Archangel (A Ghosts of London Novel) Page 10

  “I'm not wasting your time.”

  “There's nothing in there!”

  “You have no idea.”

  “This is a joke, isn't it? You think you're being funny.”

  “You should go in alone,” Hanson continued, “for the maximum effect. Subject A is a sight to behold and it's my belief that each man or woman should contemplate such things on their own terms. That's really the only way one can hope to reach the proper understanding.”

  “What is it?” the older man asked, peering through the doorway. “Some kind of virtual reality? I've read about that stuff, it's supposed to be all the rage.”

  “It's not virtual reality.”

  “You enjoy being cryptic, don't you?”

  “Absolutely not. I just... I can't put this experience into words.”

  “It's not dangerous, is it?” Millner asked, striking a note of caution for the first time. “Do I need any kind of protective clothing?”

  “Of course it's not dangerous. It's more...” He paused. “Are you a spiritual man, Mr. Millner?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “A church-going man?”

  “When I get the chance.”

  “And besides money, what do you consider to be the most important thing in the world?”

  “Besides...” At this, Millner took a deep breath. “Well...”

  “Family? Happiness? Charity?”

  “Of course, yes, that sort of thing.”

  “Charity is perhaps the most precious thing of all,” Hanson continued, staring into the nondescript room with an expression of wonder in his eyes. “To help other people, to bring happiness and peace to their lives, is the most noble of endeavors, whether it's one at a time or...” He paused again, imagining the fulfillment of his life's work. “Or on a global scale.”

  “I didn't know you were one of them,” Millner replied huffily.

  “One of what, Sir?”

  “You know... Religious.”

  “Well, I...” Hanson paused, allowing himself a moment of contemplation. “I am open to the splendor of the world around us,” he continued finally. “I like to have my beliefs challenged. Besides, those words were mostly lifted from the writing of Harrington Cole himself. The man had a remarkable way of seeing the world.”

  “Christ,” Millner replied, “the way you talk about him, it's like your worship the man. If he was that smart, he'd have managed all this while he was alive, instead of leaving a bunch of ruins and papers for other people to take over.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” Hanson said firmly, with clear anger in his voice.

  “And you're building this thing up rather a lot,” Millner muttered, stepping through the doorway. “I'd like to know a little more about how we're going to capitalize on the financial side of matters. After I've taken a look in here, I want to see spreadsheets, projections, and any other documents that might help me to see the market value. All this wishy-washy crap has to end, Hanson. This is a business and it's going to be run like one from now on.”

  “One moment,” Hanson continued, slipping a syringe from his pocket and removing the plastic cap, before stepping behind Millner. “In order to truly appreciate the beauty in this room, you might need a little extra stimulation.” Driving the needle into the side of the man's neck, he pushed the plunger down, delivering the clear serum directly into Millner's jugular, while putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from struggling.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Millner shouted, finally managing to pull away.

  “I'm doing what you asked. I'm showing you how we're going to gain from Subject A.” With that, he grabbed Millner's arm and shoved him into the dark room, before pulling the door shut again and turning the dial to engage the lock. “Don't be scared,” he called out, leaning close to the door. “Let it wash over you. Let it speak to your soul. I'm sure you'll start to appreciate Harrington Cole a little more once your pathetically closed little mind is exposed to something more powerful.”

  “What are you on about?” Millner asked, frantically trying the handle. “Hanson, I'll have your job for this! You assaulted me, the board will -”

  His voice suddenly fell silent.

  “Who is that?” he could be heard saying on the other side of the door, followed by the sound of his footsteps getting further and further away as he made his way across the room.

  “You lucky man,” Hanson whispered, with tears in his eyes. “You get to witness him in all his glory, with your mind open to the full potential of the universe.” Looking down at the syringe in his hand, he saw a bead of serum on the tip of the needle; lifting it up, he carefully gave it a brief lick, feeling the serum sizzling against his tongue. “Everything is beautiful,” he continued, wiping a tear away. “Everything is divine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Four of hearts,” Katie muttered, staring at the deck of cards for a moment and concentrating as hard as possible, before turning the deck over to reveal a queen of clubs. “Damn it!”

  Hearing a beeping sound from one of the nearby monitors, she looked over and saw that the burned figure's heart-rate had begun to rise, along with the reading that had finally begun to come through regarding his blood pressure. Getting to her feet, she headed over to the laptop and took a look at the numbers, trying to remember the guidance Robinson had provided. He'd blasted her with information about the various readings, but she'd had no time to ask him to repeat anything and now she felt hopelessly under-prepared. Still, she was determined to prove herself to him, so she felt she couldn't go running through to the office to get his advice.

  “Help me...”

  She froze, trying to tell herself that she'd imagined the whispered voice.

  “Help...”

  Forcing herself to look over at the burned figure, she saw to her horror that its head had turned toward her, and two blood-red eyes were now wide open, blinking rapidly as pieces of ash fell from its lashes.

  “I...” She paused, trying to work out what to do next. “I should go and get someone else.”

  “Martin...” the figure whispered.

