3 of a Kind

by Rohan Gavin

  Tilly reached the imposing building, which occupied an entire block of Chancery Lane and was accessed by one reinforced door with a large surveillance camera angled over it. They were met by the tight-lipped manager of the depository, who looked them over quizzically.

  ‘Allow mae,’ explained Uncle Bill, offering up his creased leather ID wallet.

  ‘Specialist Operations branch 42 …?’ the manager read aloud. ‘Never heard of it … until I got a call at 4 a.m. this morning.’

  ‘Well, let’s just hope ye don’t have tae hear from us again,’ said Bill and barged past him into the foyer, where the two SO42 agents took up position.

  Tilly and Knightley followed in Bill’s wake, passing a pair of uniformed security guards. The manager scuttled along behind them.

  Moments later the whole ensemble descended in a narrow lift, which opened out on to a secure basement guarded by a giant vault door. It was forged out of layers of laminated steel, welded together with rivets the size of dinner plates. The manager rose on tiptoe and typed a long sequence of numbers into a keypad, then a series of complex locking mechanisms rotated, gears engaged, pins retracted and bars slid apart, causing the door to gradually swing open on a set of unfathomably thick hinges.

  Tilly, Bill and Knightley stepped through the huge doorway into a long corridor, lined with compact-sized, individual steel boxes. Tilly walked straight to the box marked 1339 and tapped on it with a black-painted fingernail.

  The manager made a show of reaching into his jacket for the master keys.

  ‘Of course, this is highly irregular …’ he protested.

  ‘I’m tipped to get an A-star in Chemistry. Open it, or I’ll blow the bloody door off,’ she warned.

  Knightley and Bill exchanged a concerned glance.

  The manager flushed and inserted one key into each of the two locks, then turned them together. A click accompanied the door nudging ajar.

  Tilly reached over and tore it open to reveal …

  A rectangular drawer with a metal lid. She lifted the lid and groped around in the dark, vacuuous space, until her fingers found something sitting at the back: it was approximately the same size as a hardback book, but it was slim, smooth and cold. She pulled it out.

  It was a finely carved ivory box, with an array of cryptic-looking geometric designs spanning every side of it. On closer inspection, there appeared to be characters lurking behind the maze of etched lines: a winged figure; a serpent; and a man with a forked tail. Tilly fumbled with the box, trying to locate the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. She then shook it violently and raised her hands, preparing to shatter it on the steel edge of the deposit drawer.

  ‘Wait – !’ Knightley shouted, causing everyone to start. ‘It’s not a toy.’ He prised it out of Tilly’s determined grasp.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Uncle Bill – although he had no idea why. ‘Erm, what is it then?’

  ‘It’s a “puzzle box”,’ answered Knightley.

  ‘So it is a toy –’ Tilly demanded, reaching to grab it back.

  ‘Ah-ah,’ insisted Knightley. ‘If you break it you risk destroying what’s inside. They’re known to be booby-trapped.’

  ‘So let’s X-ray it,’ Tilly countered.

  Knightley shook his head. ‘It’s lined with lead. This is no ordinary box,’ he whispered in awe. He turned it over in his hands, analysing the markings. ‘Puzzle boxes are based on designs from the Mayans and the earliest African tribes. But this one appears to be Parisian in origin, mid-eighteenth century, one of only a dozen if my hunch is correct. It is made up of hundreds, if not thousands, of moving parts. You might guess it’s made of ivory. In fact, it’s made of bone. Some say … human bone.’

  ‘OK, that is creepy,’ admitted Tilly.

  ‘Aye,’ concurred Bill.

  The manager watched in baffled silence.

  Knightley went on: ‘Puzzle boxes were used to keep safe the darkest secrets. Conspiracy, blackmail, murder. It was even rumoured that they offered a portal into other dimensions. Other realities …’

  ‘You mean like wormholes?’ asked Tilly, unconvinced. ‘OK, now you’re getting a little carried away,’ she goaded.

  ‘Am I?’ Knightley challenged her, his ears lifting and brow lowering. ‘There are phenomena in this world that defy science, that defy logic. I’ve known this for some time, even though the rest of you think I’ve lost the plot.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘Well, I may not know everything, but I do know something about this box.’ He held it firmly in both hands. ‘Now, do you want to know what’s inside or not?’

