The Fuller Memorandum (29 page)

“Fuck.” I thumb-tap the software ward back to life, then shove the JesusPhone back in my pocket and keep jogging, breathing heavily now. There’s a breeze in my face, shoving me back and slowing me down, and the surface of the footpath feels greasy and turgid, almost
sticky
. The sense of wrongness is overwhelming. I have a sense of déjà vu, harking back to my midnight run, although that path was miles away and didn’t look anything like . . .

Oh.
Am I on a siding?
I ask myself, as the headwind builds and the shadows deepen. I hear distant thunder and the first heavy slap of rain-drops on the path ahead:
Did the Necropolitan line have branches that were edited out of the public record decades ago, by any chance?

The hoarse scream of a ghostly steam whistle echoes in my ears. It’s behind me. And it’s gaining ground.

It’s funny how you lose track of a situation while it spins out of control: in the space of about fifteen minutes I’ve let myself be led by the nose—or rather, the feet—from a busy suburban high street in London, right into an occult trap. There are places where the walls of reality are thin; the service corridors of hotels, subway footpaths at night, hedge-mazes and cycle paths. You can get lost in such places, led astray by a lure and a snare and a subliminal suggestion. These routes blend into one another. Of all the myriad ways that link the human realm to the other places, these are the ones we know very little about—because those of us who stumble into them seldom return with their minds intact.

I can feel my heart hammering as I run. The hedges to either side brandish spikes edged with a nacreous rind of blight. There are pale white shapes embedded in the wall of leaves, the flensed bones of intruders trapped in the interstices of the vegetative barrier. Overhead, the clouds are black as smoke from the funnel of a racing steam locomotive, boiling and raging at the ground. I don’t dare look back, even though I’m sure I’m being herded towards an ambush: the phone in my pocket is buzzing and vibrating in urgent Morse, signaling the presence of hostile intent.

I need to get off the path. The trouble is, there’s nowhere to go—

Hang on,
I think.
Am I seeing true?

There is this about the interstitial paths: it takes a fair bit of power to open a gate, and I didn’t notice any pentacles and altars draped in eviscerated goats during my walk through the decaying shopping center. On the other hand, it takes relatively little power to fake up a glamour to provide the illusion of a dark path. Wheezing, I reach for my phone, thumb it on, and slow my stride just enough that I can see the display. Bloody Runes, ward detector, turn the camera on the footpath—

A silver thread, disappearing around the bend ahead of me. I pan sideways, and the camera blurs then clears, showing me ordinary English nettles and a thinly spaced row of trees pruned well back from the path. It’s bright, too, the ground dappled with summer daylight filtered through the branches overhead.
Gotcha
. I jink sideways, towards the menacing hedgerow on my right, slowing, eyes focused on the face of my phone as the shadows of the thorny wall loom over me—

And I crash through a stand of waist-high nettles and narrowly miss a young beech tree as the hedge and the thunderstorm sky vanish like the illusion they are.

“Ow!” I swear under my breath, the hot-bright pinprick sting of nettles rising on the back of my phone hand. I examine the side of the cutting the path runs through. Yes, it’s familiar. I’ve been here before, or somewhere very like it. Except for the lack of pedestrians walking the dog, or cyclists en route from one side of town to the other, it could be a normal bike track. But this one’s been warded off; anyone starting down it who isn’t wanted is going to feel a mild sense of dread, rising after a while to an urgent conviction that they need to be anywhere else.

I thumb my phone back to the start screen, and look for a signal. There’s nothing showing. That shouldn’t be possible, not on a major network in the middle of a city, but there are zero bars. Do the bad guys have a jammer? It wouldn’t be unheard of. And they knew enough to lay a snare right outside the New Annexe, one tailored for me . . . that is not good news. I sit down behind a tree, careful to check that I’m concealed from the path by that stand of stinging nettles, and then I do something that’s overdue: I compose an email to the two people I know I can trust—Angleton and Mo. The JesusPhone is smart enough to keep looking for a connection, and to send the mail as soon as it snags a signal. Then I compose a slightly different email to a whole bunch of people I don’t entirely trust, remembering to include Angleton and Mo on the recipient list, and send it. Now
that
should set the cat among the pigeons. My heartbeat is just about back to normal by the time I finish, and my lungs aren’t burning anymore, so I slide my phone into an inside jacket pocket and stand up.

Click-clack
. “Don’t move.”

“Listen, let me give you an update. I’ve been suspended on pay. I need you to pick up a ward for me, as soon as you can. I’m heading home now, but I’m
inaudible
and they
inaudible
can you find him and tell him
inaudible
—”

Mo sighs, exasperated, as her phone beeps three times and hangs up on Bob. She waits five seconds, then hits redial. It connects immediately.

“Hello, you have reached the voice mail of—”

She puts her phone away, leaving it for later. Bob’s obviously in a poor reception zone, but if he’s heading home they can compare notes in a couple of hours. Being suspended is bad news for Bob, but she’s been half-expecting it. They’ve both been under too much pressure lately: the business with the cultists, the suspected leak, all the other minutiae of being part of the operational front end of an organization under increasing strain.
Everyone
is under strain these days; even the people who aren’t cleared to know about Dr. Mike’s bombshell.

Mo heads towards an anonymous industrial estate in the suburbs out near Croydon, where some of the more technical departments have relocated while Service House is being rebuilt. She travels by tube and then commuter train, and finally by bus, keeping one hand on her violin case at all times. It takes her an hour and a half to make the journey: strap-hanging in grim silence, alone with her worries about the evidence she removed from Mr. Dower’s workshop. She travels under the gaze of cameras; cameras on the tube platforms, cameras in the railway station concourses, cameras on the buses. Many of them are linked to the SCORPION STARE network, part of the huge surveillance web the government is spinning to keep the nation safe in the final days. But the final days may be about to arrive with a bang, two or three years earlier than anticipated . . .