  “Martin?”

  “Martin...”

  “Who's Martin?” she asked, making her way around the desk but making sure to keep well away from the table where the body lay. “I don't know anyone called Martin, there's no-one named Martin here.”

  “Martin...”

  “If you want me to fetch someone for you,” she continued, “I need to -” Suddenly she paused, as she realized what the figure meant. “You're Martin?” she said finally. “Is that what you're trying to say? Is your name Martin?”

  “Williams,” the voice whispered.

  “Martin Williams?” Grabbing a piece of paper, she wrote the name down. “You're Martin Williams,” she said, turning to him. “Okay, that's a pretty odd name for an angel. Can you... Wait a moment.” Hurrying to the door, she pushed it open and leaned out into the corridor. “Robinson!” she shouted. “He's awake!” She waited, but hearing no reply she ran back to the desk and grabbed her phone, bringing up Robinson's number but immediately getting sent through to his voicemail. “Where the hell are you?” she muttered, trying him again.

  “Subject...” the figure whispered.

  She looked over at him, as Robinson's voicemail message played again.

  “Subject...” the figure gasped.

  “Subject? Subject what?”

  “Subject... Believe...”

  “Subject believe?” Setting her phone down, she stepped cautiously toward the man again. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Subject A...” he continued, grimacing a little as if he was filled with pain. “Subject A... Control... Hanson, Gregory Hanson...”

  “Who's Gregory Hanson?”

  “Subject A controls... Believe...”

  “I don't get it,” she told him. “What do you -”

  “Fifty-four...”

  Grabbing the piece of paper again, she began to note
down everything he'd said.

  “Fifty-four Maplethorpe Avenue...” he continued. “Tell them... I'm... sorry...”

  “What happened to you?” she asked, taking a step closer. “Please, you have to tell me who did this to you. Was it by force? Did you volunteer? What were they trying to do?”

  “Tell them... it was only... to make things... easier...”

  “Who did this to you?” she continued. “Was it the people at Maplethorpe Avenue? What are their names?”

  “Tell them... love...”

  “Love? You love them? What do -”

  “Promise,” the figure gasped.

  “I promise,” she replied, “I'll tell them, but -”

  Before she could pull away, the figure reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight in its burned hand. She tried to pull away, but all she was able to do was twist her arm hopelessly.

  “Promise,” the man continued. “Help... me...”

  “I'll help you, just stop -”

  Hearing a sudden flat tone from the monitor, she spun around and saw that the figure's heart had stopped. A moment later, she felt his grip loosen, enough that she was able to pull her wrist free. Racing to the laptop, she checked the settings before looking back at the figure and realizing that she only had one option. She ran across the room and grabbed the paddles from the wall, while trying to remember how Robinson had taught her to use them. Reaching over to the control unit, she turned the dial and then headed back to the figure, placing the paddles on his chest and taking a deep breath before finally -

  “No!” Robinson shouted, pulling her back at the last moment.

  “He's dying!” she told him, trying to put the paddles back on the man's chest.

  “He's already dead,” he replied, taking the paddles from her hands and setting them back into the holder on the wall, “and you might very well have been too if you'd tried that. This man's body has been ripped inside out, if you put much more energy in, you'd quite possibly unleash a big enough inferno to blow this entire laboratory to the moon.” Making his way back to the figure, he looked down at its still-open eyes and finally used one hand to close them. “Rest in peace,” he whispered. “Carpe diem, and all that.”

  “Martin Williams,” Katie added.

  “What?”

  “That was his name,” she replied, holding out the piece of paper for him to see. “He said a few other things before he died, too.”

  “Fifty-four Maplethorpe Avenue,” Robinson said, reading out loud.

  “He kept saying he was sorry,” she told him.

  “It's probably nothing. It's probably just something to do with his family.”

  “I think he wanted us to deliver a message to someone at fifty-four Maplethorpe Avenue. He wanted them to know that he's sorry.”

  “Doesn't sound important,” Robinson replied as he read some more of the notes. “This part's far more interesting. Gregory Hanson, I've heard that name before, I need to look him up. You did good work here, Katie.”

  “I just wrote what he said,” she replied, staring at the dead body. “I didn't know what else to do.”

  “You couldn't have saved him,” Robinson continued. “I've been running some more tests on the tissue samples I took, and the things that were done to this man's body... It's almost as if they worked on him at the subatomic level.” Reaching down, he took hold of the dead man's shoulders and rolled him onto his side, exposing the area on his back where the wings seemed to be fused to a protruding section of bone. “It's crude and miraculous at the same time,” he whispered. “It's almost like a first attempt, like...” He paused, before turning to Katie. “That's exactly what it is! It's a first attempt, a prototype!”

  “For an angel?”

  “For a madman's best try,” he replied, taking a step back, as if to get a better view of the body. “This is what they managed with attempt number one. I imagine that attempt number two, wherever it might be, is going to be even more impressive.”

  ***

  “About bloody time,” Milhouse said, feeling a tap on his shoulder and turning around with a sigh. “Robinson, I want my bloody -”

  Stopping suddenly, he saw that it was not Robinson but Quix who had arrived to meet him in the coffee shop.

