World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine (20 page)

The table was made up of a mixture of The Ed’s regulars and some tourists. It only took about forty-five minutes’ play to discern which was which. The glamorous, gregarious blonde to Walt’s right talked as if she was a trophy wife spending her shopping budget, but her play so far had been calculating and effective. There were three players in their twenties who’d obviously had learnt the game online. They hid behind sunglasses and hoodies and screened out distractions with earbuds. Despite their similar appearance, two of them were nervous rookies, giving away far too much information with their bet-sizing. The third may have been professional. His play was loose and aggressive, getting involved with nearly every hand, but knowing when to lay it down and when to bet for maximum value. Two older Chinese men made up the rest of the table. Probably regulars too, but recreational players—willing to gamble, seemingly not worried about losing.
 

Walt’s strategy involved playing at a sub-optimal level at first while he scoped the other players and, hopefully, gave them the impression that his own play was weak and predictable. After the first hour, during which he lost about fifteen percent of his initial £2000 starting stack, Walt started to play properly, while simultaneously trying to look as if he was just getting lucky. He stayed out of most hands with the blonde woman, and only played against the internet kid when he had the advantage of position, meaning he was the last to make a decision in each round of betting. He took several small pots, then an £800 pot, mostly from the Chinese guys.
 

At around midnight, the woman on Walt’s right got up and went off to cash in. She was slightly up on the night, but had seen through Walt’s efforts to appear to be a lucky tourist. A hustler knew another hustler when she saw one. As she left, she bent down to whisper in his ear.

“The guys at the next table,” she said.
 

Walt looked over. A table of six—raucous, lots of laughter, lots of drinking.
 

“I see ‘em,” said Walt.
 

“They might invite you to a home game. They like to invite tourists with plenty of cash.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Walt.

“Maybe,” she said, “but I’d pass if I were you. Just a bit of friendly advice.”
 

As she left, Walt took a closer look at the next table. It looked like most of them knew each other. They were laughing at the biggest loser at the table, who seemed to be taking his losses in fairly good spirits. Judging from the cut of his suit and the Rolex on his wrist, a few thousand here or there wouldn’t hurt him any.

After another hour, Walt had more than doubled his stack, and the internet kid had realized there might be easier pickings elsewhere. The table started to thin out, and Walt went to the cashier’s cage to get his money.
 

As he turned to leave, the guys from the next table were putting on their coats and making their way outside. The one who’d been losing turned to Walt with a smile.

“Hi, I’m Danny,” he said.

“Patrick,” said Walt, shaking his hand.

“We’re going to keep the action going at home,” he said. “It’s a ten-minute walk from here. Do you fancy a game?”

Walt started to shake his head and excuse himself, but Danny interrupted him, laughing.

“I saw Nikki whispering to you,” he said. “She thought she could outplay us. She lost big. Now she warns everyone.”

“I have nothing to prove,” said Walt.

“Fine, no problem,” said Danny. “No pressure. I mean, we like to fancy we’re the best players in town right now, so no one would blame you for taking a raincheck. Nice to meet you anyway, Patrick.”

As he turned to walk away, Walt felt that little buzz of excitement he used to get when pitting himself against another mature Manna user. He was a far better poker player than these guys could possibly know, and he was running good. What would be the harm? He called after the group as they pushed through the casino’s revolving door.

“Hey, hold up,” he said. “I guess a couple hours won’t hurt.”

Danny punched him playfully on the arm.
 

“Good man,” he said.

***

Walt opened his eyes gingerly and sat up. He was curled up at the bottom of a hedge next to a half-eaten piece of pizza. His face was hurting, his eye throbbed and there was a line of dried blood under one nostril.
 

The rain had woken him. For a moment, he was glad he had been wise enough to buy the winter coat, then he realized it had gone. Along with all of his cash. Well, not quite all, he realized as he felt in his pocket for a handkerchief. There was a £10 note in his otherwise empty wallet. He dimly remembered a shout as he was rolled out of the car into the gutter.

