‘I guess so. Time will tell.’ Fletcher didn’t look at him but stared as the final jets of water closed down. Several firemen ventured into the building.
‘Maybe he wasn’t in there,’ Ramsey said. ‘It’s possible.’
‘That’s his car,’ Hask said, pointing to the abandoned Range Rover. ‘His cigarettes are still in it.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s still here,’ Ramsey said.
A woman brought them hot mugs of coffee that they accepted gratefully but didn’t drink. Eventually, a smoke-streaked fireman emerged from the wreck and pulled his helmet from his head as he walked towards them.
‘There’s four dead in there: three men and a woman, we think, but it’s hard to tell. They’re not in a good state. It looks like the fire started in the basement room that they’re in. It’s a mess. I’m sorry.’
None of the three men spoke, and the fireman nodded and then walked away to join his team.
There was a long silence. ‘Shit,’ Tim Hask said eventually. ‘Bloody shit.’
‘There was something else,’ Fletcher said, after a moment. ‘A chopper.’ The other two men turned to look at him. ‘According to reports it left moments before the blast. Normally I’d have satellite images, but not today so we don’t know how many or who were on board, but someone got away from here.’
‘You think he could still be alive?’ Tim Hask asked. No name was required. Cass Jones hung in the air between them, as he’d done for such a long time. Fletcher didn’t answer and the three looked once again at the destroyed building.
‘Oh, I’d put money on it,’ Ramsey said eventually. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Chapter Forty-Five
A drawn curtain separated the two patients. Cass didn’t want to see the body Christian’s son had been transferred into when the First took his. When he first saw Christian’s boy – looked him in the eyes and saw him – he wanted him to be in the body he’d been born in. Mr Bright had respected his wishes.
Now, sitting by the boy’s bed, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting – tubes and wires, definitely, gas masks and noisy machines, definitely. Perhaps they were required for the ageing body hidden from view, but whatever was making the exchange happen must be being done by something else.
Cass watched in awe as a nurse examined the boy’s shoulder. He was sleeping deeply now, in a medically induced coma to get the process under way. The bullet wound wasn’t yet healed, but the flesh was already knotting together and it looked as if it had happened two weeks ago, not a few hours. Within a few weeks there might not even be much of a scar.
The nurse left quietly, without looking up.
Cass didn’t move from beside the bed as night rolled into dawn and into day, and back to night again. People brought sandwiches and drinks at regular intervals, but most went back untouched. He wondered if it was the same for Mr Bright, on the other side of the curtain. He hadn’t seen him emerge.
The transfer was being effected by the power of the cohorts, Mr Bright included, and it was nearly complete. It had apparently taken much longer the first time, when they were experimenting, but the serum had been injected and he’d been told the boy was ready. Certainly his breathing was regular and even.
Now Cass saw machines being wheeled past him to the area behind the curtain, ready for when the other patient woke – to keep him alive as long as possible, Cass supposed, although he didn’t pretend to understand why. For his own part, he wanted the First dead – he’d told Mr Bright that in the helicopter. The enigmatic man had simply smiled and said gently, ‘But he’s family – your family. You have the same blood.’ The faint twinkle that had risen in his eyes faded. ‘And there’s been too much death for now, don’t you think?’ he murmured as he turned and looked out of the window.
As he listened to the machines blipping and bleeping away he wondered if that had been the whole truth – or perhaps there really were some fates worse than death. Why should the First escape so easily after he’d been so willing to bring Armageddon, to destroy them all? Maybe that’s what Mr Bright and the cohorts were thinking.
He closed his eyes for a moment and rolled his head to loosen his aching neck. He was exhausted …
When he opened his eyes again the air had stilled to silence. Cass frowned. Had he fallen asleep? The yellow lights overhead were dimmer, and shadows stretched across the room. The hairs on the back of Cass’ neck prickled: someone was in the room with him. Something caught his eye and he slowly turned his head to the right.
