The Great and Dangerous

by Chris Westwood

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘Doing a church and steeple.’

  I quickly let my hands go and parted the shutters to look down on moonlit Eventide Street through the mist my breath made on the glass.

  ‘Let’s try something else,’ I said. ‘What am I thinking?’

  ‘Do we have to?’ Sukie said wearily.

  ‘I’m curious, and besides, nothing’s happening right now.’

  There was a polite knock at the door. The door creaked open and Kate Stone from Joe’s team looked in.

  ‘Oh hi,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘Need any help in here?’

  ‘Not really,’ Sukie said. ‘Slow morning.’

  ‘It’s just, I’m barred from the field after yesterday on account of my age. They said I could do filing and such, but I feel like a fifth wheel around here.’

  ‘You should be at home,’ Sukie said, ‘or out with your mates. So should Ben for that matter, but I can’t get rid of him.’

  She winked at me. Only kidding.

  ‘Yeah, but my mates aren’t the same anymore,’ Kate said with downcast eyes. ‘They’ve been kind of offhand with me since I started here and it’s getting worse. So I suppose I’ll just go home.’

  ‘Could be something for you in dispatch,’ Sukie offered. ‘One of the girls is thinking of clocking off early, so try asking there.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  She slipped away, closing the door softly, a sheepish girl compared to the one I’d seen at the bomb scene. Perhaps, like Becky, she preferred the live experience of the field, and by the sounds of it she too was having a hard time at school.

  ‘So where were we?’ Sukie said. ‘What you’re thinking, right?’

  ‘Never mind. We don’t have to do this.’

  ‘No probs. We have time to kill. You’re thinking Kate Stone is cute.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You’re wondering why your heart beats faster when you see her,’ she said.

  ‘Shut up. This wasn’t a good idea after all.’

  Sukie laughed. ‘And you’re blushing.’

  She was right there too, but I didn’t need a psychic to tell me that.

  ‘Only teasing,’ Sukie said. ‘But I can’t help knowing these things. You’re also thinking about your mum, worrying because you haven’t seen her for two weeks. She’ll be fine, though. Don’t fret.’

  ‘I’m not fretting.’

  ‘But you are.’

  I went over and perched on the desk, and we sat for a time, watching and waiting on the telegraph.

  ‘You’ll never understand it,’ Sukie said. ‘I don’t understand it myself, like I don’t understand your gift, either. I can’t open doors in space, for example, and I definitely can’t blow things up. It’s like we’re all different parts of a body, each of us with our own skills and our own special parts to play. And I suppose Mr October is like the body’s heart or head . . . one or the other.’

  She was interrupted by a muffled bang and a gust of smoke that announced the first batch of names. For the rest of the shift we took turns in transcribing the telegraph’s lists and delivering the cards to Miss Webster for filing.

  The records room was a colossal white space that grew with each newly-added name. Miles high in the rafters, bat-like guardians flew in circles under a pale ceiling of cloud. On the countless floors and up and down the great spiral staircase, filing clerks went about their business, scaling ladders, opening and closing cabinets, checking and re-checking records.

  When you first entered this place, Miss Webster’s booth was the merest speck in the distance, far across the marble floor. The walk towards it seemed to take hours, and when I finally got there Miss Webster was her usual crotchety self. The spiders that flitted about her permed hair had been busier than ever, and their network of webs covered her face like a caul.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Webster,’ I said.

  ‘What’s so good about it?’ Miss Webster said. ‘They all look the same to me.’

  ‘More names for your ledger,’ I said, pushing the cards across her counter.

  ‘So I see. I’m not blind.’

  ‘But you’d see better if you brushed some of those cobwebs away.’

  ‘I’ll brush you away with the back of my hand in a minute,’ Miss Webster said. ‘Off you go, back where you came from.’

  ‘No change there then,’ Sukie said when I returned. ‘Surly old witch. Still, I suppose it’s understandable, her being the way she is.’

  ‘What’s understandable?’

  ‘Oh – but of course you don’t know.’

