Down: Pinhole (42 page)

Simon would hear nothing of it. “Sorry, friend, I don’t buy what you’re selling. There’s no salvation. There’s no way out. We’re up a shit creek without a rowing boat.”

“I wouldn’t be so fast to dismiss our monk,” Garibaldi said. “Some hope is always better than no hope. What do your fellow men say to you when you are met, Adolphus?”

“Most laugh at me and throw stones. A few cry with the remembrance of something distant. Fewer still pray with me. On the days I meet such men, my heart soars like a bird.”

Garibaldi smiled at the monk. In life he had been a tolerant man, but one known for his anti-clerical views. “I will not pray with you,” he said, “but I will not laugh either. I respect you for your beliefs.”

“Thank you,” the monk said. “You seem a good man. Yet it seems you lead a war party.”

“In good cause, friar, in good cause. We hope to establish a new, better way to live in this harsh world.”

“I believe you and I will pray for you. I have faith you will succeed.” Adolphus patted his belly in satisfaction and turned his attention to John. “You, sir, you are different, very different, are you not?”

“I suppose I am.”

“You are not dead?”

“Not yet.”

“A true miracle! If a live man might come down then perhaps a dead man might rise up. I take this as a sign that my prayers have not been in vain.”

“You can take it any way you please.”

“What is the present year on Earth?”

John told him and Adolphus crossed himself in amazement.

“And in the earthly domain, do men still fervently revere our lord, Jesus Christ?”

“Christians do, yes.”

“And tell me, who is the Roman Pope?”

“His name is Francis. Pope Francis.”

Adolphus stood in excitement. “Named for my Francis? Saint Francis of Assisi?”

“I believe so.”

The monk looked up into the darkening sky and said, “Meeting you kind men has been the happiest day I have had in Hell. May I travel with you a while?”

“We’ll find you space in one of the wagons,” Garibaldi offered. “Is there anything else you need?”

“If you succeed in your mission, I would like to be able to build something. Perhaps you would help me.”

“What do you wish to build?”

“I would like to build the first church in Hell.”

Ben Wellington slumped in Trevor’s office staring numbly at the panel of CCTV screens. He was beyond tired, comically tired, after working flat-out for three weeks, returning home for a few hours here and there only long enough to shower and shave and get a tongue lashing from his wife for abandoning her with the triplets.

“What’s he on about?”

“Who?” Trevor asked.

“Duck. What’s he doing?”

Trevor looked at one of the screens. Duck was motoring away under his duvet. “He’s wanking off.”

Ben got up to look closer. “He is, isn’t he? For the love of God, he’s watching
The Little Mermaid
.”

“You can’t tell me you never fancied Ariel.”

“Oh shut up. You’re talking about one of my girls’ favorite characters.”

They both watched the screen anthropologically until Duck was finished. Ben’s mobile vibrated. He read a message then sighed.

“What?” Trevor asked.

“Still nothing. We’ve got four million CCTVs in England, a half a million in London alone, Woodbourne’s face on every news show and newspaper and we can’t find the bugger.”

Trevor got up. It was time for their meeting with Quint. “As bad as we’ve got it, it’s got to be a damned sight worse for John and Emily. We’re on our home pitch. They’ve got the ultimate away game.”

“You’re assuming they’re still alive.”

“If I know both of them they’re not only alive, they’re kicking.”

Quint listened impassively to the update on Woodbourne. When Ben was finished he said, “In three days we have actuation number three. In ten days we have number four. That will be it. There is no number five. There will be no day eleven. Our respective governments are firm on this. MAAC will be shut down permanently and Dr. Loughty and Mr. Camp will be functionally lost. These are the realities.”

Ben started, “I’m well aware …”

“I don’t really care whether you’re aware or whether you’re oblivious,” Quint said caustically. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into this facility and here I sit, helplessly watching all my work turning to shit. That’s what you should be aware of.”

“With respect, Dr. Quint,” Trevor said, “I think John and Emily should be our primary concern at this time.”

“Fine, good. I’ll join you in being politically correct but even Dr. Loughty would agree with me that the interests of science are sometimes bigger than the lives of two people.”

