‘I just wanted to make him understand how silly Mr West’s stories really are, Ann. Especially when they come true.’
Peter started crying. A warmth spread through his trousers and the shame made him cry louder. His mother carried him away, and the last thing he saw before she ran down the stairs to the basement was his father, standing at the window alone, lost in thought.
* * *
‘And what do you think about all this, Mr Bloom?’ the prime minister asked. His soul-spark had folded up like a flower closing, with only a glimmer of gold within.
‘I am not sure it is my place to say, sir,’ Peter said.
C’s monocle dropped from his eye and he gave Peter a long look.
‘Well, I am glad to hear at least one Spook has a modicum of modesty,’ Sir Stewart said.
‘Nonsense. Of course it is your place,’ West said. ‘I would not have asked you here if I did not want your opinion. There is more to the situation on the ground than the things you can capture in writing. I remember reading Colonel Bedford’s first transmissions, trying to make sense of it all—’
His soul-spark fluttered suddenly, like a candle flame in a current of air.
‘Where was I?’ the prime minister muttered.
‘You wanted to hear what Bloom thinks about the situation in Spain,’ C said.
‘Ah yes. So I did. What shall we do with this Dzhugashvili of yours, then? What would the Spaniards have us do?’
Peter hesitated. What does he want me to say? he wondered. But the magic lantern of the old man’s soul was now dim and shrunken, and offered no hints. C was looking at Peter impatiently. There was no time for anything but the truth.
‘The Spaniards want the war to end,’ he said. ‘In places like Barcelona, the class society is already reasserting itself. Many, like CARRASCOS, are having a crisis of religious faith. There is constant infighting between the parties, much of it fed by the NKVD. The economy is in tatters.
‘Yet the Spanish are a proud people, and they hate Franco and his Moorish butchers. They will force the Fascists to turn every city into a Guernica before they give up. A quick Franco victory is only possible if we throw our full weight behind him. That means ground troops in Spain—and a Soviet response in kind.’
And there it was again, the familiar sting of a contradiction. To serve the Presence, he had to convince C of his loyalty and thus argue against the Presence’s interests in Spain. At the same time, there was a truth to the argument he could not ignore, bright like Inez’s soul-spark in the burning city.
If you started with a contradiction, you could prove anything, just like his mother taught him, long ago.
* * *
They did not sit in the drawing room again for a long time. After the war, Mrs Bloom started working for the Labour Ministry and spent all her evenings in her study. Peter’s father won a seat for the Liberal Party and was consumed by politics. Every night, he arrived home late, dishevelled and worn, and stayed up even later writing speeches with manic energy.
One bleak winter afternoon when he was ten years old, Peter returned from school and found his mother sitting in the drawing room. The crystal set he thought was safely hidden amongst his toys under his bed lay in her lap. It was the size of a cigarette box, with a frayed cardboard casing, a Bakelite tuning dial and a tinny speaker that you had to hold up against your ear. Peter had bought it from Neville, an older boy at school.
‘Nanny Schmidt found this while cleaning,’ she said, tapping the set. ‘Tell me, Peter—what do the dead say when you talk to them?’
‘You … you can’t talk to them with the basic kit, you can only listen,’ Peter said. ‘There is a lot of static. Mostly you only get the recent dead. They don’t make much sense.’
‘I see.’
‘I just wanted to understand how it worked.’
‘And do you?’
‘Of course I do, Mother, it’s all in Powell’s Aetheric Mechanics for Boys. The Zöllner crystal has a tiny four-dimensional extent and the spirits can touch it and make it vibrate, and the amplifier translates it into sound, and—’
‘I believe you, Peter. But do you understand how the world works?’
She stood up and leaned on the mantelpiece. She looked tiny, suddenly, birdlike.
‘Of course you don’t, you are too young. Do you remember Doctor Cummings who treated you when you had measles? Well, soon there will be no doctors. If you get sick, you will just pass over.’
‘If you have a Ticket,’ Peter said.
