Читать книгу Department 19 - 3 Book Collection - Will Hill, Will Hill - Страница 26

Jamie turned off the shower and stepped out from under the water. Terry had dismissed him a little over half an hour ago and the teenager had fled gratefully for the soothing drumming of the hot water on his stretched, bruised skin. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and his limbs felt as heavy as concrete. But despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he felt invigorated; his mind was racing even as his body begged for rest.

Jamie dried himself with a towel, then walked out of the shower block and into the changing room. His clothes were piled on one of the benches, but there was something hanging above them, something that hadn’t been there when he had run for the shower thirty minutes earlier. He looked around, and saw that there were also two metal cases on the bench to his left. Stepping forward, he examined the dark object hanging above the damp ball of training clothes, and then took a sharp breath.

It was a Blacklight uniform.

The jumpsuit was jet black in the fluorescent light of the changing room, the lightweight matt material reflecting nothing. Taped to the front of it was a handwritten note.

Put this on.

Jamie did so, stepping into the legs of the suit, sliding his arms down the sleeves, pulling the zip up to his throat, then fastening a flap over it. The uniform was incredibly light and cool; the material conformed to the contours of his body, and as he moved his arms and bent and dipped his shoulders, there was not a whisper of noise, of fabric folding or rubbing against itself. He walked excitedly across the room and stood in front of one of the long mirrors.

He barely recognised himself. Even with his grey socks poking out beneath the legs of the suit, he looked like a different person; a young man, rather than a teenage boy. His arms hung easily at his sides, his stance casual and well balanced. The awkward, jittery boy he had been, a boy who was always looking over his shoulder, was gone.

Good.

He turned away from the mirror and walked over to the metal cases sitting on the bench. One was the size of a laptop case, the other a lot bigger. He opened the smaller one first, and his eyes lit up when he saw its contents.

Lying in hollows of moulded black foam were a Glock 18 and a Heckler & Koch MP5, the same guns he had fired out in the Playground. He lifted the weapons out of their slots and held them in his hands. A calm chill spread down his spine, and a voice in the back of his head whispered to him.

They feel like they belong to you, don’t they? If you put them on, they do. Once you put them on, you never take them off. Not really.

Jamie knew this was a pivotal moment, the point at which the door to a life that did not involve guns and vampires might shut forever, at which the course of the rest of his life hung in the balance. And there was a part of him that wanted to put the guns down, wanted to walk out of this room in his own clothes. But he knew in his heart it was not an option; if he left his mother would die, he was sure of it, and he would gladly turn the rest of his life over to violence and darkness if it meant he could save her. So he lifted two clips from the foam slots that sat at the edge of the case, loaded the guns, and slipped them into the holsters on either side of his uniform.

No going back.

He lifted the layer of foam that had held the guns out of the case, sure he knew what was going to be lying beneath it. He was right. A metal stake with a black rubber handle lay next to a gleaming T-Bone and a black gas tank. He lifted them from the foam, slid the stake into the loop on his belt, but he did not attach the T-Bone; instead he opened the second case.

Springs pushed four metal wire grids up into a set of shelves half the width of the case, in which lay the components of the Blacklight body armour. Beside the shelves sat a jet-black helmet with a purple visor. Jamie looked at it, but did not reach out and touch it. The helmet seemed to radiate danger, and power, and for a moment he was scared of it.

Too late. Too late for that.

He knew that was true.

It was too late.

Jamie reached out and slid his hand over the smooth metal of the helmet, as if to prove he was not afraid of it, then closed both the cases, picked them up over the protests of his aching arms, and walked out of the changing room.

Terry was waiting for him in the Playground. The instructor looked Jamie up and down as he entered, a faint smile creeping into the corners of his mouth, then he extended his hand towards Jamie, who took it immediately. They shook.

“You did well,” Terry said. “Better than anyone could have expected, even me, and I’ve been doing this for a long time. Keep your eyes open, be aware of your surroundings, and remember what happened in the shed. You’ll be all right out there.”