  ‘What don’t I know?’

  Sukie turned her kinked gaze on the telegraph, watching intently as if expecting it to kick off again. When it didn’t, she relaxed and turned to me.

  ‘Well, you haven’t been here that long, so you can’t know everything. Miss Webster’s worked in records thirty-odd years, maybe nearer forty. Before that she was in dispatch, and before that . . . she goes back a long way, anyway. Her brother once worked here too.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had a brother,’ I said. ‘Hard to imagine her having family.’

  ‘Well, she did. Terence Webster, a junior on the medical team in the 1960s. Very up and coming. What he didn’t know – nobody knew at the time – was that he was working alongside a traitor. He was a junior on Professor Rictus’s team.’

  ‘Rictus. . .’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘One of the Most Wanted,’ I said, remembering his startling ear-to-ear grin bearing twice the usual number of teeth.

  ‘Terence Webster was one of his first victims,’ Sukie said. ‘Had his soul ripped right out while he breathed. Professor Rictus stole scores of others from employees and soon-departeds the Ministry were supposed to help, but he flew the coop before anyone found him out.’

  ‘So I heard. He uses some kind of medical procedure, doesn’t he? I’ve seen Mawbreed and Deathheads take living souls too. . .’ I glanced at the floor where a Deathhead had pinned me the night I discovered how powerful my own gift could be. ‘They’re bad enough, but Rictus sounds worse.’

  Sukie agreed. ‘Most victims don’t last long. Without their personalities, they can’t. Their bodies become empty shells until they stop working, which could be minutes later, or hours, or even days. That’s how Miss Webster’s brother was when she visited him at the clinic – still alive, but sort of not alive. She never recovered from seeing him like that. She stayed on here, doing her bit for the war effort, but she’s been bitter and broken-hearted ever since.’

  ‘Poor Miss Webster.’ I never thought I’d say that, but I meant it.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Sukie said, ‘there are times when I feel like punching her lights out. Then I remember. It’s easy to think some people are made that way, but you never know. I just wish she wouldn’t take it out on us.’

  The telegraph sputtered away for a minute and stopped abruptly, leaving four new numbers and names. Three of the four were natural causes cases, or soon would be.

  ‘A quiet Sunday,’ Sukie said. ‘After yesterday’s bombing I guess everyone’s staying safe at home, watching the news and taking no chances. Well . . . better get these processed.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  ‘You did the last lot.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Now I knew about the sadness in Miss Webster’s life, the loss we had in common, I supposed it might be easier to face her. I was almost looking forward to seeing her again until the moment I arrived at her booth.

  ‘You again.’ She scowled over the tops of her pince-nez spectacles. ‘Talk about bad pennies. Don’t give me any lip, Harvester, I know you and your kind and I will not stand for it. Hand me those cards at once and make yourself scarce.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Webster. Here you go. Have a good day.’

  She didn’t reply. Snatching the cards from my hand, she flicked a small white spider from the tip of her nose and returne
d to work on her ledger.

  Sukie left early, answering a call from dispatch. A thirty-four-year-old man had collapsed in a crowded buffet at Brent Cross shopping centre. An enemy presence had been reported in the vicinity and Sukie was called in to flush the enemy out by tracing its thoughts.

  ‘See ya, Ben,’ she said as she left. ‘Keep your eyes open and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  After she’d gone I took over the desk and sat alone with the rushing sound of the wind. Pulling two volumes of the Apocalypti Phrase Book: Unexpurgated from the shelf above the desk, I fished out the typed pages I kept hidden behind them – the account of my adventures as a Pandemonium operative.

  Whenever I had the time I’d work here on the Olivetti, typing as fast as I could to keep the report up to date. Things had been so busy lately I was falling behind. Rolling a clean sheet of paper into the platen, I typed:

  I do not think Kate Stone is cute.

  Then I backspaced and hit X enough times to cross out the line and went on:

  The night has a thousand eyes.

