by Nick Baker
‘Exactly! A movement or gesture made by someone you’d not normally notice may give you an edge when you’re challenged and may even save your life. You’ve almost certainly already experienced this before.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, perplexed.
‘Have you ever had the feeling that you were being watched but couldn’t quite explain it?’ enquired Price.
Lily thought for a moment. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Yes, and although you may not have realised it at the time, that sneaking suspicion may have been there for a reason.’
‘Go on.’
‘I mean, quite simply, that your subconscious senses may have picked up a subtle change in the environment that you hadn’t noticed. It’s possible that your senses were alerting you to a threat; this is the basis of psychic defence. You learn to accept and interpret all manner of sensory information at a level just below consciousness, thus allowing you to perceive changes in the environment that may signal danger.’
‘Putting me at an advantage in dealing with the situation,’ said Lily, looking at her father eagerly. ‘I’ve wanted you to teach me stuff like this for ages.’
Price held up the flats of his palms. ‘Don’t be in such a rush,’ he counselled. ‘I can see where your thoughts are leading, but first, we’ll begin by channelling your mind to read the environment for your protection. Only when you’ve mastered this, will we start to explore how to unleash the destructive powers you harbour inside you.’
Lily was overawed. She had witnessed the raw power that her father had occasionally been called upon to use. The sight of such prodigious energy had both frightened and excited her, and she had always assumed that she would not begin studying the topic until she was much older than her current sixteen years.
‘How can I learn about psychic defence?’ she asked eagerly.
Price smiled. ‘Well, it just so happens that I have something for you,’ he said, brandishing the book that was still residing in his hands. ‘It’s an old book that ably covers the topic; study it well, Lily, for there’s much in here you’ll find rewarding.’
Lily accepted the book with great anticipation and inspected the bland cover. The title was inscribed in Latin, which she quickly translated. ‘The Inner Strength of the Mind by Arturo Casiraghi. Thank you,’ she said, cradling the book as if it were a long-lost friend.
‘You should make some time to get started on this before our next lesson. Off you go and I’ll catch up with you later.’
As she turned to leave, her father called out, ‘Just one more thing, Lily. The stolen manuscript; I’ll discuss it with you as soon as I’ve found out more. And Lily, don’t mention it to anyone else, will you?’
Lily nodded, beaming from ear to ear as she headed down the stairs.
4
THE STONE OF MADNESS
The Comet and the Star
HERMES BING SURVEYED THE world from the fortieth floor of the eponymous Bing Tower, not only the zenith of his empire but also his personal residence. The building, a structure constructed almost entirely of steel and glass, dominated the London skyline, not only as an architectural landmark but also as a navigational beacon for those searching for direction in the city six hundred feet below. Daylight had long since waned, but a lurid neon light depicting a comet and stars flashed mercilessly from the top of the skyscraper, illuminating the glass-dominated room.
Bing reached out across the large bespoke walnut desk and raised a glass that had lain undisturbed for some time. He swilled the slivovitz and watched the liquor settle in droplets on the side of the glass before draining it in a single slug. The plum brandy bit hard as it hit the back of his throat before burning all the way down to his stomach. He settled back in the chair and waited for the calming effect of the alcohol to take hold.
The day, as usual, had been long and hard. It was only now in the early hours that Bing could feel himself relax. He had not eaten, and it was not long before his eyelids began to droop. He reclined the chair, and in minutes, he lay fast asleep, his chest gently rising and falling in harmony with the flashing sigmoid-shaped spray of light sitting below a constellation of stars that was the logo Bing had commissioned to sit on top of the building as a reminder to the city below of the most successful newspaper empire it had ever known.
Bing woke some hours later with a start, his dream rudely interrupted by an extraneous tapping noise impinging on his consciousness. His eyes parted with difficulty as he cursed himself for forgetting to remove his contact lenses. Despite the pain, he prised his eyelids apart and was met by the sight of a bird perched precariously on a ledge outside repeatedly picking up a shell with its beak and smashing it against the sill. When the bird finally managed to shatter the chitinous casing, it stopped and inclined its head, staring at Bing with a piercing yellow eye before flying off, the soft contents of the shell dangling uncertainly from its beak.