Polished black lace-up brogues. Bright splashes of crimson. Dark trouser cuffs. Cass’ breath caught in his throat and he blinked several times. The shoes didn’t move. He dragged his eyes upwards: a pale blue Armani shirt, half untucked. Tie, loosely knotted. Cass wasn’t sure he wanted to go further. Would Christian’s eyes be bleeding, as they had in the monastery? Would his face be wrecked and the back of his head missing, as it had after his brains had been shot out?
Cass sighed. He had no choice. He looked up.
Clear, blue eyes looked back at him from under blond hair. Christian’s ghost was whole. Cass rose to his feet, his exhaustion forgotten in this moment of frozen time. His little brother smiled at him, and Cass’ heart sang. They stood face to face for a moment, Cass grinning like a fool, and then Christian turned and moved down the other side of the bed. His footsteps were silent. Cass stood on the other side, mirroring Christian, and the Jones brothers stared down at the boy lying between them. He had the pale skin and blue eyes of the one and the thick dark hair of the other. Christian leaned forward and his dead lips brushed Luke’s cheek. He drank in the boy, one long, wistful look, and then turned to Cass.
He smiled again, an easy, happy grin, and Cass saw all the kindness and goodness he’d tried so hard to ignore while the other had been alive, shining from his brother. He loved Christian, his baby brother, and now he’d love his son for him too, as if he were his own. He smiled back, tears bright and burning at the corner of his eyes. On the other side of the bed, Christian raised his arm and pointed, his smile spreading. For a second, Cass wasn’t sure what he meant, and then he saw the gold in his brother’s dead eyes and he gave in. He’d spent his entire life denying the truth, running from it, and that had brought him nothing but trouble and heartache. It was time to accept who – what – he was.
‘I see the Glow too, Christian,’ he whispered. ‘I feel it. I’ll make sure Luke does too.’
Christian nodded and lowered his arm. He turned, and without looking back, walked out of the room, disappearing just before he reached the door.
Cass stared after him. ‘Goodbye little brother,’ he muttered. ‘Sleep well.’
In the bed, the child muttered something and Cass spun round, his heart suddenly racing.
‘Luke?’
The child’s eyes flickered open. He looked around, dazed, then he focused on Cass. He looked afraid and confused. He looked innocent. He didn’t recognise Cass at all.
‘It’s okay,’ Cass said, ‘I’m your uncle Cass. It’s all over now.’
Luke raised his hand and stared at it. ‘Am I normal now?’ he asked, his voice trembling. ‘I was so old. I was trapped.’ He looked at Cass. ‘Are you really my uncle?’ His eyes were drifting shut again.
‘Yes, I am,’ Cass said, and stroked the boy’s hair. ‘You go back to sleep, Luke. It’s all going to be okay from now, you wait and see.’ For the first time – in all the time he could remember – Cass had a moment of pure contentment. It was a good feeling.
‘It’s like we’ve been reborn. Reinvigorated.’
Cass turned from the sleeping boy to see Mr Bright standing at the end of the bed. He was smiling.
‘The cohorts have done well.’ He tilted his head and looked at Luke. ‘When they were with me, as they had been with Mr Dublin, I felt a new hope in them. We all know there’s no going back now. I think perhaps that has brought us a measure of peace.’
Cass stared at Mr Bright. Things had shifted during
the course of the day and Cass was confused – tired and confused. He didn’t know quite how he felt about anything any more. Where did his future lie – did he even have one? After the events at Harwell would Fletcher and Ramsey be looking for him? Had Fletcher told anyone that he’d been involved in that? Perhaps all his future held was a long prison sentence. He looked at the child in the bed. No, prison could not be an option.
‘I imagine you have a lot of questions,’ Mr Bright said.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Cass almost laughed. ‘I have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Who the hell are you? That would be a good place to start.’
‘Take the boy,’ Mr Bright said, ‘and go to Mr Freeman’s place. Luke will be fine now – he’ll sleep for a while, but that’s not such a bad thing for the next few days while things settle down. I’ll see you there tomorrow.’ He looked at the dividing curtain. ‘I have a few things here to take care of. I will come. I promise.’
