Summerland

  Peter stared at the keyboard. It felt like the machine filled the entire world. Its humming song vibrated in his teeth and bones.

  His second question felt small and meaningless, childish even. It was not the kind of question you would expect a soulful machine to be able to answer, no matter how intelligent. But Peter was exhausted to the point of delirium, adrift in a waking dream, and in dream logic it all made sense.

  He put his hands on the keyboard and typed, WHERE IS MY FATHER?

  * * *

  When Peter asked for the bill, Otto and Nora got up and walked away, arm in arm.

  Peter followed them carefully, keeping them just within line of sight. They walked at a leisurely pace along the loud, busy street, crowded in spite of the chill and icy light rain. He ignored the sounds of electric buses and the colourful adverts for Dr Patterson’s Pills, focusing instead on faces, coats and umbrellas that might have been following Otto and Nora.

  After a while, they switched places, with Peter in the lead. He used Proops Brothers, a store that sold aether-mechanical and radio parts, as a choke point. Finally, Otto indicated satisfaction by sitting down on an empty bench under dead trees in Whitfield Gardens, a small public space surrounded by Victorian houses that provided some shelter from the cold wind. Nora took her place next to him and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.

  Peter joined them on the edge of the bench and rubbed his hands together. Rediscovering the sensations of the living had its pleasures, but in all honesty, he had not missed the London winter all that much.

  ‘I need to come in,’ he said.

  ‘Already?’ Nora said. She wore a thick fur coat that made her look even bigger and rounder than last time.

  ‘I’m sure FELIX has his reasons,’ Otto said.

  Peter said nothing for a moment. Suddenly, the idea of joining the Presence did not feel as joyful as it once had. Maybe the oversoul itself was pure, but clearly operatives like Dzhugashvili could misinterpret its instructions. Was that why George had defected, in the end?

  He wondered what would happen if he went back to Rachel White and confessed everything. He instantly recoiled from the thought. Being a triple agent was as close to Hell as Peter could imagine, and the system of Tickets and Summerland was something he had rejected long ago. Unschlicht would have admonished him for muddy thinking.

  ‘There is an investigation in the Summer Court now,’ Peter said finally. ‘I have not dared to send regular reports since I found out. George told them that a mole exists, although apparently no more than that. And now the Dzhugashvili thing has everyone on their toes. Once C is less distracted by the war, he is going to turn over every luz stone in the Court. It will be dangerous to remain much longer.’

  ‘Shpiegelglass will be disappointed,’ Nora said.

  ‘Have you heard from him? I cannot figure out who warned Dzhugashvili.’

  ‘Our comrade is pursuing that question right now very … zealously,’ Otto said. ‘He thinks there were Stalinists amongst the Communist Party in Madrid, although the Termin Procedure has failed to uncover them so far.’

  Nora looked at Peter sharply. ‘We all saw the Presence instruct you to keep your cover, Comrade. Are you telling me that you are questioning those instructions because things are getting uncomfortable? Or is the increased risk merely an excuse for your recent lack of results, like your failure to assume leadership of the Dzhugashvili operation?’

  ‘No, of course not! I was … distracted. Something else turned up.’

  ‘I am sure Comrade Shpiegelglass would be delighted to hear about this distraction,’ Nora said. She removed her mittens and flexed her strong fingers. Her palms were covered with callouses and there were black cracks in her fingernails.

  This was not how it was supposed to go, Peter thought. This was not what George would have said if he was in danger. Then again, George was dead and Faded, and had betrayed both Peter and the Presence. Perhaps Nora’s brutal honesty was better.

  ‘There is a file,’ Peter said. ‘I saw it in the prime minister’s mind. It is somehow connected to all his thinking about Spain and the war.’

  ‘What is the subject of this file?’ Otto asked.

  ‘A scientific project in the twenties, investigating some little-known aspect of Summerland. I have a Winter Court asset trying to obtain a copy of it.’

  Nora rolled his eyes. ‘It sounds as valuable to the cause as the prime minister’s used lavatory paper.’