‘That’s right. And soon, having a Ticket will be the only thing anyone cares about. Not studying, not working, not doing the right thing. Nothing real.’
‘But Tickets are real!’ Peter protested. ‘Mr Hinton showed that if you imagine a four-dimensional object, it really exists in the aether. The spirits can see it, or thought-travel to it. That’s how Tickets and ectophone beacons work.’
Mrs Bloom sighed. ‘Peter, you are a very clever boy, so I know you will understand what I am going to say. Your father and I want you to grow up in a world where it matters to be alive. We want you to learn to care about this world, about sunshine, about other people. And that is why I never want to see one of these things in this house again.’
She lifted the crystal set high and smashed it against the mantelpiece. The casing crumpled and glittering fragments of the Zöllner crystal rained on the carpet.
‘Mother!’
She kneeled and started gathering the shards into a coal shovel.
‘You don’t know how lucky you are that Nanny came to me first. Your father has a temper. He would have done something he would have regretted.’
Peter made a face. But he knew his mother was right. He felt a cold flush of fear in his belly, remembering the night of the airship, his father’s unyielding grip and the anger in his voice.
‘Now, we will tidy up,’ Mrs Bloom said. ‘Then you will sit with me and do your homework. And not a word about crystal sets, is that understood?’
‘Yes, madam,’ Peter said quietly.
His father came home two hours later. When he saw Peter and his mother by the fire, his exhausted smile was like a light shining through buttered paper.
‘What have we here?’
‘My study was very cold today,’ Peter’s mother said. ‘I asked Nanny to bring supper here instead.’
Mr Bloom sank to his chair. ‘That sounds lovely. We had a rally in the Warringdon Pump House and it was dreadfully cold.’
A coughing fit made him double over. Peter’s mother got up and covered him with a blanket.
‘What about you, Peter?’ he asked, when the fit had passed. ‘What have you been doing today?’ He leaned back in his chair, eyes already half-closed.
Peter opened his mouth, trying to think of what to say. The truth was a leaden weight in his chest. But before he could speak, a gentle snore escaped Mr Bloom’s lips.
Mrs Bloom looked at Peter, and then back at his father. She smiled sadly.
‘He tries so hard,’ she whispered. ‘Do you understand now?’
Peter did not, but nodded anyway. Suddenly, he was furious at his father. How could he spoil everything, even when he was asleep? Oblivious to Peter’s rage, his mother smiled.
After he finished his homework and supper, he excused himself. He got ready for bed and took out the book he kept in the small space between his night table and the wall. The hiding place had been too narrow for the crystal set.
The Science of Death by Herbert Blanco West, said the title page.
Peter opened the chapter he had started the previous night, the one about William Crookes’ experiment showing that luz particles had an affinity with structures of higher complexity like brains. But it was difficult to concentrate.
It was not that he did not care about being alive, of course he did. But from everything he read, in Summerland things simply made much more sense. You could fly, for one thing, or thought-travel, which was even better. You were not trapped in a
pudgy body that ensured you got picked on at school. And you could see other peoples’ thoughts.
In Summerland, his mother would not have broken the crystal set. Peter would have understood why she was so angry. And there would have been no need to keep secrets from his father.
Or maybe he had it the wrong way around. Maybe it was his father who would be better off in Summerland, without Peter and his mother.
After a while, he heard his parents coming up the stairs together. His mother stifled a giggle. Peter ignored the sounds and lay awake in the dim glow of his night light, imagining what it would be like if his father was dead.
* * *
‘So, Mr Bloom, what is your recommendation?’ the prime minister asked.
‘Sir, I am with the Chief. Dzhugashvili is our best option to calm things down and avoid an all-out war.’
The prime minister paced the room. His soul-spark brightened again and bopped to the rhythm of his footsteps like some exotic sea creature in a current.
