Читать книгу Brotherhood of Shades - Dawn Finch - Страница 10

Chapter Six – Old Friends

“Impressive.”

“I am glad that you agree. I have never known any spirit with enough strength to change the Memoria on the first attempt.”

“No, I meant the view.”

Sister Goodman turned from the glass wall to look back towards D’Scover, a broad grin on her round face.

“Sister, I did not Hotline you here just to see the view from my office,” D’Scover remonstrated.

“No, but it is impressive all the same. This new office of yours is a little modern for me, but you have good taste when it comes to artwork.” She walked around, looking at the many works of art that decorated the room. “Of course you have had plenty of time to assemble such an impressive collection, have you not?”

The large square room was indeed like a small and very exclusive private art gallery. A dozen paintings filled two walls, and represented most of the history of art of the western world. From the Renaissance period there was a large icon of the Virgin Mary that was a perfect example of the then new art of Perspective. She gazed tragically out of her frame, resting one of her pale hands on an exquisite necklace, a rosary of beads carrying a single piece of curved metal, a crescent moon. A landscape of hills, a Calvary of crucifixes reeled back behind her demonstrating perfect depth. Around Mary, on the other walls of the office, hung paintings from every century since, each one a perfect example of the very best work of its time.

The display on the walls ended with a canvas of only two colours – slate grey below vibrant orange. The top colour bled into the bottom, creating a canvas that gave D’Scover a lot of pleasure. His long red couch stood opposite this painting and he spent a great deal of time sitting on it, deep in thought. Dotted around the office there stood a number of small but impressively ornate tables and these carried pieces of exquisite porcelain and glass. All of them were bowls and the collection stretched from the sixteenth century to the modern day; each piece was a one-off – no others existed like them anywhere in the world. D’Scover had seen to it that the moulds and designs were destroyed so no other bowl could be made; each was unique. Every piece of art in this private collection was worth a small fortune – not that money meant anything to D’Scover.

“I am pleased by things of beauty,” he offered as an explanation, running a vaporous finger round the rim of a cobalt-blue glass bowl.

“You were fortunate that the powers that be decided to build so close to your former home. How did you claim these offices for the Brotherhood?” the sister asked.

“We still have considerable influence in high places,” he said. “The Brotherhood carried out a number of clearance cases for a certain royal personage and these two upper floors were gifted to us by the Crown. Below us is a television company and film studios; the technology they utilise has been most useful to us.” He frowned at her. “You are not addressing the issue. What is your opinion of this boy?”

Sister Goodman turned and walked back towards the desk and lowered her sturdy frame into his blood-red leather desk chair.

“I think he could possibly be what you have waited for, but it is still too early to tell,” she said. “You know as well as I do that a Trial is the only thing that can prove his will and strength.”

“But what Trial? It has been centuries since anyone was strong enough to even consider one and he is just a boy. Admittedly he has life experience beyond his years, but he is still just a child,” D’Scover said, pacing around the office.

“They all were,” she reminded him. “Granted, they had more time to settle in, but the Vision dictated that they were all children.”

“In any case, the old Trials are not even possible now, not in these days of dense population. How could we consider a full Demon Trial with the possible loss of life that might entail? The last one of those was over two hundred years ago and, if my memory serves me, on the Russian Steppes. With modern satellite imaging, that kind of heat would be lit up like a flare. The military would be on it before we could do anything,” D’Scover said in an anguished tone as he paced the floor. “I am at a loss. It is the boy’s right to have a Trial, but how can we use such antiquated methods today?”

“Calm yourself, Toby,” Sister Goodman told him as she swivelled the chair to face him. “Your affection for the living has always baffled me. For heaven’s sake, we could manipulate them however we desired. There has been no need for a Trial for two centuries, that much is true, but why should it be antiquated? There must be one that is appropriate for today. Have you consulted the Texts?”

“No, it has been a long time since there has been need to.” He stared down at the city below through the rain-streaked windows.

She rose and walked to his side. The wind whipped around the balcony, carrying the few remaining leaves up from the trees far below and whirling them around the damp concrete surface. She placed her hand on his arm and forced him to turn and face her.

“This is not a weakness, Toby. The Texts are there for a reason, and it is time you consulted them,” she said in a firm but gentle voice. “This is not about you, it is about the boy. Have you considered looking for an aide?”

