The Naming of the Beasts (33 page)

‘No?’ J-J seemed disappointed. ‘Well, then I suspect you work on two fronts, Gilbert. Keep someone here, adding the sewer and waterway information to the map grid, while the rest of your people go out and walk the ground. Assuming the demon has gone to ground for the day, we might get a current time fix on him just by being there.’

McClennan became brisk. ‘Teams of two,’ he said. ‘Cartwright and Powell. Greaves and Etheridge. Devani, you can come with me. That leaves you and Castor on the map, Pax. Let’s move.’

He probably thought that grounding me would piss me off. It probably would have too, if I intended to do as I was told. I wasn’t done with Gil yet though, and I stepped into his path as he headed for the door.

‘We need to talk about Super-Self before you go anywhere,’ I said.

He stared at me, deadpan. ‘That’s all in hand,’ he said. ‘If you’re looking to clock up some overtime, Castor, you can forget it. I don’t want you, and more to the point I don’t need you.’

‘You might want to know what you’re facing, all the same,’ I said. ‘And you might need this.’ I held up the key to the gym’s front door. McClennan recognised it at once, or maybe just guessed what it was. He took it out of my hand, looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.

‘You’ve got your assignments,’ he said to the other exorcists in the room. ‘Get moving. Samir, wait for me downstairs.’

‘I’d rather make a start,’ said Samir.

Gil didn’t even look round; his eyes were locked on mine. ‘Make a start then,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you when I get over there.’

The room gradually emptied until it was just the four of us: Trudie, Jenna-Jane, McClennan and me. Gil looked at Trudie and motioned with his head towards the door. She didn’t move. ‘If it’s about Super-Self,’ she said, ‘I’d like to hear this. I’m part of that team too.’

‘If you need to hear it,’ Gil said with heavy emphasis, ‘I’ll brief you later, at the same time as everyone else. Right now this is private. Go make yourself a cup of coffee, Pax. Make me one too.’

Reluctantly, Trudie headed for the door. As soon as it closed behind her, McClennan turned to Jenna-Jane, holding the key up in his hand. ‘He stole this from a secure cupboard,’ he said. ‘That’s where the rest are. I signed them back in yesterday morning, as soon as I got here. You think he stopped at the keys? He’s probably raided med cabinets, equipment, case files . . .’

‘I took it off the ring while I was talking to you, Gil,’ I told him. ‘Sleight of hand, not breaking and entering. Not that I’ve got anything against petty larceny, you understand; it’s just more effort.’

‘I want him off my team,’ McClennan said to J-J as if I hadn’t spoken.

‘Gilbert . . .’ she said, sounding as though this rift between her little lambs distressed her beyond bearing.

‘It’s not as if he brings us anything. It’s not as if we need him.’

Jenna-Jane turned to me. ‘What do you bring us, Felix?’ she asked in a colder and more businesslike tone.

‘The rickety twins,’ I told her.

She made an open-handed gesture. ‘Go on.’

‘Between the Strand and Wych Street,’ I said, ‘from the middle of the nineteenth century right up until they levelled the whole area to build the Aldwych in 1901, there were two theatres: the Opera Comique and the Globe. They were mostly underground. In fact the Opera Comique was reached through tunnels; it didn’t even have a street-level entrance.’

‘I’ve heard of the Opera Comique,’ Jenna-Jane said musingly. ‘Some of the early Gilbert and Sullivan operettas were performed there - before D’Oyly Carte built the Savoy.’

I shrugged. ‘If you say so, Jenna-Jane. I’m not big on Victorian theatre. I can tell you though, courtesy of the London Metropolitan Archive, that there was a really nasty incident there in 1879. The theatre had fallen into debt, and some bailiffs tried to repossess the sets and props. They got into a stand-up fight with the cast in the middle of a performance. Then someone knocked over a lantern and the set caught fire. Four hundred people in the audience, all trying to get out of a burning basement through the same three tunnels. Mostly in the dark . . .’

