And Cruelle Men of Power work their Endes
Behold the Estako, the order fell!
Ensconced in Highest Tower of Potencie
Defy the Wormwoode Starre that raises Helle,
Or see the world laid waste by Lande and Sea.
The Blood of Sacred Innocent is shedde!
The Way to Nether Regions is laid ope!
The Living shall know Torments of the Dead,
The Thirteen they shall rise with spirits foul
And Divells dance and sport on Darkest Day!
While sinners all do flee or beg or howl
What can the godly do but kneel and praye?
“Well,” asks Jane. “That name 'Estako' is so odd that it might well be a misspelling or more likely a mishearing of Eschaton. What do you think?”
“I think I need another drink,” replies Bryce. “And I want to know how many of your supposedly trustworthy colleagues you've told about Eschaton? Because by ignoring my warning to keep it to yourself you've probably endangered lives other than your own!”
“Oh, surely not,” protests the professor, “I don't inhabit a world of gossips and tattletales.”
“You do,” insists Bryce, “you just call it discussion and debate. But it amounts to the same thing. The academic world can't keep secrets, and that tendency to chatter means we may have to move sooner rather than later.”
For the first time Pardoe is dismayed, she looks nervously at the door as if agents of Eschaton might kick it down any second.
“Don't feel too bad,” Bryce goes on. “I'm asking a lot from you. But no more than I demand from myself.”
Jesus Christ, he thinks, I'm actually being nice to a dotty old lady. Better lay off the booze for the rest of the day.
“Well, I'm sorry, colonel,” says Pardoe. “I've never actually served in the military, let alone your shadowy branch of it.”
“I lied,” he replies. “I showed you an out-of-date ID. I left MI5 to avoid a court-martial on a trumped-up treason charge and have been laying low ever since. This scar was one of the many penalties I paid for not doing as I was told and letting the powerful do whatever they wanted to in this country.”
Now Pardoe looks angry, not to say baffled.
Well, let's see what the old girl's made of, he thinks. Have I misjudged her?
“Colonel! You assured me you were employed on vital work on behalf of the nation!”
“Perfectly true, I just didn't mention that I'm now self-employed” he replies. “Now I've entangled you in my mess, there's no reason to hide the grim facts. You might as well go on as give up now, and I think your curiosity is piqued, yes? So let's not discuss my necessary deceit. Let's consider if this poem of your colleague's is of any significance.”
For a moment, Bryce thinks she might get up and walk out. But then she resettles her glasses on her nose and gestures for him to give her the transcript. He does so, and she begins to point at specific lines.
“Now, this reference to Rome might seem confusing, but if we remember that at that time, Germany was called the Holy Roman Empire.”
Bryce allows himself an inward smile. I didn't misjudge her, he thinks. If Charlotte plays her part as well as this old bluestocking, we might be in with a fighting chance.
***
Maria is struggling to complete her new drawing despite many distractions. All around her the ghosts of the old asylum have risen. The spirits drift through the day room of the hospital, gray shades of misery and despair. Some of the other inmates can see them, too, and are terrified or fascinated, as their condition dictates. Maria is blasé about the demands of the dead and simply looks away. But she can still hear their voices.
Calling for help, she thinks, calling for love, for release that can never come.
“No, I will not listen,” she mutters fiercely, her hand flying over the page in whiplash curves. “I cannot listen to you when the living need my visions.”
The picture is not finished, but perhaps it never can be. When her visions made her wealthy and London's elite flocked to her séances, Maria heard a clever man say that no work of art can be finished, only abandoned.
I will not abandon this, she thinks. I will make sure it is known, seen, and understood.
She pauses, crayon suspended over the paper.
Even though I do not understand it myself.
She shakes her head, continues to draw, and lets the truth flow from her without the hindrance of mere thought.
“How's it going, Maria?” asks the big male nurse, the one who likes Charlotte.
“It is well but I must finish, finish soon, before the Star Wormwood blazes out! Do not interrupt me, young man!” she replies, setting to work again.
