city of anarchy
chapter nineteen
Mawgly needed a holiday.
The suitcase was open on her queen's-size bed and lurched as she threw piles of clothes on it at speed.
She glanced out of the big window as the sun shone through and illuminated the unkempt mass of her red hair; out at the high view of the city this particular room afforded her. For a moment, as her eyes adjusted to the light, the city seemed basked in gold.
Mawgly did not much appreciate it.
She glanced at her watch. Her hand was shaking.
Her driver would be waiting outside. It would be a quick getaway, straight to the harbour, no distractions, no diversions, and she would leave this city behind. Probably for good.
Mawgly hastily scanned the room and nodded frantically as she went yet again over these thoughts. She did not need to take much--there would be things on the boat. She grabbed a few toiletries and other personal items and threw them on top with the rest.
She fought with the zip--she had, in the end, decided to take a few more expensive dresses than she needed--took the handle and hauled the thing upright, rolling it to the door.
Mawgly took a final look around and departed.
Holly was gently shaken awake.
In his hand, Eugene had fat chips wrapped in greasy paper. 'Get 'em while they're hot,' he said, setting the paper down between them and handing her a drink in a foam cup.
'Thanks,' Holly said, her stomach loudly and impatiently growling its approval. She shifted and arched her back to stretch, rubbing the ache. Life had not provided much in the way of comfort recently.
They ate noisily. The food felt good and hot inside them.
'See? We look after you,' Vann said, walking past licking his fingers. In the ecstasy of consumption, Holly replied to his sparkly white grin with a smile, quickly burying her gaze in the food again when she realised what she had done.
Vann laughed and walked away.
Holly felt her face go red. Eugene's staring did nothing to help.
'What?' she snapped.
'We're not escaping then?' he asked.
Holly continued to stuff her face. She wasn't sure how deliberate she wanted the decision to be.
Eugene's gaze wandered and found that Aura was still watching them curiously. He did a little half-wave. 'Hello,' he said. 'I'm Eugene. Eugene Quirkor.'
At first, Aura said nothing. Then she slid a little way down the pile. 'So what did you do?' she asked. 'Vann says the police have been trying to kill you all week, but you don't seem like much of a threat to me.'
'Well,' Eugene answered, as Holly sat with her back still turned, 'we don't really know exactly.' His makeshift chirpiness evaporated and he went quiet. 'Wrong places at several wrong times,' he mumbled.
'Those police are idiots,' Aura declared, her chin raised authoritatively. 'They're just mad 'cause things aren't going their way. They like to contain things, see? Keep everybody under their control. But we're too awesome for them.' Her chin lowered. 'Did he speak to you yet?'
Eugene looked at her blankly. 'Who?'
'Mr Hood,' Holly said, as scathingly as she could manage with her mouth still full.
Aura frowned at the back of her head. Holly then turned around and continued, 'Who is he? And why does he hide his face?'
'I don't know,' Aura replied.
'You don't know?'
Aura shrugged. 'I don't care who he is,' she said. 'When you've seen what he can do, you won't either.'
'The magic tricks, you mean,' Holly said.
Aura looked at her levelly. 'I bet anyone in this room, saving yourselves, could jump off the top of the Sir Tenebrous Tower and live to tell the tale. You can call that magic tricks if you want. Obviously you're not ready for it yet. But you'll need to be soon enough.'
Holly glared at her, but said nothing.
'So,' said Eugene, breaking the silence. 'How come you've got that plaster on your head?'
Aura looked at him furtively. 'Walked into a door,' she said. 'Wasn't expecting it.'
Jella had managed to calm herself, at least to the extent that she was no longer hyperventilating. She had suffered one or two lapses into her unfavourable state, but it had been like hiccups and nobody had noticed--though the hospital gown and unusual haircut continued to attract attention.
She felt the breeze about her bare ankles. That was somehow reassuring, though her feet were beginning to hurt. She had not used them for a while.
'What do I do, what do I do...?'
Talking to herself had become a habit.
'I will...I will phone Dr Cabbot. Yes! He will help.'
She tried to remember his number. She had had it written down, but that piece of paper was no longer in her possession. After a moment of hard, exhausting thought, her aching brain sluggishly came up with a few numbers to try.
She found a payphone and made a reverse charge call.
'Hello?'
'Dr Cabbot! It's Jella. Jella Turnfly. Can...can we resume our session?'