“No!” D’Scover snapped and shook his arm from her grip. “I will consult the Texts, but it is not time to call for an aide, not yet. I am not ready to give him over and, from your time on the Council, you know that will happen if I have to summon assistance. They will step in and assert an authority that I will not be allowed to resist.”

“As you wish,” she replied coldly, “but promise me that you will consider every option should the answer not arise from the Texts.”

“I will,” he assured her, “but I will not consider raising an aide yet or reaching out to the past. The portents are not yet right.”

“I understand that there has been quite an increase in spirit activity already, even the reactivation of dormant spirits,” Sister Goodman said carefully. “Maybe even a fire starter?”

“How did you know that?” D’Scover rounded angrily on her. “Did one of my agents tell you? That is a breach of . . .”

“Calm yourself,” she interrupted, “You forget that I am still an Attendant to the Senior Council.”

“Of course.” D’Scover relaxed. “I apologise for snapping at you, but I insist on total confidentiality from my agents. I will not deny that there is an increase in unauthorised activity, but it does not worry me yet.”

“So where is the boy now?”

“I have placed him in Dispersal back at the hospice; he is safe there for a while.”

“Promise me that you will consider every option?” She repeated her earlier question. “Do you keep the Texts close to you – are they close at hand?”

“Yes, I will consider every option, and you can be assured that the Texts are safely guarded,” he replied. “They have been safe with me for centuries, and you know that I cannot discuss their whereabouts, even with you.”

“Of course.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “What was I thinking?” She wrinkled her nose as she looked around.

“You know, Toby, this room may look impressive, but it does not smell very good,” she said, deftly changing the subject. “You should get some air in here. I suppose that you are too important for anyone to point out the obvious.”

“I have very few visitors.”

“The presence of the boy may be a good reason to get a bit of fresh air in here once in a while, just in case the place gets too stuffy,” she said maternally. “Leave the window open whilst you Disperse, there’s a good fellow.”

He leaned forward and hugged her awkwardly, and she looked totally shocked.

“Well!” she said, stepping back. “What was that for?”

“Just for never changing,” he replied. “Thank you, I always know I can trust you.”

“Well, if you cannot trust me, who can you trust?” she said. “Toby, I had better get back. It has been wonderful visiting you, but if you want to expend such a lot of energy and Hotline me, could it be somewhere hot and sunny and with significantly less members of the living?”

“Anywhere you wish,” he said, and managed one of his weak smiles.

“And it would not do you any harm to work on that smile either,” she playfully chided.

She stood next to the desk and took her CC from her pocket. She rested it in her right hand and waited while D’Scover isolated the location of the hospice and called up the remote terminal details. When they were fully logged in, he nodded in her direction and she rested her finger on her CC.

“Goodbye, Toby. Keep me informed, won’t you?” she asked.

“I will,” D’Scover said, “and thank you.”

He placed his fingertips on the screen and almost immediately Sister Goodman began to destabilise. Blue sparks danced around D’Scover’s fingertips as the Hotline began to take hold. Where Sister Goodman had once stood there now lingered a fading image, gradually breaking apart into millions of vivid violet fragments. They whirled in a bright mist that sparkled and glittered as it spiralled next to the desk. Then, with a fierce final crackle from D’Scover’s fingertips, the mist rushed into the screen and was gone.

D’Scover leaned back and rubbed his hands together, staring at the plan of the hospice until he saw the yellow dot that represented Sister Goodman once more walk the corridors.

A light tap on his door broke his concentration. “Come!” he called out. Emma opened the door and leaned into the room.

“I have Marcus Resnick on line four, sir. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Marcus?” D’Scover waved his diary open to the current date. “Blast, it is the sixteenth. I said that I was going to call him in today. Yes, thank you, Emma, you can put him through.”

A moment later the computer screen faded out to be replaced with an image. With his sallow skin, short and dirty black hair and, as always, looking as if he could use a good wash, Marcus looked nervous, but his already pale complexion seemed even more ghostly than usual.

“Are you ready to come in?” D’Scover asked abruptly.

“Yes, sir, but it won’t be a full Hotline, will it? Those things make me weak for days and, to be honest, I’m having a bit of trouble with my substance lately,” he whined.

“Very well, I shall just boost you via your CC so that we can talk without interruption. Could you Disperse, please, and I will pull you in?” D’Scover said.