‘Why is this relevant?’ Gil demanded angrily. ‘What has the fucking nineteenth century got to do with—?’

‘Hasn’t the penny dropped yet?’ I yelled back at him. ‘The ghosts in the swimming pool are actors. They’re not from Roman Britain; they’re from the cast of some crappy play. I saw one of them last night blowing her nose on a lace fucking handkerchief. And she was wearing button-up boots!’

That shut him up for a moment, so I pressed on, determined to get to the point that really mattered.

‘So the ghosts are about a century old,’ I said, addressing myself to Jenna-Jane. ‘That’s still unusual, but it’s not impossible. It’s just right at the end of the bell-shaped curve. What is unusual is the thing that’s in there with them.’

McClennan opened his mouth to bandy some more words with me, but J-J held up an imperious hand for silence. ‘What thing?’ she asked.

‘My source calls it a Gader’el,’ I said. ‘It’s demonic, but it’s something we haven’t met before. It feeds on fear. Probably the fear still attaching to that site was what brought it there in the first place. It’s like an angler fish, J-J. It sits down there in the dark, dangling those old ghosts like a lure. When living people come in close to look, it gets its hooks into them. It amplifies any fear they’re already feeling, turns it into blind terror, and somehow it takes nourishment from that.’

I turned to look at Gil now, seeing only resentment and suspicion on his face. ‘The point is,’ I told him, ‘you can’t destroy it with a frontal attack. It’s not like the demons we’ve met before; it’s . . . I don’t know, a lower life form. More primitive. More instinctive. Trying to exorcise it just makes it hit out harder. That’s why Etheridge got damaged the way he did, and why your other man - Franklin - ran under a car.’

McClennan shook his head, but slowly and without much conviction. He was thinking, and thinking was taking some of the momentum out of his anger. It was hard for him to listen to the message when he wanted so badly to kill the messenger, but I could see that I was getting through to him.

‘So what are you saying, Felix?’ Jenna-Jane asked.

‘I’m saying you need to wait,’ I said. ‘There’s probably a way to drive this thing out without facing it head on. I had an idea last night: sort of a time bomb. A way of giving this thing some grief from a safe distance. I don’t know if it will work, but I want to try it. It will take a while to set up, that’s all. A day or two. Maybe longer.’

‘From a safe distance?’ McClennan echoed me. ‘How would that work?’

But Jenna-Jane was already shaking her head, very firmly. ‘We go ahead with the plan as agreed,’ she said.

‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘Why take the risk?’

‘Because we’re scientists,’ she said simply. ‘We gather data and then we reach conclusions based on that data. We don’t prejudge, however tempting a particular prefabricated theory may be. By all means proceed with your own plans too. If Gilbert’s team doesn’t succeed tonight, you can try your alternative method. I see no harm in that - in having two strings to our bow.’

‘The harm is that your first string might snap and put someone’s eye out,’ I said caustically. ‘You’re sending your people into a dangerous situation when there’s no need.’

I looked to McClennan for support, but J-J’s rationalist call to arms had stiffened his sinews. ‘I think the team I’ve put together will be up to the job,’ he said, toeing the company line. ‘You can tell me what your back-up plan is, if you want to. If I think it’s got any merit, I’ll put someone on it.’

There was a dead silence. Both of them looked at me expectantly. All I could think of was to quote Gil’s own words back at him, like a snot-nosed schoolkid doing dumb insolence.

‘Well maybe I’ll brief you later,’ I said. ‘If you need to hear it.’

Nobody was going to give me any exit music, so I just left. Jenna-Jane called out something to me, but I was already halfway down the corridor and I didn’t hear it.

Trudie Pax was loitering by the lifts, leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a grim look on her face. She straightened as I approached. ‘I have to get out of here,’ she said.

‘I thought you were on map duty,’ I reminded her.

‘I’ll come back later. Right now I need the air.’

‘When you go back,’ I said, ‘take this with you.’ I handed her the package and she hefted it, feeling its weight.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘A photo of Rafi. Take a look.’