The nurse lingers despite her rebuke, looking down at the drawing, trying to make conversation.
A good, hard-working functionary, she thinks, but irritating. Still, when I return to my old life, I may employ him as a butler or chauffeur; yes, that would be most generous, the act of a fine lady. She makes a mental note.
“You certainly go for bold colors, Maria. Part of your Spanish heritage, is it? Can you tell me what it's supposed to be?”
“The Star needs the One, so that the Thirteen can rise. A great disaster! The Three seek to prevent this. But their method is cruel, too cruel, it must surely defeat itself!”
As she speaks, Maria points to the blazing star, a row of gray matchstick-men seated at a many-legged table, the three tall, thin beings clustered behind one much smaller figure.
“Okay,” says the nurse, “so what are these three skinny chaps up to?”
Maria pauses again, then selects a crimson crayon and slashes back and forth across the page before she collapses, sobbing. The nurse calls the duty doctor and Maria is sedated for the first time in months. As Maria is half-carried back to her room, the nurse picks up the tear-stained drawing. The spray of dark-red emanates from the smallest figure, a smiling stick-girl with orange pigtails.
The nurse folds up the drawing and asks a colleague to cover for him for ten minutes. He goes to his locker and takes out a small business card. Then he goes to a pay phone in the foyer to make a call.
***
Churchill has had half a bottle of brandy and three Havana cigars after lunch, and is ready for his afternoon nap. But first he has an issue that needs sorting out, a matter of great importance.
His desk intercom buzzes and the prime minister pushes a key, rumbles,
“If that's the First Secretary, send him in.”
A small voice acknowledges the order.
Churchill stands up and ambles up to the framed Nobel Prize that hangs on his office wall. The ginger cat, which has been snoozing on a window sill, jumps down and starts to wind itself around the Prime Minister’s ankles.
“They don't dish those gongs out with breakfast cereals, Chartwell,” says Churchill, affectionately. “I wrote a lot of books about the war. The one we supposedly won.”
A knock, and Garmouth enters without waiting for a response.
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
“Ah, Henry,” says Churchill, turning to face his chief bureaucrat, “glad you could make it. I have made a decision regarding this smog business.”
Garmouth tilts his head to one side.
Yes, you look very attentive, Churchill thinks, you smarmy little twerp.
“I want to change our policy on coal exports, Henry. Improve the quality on offer to the British people. If only during the winter months.”
Garmouth makes an O with his lips, takes in a breath with a hiss.
“I don't want you to mime sucking a lemon, man, I want to change the damned policy!” rumbles Churchill.
“I quite understand, Prime Minister,” replies Garmouth, through a fixed grin, “but the Chancellor has been rather adamant on that point. We need to export our best quality coal to shore up our economy. That means we must burn inferior coal, including anthracite, in our power stations. And of course supply it f
or consumption by homes and businesses.”
“All of which makes a killer smog more likely!” retorts Churchill. “The filthy smoke produced by dozens of power stations and millions of coal fires shortened the lives of hundreds, last winter. All I'm asking about is a temporary change of policy for three months at most. We can return to using low-grade coal by spring time.”
“I fear the Chancellor and the Governor of the Bank of England would oppose such a change most vigorously,” says Garmouth.
“As it happens I've already raised it in Cabinet and they seemed perfectly amenable,” Churchill says, with a triumphant air. “As you would know if you'd deigned to turn up to this morning's meeting.”
“I was otherwise detained, Prime Minister, but I'm glad the issue has been settled to the satisfaction of the Cabinet.”
“Well, see to it, then,” says Churchill, shambling back to his chair and settling down.
Chartwell jumps onto his lap and blinks up at the old man as the civil servant backs out of the room.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” says Garmouth. “Action this day, Prime Minister.”
Churchill scratches the cat behind the ears.
“Both of us are in need of plenty of rest, eh Chartwell? But that doesn't make us dozy. No, indeed.”
