Band of Gypsys (23 page)

He woke on a wave of heart-pounding horror, and lay for a moment in abject gratitude. It was a dream,
oh thank God
. He was dressed except for his suit jacket and shoes; lying on a thin mattress on the bare boards of a large, cool empty room. Sage was sitting on this mattress, leaning against the wall by a window. Through drifts of muslin Ax glimpsed a courtyard, trees and some kind of white pavilion. It seemed to be early morning, before full light. He sat up.

‘
Sage
. I dreamed you were leaving me.
God
, that was horribly real.’

He pushed back the hair from his temples—he had a pounding headache—; the dream insistent on being told. ‘We were in my office, but there was something wrong with the room. You were saying that you were never in love with me before, just fuck buddies, for her sake, but now you were, and it meant you had to quit.’

Sage was looking at him strangely…and with a hideous shock he knew that this was the room in the dream. ‘
Oh shit
. It was a telepathy artefact, wasn’t it? You were sitting there, like that, and that’s just what you
are
going to tell me.’

‘No!’

Sage dived over, and grabbed Ax in a fierce embrace. ‘It’s true, I feel differently, and it was okay in Paris, it was wonderful, but it doesn’t fit back here, it makes it
fucking
hard to, to tell you what you should do. But I’m not going to quit, oh, no no no, never, never.’

They held each other like children, like babies too young to be ashamed, and other cold, shattering grey mornings gathered around, all the way back to the Hyde Park Massacre, and the allegiance forged there.

‘Sage, where are we?’

‘Ah—’

Where to begin, thought Ax, with sympathy. ‘Don’t worry, I remember what happened. I remember what I did… It’s just, I seem to have lost the last part.’

Sage kissed him on the brow and sat back, looking uneasy. Ax saw his suit jacket, in a soaked and crumpled heap, on the floor by the futon.

‘Are we prisoners? Sage,
tell
me—’

‘No, we’re not prisoners, not s’far as I’m aware, but…you’re not going to like this. We’re inside 30 Charles Street.’

Maybe he was never going to remember the whole thing, only the snap of his fist connecting, and then fragments, pounded by the rain; and here’s one of them, two scimitars crossed under a shock-headed palm tree—

‘Ah,
shit
.’

‘Hahaha. I’m glad you’re still thinking like a statesman.’

Ax picked up his best suit jacket and shook it out. It was cold and clammy, water-stained and smeared with dirt. He looked around for his shoes.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Well, Sah.’ Sage grinned, suddenly light-hearted in this void. ‘This is what I’ve figured out so far. We’re going to say thank you nicely to Prince Al-whatsisface and his staff, leave Saudi territory as unobtrusively as possible, get ourselves back to Fiorinda, and instigate Plan B.’

Fiorinda had been in Lambeth, having an unpoisoned drink and a nice spliff among friends, when her baby went over the edge. She spent the first thirty six hours after the Berkeley Square incident looking calm for the cameras, saying things as anodyne as the situation would bear (!), and cursing herself
furiously
for leaving them to cope with the suits alone. Sage had been okay, just dumb misery, but she had fucking known that Ax had about a quarter of a hair-trigger left before he snapped.

She knew they hadn’t been caught. She wouldn’t have believed anything the police told her, in their solemn voices of awed dismay, but she trusted her instincts. She set certain arrangements in motion, severed herself from contact with the Few, and waited, with a strange feeling of lightness—as if something terrible had been averted; not committed. On the second morning she went to Brixton market, with Doug for a bodyguard, and while she was buying vegetables a woman shrouded from head to toe in black silk slipped a message into her hand.