  “Oh,” he continued, frowning as she made her way around the table and took a seat. “Yeah. Right. You're one of his pals, aren't you? I've seen you around.”

  She nodded, before placing a bag on the table and starting to sort through its contents. She pulled out a couple of thick fashion magazines, along with a book and various items of make-up, followed by some more books, some notepads, a few pens, some badges, a handful of phones, and some teabags. Reaching even further into the bag, she continued to root around.

  “I don't suppose you've got my phone in there, have you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Is he coming? He didn't just send you alone, did he?”

  She nodded.

  “But you can't...” He paused, trying to find a polite way to continue the sentence. “I mean, you're a bit quiet, aren't you? Don't take this the wrong way, but when it comes to learning about something, it's useful to be dealing with someone who's more... well... chatty.”

  Taking some files from the bag, she laid them on the table.

  “Do you want a drink or something?” Milhouse asked, straightening his tie.

  She shook her head, while opening the first of the files and sliding it toward him.

  “We've got a problem,” he continued, glancing at the file. “My boss, Herr Wagoner, is at the end of his tether with your Mr. Robinson and his Bureau of Unexplained Whatevers. I've been trying to hold him back and keep a lid on things, but he's well and truly on the warpath now and I don't think he's gonna go gently into that good night without causing a kerfuffle.”

  Reaching over, Quix tapped the top of the first sheet in the file.

  “Right,” Milhouse added, reading the logo. “The Academy of Lost Science. Whatever, my boss says Robinson's not allowed anywhere near police investigations from now on. I guess I can still fill him in on the side, but in terms of official cooperation and all that -” He paused suddenly as his eyes continued to scan the page. “What's the bloody hell's this?” he whispered, reading a couple more lines. “It looks like a load of gibberish about angels. Don't tell me Robinson's actually starting to believe that bollocks. I mean, I know he can be a bit fanciful, but he's just about got his feet on the ground, hasn't he?”

  Reaching across, Quix took hold of the page and turned it over.

  “More bollocks,” Milhouse continued, trying to close the file but finding that she was holding it too tight and wouldn't let him. “Listen,” he added with a sigh, “if you've got something to say, can't you just write it down? Wouldn't that be a lot easier? I mean, if I was in your position, I'd always have a pad and a pencil around. It's only polite.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then what the hell am I supposed to be looking at here? I've got Wagoner and his men breathing down my neck, I've got the media demanding to know what happened to that train, I've got distraught families on the blower all day and all night, telling me I'm being too slow with my investigation, and pardon my French but I've still got no bloody idea what your Robinson fella thinks I should be looking into. I mean, but this point in one of these situations, he's usually given me a little more to go on.”

  Sighing, Quix tapped the file again.

  “It's just a load of bollocks about angels,” he continued, clearly on the verge of losing all patience. “Is he trying to distract me, is that it? He wants me to keep out of his way, so he's sending me off on a wild goose chase? Or did I do something to piss him off and now he's trying to humiliate me? 'Cause, you know, if that's his plan, it's working pretty well.”

  Sitting back in her chair, Quix rolled her eyes.

  “Lot of help, you are,” Milhouse muttered, turning to the next page in the file. “Alright, giving you the benefi
t of the doubt for a moment, this seems to be about stuff that happened a hundred-odd years ago. Angels, churches, creepy things seen in the middle of the night, homeless people going missing, some bloke named Harrington Cole... I'm sure it's fascinating, but...” He paused as he spotted one particular paragraph, which finally grabbed his attention. “Mrs. Oliver of Mile End,” he continued, reading from the page with a hint of skepticism in his voice, “said the apparition she spotted on the night of November the twelfth, 1886, had huge burning wings and was screaming at her to help him. Then the apparition stopped burning and did a runner.” He sighed again. “I might have paraphrased that last bit.”

  Quix stared at him, waiting for him to make the connection.

  “Oh, bollocks,” he said finally.

  She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “He's doing it again, isn't he? He's trying to link something happening today to something that happened God-knows-when.” Closing the file, he slid it back over to her. “The death of Colin Morecombe this morning has got bugger all to do with a Mrs. Oliver who thought she saw a bloody angel back in 1886. You can tell Robinson from me that he's gone too far this time, and...” He paused for a moment, with his gaze fixed on Quix, before finally leaning forward, as if to conspire with her on something. “What do you really know about Robinson, anyway?”

  She stared at him.

  “You're friends with him, right?”

  She paused, as if the question was a little complicated, before nodding.

  “He's a funny one, isn't he?” Milhouse continued. “I mean, I trust him, but you've gotta admit, he's a little bit of a rare bear.” He waited for some kind of response. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in jotting down any info you've got, would you? I've done some research of my own, but it doesn't make much sense. I'm pretty sure he's from an old family, one that's been doing this sort of thing for a while, but I can't nail it all down. I'm missing something but I can't put my finger on it.”

  Quix shrugged.

  “You're not gonna be much use, are you?”