The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three
‘Go somewhere no one will ever find me?’ Cass smiled gently. ‘And where is that? There isn’t anywhere that Bright can’t get to me if he tries hard enough. I need to find some kind of end to this thing.’
‘He won’t give in easily.’
‘And neither will I.’ Cass hesitated. He had no idea what was coming next; he was hoping that Brian Freeman and Dr Cornell would have found something they could use against Mr Bright, but the tricky part was going to be staying alive and staying free. Bright had played with Cass up until now, but taking Luke might push him to try and dispose of Cass altogether, by killing him or by getting him nicked – either way would mean the end of Cass’ life.
‘Look,’ he continued, ‘if I don’t make it back for whatever reason—’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ Father Michael cut in.
‘No, but—’
‘Luke can stay here for as long as he needs to. I’ll look after him for you. You can trust that.’ He smiled softly, sagging cracks lining his face. ‘I’ll protect him with my life.’ He must have seen Cass’ eyes lingering on his wrinkles. ‘I may be old on the outside, Cassius Jones, but I’m still fiery on the inside. I’ll look after your boy. I’ll look after him for Alan’s sake as well as your own.’
Cass flinched at the mention of his father.
‘Don’t think too harshly of him, Cass,’ Father Michael said. ‘He was doing what he had to, to protect you and Christian. It was all he could do.’
Without commenting, Cass gently slapped the priest on the arm and smiled. ‘I’d better be going. Osborne and Wharton will stay with you. They won’t get in your way.’
‘The more the merrier. It’ll be nice to have company.’
At the door, the priest pulled Cass into a sudden embrace. Caught unawares, Cass found himself hugging Father Michael back. He was thin underneath his sweater, but then Cass wondered how changed the priest found him. He wasn’t blind to the changes that the past year had wrought on his own physical appearance.
‘You will come back, Cass,’ Father Michael said. ‘Of all the possibilities in this strange situation, that is the one I have the most faith in.’
For a moment Cass wished he had just taken Luke and fled the country. This frail old man didn’t deserve to suddenly be in so much danger.
‘It’s okay, Cass.’ Father Michael smiled. ‘This is okay. Now go and do what you need to do. And take care.’
Cass nodded. He didn’t believe in the priest’s god, the same god his father had found, and he never would do, but he envied the peace it appeared to have brought them. There was a quiet acceptance about Father Michael, even with all this sudden activity in his house. He didn’t have Cass’ rage. Still, Cass thought, as the door closed behind him and he was once again alone, it was his rage that kept him going.
The Range Rover was still warm and the village was quiet, lights just beginning to flicker on as he passed. He envied the small lives within. People oblivious to The Bank and the Glow and Mr Bright. This was where his parents had sought refuge from all of that, although clearly they had never quite been able to let it go.
The boys see the Glow! His mother’s handwriting was etched behind his eyes and he slowed the car as he passed his parents’ locked-up house. The dark windows stared back sullenly, giving nothing away, and there was no sign of the police who had ransacked the building in the first days after he was shot. As he drove away, he didn’t glance back. Whatever emotional attachment he had to the place had started dying when he’d learned about his father’s deal with Mr Bright, and knowing that Armstrong and his colleagues had trampled through, turning over every inch of the place, had pretty well finished it off.
His childhood home had been built on lies and his father’s faith was simply an escape, a crutch to help him cope with the choices he’d made. All that time Cass had felt guilty for not being good enough, and as it turned out, he was just doing what came naturally: like father, like first-born son. At least he didn’t run from his choices.
He left the sleepy village behind and headed back to the city. There’d been enough running. Now it was time for action. His eyes burned and heat flooded his body, energising him.
There is a Glow, he thought, bastardising the phrase that had been his mantra for so long, and I intend to use it. He left the radio off and enjoyed the silence as he drove.
Mr Dublin was waiting in a large conference room in the medical wing at the top of Senate House. It was through a door and up a small flight of stairs from the lift. Mr Bright was mildly surprised. He hadn’t even been aware that the room existed. Mr Dublin had clearly been exploring rather than overseeing. It was quiet, away from the screams of the homeless unfortunates being put through the Experiment. But then, if the gathering in the room was anything to go by, Mr Dublin had been keeping himself very busy indeed. As well as the newly promoted Mr Escobar there were at least fifteen members of the First Cohort lining the walls of the room.
