Graveyard Shift (20 page)

As I typed, the wind groaned through the building, and the shivering candle flame sent strange light across the page. Something was coming — I felt it in my bones. As I pulled the first sheet from the typewriter, the telegraph machine sputtered and choked out smoke.

It stopped almost as soon as it started. With a gasp the machine fell silent. I stared at it, expecting more. This happened all the time, though — nothing for hours, then one solitary name, then a whole slew of names sending the
machine into rumbling overload. But nothing more came. That was all for now.

With a sigh, not fancying the trek to Miss Webster's booth for just this, I brought the new list to the desk. The reference number 4837 didn't mean much to me, but the name and address were familiar —
very
familiar. My insides turned over; the room darkened around me as I fell into the chair to read it again, then again to be sure.

Perhaps deep down I'd known it was coming. I'd known but kept the thought hidden away where it wouldn't hurt. It wasn't a surprise so much as a shock to find out like this, to see that single name recorded there in stark black and white.

Mum.

A
screaming in my head blotted everything out, growing louder and deadlier by the second, like a train fast approaching through a tunnel — a train heading directly at me.

My eyes were hot and streaming, turning the words and numbers on the paper watery. I heard myself speak, or try to, but I hardly knew what was coming out of my mouth.

“Not fair. Not fair.
Notfairnotfairnotfair
. . .”

And then I did something I've been trying to live down ever since. Something that broke every rule in the Ministry's book. Something I never would've done if the telegraph hadn't said what it said.

I got up, shaky-legged, crushing the sheet into a tight ball between my fists, stuffing it into my hip pocket. This was one name I wouldn't, couldn't transcribe. No way could I
make myself type it. The telegraph never lied, but so what? That didn't mean I had to go along with it. Not this time.

I turned and fled from the room.

A siren went up around the building the second I stepped into the corridor. It drilled through my ears as I legged it past the other offices, downstairs and out to the moonlit alley.

Mr. October had warned me what might happen if lists were badly transcribed, mistyped, misfiled. The consequences could be dire. The natural order of things could change. But what if the cards were never typed at all, if the names were never filed, but stolen?

If the siren ringing in my ears was any indication, I'd done the worst thing, the most unforgivable thing an operative could do. Until now, no one but the Lords of Sundown had stolen from the Ministry. I'd landed myself in a world of trouble.

My sneakers screeched across the cobblestones as I ran for the invisible gap. A searchlight snapped on somewhere above the dark building, its icy beam falling on the wall ahead of me.

The crevice between the walls felt narrower than ever as I slid sideways into it. For a moment I feared the walls might seal up completely, trapping me there, crushing me to dust where I'd never be found. But the alarm continued to rise and fall, and I heard the slap and thunder of boots in the alley behind me.

Pandemonium security. The Vigilants.

I froze, but only for a second. It sounded like a multitude, uniformed and fully armed and dangerous. The Vigilants had been set on my tail.

Edging between the cold, dank bricks, I came out onto Camden Passage, where covens of witches were still trick-or-treating, and a child-size ghost flapped its arms and yelled “Boo!” as I passed. When I rounded the corner onto Upper Street, the glare of shop windows and car headlights nearly blinded me. Above the rush-hour clamor I could still hear the siren and, closer, the clatter of Vigilant boots.

I tore across the intersection, turning left onto a quieter, darker street. A posse of guards stormed past the top of the street a few meters away, swinging powerful flashlights in my direction. I jumped inside the nearest doorway and shrank back as far as I could, listening to the crackle of their walkie-talkies.

Whatever happened, I couldn't get caught. I had to keep Mum safe, do whatever I could to protect her. But how much time did she have? Minutes or hours? The telegraph was never clear about things like that.

The walkie-talkies faded into traffic noise. I waited a minute in case the Vigilants came back. When I was sure they had moved on, I set off downhill, cutting from one street to the next in search of the canal.

It had to be somewhere nearby. If I could find it, the darkness by the water would give me cover. But suppose the enemy were down there too? Suppose they were already
waiting at home? It was a chance I had to take. Breathless, I ran deeper into the night.

I kept to the shadows the whole way, trying not to think about what might be inside them. But if the enemy were out in force tonight — Samhain, their special night, Sukie had called it — then so were the Ministry. Their security forces were everywhere.