There were a few seconds of silence down the line. 'Yes, Jella,' he said carefully. 'Of course. Would you like me to come and see you now?'
'No!' cried Jella. 'No, I think it would be better if I came to you.'
'Well, I'm not at Goodpatron's right now, Jella. I'm at home--'
'I'll come there. Where do you live?'
Dr Cabbot hesitated again. 'Quiet Street,' he told her reluctantly. 'Number seven.'
Jella hung up and exhaled. She patted her pockets again, feeling relieved, before realising that she would have to walk.
Hermes opened his eyes like he had only had closed them for a moment. His body felt tingly all over from physical fatigue that still lingered. His mind also felt fuzzy, as if he had not slept at all--like a kind of insomnia.
His upper half rose from the couch mechanically. Then he eased his legs back into use and went to stand over the bed, where Boris was still curled up on his side, dribbling onto the pillow.
Hermes sighed. His shirt, he realised, pulling at it, was feeling stiff and starting to stick to him. He needed a shower and a change of clothes.
The shower was up the stairs and to the left. He crept up, not wanting to attract the attention of Mrs Brue, who would undoubtedly be awake and still wanting long explanations that Hermes was in no mood to give.
He had to peel off the shirt, and his trousers were not much better. Longest work day ever, it had felt like. A welcome exodus.
The cool water of the shower felt strange and refreshing. He let the showerhead spray directly onto his face, rubbed his eyeballs with his fingers as pools of water started to form in the hollows of his sockets, and slicked back his hair. It felt thick and greasy.
He turned the heat up and washed it through, washed himself all over five times before stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom. He used the towel furiously about his head.
The steam billowed out into the hallway as he stepped out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his lower half. Slightly damp footprints appeared briefly and then vanished on each wooden step as he made his way down to the basement again.
He pushed open the door.
Boris was gone.
Hermes sighed. Without feeling particularly panicked, he looked around the room, checked behind the door and went to put on some fresh clothes, jeans and a blue t-shirt. He put on socks and trainers as an afterthought, expecting that he would have to go out looking for a man passed out halfway down the street, and grabbed some spare change in case he would have to venture further. Then he flattened his hair and went upstairs again.
He heard Mrs Brue's voice from the little living room. It seemed Boris had not gone very far at all. Hermes poked his head around the door.
'Hermes!' Mrs Brue responded, with a bright nervousness, when she saw him.
Hermes pushed back the door. Boris was not there. Instead, spread out on the remaining furniture, were three black-clad police officers, their balaclavas rolled up into caps.
The officers turned. The one in the middle smiled at him with sickeningly false pleasantness and a steaming cup of tea in her hands. 'Hello, Hermes,' she said.
Hermes took a step back and all three officers got to their feet. The nearest one levelled a gun at him.
'Don't break anything!' cried Mrs Brue, slightly inanely.
'Come quietly,' said the female officer, setting the tea down, 'and things will be better for everyone.'
Hermes took another step back.
'Hermes,' Mrs Brue said shrilly, frightened, 'just do what they say!'
Behind Hermes a door led into another room--a pointless dead end. The front door was not far off to his right, but it would take precious seconds to open.
'Don't even think about it,' said the officer with the gun, catching Hermes' quick glance to measure the distance.
A few short strides and the opportunity was gone: the officer had the gun right up to his face.
'You came here with someone else,' the woman said, stepping calmly around the coffee table. 'Where is he? In your room? Sounds like he needs medical attention from what I've heard.'
'Let's go find him,' the gun-wielding officer said, stepping around behind him and pressing the gun against the back of his skull.
'He's not there,' Hermes said. 'He already left.'
'Sure he did.'
Hermes sighed and let them push him back down the hallway. Mrs Brue had evidently told them which was his room as the female officer began making her way down the steps, jerking her head at the other doors. The third officer, who had not yet spoken, proceeded to check the bathroom; Hermes stood under guard at the top of the stairs, and the female officer reached the bottom and took her gun out, peering around the room with a frown on her face.
'FOR THE DARK CIRCLE!' came a muffled cry.
Boris exploded from the room opposite the stairs before the third officer had even opened the door, knocking him backwards with a crack to the head. Hermes was quick enough to step out of the way, pulling his guard directly into the path of the flailing human boulder, which took Boris and both officers down the stairs.
Hermes reeled, suffering a last-second grab that had nearly taken him down with them. The woman pointed her gun but could only step back into Hermes' room to get out of the way.