  ‘Please excuse my wife,’ Otto said. ‘However, you must consider the fact that extraction operations can fail and put us all at risk. Before taking that risk, I would strongly recommend obtaining … more actionable intelligence. I am sure Comrade Shpiegelglass would appreciate it.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Peter said. His hands were nearly numb and he stuffed them in his pockets. ‘West is obsessed with it. It dominates his soul-spark, if you only could have seen it—’

  ‘Obsession is not necessarily the same as importance,’ Otto said. ‘I believe the gentleman in question is also obsessed with little boys’ war games.’

  Peter blinked. Was it possible that he had misinterpreted what he had seen? Was CAMLANN some dead-end pet project, a senile old man’s hobby horse? His own thinking on West could well be clouded, because of the Presence’s answer to his second question, long ago.

  He leaned back, thinking hard. The rain had stopped and he could see a clear patch of the evening sky, with a smattering of stars bright enough to outshine London’s lights that spilled upwards. Peter had not seen stars for a long time, and suddenly they reminded him of a passage from The Science of Death.

  There is no reason why life could not have evolved on other planets besides Earth. The soul-seeds fall upon the whole three-plane of our aether, as far as we know. Intelligence could have evolved anywhere, in our own Solar System, and beyond.

  So where are they? Where are the Martian ghosts? Some of the planets in our own System are much older than our world. There are stars much older than our Sun. Summerland should teem with the spirits of otherworldly intellects. Yet it is occupied only by a narrow slice of humanity …

  The possibility that occurred to him then was colder than the wind, sharp and terrible like Nora’s chisel. In an instant, it pierced all his doubt.

  ‘I think I know what project CAMLANN was about,’ he said quietly. ‘If I am right, it is infinitely more important than Spain or my cover.’

  ‘Do enlighten us, FELIX,’ Nora said.

  Peter told them. At first, they were sceptical, but when he laid out the argument, even Nora’s eyes widened—with fear or elation, he could not tell.

  ‘I concur,’ Otto said finally. ‘If you can obtain proof for this hypothesis, Comrade Shpiegelglass would undoubtedly recommend applying the Termin Procedure to ensure the Presence has full access to it. When do you think you will be ready?’

  ‘Less than a week. Three days, perhaps.’

  ‘Very well. We will set up an extraction protocol. Nora will prepare a new set of emergency Hinton codes. They will take you to a temporary charter-body so we can transport you to a safe location for the Procedure.’

  Peter frowned. He had imagined that once his task was done, the Presence would simply whisk him away, as if by magic. Then he realised he was being childish. It was not possible to thought-travel to the Presence—it was impossible to visualise His vastness. The Presence had to come to you, and the feedback loop at the heart of the Termin Procedure required a human body to anchor it.

  Nora took Peter’s hand. Her rough hands were warm.

  ‘I was wrong about you, Comrade FELIX. I don’t think you are a coward. I think you are completely mad. But it is a glorious kind of madness. Bring us CAMLANN. We’ll be waiting.’

  Otto and Nora left, arm in arm, and were carried away by the river of people on the street. Peter was cold but sat alone for a while, hands in his pockets, watching the stars and listening to the ticking of Pendlebury’s spirit crown.

&nbs
p; 17

  QUO VADIS, 30TH NOVEMBER 1938

  After leaving the Blue Dog, Rachel found a telephone box, reached Joe at his club, booked them a table for a late dinner at Quo Vadis on Dean Street, and went home to change before heading to the restaurant.

  She decided on just a trace of makeup and a blue dress she knew Joe liked. The restaurant itself was part of the plan: a public place would make it harder for him to run away when they got to the difficult topics. Besides, the Modernist pastel-coloured mosaic windows were glorious, a grid of green, salmon and orange.

  She sat at the table alone and waited, a little cold, rubbing her bare arms.

  ‘Madam? Would you like an aperitivo while you wait?’ The maître d’—a small, neat Italian man—had appeared from somewhere,

  ‘Hm? No, no thank you. Not right now. Maybe later.’