The Vigilants patrolled every other street, flashlights scanning doorways and dipping over garden walls. At one point I had to dive behind a mountain of black trash bags and wait there, not moving, until they turned the corner. On another street I hid inside a Dumpster filled with bricks and soggy, splintery lengths of timber, huddling under a muddy tarp that smelled of cat pee.

By the time I scrambled out and got moving again, all the streets were beginning to look alike. I had a sinking feeling I'd lost my way. I'd traveled to and from the Ministry too many times to count, I knew the route by heart, but nowhere I turned looked familiar now.

Mum needed me. I couldn't waste time. But I couldn't afford to panic, either. All I had to do was find a way back to Upper Street, avoiding the Vigilants, and start over again from there.

The breeze whipped up piles of dead leaves from the roadside as I ran. They swirled around me, scraping my face. Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every other window I passed. The streets were all the same, silent and empty and foreign. I
couldn't be far from where I needed to be, but the canal may as well have been miles away.

The next intersection rushed at me up a steep slope. I couldn't decide whether to turn right or left at the end. All I could see stretching in front of me was darkness, more darkness, and the faintest ripple of light.

I screeched to a halt, almost cartoon-style, at the junction. At the far side of the road was a low-walled bridge, and a short distance along the bridge the top of the steep path leading down to the canal. I'd found my route home.

The road was clear. I started across it, readying myself to start running again. Everything ached and my head was throbbing. The shivering light on the dark water's surface made me dizzy. But I had to keep going, I had to believe Mum would be OK when I got there.
Don't give up. Don't let the fear take over.

I hadn't reached the curb on the other side when the light hit me — a huge light, the blaze of fifty or sixty flashlights snapping on at once, burning out of the darkness from both sides.

I could almost feel heat in those lights. I froze in my tracks, closing my eyes against the brightness as the Vigilants tramped nearer. The clatter of their boots on the cold ground sounded like volleys of gunshots.

“There he is,” a voice barked somewhere in the light.

“The thief,” said another.

“Hands in the air,” a third voice ordered. “Don't do anything stupid, kid. Don't even twitch.”

“You don't understand,” I said shakily. “Someone needs my help. . . .”

“Don't speak. Don't make a sound.”

The command was accompanied by the ratcheting lock and load of rifles.

They didn't kill, I remembered. They were defenders, only licensed to stun. All the same, the cold edge in their voices told a different story — if they could, they would. Whatever it took to preserve the natural order.

Peering through the dazzling haze, I could just pick out the bridge fifteen, maybe twenty paces away. I might make it before they had time to react. And if I could reach the towpath, leg it as far as the first bend . . . I knew the way after that very well.

Do it,
I thought.
Do it for Mum. If you don't, you'll never see her again. If you never take another chance, take this one.

I took off. A snarl of mob voices followed me. Flashlight beams swished through the dark in confusion, twisting in all directions.

“Stop now, stop where you are!” someone called.

But I couldn't. The top of the steep sloping path was in range. Another few paces, then down to the water and —

It felt like a punch from a soft-gloved hand. Something hit me between the shoulder blades, knocking me out of my stride. A numb coldness spread through me, turning my legs to jelly and skewing them out from under me. I toppled forward into a fog as my mind went blank, wiped clean.

I passed out before I hit the ground.

 

The next ten minutes are gone. I'll never get them back. The first thing I was aware of, coming around, was the sound of dripping water and gritty footsteps trapped between dark, damp walls.

We were inside the access space between Camden Passage and Eventide Street. Two Vigilants were dragging me through the dark, the toes of my shoes scraping the ground as we went.

“You'll be OK,” said the one on the left. A gentler, more patient voice than those back on the bridge. “It usually takes half an hour to recover. You'll feel dreamy for a while, but that's all.”

We exited the gap and crossed the alley. I could feel Mum slipping away from me, impossibly out of reach. It was too late now. Above us, the moon shone out of a clear starry sky. The searchlight was still swooping around, giving me a shock as it crossed my eyes, but at least the siren had stopped.

The main door was open at Pandemonium House, and an unsteady yellowish light burned inside. A handful of other security guards filed into the building. Two more were posted outside, standing on either side of the entrance, staring at me with deadpan eyes.

