Allbright smiled coldly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised someone your age has grown paranoid and deluded.”
She made a point of looking around the office and turning up her nose at all the old trophies from Catherine Latimer’s past. The goldfish bowl half-full of murky ectoplasm, in which the ghost of a goldfish swam solemnly backwards, blinking on and off like a faulty light bulb. A lady’s elbow-length evening glove, in sheer white silk, nailed firmly to a wooden base under a glass jar. The Haunted Glove of Haversham, responsible for strangling seventeen young debutantes in 1953. The glove’s fingers still twitched whenever anyone looked at it. A small silver compact from the 1960s, innocent enough until you raised the cover and looked into its mirror. Where something horrible scrabbled forever against the other side of the glass, fighting to break through, to get out.
“I mean,” Allbright said finally. “Is there anything here that isn’t ancient history? You live in the past, Latimer, hoarding your old triumphs so you don’t have to think about today’s problems.”
“I see,” said Latimer. “It’s what have you done for us recently, is it?”
“The job is about dealing with what’s in front of us,” Allbright said sharply. “Things have changed since your day. It’s not just ghosts in white sheets, rattling chains in country-houses. New problems require new ways of thinking, new solutions. Your old-fashioned methods are now officially at an end. I will take us forward, into the twenty-first century.”
Latimer sat back in her chair and regarded Allbright thoughtfully, casually allowing her cigarette smoke to drift in Allbright’s direction.
“You have no idea what’s really going on,” she said finally. “Or why you were selected to take over this job. But I know. You have no idea of what you’re getting into; but you’ll find out.”
Allbright stirred uneasily. Latimer thought for a moment she might actually have reached Allbright, made her think . . . but the new Boss just shrugged briefly, eager to move on.
“I’ve been going through your file,” she said. “It makes for fascinating reading.”
“You don’t want to believe everything you read in official, incomplete, and no doubt heavily redacted files,” said Latimer. “There’s nothing in my file that matters. I saw to that, long ago.”
“I’m frankly amazed you’ve been allowed to stay in office for so long,” said Allbright.
“What makes you think anyone had a choice?” said Latimer.
“You should have been forced to retire years ago!”
“Ah, the arrogance of youth,” said Latimer. “I remained in my post because I was good at my job. And because there was no-one else good enough to take my place. God knows I looked hard enough. I thought for a while it might be Patterson . . . but we all know how that turned out.”
“Whatever influence you might once have held, it’s gone,” said Allbright. “You have no friends left. Or at least, not anywhere that matters.”
“If you really believed that,” said Latimer, “you wouldn’t be so nervous.”
“I am not nervous!”
Latimer smiled, as Allbright slowly sank back into her chair again.
“You should be grateful you’re being allowed to retire,” Allbright said finally. “But even that is conditional. I want access to all your secret files, all the reports and information you never deigned to submit to the official archives. I want a full report on what really happened at the Brighton Conference Centre, including what you were really doing there. And, on behalf of the Government, I demand you return all the books you took out of the Secret Libraries, without proper permission! You had no right to remove important and valuable items from such a secure location for your own private business!”
“There are no secret files,” Latimer said calmly. “I’ve said everything about Brighton that I’m going to . . . And I never took any books out of the Secret Libraries.”
“You’re defying me?” said Allbright, her voice rising despite herself.
“I’m defying the people you represent,” said Latimer.
Allbright leaned forward across the desk with a satisfied look on her face. As though she’d expected nothing less.
“You must know this makes you look even more guilty. We know there are secret files; there must be. We know there was a Crowley Project presence at Brighton. We have a witness. And the books were taken out in your name. What makes you think you can stand against the new Head of the Carnacki Institute? Who do you think you are?”
“I’m Catherine Latimer!”
This time, it was Latimer’s turn to sink back into her chair. The two women regarded each other silently for some time.
“I could fight you,” Latimer said finally. “I do still have friends, contacts, influence.”
Allbright just smiled. The cold, secure smile of someone who knows they hold the winning hand. “Not inside the Institute. Even as we speak, a root-and-branch reorganisation is going on, from top to bottom.”
“A purge,” said Latimer.
“If you like. We prefer to see it as a weeding out of inefficient and disloyal elements. Anyone you might have looked to for help is already gone. You’ve been here too long, Latimer. Outlived all the people who owed you favours or were frightened by your reputation. You’re on your own now. You’re the past; and I’m the future.”
“Then God help us all,” said Latimer.
She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Allbright was startled into reaching quickly for a desk drawer, in a way that suggested she had a weapon concealed there. Latimer leaned forward, and calmly stubbed out her cigarette on the Hepplewhite desk. And then she turned away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said Allbright, her voice rising again. “You can’t believe you’ll just be allowed to walk out of here!”
“I don’t answer to jumped-up bureaucrats like you,” said Latimer. “Never have and never will.”
“You’ll answer to my superiors!”
“No,” said Latimer. “You’ll answer to mine.”
