Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  “Sorry,” she says. “You really were about to do yourself in, but.”

  Sitting on his throne of brick and dust, Mark wipes his nose and puts one hand on his temple, grimacing.

  “My head, sweet jesus -”

  “Catch,” she laughs, and throws him the bottle of wine. Mark snatches it out of the air and, with a tired look, unscrews the top and raises it to his lips.

  “Thanks,” he mutters, tipping the bottleneck towards her in a toast.

  “Welcome,” she says, and comes up to sit on the couch near him, crossing her legs like a monk and clasping her hands together. “Seriously but man, have you had anything to drink today?”

  “This is my first,” he says, reluctantly meeting her eyes.

  “Mark,” she sighs. “You're going to kill yourself at this rate.”

  “If I can't do it sober, I can't really do it. What's the point?”

  She narrows her eyes. “You speak more sense when you're pished.”

  “I don't want to be a bloody alcoholic.”

  “You aren't!” she laughs. “You have to drink, or you'll die. Using your strength burns up power, and hey, man, I know it sucks. But superman gets his power from the sun, right? Well, your sun comes in a bottle and smells like whiskey.”

  “It is whiskey.”

  “Well start drinking beer then. Or wine, wine is nice.”

  “This from a girl who drinks fluorescent blue shit at the weekends.”

  She rolls her eyes and cranes her neck, looking at the damage to the couch.

  She smiles to herself. “I could probably fix this.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I'm getting right good at this stuff.”

  “Well, you can't fix it if I'm still in the wall.”

  “Yeah about that: are you going to sit in the wall all night or do you need a hand out?”

  “Give me a hand out, I think I've broke my back.”

  “See?” she says as she stands up and offers him a hand. “Wouldn't have happened if you were drunk. You're bloody invincible when you're drunk.”

  “If I was drunk I would probably have fallen into the wall anyway.”

  She pulls him up and he stumbles forward with her, clasping her shoulder for balance. The two rest their hands on each other for a moment, and she gives him a concerned frown.

  “You ok?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs, and lets go of her. “Why?”

  “Well, like,” she follows him as he heads for his room, leaning on the door-frame, “the whole getting sober thing, I'd normally be right behind you. But you're risking your life doing it – you know you can tell me if something's up?”

  “Nothing's up, Stace,” he turns and smiles, and then opens the door to his room.

  Before he can close it, there's a hollow knocking sound throughout the flat, as though somebody is chapping a door made of glass.

  “Is that -” begins Stacy.

  “Window?” Mark frowns and pushes past her, back into the living room.

  He pulls the only window up, opening it enough to lean out and look around in confusion.

  “I swear I heard something hit this – maybe a bird or -”

  “Down here, mate.”

  Mark looks down to where a man's voice is coming from, and looks right into the eyes of an old friend.

  “Trespasser?”

  Trespasser One is hanging from a stone ledge in a loose overcoat, his black combat armour catching the low light from the flat. In the late evening murk of Glasgow's city centre, he's little more than a silhouette rippling in the wind.

  “Good to see you too Mark,” he smiles, his teeth bright white in the darkness. “Fancy giving me a hand up?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I'll tell you when I'm not dangling by my fingertips,” says the Trespasser, and pulls himself up with one hand – with the other, he reaches for Mark.

  Shrugging, Mark grabs him. With a grunt, he starts to pull him up. As Mark lifts him closer to the warm light spilling from the window, the Trespasser's features are lit up and Mark sees the scarred half of his face.

  With a hiss of strained breath, Mark pulls him through and the two tumble into the living room.

  “Tony,” shouts Stacy, clapping her hands. “Why are you here -” her face flattens. “Oh god, why are you here? Who's dead?”

  “Four people -”

  “What?”

  “Oh, sorry, nobody you know,” laughs the Trespasser, brushing himself off and getting to his feet. He cracks his neck and massages his aching arms. “Nobody, this is a social call if anything. Four people are dead though.”