Mr Bright paused in the doorway and smiled slightly as he took in the faces. On either side of Mr Dublin, standing at the head of the table in the centre of the room, were Mr Dakin and Mr Ede. Mr Dakin was almost salivating, although given his bulk that could just have been his natural greed, and Mr Ede’s sharp eyes flicked nervously from Mr Dublin to Mr Bright and back again. So: it was these two whom Mr Dublin intended to add to his Inner Cohort along with Mr Escobar. As choices went, they weren’t bad. They’d managed their sections well enough. However, this coup was not the way to form a new Inner Cohort. He understood only too well that Mr Dublin had clearly wanted to make this a democratic decision. That was apparent in the sheer volume of their kind here to witness his downfall. He felt almost sorry: Mr Dublin would be destroyed by his own honesty.
If Mr Bright had been in his opponent’s shoes he would have dispatched himself somehow, and then claimed to the others that the Dying had come for him. They would have believed it because they wanted to believe it; it would have obviated them from guilt. As it was, should Mr Dublin fail to deliver, they would all look back with rose-tinted glasses – as so many were currently doing about home – and they would turn on Mr Dublin. There were some things, however, that you just couldn’t teach.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Mr Dublin said.
‘Thank you for sending a car,’ Mr Bright said. ‘And with such charming company.’ The warm twinkle in his eyes cooled. ‘I presume this isn’t a social meeting? And if not, then why are we not meeting in the privacy of the Inner Cohort Chamber? This’ – he gestured at the room – ‘is unacceptable.’
‘This’ – and Mr Dublin copied Mr Bright’s gesture – ‘is necessary.’ He looked ephemeral, with his fine ash-blond hair and pale skin. ‘We felt this was a decision that needed to be agreed on by more than the Inner Cohort. Please take a seat.’
Mr Bright remained standing. ‘You will find that most decisions are best taken only by the Inner Cohort. The world runs better that way.’ He didn’t see the point of explaining the guilt mentality; Mr Dublin could fall or stand on his own. ‘I would just like it to be noted that I find this location insulting. There are some tasks, Mr Dublin, especially the unpleasant ones, that should always be given the respect they deserve.’ Feet shuffled around the room. ‘We should be in the Chamber, not here. And this should just be you and me.’ Embarrassment settled like an invisible shroud over the room. Their aggression was still there, and he wouldn’t be able to change them from their current path, but he was pleased to have unnerved them.
Mr Dublin smiled slightly. ‘That was your way, Mr Bright: the old way. Sadly, and mainly because of your own recent failings, we do not have the time for such niceties.’ His slim frame stood tall and his naturally soft voice was clear and strong. ‘Over the past few days it has become clear that you are struggling to maintain your position. This “problem” with The Bank is a clear indicator of that. You may well have stabilised the situation, but that does not excuse the fact that not only The Bank’s accounts were hacked,
but the X accounts too.’ He paused. ‘You must be aware that this is unacceptable.’
‘Whoever did that got what they came for. And no one will be able to get into our systems again.’ Mr Bright once more felt a shiver of irritation at having to defend himself. ‘You must know that’s been taken care of – as you appear to be so aware of all my movements.’
‘That is not our concern, Mr Bright,’ Mr Dublin continued. ‘What concerns us is that none of this attention would have come our way were it not for you. We are getting reports of people asking questions about you, far more than normal – between that and these problems with The Bank there is a general feeling that even they are concerned: you have become a liability to the balance between us and them.’
Mr Bright burst into merry laughter. ‘Oh, Mr Dublin, you have so much to learn.’ He looked around the room. Most wouldn’t even meet his eyes, and to his left, the young one who had come to collect him with Mr Escobar dropped his head. His face was red. Not all of them were convinced, he was sure of that, but they wouldn’t turn against Mr Dublin yet.