An hour after Cassius had taken the child Luke, the nurses called to say everything was prepared, and they could transfer the old man back to the room at the top of Senate House. Mr Bright followed the discreetly unmarked private ambulance in his normal car. Dawn was breaking. It was Christmas Eve.
Outside, the ground was covered in a hard grey frost that matched the colour of the buildings and the sky. A street cleaner shuffled past slowly, scarf and hat almost covering his face against the cold as he cleared the rubbish from the gutters.
Despite the early hour, yellow lights illuminated office windows and fairy lights twinkled around their edges. He wasn’t sure if it was just his own feeling of calm, but it was as if the whole of London was somehow more tranquil this morning. Two pedestrians, strangers, smiled at each other as they passed. Mr Bright was certain that this world of his, of all of theirs, had never looked more beautiful. Sacrifices had been made – he squeezed away his pain; that was for another day – and he would make sure that those sacrifices had not been in vain. The car came to a halt and he stepped out into the freezing air. It felt fresh and invigorating in his lungs. He smiled and lit a thin cheroot. He had a few moments before he had to go inside.
He had sat by the First’s bed many times when he’d been sleeping, talking quietly to him as if to a Father Confessor. He’d found a measure of peace there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the machinery and the silent presence of the nurses. Now it was different. For a start, the First was no longer sleeping. Mr Bright saw the watery eyes in the sunken face flare with life as he leaned forward and carefully pushed a wisp of white hair out of them.
‘I know you hate me,’ he said. ‘I can understand that.’ He dipped the small sponge on the bedside table into the water cup and squeezed a little onto the cracked lips. ‘But I will look after you, just like I always have, old friend, for as long as it takes.’ He smiled fondly, remembering everything that they had once been: how glorious they were. The eyes raged at him silently, but they were different now. There was no Glow.
He looked more closely and wondered if there was more than a touch of madness there instead. He put the sponge back beside the cup. Perhaps, given the situation, the First losing his mind might not be such a bad thing. Mr Bright had a feeling that young Luke had woken up with more than his own share of Glow after the transfer. Time would tell, but he was sure he had a lot of the First’s too.
‘Try and rest now,’ he said, heading to the door. ‘I’ll be back to see you soon, I promise.’
Within an hour the Experiment was being dismantled and the separate components destroyed. Mr Bright sipped strong coffee and listened to the news in the same office Mr Dublin had summoned him to not so long ago while he waited for the doctors.
They handed over the injections and he thanked them courteously and dismissed them. This was something he had to do himself. His heart heavy, he made his way through the corridor to the rooms where Mr Rasnic and Mr Bellew and all those others who had tried so desperately for the Walkways sat slumped and lost, surrounded by their padded walls. He moved from one to the next, kneeling down beside each, talking softly, reassuringly, as he slid the needle deep into their veins. The poisonous liquid was strong enough to kill a hundred men instantly, but still they fought. Mr Bellew took fifteen minutes, and Mr Bright waited with him, holding his cold hand tightly in his, giving whatever measure of comfort he could. Perhaps the screaming in the Chaos would stop now. He hoped so.
When it was done, he went to the rooftop and looked down at the city he loved. Times had changed; there were things they must stop fighting. Perhaps the Dying was simply a sign that this was truly their home now: they and it and them, the children of those who’d come with them, were all one. They would have to learn to accept that death would come to them all, in the end. The cold began to numb his nose and he smiled as he headed back to his car. They might have to learn to accept it, but he for one had no intention of dying, not for quite a long while yet. Not in these new, exciting times.
Chapter Forty-Six
Cass was lost in the computer. Christmas Eve had turned into Christmas Day and the night hours were ticking their way towards morning. A dull ache had settled into his neck, but he barely felt it. Dr Cornell and Brian Freeman were sitting either side and Mr Bright was ensconced in an armchair, smoking a cigar and sipping brandy, but Cass felt entirely alone as he absorbed the information in the silver datasticks.