  Truthfully, she was desperate for a drink, but her empty stomach was so tense she felt like she had swallowed an ice cube. Instead she waited, played with the edge of the flawless white tablecloth and thought about what she was going to say.

  The problem was that Joe never talked about the war.

  It was always there, from the first time they met: a secret whose presence she could sense with an interrogator’s instinct. Against her nature, she left it alone. They shared an understanding of the things that did not need to be said. It was enough to exchange a smile or a glance that said look how ridiculous this world is.

  She even knew when he was going to propose, possibly before he did himself. It was a low-key thing. They were walking along a windswept Atlantic beach in France and huddled behind a rocky outcropping when he produced a ring from his pocket, cradled it in his palm like a child who had found a pretty rock in the sand.

  ‘I have been thinking we should make this more permanent,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  She said yes, and he hollered, threw her down onto the sand with a rugby tackle that made her whoop as well. The sand got everywhere.

  The wedding was small. Rachel wanted to hire a medium for her mother to attend but Joe refused, and that was their first fight.

  ‘Maybe an Edison doll if you insist,’ he said flatly. ‘But no mediums.’ Eventually, she gave in. Her mother claimed she did not mind, but thereafter she pointedly ignored Joe whenever he tried to say hello during Rachel’s weekly ectophone calls.

  They gradually got to know each other over the next three years. A trickle of small things they shared, usually after they made love or during long walks around the Serpentine. Rachel told him about the early years in India, and always feeling cold when she came to England. How she tried to fit in at the Court. Joe talked about playing rugby for England. How he got into flying, during an off-season when he was looking for a rush and found that he loved looking at the world from above.

  But he never, ever said anything about the war. And when she lost the baby, there were suddenly two things they could not talk about, two large stones that filled the empty space in every conversation.

  Maybe in the past few weeks, she had made things worse by adding a third.

  * * *

  Joe arrived a few minutes late. He was in full dress uniform, khaki and medals, clean-shaven, hair freshly cut. He looked better than he had for months, and if not for the grey in his hair, he could have stepped out of the day they first met.

  He gave Rachel a curt nod and sat down.

  ‘Was there a reunion at the club?’ she asked. ‘It’s that—well, you look jolly dashing.’

  Joe’s face was set. ‘No. I will tell you later. Let’s get a drink.’

  Cava materialised, and they drank it in silence. It tickled Rachel’s belly. Then she reached across the table and took Joe’s hand. He leaned back in his chair, but Rachel did not let go. She had to do it now, before she lost her resolve, before they fell back into their old pattern again like two gramophone needles in their own grooves.

  ‘Joe, I know things have not been right. We both know why, I think. I thought we could … we could come out, somewhere different, somewhere nice, and, well, talk about it.’

  ‘Rachel, I … Oh, Hell. Is talking really going to solve anything? What happened was my fault. Both with the baby, and … that night, when you brought the finches. Just let me live with it, will you?’

  ‘Joe, you can’t just take the blame like that. The baby, it was … all normal, until it wasn’t. Maybe if I had been more careful, it wouldn’t have—’ Her voice caught. She closed her eyes. ‘Silly me. I brought us here so I would not cry.’

  Joe patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, now. It’s all right.’

  She kept her eyes shut for a while and heard Joe giving the waiter their orders. Later, she had no idea what they were. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle.

  ‘I don’t know what happened, not with you, and not with me, the other night. I’m not a doctor. But I am pretty sure it had more to do with me than you, both times.’

  ‘That is not true. Maybe … if you said something about it. What happened. What they did to you. It would help me. Help us.’

  Joe said nothing for a while.

  ‘We’ve been through this before. It would be unfair to the lads, Rachel,’ he said finally.

  ‘I’m not one of them. But I comprehend duty, you know I do. Maybe I could understand.’

  ‘I really hope you do, Rachel.’ He sighed. ‘I really hope you do. There is something I was going to tell you tonight anyway. I re-enlisted. It sounds like there is going to be a pretty good scrap in Spain. A lot of the lads at the club were raring to go, and so I thought, why not? And to be honest, I think it is best for both of us if I stay away from you for a while.’