Marcus nodded and closed his eyes, still holding his CC parallel with his face. The CC had taken over a century to develop, but it had been worth the wait. It allowed two-way communication over huge distances and could only be used by the spirit registered to do so. It Dispersed with its user and, if it came into the possession of a living person, just crumbled to dust in seconds and gave off a restriction charm so that the strange box was forgotten moments after it vanished. It was a device that had revolutionised the Brotherhood, and D’Scover regarded it as one of his finest works.

A flickering shape began to form in the room, and as D’Scover tapped a few more keys on the keyboard, it became clearer. Eventually a hologrammatic image of Marcus Resnick stood before D’Scover in the office.

“Hello, sir,” he said when his outline became clear enough.

“I shall get straight to the point.” D’Scover removed a file from the desk drawer and opened it in front of him. “I have had a number of complaints from other agents that they have seen you in their zones. Can you explain that to me?”

“I’ve had a bit of a drift problem. When I Disperse, I . . .”

“Do not give me that nonsense,” D’Scover interrupted. “Drift is never a problem on the scale you are claiming here. I am giving you the opportunity to explain; do not waste it.”

Marcus looked at his feet and thought for a while, plainly weighing up whether to tell the truth or not.

“I’m not happy where I am and I’ve been kind of looking for somewhere else to settle,” he muttered.

“Marcus, Marcus,” D’Scover sighed, “you know that reallocations are only done with the full consent of the Senior Council. You simply cannot just decide to go off somewhere else. What would happen to the Brotherhood if we all decided to drift off to wherever we pleased whenever we felt like it?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus mumbled.

“Chaos, that is what would happen, Marcus!” D’Scover flicked through the pages of Marcus’s file. “Why are you unhappy? South Kensington is one of the better locations in London, after all. Plenty of older buildings, a large concentration of Brotherhood agents, you are hardly lonely.”

“I was an RTA, a road traffic accident. My location is literally in the middle of the road. I hate it. It was tolerable here thirty years ago, but today the road is just so crowded and the noise is overwhelming and keeping out of sight is nigh impossible,” Marcus explained. “I just wanted to save the Brotherhood some work and figured if I could find a suitable location then I could apply for a reallocation with all the details complete.”

“Hmmm.” D’Scover did not look up, instead jotting some notes down as he spoke. “So you do not wish to leave the Brotherhood and take the Final Dispersal?”

“No, sir, I certainly don’t. I feel strongly about the Brotherhood and very much want to remain a part of it. I’m very loyal,” Marcus insisted.

“Hmmm, that is as maybe.” D’Scover looked up. “I have considered your case and am able to offer you a reallocation.”

“Really?” Marcus gasped. “That easy?”

“I guessed you were angling for one and so I submitted a request on your behalf last week and it has been approved. You have done some good work for the Brotherhood in the past and you have been a useful agent, if a little erratic, and that warrants some flexibility,” he replied.

“Great, I have a location in mind, over in Russell Square; it’d be just perfect for . . .” Marcus blurted.

“It is not up to you to choose the location, Marcus,” D’Scover interrupted. “You will be reallocated to the Natural History Museum. Not a great distance, but your new location will, however, be inside and that should please you somewhat. The building is of a suitable age and size to house multiple spirits. You will share the location with two other agents, one of whom is very senior, and two spirits who are tied to the building.”

“The spirits who are tied to the building are not agents and are not Brotherhood aware; see that it remains so,” D’Scover warned. “I will contact the senior agent in the museum and she will arrange a residential area for you within the building. She is very influential and has a connection with the Senior Council and so I suggest you listen very carefully to her advice and do nothing to antagonise her. All work conditions will remain the same; discretion is your watchword.”

“Yes, sir, absolutely,” Marcus answered, but he did not sound happy. “Sir, could I not just . . .”

“That will be all, Marcus,” D’Scover interrupted. “Your reallocation is immediate. I will be in touch.” He tapped the ESC key and Marcus was gone.

He added all of Marcus’s comments to his file and, folding all of the notes back into the folder, picked it up once more. He leaned out into the reception area where Emma sat at her desk as usual, flicking her gaze over the four active screens in front of her. These screens held details of agents the world over and needed constant monitoring as reports of spirit violation came in. Most spirits needed no assistance in passing over: three to mourn and they slipped into their Passing without a struggle. The unloved and ungrieved-for needed the Brotherhood to aid their passage and it was Emma – his ever-efficient secretary – who assigned agents to do just that.