Jamie thanked him. He stood where he was, waiting to see if there was more to be said, but Terry nodded towards the exit and said, ‘Dismissed.’ Jamie nodded, picked up the cases, turned sharply on his heels and headed for the door. He was about to place his hand on the handle when Terry spoke again.

“Don’t listen to what anyone says about your dad. You can’t change what he did, you can’t change what people think of him. But you can change what they think about you. So go and do it.”

Jamie turned back to reply, but Terry was already striding away down the Playground, his back to the boy. Jamie pulled open the door marked EXIT and walked through it.

Frankenstein was waiting on the other side. “There are some people who want to meet you,” he said. “Come with me.”

Frankenstein led Jamie up one level and through a winding series of corridors before stopping in front of a pair of double doors. Engraved on a brass plaque on the wall next to them were the words OFFICER’S MESS. Jamie read them, and frowned.

“I can’t go in there,” he said.

“You are my guest,” replied Frankenstein. “So yes, you can.”

He pushed open one of the doors and stepped through it. Jamie followed him after a second or two, looking around nervously.

A chorus of greetings filled the air as the door closed behind him. The source of the noise was a cluster of armchairs arranged in a loose arc around a vast flat-screen television. Frankenstein raised a hand in greeting, and the occupants of the chairs all rose and made towards them. Jamie had a moment to cast his eyes around the room before he was surrounded.

The mess was large, and almost square. Along one wall ran a beautiful wooden bar, behind which stood two immaculately dressed barmen, their faces masks of professional serenity, even as the room exploded into noise and movement around them. The middle of the room was given over to a number of low wooden tables, some round, some rectangular, around which more armchairs were gathered. Not many of the chairs were occupied, but the men and women in the ones that were had all turned around to see what the fuss was about. The tables were covered in backgammon sets, chess boards, unfinished card games, and glasses and bottles of every shape and size. At the far end of the mess was a long wooden dining table with at least twelve chairs down either side of it. In the wall beyond the table were two dark wooden doors, on which DINING 1 and DINING 2 were stencilled in flamboyant gold script. Jamie had never been in a gentlemen’s club, but he had an idea that he was looking at something very close to one now. The air was thick with cigarette and pipe smoke, and the heady scents of wine, port and brandy. Then Jamie was surrounded by noise and extended hands, and he focused on the men around him.

“Don’t smother the boy,” said Frankenstein, but he was smiling as he did so. “Jamie, let me introduce you to some of my colleagues. Thomas Morris.”

A man in his late twenties stepped forward and offered a hand, which Jamie accepted. Morris wore a Blacklight uniform, with an ancient-looking bowie knife hanging loosely from his belt. He grinned at Jamie, then clapped him hard on the back.

“Thought you were going to do it,” he said, excitedly. “I really did. No one ever has, not first time, but I thought you were. Can’t believe the girl from the shed got you.”

His smile widened, and Jamie felt one of his own spread across his face. The man’s excitement was contagious.

“Christian Gonzalez.”

Morris stepped aside and an extremely handsome Latino man replaced him. Jamie guessed that he was in his forties, but he could have been much younger; black hair fell casually across the dark skin of his forehead, and his eyes shone with vitality. They shook hands.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gonzalez said. “My father wanted very much to be here, but he was called away to Germany. He asked me to pass on his congratulations on your performance, to which I add my own.”

“Thank you,” said Jamie. “Please thank your father as well.”

The man said that he would, and stepped aside.

Jamie’s head was spinning. The warmth of these greetings, the happiness in the faces of these men, was so different from the majority of the treatment he had received since Frankenstein had rescued him, that it brought a thick lump into his throat.

“Cal Holmwood.”

The name was instantly familiar to Jamie, and he looked at the man who approached him with great curiosity.

A descendant of the founders. Like me.

