The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Sometimes I think you think too much, Mr Craven.’

  ‘How ironic. I’ve recently been thinking that I haven’t spent enough time thinking at all.’ Mr Craven kept his gaze forward. ‘Don’t you trust the Experiment?’

  ‘It’s hardly producing results. One can’t help but wonder if perhaps there is another way to get home, before this dying comes for us all. Hypothetically speaking, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Craven’s thin lips split into a tight smile. ‘And we all know forgiveness never did come without a price. It’s just that you had never struck me as being overly concerned with the common good.’

  ‘We’re all concerned with the common good when its interests merge with our own.’

  ‘Too true.’ Mr Craven’s laugh was dry as the parched sand that danced in the breeze. ‘Well, consider me, in this case, a trustworthy ally.’ His feet stopped. ‘Of course, I’ll still support the Experiment, and I am, as ever, loyal to the Inner Cohort.’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘But I presume this meeting is best kept between ourselves?’

  ‘That would be preferable.’

  ‘As I thought, then.’ Mr Craven turned and headed back in the direction of the playing children.

  ‘Might I ask why you’re so interested?’ He couldn’t fight his own curiosity. Despite his clever brain and his promotion to the Inner Cohort, Mr Craven had shown little interest in their politics in a long time.

  ‘Let’s just say,’ Mr Craven looked up at the night sky before letting his lips form a wistful smile, ‘that my circumstances have changed.’ And he walked away, strolling through the sand as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  For the first time, looking at the receding figure, he felt a twinge of fear. He pulled out a slim mobile phone and dialled.

  ‘Asher Red,’ said a voice before the second ring had quite finished.

  ‘How are things?’

  ‘We have the three. One seems to be having difficulties, however.’

  ‘What sort of difficulties?’

  ‘Slowed responses. I think perhaps it’s affecting her more quickly than the other two. She might be of no value to you in this endeavour.’

  ‘Make sure the other two are ready.’

  ‘They will be. The British one in particular … well, I do believe she must have had some of your blood in her. She’s quite remarkable.’

  He hung up the phone. As each day passed he was placing himself in a more dangerous position. The sooner he acted, the better. Mr Bright was no fool and he still had the First; despite his sleeping, as Mr Bright and Mr Solomon insisted on calling it, that one was still revered. But still, he thought, analysing the small moment of emotion he had just experienced, fear was a great motivator.

  Thunder roared over London’s dawn, trying in vain to catch the lightning that darted across the city. Mr Bright watched the endless dance from his apartment in The Bank’s headquarters by the river. He hadn’t used the place much since Solomon’s demise, but he had always liked it, and being back gave him a sense of stability in these uncertain times. Not that he was overly worried. He understood the chess-board, and all the pieces on it. There was very little that could surprise him these days. He might not have names or numbers, but he was aware that a conspiracy was brewing – it had ever been thus with them. They had maintained their peace and camaraderie with each other for a long, long time, and he’d always known that couldn’t last.

  This, however, this was causing him some mild concern. He looked down at the phone on his desk.

  ‘So another has gone?’

  ‘Yes. Just vanished, an hour ago. I was at home. I was …’

  ‘So that’s three.’ One dead on the Underground station in London, the second vanished from the House two afternoons before, and now this third. He might not have any photographic evidence of it yet, but he knew these two must have died in Moscow and New York. Three lots of bombings; three Interventionists dead … but to what end? And who was pulling the strings?

  ‘I find it so hard to believe that they could do these things – that they would go out there. They’ve never wanted to. And now this? This I just don’t understand.’

  Sudden light flashed in a sheet across the uneven skyline outside, highlighting every tiny drop in the mass of rain that tumbled from the sky. For a brief second each one stood alone, and then it was gone, caught up in the driving force of those behind it.

  ‘Calm down and speak slowly, DeVore. What is it you don’t understand?’

  ‘They’re not projecting. They stopped twenty-eight minutes ago.’

  ‘All of them?’ Mr Bright turned away from the mesmerising weather.

  ‘Yes. The data flow just stopped – from each – in the same second. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re not reflecting?’ His question was stupid and he knew it; his irritation with himself grew. It annoyed him more that DeVore thought he actually needed the question answered.

  ‘If they were reflecting the stream would still be coming in. We’d see what they were seeing. They haven’t reflected in a long time, and I still can’t tell if any in the House are hard Reflections and now this …’

  ‘The point, DeVore? If they’re not projecting, then what do you think they’re doing?’ Are they dying? The thought came to him from nowhere and he carefully swallowed it down. There was no dying. There was only ennui. He would not be fooled by the panic. He still had control, and the First and the boy were still breathing.

  ‘They’re singing,’ DeVore said, ‘listen. It’s astounding.’ Somewhere in a warmer climate the man on the end of the phone released the noise from within the Chamber and an orchestra of sweet voices poured down the phone.

  For a moment, the sound almost touched Mr Bright’s heart. He hadn’t heard singing like that in such a long time.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ DeVore could barely be heard over the flood of voices.

  Mr Bright listened for a few seconds longer. Yes, it was beautiful, but he didn’t much care for it. What did it mean? Why were they singing now?