  Mark ruffles his own hair. “And what's wrong with the front door?”

  The Trespasser takes off his coat and drops it on the couch, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa as the two civilians eye him. He gets his breath back and the humour leaves his face.

  “Front door is being watched,” he says. “Had to come in the back door.”

  Stacy frowns. “Tony, you are the only guy who thinks flats have a back door. And it's Agency troops watching our doors, why do you have to sneak past them?”

  Mark waves her away. “Stace, shush. Trespasser, what's up?”

  He gets his breath and looks them in the eye.

  “You guys need to come with me.”

  Mark glances at Stacy. “Are we in danger?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why? What's happened?”

  The Trespasser lowers his head and stares at them both. “Someone is killing people with powers.”

  “But aren't we the only people with powers?”

  “The Destroyer split when you killed it, right? Six fires, six powered people. We've got four bodies, that leaves two – and the evidence says that it's someone with powers doing the killing.”

  “Shit. So what, are the Agency taking us somewhere safe?”

  “The Agency are pretending it's not happening. That's why I quit and came to get you myself.”

  Stacy puts her hand to her mouth. “You quit?”

  “You never really quit the Agency,” laughs the Trespasser, “but yeah. Command is afraid that if the Agency tries to protect you, we'll give the game away; in case – well, you know.”

  “In case what?” asks Stacy.

  “In case it's the King.”

  Silence falls, and Mark flops back onto the sofa, groaning. “The King.”

  “Last time people got powers, he tried to control you.”

  “I know,” sighs Mark. “I was there.”

  “Maybe this time he managed to do it. Maybe he's killing those who won't join him.”

  “Ah hell,” whispers Stacy. She sits down and puts a hand on Mark's shoulder.

  Mark runs his fingers over his eyes. “I really, really hoped that he'd died when the Destroyer – well -”

  “I know”, says Trespasser One. “Maybe he did, but we can't be too careful. You know how much he'd like to see you dead. The Agency has had his moles in it before without us realising – he'd be able to get your whereabouts, if he had the means.”

  “Not just me,” says Mark. “What about Jamie?”

  “I've already got him. He's actually in the field right now, chasing up a lead. Just you guys left, everybody else is at a safehouse. What do you say?”

  Stacy folds her arms, looking worried. “Do we have time to pack?”

  “Not really.”

  “You said the front door was being watched?”

  He nods.

  Mark scratches his bearded chin. “And we don't want them knowing that we're leaving? So how do we -”

  “The window.”

  Stacy steps back. “Oh no, come on -”

  Trespasser One shrugs. “You've both done much worse than climb out a window.”

  “We're six storeys up,” says Mark.

  “Two months ago, you leapt out a helicopter and punched an alien made of hatred, son.”

  Mark looks at Stacy, and she gives him a si
lent nod.

  “Ok, let's go. Lead the way. You said everyone was already there except for Jamie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where's he?”

  “Chasing up our lead.”

  Jamie is sitting on a low wall in a long, silent street, shoulders hunched to keep the misty rain off. It comes in waves with the wind, like swarms of tiny birds, turning the world a dark blue. There's a single light across the road, coming from a crack in some curtains.

  He's wearing a long winter coat with a scarf over his mouth and a hood pulled over his head, leaving only his dark-ringed eyes staring through the haze. The house he's focused on was once lived in, like a lot of Glasgow; the weeds reclaiming the driveway tell him that it's been left empty for a while.

  Two figures approach from his left; a short one with a swagger who hops from foot to foot as he walks, like a young deer. The other is a taller, bulkier woman who walks as though her feet are giving her trouble, with a slight hobble.

  Jamie smiles as they sit on either side of him, groaning at the dampness of the wall as it soaks through their trousers.

  “Lads,” he nods as they shuffle in.

  “I'm no lad,” says Cathy.

  Gary shrugs. “We're your backup. Tony called us, said you had something?”