As he drifts off, Churchill thinks, I must remember to check in after a day or two and see if that slimy bugger has actually done as he’s told.
***
“Thursday?” says Rachel. “Oh, honey, I have that invite from Tom Kneale? BBC writer guy? Friends with The Ghost Man, you know?”
“Oh, damn, I'd completely forgotten,” says Tony, “I don't suppose you can change it to another week? No, no, that's not fair to you, they're adapting your book after all. I'll just have to go it alone.”
“Can't you reschedule?” she asks. “I'd feel a lot of happier if one of us was here with her.”
She nods at the kitchen door, through which she can see Emily having an impromptu tea party for Bradshaw and a couple of her dolls. Rachel deliberately didn't call Tony about Emily's accident, and waited for him to come home instead.
“I know,” says Tony, his voice pleading, “but we're back to that problem of actually earning a living. If I upset Burnside in any way, he could easily find fault with my work, because lately I've been too worried to focus. He seems like the petty type, and to be honest, he’s far too friendly to be true. Anyway, it means Emily will spend the evening with Charlotte, that's always a great treat for her!”
“Yeah,” concedes Rachel, “she'll love it. And I suppose you can put up with a couple hours of dull conversation while I schmooze at the BBC.”
“God, yes, I can guarantee dullness with his lordship. Though he may vary the mood with condescension and general idiocy,” grins Tony. “I think you'll have the more interesting evening by a wide margin.”
The phone rings, and while Rachel gets it, Tony goes to play with Emily.
“I hope you girls aren't just chattering away and leaving Bradshaw out of the conversation?” he asks.
“No,” replies Emily seriously, “he is playing his part in the conversation like a proper English gentleman.”
The old teddy bear has a bow tied lopsidedly around his neck.
“Well, I'm glad he's dressed for dinner and observing all the social niceties,” says Tony, then gestures at the array of empty plates and cups. “But what exactly are you having?”
“We are all having cake, and then the ladies will go into the next room while you gentlemen pass the port and talk politics,” explains Emily.
Rachel arrives in time to hear the last few words and asks, “Are you brainwashing my daughter into becoming a brainless British debutante?”
“I don't know where she picks it up, honestly!” he says. “Was that work?”
“No, it was Dad,” she says. “Just to add to our joys he's brought his flight forward to get it over with sooner. And he threw in a few choice expressions to emphasize his feelings. He's arriving at Heathrow at four a.m.”
“What, tonight? I mean, tomorrow morning?” asks Tony.
“Yep, and I'm afraid one of us will have to meet him.”
Emily has abandoned her guests and is gazing up at them.
“Is granddad really coming from America?”
“Yes, honey,” says Rachel, “he is, and he'll be so pleased to see you! And I know he's bringing a special birthday present all the way from New York!”
“Hooray! We're all very pleased by this news,” says Emily. “We will have some more tea to celebrate.”
Rachel and Tony go back into the living room and talk over the change of plan.
“It makes sense for me to go, help with luggage and so forth,” he says. “And it's a way to break the ice, talk a bit on the way back. I know he wasn't exactly keen when we got married.”
“Hey,” says Rachel, “he was pleased I found someone to love, he was just pissed he couldn't get to be there when we got hitched. And that was mostly down to Hitler and friends, not you.”
“Well, either way, I'll be glad to finally meet him. And so will Emily, of course. If you're any guide, he must be brilliant with kids!”
That earns him a kiss, and then they try to persuade Emily to clear the table so they can have a meal with actual food. As the three gradually work out a plan, Rachel glances out of the window. The light from the kitchen is playing on a layer of fog that's washing around the back of the house like a glowing tide.
***
Charlotte sits by the phone, waiting for the time. It's a different box and a different time every day, the system changes every month. He should be at the call box now, she thinks. She picks up the receiver again, dials a number, waits for it to ring four times, cuts the line, then dials the same number again. Bryce picks up immediately.