  ‘Keep this to yourself, DeVore,’ he said after a moment, ‘and let me know when they stop.’

  He put the phone down and turned back to the window, staring out at the rain to steady his thinking. Something was being added to the game. He made himself fresh coffee and sipped it thoughtfully. Eventually he smiled. It was nice to feel surprised occasionally, and there were very few outcomes that he hadn’t prepared for.

  An hour later, though, as he sat by the First’s bed, he wished he could get the strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ out of his head. It was starting to annoy him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As he closed the main door to the flats behind him, Cass noted two things: first, that the thundering rains of the early morning might have passed, but they’d taken the warmth of the Indian summer with them, and second, that the violinist had gone back to his old favourite, ‘Rhapsody in Blue’. It took him a moment to spot the tramp – he’d expected him to be closer, but this morning he’d chosen a place further up the street. It was a surprise. The music had been clearly audible from upstairs, and even now it appeared to weave through the pedestrians towards Cass as if it knew its mark.

  The tramp flicked his wrist between notes, the bow coming up in a gesture of hello, and his dirty face cracked into a smile. Cass didn’t return it. He should ignore the crazy old bastard; he should go straight to his car and drive to work where the head of the Anti-Terror Division would be waiting and to where the grip of the dead was impatiently dragging him. There was no time for this. His feet, however, didn’t move.

  Fuck it. Leaving his car behind him, he walked towards the violinist, who made no movement to meet him halfway but carried on smiling and playing as if jazz on the streets of St John’s Wood at eight o’clock in the morning was the most natural thing in the world. As he drew closer, Cass saw the small pile of coins scattered at the old man’s feet and felt a moment of
surprise. There was no hat or tin or sign begging for change – this money had been given without any prompt. A woman in a suit barely paused as she passed, but two gold one-pound coins slipped from her fingers to the pavement. She smiled sweetly to no one and everyone and kept going. It had been a long time since Cass had seen anyone give away money on the streets. Hard times made people mean and selfish.

  He looked up at the tramp. He was dirtier than before, and he thought perhaps there was another tooth missing from the man’s upper jaw. In the bright morning light, blue varicose veins were visible in the gap where his too-short trousers ended and his shoes began. As far as Cass could see, none of this degradation was dampening his spirit; the filthy fingers moved deftly across the strings as his smiling eyes stayed firmly on Cass.

  ‘Who’s the woman?’ Cass asked. He didn’t have time for pleasantries.

  ‘Woman?’ The gruff voice was at odds with the notes that poured from his hands.

  ‘The one on the phone.’

  The smile widened, and Cass noted the dirt wedged around the yellow teeth. It was black and earthy. How the hell did someone get mud in their mouth? Surely that would take some concerted effort?

  ‘She’s something else, isn’t she?’

  ‘It looks like everything turns out to be something else these days.’ Cass didn’t smile back. He didn’t want to be friends with the tramp. He wanted the tramp to fuck off and play his music to someone else, and save Cass more questions he couldn’t find answers to.

  ‘Never a truer word spoken in jest, son.’ The old man laughed a little, the sound a rattle in his chest. It reminded Cass of Artie Mullins. It was the sound of too many nights spent in the company of cigarette smoke and hard liquor. ‘Although some would say that also ain’t exactly possible,’ the tramp continued, his fingers never missing a note. ‘What is, is. It’s just your perspective on it that changes.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Cass asked. He didn’t need this head-fuckery bullshit.

  ‘I told you – she’s something else.’ He grinned and winked.

  ‘You need a fucking toothbrush,’ Cass muttered before turning and heading to his car. Something else. What kind of a fucking answer was that? Exactly the kind he’d expected, he thought as he lit a cigarette and slid behind the wheel. Questions as answers. It was the story of his fucking life.

  Cass had barely stepped inside his office when Armstrong appeared in the doorway.

  ‘The students’ medical records have just come off the printer and the ATD are downstairs to see you. With David Fletcher.’

  Cass hadn’t needed telling. There had been three sleek, dark cars and a Mercedes van parked up outside, and anyone working out of Paddington Green nick who’d had anything like a half-decent car had flogged it after the ‘bonuses for cocaine’ scandal – even those bought entirely legitimately, to avoid drawing attention to their owners: guilt by association. As it was, they were all guilty to some degree, even if they hadn’t been part of Bowman’s personal drug gang. Cass had kept his Audi, though. They could get screwed if he was going to be a pariah and drive an old banger.

  ‘They can wait ten minutes while I grab a coffee.’

  Armstrong stepped inside. ‘According to the desk sergeant, they got here at half-seven. They must get up early over at the CNS. He said they even brought their own equipment.’ He finally got round to the question Cass had been waiting for. ‘What do they want with you? Is this to do with the case? If so, maybe I should come down with you …’

  Cass turned on his computer before he looked up. In the corridor outside, people were wandering up and down, and he felt their eyes stray into his office as they passed. It wasn’t only Armstrong who was watching him strangely; he could almost hear the worries of the people around him: What’s he up to now? How is he fucking up our lives this time? What’s he doing that we don’t know about?

