by Guy Adams
‘Do you take milk or sugar?’ came a voice from the kitchen.
‘No, thank you,’ Toby replied, having taken to drinking his coffee black as he kept running out of milk.
‘Then you’re easy to please,’ said Shining, coming back into the room with a pair of coffee cups, one of which he handed to his visitor.
Toby took it and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling stranded – in foreign territory.
‘My wailing wall,’ said Shining, nodding to the photographs before sitting down on one of the sofas and looking out of the window.
Toby found the conviviality disturbing. First he had been made a drink; now he was standing while his superior relaxed by the window.
‘It’s a good spot,’ said Shining, nodding at the view outside, ‘though I have no doubt my paymasters would begrudge my saying so.’ He looked to Toby and smiled. ‘The only reason people get sent here is when they’ve made someone stupid but important hate them.’ He gestured once again to the opposite sofa. Toby sat. ‘Was that how it was for you?’
Toby thought for a moment. Unsure whether to tell the truth or not. Eventually he decided it could hardly matter. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I let someone get away from me on a mission.’
‘We’ve all done that. Why was this a particular problem?’
‘I was cocky. I let him get away because I didn’t pay attention. I underestimated him.’
‘And he surprised you?’
‘Yes. He hit me over the head and ran.’
‘Hit you with what?’
‘Does it matter? A bust of Beethoven.’
‘It matters. It would hardly be funny were it a crowbar instead of a porcelain ornament of a dead composer.’
‘I don’t find it particularly funny anyway.’
‘No, but I bet your colleagues did.’
Toby shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘What do they call you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘After it happened, they must have given you a nickname – what was it?’
Toby didn’t really see it was any of Shining’s business. He had hoped to leave the name behind with the transfer. ‘They called me Ludwig.’
‘Really? I would have guessed at Rollover.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m old enough to know who Chuck Berry was. Doesn’t matter.’ He took a sip of his coffee and fixed Toby with a penetrating stare. ‘Are you washed-up?’ he asked. ‘Do you deserve to be hidden away out here?’
Toby didn’t feel annoyed by the question, something that would surprise him when he thought back on it. ‘Depends where “here” is,’ he replied, ‘and what I’m expected to do.’
‘A sensible, if evasive answer. Section 37 is an anomaly within the Service. A borderless agency that nobody can quite decide who runs. Are we part of the SIS or the Security Service? Neither, even if pressed, will admit to us. The ugly date brought home after a drunken night out. For all that, you’re expected to fight and, if necessary, die protecting your country. Does that sound unreasonable?’
‘Yes, but I’d probably do it if I had to.’
Shining smiled. ‘Good lad! Maybe we’ll be able to show them there’s life in Ludwig yet, eh?’
‘Do you have to call me that?’
‘No,’ Shining smiled, ‘but I probably will anyway. Never run away from the labels they give you. Wear them with pride and rob them of their sting.’
‘You’d need that philosophy,’ said Toby without thinking, ‘being called August Shining.’
Instead of being angered his new Section Chief laughed and nodded. ‘It’s not as florid as it sounds. I was born in August, and my parents were too busy to think of something better.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ Toby admitted, then immediately changed the subject for fear of getting onto the subject of his father. ‘So what exactly is it we do here?’
‘They didn’t tell you?’ Shining finished his coffee. ‘No. I imagine they wouldn’t. We’re the smallest department in the Secret Service, and exist purely by force of determination and my pig-headedness. We are charged with protecting the country or its interests from preternatural terrorism.’
Toby had to think about that. The words simply hadn’t made sense so he assumed he had heard them incorrectly. He repeated them out loud. ‘Preternatural terrorism?’
‘Absolutely. You’ve got a lot to learn.’
The sound in Toby’s head returned, that white noise of confusion that had assailed him when he was out on the street. It was the sound of a mind folding under the weight of things it simply didn’t want to process.
‘Do you believe in the paranormal?’ Shining asked. Toby simply stared at him, desperately wishing he had misunderstood the question, the word, the concept.
‘No,’ he responded, aware that the tone of his voice suggested he thought the answer obvious.
He needn’t have worried about giving offence. Shining merely smiled. It was a soft, indulgent smile, the sort you’d offer to a child who has just expressed disbelief that men ever walked on the moon. ‘You will,’ he said, ‘unless you’re foolhardy.’ He winked. ‘And I don’t think you are.’
There was the beep of a phone and Shining ferreted in his pocket. Swiping at the screen of his phone he peered through his glasses at the text message and gave a quiet chuckle. ‘And maybe this will help us decide one way or the other,’ he said.
He wandered out of the room only to reappear shrugging on a long overcoat. ‘Come on then,’ he said, ‘let’s begin your education.’
d) Piccadilly Line, Southbound for King’s Cross, London
They were underneath the city and Shining was still saying things Toby wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
‘Of course,’ he said. His lips were close to Toby’s ear so he could be heard over the noisy line, like a devil perched on his shoulder whispering confidences. ‘In the ’60s everybody had a section like ours. Those were the days! Budgets as over-inflated as the nation’s paranoia. There was nothing in which we couldn’t believe.