As soon as Mr Bright had inserted all four into the computer the screen had come to life, opening up a world of documentation – so much of it: financial and legal records, images of paperwork long-since destroyed: a paper trail of the world’s history. He looked past it, digging deeper for what he really wanted: the story that would let him understand. And then—
It was Paradise. Everything dazzled. Everyone Glowed. They lived wanting nothing, having everything. He, the Lord God, ruled over them as he, and his forefathers, had for ever and ever, before and after. There was music and laughter and light. His kingdom, for those who lived within its walls, was magical. He was kind and forgiving. He was wise.
At first.
Change came as endless time passed, and He became cruel. Perhaps He had always been that way, but in the first hot flush of His reign the cohorts and the Emissaries and the Heralds and the Archangels and all those beyond the gleaming walls of Paradise who lived in the dusty sands of the cities of Heaven, didn’t want to see it.
Debate ceased as those who raised issue with the Lord God disappeared, taken and tortured. Some returned, cowed and corrected, but others were never seen again, their wealth stripped and families ruined. He grew fatter, rarely travelling, except in a golden Chariot pulled by the Flight of the Army. He toured the cities of all the suns until they bowed to His will. There would be no more Leaders of Harmony; they were dispelled back to their States of Heaven. Instead of the Leaders of Harmony, representative of all the peoples of Heaven convening in Paradise to bring their grievances and concerns to the Lord God and his Inner Cohort, now He would instead send an emissary to each of them with His demands. They would fulfil them or He would have his terrible vengeance. He no longer forgave.
He grew fatter.
His first son grew up.
They were light and life and courage, the young. The first son was everything the Father was not: he was filled with easy charm, if a little arrogant and spoiled at times, but he was good and he drew others to him, the young men of the cohorts, the quiet Architect, and the rest. They bathed in his confidence and the cities smiled as they watched them soar beneath the suns as only the people of the cohorts could. They were brave and brilliant. And the first son and the young saw the Father, the Lord God, for what he was and they agreed they would no longer tolerate the cruelty of His whims. They would go to distant places and talk where they could not be heard.
Trouble brewed.
With the peoples subdued, Paradise was still filled with music and everything glittered and Glowed, and as long as He was happy, all was well. But it became so hard to tell when He wa
s happy, and it could change so very swiftly. His ministers and the Inner Cohort were quietly relieved when He started a new project, locking himself away for days at a time with His scientists. Platters of food and wine disappeared inside at regular intervals, but the Lord God rarely emerged. It was a pleasant time in Paradise and it reminded them that there could be something other than luxurious fear as a way of life. More of the cohort, the élite residents of Paradise, the ruling class, the flyers, gathered to the first son and those who stood with him. They wanted their honour back; they did not want to be the representatives of a Despot.
When the Lord God eventually emerged, at first He didn’t notice the trouble. He barely noticed that the young had grown and were no longer children, but men. The Architect had a child of his own, a strange little thing with a peculiar damp Glow. He saw these things but they didn’t register; He was too filled with his own achievement.
He had created new life, He declared. It was His first attempt and the results were crude, but they would be His slaves: they could work the mines in the lands before Chaos. With a flourish He presented them to the court: two feeble bodies that did not shine or Glow. They looked shy and awkward under the scrutiny of the cohort.
‘I tried to make them in my own image,’ He said, stuffing grapes into his mouth. He laughed a lot at that irony, for these pathetic beings had no wings and were so very small, and the cohorts politely joined in, but none matched His guffaws. ‘Aren’t they so innocent?’ He said. ‘Look at their dull eyes.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Stupid. Just what I need them to be.’
He let them live in the palace garden, where He could watch them from the windows of the throne room, but He soon grew bored. Their bodily functions were crude, and they weren’t as pliable as he’d expected. As soon as they could speak, all they had were questions. And they were eating all His fruit.