  “I visited an old colleague of mine, looking for leads. Apparently some guys dragged him into this building two days back, beat the shit out of him, and then turned him loose again.”

  Cathy makes a curious humming sound. “What, just for fun?”

  “No, they were making an example of him. Establishing a new order, as it were. He said they had Birmingham accents, really distinct ones.”

  “So what are they doing in Glasgow?”

  “I don't know Cathy,” sighs Gary, rolling his eyes. “What could criminals from across the country possibly be doing in a city filled with poor, vulnerable people?”

  Jamie nods. “Not to mention the power vacuum that the King's supposed disappearance has created.”

  “Supposed?”

  “He's not gone.”

  “Surely he'd eliminate these newcomers if he wasn't.”

  “That's the thing, Gary,” says Jamie, turning to look at him. “I think it's him that brought them here.”

  Cathy folds her arms, trying to keep her hands warm in her elbow crease.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The guy they beat up – he was a low level informant, a watcher for the King back in the day. They gave him a doing-over and set him loose, no explanation or cause.”

  “So?”

  “They knew he'd tell someone. Namely, all his pals. Now Glasgow knows they're here. Establishing a reputation, as it were. The way I hear it, there's people coming here from across the entire country – a shit load from London, in particular.”

  “None of that fits the King's ideals, though,” says Cathy, her voice a murmur in the whispering rain. “He was a Glasgow man, through and through.”

  “Is, Cathy,” Jamie corrects her. “He's not gone.”

  “So what's in the house you're staring at?” asks Gary. “You look like a serial killer, man.”

  “The crowd from Birmingham, apparently.”

  “Only house with a light on in the whole street,” says Cathy, looking up and down the road.

  “Yeah, the street over got totally wiped out by the Destroyer. Everyone here left, more or less.”

  “Least nobody's homeless anymore,” says Gary. “There's enough houses for everyone.”

  Cathy scowls at him.

  “Right guys,” says Jamie before she can scold him. “We're going to knock on the door and if I hear a brummie accent, we storm the place and find out what the hell they're doing here. You guys wearing your armour?”

  They nod, and when he looks closely Jamie can see the black tint of Trespasser armour under their heavy coats, at the edges of their sleeves where their gloves start.

  “Good,” he says. “Any questions before we go?”

  “One,” says Cathy. “Should I be using this tazer if I'm soaking wet from the rain?”

  “It won't shock you, Cath,” sighs Jamie.

  “Hey,” says Gary, “that's a legitimate concern. What if one of us gets it by accident -”

  “The shock travels down the wires guys, come on, Tony explained all of this. Are we ready?”

  They murmur their agreement, and Jamie puts a single earphone under his hood, looping it around his ear before plugging it in. Within the inner breast pocket of his jacket sits his phone, already in a call that has lasted over two hours. He lifts his jacket, bringing the pocket close to his mouth.

  “Chloe, you there sweetheart?”

  Her voice comes back distant and crackled, as though she's sitting beside a radio.

  “Loud and clear.”

  “I asked if you were there, not if you could hear me.”

  She laughs. “Whatever, yeah, I've got you. You guys talk some shite by the way. Going in?”

  “Going in.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always am.”

  “Oh, and Jamie? Tony got Mark and Stacy – they're fine, heading to the safehouse as we speak.”

  Jamie grins in the darkness. “Then I'll see them when I'm back. He owes me a drink.”

  “See you soon. Good luck.”

  When the off-white door to the house is opened, it's a scowling, bald man in a leather jacket that stares back at them. Cathy vanishes and steps through him, drifting away through the house like a breeze. The doorman looks at Jamie and Gary, silhouettes in the rain with their heavy coats and hidden faces, and grunts.

  “Yeah?”

  Unmistakable accent. Jamie looks at Gary, turning his entire body as he does so, and the two nod to each other. Jamie clears his throat.