‘I was brought on straight out of Cambridge,’ Shining continued, ‘selected because of a frankly awful thesis about the philosophical implications of time travel.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You could write about any old twaddle then and some fool would give you a doctorate.’
The train drew to a halt at Turnpike Lane and a large man clambered aboard, balancing himself against a tatty shopping trolley. He took one look at Toby and Shining and waddled to the far end of the carriage, ignoring the empty seats next to them.
‘It obviously impressed somebody,’ Shining continued, ‘because I was running a whole section within twelve months. Organising a network of forty or so agents, funnelling cash into research on everything from remote viewing to the living dead.’
‘The living dead,’ Toby repeated, dreamily and involuntarily, like a hypnotised man minutes away from swaggering around the stage in the belief he had transformed into a chicken.
‘I know, ridiculous, though intelligence suggested the Russians cracked it.’ Shining tugged at the crease in his trousers, ever the dandy. ‘They always were so much better funded, even back then.’
Toby slowly became aware that the other passengers were all moving further down the carriage, leaving the half that he and Shining were sitting in completely empty.
‘Then the ’70s came,’ said Shining, ‘and everything was budget cuts and a new broom. If you didn’t fit the new, leaner Service, then your section was closed and you were folded in somewhere else. If I hadn’t saved Harold Wilson’s neck – literally – from that bastard Romanian and his perverse clan, I would have suffered the fate of everyone else. As it is I operate under a special sanction. Section 37 will continue to operate while its Section Chief, that would be me, continues to draw breath.’
‘Better look after yourself then,’ Toby said, staring at the other passengers. However brazen his stare, they didn’t seem to be aware of it. Or aware of him at all.
&nb
sp; ‘Well, that was rather the problem,’ Shining agreed, ‘they might not have been able to close me down but they could make it as hard as possible for me to function. One old man in an office kept right on the periphery of the city, struggling to run a network and still manage to file a report or three. I must admit I was surprised to receive your transfer order.’
‘You and me both.’
‘I imagine it was processed without those further up the rungs of state noticing. I can only guess what Sir Robin will make of it when he hears; the word is bound to filter up to his rarefied peak of Whitehall soon enough.’
‘Sir Robin?’ Toby couldn’t take his eyes off the other passengers. Several times now he had caught one or other of them looking directly at him and Shining. Their eyes registered no response of any kind; they were the vague stares of listless travellers working their way through the adverts for mobile phones and holidays.
‘One of my more forthright opponents,’ Shining replied, ‘God knows why, took a dislike to me and has made life awkward ever since. I’m sure he’ll be borderline psychotic once he hears the section staff allocation has doubled.’
This roused Toby. ‘So, presumably he’ll be eager to stick the knife in my career, too?’
‘My dear boy,’ Shining replied, ‘if you had a career they would hardly have sent you to me now, would they? You haven’t a thing to lose.’
How depressing, thought Toby, to have finally hit rock bottom. He went back to surveying the other passengers. One young woman was gazing right at him, eyes glazed, attention miles away. Toby stared right back. Then, just for fun, he pulled a face at her. She didn’t respond. So he couldn’t even offend someone on the Tube, something he’d always thought one of the easiest things to do in London.
e) 63 Sampson Court, King’s Cross, London
They emerged from the tunnels into the gleaming tiles and unrestrained panic of King’s Cross. Everywhere you looked people were either running with cases or tutting at those who were.
‘We’ll cut through St. Pancras,’ Shining suggested. ‘It’s quicker.’
Now away from the strange atmosphere of the train carriage, Toby was thinking over some of what Shining had said. He couldn’t decide how to respond to any of it. On the one hand, Shining was charming, gentle and entirely believable. On the other, he was alluding to things that simply could not be true. Toby could hardly decide whether he was in the company of a joker or a lunatic. It made matters more difficult that his new Section Chief seemed clearly neither.
‘How long have you been on your own?’ Toby ventured, as it seemed the least provocative of all the possible questions that had occurred to him.
Shining stopped abruptly, forcing a family to halt and filter either side of him like a river working its way past an awkwardly-placed rock. ‘That’s a question,’ he said. ‘I had a secretary on work placement at some point in the early ’80s. Sandra. She ran screaming from the building before lunchtime on her third day. I never saw her again.’ He continued walking. ‘Though I did give her the best work review I could muster after so little time in her company.’
So Section 37 had been a one-man band for nearly thirty years? It was no wonder that Shining seemed strange. Anyone would develop eccentricities over that time.
And yet, again, he was forced to admit that Shining didn’t act strangely. He said strange things but that was not at all the same.
Studying him as they passed by the announcement board of St Pancras International and on towards the Midland Road exit, Toby decided he had never seen a more centred and controlled man in his life. Despite his age, Shining moved with a grace and delicacy that Toby could only dream of. He was smart to the point of fastidiousness, groomed and scented in the natural way of a man with class rather than an urge to sell used vehicles. He was, quite simply, exactly the sort of man Toby wished himself to be, albeit with an extra thirty or forty years on the clock.
Shining pushed through the glass doors that led outside, dropping a coin into a homeless man’s hat as he passed.