“What is it?”
Not a word of affection, not even a ‘hello.’ She picks up her notepad. She's made detailed notes in her quirky shorthand.
“I got a call from a nurse at the mental hospital, he seems to think Maria's had a relapse. I'll go in tomorrow if I can, if they let me see her. Meanwhile, I managed to get a few things from him.”
She reads the notes, waits for his response. There's a crackle on the line, a click.
“Very well. This seems too specific to be ignored. The numbers are particularly alarming. I think we should move first, take the initiative. When's the earliest time we can act?”
Charlotte is breathing fast, shallow breaths. She's never been more scared, more conflicted.
“I think there's an opportunity quite soon. Tomorrow, in fact.”
The conversation continues, Charlotte is listening to instructions, and mechanically repeating them, as she stares out into the sea of smog rising slowly to engulf the lights of London.
Chapter 7: Appearances
Graeme Robson is going to the movies on his night off. There's a double bill of two new 3D horror films at the Hammersmith Odeon – Blood from Dracula's Tomb, followed by The Brain-Eaters from Planet X. Even better than that, he's somehow persuaded cute Sandy from the corner shop to go with him. Though, the more he thinks about it, the more it seems like she has persuaded him by some cunning use of what his dad calls 'feminine wiles.'
Graeme shrugs, deciding to just go with it, and gets off the Tube train at Hammersmith Broadway. As he rides up the escalator, he notices twists and strands of yellow fog drifting past him.
Like rising up through the clouds of some alien world, he thinks. Or climbing up towards Frankenstein's Castle in Transylvania! Or is it Bavaria? I always get those mixed up.
When Graeme emerges from the station, the fog is even denser than he expected. He can just make out the Odeon's brightly-lit facade, though the actual words are too blurred to read. He remembers to be extra-careful crossing the busy road, as drivers are going too fast as usual. Already his nose and throat are starting to feel raw from inhaling the yellow vapor. He pulls his scarf up around his neck to try and keep the chil
l out, and hurries over through a gap in traffic.
It's properly winter, now, he thinks. We'll have weeks of this muck polluting the air.
Then he sees Sandy, who's making herself hard to miss among the small crowd at the cinema entrance. She's jumping up and down, waving, and looking really pretty in a red duffel coat. He runs up to her and before he can say ‘Hello,’ she puts her arms around him and gives him a kiss. Blimey, he thinks. On the lips and all!
“Don't look like I've just hit you with a wet fish!” she says. “Or don't you like being kissed?”
“Oh, I like it,” he manages to stammer out. “Especially when it's a pretty girl doing it!”
“As opposed to a big burly bloke, you mean?” she laughs, enjoying his confusion. Then she takes his hand, mitten-to-glove, and pulls him towards the ticket booth.
“Now we're going Dutch on the tickets and we'll split the cost of the popcorn,” she warns, pressing two shillings into his hand. “You got that? I'm a modern girl, I am.”
“Yeah, I got it!”
Graeme manages to buy their tickets without looking like a fool to the girl in the booth, and repeats his triumph inside at the popcorn vendor. Then they get their 3D glasses and are shown to their seats.
“Try to keep the noise down, you lovebirds,” says the usherette in a jokey tone, “some people actually come here to watch the films, you know!”
Graeme feels himself reddening, feels glad he's in the dark.
The cartoons have already started and the teenagers settle down to watch mice, ducks, and other animated creatures do violent things very noisily. The popcorn is on Graeme's lap. Then the newsreel begins, and Sandy starts to snuggle up to him. He feels the warmth of her cheek, smells her perfume. A small hand strays from the popcorn up to find his chin, his cheek, then pulls his face round to hers. As the kissing starts again, he hears the newsreel commentary describe 'Britain's First Atomic Civil Attack Exercise.' Graeme's inexpert hand is guided inside Sandy's coat and descriptions of fallout, casualties, triage, all fade away, swamped by more immediate revelations.
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 8