She tore away the paper from one corner and examined the contents of the package without enthusiasm.

‘I’ve seen this technique before,’ she said. ‘The photo was developed right onto the glass, right?’

‘Printed onto the glass,’ I corrected her. ‘Right. It was all the rage back in the Victorian era. But apparently Macedonia gets the fashions late.’

‘So is the picture significant in some way?’

I see-sawed my hand. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. It was Rafi’s first communion. Big day for most Catholic kids, right? A lot of emotion invested, a lot of vivid memories laid down. I thought it might give you another focus, if you need one.’

Trudie didn’t seem impressed. ‘It’s a lot older than the fingernail.’

‘I know. Look, try it if you think you need it. Otherwise don’t. And either way give it back to me when you’re done. I’ll give it to Pen for a keepsake.’

I shied away from the implications of that statement: that whether Asmodeus won or lost, keeping Rafi alive might turn out to be a trick outside our collective skills; that the photo might turn out to be the last thing Pen had to remember her former lover by.

‘I’ll try it,’ Trudie promised. ‘I’ll put it back in the map room now and feed it into the loop later on.’

‘Later on? Why not now?’

‘Because if you’re going to go down to Holborn and look for Asmodeus’ rabbit hole, I’d like to join you.’

I tried the idea on for size, and found I hated it less than I would have expected. ‘I’ve got something else I need to do first,’ I warned her.

Pax seemed nonplussed. ‘Something more important than Asmodeus?’

‘No, less important. A lot less. It’s just . . .’ I threw up my hands in a shrug, found that I had to unclench them in order to do it. I hadn’t realised how angry and frustrated I was until that moment. I almost punched the wall, but my left hand was still stiff and sore from punching Gil McClennan’s jaw exactly twenty-four hours before. ‘Super-Self,’ I exploded. ‘Fucking Super-Self. Jenna-Jane is determined to send in the troops, even though they don’t have a blind clue what it is they’re facing. She thinks blitzkrieg is the right answer no matter what the question is. No, actually it’s worse than that: she thinks the data you get from a wipe-out are as good as any other kind. If some of Gil’s people die in the process, or get their brains fried like Etheridge, well, what the fuck? Science marches on.’

Pax was giving me a curious look. I threw it right back at her. ‘What?’ I demanded.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s just . . . do you think it will help?’

‘Help what? What are you talking about?’

Trudie looked as though she was picking her words with care. ‘The MOU exorcists aren’t your favourite people in the world, are they? They’re as bad as the Anathemata, in your book.’

‘So?’

‘So why does any of this matter to you? If you save some bunch of people you don’t really know and don’t really care about, is that going to make you feel any better about letting Asmodeus get free and kill somebody you
did
care about? Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The redemption train. You’re standing on the footplate and sounding the whistle, Castor.’

‘The whistle’s all I’ve got,’ I muttered sourly as I punched the button for the lift. ‘Don’t knock it.’

I never did like being psychoanalysed, even before I grew up, read the literature and realised that Freud only got into that game to pick up girls. Maybe that was why I asked Trudie to cover for me on the Holborn beat while I went across town to see a woman about a tune. Or maybe I was still reluctant to trust her further than I had to, even though we were de facto partners now. She was still Anathemata on some level: still fighting the same war against the same enemies. It felt like all there could ever be between us was a truce. I arranged to meet her in an hour’s time, at Seven Dials, and headed west.

On one level I was close to screaming in frustration. Asmodeus had fallen off the map after his second visit to Pen’s house, the night before last, when he’d left me a knife and a neatly bisected button to remember him by. He was still out there somewhere, still working, and I didn’t even know what it was he was working towards. Just that it involved the deaths of everyone Rafi had ever known, that I couldn’t possibly stop that from happening, and - hardest to take of all - that those deaths would turn out to be some sort of horrendous fringe benefit. They weren’t the point. They arose out of some bigger scheme that Asmodeus had cooking.