The Rhesus Chart (43 page)

Old George appears to have responded with physical force, using his remaining (left) arm to apply torsion to Dr. Carroll’s right elbow, first dislocating her limb at the shoulder, then inducing traumatic amputation. He then used the appendage as a bludgeon to apply blunt trauma to Dr. Carroll’s head. The cause of death is unclear but may include a combination of blood loss, shock, and cerebral swelling secondary to a fractured skull.

Dr. Carroll, aged 62, was a widow at the time of the incident. She is survived by a son, Derek (38).

The door to Briefing Room 202 was open, and this is where the intrusion event terminated.

The last two bodies are unaccounted for but are believed to be located within the containment ward in that room. One of them is that of Old George; the other is that of DSS Angleton, also known as the Eater of Souls.

The precise sequence of events leading to the loss of DSS Angleton and the 227-year-old vampire known as George Stephenson have not been established, as of the date at which the board of enquiry issued their interim report. Briefing Room 202 is, as of the time of writing, currently inaccessible due to a residual necromantic thaum field, which is sufficiently intense (at 1200 milli-Parsons per hour just inside the threshold) to pose a high risk of neurophagic possession to anyone unwise enough to enter. A four-meter diameter, perfectly spherical, event horizon can be observed in the center of the room, but the thaum field rises exponentially as the singularity is approached. Detailed examination is not currently feasible.

It is believed that the bodies of DSS Angleton and Old George lie within the event horizon.

A narrative account of the encounter between DSS Angleton and Old George is appended to the interim report, but is marked as a provisional finding and some questions remain over its accuracy.

It is believed that, at the time shots were being fired by Mr. Newstrom, DSS Angleton was in Briefing Room 202, where he was occupied with a phone call from his operational assistant, Mr. Howard. On hearing shots, Angleton ended the call and spoke to Dr. Carroll, who volunteered to investigate. It is noted that Dr. Carroll’s ward of office should have given her similar immunity to physical threats to that available to Old George, and Dr. Carroll’s position as Auditor was contingent upon her ability to compel and command—she was, in her own right, a formidable operative (if somewhat rusty, her last field experience being over two decades earlier).

It is not possible to be sure of DSS Angleton’s state of mind at this time (DSS Angleton not being entirely human to begin with, and having occupied his body for at least eighty-two years at the time of the incident). However, it is inferred that DSS Angleton was aware of an imminent threat from multiple sources: from the sound of gunfire, from Howard’s Code Red warning, and then from the Auditor’s radiative emissions and subsequent screaming as Old George beat her to death with her own arm.

It is unclear why DSS Angleton did not immediately enter the corridor and engage Old George. It is speculated that DSS Angleton required time to prepare himself for combat—again, as with Dr. Carroll, Dr. Angleton’s last active field operation (if the fiasco two years ago at Brookwood Cemetery is excluded) was over six years ago. It is also speculated that DSS Angleton assessed Dr. Carroll’s triage status as irretrievable and decided to spend almost a minute preparing Briefing Room 202 to receive Old George.

Witnesses trapped in Briefing Room 203 claim to have heard Angleton call out, “In here, George!” in a tone of voice that one bystander described as “jolly” and another described as “chilling.” It is not known at this time how DSS Angleton was aware of the attacker’s identity.

Subsequent witness reports are unreliable and subjective, but paint a picture of a subjective sense of extreme existential dread, nausea, bone-deep aches and feverish chills, hearing arcane chanting in unfamiliar languages (identified by one witness as “like Old Enochian, but different and much scarier—Old Enochian with Tourette’s syndrome, perhaps”), inhuman groaning, and an intense and eerie sense of
jamais vu.

The precise nature of the exchange of thaumaturgic firepower that happened in Briefing Room 202 is unclear, but it should be noted that items subsequently found in Old George’s possession, both on his person and at his home, indicate that he was a proficient ritual necromancer even before his contraction of PHANG syndrome. Furthermore, Old George had the benefit of nearly two centuries to perfect his technique without fear of Krantzberg syndrome. DSS Angleton, in contrast, was the dead soul of a “Hungry Ghost,” bound into the living body of a man whose mind was sacrificed to provide a vessel for the
preta
. Both these individuals were combat sorcerers of great age and experience, fighting for their lives: and they paid the ultimate price.