‘So? What now?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Am I about to find out that it’s my turn to try for the Walkways?’
‘You’ve moved the First. We want to know where he is. We also wish to know the location of the boy. The bloodline.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Bright remained focused on Mr Dublin. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’m prepared to share that information just yet.’
‘This is no time for playing games, Mr Bright.’
‘That’s where I must respectfully point out that you are wrong, Mr Dublin. All of this is a game – a serious one, perhaps, but still just a game.’ He looked down at his manicured fingernails and then up again. ‘And I don’t feel ready to give up my pieces just yet.’
‘I don’t want this to get unpleasant, Mr Bright.’
‘Oh, but it already is.’ Mr Bright reached up and loosened his tie so that he could reach the item that hung around his neck. ‘Let’s not pretend otherwise, shall we?’ He pulled the thin chain free and over his head before sliding it across the table. Mr Dublin caught it at the other end.
‘Now,’ Mr Bright continued while redoing his tie, ‘I think the dirty work has been done for the day. I have no intention of giving you the information you require, so you’d better get on with doing whatever it is you intend to do to me that you think might change my mind.’ He tugged his cuffs down slightly and his polished cufflinks glinted.
‘As you wish,’ Mr Dublin said. ‘Mr Escobar? Mr Vine? Lock our guest up for now, please. We’ll give him some time to rethink his position. He’s served us well. It would be a shame for that to change now.’
Mr Dublin waited until Mr Escobar had returned, leaving Mr Vine standing outside the secure cell, and then dismissed the rest of the gathering apart from Mr Dakin and Mr Ede. For a moment they stood in silence, before Mr Dakin finally pulled out a chair and slumped into it.
‘What a morning,’ he sighed.
‘Momentous,’ Mr Escobar added.
‘I shall hold onto this’ – Mr Dublin slipped the chain around his neck and let it fall against the other under his loose linen shirt – ‘until we have recovered Mr Craven’s. I wouldn’t wish to insult either of you by picking one over the other to carry a quarter until we are back in possession of all four.’
Mr Dakin and Mr Ede both nodded curtly. Neither argued and Mr Dublin was relieved. They were just pleased to be part of the Inner Cohort, and they had accepted that Mr Escobar was going to be the primary among them. They could wait a little while longer before they got their own trappings.
‘You’ve seen the news, I take it?’ Mr Escobar asked.
‘Yes, and that brings me to our first point of business.’ He was pleased to get away from the subject of Mr Bright. He’d expected to feel more relief now that the Architect was locked up, but the greasy sense of guilt in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t leave. This was not a treachery he had chosen; it had been unavoidable. The last time he had rebelled, it had been against a despot, and he’d been proud to fight. This was altogether cloudier water in which he’d swum. Still, it had needed to be done, and the world would settle.
‘Mr Craven has finally been caught. He’s still alive, but only just. We’ll have his quarter returned to us once it’s in the police evidence lockers, just as Mr Solomon’s was.’
‘He has brought shame on us,’ Mr Dakin said. ‘He deserves his unpleasant death.’
‘A little respect.’ Mr Dublin flashed a glare at the fat figure sitting alongside him. ‘This Dying could come for any of us and who knows how we each would react if it did?’ Hearing himself, he wondered at his sudden defence of Mr Craven. He had never liked him; he was cruel and selfish. But he was familiar, and Mr Dublin understood how to play him, just as he was sure Mr Bright had. Now there were new characters to negotiate, and he was all that was left of the original Inner Cohort. Unlike Mr Bellew, Mr Dublin had not sought this position out of any great love of power himself. Mr Bright had to be removed from office for the greater good.
‘As it is, this may work to our advantage,’ he said. ‘Mr Craven infected a policeman during his arrest – a Sergeant Armstrong, the last man to work with our elusive wild card, Detective Inspector Cassius Jones.’
‘What was Mr Craven doing with him?’ Mr Ede asked. Between Mr Dakin and Mr Ede, Mr Dublin preferred the latter. The slim dark-haired man was always impeccably dressed, and although quiet by nature, when he did speak, his words were always well thought out.
‘I presume that he was trying to find Jones, just as we are.’