  “I'd like to talk to the man in charge.”

  Sneering, the bald man shrugs. “Who are you then?”

  “We're local businessmen,” says Gary. “With an interest in your operation.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He slams the door, and twists three separate locks.

  The doorman mutters to himself and steps away from the door. Of course, he doesn't know that Jamie stepped out of the time-stream before the door closed and let him and Gary in.

  When the doorman turns around in the low light, Jamie is smiling at him. His heart nearly stops with fright, and that's when Jamie cracks a lead pipe over his face. In silence, he crumples into Gary's waiting arms, and together they set him down on the floor with a bloodied scowl on his face, as though he's having a bad dream.

  “Well, we tried,” says Jamie. “Definitely the right accent.”

  “Where's Cathy?” hisses Gary.

  “I've no idea. Away being invisible somewhere, she'll be nearby if we need her.”

  Jamie begins to rifle through the man's pocket, pulling out a wallet and flicking through it.

  “What are you doing? Stealing?”

  “We run on a shoestring budget, Gary,” says Jamie, pocketing a wad of bills. “This is dinner for all of us for the next week. Not to mention we'll have to buy Mark's booze now, too. And...”

  Jamie lifts a pink card out and reads the name off it.

  Gary watches him, raising an eyebrow. “Driver's license?”

  “I'm trying not to blow our cover, Gary. Trust me.”

  Jamie vanishes from sight, and Gary looks around, confused. When he reappears, the unconscious body is gone.

  “I wish you'd tell me when you were going to do that,” says Gary. “Everyone just disappears these days.”

  “I hid him in a cupboard. His name is Alex. He doesn't look twenty six does he?”

  “He looks about forty.”

  “Poor guy. Anyway, let's go find out who's in charge.”

  They walk side by side through a dilapidated lobby with an off green carpet littered with chips of wood and flecks of food, stained and curled at the corners. Everything smells like cigarettes and beer, mixed in w
ith cheap perfume, the kind that has always saddened Jamie, that speaks to him of desperation and loneliness.

  Pushing a smoked-glass door open with a rap of his knuckles, Jamie beckons Gary to follow him and enters the room.

  Four people look up; three men in leather jackets with facial expressions ranging from confusion to outright anger. Then there's a woman, tanned with her blonde hair up in a beehive, glittery fake eyelashes catching the light.

  The click-clack of guns being readied fills the room, lit by two lamps that cast long shadows across everything.

  “Who the shit are you -” starts one of the men, standing up and brushing his jacket aside to reach for a pistol.

  It's the woman who stops him, shouting him down with a thick accent.

  “Sit down son, sit down. Rude.” He turns and stares at her until a suggestive raise of her eyebrows returns him to the stained couch. She turns her eyes to the new arrivals. “Answer his question.”

  Jamie takes his hood down and pulls his scarf away from his face.

  “Alex let us in. Said to talk to the boss.”

  “Alex?” she asks, and narrows her eyes. She shouts his name like an angry mother: “Alex?!”

  No reply.

  “He stepped outside for a smoke,” says Gary.

  “Did he?” she smiles. “Funny that, since he swore off the fags after his old mam died of the lung cancer.”

  “Uh, yeah, well -” begins Gary.

  Jamie shrugs and turns to Gary. “Well, we tried.”

  Time flickers, and Jamie breaks the closest man's jaw with the pipe, grabbing the sub-machine gun from his hands. Gary throws up a forcefield, cringing as the bullets start to fly.

  When the pillow stuffing starts to fall like snow flakes, Gary opens his eyes and looks around in the silence. Someone groans and Jamie flickers across the room, silencing them with a boot to the face.

  The men lie in crumpled heaps, clutching their knees and arms, whilst the make-up clad woman is whimpering on the floor with her fingers bent and broken at strange angles. She scuttles on her elbows until her back is against the wall.

  Cathy pops into existence, her hands over her ears, crouched in the corner.