‘Sir, I do urge you to consider the alternative,’ Sir Stewart said. ‘The Admiralty considers a military victory in Spain eminently achievable. There is a need to test new weapons in the field, against a modern enemy, and in our estimation it is doubtful that the Soviets would fully commit to an armed response. The logistical challenges alone—’
‘Would be challenging to a human intellect, I agree,’ the prime minister interrupted. ‘But that is not what we are dealing with here. To the Presence, such challenges may be trivial. Naturally, many of the claims about its capabilities are propaganda, but we should not dismiss them entirely. Indeed, if we truly appreciated the possibility that we are dealing with something more than human, we would not choose such an obvious course as using Dzhugashvili. Have you factored that into your analysis, Mr Bloom?’
The Chief butted in before Peter could respond. ‘So far, the Presence’s direct contribution to intelligence matters has been limited to vetting operatives in Russia, which is the primary reason why we have not been able to infiltrate the Kremlin. In practice, it is the NKVD old guard and the God-Builders’ inner circle who make the actual operational decisions. In fact, we have reason to believe that the Soviet intelligence apparatus is currently distracted by internal purges, so it is the perfect time for decisive action.’
West’s soul-spark formed into a glowing Platonic solid of clarity.
‘As Bloom has pointed out, there is the human element to consider here as well,’ he said slowly. ‘Franco may have been the wrong horse to back in this race from the start. I was never very fond of the little general. We shall try our luck with Dzhugashvili.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ C said. ‘You will not regret it.’
‘However, I want the Winter Court to take the lead in this one. It is clear that terrestrial assets, BRIAR and CARRASCOS, were the key elements here. Sir Stewart will create a team that will assume operational control of them both. I will also instruct the Admiralty to investigate the worst-case scenario.’
Peter could hardly believe his ears. C’s monocle came loose again and floated in front of his face like the lure of a deep-sea fish.
‘I must protest,’ Peter said. ‘I have been developing CARRASCOS so far, and it would be extremely detrimental from an operational standpoint to change handlers so abruptly. Not to mention the risk in arranging physical meetings—’
‘Your protest is noted, Mr Bloom,’ West said. He sounded tired. ‘Nevertheless, my decision is made, based on all the available information. Sir Stewart, I want a meeting with our man within the week, if possible. That will be all, gentlemen.’
C’s mouth was set in a grim line. Sir Stewart’s soul-spark was like a full moon, round and golden.
‘This is it, Bloom,’ the Chief hissed, not touching the ectophone circuit so that the PM and Sir Stewart could not hear him. ‘This whole set-up was that bastard Menzies making his move. The old man seems to listen to you. Try to see if you can make him change his mind, via any means necessary. Otherwise we are all in the shit.’
Before the ectophone circuit vanished, Peter spoke.
‘Prime Minister, sir, I would like to have a word with you in private.’
West’s voice sounded surprised, but his soul-spark shrank into solid, angular inscrutability.
‘And why is that, Mr Bloom?’
‘It concerns a conversation we had a long time ago. I feel it may shed some light on the Spanish situation.’
‘I see. And where did we have that conversation?’
‘In Palace Terrace Gardens, sir.’
The prime minister chuckled. ‘I suppose I did ask you here for your perspective. It is only fair that I give you another minute to share it. The rest of you, carry on. England needs you, and so does Spain.’
* * *
Three months after Mr Bloom’s death, in 1921, Mr West came to visit Palace Terrace Gardens, late at night.
Peter hid at the top of the stairs and watched him enter. Nanny Schmidt, their housekeeper, took Mr West’s coat and hat. Next to burly Nanny, he looked tiny and round, a bit like Humpty Dumpty. Even in the dim light, his eyes had a silver sheen. Mrs Bloom came to greet him, and they went into the drawing room together.
Peter tiptoed to the salon. The furniture there was covered in white bedsheets that made the cavernous room look like a snowy landscape. He crawled beneath the sheet thrown over a billiard table and huddled there. The musty cloth muffled the sound a bit, but he could still make out the conversation in the next room.
‘My sweet Gorgon, I am so very sorry,’ Mr West told Peter’s mother.
‘Please don’t call me that,’ she said in a small voice.
‘A thousand pardons. Also for not attending the funeral. You know how it is, right now. But I wanted to come and pay my respects.’