She walks the hundred meters to the car park entrance, then enters an anonymous-looking office reception area in an otherwise windowless building. A plain signboard on the high razor-wire-topped fence outside proclaims it the property of Invicta Security Ltd., and the portrait of a slavering German shepherd beneath the sign promises a warm welcome to would-be burglars. Both signs are, of course, lying: the building currently houses most of the Occult Forensics Department, and there’s no easy way to visually depict the protean, gelatinous horrors that ooze around the premises by night.

“Hello, Invicta—” The blue-suiter behind the counter pauses. “Dr. O’Brien. Can I see your pass, please?”

Mo presents her warrant card. “Hi, Dave. Is Dr. Williams in?”

“I think so.” Dave pokes at his computer terminal. “Yes, he’s booked in. Do you need to see him?”

“I’ve got a job on. Can you page him?”

“I’ll do that.” Dave points a webcam on a stalk at her, then prints off a temporary badge. “Here, wear this. It’s valid for zones one and two, you know the drill.”

“Yes.” Mo doesn’t smile. Whereas the New Annexe mostly deals with paper (apart from the armory), the OFD handles physically—and in some cases spiritually—hazardous materials. Access to the inner zones is restricted for good reason.

While Dave pages Dr. Williams, Mo plants herself on one of the powder-blue waiting area seat-things, and idly pages through some of the magazines on the occasional table:
Forensic Sciences Digest
,
Gunshot Wounds Monthly
,
Which? PCR
. Her attention is a million kilometers away from the articles, but they serve as a distraction for her eyes. She has one of the magazines open at a color spread of spent bullets retrieved from victims of crime when a shadow falls across her. “Mo! What brings you out here?”

She looks up, forcing a smile. “Nick? Are you busy? Can we discuss this in your office?”

Five minutes later, another windowless office with overflowing bookshelves and too many filing cabinets. “What have you got for me?” he asks. Balding, in his late forties, Nick is the research lead in this particular lab.

“A special job.” Mo pauses. “Sub rosa.”

“Sub—Oh
shit
. Tell me it isn’t so.”

She shakes her head. “I think it’s probably a leak rather than an inside job, but even so, this is for you, not the office junior. Eyes only.” She pulls out the tub of paper clips from Mr. Dower’s workroom, and the small stapler from beside his cash register, and places them on the worktable opposite Dr. Williams’s desk. “The owner of these items was murdered about forty-eight hours ago. He’d just prepared a special report for me. I’m pretty certain the killer took the report, and knowing George—the victim—he would have paper-clipped or stapled it. So I want a full read on the top copy—and a locator.”

Dr. Williams whistles between his front teeth. “You don’t want much, do you?” He pauses. “When do you need it by?”

“Right now.” Mo positions her violin case on the visitor’s chair, then lets go of it. “It’s very urgent.”

“Oh. I can have it with you by eight tonight, if I—”

“No.” She smiles, letting him see her teeth. “When I said
now
, I meant
right now
.”

“What’s so urgent?” Williams, unwilling to be rushed, crosses his arms and stares at her.

“Are you on the distribution for CLUB ZERO?”

Williams’s face turns ashen. “That was the business in Amsterdam, wasn’t it?”

“They’re over here, too. The document in question is a detailed report on
that
.” She points at the violin case. “Whoever has got the report is almost certainly a live hostile, and may I remind you that the item they’re after is in your office?” Her smile evaporates. “You really want to get me out of here . . .”

 

 

THERE IS A PHILOSOPHY BY WHICH MANY PEOPLE LIVE THEIR
lives, and it is this: life is a shit sandwich, but the more bread you’ve got, the less shit you have to eat.

These people are often selfish brats as kids, and they don’t get better with age: think of the shifty-eyed smarmy asshole from the sixth form who grew up to be a merchant banker, or an estate agent, or one of the Conservative Party funny-handshake mine’s-a-Rolex brigade.

(This isn’t to say that all estate agents, or merchant bankers, or conservatives, are selfish, but that these are ways of life that provide opportunities for people of a certain disposition to enrich themselves at the expense of others. Bear with me.)

There is another philosophy by which people live their lives, and it goes thus:
you will do as I say or I will hurt you
.

It’s petty authoritarianism, and it frequently runs in families. Dad’s a dictator, Mum’s henpecked, and the kids keep quiet if they know what’s good for them—all the while soaking up the lesson that mindless obedience is the only safe course of action. These kids often rescue themselves, but some of them don’t. They grow up to be thugs, insecure and terrified of uncertainty, intolerant and unable to handle back-chat, willing to use violence to get what they want.

Let me draw you a Venn diagram with two circles on it, denoting sets of individuals. They overlap: the greedy ones and the authoritarian ones. Let’s shade in the intersecting area in a different color, and label it:
dangerous
. Greed isn’t automatically dangerous on its own, and petty authoritarians aren’t usually dangerous outside their immediate vicinity—but when you combine the two, you get gangsters and dictators and hate-spewing preachers.

There is a third philosophy by which—thankfully—only a tiny minority of people live their lives. It’s a bit harder to sum up, but it begins like this:
in the beginning was the endless void, and the void spawned the Elder things, and we were created to be their slaves, and they’re going to return to Earth in the near future, and it is only by willingly subordinating ourselves to their merest whim that we can hope to survive
—

Now let me drop another circle on the diagram, and scribble in the tiny patch where it intersects with the other two circles, and label it in deepest fuliginous black:
here be monsters
.