CHAPTER THREE
THE neon signs provided the entertainment district near Kottbusser Tor with its own ghostly sunlight. Jack could hear no sounds of pursuit, only braying groups of businessmen. Rows of rowdy bars and seedy nightclubs created a garish palette on the wet concrete. They would be looking for him soon. But the throng of bodies – tourists, hedonists, suits – could disguise his presence.
He lurched down a steep set of stairs. A burly guard blocked the doorway. A bored-looking girl with kohl-lined eyes scanned the bracelets of oddball couples, giggling visitors and others standing in the line.
He offered his arm. The reader sang and whirred as it sang out its message to his father’s bank, eventually spitting out a solitary blue ticket – the fee for his entrance. The dingy hall the air was thick with smoke. Cigarettes were hard to get hold of these days. It was a lot of credits to pay for just a few minutes of specialised heat. But the silhouetted figures could afford the luxury, holding the smoking sticks with studied carelessness.
A poster was fixed to the doorway showed a statuesque blonde figure, most likely a woman. She was clad in an iridescent gown, which appeared to send bolts of light in every direction. It read:
MARLENE BLITZEN
And her
RAINMENT OF RADIANCE
“Even diamonds cannot sparkle in the darkness – but these tasteful jewels, fuelled by the miracle of HydroPower, create a rainbow of light accentuating the striking beauty and voice of the world-famous entertainer.”
It was a stupid thing to say. Of course the singer’s lights were powered by Hydro. Everything was – the trains, the street lights, the factories, the floats outside – pretty much anything people had relied on before the crash had been resurrected by the clash of two sets of atoms. It was a miracle, they said. But it could no longer be considered a novelty, rather a fact of life.
The waiter bowed ungraciously at Jack, before gesturing towards a table with a distracted shrug. On an impossibly small stage, veiled on both sides by velvet curtain, a solo trombonist was tuning his instrument.
Faces suspended above shapeless bodies were clustered in couples or groups of three and four. Places like this were common. Give them champagne and a couple of bawdy songs and they’d leave happy.
When he had first arrived in the city, he and his classmates boldly took an unscheduled daytrip. None had puzzled at their ages; an ample supply of credit was enough to overlook their youth.
Mirrors lined every wall; a dozen versions of him stared back. Suddenly feeling exposed, he realised he was sitting alone without even a drink to occupy him. He was unused to such poor service but the harried waiter had disappeared.
The trombonist finally appeared satisfied with his instrument and blasted a piercing note, the intro to a popular showtune often used to introduce the players at chess matches.
“Hello, dear boy!” The blonde beehive and stiletto shoes ensured the man standing in front of him was easily eight feet tall. Attempts at make-up betrayed no signs of forethought. A foundation of clay-white paint had been applied with haste and his mouth was a torn gash of crimson lipstick.
Could he sit down?
The teenager pretended not to hear. So the man asked again.
Curious gazes were now being cast in their direction.
Jack was about to respond with an angry retort. But the figure plopped down beside him and began cooing in delight to the music.
The trombonist was now in full flow and drinkers broke off their conversations to listen. With each triumphant burst, there were short outpourings of applause and occasional cheers.
“…”
Jack couldn’t make out what the man was saying, over the impassioned sound of brass.
He began to feel nervous. His guardian would by now have contacted others, who would be now searching the streets.
“…”
His unwelcome guest was now stomping his high heels in time to the music so that the flimsy small table shook with excitement. Despite the initial impression of towering height, the man’s stomach was quite protruded, almost potbellied. A voluminous white cocktail dress hung shapelessly from his large frame.
There were other men in the club who had spent years perfecting their look – investing heavily in vintage garments and impossible-to-get accessories. In contrast, his companion looked like he’d been drawn on a child’s sketchbook.
The jazz musician finished his set and marched off the stage unconcerned about collecting his applause. Conversation resumed and Jack turned to the man next to him.
“Now can you please get lost?”
“But you are sitting on your own, dear boy.” The man was not German. Or at least he spoke with an English accent. “Don’t you want to have a conversation?”
“I’m waiting for someone. You’re in their seat.
“You won’t mind if I stay until they arrive, then? Ahh! These shoes…”
The man began to adjust the stilettos, which were obviously causing distress to his swollen feet.