That afternoon she was at Battersea Arts Centre, giving her rock ‘master class’, as if nothing was wrong. The group comprised fourteen youngsters and three mature students. Six were in b-loc. The rest, including the boy in the wheelchair, and the autistic girl with her Mentor Carer, were real South Londoners. Fiorinda sat on the small stage and showed them how she would take a phrase (from ‘Stonecold’), and make it the basis of a solo.
You have left the…babies stone cold.
Those five notes, that’s plenty, you’re using the pentatonic scale (sorry, I’ll explain these terms again if you need), you make it fly, but you don’t forget where you began—’

She watched herself in her monitor, foot on a rest, dark red curls falling round her face, her left hand in close up, the dancing gleam of her gold-braided ring as she broke into demonstration. The viewpoint pulled out, her fingers leaping up and down the neck of the old Martin. In the other half of her split screen, behind the students, she could see the armed police at the back of the hall; engrossed. Maybe she ought to suggest they bring guitars… Someone paged her. She looked to the side, the music dying, and tugged off her headset. One of the Centre staff had come quietly to the wings. She put the guitar down.

‘Excuse me.’

In scuffed, utilitarian darkness she was handed a radiophone, and told that someone was waiting for her at the back entrance; she spoke to Doug Hutton. The Battersea Arts Centre person looked scared to death: having handed the phone, she said nothing more. Fiorinda didn’t say much either; just asked Doug could he wait a minute or two. Doug said he could, just about.

She returned to the stage and looked out at her audience; sorry, class. Twenty six of them, counting the police: seen worse. What happened to the proverbial dog? Curious, respectful eyes all fixed on her, her students awed and dismayed by the turn of events. Except for Ira, the autistic girl, who didn’t know anything had happened. ‘I want to do something different for a moment,’ said Fiorinda, with a calm little grin. ‘And then I’m going to take a short break.’

She stood, hands by her sides, and sang, pure and strong.

And so goodbye, Utopia. She zipped up the Martin and shrugged it onto her shoulders; collected her tapestry bag, another guitar case and a flat oblong satchel which held Sage’s visionboard. Thus laden, she walked off. The police didn’t make a move to stop her: Doug was waiting just out of sight.

They met Ax and Sage in a caravan-café on a layby on the old A24. The fugitives had shed their best suits. They were dressed inconspicuously, and wearing anonymous-looking digital head-masks. There were no other customers. They stood up as Fiorinda came in: the masks vanished. She had that feeling of lightness, a lifting of something dreadful, as she walked up and took their hands.

‘I’ve done some of the emergency things, not the most spectacular ones. Lucy’s out of the country, as Doug will have told you; Hobart’s Funnies are dispersed. Well, d’you think you killed him?’ She had no reliable information on Jack Vries’ status. Possibly he was dead, or in a coma. Possibly he was fine, and lying low for his own protection

‘I don’t know,’ said Ax. ‘But I know I broke his neck.’

Fiorinda nodded, with satisfaction. She hugged him, and his head went down against her shoulder, briefly. Sage’s blue eyes were saying
everything’s all right
.

That night they were on Shoreham Beach, the long shingle bank that lies alongside Shoreham harbour on the coast of Sussex. It had been a fashionable seaside address, but was falling into dereliction from fuel starvation. They were in the kitchen of a rambling stucco pad, once the home of a music biz demi-god, a friend of Allie Marlowe’s. The demi-god lived in New Zealand now (sensible man). A slight hitch had arisen. They couldn’t sail, the wind and tide were contrary. The little boat that would take them out to the bigger boat in the Channel needed liquid marine fuel, a petrol-substitute that was strictly controlled and involved getting the right documents stamped. This problem had been fixed, the juice was on its way. It was about two am. The kitchen had a lot of glass around the walls, but the blinds were tightly closed. The light was electric, one white fluorescent tube.