This member of the legendary Holmwood family was a small, neat man in his thirties. He wore clear, rimless glasses, and he had the face of an academic rather than a soldier, but when Jamie took his outstretched hand the grip was strong.

“Mr Carpenter,” Holmwood said. His voice was the very definition of politeness, but there was warmth there as well. “It’s a shame we are not being introduced five years from now, but circumstances are what they are. Welcome to Blacklight.”

Jamie thanked him, and Holmwood moved aside. “Jacob Scott.”

“Let’s have a look at him then,” said a loud voice, shot through with a streak of Australian accent. The man it belonged to stepped from behind Frankenstein and grinned at Jamie. Scott was in his sixties, at least, his tanned skin weathered and creased, but his eyes were bright and the grin on his face was wide and welcoming. He grasped Jamie’s hand and held it, tight, squeezing until the bones creaked and Jamie pulled his hand free.

“Not bad for an old boy,” said Scott, cheerfully. “Eh?”

Jamie smiled, massaging his throbbing hand, and the old man playfully punched him on the upper arm. Jamie rocked slightly, and forced his smile to remain where it was. Scott peered at him, then looked up at Frankenstein.

“I like him, Frankie,” he said. “Got a bit of grit in him. Respects his elders too.”

“You can tell him yourself, Jacob,” smiled Frankenstein. “He’s right there.”

Scott returned his gaze to Jamie. “You need anything, boy, you just let me know. Don’t be shy.”

“I won’t,” said Jamie. “Thank you.”

The man walked stiffly away towards the armchairs, and Jamie watched him go, overwhelmed. Had these men all known his father? He supposed they must have done, yet they were obviously pleased to see him. Jamie suspected that the word Carpenter was working for him rather than against him for the first time since he had arrived at the Loop; he believed these men were proud to see another member of one of the founding families joining Department 19.

“Paul Turner.”

Jamie started. In front of him, standing motionless and exuding the same sense of menace that he had felt last time they had met, was the Major from the cellblock. Jamie gulped, hoped that it hadn’t been visible, then extended his hand. For a moment it hung there, pale even in the warm lighting of the mess, then Turner shook it briskly, and smiled at Jamie.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, and Frankenstein glanced at the Major.

“You too,” replied Jamie.

“You did well,” said Turner. “I haven’t seen a debut like that in a long time. Reminded me of my own.”

Jamie examined the man’s face for an insult, but didn’t see one. Instead, the Major was still smiling, and he smiled back.

“Thanks,” he replied. “I still screwed it up at the end though.”

“Everyone fails the first time. Better to do it in here than out there. No second chances in the field.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Jamie.

“Do that,” replied Turner, and stepped away.

Then everyone was talking at once, and Jamie was about to ask Frankenstein whether he could go to bed when suddenly the room fell silent.

The men were looking past Jamie, towards the door. He turned round, and found Major Harker standing in front of him. The old man walked deliberately up to Jamie, stared into his eyes for a long, precarious second, then slowly, ever so slowly, raised his right hand and held it out. Jamie took it, cautiously, and the Major leant in and spoke four words.

“Don’t let us down.”

Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he released Jamie’s hand, spun stiffly on his heels, and walked out of the mess.

Behind Jamie there was an audible exhalation of relief, and the group of men began to disperse, chatting amongst themselves, some heading towards the chairs in front of the TV, some making their way towards the bar. Only Frankenstein and Thomas Morris stayed where they were, and Jamie took a step towards them.

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think I might go to bed.” Frankenstein told him that was fine, but Morris looked slightly agitated, casting glances between Jamie and the monster.

“What is it, Tom?” asked Frankenstein. His tone was impatient, and Morris flinched slightly.

“There was something I wanted to show Jamie,” he replied. “It won’t take long.”

Frankenstein shrugged and looked at the teenager.

“It’s up to you, Jamie,” he said.

He looked at Morris’s earnest, excited face.

