Down: Trilogy Box Set (63 page)

There was no appetite for a press conference but the government decided they couldn’t dodge the media forever. It had been six days since the incident at South Ockendon. The housing estate was still cordoned off and the residents had not been allowed to return. Reports were circulating of missing persons—a crew of builders, last seen at the estate, a council worker, a doctor, an architect, a mother whose child had been at school that day. All the while the police and security services had remained mum.

Ben Wellington had not been pleased to learn that the powers had designated him as chief spokesman for the press event. When he protested, his chief, Sir George, had asked him, “Can you dance, Ben?”

“Dance? Yes, I’ve been known to take to the floor once lubricated.”

“Then get out there and dance your tail off. You have a reputation as a clever boy. Be clever.”

Flanked by senior members of the Metropolitan Police he peered at the sea of faces in the auditorium at New Scotland Yard and waited for the press secretary to give him the sign to begin. Then, leaning into the bank of microphones he introduced himself and said he had a statement to make.

The statement unleashed a collective groan through the press corps who anticipated that he would effectively deliver an apologia that all that followed was going to be a colossal waste of time, that because of security concerns and the need to protect an ongoing investigation, few definitive answers were going to be forthcoming. And that is exactly what he did. That didn’t stop the questions from flying and Ben, true to his word, sidestepped all of them except for the one that terminated the briefing.

What was the nature of the biological agent found on the estate?

We’re not commenting on that at this time.

Is the public at risk?

The risk has been contained.

Where were the missing residents of the estate?

We’re not commenting on missing persons reports.

Are the missing residents in quarantine because of exposure to a biological agent?

Again, no comment.

Family and friends of the missing are saying they’ve been asked to avoid speaking to the media. Is that true?

I wouldn’t want to contradict their statements.

Had any terror suspects been apprehended? Were any on the run?

I’m not at liberty to say.

Has any foreign or domestic terror group claimed responsibility?

Not to our knowledge.

And so it went for almost half an hour. Ben had been avoiding one questioner because there was something about him that made him uneasy. He seemed out of place. He was younger than the rest, awfully fresh-faced and earnest-looking for a member of Fleet Street or the broadcast corps. And something about his expression told Ben he wasn’t going through the motions like the others, that he really cared about the truth. He called on a fellow a row behind him but the young man seized on the ambiguity and stood.

“Not you,” Ben said. “Behind you, in the brown jacket.”

“I’ll be quick,” the young man said, unyielding. “Why is there no one here from the Massive Anglo-American Collider?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, his pulse quickening. “Who did you say you were and who are you with?”

“Giles Farmer. I write for
Bad Collisions.
It’s a blog about the dangers of supercolliders.”

“Well, Mr. Farmer, you seem to have wandered into the wrong press conference.”

“Don’t think so, actually. Five weeks ago there was a well-publicized start-up of the MAAC, followed by an intruder report and a shutdown. Less publicized were five weekly Thames-region power-grid perturbations, consistent with quiet restarts. The last one, six days ago coincided perfectly with your incident at South Ockendon, which is directly above one of the MAAC super-magnets. So, again, why is no one here from MAAC to answer questions? I would like to be able to speak to Dr. Emily Loughty, the research director.”

Ben waited a moment to ensure his tone didn’t channel his inner turmoil. “As I said, this is a press conference concerning a terror incident at South Ockendon so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

With that, the press secretary for the Met announced that the news conference was at an end. Ben left the auditorium for a room behind the stage where Anthony Trotter was lurking watching on a monitor.

“That went well, except for the last question,” Trotter said.

“Clever chap,” Ben said, draining a bottle of water. “He seems to have connected a good number of dots.”

“We’ll want to keep tabs on Giles Farmer,” Trotter said. “I’ll have a team put on him.”

“I think we have more urgent business than doing surveillance on a blogger. Besides he’s domestic which puts him under the jurisdiction of MI5 not MI6.”

“You’ve got your head in the sand, Ben. This nation is facing an unprecedented threat. The prime minister and his cabinet have appointed me acting director of MAAC, and in that capacity, everything is under my jurisdiction.”