  ‘Open it,’ she ordered.

  Knightley squinted, studying the characters etched into the sides of the box. ‘I’ve seen this done once before … by a Benedictine monk during the Case of the Missing Habit …’ He held it up to his right ear and tilted it, listening to the inner workings. Then he gripped it with all ten fingers arranging themselves in a wide spread around the box, placing his fingertips on the faces of several of the figures. He then pressed firmly and twisted his hands, as if opening a jam jar.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Want me tae have a gae?’ offered Bill.

  ‘Let me have another try,’ said Knightley, noticing a small, flower-like design on the centre of the lid. He pressed his ear to the box again, then kept the fingers of his left hand arranged on the characters while using the fingers of his right hand to rotate the petals of the flower – until he was rewarded with a gentle click and a steadily gaining whirr.

  Knightley quickly knelt down and set the box on the floor as the device unfolded itself. The lid flipped back and the four sides lowered with the aid of tiny springs, cogs and wheels, opening up to reveal: another rectangular box inside – this one made of modern aluminium.

  It was immediately recognisable as a hard drive.

  Tilly grabbed for it and checked the ports. Then she shrugged off her rucksack, unzipped a compartment and took out her laptop, unfolding and resting it on the shoulder pad of the manager’s suit jacket.

  ‘Excuse me …?’ he complained, craning his neck.

  ‘You’re excused,’ Tilly replied, continuing to use him as an improvised desk.

  She connected her computer to the hard drive with a mini USB cable. She clicked twice and a stream of green hieroglyphics filled the screen: a language that might as well have been Martian to Knightley and Bill.

  Tilly gazed deeply into the programming code, then pressed a series of keys in conjunction with each other.

  After several seconds a file appeared on screen, with the words: Carol Palmer – case history.

  ‘It’s Mum …’ Tilly swallowed.

  She clicked again. An embedded image showed a woman’s body laid out on a slab. Deceased.

  Tilly wanted so badly to look away but she couldn’t.

  She waited, frozen on the spot. ‘What – what is this?’ she whispered. A tear cascaded down her cheek.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Knightley. ‘Perhaps this is Underwood’s version of “the Knowledge”,’ he speculated – referring to his own journals, which had been destroyed at the hands of the Combination, remaining only in the head of his beloved son Darkus. His son who was currently not talking to him. ‘Perhaps this is where Underwood buries the bodies … his secrets and misdeeds.’

  Knightley carefully laid a hand on Tilly’s shoulder until she shook it off.

  ‘I want the names and locations of everyone involved in her death,’ she demanded. ‘I want answers.’

  ‘It might contain that and more,’ replied Knightley.

  Suddenly, the screen went blue, highlighting the colour of her hair.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she murmured.

  A skull and crossbones flashed up in black and white over another sea of green hieroglyphics.

  ‘Looks like he had an ace up his sleeve,’ observed Bill.

  ‘He wants to play? Let’s play.’ Tilly’s eyebrows lowered, meeting in the middle to form an angry line above her
nose. ‘This is malicious code. I need to conference in the group.’

  ‘What group?’ asked Knightley.

  ‘My hacker group,’ she replied. ‘I need more processing power and a secure internet connection. Like, yesterday!’

  The black London cab skidded to a halt on Cherwell Place and Knightley approached the blue door marked 27, letting Tilly and Uncle Bill in behind him.

  Tilly scaled the stairs clutching the hard drive, crossed the landing and burst into Knightley’s office.

  The Knightleys’ faithful Polish housekeeper, Bogna, looked up from her employer’s desk, somewhat guiltily. She was poised over the computer, waving the mouse in the air as if hunting for a signal. Her feather duster was propped beside her, like an improvised antenna.

  ‘Apology, Alan,’ she confessed. ‘You said I could use computer when you’re out on assignment.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Bogna,’ Knightley responded quickly. ‘Tilly needs to hop on there now.’

  Bogna put down the mouse, quickly dusted some trinkets that needed urgent attention, then made way for Tilly. Uncle Bill wheezed as he reached the top of the stairs, then waved awkwardly.

