until one day…

  Past

  I’d not long been working for the Chronicle as a crime reporter when the call came. Aaron King, an elderly hulk of a man who was a close friend of my parents, turned up at my lowly junior writer’s desk. King was a man of few words, so I knew immediately that something was wrong.

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you… I’m so sorry Seraph. I’m just going to come out with it… your parents… they are dead. Some rotten, fuckin’ bank robber was being pursued by the cops when he hit them, your mom and dad. Killed instantly. They… didn’t suffer, not at all. The bastard left his stolen vehicle on Madison Avenue and made his escape. I’m s-so sorry.’

  Aaron had a tear in his eye. I had been unfeeling that day until it sank in. No more calls from Mom begging me to be more careful on the streets, no more erroneous deposits in my bank account from Dad, I assumed, helping to tide me over. Their guardianship of me, which had never been heartfelt but was always present, had been ripped away. I never told Dad I loved him for loving my mother, though never openly displaying it. The way he looked at her was proof enough of that. I never told Mom that she was beautiful inside and out, though she worked too damn hard and had passed that somewhat inescapable facet onto me.

  The man waited for a reply, but I couldn’t give one. I actually did give a shit about my folks, after all. The bile in my throat proved it, as did my jaw, which had become set in anguish and disdain.

  ‘Seraph, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Where are they?’ I managed calmly.

  ‘Mount Sinai morgue. I can come with you if you want.’

  I shook my head and felt lucid, replying, ‘No, I’ll be okay. Who was there at the scene? I mean which officer? I want to speak with them.’

  ‘Bainbridge, he was going to come here, but I decided it might be better for you to hear it from me.’

  ‘Dr King, I’d like you to go now please.’

  ‘I’m here if you need me Seraph,’ he simply said, before he turned and sloped off.

  I had lived such a privileged life, had been given so many opportunities, and yet there had always been something missing: their love. They had cared so much, yet, I knew it wasn’t quite the love I needed. They kept me at arm’s length.

  Mom and Dad – dead. I felt an imbecile, having previously assured myself that I was untouchable, that nothing bad ever happened to me because mine was a sphere I had control over. I had always hated predictability, but suddenly
wanted it back.

  I went to see their lifeless bodies at the morgue and felt absolutely nothing. There was no trace of their souls left behind, no sweet smiles painting their faces as if they had blissfully passed on in sleep, like they should have done. There was only two people laid side by side, gone together to a better place, never having been forced to survive separately. There was some consolation in that, I comforted myself.

  I wished someone had told a 25-year-old woman who had lost both her parents how to feel, because I didn’t have a clue. I had never dealt with the bereavement, because I never knew who those people were that brought me into the world. They had spent so much time seemingly occupied by their work that I never got to know them properly.

  Even at a young age, I knew there were issues, most too raw to bring to the fore. They were devoted to each other and me but at times they were cold and restrained, always calculated in their communication. Before moving to New York, they had obviously seen and done things back home in Britain that they never felt able to talk about. Their fragile hearts were constantly on edge, yet always maintaining perfect balance, presumably because nothing could be said in fear of tipping the scales, ruining their existence. As long as they kept going, they were okay.

  Then… I found out they were different people altogether, when weeks after their death… I discovered the shocking truth…

  Francesca’s frizzy blonde hair spiked with the realization that she had been tactless in choosing me for the job, but she said there was no-one better. In her 20-cigarettes-a-day, Brisbane accent, she explained, ‘I thought nothing of it when it came in… but then I realized the name rang a bell. This fella, Stephan Dulwich, was the father of that British virologist Mara Dulwich. Don’t know what he was doing in New York but as he left his suite at the Plaza early this morning, he seemed to step right out in front of a speeding delivery truck. The driver abandoned the wreck, which had no plates or identity markings. If you want me to pass this on to someone else darl, I can… but nobody works like you do.’