DSS “James Jesus” Angleton (not his real name), aged 102 (or: uncountable aeons), was single at the time of his departure. He is survived by an assistant who, in the wake of a destiny entanglement accident two years ago, shares some of his abilities.

And I am now going to stop writing, in order to observe a three-minute silence for the dead, before I bring this sorry story to its close.

 • • • 

THE POLICE FINALLY MOVE IN AND SECURE THE SCENE. SCARY
organizes; Pete sees to Alex, delivering soothing words while one of the squaddies works on him from a field first aid kit equipped with morphine and burn dressings. I go through the motions of an after-op report, but it’s very hard.

I’m back on the phone almost as soon as Angleton hangs up on me, but it takes me a minute to get through to someone who knows what’s going on, and by that time I already know what they’re telling me: Angleton, they say, is dead. Or, I infer, if not dead then discarnate, beyond recall unless someone attempts the TEAPOT BARON TYBURN invocation (which will happen over my dead body).

At the moment of his death I feel a great disturbance in the force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were silenced—well, no, actually. It’s not like Star Wars
at all
. (And there is no luminiferous ether either, dammit.) But it’s as if I’ve been wearing a pair of too-tight gloves for so long I didn’t even notice anymore, and they’re suddenly gone. And if I flex my mental fingers it’s like I’ve been performing resistance exercises and suddenly I’ve acquired the grip of doom.

So I’m not the apprentice trainee Junior MythBuster Eater of Souls anymore. I don’t know if you could accurately describe me as the real thing yet, but I’m the nearest we’ve got now Angleton’s gone, and I’ll just have to do my best to live up (or die down) to his standards. It’s a lot to come to terms with, especially as I’m shocky and disoriented, covered in blood and other bodily fluids, upset and disturbed by the fallout from Basil’s little party, and trying to hold everybody else on the KGB.2.YA site together.

This shit is highly distracting, even in the absence of knowing that there’s a Code Red in hand, and people keep buzzing around my head like summer bluebottles, nagging me with stupid questions. I will confess to snarling a couple of times, and one or two of the cops push back with a bit of attitude—they’re used to their authority being respected, even without the assault rifles and the Darth Vader stormtrooper gear—but it turns out that all I have to do is stare at them and they urgently remember something else they need to be doing.

And, in truth, Scary can handle this circus from now on. Basil is roadkill, Alex is gibbering and confessing to the vicar, Little Miss Serial Killer Squared is giving me a very bad taste in the back of my mouth, and there’s a Code Red in progress back at base. So I walk over to the nearest crimson BMW with Christmas tree lighting and locate the occupant, who is by coincidence conversing with Scary. “I need a ride,” I say.

The cop turns on me. He’s something senior, inspector maybe. “You wait your—” he begins, then I make eye contact and his tongue freezes.

“I need a ride,”
I say, reaching deep inside myself for the power and authority that goes with my new job. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

“Uh. Um . . .” The inspector reels and looks at me like I’m the Grim Reaper: maybe I need to dial it down a notch or two.

“He needs a ride,” Scary says, not unkindly, “and he’s
my
boss. I reckon you should give him a ride. It’s the easiest way to get rid of him.”

“Uh, right. Where do you need to go, sir?”

I give him the New Annex’s address. I hope to hell I’m not too late.

If a motorbike or scooter is the second fastest way to get around London, then a police armed response car with blues and twos comes a pretty close third. Unfortunately there’s no room for a chopper to set down by the New Annex or I’d requisition one, and fuck the budget. I spend the next twenty minutes in a weird hypnogogic state, eyes registering the blue highlights reflecting off the shut shop windows to either side as we hurtle along high streets like the proverbial chiropteroid making its exit from Tartarus. My mind’s a million miles away. All I can think is,
Someone killed Angleton
, which means they need me because I’m the next in line. Or maybe they need Mo with her instrument, but she’s in the North Sea right now. Funny: whatever killed Angleton will probably make short work of me. So she won’t even get to yell at me for getting myself killed—

My driver begins to slow down, and I realize I recognize the roads. We’re nearly there. Then I see more flashing lights, red and blue and white (which is worse), and we round the corner to see a small herd of ambulances drawn up, more police cars, and another OCCULUS truck setting up a mobile command center, outside a building with strange lights in one of the second-floor windows that make the skin in the small of my back try to crawl off and hide . . .