  ‘Apparently it’s a matter of national security. That miserable bastard Fletcher will probably shoot me if I open my mouth. And with your track record with newspapers, telling you might not be the best idea I’dever have had.’

  ‘You’re full of secrets.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it. But you can tell that lot out there that this ATD shit has nothing to do with them – and trust me, I could well do without it myself.’ He picked up the small pile of printed records. ‘Go through these; see if any of the rest had anything similar to Jasmine Green’s claustrophobia. Or if they were taking the same medication. If there’s nothing in the files, speak to the doctors. You know how these people are, they don’t always log everything.’

  Armstrong left the office, his eyes still questioning Cass, but Cass had no intention of giving him any answers. As soon as he was alone he clicked into the mainframe and brought up the information he needed for Dr Andrew Gibbs: his current employer, home address and telephone number. He scribbled the details down before logging off, and wondered if having a quick cigarette before heading down would be taking the piss. He did it anyway.

  Fletcher had three men standing by the door of the basement conference room and the whole corridor was sealed off to ensure no access by any unauthorised person. They could bring in Jack the Ripper upstairs and no one would be getting to the secure interview rooms that had once been the home of the ATD. Cass wondered whether he should point out that perhaps a more subtle approach would have elicited less curiosity from the rest of the nick, but decided that Fletcher probably didn’t much care. He’d wanted their conversation secure and private, and he’d made sure of it. Cass wasn’t sure subtlety was part of Fletcher’s repertoire.

  ‘So this guy is definitely the London bomber?’ Cass asked. ‘But this time he’s wearing fake explosives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would he kill all those people, and then kill himself while wearing a dummy bomb? Isn’t that odd?’

  ‘There’s a lot about this situation that’s odd.’ Fletcher shuttled the image along on his laptop. ‘This is where Abigail Porter gets down onto the platform.’

  Cass looked up at the hi-res screen: the picture had been enhanced as much as it ever could be, but there was still a grainy quality to it, and the angle wasn’t great. The ATD might have state-of-the-art equipment, but the source material was still London Underground CCTV.

  Abigail Porter came down the steps and onto the platform. She raised her gun at the fat man standing near the edge opposite her.

  ‘She’s on her own?’

  ‘No one else saw him in the crowd. She’d shouted the alert, taken the PM down and then was off and running before our people in the square could figure out what was going on. She took her radio off too.’

  ‘Strange that no one else saw him.’

  ‘Trust me, we have a list of strange about this bomber that keeps growing. Most of it is classified and doesn’t concern you – be grateful for that. Abigail had seen this man before. On the night of the London bombings. She said he was standing on her street, and then she changed her story and said it wasn’t him at all – but I didn’t buy it. She was too well trained to make a mistake like that. And this is hardly an ordinary-looking man.’

  At the sight of a gun, some commuters on screen had turned and tried to push their way back up the stairs they’d just come down. The crowds still on the platform pressed back into each other, creating a small amphitheatre for the drama unfolding in front of them.

  ‘But this doesn’t make sense.’ Cass frowned. ‘He’s on the platform for several minutes before she arrives. He doesn’t even come down the stairs, just appears from somewhere in the crowd. Whoever she was chasing, it couldn’t be him.’

  ‘It seems our man has an ability to be in two places at once.’ Fletcher smiled ruefully. ‘Another thing you don’t have to concern yourself with. What I want you to see is the interchange between them. Whatever the reason for her disappearance, it started here.’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ Cass said, ‘it started with the lie: when she told you she hadn’t seen him in her stre
et. That’s when she made her choice. What happened next?’

  The story continued on screen. Two still figures, one with gun raised.

  ‘Are they speaking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The screen split in two and on one side the fat man’s face filled it. The movement of his lips was quite clear.

  ‘Another thing she denied. Porter tells him to put what she presumes is the detonator down. He doesn’t. So far, so good. Everything normal. It’s what he then says that doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He asks her how long she’s been emptying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know. It means nothing to me. And then he says, “You can feel it, can’t you? Everything draining. Isn’t it beautiful?” I thought maybe it was some kind of code, but no one we’ve got working on it can crack it.’

  Cass said nothing, but he looked at the man on the screen. Mottled skin on fat cheeks. Black eyes. He wondered if the man would glow if he saw him in the flesh. He thought of the brief flash of silver he’d seen in Abigail Porter’s eyes. This wasn’t any kind of code. This was Network business, he could feel it in his gut. But if this stank of Mr Bright, then why was Cass being pulled into the game? Why wasn’t Mr Bright sorting this out himself?

  ‘She asks him who he is,’ Fletcher continued, ‘and he answers, “I am family.” ’

  This was a puzzle, right in front of him, and although he’d had no intention of helping Fletcher in his search – there was no way he wanted to be drawn into the Network’s business – he still liked the buzz in getting a feel for all the pieces.

  ‘So she might have seen him before, but she didn’t know him.’ Cass looked over to Fletcher. ‘I take it he isn’t actually related to her?’ The fat man on the screen didn’t look like he was related to anyone, certainly not the leggy brunette holding a gun on him.