Solomon Wisdom was at a loss for words. Caffrey, his stout and ever-ready manservant, had fetched him from his study to alert him to the arrival of “more special new ’uns” so he was primed for the possibility of live souls of the same ilk as John Camp and Emily Loughty.

But the sight of children was almost too much for him.

On their journey from Dartford, Sam and Belle had been scared of the horses at first, but after a while they began to enjoy bouncing around in their saddles. Sam had even found his tongue, turning to the captain of the guard who held the reins with one hand and Sam with the other.

“Did you know the horse smells better than you?”

Sam hadn’t understood the answer. “That’s ’cause he’s very much alive and I’m very much dead.”

Arabel and Delia had been considerably more frightened and uncomfortable, crammed onto saddles with filthy soldiers. Arabel’s rider seemed as scared of her as she was of him and had left her alone, but Delia’s, an older fellow with yellow teeth, had become randy. She kept removing his creeping hand from her bosom.

Delia was prepared for the geographical similarities of Hell but the wildness of the countryside was hard to reconcile with the cityscape she knew. Yet as a Londoner, the snaking contours of the Thames were familiar and when Wisdom’s mansion house came into view, she recognized the hill. They were in the geographical equivalent of Greenwich.

When he appeared at the door of his grand house, Wisdom’s skeletal frame, black frock coat, and dour expression scared Belle and Sam. They cowered behind their mother.

Wisdom finally found enough voice to utter a single word. “Children.”

After tossing the soldiers an unusually heavy purse, he instructed Caffrey to bring the visitors to the dining room and have the cook prepare food. Then he disappeared into his study to compose his thoughts. He would defer customary pleasantries and introductions for now. Word would spread fast and he had important decisions to make.

In his chamber he paced and talked aloud as if the only counsel worth receiving was from himself.

“This is an opportunity of grand scale, Solomon, grand scale. Another such opportunity may never present itself. Two live women and two live children! To augment the profit your execution must be flawless. Think, think! Who are the best buyers and how many lots shall I offer? Two lots, I should think. Deal the children to one buyer, the women to another. King Henry has not yet returned from his misadventure in Francia. Perhaps, when he does, he will want the children as a distraction or as a gift for his Queen. I think he will pay well. As for the women, King Pedro of Iberia, I should think. The Iberian ambassador was up in arms, most unhappy he did not get a chance to bid on Emily Loughty. So, let us give him a chance to open wide his purse of gold. And perhaps there are other bidders lurking about the court. A grand scale, I say. An opportunity of grand scale indeed.”

He summoned Caffrey, gave him instructions, then breezed into his dining room, prepared for a robust charm offensive calculated to put his guests at ease. Delia and Arabel had been gazing out the windows at the sloping meadows behind the house and the children were playing under the table.

“I do apologize for the lack of a proper greeting. I had some minor business to attend to and now you shall have my full attention and hospitality. I am your host, Solomon Wisdom, and I bid you welcome to my humble abode.”

Delia replied, puffing herself up and delivering the strongest rebuke she could muster. In his interviews Duck had said he thought Emily had been taken from Dartford to a “flesh trader” but he hadn’t mentioned a name. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Wisdom, but we are not chattel to be bought and sold. I demand you have us taken back to Dartford immediately.”

His artificial smile faded. “Bought and sold? My dear woman, why do you make such an accusation?”

“You gave those men a bag of coins. What else clinks like that?”

“That was only some small payment for their troubles. They bring all new arrivals in the area to me for—a welcome. I am told people are appreciative of the information I am able to impart. I do it as a service to my fellow man. I have been among the fortunate few in this unfortunate land and it is charity at work, nothing more, nothing less.”

“You must think I was born yesterday,” Delia said.

“I have no idea when you were born, my good woman.”

“So you’ll send us back to Dartford?”

“Of course. Anywhere you wish to go. But first, I insist you share my table. You must be hungry and thirsty after your long journey.”

From under the table, Sam asked for a lemon squash.

“We’ll eat with you,” Delia said, “then we want to go.”

“Anything you wish. Ah, I hear footsteps. The feast cometh.”