“There’s enough cab fare to get you home, Patrick. Now don’t be a naughty boy and call the filth, or we’ll have to come back and stick a big knife in you.”

The ‘filth’ was slang for the police, Walt remembered that much from previous visits to London. Not that he could go to the authorities anyway, with his fake ID, no visa, and a cover story that would crumble under any serious scrutiny.

He used a nearby trash can to steady himself as he stood. It took all of his willpower not to shout in pain as he straightened out his bruised body. His ribs felt as if they’d been played like a xylophone by someone using steak mallets. Walt remembered lying on the floor after he’d been punched in the head. The city boys took turns kicking him in the ribs. He ran his fingers along his chest, pushing each rib carefully. Two of them made him cry out, causing a passing cyclist to speed up and cast a nervous look in his direction.
 

Walt limped to the nearest bathroom. He would never understand the Brits. They called bathrooms ‘toilets’, ‘lavatories’ or ‘loos’, then advertised them with the letters ‘WC’. Then again, he mused as he washed the blood away from his nose and inspected his swollen eye, he had to admit he had yet to find a public bathroom in America which actually contained a bath.

The £10 they had left him would have covered the taxi fare, but Walt elected to walk. He knew it wasn’t far to the hotel, and he felt like he needed to clear his head as well as check that his body was capable of moving effectively. His anonymity needed to be preserved, so a trip to hospital was off the table. He wanted his trail to end here in London. A new passport in the name of Nicholas Sherman meant the short life of Patrick Henson would be over when he checked out of the hotel in a few hours’ time.

As he walked, he was glad of the rain. It would help explain his disheveled appearance when he got back to the five-star hotel. A story about getting lost and tripping down some steps in the ‘underground’ or subway would be sufficient to allay the insincere concern of the concierge. The rain also hid the fact that Walt, to his horror, was crying. The tears were partly of pain and self-pity, but mostly of rage. Never a violent man by choice, Walt had, nonetheless, participated in some violence over the years. He was hardly new to it. It was just that this was the first time he had been fully—and helplessly—on the receiving end. He was shaking with shock, pain and white-hot anger. Every other thought was a fantasy, whereby he laid about those smug bastards with a baseball bat.
 

They’d cheated him. He’d outplayed them at every turn, but they consistently got lucky, defied the odds, and taken more and more money from him. It took him nearly two hours to work out how—to see the slight crimps put in certain cards by the dealer, the signals concerning hand-strength sent by the angle at which a glass was positioned on a coaster. He should have just shut up and left. That would have been the sensible route. But, having spent thirty years confronting cheats in Las Vegas, he’d called them out on it before he’d had time to reconsider. The next thing he knew, it was him against five young, fit guys. No problem, usually. Not anymore.

Walt glanced up at a sign. Wardour Street. The edge of Chinatown. Another ten minutes and he could soak in the tub, clean up, plan his next move and leave this ugly night behind him.

Then he felt it. Just a hint at first. He knew what it was instantly, but pretended to himself that he didn’t. Thought he might take a slight detour. Because he felt like it. Nothing more than that.

Walt took the next side street. Halfway down it was a small green area, mostly in shadow, incongruous among the glass and concrete buildings it punctuated. As Walt drew closer, he could see it was some sort of memorial. There was a large stone with Chinese characters engraved on it. The grass around it was well-tended. Walt couldn’t read it, but he knew—whatever it said—there was another reason this area had been kept clear. What he had felt nearly a block away was obvious now. It was if an ex-smoker had got a tiny scent of smoke, followed it and found a smoke shop full of free cigarettes. Walt stood in front of the patch of grass, feeling the massive buried storehouse of Manna just a few feet away.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He went to walk away, but his feet disobeyed the signals from his brain. The Manna was having a huge physical effect on him. He knew it would mend his bruised ribs and battered face, take away every ache and pain. It would fill him with energy and power. Most of all, it would enable him to pay a visit to the city boys and show them why crossing him had been a bad idea. His fists clenched and unclenched as he pictured himself cracking small bones in their feet as he forced them to stand and face him. Barrington, Mason’s enforcer, had discovered after a great deal of research, that certain foot bones produced almost unbearable pain when snapped, particularly if any weight was put on them. Walt pictured their faces, heard their screams.
 