  ‘A’right, Boggers? Long time nae see.’

  ‘Yes, Monty. It has been long times.’ She adjusted her generously sized housecoat.

  Knightley glanced from Bill to Bogna, then back again, sensing a certain electricity in the air.

  Tilly slumped into Knightley’s chair and hunched over the computer tower, plugging in the hard drive. ‘Fortunately I made some enhancements to your system last time I was here.’

  ‘You did?’ asked Knightley, watching clueless as Tilly played the computer keys with the grace of a concert pianist. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  Tilly cleared several search windows that Bogna had opened.

  Knightley watched with curiosity. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Bogna … What exactly were you doing on there?’

  ‘Finding husbands,’ she replied flatly.

  Knightley cocked his head, thinking he must have misheard. ‘Come again?’

  ‘Online datings,’ said Bogna proudly, inspecting the fingers of her rubber gloves. ‘I’m not gettings any younger. And no one else is making any proposals.’

  Bill caught something in his throat and started coughing and blushing in equal measures. ‘Aye, thaa’ll be the kipper I had this mornin’,’ he pointed out, before thumping the centre of his chest and exhaling sharply.

  ‘I make some sandwich,’ Bogna announced. ‘Then, if you’re not needings me, Alan, I have appointments to keep.’ She rested the duster on her shoulder and exited the office.

  Uncle Bill watched her leave, then pouted and shifted on his feet.

  Knightley examined the unlikely pair, deducing that there was more going on than met the eye, but now was not the time for further investigation.

  Tilly looked up from her seat. ‘I did a file dump.’ Knightley and Bill glanced at each other, confused. ‘I’ve uploaded the contents of the hard drive to the dark cloud,’ she explained, absently playing with a letter-opener.

  ‘I know what the “cloud” is. But what on earth is the “dark cloud” …?’ Knightley asked.

  ‘Quantum-encrypted online storage. From there, me and some colleagues can launch a multi-pronged attack on the code. But it’ll take days. Possibly even longer.’ She unconsciously stabbed the letter-opener into the desk in frustration.

  Knightley’s eyes widened until he saw she’d only punctured a stress-relief ball that he’d received several Christmases ago. He inched away from her, as a precaution.

  ‘So now,’ Tilly carried on, oblivious, ‘we wait.’

  *

  Downstairs, Bogna angled a chef’s knife, held the soft white bread firmly by the crust and cut the sandwiches into triangles, not squares. Then she laid down the blade and gazed out of the kitchen window at the neighbouring rooftops, drifting off a moment, until her mobile phone blasted its Polish folk dance ringtone, giving her a start.

  She picked up. ‘Bogna Rejesz? This is she?’ The voice on the other end of the phone brought the hint of a smile to her face. ‘Ah, yes, Theo. I have received your online messages.’ The voice on the other end continued, causing Bogna to blush deeply and adjust the belt of her housecoat. ‘I would be very interested in a meetings up tonight.’ She listened for another few seconds. ‘Yes, that sounds charmings. Yes … you too.’ She ended the call and let out a long, contented sigh, before popping a clove of garlic in her mouth and chewing it dreamily.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE WINNER’S CIRCLE

  Darkus stepped out of the chauffeur-driven limo with his mum, Jackie, close behind him. Cheers rippled through the crowd gathered outside the auditorium, as bodies pressed against the security barrier by the red carpet.

  ‘Isn’t this something?’ Jackie commented, awestruck. ‘Clive always said he’d land on his feet. I suppose I should’ve had more faith in him!’

  ‘I guess,’ said Darkus indifferently.

  He couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for his stepfather Clive’s sudden good fortune – and, in fact, found the man’s return to fame a truly incredible turn of events. Especially since it wasn’t that long ago that Clive had fallen under the spell of the Combination’s hypnotic guidebook, The Code, and launched a murderous attack on him in the upstairs bathroom. Fortunately, that sinister book was now off the shelves, and Clive had returned to his beastly – but normal – self.

  ‘If only Tilly could see this,’ Jackie went on. ‘Have you heard from her today, Doc?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, glancing guiltily at his phone, which displayed a dozen missed calls, all labelled Tilly.