His heavyset housekeeper and cook, her white hair up in a kerchief came in looking about, sniffing, and carrying a large tray. She’d been told there were live children in the house and only when she put the tray on the trestled table did she see Sam poking his head out from under it.

At the sight of him she began to cry.

“Now stop that,” Wisdom said sternly, “and fetch the drink. The women will have wine. I really don’t know what the children shall have. What do children drink?”

Arabel spoke for the first time. “Is there any fruit juice?”

“I’m afraid we have no such thing,” he answered.

“Water then, if it’s clean,” Arabel said.

Belle appeared and the cook was overcome with another wave of emotion.

“Why are you crying?” Sam demanded.

“Because you are both so lovely and precious,” she answered.

Sam had already lost interest in her tears and was staring at her face full of moles. “Why do you have so many black spots on your face?”

Arabel tried to hush him but the cook laughed it off and said, “They are my beauty marks and as you can see I am beautiful indeed, my dear.”

Seated at the table, Wisdom personally carved the joint of meat and allocated a few root vegetables to each plate before saying, “Let us eat and let us talk.”

“Are you going to say grace?” Sam asked.

“We don’t do that here,” Wisdom said. “I doubt I can even remember the words.”

In a clear voice Arabel said, “Dear Lord, for what we are about to receive, we offer our thanks and gratitude.”

“Ah, it conjures memories,” Wisdom said, stuffing his mouth with mutton. After a few chews and a swallow, he said, “Now, let me see if you are aware of your rather fantastic circumstances.”

“We know where we are,” Delia said. She tried the wine, seemed to like it and had some more.

“I see, excellent. Well, the Hell you see is quite different from the Hell we are all taught to fear on Earth.”

“Please don’t use the H word in front of the children,” Arabel whispered.

“Why not?” Wisdom asked.

“I don’t want to frighten them. I’ve told them we’ve entered a make-believe world from one of their story books.”

“I see. What shall I call it then?”

“Anything but that.” She carried on, cutting the meat into small pieces for the kids.

“All right, I shall call it by the name the simple folk use. Down. Will that suffice?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Well then, Down is quite different …”

“I know all about it,” Delia said, “and I’ve told Arabel.”

“Then I am relieved of a long exposition which I have delivered countless times.”

“I’ve got a question, though,” Delia said, her speech slightly slurred by the wine. “How come you’re not the least bit curious about us? Leads me to wonder if you haven’t seen living people here in the past. The very recent past.”

“Indeed I have. The very recent past, just as you suggest. I had the pleasure of briefly entertaining two singular individuals, a woman, Emily Loughty, and a man, John Camp. Given the circumstances of their arrival, I would not be at all surprised if you did not know of them.”

“Emily’s my sister,” Arabel said softly.

“I see a resemblance,” he said. “I was told of some great, infernal machine in your time which has opened a channel of sorts between our two worlds. I imagine the four of you must have become ensnared by the teeth and gears of the machine and spit asunder.”

“Something like that,” Delia said.

“Are you two ladies scientists like Miss Emily?”

“Hardly,” Arabel said. “She’s the brain in the family. I’m just a mother.”

“A difficult enough profession if I recall. And you, Miss Delia?”

“I’m not a scientist either. I’m a spy.”

Wisdom lowered his utensils in astonishment. “A spy you say? I was in disbelief that a woman could be a scientist and now I am in disbelief that a woman could be a spy. I am glad I did not live in your time. I would have felt quite off my balance. Are you a spy in the employ of the crown?”

“That’s right.”

“And whom are you spying upon?”

She started on her next glass of wine. “Right now I’m spying on you.”

After a pregnant pause, he looked down his long nose and burst into raucous high-pitched laughter that frightened Belle and set her off into a fit of tears.

Young Charlie, consumed by fear, set the pace, sprinting ahead of the pack. His brother, Eddie, was next, followed by Martin and Tony, the two women, and finally, Jack, whose heavy gut and thick legs made him the least well-suited for speeding through a forest. Martin looked over his shoulder and seeing Jack falling behind called for the sons to help their father along.