Some spirits were destined to be trapped for ever in the place where they had died, regardless of how many people had grieved for them. These were the tragic spirits with unfinished business in the realm of the living. The Brotherhood usually left these alone to Disperse over time – unless they became problematical. On rare occasions, a trapped spirit caused trouble for the living and D’Scover, or a select few agents that he trusted, dealt with these cases. These reports had become fewer and fewer each decade, until recently.

Emma still prioritised any report of spirit disturbance, no matter how minor it appeared, as occasionally a spirit showed a particular sign of compatibility and could be recruited into the Brotherhood. Such sensitive spirits were rare, none had been found now for nearly a decade, but the search still went on. Recently Emma’s time had been taken up logging reports of disturbances and unauthorised hauntings.

“Emma,” D’Scover called. “I have given Marcus Resnick a reallocation to the Natural History Museum. Will you contact one of the agents inside and sort the details for me?”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied. “Will you be Dispersing now . . . or will Sister Goodman be visiting again? I just wondered . . .”

“I will be Dispersing very soon,” he interrupted, “but I would like a Code Red placed on my office to lock it down for at least six hours. I have some papers to work on and I do not want any interruptions. I will Disperse afterwards.”

“Yes, sir, not a problem.”

He turned back towards his office and Emma’s hand hovered over the panel in the desk that would apply the Code Red. Before he closed the door he turned back to face her.

“Emma, would you give me an honest answer about something?” he asked.

“If I can, sir, yes,” she replied.

“Do you trust her?” he asked. “Julie, I mean, the new secretary.”

“Well.” She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. “I really don’t know her very well yet, but she was in a position of great trust before she died and the Senior Council feel that that trust should not have been damaged by her Passing,” Emma said. “She died a natural death of cancer after a short illness. There’s nothing in her file to suggest that she shouldn’t be trusted.”

“So you have read her complete file?” he queried. “I am not sure it is appropriate for you to read such documents. Do you read all files of this nature?”

“I’ve only read the files of all the people who have close access to you,” she reassured him. “It’s part of my job description to be aware of anything that may affect you or this department. Is there any specific concern that you have about Julie?”

“No, at least not yet,” D’Scover replied enigmatically and walked back into his office, allowing the Code Red to seal the door closed behind him.

Alone in the huge room again, he strode towards the icon of the Virgin Mary. He gazed at the gilt-framed image for a few minutes as if awaiting approval from the serene face on the blue-cloaked young woman. Breaking concentration, he raised his hands, palms facing upwards, and began to murmur in a low, indistinct voice. A steady hum began to fill the room and the air prickled with static electricity. Silver sparks began to appear around his hands, running over them in a seething, almost living, pattern – like tiny, dazzling insects. He turned his hands towards each other and pinched his fingertips closed, then, with a movement that looked as though he was trying to tear the air itself, he pulled them apart.

The silver mass collected in the space between his fingertips and started to form a shape in the air. D’Scover lowered his hands to his sides and waited for the shape to settle. Gradually the rain of sparks calmed into a silver haze that hung like a mirage in front of him. In the centre of the wavering haze there lay a key. It was the silver crescent that had been hanging round the neck of the Madonna in the painting and now it shimmered in the air in front of him. D’Scover held his hand under it and it dropped, ice-cold, into his palm. The key was so thin that it could only be seen straight on. From the edge it was still as two-dimensional as it had been in the painting and it looked as though it was no more than a brief wobble in the air, like a heat haze on a hot surface.

He closed his hand round it and, with his empty one, gestured for the balcony doors to open. Obediently they slid back and out he walked on to the windswept balcony.

The weather had changed and the breeze that had once toyed with the leaves now ripped around the building like an angry beast. D’Scover shifted his substance to allow the sharp wind to pass through him as he walked the length of the balcony to the end where the blank wall looked out over the sprawling city. He turned to face the wall, opened his hand carefully and looked at the key that lay in his hand, stuck fast under a lustrous silver haze. Lifting the key hand, he placed it against the wall, palm first, and the silver haze bled out from underneath, forming a liquid that trickled over the brickwork and ran along the mortar cracks like mercury through a maze. The silver liquid soon crept across a large rectangle area on the wall in front of him and then, abruptly, it stopped and sank in. Gradually the bricks and mortar began to blur and fade away until they were replaced instead with a smooth black stone surface shot through with silver veins. D’Scover stood back and waited for it to finish taking shape and, with the hollow sound of stone scraping against stone, a door appeared.