“Yes, I do mind. I’ve got important things to think about and you are distracting me.”
The man seemed about to say something but then pursed his lips, causing the red wound across his mouth to suture.
In a blur of white cloth, he was on his feet. He leant forward at Jack, who could not stop himself from flinching, and spoke in a hushed but clear tone.
“Don’t use your bracelet, dear boy. It’s the easiest way to draw attention.”
Jack blinked in astonishment.
But the blonde wig was already disappearing into the crowd and smoke. A singing nun and a man in a bear suit had now emerged from behind the curtain to begin a bawdy number.
Had he really heard those words right? It was loud and confusing in the bar. And even if he had, what did that man know anyway?
Feeling ill at ease, Jack attracted the waiter’s attention and was rewarded with a potent and expensive liquid.
The longer he sat, the more he began to question his decision to run away. Something about the security man had triggered a primal fear within him. It had been something to do with the Nectar.
Perhaps he had only dreamt it – perhaps a side effect of the drug – but he could still see the horrible brass stubs, ending in wicked points. What intention could such a man have, other than evil? Thinking of the grotesque sight, Jack justified his flight.
Returning to school was not an option. The security would be waiting and the principal would be under clear instructions to alert them. There were people in Berlin, of course. Wealthy and bored offspring of other important parents – some had their own apartments – but he was not in the mood for conversation. The strange conversation with the blonde man had unsettled him.
He thought about the Brandenburg. The staff were particularly attentive but were also bound to make a fuss. No, he’d go to the Kaiser Wilhelm, it was nearby and discreet. He paid for his drinks by waving his left hand at the scanner. As he left, the crowd were demanding an encore.
A flock of one-man floats raced over the vinyl-covered pathways now sleek with rain – the drivers keeping dry within the bubble pods. The thick cloud suggested thunder would soon come but even the clogged air was still a refreshing contrast to the smoky basement.
Jack crossed the street and walked the next few blocks to the hotel, checking every few steps for signs of any pursuers. Rain continued to bounce off the plastic pavement. His thin shirt quickly became transparent, clinging to his chest.
The hotel door was opened with brisk efficiency and a deep bow from an impassive attendant in a heavy coat. Jack waited briefly at the desk, watching as a clerk explained the breakdown of charges to an elderly patron, before lazily proffering his arm to the attendant.
After the briefest of pauses, there was an effusive response. But of course, he could have a room, said the attendant in accentless English. Would he like any food just now? Drin
k?
“Not just now, thanks.”
“Perhaps you could wait just a few minutes while we make your room ready sir.”
He sank into an upholstered chair, swiftly becoming hypnotised by the ebb and flow of lobby guests and staff. There was a contest taking place in Paris – a big one – and a crowd of men had gathered in the lobby, where an operator had been paid to translate the teleprinter signals from inside the stadium. With electric expectation, they watched as he clutched the earpiece, faithfully jotting down the short and long signals that would reveal the next moves on the board. Groans or cheers would soon follow, depending on whether Volker, the champion from Dusseldorf, would retain his dominant position over Robur, the French grandmaster.
But through the group, two men approached, interrupting the miniature drama of the chess game so many hundred miles away.
One was short and middle-aged, rodent-faced with a trimmed, greying moustache. His younger companion was nearly twice the size with a neck as thick as Jack’s thigh. Both wore dark blue trousers and blazer’s bearing the hotel’s eagle crest.
“Please could you come with us, sir?” The smaller man addressed Jack in a whiny, inflected voice.
They were here to collect him. He should have been more careful, waited longer in the nightclub, gone to a friend’s apartment, travelled further out of the city. Any number of things would have thrown his pursuers off his scent.
He stood and followed the short man out of the bar and through the lobby, the larger companion walking behind. They marched through dining room where patrons sat in candlelight pools, past chefs yelling and cursing violently at kitchen boys in five different languages, and eventually into a back office. The small man gestured to a seat.
“You will wait here.” Minutes later he reappeared with another man, clearly a manager by his fine-cut suit and elegant moustache.
He appraised Jack, staring hard at his face and examining his still dripping shoes. He then nodded at the hulking guard who in one swift move lunged at Jack, grabbing his wrist and tearing off the black plastic band he wore.