‘It’s fine, HB, it really is.’
‘I hoped he would have taken a Ticket.’
‘That was never an option, you know that.’
‘I suppose so. Still.’
‘HB,’ Mrs Bloom said, ‘I loved him, in the end. He worked so hard. I tried to help, but it wasn’t enough. He was trying to be you.’ She let out a sob. ‘In a way, we killed him, you and I.’
‘Don’t say that. He was a good man, but he chose his fate. I respected that. We have to respect that now.’
‘Oh, I do, more than you know. I have decided to run for his seat.’
‘I see. I did think there was something familiar in his essays. It was you all along, wasn’t it? Well, I could not wish for a worthier opponent.’
‘I know you would rather have sent him to your Summerland,’ Peter’s mother said. ‘But this way, his life means something. He will not be gone, as long as I remember him. As long as Peter does.’
‘And how is the boy?’
‘Oh, HB.’ Mrs Bloom’s voice broke. ‘He will not speak to me. I broke his crystal set, a few months before Charles passed. He thought he could have spoken to Charles, before he Faded.’
Mr West said nothing.
‘Now he sits in his room and won’t go outside. I don’t know what to do.’
‘He is young. Time heals. Let me talk to him.’
‘Do you think that is wise?’
‘Why not? I am nothing but an old friend of yours, here to pay my respects. And Charles and I were friends, too, once. What’s the harm? Besides, I brought him a gift.’
‘It’s one of your games, isn’t it?’
‘I am telling you, my dear, my games are what they will remember me for, a century hence.’
Mrs Bloom laughed. ‘I will let him decide that. Peter!’
Peter sprang up, bumped his head on the billiard table’s bottom and ran back towards his room. He made it to the top of the stairs just as Mr West and his mother appeared in the hallway.
‘There is someone I want you to meet,’ Mrs Bloom said.
Mr West’s hands were plump and soft but his handshake was firm. He smelled faintly of honey.
Peter sat upright in
his chair. Nanny brought them tea, but he was too nervous to touch it. Mrs Bloom wished them a good evening and retired to her study.
‘I read your book,’ Peter said.
‘Oh? Which one?’
‘The Science of Death. I liked it.’
‘Ah. Thank you. That is not the one most younger readers mention,’ Mr West said. ‘Perhaps we will not discuss it tonight, for your mother’s sake. But tell me, Peter—have you ever played at war?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I don’t feel like playing much. And that sort of thing is for little boys.’
‘Oh, I beg to differ!’
Mr West held up the brown paper bag he had brought with him and took out a large cardboard box. The cover showed a khaki-uniformed army on a battlefield, and the words SMALL WARS in large, elaborate letters.
‘If I am not too old, you are not too old. Let me show you.’
The little man opened the box. It contained painted tin soldiers and spring-loaded cannons, cardboard terrain that folded out into hills and trees, dice and sheets of paper with tables. Mr West got down on all fours and crawled around, arraying his little armies against each other on the drawing room floor. Peter watched, a tangled knot in his chest.
Mr West’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the game was sort of interesting. You rolled dice to determine the outcomes of cannon shots and encounters between units. Mr West had created it based on the Prussian Kriegspielen used to train officers in the old days.
‘It should not be random,’ Peter said, after one of his cavalry units had been annihilated by a lucky cannon shot.
‘How so?’
‘Like in your book, you say that if you have a solution to the Maxwell–Kelvin equations, you know what the aether is going to do, for all time. There is nothing random. Why should a battle be any different?’
‘Well, in theory it is the same—if we knew all the variables and the equations governing them, and their initial values. Unfortunately, we are not intelligent enough to construct such equations, and thus nothing in war—or love, for that matter—is ever certain.’
‘So you can never be certain about anything?’
‘Well, you can in pure mathematics, I suppose. You start with axioms, and you prove that certain things follow logically. In number theory, you can prove that there are an infinite number of primes, for example. Sadly, most of these true things have little practical use. It’s better to live with uncertainty and roll the dice, even if we don’t always like the outcome.’