Trevor clenched his jaw, setting his masseters visibly rippling under his tight skin. He asked if the meeting was over and when Quint nodded, he said, “What happens to Duck if we fail? Say it’s eleven days from now and MAAC is shuttered. What happens then?”

“It’s been discussed,” Quint said. “The ongoing studies on the young man will be completed in due time and he will be eliminated, humanely, of course. When Woodbourne is found the same will be done with him.”

With Trevor reduced to speechlessness, Ben asked, “And what do the powers that be plan for Emily and John’s families?”

“Camp is no problem. He told us he’s got no one. Loughty, well, that’s trickier. We’ll say that she died from radiation exposure and that for health and safety reasons her body was cremated. Some one will empty out their fireplace and her family will be presented with ashes.”

Trevor abruptly stood and said, “With all due respect, Dr. Quint, fuck you.”

Woodbourne was chain smoking Lucky Strikes, hazing the flat with smoke. When Polly began to cough he allowed Benona to open the windows a crack. Benona thought about making some kind of sign with her hands but the street was dark and empty.

“You can’t stay here forever,” she said.

“You’re like a broken record, woman.”

“This is my life and my daughter’s life. We want lives back.”

“I’ve got to figure things out, all right?”

“What’s to figure out? You must surrender to the police.”

“Not likely. Never did, never will.”

She lit one of the cigarettes and took a deep drag. “How many people you killed?”

He arched a brow. “I’m surprised you asked that?”

“Why?”

“Most women would be too scared to know the answer?”

“I’m only scared for Polly. Not for me.”

“You’re a tough bird, aren’t you?”

“I told you. I had hard life. I seen a lot, did a lot.”

“Yeah? What did you do?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I killed a bunch. Put it that way.”

“Why you did this? These people hurt you?”

“A few did, yeah. Most didn’t.”

“Then why you did this?”

He got up off the floor and paced a little, frowning in discomfort. “I’ve got an anger in me.”

“Many are angry. Most don’t kill.”

“It’s a bad anger.”

“What you told me, about Hell. How do I know you’re not crazy?”

“I’m not crazy.”

“You can prove what you say?”

“I don’t know how to prove it.”

“Okay, what day you say you died?”

He told her. She went into Polly’s room and got the laptop computer that she’d stolen for the girl from an office.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Computer. You don’t know?”

“If I knew, why would I ask?” he said. “What’s it for?”

“To find information. Maybe I can find if you lying to me.”

She got online off her neighbor’s unprotected router and found an ancestry website. She needed more information—his date of birth, his full name, and once it was entered, she hit the search tab and there it was.

The death certificate.

Brandon James Woodbourne, died 8 April 1949 at Dartford Prison.

Her hands shook as she called him over to look at the screen.

“Look at that!” he said, excitedly. “That’s me. That’s where they did me. Dartford Prison. What am I doing inside that machine?”

She lit another cigarette off her glowing stub.

“Now do you believe me?” he asked.

“You are dead.”

He slammed a fist into his palm in triumph. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

Her voice was dull and lifeless. “There is Hell.”

He nodded.

“Heaven too?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”

She put the computer back in Polly’s room, told her to play a game on it, and shut the door.

“Tell me what it’s like,” she said, sitting heavily on the sofa.

He smoked and talked for the next hour, telling her everything he knew, everything she wanted to hear, and when she ran out of questions, he sat on his bedding exhausted. They smoked in silence for a while.

“I’m having vodka,” she said. “You want one?”

“Yeah.”

She half-filled two small glasses, polished off hers in one go and re-filled it.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look sick or something.”

“You told me bad things about yourself,” she said. “I will tell you something bad about me.”

“Suit yourself.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Polly’s father …”

“Your husband.”

“He was not good man. He got drunk and would hurt me but that wasn’t worst of it. He used to hurt her too.”

“How?”

Her voice trailed off even more. “He—he wanted to have his way with her.”

“Fucker,” Woodbourne fumed and mumbled. “I’ll kill him for you. Where can I find him?”