He suddenly snapped his attention back to the moment. He wasn’t standing any more. Somehow, he had unconsciously moved forward and knelt on the wet grass. He gasped as he felt the massive pull of the waiting Manna. All he had to do was place his palms on the ground. Just open himself up and let the Manna in. This would be the last time. He would just clean himself up, get his revenge, then he would never Use again. Just this one last time.

***

Walt opened the door to his hotel room and shuffled in, before collapsing against it and sliding down to the carpet. He was soaked through. His body ached. His face was numb. He was an old man. An old man with no Manna. He’d half-walked, half-crawled away from Chinatown and the easy fix waiting under his fingertips. What help could he possibly be to Meera Patel? What could he offer Seb—if he was still alive—that would be of any use to him? At least he was free, he reminded himself. Free to age, get sick, get beaten up, feel his faculties gradually weaken and then desert him. Free to die.

He gave in at last and sobbed like a child for a few minutes. Afterwards, he cleaned himself up and packed his small bag.
 

He splashed some water on his face and checked the damage to his eye in the bathroom mirror. Nothing a pair of sunglasses wouldn’t hide. He’d buy a pair first thing. Then he’d take the tube to East London. That was where Meera had grown up. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try to get a message to her somehow. Had to tell her Mason was coming after her again.

He walked back into the bedroom and stopped dead. Sitting in the shadows was a man who hadn’t been there five minutes earlier.
 

Walt froze. How could he have been so naive to think he could escape someone as powerful as Mason? How could he have allowed himself to dream of a life of his own?

The figure leaned forward and switched on the desk light. Walt stared, unable to speak.
 

“Hello, Walt,” said the man. “It’s been a while.”

It was Seb Varden.

Chapter 23

Mexico City

On the third day after Seb had disappeared, Mee decided she needed to stop pretending she could cope on her own. She invited Kate over to the apartment. Mee hesitated at the doorway, turning to the older woman.
 

“I know you’re used to strange stuff, with all that Manna you chuck about, but you still might be a bit freaked out now, so keep your shit together, ok?”
 

Kate nodded, calmly.

“Duly noted, Stephanie,” she said.

“Ok,” said Mee. “After you.”

Kate walked into the apartment. Small, tidy, anonymous, other than the piano and the musical equipment she could see through a half-open door.

Mee walked in. As she crossed the threshold, she gained about two inches in height, getting slightly slimmer as she did so. Her face lengthened slightly, the eyes, nose and mouth altering at the same time. Her hair became an unkempt wiry explosion. Mee stopped and looked at Kate quizzically.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she said.

“I’m not,” said Kate. “Back at Casa Negra, the first time you Used, I saw you like this. Just for an instant. I couldn’t work out how someone who said they’d never used Manna before could have such an effective disguise without it. And without me sensing anything. So, who are you, actually, Stephanie?”

“Well, first off,” said Mee, walking over to the small table and pulling out a chair, “it’s Meera, not Stephanie. Although I prefer Mee. I’m in trouble, Kate.”

Kate looked at the young woman opposite. She had known her for nearly a year and, although she had hidden her identity, Kate was confident she knew the real woman beneath. There was no malice, no threat here, just a remarkable woman who needed her help.

“Ok, Mee,” she said. “I think you’d better tell me everything,”
 

“In that case,” said Mee, grabbing a bottle of Tequila, “I’m going to need a drink. And you are definitely going to want to sit down.”
 

***

Three hours later, the tequila bottle was half empty, Mee was on her third joint, and Kate was still sitting quietly, her dark eyes unreadable. She had just learned that the messiah many of the Order had believed in—Seb Varden—was not dead, but living with Meera a few streets away from her. That twelve members of the Order had been killed trying to keep Meera out of Mason’s grasp. And that Seb was now missing, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. Mee described the blackouts, but omitted any details about aliens, Social Security offices and power dressing.