Doug was leaving with them. Given his role in the Reich, and his part in this operation, he couldn’t stay behind. He was a solitary fellow, serial monogamist. He’d had a different steady girlfriend every year or so since they’d known him; had no children that he was aware of; no other ties. He’d just revealed the contents of an extra suitcase he’d been jealously lugging around. It lay open on the demi-god’s kitchen table, displaying a cache of firearms and ammunition. A classic .38 automatic pistol, a big spidery modern Mauser. A small Dutch plastic automatic, simple in use and okay for a lady’s hands. Then in the second layer of the chocolate box the heavier, more esoteric items. ‘I know my new career as a pacifist hasn’t had a very auspicious beginning,’ began Ax. ‘But Doug—’

‘I’m with Ax,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I don’t know how, I’ve never tried, so it would be stupid for me to carry a firearm around.’

‘You don’t have to know anything, Fio. It’s just point and squeeze.’ Doug looked at Sage, hoping for support. ‘
Tell
her, Sage.’

Sage shook his head, smiling.

‘I’m only saying,’ pleaded Doug. ‘I’m only saying, in case of
emergencies—
’

His radiophone, lying where they could all see it, began to flash. They’d left a camera trap on the single road onto the beach. There were vehicles approaching, and no chance it was anything but trouble. Time to get out. No exit except by sea, have to do without the engine. Before they could move they all heard, above the wild sound of the wind, a rush of many footsteps. Lights shot through the blinds. They were surrounded. Some of the federales must have come out by boat, and must have already captured the landing stage.

It turned out, later, that it was Faud Hassim who’d betrayed them. Maybe his feelings had been hurt, because unlike the Few he hadn’t been on Ax’s need to know list about Lavoisier. Maybe he’d been upset by the way Ax schmoozed with the bad guys after the debate. Maybe he’d decided his responsibility was to the CCM, and it would be dangerous and useless to protect the Triumvirate any further. Anyway, he’d known more than he should have known, and he’d ratted on them.

The four people looked at each other. For a moment all of them, even Fiorinda, felt that a last stand, Ned Kelly shoot out was an excellent idea. Out in a blaze of glory,
fuck it
,
end it
, why not? The moment passed. Ax sighed. ‘You’d better shut that lot and try to think of somewhere to hide it, Doug. We’ll have to go quietly.’

They thought they would be taken back to London. But they weren’t.

PART TWO

The deputation came at evening, to the suite of rooms designated for the Triumvirate. Lord Mursal and Lady Anne Moonshadow were accompanied by Mairead Culper of Glastonbury Council, Boris Anathaswamy, the fusion scientist from Culham (his presence alarmed the three more than anything that had happened yet); and Faud Hassim. The humbled rockstars were grubby and dishevelled, the visitors were soberly and formally dressed, and backed by an entourage: armed security, and black-and white Wallingham servants, no doubt also armed.

It was a reprise of their first nightmare initiation into State Affairs, years ago, after the Hyde Park Massacre. Except that they were alone, and except for the horrible twist implied by that “Neurobomb Expert”.

They need not have been alone. They’d already been given the opportunity to chose companions for their detention, or ritual exclusion, or whatever this was—the situation was still raw and uncertain. They had reviewed the list of approved names, and declined the offer. They didn’t know what had happened to Doug, and this preyed on them. He’d been their last responsibility, and they’d screwed him up.

Somewhere outside a midsummer day was drawing to its close. Bees were droning as they left the flowers of the lime trees by the croquet lawn. The herbs in the Elizabethan Knot Garden were shedding spice and astringency into the sun-soaked air. In this dank room, deep inside the fortress, there was no natural light. The walls were hung from ceiling to floor in dark blue, with a woven pattern of the crescent moon and stars; the same pattern was repeated on a splendid, though worn, Vorsey carpet. The windows behind the draperies were shuttered and locked.

They hadn’t seen daylight since they were on the road to Shoreham. It seemed likely, right now, that they would never see it again.

Greg Mursal ought to be happy. He had the Triumvirate where he’d wanted them: isolated and under his control, in the Nouveau Royal Palace: but he seemed dissatisfied. Maybe it was because the Moon and Stars wasn’t one of the showcase suites: it had clearly been hastily prepared, and there were signs of dust and neglect.