  Time sped up. The candle burned down to a stub while I typed. I took a new candle from the desk and lit it from the old one’s flame and snuffed out the old one and replaced it in the candle holder. When the telegraph made a noise like a backfiring exhaust, I cleared the typewriter and waited. It was the last chance I had to work on the journal during that shift.

  Seagulls screamed in the distance as I crossed London Fields. The daylight was draining and the park was cold and barren, the barbecues extinguished until next year and bare trees standing tall over golden carpets of leaves.

  I slowed past Dad’s bench on the path but didn’t stop to sit. A chunk of the money we’d been left in Aunt Carrie’s will had paid for this bench, and it was money well spent, Mum had said, our way of keeping Dad close. I left the park near the sign on Lansdowne Drive and was waiting to cross the street when something on the other side caught my eye, making me draw back.

  Two undercover agents were watching me from the corner of Shrubland Road. Long-coated, hands pocketed, with faces that were impossible to identify, shifting rapidly from one set of features to another. When one of the men lifted a gloved hand to his inside pocket, my breath seized up. It was the kind of movement gangsters and spies made in films when they went to take out their guns.

  Instead the agent removed a small flask and offered it to his partner, who unscrewed the cap and took a sip before handing it back. They were pretending not to see me, so, pretending not to see them either, I ran to Middleton Road, glancing without thinking at the wall of graffiti.

  Someone had scrubbed the older artwork from the wall’s right side behind the scaffolding, replacing it with a stencilled scarecrow figure not unlike Nathan Synister, black and white except for the eyes, which were red. A speech bubble beside the scarecrow’s mouth said:

  WE HAVE A LIST TOO AND YOUR NAME IS ON IT

  That message was meant for me, no question, and if I dared look again tomorrow there’d be another just like it. I fled indoors, up the cold stairwell to our balcony, where I stopped and leaned across the rails to look down.

  The two agents hadn’t followed me this far, or if they had they were well hidden. The street was empty, the first afternoon shadows crawling across it as I fished out my keys and let myself in.

  In the kitchen, I lowered the blinds to shut out the view of the graffiti wall and paced around, wondering how long they’d been watching without me knowing. Tomorrow I’d report what I’d seen at headquarters. Before that, I’d call Becky to warn her. Her aunt’s place in Hoxton may be under surveillance too.

  The phone rang in the living room. Perhaps Becky already knew. I hurried through to answer.

  ‘Ben? It’s me,’ a breathless voice said.

  Not Becky’s voice. It took me a moment to place this one. I’d almost forgotten how she sounded. ‘Mum!’

  ‘Got it in one. You’ll never guess where I am.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Gatwick airport. Just came in. Put the kettle on, darlin’. I’ll be there before you know it.’

  11

  DONNA HARVESTER

  taxi dropped her out in the dark. Meeting her on the unlit stairwell to help with the luggage, I didn’t see her clearly until we were indoors in the hall.

  She had a lean, tanned, healthy look and her hair had lightened to near-blonde in the sun, but her sombrero didn’t go with the winter coat she’d worn for her homecoming. She took off the sombrero and dropped it on her suitcase and opened her arms wide.

  ‘Darlin’,’ she said.

  ‘You look great,’ I said. ‘Five years younger. No, ten!’

  ‘Flatterer. You should’ve come with us. You would’ve loved it.’

  ‘Next time,’ I said.

  We settled at the kitchen breakfast bar with cups of tea and the duty free chocolate she’d brought. Her bandaged right arm looked half as swollen as it had been before she left, and she didn’t wince when she moved it.

  ‘Did Ross take good care of you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, he was fine. Checking up on me all the time.’

  ‘And school’s been all right?’

  ‘The same. Nothing changes.’

  ‘You certainly don’t. Never have much to say for yourself, do you?’

  ‘I’d rather talk about you.’

  ‘Well, what would you like to know?’

  She began by describing the self-catering apartment she’d shared with Ellie, its veranda looking out over palm trees towards mountains and sea. In the evenings they’d sat out drinking sangria and watching the sunset, and because Mum rarely drank normally, she went to bed early three nights in a row and woke with a hangover on two consecutive mornings.

