The Shadow of the Soul (34 page)

‘They were all treated here. I can print out the dates they signed in – that’s all data transferred from downstairs, and their names are still in the cat scan directory, but their actual files have been deleted from the system.’

‘You don’t have hard copies?’

‘Let me check.’

Cass came round to the side of the desk so he could see what she was doing in the small office at the side of her workstation. He didn’t want her calling the doctor and giving him time to run. As it was, she was simply pulling open racks of files in a filing cabinet. Cass had a feeling this was a woman who had no intention of getting on the wrong side of the law, regardless of how much she might respect her boss.

‘Nothing,’ she said, coming back to her desk. ‘It’s very odd. Flush5 are very strict on filing and record-keeping.’

Cass said nothing to that. Flush5 wasn’t an organisation he felt any trust in. It had shadows at the edges – the dark fingers of The Bank and the Network were hooked right into it.

‘Print out what you’ve got for me. And can you ask the young woman downstairs to find those names in her visitors’ book please? I’ll be wanting to take that with me too.’

The woman nodded, her eyes alive. She didn’t ask any more questions.

Cass moved across the room and then rang Armstrong.

‘Where the hell are you?’

It seemed his sergeant had lost a little deference in the time they’d known each other.

‘I’ve found where the students were going for their phobia treatments.’

‘You’ve what? But—’

‘Don’t ask me questions now, Armstrong, just do what I’m telling you. I need you to get over to the home of a man called Dr Shearman and bring him in. As soon as I’ve got the documents I need from here I’ll be back. Hold him there. I want to speak to him myself. You got that?’

‘Got it,’ Armstrong said. ‘What’s this bloke’s address?’

Cass gave it to him. ‘I also need you to send someone over here – I’m at Encore Facilities in Milford Lane just off the Strand. I figure we might need the names and addresses of everyone working here if we’re going to get some idea of what was going on. We don’t want them wiping their systems while we’ve got Shearman in the nick.’

‘How did you find this place?’

‘Let me know when someone’s picked up Shearman and I’ll head back,’ Cass said, avoiding the question. He was
going to have to figure out a way to answer that one. Encore didn’t come up on any Internet searches when they’d tried finding suitable places in the area that the kids could have been too. It was clearly a deeply private listing. Still, as long as he had a result, Armstrong could ask as many questions as he liked; the DCI wouldn’t be looking for too many answers. The brass never did.

It had been a long time since Mr Bright had studied the X accounts in such detail, and he’d forgotten what a web they were, linking forward and back to so many ‘legitimate’ accounts within The Bank. That he didn’t entirely understand the complete flow of their funds was of no concern to him. This wasn’t a nanny state, and had never been set up as one. They each managed their own affairs, and as long as the tithe was paid into X20, then all was well. There was always going to have to be an element of trust in these matters, and the truth was exactly what he’d pointed out to Asher Red – when people were this rich, they ceased to be greedy in terms of money; it was the power games that became interesting.

He’d found himself sidetracked into examining the finer details of all the smaller, more personal businesses that several of the Cohort had made their own. There were so many, and he was surprised at how much minutiae it took to keep this world of theirs turning, even now, when it was on its knees. Someone was moving money around somewhere. Whoever was planning to come against him had been preparing for fifteen years or more: they were playing the long game. And he knew better than most that the long game cost money – all the voided folders and the single current one in the Redemption files were proof of that. His opponent would be spending money too. He’d
glanced once again at the women’s folders and then it had dawned on him that he was taking the long way round. He had been looking at the trees instead of the wood, and that wasn’t like him at all.

He went straight for the conglomerates after that, the ones that the girls’ fathers had worked for, where they had ‘coincidentally’ risen rapidly through the ranks approximately fifteen years previously. Someone had wanted to make sure the teenagers had the best of opportunities. He tracked the ownership of each back further, through the web of accounts and worldwide investments, until he finally saw the trail.

He sat back and smiled. So there it was – he had the name. Someone wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. They’d learn. He looked at his watch; time was moving along and he still had lots to get done. He made two swift phone calls, making it clear to each of the recipients that it was time to choose. He had the boy and he had the First – those facts wouldn’t escape them. They’d choose wisely. Plus people invariably preferred the status quo, and even in these times of fear and change, he was very much the safer option.

The phone calls done, he returned to Mr Solomon’s office, where he discovered to his dismay that the stench had worsened rather than abated. Still, he didn’t intend to be in here long. He didn’t approach the man in the chair but softly shut the door and observed him in the quiet. Red’s eyes were wide and he was visibly trembling. His rapid breath was the only sound filling the opulent room in that moment. Castor Bright could almost see the fear rippling like heat from the man’s body. Therein lay the source of the smell. Thankfully, not for much longer.

The brown eyes were filled with terror, but somewhere behind that there was still an echo of hope. That was
unfortunate, for Mr Red at any rate. He was about to become very disappointed. It always astounded Mr Bright just how misplaced hope could be, and this was no exception. Perhaps it was part of being human; perhaps it was that hope that had garnered support for the one who thought he could come against him. Looking at the accounts showed that he had clearly appealed to those who believed they were dying. He shook the thought away. He had never been much of a philosopher, and he didn’t intend to start now.

‘I know who your mystery partner is. It doesn’t take long to find these things out if you understand how to look.’

‘Who? Who is it?’

‘Oh no.’ Mr Bright wiggled a manicured finger back and forth. ‘I think that’s probably quite irrelevant to you now. I also think it is just that you remain in the dark.’ He smiled, but although his eyes twinkled, they lacked amusement.

‘This does, however, leave me in a position where I no longer require your services. I think it’s time to terminate your contract with us, Mr Asher Red. I’m sure you understand.’