Bing briefly wondered why the blackbird had ventured so high, but the thought passed. In the short moments since awakening, the dream had dissipated leaving a sense of frustration as he tried, and failed, to recall the vision. His mouth was dry, and his head hurt—a familiar sensation given the amount he habitually drank. He cast aside the irritation, reassured by a subliminal yet strangely calming hum that resonated throughout the building’s core emanating from the constant working of the presses many floors below.
The first run of The Morning Comet had been dispatched before midnight and attention had now turned to The Evening Star. The workforce below never ceased in their activity, and thanks to Bing, the production of the papers was a self-sustaining process. Every employee was exquisitely aware of the role they played, no matter how small, in the editorial process. The sum of these parts made for a seamless transition from the instant the news broke to when the papers hit the stalls. From the reporters on the ground to the multitude of clerks, runners, journalists, photographers, columnists, copy editors, graphic artists, crossword compilers, secretaries, proofreaders, typesetters, cartoonists, commentators, printers, engineers, down to the most junior of tea-boys, the newspapers flourished. Each part of the journalistic process was streamlined and fed through a series of increasingly senior editors up to Bing, whose role as editor-in-chief was still as active as ever.
When he had taken over the business following the death of his father, Dionysus, just under ten years earlier, the newspapers were at their lowest ebb. Bing’s editorial style soon changed all that and the papers blossomed while his rivals floundered, basing his success on the principle of ruthless investigative journalism, and for him, anything that increased the papers’ circulation was fair game. An insistence on truth, only as Bing saw it, and an enigmatic style tempered this goal, leading to strange quirks in publishing at times when they were least expected.
Following the Prime Minister’s re-election for a second term in office with an increased majority, Bing led with an article on the plight of rare alpine plant species threatened with extinction because of a change in the microclimate. Hardly big news, but when questioned, he asserted that, because the result of the election was never in doubt, what was the point of reporting it? It was widely assumed to be editorial suicide, but as Bing predicted, circulation of the newspapers rose by half a million copies. On occasions when he deemed the news to be too boring, he would lead with obscure, cryptic stories or eye-catching headlines that bore no resemblance to the stories residing below them. Whatever he did, the public seemed to love it, and the burgeoning Bing empire went from strength to strength. The editor of Bing’s great tabloid rival, Montague Fielding, was the only person to counter his fame, taking every opportunity to disparage and ridicule him in The Daily Sting, but no matter what, Bing’s popularity with the masses continued apace.
He rose from the chair and poured himself a coffee from the percolator on the desk. The pot had not been replenished since the previous evening, but the cold Yemeni coffee tasted thick and bitter, just as he liked it. The coffee had an instant effect, revitali
sing and invigorating him as he prepared for the daily meeting with the sub-editors of the Star to discuss the content of the day’s edition before it hit the presses in time for its early afternoon circulation.
Bing had just enough time to wash and change before breakfast in the boardroom on the floor below. He entered the bedroom and shook his head in dismay at that sight of the undisturbed bed following his all too brief sleep in the chair. He suddenly felt a pang of hunger and realised he had not eaten since lunchtime the previous day.
He subconsciously flexed then extended his neck, which cracked unpleasantly as he tried to soothe a lingering stiffness. Crossing the threshold to the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He was almost fifty years of age, and it was beginning to show, a combination of unhealthy living and inadequate sleep. He still retained some of his youthful looks, but the lines on his face and the folds of skin below his jaw were creeping inexorably into view. His fair hair was matted and untidy, yet his short upturned nose overlying the thin, pink vermilion of his lips displayed an exactitude that never seemed to change. The combination of these features and his intense trance-inducing eyes belied his hard living and still held an attractiveness that, with his extrovert and expansive personality, had the ability to charm and captivate all who knew him.
He quickly showered and changed in preparation for the vagaries of the forthcoming day. As he entered the office, his watch emitted a loud beep, a reminder of the imminent meeting. He crossed the hexagonal-shaped room to a glass cylindrical shaft forming a central core of the building containing a lift authorised for his use and a select few alone. He placed his palm on the jet-black panel adjacent to the doors and waited. A red light above the panel flickered before turning green, confirming the security check had been completed, and the lift was on its way up. As he waited, he closed his eyes, clearing his thoughts in preparation for the meeting.