‘Thanks, Mr. Shining,’ the man replied, before looking expectantly towards Toby. Toby mumbled about his lack of change, stuffing his hands in his pockets to muffle the sound of jangling as he jogged across the road behind the old man.
‘So,’ he said, once they were side by side again, ‘where are we going?’
Shining was looking at the barricade that surrounded the construction of the Francis Crick Institute. He shook his head slowly. ‘We’ll have to deal with this one day,’ he said. ‘Mark my words, it’s a bomb waiting to go off right in the centre of the city.’
Toby looked at the proud posters that covered the barricade, filled – as all such things are – with words like ‘legacy’ and ‘future’ but singularly avoiding the now. ‘Just a research place, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no such thing as “just” research,’ Shining replied. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime tidying up the unwelcome answers to questions idiots should never have asked.’ He turned to smile at Toby. ‘Though I didn’t answer yours.’
Toby wondered for a moment whether Shining was suggesting he was an idiot.
‘We’re going to see a couple of agents of mine,’ said Shining as they moved on past the construction site and into the warren of apartment blocks and houses that lay beyond it. ‘And provide you with the first in a new career of bizarre experiences.’
Stopping at the gate of a courtyard block of flats he tapped a number into the entry pad for the lock and ushered Toby through. ‘I hope so, anyway,’ he added.
‘So you’re not sure if it’s going to be bizarre or not?’ Toby asked, confused.
‘Oh, no,’ Shining chuckled, ‘I have no doubt of that. I just don’t know if it will be the start of your career or the end of it. After all, it rather depends on whether you survive.’
Toby decided he was having his leg pulled. Rather than argue he gave a flat smile and followed Shining across the courtyard.
‘They’ve been at it again,’ came a voice from behind the row of bins. A West Indian woman loomed up from between a pair of brimming dumpsters and fixed Toby with a distinctly hostile look. ‘You know anything about that?’
‘What?’ he replied.
‘Scaring my Roberta,’ she replied, lifting up a tabby cat that had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘They come here to sell their funny smokes and pills and they chase my Roberta all around the garden,’ she continued. ‘They want to watch I don’t catch them at it. I’d beat them within an inch of their lives, yes I would.’
‘And who would blame you?’ said Shining, offering his fingers for Roberta to sniff. Toby, impressed by his bravery, knew he would never have done such a thing in case Roberta chose to bite them off.
‘They think the police will protect them,’ the woman continued, ‘but I’ve not met a policeman I couldn’t talk down.’ She looked at them curiously. ‘You’re not policemen, are you?’
‘Far from it,’ said Shining, ‘we’re just visiting friends.’
‘Well, you mind you tell them too. I won’t have anyone disturbing my Roberta.’
They left her cooing over the cat and worked their way around the back of the building.
A small playground enclosed six youths in its tall cage. Two of them were swaying listlessly on the swings while the others talked to one another in a huddle by the merry-go-round.
‘Selling their funny smokes and pills,’ commented Shining with a smile.
The youths looked up as he and Toby passed but spared them little interest.
Heading up the rear stairwell, Toby was impressed again by the fitness of his superior. Shining took the steps two at a time, showing no shortness of breath as he reached the second floor and began to stroll out along the balcony.
‘Hello again,’ came a voice from one of the windows.
Shining stopped and smiled at the elderly gentleman beyond the glass. He was a small, rotund man, slowly working his way through a sideboard of washing up, his woollen
tank-top damp with spilled suds.
‘Haven’t seen you along here in a few weeks,’ the man said. The English accent was impeccable but Toby’s ear was sharp enough to pick up the man’s Russian origin.
‘Things have been busy,’ said Shining. ‘You know how it can be.’
‘Oh, I remember – but that’s all in the past for me.’ The old man propped the window wide open and returned to his chores. ‘Nowadays this is as busy as I get. My daughter bought me a machine last year. I try to explain to her that I don’t want it. If the machines take over all my jobs what will I do with my days? Sit watching them as they go about the things I used to do myself? That seems like death to me.’
‘You may well be right,’ said Shining, ‘and we’ve both been dodging that for a long time.’
The man laughed and looked to Toby. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘He’s working with me now.’
‘Still up to your usual tricks?’
‘You know better than to ask,’ Shining replied.
The man chuckled again. ‘Yes, I do,’ he admitted. ‘Well, get on your way, but stop by sometime and share a little of an old man’s time. Why don’t you? We can reminisce.’
‘Neither of our governments would allow it, Gavrill,’ said Shining, ‘and I’m too old to break their rules now.’
‘Like you ever stuck to them.’
Shining said nothing, just smiled and carried on his way. Toby gave the old Russian a half-hearted wave and followed on behind.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘My opposite number in the KGB,’ said Shining, ‘many years ago. Glasnost melted his career away to a cool mist and he defected here. Or so he leads me to believe. I have no doubt someone, somewhere, will still be told I passed by.’
Toby couldn’t help his scepticism. Surely, even if Section 37’s remit was exactly as Shining had stated, nobody else would care? Wouldn’t they all think it as mad as he did?