Asher Red’s mouth moved slightly, as if he were trying to force more words from somewhere amidst the broken teeth.

‘I shall have to be quick about it,’ Mr Bright continued, ‘which I’m sure will be a relief to both of us. I have a meeting with the architects’ – he allowed himself a little humour at his private pun –‘at the site of the new building in an hour or so and I wouldn’t want to be late, so let’s get started, shall we?’

In the chair, Asher Red made a mewling sound as whatever vain hope he’d had trickled away. After that the air stilled, as if time itself had held its breath. Castor Bright’s eyes burned and he allowed himself to
become
. He laughed with the joy in liberation, and bright light filled the room,
the gold turning to white and then something that shone beyond that. Asher Red began to scream, but Mr Bright barely noticed it. In the moments before the man died, Mr Bright shared his secrets with him – he showed all he was, all he ever had been, ever would be, and all the terrible power and glory that was held in the
Glow
.

Mr Bellew liked the cool of his new underground headquarters. He was hidden almost in plain sight. It had been a long time since any of the Network had visited the secondary tunnels and empty spaces they had once used as their headquarters. It had been a novelty when the Underground system had been new more than a hundred and fifty years ago, but that had soon worn off, as very few of their number liked the idea that they were occupying the bowels of a world that belonged to them, rather than rising above it. Mr Bellew had never been interested in metaphor, however, and the old headquarters suited his purpose now.

He watched the three women strapped down in the strange white pods that were identical to those so far away in the House of Intervention. There had been a lot of screaming from them during the course of the day, but he couldn’t help that. He had had to push them; he had no time to nursemaid them through this. As it was, the changes were happening faster than he or any of the technicians had expected – but then, none of them, including Mr Bellew himself, had ever seen anything like this before. How could they have?

The physical transformation had come last with those who had passed their gifts on before they died: there was no reason to suspect it would be any different with these women, and he was happy about that. He needed them as they were for now, and as far as he could tell, the only
outward sign of the chemical changes that were raging through their simple bodies was the unhealthy sweaty sheen on their skin.

All three had started projecting almost as soon as they’d been hooked up to the machinery, but it was the Porter girl’s data-stream that was the most interesting. Where the other girls’ screens were filled with random images that made no sense, thus far at least, Abigail Porter was projecting with purpose: the faces were all recognisable; politicians and figures in business, all influential, each driven by very different ambitions. He didn’t need to put questions to her regarding many of these personalities – that information had already been taken at the House, when they all rose to – or were placed in – positions of prominence. The House had indicated who would create balance in this unstable world, and they had been duly elected in accordance with the findings. Mr Bellew intended to add a little unbalance, in order to support his cause – to bring a little chaos back. He smiled at his own joke with a touch of pride. Wit wasn’t normally in his repertoire. Perhaps Mr Bright had taught him something after all.

It was the final image that Porter was projecting that caught his interest: a man he knew nothing and everything about: Cassius Jones. Over and over again, the dark-haired, angry-looking policeman flashed onto one or all of her screens, and she would start to hum some old piece of music he didn’t quite recognise under her breath. As soon as she broke the silence, the others would join in tunelessly and their screens would blank out for a brief moment. The man’s image bothered Mr Bellew. Mr Bright thought no one else had paid much attention to his tracing of the bloodlines, but they’d all paid attention when he brought the Jones family together. Both sides had been direct descendants.
This projection was the boy’s uncle – the boy whose hidden presence – along with some lingering loyalty from days long gone by – had made it so hard for Mr Bellew to get support … at least until the Dying had come among them. That changed things. But still, many saw the boy as some kind of saviour. Mr Bellew sat on a fence. They all knew whose bloodline it was, and that one could go either way – cruel or kind, saviour or destroyer. As far as Mr Bellew was concerned, the boy and his family were just the joker in the pack: maybe they’d be something, and maybe they’d be nothing. The House of Intervention had always been silent on that one. Any questions had drawn a blank, ever since Castor Bright had brought Alan and Evelyn Jones together, and yet here was Cassius Jones, on Abigail Porter’s screens. Still, he thought, the policeman was not his immediate concern. He needed to get these women ready for the tasks he had planned for them.

‘Try again,’ he said. The projecting was all well and good, but if they couldn’t reflect, then it was all pointless. They had the potential to be the perfect assassins: they were each highly trained in self-defence and gun usage, and understood the top politicians in each of their home countries. They knew the layouts of buildings and the movements of leaders. If they could master reflection and be in several places at once, then he could cause more than enough unrest – not perhaps for what the sick expected from him, but for his own ends. The sick were dying anyway, and once he was done, then perhaps it would be best if they died more quickly.

The Russian girl spouted gibberish as the machines whirred around them, enhancing whatever abilities were coming naturally – or perhaps unnaturally – to them now that they were changing, and the American began to cry,
whispering softly to her God. She needed to learn that he was her God now. He looked back at Porter. Why did he get the feeling she was fighting his commands? She could do better than this, he was sure of it.

‘Try harder,’ he growled at her, and nodded to one of the technicians. Three more lights came on down the side of her pod and the girl gasped. Her eyes glowed silver – and then it happened: a second Abigail Porter appeared beside Mr Bellew. He smiled. For someone who had been known simply as a general, a man of brute force, he was getting better at these games.

‘It hurts,’ both Abigail Porters said, ‘oh God, it hurts!’

‘Don’t stop now.’ Mr Bellew looked from one to the other. ‘Now you just have to make the Reflection hard.’

A shimmery image of the American appeared on the other side of him. It wasn’t as strong as Abigail’s, but it was there, and he got her soft tears in stereo too. Mr Bellew laughed aloud as the Russian finally managed a brief flicker of herself on the other side of the room. He was Charlie, and these were his Angels.