An annoying buzzing noise suddenly interrupted the all too short-lived solitude. He shook his head as if to orientate himself before finally realising the significance of the sound. He returned to the desk and lifted the telephone receiver in one languid motion.
‘Mr Bing, I have a call for you.’ It was the voice of Cassiopeia, his personal assistant.
Bing felt mildly annoyed at the interruption. ‘It’s customary to tell me who’s on the line, Cassie,’ he replied, rather curtly. ‘Oh, and how many times have I told you not to chew gum?’ he added irritably.
‘Sorry, sir, but Mr Bing, I’m afraid the caller wasn’t prepared to give his name. I can’t say I recognise the voice, but he did call via your personal number and gave the correct security code. I told him that you wouldn’t talk to him without a name, but he was most insistent that I put him through. He says he has some information that will interest you.’
Bing was interested. Only a handful of people had access to his personal line, and all were known to him. It was odd that the caller had not given a name, but this only served to heighten his intrigue. ‘Okay, Cassie, put him on.’
He heard a click on the line as his secretary transferred the call.
‘Ah, Mr Bing, so good of you to take the time to speak with me.’ The voice was thin and quiet, but the man spoke with a clipped accent that was vaguely familiar.
Bing spoke quickly, almost too eagerly. ‘Who is this? What do you have for me?’
The caller paused before replying, ‘Mr Bing, I’d prefer not to introduce myself at this juncture. Perhaps when you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll understand my motives.’ After a further brief pause, the caller went on. ‘You have an interest in the Council and its machinations?’
‘If you read the papers, you’ll know full well that I’m no friend of the Council.’
The caller chuckled. ‘It’s fairly obvious that you attempt to undermine the Council whenever the opportunity arises in your newspapers.’
‘You consider it funny, do you? You may think it’s all right having the composition and methods of this country’s principal body responsible for national security closed to scrutiny, but it’s not all right with me,’ Bing retorted, making no effort to hide his seething antagonism towards the Council.
‘Naturally making the Council an easy target for your newspapers,’ the man replied glibly. ‘So what exactly is your beef with the Council, Mr Bing?’
‘The Council is a clandestine organisation that the masses are not party to. It holds a position of power that’s an insult to democracy,’ Bing said, churning out the usual stance of the Comet while not yet understanding the caller’s motives. Deep down he knew that it was not the Council’s policies that bothered him, but his own glaring omission from its membership.
‘Oh, come now, Mr Bing. Who are you to talk to me of democracy? I would hardly call some of your newspapers’ methods egalitarian.’
Bing sighed. ‘Look, cut to the chase. What’s this all about?’
‘Very well, Mr Bing. Have it your way. First, let me tell you why you hate the Council so.’
‘If you must.’
‘As a man of inordinate wealth and power, you consider yourself the ideal candidate for the Council’s ranks, but it seems that they do not agree. No matter how hard you canvass your influential political allies, your inclusion has been systematically overlooked, continually gnawing at you like a boil that can’t be lanced.’
‘Poppycock!’ Bing roared, unsure whether his anger stemmed from hearing the truth or that the stranger had voiced it. ‘Apart from Price as the damned leader, the Council’s membership is shrouded in mystery. The Council is a self-selected group handpicked from the higher echelons of the land, no less.’
‘Are you really telling me that if the Council approached you, you wouldn’t be interested?’ the caller replied.
‘Look. I don’t know who you are or how on earth you managed to access this line. Just tell me what this is all about,’ replied Bing.
‘Ah yes, I’d heard how quickly you become irritated,’ said the caller with an edge of contempt that was not lost on Bing. ‘I shall get to the point, I would not wish to annoy you any further,’ the caller continued dryly. ‘I can tell you, Mr Bing, that you are on the verge of being selected for the Council—’
‘What! Are you certain?’ interjected Bing.
‘Your name has been put forward as a candidate that will culminate in a vote at the next meeting. You won’t be aware of this, but the voting operates by secret ballot on a blackball system.’
‘Is there anything I can do to … er … facilitate the process?’ said Bing eagerly.