‘But why?’
‘Maybe he wanted to bring him to us as a gift – to regain our trust and be allowed to try for the Walkways.’
Mr Ede shrugged slightly as if he thought that was an unlikely possibility but was too polite to say so. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Why he was with Armstrong is, however, irrelevant now. What is important is that this might be our opportunity to find Jones. I want the hospital – the Strain II ward especially – watched. If he turns up there then I want him here, do you understand?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Mr Escobar said.
‘Good.’ Mr Dublin poured himself a coffee. He turned to Mr Dakin. ‘And can I leave the extraction of the whereabouts of the First in your capable hands?’ Mr Dakin had been the natural successor to Mr Craven in many ways. He had an unpleasant cruel streak, just as the other had. But sometimes these things were necessary. Mr Dublin had never had much of a stomach for inflicting pain, but sometimes pain was the only option.
Chapter Thirty-One
The atmosphere in Paddington Green Police Station had been grim since the Angel of Death’s capture the previous afternoon, and when Dr Hask opened the door of Ramsey’s office, he found the DI staring out at a dark grey sky that belonged somewhere in the late afternoon, not ten-thirty in the morning. It was oppressive, doom-laden – just like the mood pervading the building. Hask said nothing but closed the door behind him and waited until Ramsey turned round. One look at the dark circles under his eyes and Hask felt his own heart sinking.
‘News from the hospital not good?’ he asked.
Ramsey shook his head. ‘He’s infected. He’s sick already.’ He slumped into his chair. ‘The doctors don’t know what kind of mutation has occurred, but it looks like our unknown killer infects people at whatever stage his own disease is at. The good news for the rest of the world is that it’s unlikely to be an actual new strain of the bug, but what it means for us is that Armstrong is very ill indeed.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Why didn’t he just wait for back-up?’
‘The curse of youth is invariably stupidity,’ Hask said, ‘with a hefty dash of bravery and impatience.’ He perched his heavy frame on the edge of the desk. ‘You know all the reasons; you probably did something like this yourself in your time. Most people get away with making those less-than-wise choices, but every now and then the luck runs out. It was Armstrong’s
decision to go in without back-up and neither you nor he can relive that moment.’
Ramsey looked up. ‘People pay you good money for this kind of cheerful talk? Because if they do, you should know this isn’t making me feel much better.’
‘I’m not being paid for this.’ Hask smiled. ‘This is just me and you – no bullshit, no cuddles, just the plain truth.’
‘Yeah, well it may be the truth, but it sucks.’ Ramsey let out a long sigh.
‘Have you heard anything from Fletcher?’ Hask felt lousy about Armstrong too, but what he’d said was true: there was nothing they could do for him. They could, however, keep on with their own work, which had also been affected by the previous day’s events.
‘Yes.’ Ramsey sat up straight. ‘He said he’s tried a few routes to get information on this Castor Bright and he’s drawing a blank.’
‘He’s got nothing at all?’
‘No, that’s not quite right: what he’s getting are doors shutting on him. High-level doors. This Bright fellow exists, but no one wants to talk about him. At all.’ He frowned. ‘Weird, huh? Who is this man? And if he’s that élite then what’s he doing interested in someone like Cass Jones?’
‘Isn’t it strange how everything is weaving together?’ Hask said. ‘I just wish I knew why. What’s the piece of this puzzle that we’re missing? Armstrong goes and loiters outside Mullins’ club hoping to find something to lead him to Jones and along comes our Angel of Death, also looking for Cass Jones. He calls himself Mr Craven, right?’
Ramsey nodded.
‘Ring a bell?’ Hask continued. ‘Mr Bright, Mr Craven? Who introduces themselves as mister any more? It’s very old-fashioned.’
‘You think Bright and this Craven know each other?’
‘Bright knew the Man of Flies, so why not?’
‘And why would he be looking for Jones?’ Ramsey mused. ‘According to Mullins he wanted to talk to Cass – he didn’t say anything about giving himself up, or feeling any deathbed remorse for his actions. He wanted to talk to Cass: so does he know something he wants Cass to know?’