  ‘Bad old me,’ she laughed. ‘Served me right.’

  She told me about the bars and restaurants they’d been to and the day trips they’d taken, the green caves they’d explored and the active volcanic region where men poured pails of water into holes in the ground and steaming geysers jetted many metres into the air.

  ‘And that was only week one,’ she said.

  ‘Wow! So what did you do in week two?’

  She lifted her cup, gently blowing air across the hot tea. She took a sip and put the tea down and studied the bubbles on its surface.

  ‘Money,’ she said absently.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s what Dad called the bubbles. Bubbles on your tea, he said, means money’s coming your way.’ She smiled. ‘Actually I didn’t see much of Ellie that second week.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We just had different plans. She had to run around to appointments about this timeshare idea of hers, and I . . . well, I had more time for myself, that’s all.’

  But that wasn’t all. I could tell by the way she wasn’t looking at me there was more.

  ‘So what else?’ I said. ‘What happened last week?’

  ‘It’s a little awkward. . .’

  ‘Bad news, you mean. It’s not about your illness, is it?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I feel fit as a flea. I’m just not sure how you’ll take it.’ She laid a hand over mine on the table, took a long breath. ‘I met someone, Ben.’

  At first I didn’t get what she meant. ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘Someone,’ she said vaguely. ‘Someone special.’

  ‘You mean a man.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  It felt like a sting. I pulled my hand out from under hers and folded my arms on my chest. Mum didn’t speak, giving me time to digest this.

  ‘What about Dad?’ I said.

  She looked away. ‘Dad’s gone.’

  ‘Only a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Four years ago, Ben. The rail crash was four years ago.’

  But she’d seen him only last month in the conference room, the night we’d all said goodbye. She’d wept while I opened a door to let Dad out of this world. Had she forgotten already, or was she trying to blank
it out? I stared at her, mystified.

  ‘So who is this fella?’ I said after a lull. ‘And what’s so special about him?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. You’re so full of anger.’

  ‘Is there any wonder?’

  ‘You needn’t be angry about this. Let me explain.’

  ‘Then explain. I’m not stopping you.’

  But the sparkle she’d come home with had gone. I’d wiped it away, I’d hurt her, and I didn’t like myself for it.

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just. . .’

  ‘That’s all right, honey.’

  ‘It’s just a shock, you know, hearing it.’

  ‘But it isn’t what you think. It’s not like we’re engaged. I didn’t lose my head or do anything foolish. It was all very proper, really.’

  ‘Proper?’

  ‘We’ll talk about this later, if you like. When you’re ready to listen.’

  ‘I’m ready now.’ I really wasn’t, but I didn’t want to see the pain on her face again so I tried to make more of an effort. ‘Tell me about him, how you met and all that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well. . . Ellie had gone for the day, and after breakfast at the harbour I took a short walk, then went shopping at the HiperDino supermarket down the hill from where we were staying. A child ran up the aisle, banged into me here.’ She rubbed her right elbow. ‘It was an accident, but the pain spun me right around and I dropped my basket and everything in it went flying across the floor.

  ‘That was when he turned onto the aisle. He saw I was in trouble and came to help. He picked up my things and got me through the checkout, but my arm was throbbing so badly I thought I would faint, and I’d left my medicine at the apartment, a long way up a steep slope. I couldn’t make it back.

  ‘So he settled me at a café across the street and ran to the pharmacy for painkillers, then sat with me till I felt better. It was only then that we got to talking. He seemed very easy-going and polite, very charming. He’s English, from London, in fact. Quite well off, but I didn’t know that then. After an hour – and the time just flew – he called a taxi to take me home. He insisted on paying, wouldn’t let me argue, and before I left, he gave me his card. In case of emergency, he said. I didn’t plan to call. I didn’t think I should. Later, though, I started wondering where I’d seen him before. I was sure I had but couldn’t place him. But when I woke up that night I knew.’