‘That is for you to decide, Mr Bing, but let me tell you this: Henry Price is planning to vote against you. You may have the opportunity to influence his decision over the next few days if you so wish.’
Bing heard a faint click on the line, signifying the conversation was over. As Bing replaced the receiver, his mind was flooded with disparate emotions. He was irritated that the caller had breached his security and that he had also been caught unprepared, yet he was equally exhilarated by the information the caller had volunteered.
He immediately picked up the phone again. ‘Cassie, call security and get Valentine up here right away. Cancel the rest of my appointments. I’m going to be busy.’
‘But, Mr Bing, what about your schedule? You were supposed to be at a staff meeting ten minutes ago,’ exclaimed his secretary, sounding exasperated.
‘Yours is not to reason, Cassie,’ he said dismissively. ‘Tell them downstairs they’re running the show today. Oh, and Cassie, send up some fresh coffee, will you?’
Bing sat down and surveyed the early morning skyline. He wondered why anyone would want to divulge information about his possible election to the Council. It was clear that the caller wanted to help by the very nature of their conversation, but he was going to have to think this through very carefully before he acted. With time short, he needed to know when the Council was due to meet.
With just enough time to make a further call befor
e Valentine arrived, Bing picked up the phone and dialled a number he had committed to memory long ago. The call was answered promptly on the second ring.
‘Nicolas? It’s Hermes here; I wonder if you’d mind sparing me a few moments of your time?’
5
THE STONE OF MADNESS
The Nautilus Shell
LILY WENT STRAIGHT TO her bedroom after leaving her father in his study. She had time to kill before her afternoon lessons with her tutor, Anatoly Volkiev, and without thinking, she sat down on the bed and began flicking through the book her father had just given her. She briefly studied the text but soon realised that any attempt at study would be useless. She was still preoccupied with the petrification spell the intruder had cast. She knew that such an act required a profound knowledge of the very subject she had recently been studying, and although she had already mastered some simple transubstantiation spells, she marvelled how someone could turn a living creature into stone.
Lily thought about the skills she had already mastered but quickly realised that they had always involved transmuting one relatively uniform material into another, no different from the metals that the alchemists-of-old had craved to transform. She could not comprehend how a living animal composed of such varied and complex structures could so quickly be rendered into stone. She suspected that even her father would be hard pressed to master such a spell, despite easily being the most powerful alchemist she had ever known.
Ever since she had been told about the theft, Lily had not been able to settle. How could someone break into the house so effortlessly when it was so well protected? And how could someone walk off with a book that was located such a short distance away from where she took her lessons before nonchalantly casting such a complicated spell? She did not wish to think about it, yet her mind kept returning to these troubling thoughts.
Lily closed the book and deposited it on the bedside table. She looked around the room, taking comfort from her belongings on show, ranging from numerous books neatly arranged by subject on the wall shelves in front of her, to the surfaces of worktops, cabinets and drawers covered with a multitude of her favourite objects that she had collected over the years. As she scanned the room, her eyes settled on a sizeable collection of seashells stacked together in a glass bowl on the windowsill. She was especially fond of the shells of varying shapes and sizes and of the vague memories they stirred in her. She recalled walking along the beach as a child with her mother foraging for the varied wonders washed up on the tide. She rose and selected one particularly evocative item hidden amidst the vast number of cockle, razor, whelk, limpet and periwinkle shells piled high in the bowl. She smiled as she remembered the gentle sparring she had enjoyed with her mother as they vied to find the most unusual specimens. The shell she had singled out was a Snakehead cowrie, the only one of its kind they had ever found. She remembered how envious she had been when her mother had picked it up, desperately wishing she had been the one to find it. As they huddled together on the windswept beach, they both realised they had never seen anything like it. Following her return home, Lily went straight to her books to identify it, and even now she could still remember the thrill of proudly announcing to her mother, not only the shell’s common name, but more grandly, its Latin name, Cypraea Caputserpentis, a name she could still remember to this day. Quite how a seashell of the Pacific had turned up on a Norfolk beach was something she had never been able to fathom, and the mystery only added to her appreciation of a shell that was more common to the beaches of Hawaii than Hunstanton.