“You will find,” said the manager, “that we do not treat thieves kindly here. We are not so stupid that we allow vermin to come off the street flaunting stolen identities.”
“What are you talking about? Give me back my bracelet!”
“Your bracelet!? Really, well let’s have a look… let me see what the reader has told us…” The man fitted a delicate pair of glasses on his nose as he read from a blue ticket in his hand – the distinctive colour from the Bracelet office. “Thomas Brolin. Place of birth: Vienna, Austria. Profession: medical surgeon (retired) and age: Sixty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days. It’s your birthday tomorrow, Dr Brolin. Many happy returns. Cranial index seventy-seven. Finger prints: tented arches…”
“Look, there’s been a mistake. Those aren’t my details.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
“You’ve read the wrong card. Just try it again and you’ll see.”
“It could just be a coincidence that Herr Brolin was attacked and robbed of his bracelet just two days ago.”
“It wasn’t me. I’ve stayed here dozens of times with my father. You must recognise me. There’s a problem with the bracelet system.”
“Yes, that must be it. You are not a common street thief. There has to be a flaw with the magnetic code in your bracelet. Clearly there is a flaw in the identity system trusted by millions. You should save this story for when Herr Brolin’s police guard arrives. He is still not quiet dead from the attack but I will be very surprised if the Elector of Mainz does not choose to put you in the steamchair.”
Seeing Jack’s horrified expression, the manager adjusted his glasses and continued serenely.
“The fact that you are only a guest in our country will compound the sentence. You may be comforted to know that Herr Brolin is represented by the Central Police Division, who I’m sure you are aware have a reputation for dealing with their clients concerns outside of the judicial system.”
“No, wait. I’m very important and so is my father. John Brown. UisgeCorp. You must know him he’s the one who helped start the – Look it’s all because I’ve gone missing from school and they are trying to find me.”
“Missing from school as well, oh! It gets better.”
The security man above him clamped a huge hand on Jack shoulder and bellowed.
“The boss told you to be quiet!”
Jack did as he was told. Before the questions were over, the air phone sprang into life informing the group of the police’s arrival. A squat, black-clad officer, podgy in the middle, marched into the room moments later, escorted by a porter.
He bowed briskly, turning towards Jack and fixing him with searching grey eyes. His close-trimmed moustache, which offset a surprisingly feminine face, bristled with contempt.
“You are the attacker,” he said.
“This is all a mistake. If the hotel would just check my details – ”
“Be quiet boy! Were you born yesterday? Are you so stupid that you don’t realise you can’t use other people’s bracelets. It has your picture, your fingerscans, everything can be checked within minutes.”
He picked up the punched blue ticket – and the torn bracelet from the manager, dangling it before the hapless prisoner.
“You are obviously not the owner of this.”
Before he could respond, Jack was grabbed by the blazer-wearing steward. Again he became the focus of another strange procession – the manager this time leading the way out of the room and into the busy kitchen. Bellboys and guests stared as the retinue entered the main lobby into the street where a police carriage was waiting.
As he was bundled into the back, Jack realised that the last few hours – his dream, the escape from his father’s men, running in desperation through the rain – had all been for nothing. We would have to face his father.
More worrying still, was the fact that his security men had some way of manipulating the identity database. Tracing his bracelet sign and changing his identity to resemble the German doctor’s meant they had a level of access beyond most Parliaments.
Hijacking the bracelet system, if possible at all, would bring the death penalty.
Jack wanted to be surprised. But even he knew the rumours about how the Hydro company got its way, about how rival firms would fall foul of embarrassments, and unhelpful politicians suddenly withdraw their opposition.
The policeman was now vigorously shaking the hand of the managers and the hotel staff, no doubt looking forward to his bonus for finding such a dangerous criminal. A small crowd had gathered at the lobby as the portly policeman strode purposefully towards the car. It might have been Jack imagination but he appeared to be limping slightly.
Two chestnut brown mares were hitched to the cab. Switching on the electric lamps, the policeman gee-ed the animals into action. The vehicle pulled out off the road turned left and then left again, before stopping suddenly.
Removing his flat top hat, the officer leaned through the barred window. There was a ripping sound followed by a slight cry of pain.
A smiling hairless face beamed at Jack.
“Hello dear boy.”