“OK,” he replied. “As long as it won’t take long. I really am tired.”

“Great!” replied Morris. “Fifteen minutes, I promise you no longer than that. Let’s go!”

He threw an arm around Jamie’s shoulder and led him towards the door. Jamie cast a look over his shoulder at Frankenstein, then they were through the doors and out of the mess.

Jamie was led down grey corridors to one of the lifts. While they waited for it to arrive Morris talked incessantly, telling Jamie facts and figures about Department 19 that he knew he had absolutely no chance of remembering. Eventually, as his companion took a microscopic pause for breath, he interjected.

“Mr Morris,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“Tom, please,” replied Morris. “I’m sorry, of course I should have told you already, I’m just a little excited. I hope it doesn’t show. We’re going to see our ancestors.”

“Our ancestors?”

“That’s right.”

The lift doors opened and Morris stepped inside. Jamie followed him, and they descended in silence, the excitement seeming to have either worn the Blacklight officer out or taken him over so completely that he could no longer speak at all.

They emerged on Level F, into a corridor as grey as all the rest, but mercifully Morris stopped at the first pair of doors on the left, tall smoked glass with the word ARCHIVES printed across them in black type.

There was a rush of air as the doors were pushed open, and Jamie’s arms broke out into gooseflesh as the temperature dropped appreciably. The room was long and extremely wide, and looked like a cross between a library and a meat locker. Tendrils of cold air snaked around his ankles as he walked forward between two long metal sets of shelving. Racks of studded metal and clear plastic extended away on both sides to the distant walls. There were at least forty of them, and each one was loaded with books, folders and manuscripts, hidden behind clear plastic doors that each featured a small nine-digit keypad next to them.

At the other end of the room, the end that Morris was leading him towards, a glass partition separated the climate-controlled racks from a comfortable-looking study area; blond wood tables and padded chairs, rows of computer terminals, and a wall of black filing cabinets. Morris slid open a glass door and as they entered this area Jamie felt warmth creep back into his skin. In the middle of the wall at the back of this second area was a large stone arch, beneath which was a heavy-looking wooden door. There was no keypad here, just an ornate brass handle which Morris turned, and, with an audible grunt, pushed the door open.

The atmosphere inside this final room was like that of a church. It was almost silent; the only noises that could be heard were their breathing and the clatter of their boots on the hardwood floor beneath them. The room was a narrow gallery, with dark red walls and ceiling. It was at least a hundred feet long, and the walls on both sides were covered in painted portraits. Jamie looked at the first one on his right and saw a young man looking down at him, his body at a quarter turn, his uniform identical to the one Jamie was now wearing, a small smile of what looked like pride creeping into the corners of his mouth. He looked at the gold plaque below the portrait and read what was engraved there.

George Harker, Jr.1981–2007

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“It’s the Fallen Gallery,” Morris replied, also lowering his voice as he did so.

“This is all the Blacklight operators who’ve died?”

Morris laughed, then put a hand over his mouth for a second, as if afraid he was about to be chastised for such levity. He withdrew it, and replied.

“Not quite. You would need a bigger room than this to hang a portrait of every member of Blacklight who has been lost. An awful lot bigger. No, this is for the elite of Department 19, the best and the brightest, or those who died before their time. This is where our ancestors live on, Jamie. Every member of both of our families is in this room.”

Jamie was awestruck by Morris’s words, and by the sights around him.

He walked slowly forward, looking at the men and women who stared down at him from the red walls, reading the plaques, seeing the same names over and over again as he made his way down the gallery; Benjamin Seward, Stephen Holmwood, Albert Harker, David Harker, Quincey Morris II, Peter Seward, Arthur Holmwood II, John Carpenter, David Morris, Albert Holmwood.