And just for a moment, she allowed the golden glow to shine from her eyes. The fierce otherworldly light that showed she’d been touched by Outside forces, long ago. The golden light blazed in the room, then was gone. Allbright’s jaw dropped, and she sat slumped in her chair. Looking honestly shocked as well as surprised. Catherine Latimer dropped her a sly wink.
“If I were you . . . I’d be wondering what else they didn’t tell you.”
She snapped her fingers imperiously, and a Door opened in the wall opposite her, which quite definitely hadn’t been there a moment before. Allbright’s hand went to the desk drawer again; and this time Latimer had no doubt she meant to use whatever she had there. So she turned to the display case beside her, knocked over the glass jar, ripped the Haunted Glove of Haversham free from the nails that held it to its wooden base, and threw the nasty thing right into Allbright’s face. The long silk glove writhed and twisted as it shot through the air, its white fingers twitching hungrily. Allbright had no choice but to put up both hands to protect herself as the Glove went for her throat. And while she was busy with that, Latimer strode across what used to be her office and stepped through the open Door. She paused on the threshold to glance back, just for a moment.
“Be seeing you,” she murmured, then she was gone. The Door closed silently behind her and disappeared.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Out in the small airless room that served as a waiting area for all those summoned to see the Boss, JC and Melody and Happy were cooling their heels. Sitting resentfully on very uncomfortable visitors’ chairs, while they waited to be invited in. A situation they were all too used to. From time to time, one or the other of them would glare at the heavily reinforced and entirely soundproofed steel door that was the only entrance to the Boss’s office. And wonder what was going on behind i
t.
The constantly recycled air in the small windowless room never failed to give JC a headache. And the frankly depressing décor didn’t help. Dozens of head-and-shoulders portraits, covering all four walls, of old agents fallen in the field. Not a smile to be seen on any of them. The oldest portraits were paintings, which gave way to daguerreotypes, then photos—from sepia to black-and-white to colour. Men and women who’d faced off against the worst Heaven and Hell could throw at them because the Carnacki Institute doesn’t take any crap from the Hereafter. Field agents who had put their souls on the line, not for medals or money, honour or glory, but just because they believed it was a job that needed doing.
JC made a point of sitting calmly, legs casually crossed, back straight and head held high, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Because you never want the enemy to see you looking vulnerable. He looked around the room, for want of anything better to do. Nothing had changed since his last visit; but then, it wasn’t the kind of place where anything really changed. The room had been here before he joined the Institute, and no doubt would still be here long after he was gone. People come and go; but the Ghost Finders of the Carnacki Institute go on forever.
He hadn’t been told why he and his team had to report in so urgently, so soon after taking on two cases in a row without proper downtime; but he could guess. When a case goes as badly wrong as Brighton had, with so many innocents dead . . . the need to spread the blame around quickly becomes paramount. Everyone feels the need to pass it on before it can stick. JC did feel guilty, that so many people had died on his watch. That he hadn’t been able to pull off one of his famous last-minute miracle solutions and save the day. But one of the first things a field agent learns is that you can’t always save everyone. Latimer knew that. JC was pretty sure she’d take responsibility. She knew none of it was his fault, or his team’s. The whole thing had been her idea, after all.
Melody was sitting stiff-backed, arms tightly folded, scowling defiantly at the whole damned world. She was never comfortable, making personal reports. She’d always related better to machines than to people. Her usual response to criticism was to go for the throat. She darted the occasional glance at Happy, beside her. Hands folded neatly in his lap, staring at nothing. He’d slept surprisingly well, for a change; but he hadn’t said a word since he woke up that morning. He was drawing back inside himself, putting up barriers to keep out an increasingly intrusive world. Until he couldn’t see out any more.
Melody hadn’t dared give him any pills to try and bring him back—not with the Brighton interview hanging over them. Better he say nothing, and risk giving away the extent of his condition, than say something and confirm it. He seemed . . . tractable enough for the moment. And he did still smile, sometimes, when he looked at her. Melody sat stiffly in her chair, her heart breaking, and hoped someone would be stupid enough to give her a good reason to punch them out.
The Boss’s personal secretary, Heather, was typing with great concentration at her brutally efficient desk, ignoring all of them. JC considered her, unobtrusively. Heather wasn’t just a secretary; she was also the Boss’s last line of defence. No-one got past Heather. Calm, professional, pleasantly pretty in a blonde, curly-haired, sweet-faced sort of way. She dressed smartly rather than fashionably and appeared harmless enough. Unless you knew better. Supposedly, Heather was secretly equipped and armed to such an extent she could stop a whole army of invading terrorists in their tracks. Having seen Heather in action a few times, JC was quite prepared to believe it. She was also scarily efficient, close-mouthed about her Boss and her job, and unpredictably dangerous. Right now, she was pounding away at her keyboard so hard, it actually jumped into the air from time to time.
Which was never a good sign. Something was wrong, something had changed. JC couldn’t put his finger on anything specific; it wasn’t that Heather had said anything . . . It was more in the way she carefully avoided looking at him or his team, concentrating entirely on her work. Normally, Heather and JC would exchange a little sharp-edged banter, just to make it clear neither of them was too impressed with the other. In fact, JC could usually rely on Heather to help him judge what was in the wind before any interview with the Boss. Such as: how deep in it he was, or the best way to jump . . . But not today. The few times he’d tried to strike up a conversation, Heather had shot him down with a curt monosyllable. Which could only mean . . . something really bad had happened. Or was about to happen. JC scowled and wondered if he could get to the door before Heather could produce a gun.