'RUN FOR IT!' Boris yelled at the bottom, lashing out madly before they could untangle themselves. 'I'LL TAKE 'EM ON!'
The woman, finding the doorway blocked, shot at Hermes, punching a hole through the door behind him as he made his escape. Cursing, she struck Boris repeatedly to calm him down.
Mrs Brue still cowered in the living room. As Hermes rushed past she shrieked his name, but Hermes did not stop, scrabbling at the door catch, tumbling out into the street and running away, pain shooting up his injured leg.
There was a silly, frantic and slightly feeble knock at Dr Cabbot's door, like a moth had mistaken it for a lightbulb. He was already on his feet, having peered through the curtains as a car pulled up right outside his house and seen Jella, his patient, missing for several days, shuffling up the drive.
He opened the door. 'Jella?' he said uncertainly, looking at her hospital gown.
'Can I borrow some money?' Jella asked. 'I'm sorry. I will pay it back. I need to pay the taxi driver.'
Dr Cabbot let out a long, controlled sigh. 'How much does he want?'
She told him; he extracted the amount from his wallet and gave it to her. He watched as she fluttered back to the taxi.
She returned with less speed, looking about her. Dream-like curiosity momentarily seemed to override the eternally panicked state that Dr Cabbot had accepted as part of her personality as she took in the trees and the neat little gardens, which looked very pleasant in the sunlight. Dr Cabbot hoped that his neighbours were still in bed.
'This is a nice place,' Jella said, faintly.
'What happened to you?' he asked, stepping back so she could enter the house. 'After you ran away, I got a call from the Agency about some story that had made its way to the papers. Are you in some kind of trouble?'
'Can we make this like a session?' Jella asked. 'Just like regular? I want to do it properly.' Her eyes suddenly welled up and she talked once again at speed. ' I want to tell you everything. They wanted me to keep quiet but I can't,' she said, 'and I think I'm going insane and nobody has had the decency to disagree with me and I'm fucking sick of it!'
Her eyes flashed; she grabbed Dr Cabbot by the buttoned white shirt, the professional attire that he had changed into especially for her visit, and then she yanked him towards her with surprising strength. 'Do you hear me? Sick of it!' She tugged anew with every stressed syllable: 'Sick of all the shit!'
She threw him backwards and he fell against the wall, eyes wide and scared. Her breathing heaved with suppressed sobs. 'Is in here good?' she said, once she had calmed herself, pointing to the nearest room and going in without waiting for an answer.
Dr Cabbot swallowed and entered the room after her, grabbing a chair from the kitchen. He set it down, picked up a buff-coloured file from the nearby cabinet and leafed through his notes to find the date of their last meeting. He scratched his balding head, sat down in the chair facing her--she sat quietly on the sofa--cleared his throat and began.
'The last time we spoke,' he said, 'you admitted to me that you had been hiding in...in your wardrobe, but you told me that it was not your friends you were hiding from.' He paused. 'And you're going to tell me who it was now?'
Jella nodded. 'His name was Bourne Umbel. Or at least that's what he told me.' She shifted in her seat.
'I was just on my way home one day--I'd been to see a film, on my own because Bimba flaked on me at the last second--and he just came up to me on the street and stopped me. I thought he looked a bit weird, his blond hair all slicked back, and he had a clipboard in his hands, so when he asked if I had a moment I tried to brush him off because I thought he was going to try to sell me something. But he kept insisting and I just kind of gave up.'
Jella had grabbed a cushion from the sofa, and squeezed it nervously between her hands as she spoke.
'So then he started asking me all these questions. First my name, how old I was, what my job was, what my interests were, and then...then he asked me if I wanted him to fulfil my most impossible fantasies.' Jella gripped the cushion tighter and looked at Dr Cabbot, her eyes wide. 'I thought he was some kind of prostitute and tried to run away! But he stopped me and told me he didn't mean it like that. He told me he was a scientist.'
'A scientist?'
'Yes! Then he pointed at that place...the Conceptual Realisement Base, or whatever it was called. And he said he would pay me if I took part in a quick experiment. And...and I said yes.'
Jella brought the cushion to her face and was silent for several moments. 'I shouldn't have,' she mumbled, her voice muffled. 'I shouldn't have...'
Dr Cabbot set the file and the note-taking pen down on his lap. 'What did he do to you, Jella?'