Three-quarters of the way down the gallery, a single bust of a man’s head stood atop a marble pillar in the middle of the wooden floor. It was carved from dark grey stone, and stared down the gallery towards the door, as if challenging anyone who might enter. The face was rugged, had probably been handsome in its youth, and wore a thick moustache above a thin mouth and angular jaw. Jamie stopped to read the inscription on the marble and Morris, who had been walking quietly six feet behind the teenager, did likewise.

Quincey HarkerAll that we are, we owe to him1894–1982

“Jonathan Harker’s son,” breathed Jamie, and Morris nodded.

Jamie walked around the bust, and continued through the gallery. The portraits were getting older now, the paint fading in some, cracked in others, the frames duller and more beaten down by the years. He reached the end of the gallery, and looked up at the six paintings that faced him from the wall, their eyes full of pride, the men who had sat for the portraits all long dead.

Abraham Van Helsing1827–1904

Jonathan Harker1861–1917

Quincey Morris1860–1892

John Seward1861–1924

Hon. Arthur Holmwood1858–1940

Henry Carpenter1870–1922

On a low shelf beneath the portraits a number of small items had been placed; a stethoscope, a small gold pin with an ornate family crest engraved on it, a battered cowboy hat, and a kukri knife in a leather scabbard.

“My God,” breathed Jamie. “They were real. I don’t think I realised until now. They really lived.”

“Lived, and died,” said Morris. “Some before their time.”

He turned to Jamie, tears standing in the corners of his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice was charged with passion. “You and I are very similar,” he said, his eyes bright. “Descendants of founders. Members of the six great families of Blacklight. But we’re both black sheep. Both weighed down by the actions of our ancestors.”

“How so?” asked Jamie.

“The trouble your father has caused for you must be obvious by now. Mine began over a century ago.”

“Why?”

Morris looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing a decision in his mind.

“I’m not going to tell you it all now,” he said, eventually. “It’s late, and it’s a tale that deserves telling well. But it boils down to one essential truth; you or I could save the world a hundred times over, but we’ll never be a Harker, a Holmwood, a Seward or a Van Helsing. The inner circle will always be closed to our families.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jamie.

“Follow me,” Morris replied, gesturing down the gallery. They walked most of the way back to the arched doorway and then stopped in front of a portrait. Jamie looked at the plaque below the frame.

Daniel Morris1953–2004

“Is that—”

“My father, yes. He was the Director of Department 19.”

Jamie frowned. “No Carpenter has ever been Director. Admiral Seward told me.”

“My father barely was,” replied Morris. “He was removed from office almost before he got started. Too aggressive, too reckless, or so they told him. Yet Quincey Harker, whose bust stands in the middle of this gallery, who was named after my great-great-grandfather, turned the Department into an army, and was deified for doing so.”

Fire had risen briefly in Tom’s eyes as he spoke, but now it faded again. His hand fluttered to the bowie knife on his belt and touched the handle.

“Was that his?” asked Jamie softly, gesturing towards the weapon.

Morris looked down at his belt, then back at Jamie, surprise on his face.

He didn’t know he was touching it.

“It was my great-great-grandfather’s,” Morris replied. “It’s the knife that he pierced Dracula’s heart with, the last thing he ever did. The rest of the founders brought it home with them, and it was given to my grandfather when he joined Blacklight. He passed it on to my father, and it was left to me when he died.”

Jamie was speechless.

The knife that killed Dracula. My God.

He forced himself to speak.

“What happened to him?” he asked.

Morris laughed bitterly. “My father? I think he just had the wrong name. Our name. Not one of the four that matter around here.”

“Why are you telling me this, Tom?”

Morris sighed. “Because I like you, Jamie. And I want you to understand what you’ve got yourself into. You can believe in this place too much, buy into it too completely. It’ll take everything from you that you’re prepared to give, and more. But you’ll only ever be the descendant of a valet and the son of a traitor, just like I’ll always be the son of the only Director to be removed from office. I’m telling you this because you need to stay focused on the two things that matter; finding your mother, and bringing her home.”