“You can’t kill him.”

“Why not?”

“I already did. I paid a man in pub to do it. They found his body near the train tracks. Police thought he was in fight or something.”

“You did the right thing.”

“So Brandon, can you tell me this? Will I go to Hell for what I did?”

He stared at her and said, “If you do and I’m there, I’ll look after you.”

The third MAAC restart came and went. Duck, well acclimatized to the exercise had gone into it confident of the outcome, and when Matthew Coppens gave the reluctant order to power down, Duck smiled broadly and shouted for Delia. She had promised another walk outside and he demanded she deliver the goods.

“It’s raining today,” she said evenly, belying her exasperation that her charge hadn’t disappeared.

“Don’t mind the rain. Let’s leg it.”

Barry, one of the security officers assigned to the Duck patrol as they had taken to calling it, accompanied them out onto the grounds that stretched behind the main building. The hefty guard kept himself within a stride of the young man at all times despite the high perimeter fence and razor wire, though Delia had argued that MAAC was a gilded cage which Duck would not wish to leave. The psychologists were in agreement.

Duck turned his face to the rain and said he liked a gray day, that he was used to them more than the sunny ones that hurt his eyes. He was talking a blue streak, stoked that the dreaded control-room day was over.

“Well, only one more of those next week and then the lab will be closed for good.”

Once the sentence had passed her lips Delia looked like she wished she hadn’t said it for Duck stopped in his tracks and screwed his face into a contortion.

“Then what ’appens?” he asked. “What ’appens to me? I like me room and me vids and me grub.”

“I honestly don’t know, Duck, but I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

He looked panicky. “Will you be going where I go?”

“Probably not. Auntie Delia has to go back to London next week. I’m sure they’ll find you a very nice new minder.”

He started walking again, seemingly deep in thought. “I don’t want to go back to ’ell and I don’t want another auntie neither.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Duck. I shall pass along your concerns to Dr. Quint.”

“Is ’e the one always making the clicking sound in the back of the big room?”

“That’s right, dear. He’s the man with the clicking pen.”

Duck raised his hand to his mouth to shield the words from Barry. “Between you and me, I don’t like the look of ’im one little bit.”

On the southern outskirts of Paris a delegation of nobles representing King Maximilien hailed the approaching Italian column. When the chimney smoke of Paris had first become visible on the horizon, John had given Simon the wheel of the car while he hid in the covered wagon carrying Adolphus the monk. Given John’s recent escape from Maximilien’s clutches it was imperative to conceal his presence from the French.

The French and the Italian automobiles pulled within a few feet of each other, belching steam into the morning air.

The Duke of Orleans and Guy Forneau led the French delegation. Forneau was scarcely able to hide his pleasure at the sight of Garibaldi. At their only meeting several years earlier in Milan, Forneau, despairing of the pointlessness of war after war, cruelty after cruelty, had swallowed Garibaldi’s message of hope like medicine for his tortured soul. Now, unsure of his
bona fides
as an actor, Forneau left it to the Duke of Orleans to ask whether King Cesare was present.

“I must inform you,” Garibaldi said, his spine, military straight, “that Borgia is no longer the king of Italia.”

Orleans peered over his thick spectacles and asked, “If this is so, who then, is your king?”

“You are looking at him, my good man. I am Giuseppe Garibaldi.”

Orleans and the rest of the delegation bowed and he said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, we had not heard the news. Was there an illness?”

“Only if you consider losing one’s head to a bomb an illness.”

There were knowing laughs from the French side and then Forneau made the pretense of a personal introduction. “I congratulate Your Majesty on his accession to the throne. Our king awaits you at his palace for a war council.”

“Is there any sign of Henry?” Garibaldi asked.

Forneau said, “This we know: he has landed on our soil and is marching toward Paris. Tomorrow, he will be within striking distance. Your arrival is timely indeed.”

Garibaldi briefly discussed logistics and found support for deploying the bulk of his column to the northeast of Paris in a position to interdict the British. The disposition of the French army, which was on the ready, was quite fluid and would depend on the council’s deliberations.