His first thought was to just go to ground and disappear, until whatever shitstorm it was had blown over. But then, that was his usual first thought whenever he was kept waiting to see the Boss. He knew if he ever did decide it was time to go missing, he’d have to run hard and fast to avoid the kind of hounds the Institute would set on his trail. Give up everything he had, leave it all behind, because he couldn’t afford to take anything that might slow him down. And he wasn’t ready to do that, just yet. His scowl deepened. Brighton had been bad, a full-on disaster, but he honestly couldn’t see how any of the blame could be laid at his door. Even an experienced A team couldn’t hope to stand off a direct attack by the Flesh Undying. Unless someone was looking for a scapegoat. A public sacrifice for a very public failure. Would the Boss really throw him and his team to the wolves, to protect herself? JC sat very still, his mind racing as he considered . . . possibilities.
Heather suddenly stopped typing, and swivelled around on her chair to look directly at JC for the first time. Her face was entirely unreadable. JC smiled easily at her, while his heart raced so hard he was sure she could hear it.
“The Boss says you can go in now,” said Heather.
“About time,” said JC.
He stood up, and his knees cracked loudly from being still for so long. He looked thoughtfully at Heather for a moment. “I didn’t hear the Boss call you.”
“New arrangement,” said Heather. “In you go.”
Melody helped Happy up onto his feet and tugged briefly at his dishevelled clothes before giving it up as a bad job. She took him unobtrusively by the arm and urged him towards the steel door. He went along willingly enough. JC moved quickly forward to take the lead, though whether to put himself between his team and any attack, or just demonstrate he was still team leader, even he wasn’t sure. The heavy steel door swung silently open before him. JC took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode in to confront the Boss with his head held high.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The Ghost Finders stopped dead just inside the door as they took in the new face sitting behind the Boss’s desk. They didn’t know her; but they knew trouble when they saw it. The door closed quietly behind them. JC looked vaguely around the office, as though half-expecting Catherine Latimer to be hiding somewhere . . . and then looked reluctantly back at the woman behind the desk. She seemed a little flushed and flustered but was clearly doing her best to look like a cold and forbidding authority figure. Somehow, JC just knew they weren’t going to get along. He glanced back at the closed door and tried hard not to feel trapped. Or under threat. So . . . when in doubt, go on the offensive. JC knew a lot about being offensive. He strode forward, planted himself before the desk, and glared right at the new face.
“Who are you? Where’s the Boss?”
“I am Hillary Allbright, Head of the Carnacki Institute,” she said coldly. “Your new Boss. Don’t look for Catherine Latimer, she’s gone. She’s history. You will not be seeing her again. Sit down, Mr. Chance. You and your team take your orders from me now.”
“Oh shit,” said Happy.
JC and Melody both turned their heads sharply to look at him; but he had nothing more to say. The three of them sat down on the very uncomfortable visitors’ chairs and studied their new Boss with a blatant lack of enthusiasm.
“Where is Latimer?” said JC. “What’s happened to he
r?”
“That needn’t concern you,” said Allbright. “All that matters is, you answer to me now. And only to me.”
“Meet the new Boss, same as the old Boss,” said Happy. “Don’t get sacrificed again.”
“Is he being funny?” said Allbright.
“Hard to tell,” said Melody. She glared at Happy. “You choose now to start talking again?”
“Self-preservation instincts kicking in,” said Happy. “Better than drugs. Though not as long-lasting.”
“So,” JC said loudly, to drag the conversation back into touch, “Latimer is out . . . Why weren’t we informed of this before?”
“Because you didn’t need to know,” said Allbright. “Such decisions are made well above your pay grade. A great many changes are taking place within the Institute; security must be preserved.”
“A bureaucrat!” said Melody. “Oh dear Lord, we’re in trouble now . . .”
JC worried his lower lip between his teeth, thinking hard, trying to sort out the implications. It was like having not just the carpet but the whole floor whipped out from under his feet. Catherine Latimer had been Boss of the Institute for what seemed like forever. If she was gone, did that mean her enemies inside the Institute had finally got to her? And were they, necessarily, agents of the Flesh Undying? You can’t be in charge of an important organisation like the Carnacki Institute for as long as Latimer was and not make all kinds of enemies. For all kinds of reasons. JC looked up and caught Allbright looking at him as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. And she was smiling: the smile of a hunter whose prey has just ambled unsuspecting into the trap. JC wished he’d brought the Hand of Glory with him instead of stowing it away somewhere safe for fear they’d take it away from him. He still had a few useful items and nasty surprises tucked away about his person, but under Latimer, this office had been protected by all kinds of seriously unpleasant defences. JC had no doubt they were still in place, just waiting for an excuse to jump on him with both feet. It was what he would have done.
Forces from Beyond Page 9