My strength was returning. I could walk by myself now, or I could have if they'd let me. The Vigilants clamped my arms, hoisting me up the first steps.

“Everyone knows what you've done,” said the one on my left. “And why you did it. But a crime is a crime, and now you'll have to answer for it.”

“I'm not sorry,” I said.

“You will be,” said the one to my right.

At the top of the steps, they paused to let me rest. Apart from the pins and needles in my fingers and my dull thudding head, I could've fared worse. I'd survived, except I didn't know for how long. What was the Ministry's punishment for people like me?

A sudden commotion across the alley made everyone turn. A clatter of wheels and a
slip-slap
of running feet came from the crack between the walls. Seconds later Lu appeared, rickshaw in tow, passing through the walls and into the glare of the searchlight beam.

“Get that thing out of my eyes,” she complained. She brought the vehicle to rest below the steps and dusted off her hands, giving a nervous half smile when she saw me.

Three figures were seated in the shade beneath the rickshaw's canopy, but from where I stood I couldn't tell who they were. The first to move was Sukie, who acknowledged me with a nod as she jumped down. Then Becky sat forward into the light, reaching across the seat to help the third passenger out. When I saw who it was, I nearly cried out with relief, but then a feeling of cold dread took over. Why had they brought her here?

“Mum . . .”

I made a move for the steps. The Vigilants held me back.

With Becky supporting her, Mum climbed gingerly down from the rickshaw and looked around, up at the stars, then at me with mystified eyes.

“Ben . . . is that you? What is this place and what's happening? Am I dreaming?”

I wished she were. I wished we both were, but I was becoming more awake by the second.

“Lu,” I said, but she didn't let me finish.

“Sorry, Ben. Orders. The numbers are wrong. They have to balance the books.”

My insides lurched. It felt like a jolt from a cattle prod, hearing that.

“Ben, would you mind explaining —” Mum began.

The guard at my right put out a hand. “No more questions. Everyone's here. Time to move this inside.”

They dragged me toward the main entrance.

“Let him be,” Lu called after them. “He won't run. There's nowhere to run to.”

All they did was loosen their grip a little as we moved indoors through the entrance hall, which shuddered in the light of twenty or more candles strewn about its walls and alcoves. The wind whistled through the building, and the telegraph's familiar rattle drifted downstairs as the guards walked me up.

I guessed this was how a prisoner might feel on the way to the gallows, but I'd pay the price — any price — if they'd give Mum another chance.

The others followed us, Becky steering Mum up by her good arm, Sukie and Lu just behind. Mum looked as if she were in shock, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Becky mouthed something to me, but I couldn't tell what she was trying to say.

I gave a start when I saw the hallway up ahead. The conference room door was open — it had never been open before. Another pair of guards stood outside, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

“That's where we're going?” I asked faintly.

“It's a serious matter,” the guard on my left said.

After that, nobody spoke for a long time.

 

The conference room felt like a cave, a huge, cool space with hewn stone walls, a long oak table at its center with twelve chairs surrounding it, and above the table a giant crystal chandelier glittering with all the colors of light.

A black cast-iron fireplace stood against one wall, a log fire burning in its grate. At the far end of the room were three stained-glass arch windows, each depicting historic battle scenes — scenes from the eternal war.

There was more. The room's most remarkable features were the twelve portraits that hung on the walls, six on either side of the great table. The faces in the portraits were as old as time and white as death and constantly changing, dissolving from one set of features to another, as Mr. October's often did.

The twelve faces gave an impression of deep thought and disapproval, not a hint of a smile among them. They overlooked the room like jurors, twelve men good and true, anonymous as jurors because they were never the same when you looked at them again. They didn't keep still for a second.

“The paintings are alive,” Becky whispered. “And I think I know who they are. . . .”

We stared in wonder at the faces of the nameless Overseers.

I was so absorbed that at first I didn't spot the movement higher up in the room. Just below the sculpted ceiling, which showed more scenes from the wars, a raven sailed from a darkened corner toward the chandelier. Spreading its wings, it glided gently down to perch on a chair at the head of the table. Its beady eyes surveyed the scene.