  Just then, the spectators whistled and Darkus and his mum were politely shoved aside by a team of handlers in black T-shirts and earpieces, as Clive stepped out of the limo behind them. A burst of phone cameras flashed along either side of the red carpet as the man of the hour sauntered into the spotlight.

  ‘Fan-ruddy-tastic,’ murmured Clive, his salt-and-pepper hair aglow in the flashbulbs.

  A female reporter sprinted over to greet him as he straightened the lapels of his extraordinarily shiny suit. A camera operator raced alongside to record the interview.

  ‘Look at this reception,’ the reporter began. ‘Clive … It’s week three. The talent has been chosen. Your fellow celebrity judges are already inside. How does it feel to be a fixture on Britain’s highest rated TV programme?’

  ‘It feels … phe-nom-enal –’ he paused, seeking out the reporter’s ID necklace resting on her blouse, before judiciously refocusing his attention on the camera – ‘Suzy,’ he added. ‘What can I say? It feels like … destiny.’

  ‘And I see you’ve brought some family members along too?’ she observed.

  ‘Them?’ replied Clive. ‘Well, Darkus isn’t really family, and my real daughter, Tilly … to be honest, the less said about her, the better.’

  ‘I see …’ The reporter raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Mr Palmer?’ a voice interrupted, as the handlers with earpieces swarmed around him. ‘Let’s stick to the script, huh?’ one of them advised.

  Clive twitched then addressed the camera. ‘The Winner’s Circle airs every Friday at 8 p.m. with a results show on Saturday. Be there or be –’ he drew an invisible shape in the air, then winked – ‘square.’

  The handlers expertly guided him across the red carpet to a discreet doorway. Clive waved vigorously to the assembled fans as he vanished into the auditorium. Darkus watched with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

  The reporter continued, ‘That was Clive Palmer, the disgraced ex-presenter of Wheel Spin, who bounced back from a nervous breakdown to land firmly in the driver’s seat on the judges’ panel of Britain’s highest rated TV talent contest. And I can see he hasn’t changed a bit. Now, let’s catch up with some of tonight’s contestants …’

  Another team of handlers escorted Jackie and Darkus to a separate entrance.

  I
nside, the auditorium was strangely silent. Crew members shuffled equipment around, air-conditioning units whirred from all sides, but the seats and aisles were empty, awaiting the influx of excited audience members.

  Jackie and Darkus were shown to their seats in the wings, adjacent to the judging panel.

  An array of colourful spotlights and towering Jumbotron screens flickered to life. Clive strode on to the stage and took a moment to behold the spectacle, then patted down the pockets of his shiny suit, searching for something.

  ‘This calls for a selfie,’ he muttered. ‘Debbie? What’ve you done with my phone?’

  An anxious twenty-something assistant appeared at the edge of the stage. ‘I don’t think you gave it to me, Mr Palmer?’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar, young lady …?’ Clive pointed an accusing finger.

  ‘I’ll go and look for it right now, Mr Palmer.’

  ‘Well, hop to it, dear. Chop-chop.’

  ‘OK, five minutes, people,’ a stage manager called out over the PA system.

  ‘Mum, I’ll be right back …’ Darkus told Jackie, and slid out of the row, jogging down the aisle with a sudden sense of purpose.

  ‘Darkus?’ Jackie called after him as he approached the base of the stage.

  Clive glanced around anxiously, only to see his stepson waving from below. ‘Yessssss?’ he hissed.

  ‘Er, Clive?’ Darkus spoke up. ‘About your phone … I’m no tailor, but judging by the “bunching” in your jacket enclosure, I think you’ll find that –’

  ‘Guess what? I’m no tailor either, but zip it. I don’t have time for your nonsense, Darkus. Can’t you see I’m working? If I’d known you and your mother were going to be this much of a distraction I wouldn’t have given you VIP seating. Debbbbbieeee?’ Clive marched offstage.

  Darkus sighed and turned to his mother with a shrug. She waved him back to his seat sympathetically, as a thundering noise approached the chamber. A dozen security guards unlocked several sets of double doors, ushering in a flood of audience members of all ages and ethnicities: pensioners with walking sticks and wheelchairs, young children, even a newborn.