'He took me there. To that place.' Her fingers moved to the top of the cushion and pushed it down as she became more excited. 'It was weird in there! Like something from the future! Like a spaceship. I didn't get to see most of it, but he took me along a few corridors and to this room where he made me lie down on this bed and asked me to close my eyes. Then he asked me some stuff I don't remember, and then I think I fell asleep and when I woke up he asked if I could meet him again the next day at the place where he'd stopped me before. He said he'd bring me here again. I said I'd do it--I didn't really understand the experiment, but it was easy money. He did pay me, at the start. I think. So I kept meeting him every day and he kept doing this hypnosis sort of thing on me and then at some point I...I just...never left.'
Jella stopped and stared ahead of her.
Dr Cabbot leaned forward. 'Jella?'
The tears flooded back into her eyes. 'I don't even remember what happened!' she said. 'There were all these dark rooms, or maybe it was the same one, and there were others--other scientists--but I never really saw them; and he kept making me wear this crazy helmet and trying to make me do something and I didn't understand and I wanted to leave but he wouldn't let me and I tried to escape and he started chasing me down the corridors with a fire axe and I kept screaming and tried to get away and then it happened!' She gasped and rocked back and forth, clutching the cushion tightly. 'He broke me! And then he said I couldn't tell anyone or he'd kill me! I was so scared and I just wanted to hide!'
For several minutes she fought with her sobs. 'And then you kept trying to find out even though I didn't ask you to'--sob--'and then the Conceptual Realisement Place blew up and the Agents came after me and they cut my hair with a chainsaw and then I escaped again and then'--sob--'I fell and then I woke up in the middle of nowhere and oh my God!' She gasped, deeply and massively. 'None of this can be real!' she wailed.
Then, quite suddenly, she tipped forward and hit the floor.
'Jella!' Dr Cabbot lurched forward too late to catch her, the file falling from his knees to the carpet. He turned her over, cradling her upper half in his crouched lap.
Mawgly's car parked itself at a reckless angle, hidden between stacks of shipping crates. Mawgly got out and opened the boot, her thick auburn hair blowing about in the salty wind.
She hauled out her suitcase and dragged it on uncooperative wheels across the docks towards the harbour, where she spied the masts of her luxury white motor yacht. She rolled the suitcase across the pier and dragged it aboard the boat.
She calmed herself at the helm, looking out at the peaceful, rolling sea beyond. 'Time to get away from here,' she whispered. 'Away from all this.' She stood motionless for a time, and looking out at the vast blueness she could almost pretend that none of the madness she had seen had ever happened.
Mawgly then returned to her senses, her heartbeat starting as she heard some shouted interaction from the wharf. She went out on deck and glanced back, but they paid her no attention. They were just dockworkers.
She went back inside and fetched a bottle of champagne from a refrigerator, returned to the deck to set the cork free, and then went back inside, swigging liberally straight from the bottle.
She switched on the engine. The motor chugged and rumbled to life and Mawgly set the yacht in motion.
The bomb that had been rigged to the engine detonated, just as Mayor Mawgly went to take another swig. A flash and a thundering blast of orange and black took the yacht and much of the pier with it. Shockwaves spread out into the sea and rocked all the other boats nearby; an angled spray of water cascaded over what remained of the wharf.
A dozen or so people ran screaming. Flame licked at the sea and drowned.
Commander Brutt strode down the door-lined corridor, with an officer trying to keep pace and delivering his breathless report.
'Sir, we've just been to Governor Grieve's apartment to remove the Agent she'd supposedly shot dead. There was a lot of blood on the carpet, but the Agent wasn't there by the time we arrived.'
'Find her,' Brutt said.
'Yessir.' The officer retreated.
'Commander!' called another, who kept on jogging when Brutt did not turn. 'Sir, the Mayor tried to escape, just like you said.'
'She's dealt with?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good.'
Brutt calmly pushed open the door to the interrogation room with almost enough force to take it off its hinges. It flapped behind him as he stepped into the murk.
'Bring him to me,' he thundered, stepping through the dangling ropes.
Two officers dragged a limp body out of the darkness. His blue shirt was torn and bloody, his hair messier than ever. As one of the officers grabbed a handful of it and heaved it back, Beans looked at Brutt through a bruised and swollen eye.
'Has he told you about Dregg Street yet?' Brutt asked.
'No, sir.'
Brutt took a metal rod out of his back pocket and tested it so that the pronged end sparked blue. 'Put him in the rope,' he ordered. 'I want him upside down.'