  Rachel covered her mouth with a hand. She felt the vertigo from the Tower again, a black abyss opening before her, except this time she was already falling.

  ‘Joe. Please don’t,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not safe. There is—’

  There is a traitor helping the Soviets. She bit her lip. She wanted to come clean about Bloom, about Max, about their operation. But there was no telling what he would do, what he would think. In many ways, they did live in different countries, with different languages, with glass walls between them.

  In the end, the lifelong habit of not sharing secrets won.

  ‘There is what?’ he asked after she remained silent for several breaths.

  ‘I just know it won’t go well. From something I heard at work.’

  ‘There are always rumours, Rachel. In any case, I can hardly withdraw now. Would make me look like a bounder. Bad for the old morale.’

  ‘It’s something else, it’s—’

  ‘Hush,’ Joe said. ‘Coming here was a good idea. But I think it is better if we don’t try to say too much. I am not stupid, Rachel. I know there is something going on with you. I am not about to judge. I … when things were really bad, I visited some places, in the East End, where you can … well. Aetheric love, they call it. I thought it would make the nightmares go away. It didn’t help, though. I am more sorry than I can say, Rachel.’

  The jealousy fluttered in its cage in her breast, and she looked away. So it had been that, as she’d suspected: ectoplasm fantasies, nothing real. It still made her skin crawl.

  ‘I’m sure it didn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want to know about that.’

  ‘And I don’t need to know about your … work. Or whatever it is.’

  Maybe he would understand, Rachel thought. She pushed against the glass wall as hard as she could.

  ‘It is not what you think it is, Joe. It really isn’t. Let me explain what has been happening—’

  Joe held up a hand. ‘It makes no difference to me, really. I am going anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to.’

  ‘Joe, I need to understand why. Aetheric love I think I can just about live with, given time. But going away to a war, away from me—that is different. I deserve an explanation. And I might understand more than you think. I was a nurse fo
r a while, remember? I saw injured people. But I’ve never understood what could have hurt you so badly you must keep it from me.’

  Joe said nothing. He turned his cap in his hands and put it down. He ordered more wine and emptied his glass. Their first course arrived. Joe stared at the scallops on his plate and cautiously ate one, then put his fork down.

  ‘All right, Rachel. All right, then.’

  * * *

  It took Joe a while to get to it. He talked slowly at first, about joining up, being shipped to France. Rachel held her breath as emotions from old memories played across his face like images from a magic lantern. She said nothing, only made small noises to egg him on, practically held her breath so as not to stem the flood of words.

  ‘It felt ridiculous at first,’ Joe said, ‘wearing those contraptions. I did better than some of the lads: I was fit enough to carry it and walk. They did not work very well. One boy from Kent got electrocuted. I saw some films of the early experiments. One showed some poor bastard with ectoplasm pouring out of him but no control, flailing around, smashing the lab until they shot him in the head.

  ‘We all got Tickets, of course—all soldiers did—but it was early days, we were still afraid. The officers would try to get the boys to charge across minefields, but it just led to more fear. The ectophones were poor, things did not work so smoothly in Summerland back then, and in any case we had all kinds of ideas about the place because we did not know any better. So there the soldiers all sat, in the trenches, in a stalemate.

  ‘And that was where we came in, the ectotroops, tanks and flyers. I was always sensitive, even as a child, but only a little bit. Sometimes I would have this funny sensation, like a tickle in the back of my head, and see people who were not there, and crazy lights. But that was it.

  ‘The first time they switched the armour on—’ He shook his head. ‘You feel this fist squeezing your head and everything goes cold, a bit like those ice-cream headaches you get as a child, but all over your brain. Then … it comes. A door opens. You are … throwing up, but the stuff that spews out becomes a part of you, makes you bigger, taller. You feel like you can do anything. Some of the lads grew giant legs and the tendrils—well, you have seen them. Some were more like giant beasts made of ectoplasm, or spiders scuttering through the trenches.