. . . And
stop
.

I’m clearly too late, which means I’m going to get to live a little longer.

Somehow it feels wrong.

 • • • 

IT’S THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING IN THE BACK OF THE OCCULUS
truck parked outside the alleyway at the back of the New Annex. It’s chilly and winter-damp in the back of the truck. I’m cross-eyed with exhaustion as the Senior Auditor turns to me and clears his throat. There are bluish-purple bags under his eyes, highlighted by the flickering overhead neon tubes. I’ve never seen him look so frighteningly mortal before. “Nothing more to do here,” he says. “You should go home.”

“Thanks,” I say, then pause. “You’re sure?”

He stretches tiredly. “Colonel Lockhart will come in early, in about another half hour.”

“Lockhart’s a stuffed shirt.”

“Yes, but he can handle mop-up. And that’s what we’re down to. My colleagues will take over in the morning. You’ve done your bit, you’re covered in”—he hesitates momentarily—“
stuff
, you’re bone-tired, and you should get some sleep. We will be conducting debriefings all day tomorrow. Don’t come in until you’ve had at least six hours’ sleep. Preferably twelve.”

“Is that an order?” I jab.

He looks at me without the customary twinkle in his eyes. “You know better than to ask, Mr. Howard.”

Oh great.
I stifle a yawn. “Okay, six hours’ sleep before the fatal incident enquiry. Check.”

Angleton is dead. Andy . . . Andy’s dead, too, and that’s worse, in a way. In a lot of ways. Angleton was an ancient monster, but Andy was just another guy, with a wife and kids trying to kick his smoking habit and learn something new for his ten-percenter project. And now he’s dead, and some poor bloody cop is sitting up late with Andy’s wife and children and wondering how the hell to make a decent withdrawal. Maybe if I hadn’t volunteered to help him he’d still be alive. Then again, if I hadn’t volunteered to lend a hand he was all set to zap himself on that stupid summoning rig he was working on . . . I don’t know. I’ll never know. And the terrible part is that right now I’m so tired that I’d rather get some sleep than stay up an extra hour to find out the truth, if that was somehow possible. The SA is right. I need to go home.

I stand up. “See you tomorrow afternoon,” I say. I strip off my filthy overalls, then stumble down the steps from the back of the OCCULUS truck, shivering in a tee shirt and jeans. I’ve got an app for a local minicab firm on my phone, and even though the shattered glass screen crackles when I touch it, it’s just about usable—I’ve got my home address and the New Annex bookmarked, and at this time of night there’s not much competition for fares.

 • • • 

I LET MYSELF INTO THE DARKENED HALLWAY OF MY OWN HOME
like a thief in the night, skulking and shivering in unshod feet.

I’m tired, with a bone-deep fatigue to which is added a layer of despair and depression. I’ve lost co-workers and, dare I say it, friends tonight. To start with: Howe. Well no, he wasn’t a friend. But I’ve ridden along with him a number of times, from that crazy hole in reality that opened in Amsterdam to training sessions on Dartmoor. He’s helped pull my nuts out of the fire more than once. Now he’s gone, just a smelly stain on my damaged-beyond-cleaning Google tee shirt to remember him by. And my life is smaller as a result.

I shuffle through into the kitchen and switch on the lights on the cooker extractor hood—dim enough not to hurt my eyes or wake up the neighbors. I am a mess. I shrug out of my clothes in the middle of the kitchen floor. There’s a basket of clean laundry next to the washer-dryer, and I begin to rummage through it for something clean to wear against my skin for the long trudge upstairs when—

“Bob?”

I spin round: “Oh! Hi. You startled me.”

It’s Mhari. Hair tousled, still fully dressed. She’s staring at my hands, which are the only things between her eyes and my wedding tackle. She yawns, puffy-eyed. “What is this?”

“Would you wait outside for a mo?” I turn my back and bend over the laundry basket again, trying to pretend I’m not bare-ass naked. “I fell in someone. I’m filthy.”

“Why didn’t you say? Wait a second!” She turns and hoofs it up the stairs, and returns while I’m hopping around with one leg in a pair of boxer shorts, clutching a bath sheet. “Shower. Now. You’ll feel ever so much better for it.” She throws the big towel over me, then gets a good look at my dirties. “Eew. You’ll have to tell me all about it!”