Band of Gypsys (22 page)

‘My lord Speaker,’ said Fiorinda, ‘The Right Honourable Lord says “magic”. I say we know that this is a world where time and space, and material constraint, are not what they seem. I
may
have been fighting beside my rescuers, in some real sense; for there are mysteries. All I
meant
was that I take my share of the blame, if there is any. If Sage and Ax had not taken the terrorists by storm, I’d have been dead.’

The PM, arms folded, glowering like a bull with a sore head, gave Jack a sign to let this pass.
Don’t touch Fiorinda
. That had been another warning, and somebody was going to get a bollocking… A fresh question, this time from a Green lady aristo of goodwill. Can the Right Honourable Ms Slater tell us, is she then also a
werewolf
?

Laughter.

Fiorinda responded, (observing the forms) that she did not know. Perhaps Lord Vries had another secret identity in mind, in his magical menagerie.

A Rebel MP thanked Ms Slater for explaining her Houdini-like prowess, and had a question about the amnesty Ax had secured, for the surviving Lavoisiens. Had this life-saving negotiation gone unrecorded by the famous secret cameras? Or had it landed on the cutting room floor, due to artistic license on the part of the so-called ‘martyr’ behind this pitiful farrago of a crypto-neo-conservative stalking horse, sponsored not by the people of the US but by a ruthless paranational Babylonian conspiracy between the most brutal end of the entertainment industry and the most insane of mass-destruction weapon-mongers—

Outcry, uproar. Many voices defending the Lavoisiens, shouting that it was Ax Preston who was the lackey of the evil empire. Many others shouting them down, waxing furiously contemptuous of the Greenwash Fat Cats’
censure
—

‘If he was a suicide warrior,’ yelled someone in the Gallery, ‘how come he’s not dead? The Black Dragon could only be a reliable witness at a séance!’

Order! Order!

The session ran until ten and broke up in a mill, all kinds of people trying to get next to Ax and Sage and Fiorinda. The Rebels were loud in their elation. It was over, the government was
creamed
, the division tomorrow a formality. Jack had shot himself and Greg in the foot, with that ill-judged over-the-top ‘werewolf’ ploy.

‘Tomorrow we’ll finish them,’ declared Faud, mopping his brow—the evening had grown sultry and close, in the poorly climate-conditioned Chamber. ‘We’ll sink the Neurobomb without a trace, we’ll
pulverise
the bastards!’

‘They said Fiorinda must not be involved,’ muttered Greg, to one of the older members of his Cabinet. ‘She wasn’t to be anywhere near the fucking House, her name never mentioned or they wouldn’t play ball. D’you think she…she
disobeyed
them? Or was it a set up?’ The veteran clapped Lord Mursal gently on the shoulder. ‘You’re learning, Greg. You’re learning!’

Photocalls and soundbites, in the Lobby and then outside, in the airless swelter before a cloudburst. The Few were in a mood to celebrate. Ax and Sage were staying behind, as they must, to socialise with their enemies and their supporters. Fiorinda slipped through the meshes, avoiding both friends and enemies (it’s a knack) and walked away alone in the dark; feeling depressed. So we’ve won, and it wasn’t even hard. But what will the public will remember? It’ll be the werewolves smear. They’ll be thinking
no smoke without fire
, just because it’s interesting. What do ordinary people care about politics-anoraks scoring obscure points off each other—

Greg and Jack are not amateurs. They know what they’re doing.

Half way to Westminster Tube someone caught up with her. It was Joe Muldur, NME roving reporter of long ago.

‘Hey, Fiorinda!’

‘Hey.’

Not all journalists are insensitive prats. He fell into step beside her, and she didn’t object to the company. ‘How’s life, Joe? I haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘You’ll see more of me soon. I’ll be on your fabulous trail.’

‘The festival circuit? You haven’t moved on to higher things?’

‘Like the lovely Dian? No fucking thanks.’ Joe glanced at the nation’s sweetheart, strangely alone and sad after that triumph. ‘How are
they
, I mean besides this crap? The tiger and wolf love affair, is it in a good phase?’

‘Oh, you know, as usual,’ said Fiorinda gloomily. ‘On again, off again. They like to keep things simmering. Well, I’m going this way.’

They’d reached the Underground. ‘I’m off back to the House,’ confessed Joe. ‘It’s an expenses party, can’t turn down a free drink, it’s against my religion. I just wanted to say…to say… Your guys were
brilliant
in there.’

‘Yeah. Only, unfortunately, we were all wasting our fire. This country hasn’t been governed by Parliament since about the Napoleonic wars.’

As she headed down the steps she knew that he stood looking after her, with puzzled sympathy and even pity—across the gulf that separated Fiorinda, forever, from real life, real music; from everything that matters.

Never, never back your enemy into a corner, unless you’re prepared to do one of two things: either kill him or turn him. Ax was acutely aware that he’d offended against this law, not once but twice now. He didn’t see how he could have done otherwise. He’d had to get his family out of Wallingham, and he’d had to come out on top in this ‘debate’. But he sure as fuck did not want to start a civil war, and he could not turn Greg Mursal.

His failsafe arrangements seemed ridiculous, after the day was won. They agreed to have me back because they didn’t want me running around loose, he thought. They don’t want to destroy me
.
They want to destroy my power, while keeping the legend for their own use. But I knew that. I knew I was coming back to this. I’ve tried the alternative, arbitrary rule, and it was hateful. The country’s stable, there are massive public works, sustainable development, in many ways this England is a success. I have to work with the NeoFeudal gangsters who’ve made the trains run on time. It’s the only way to keep the stability, and claw a few human rights back.

Soon, hopefully, it’ll be a better set in Westminster.

He stuck to mineral water, slightly maliciously, knowing how this annoys alcohol-drinkers; and felt for Sage, who was downing pints for both of them. The big cat detested playing the role of Joss Pender’s son, he wasn’t flattered to be accepted by this caste as one of their own. Please don’t get get drunk, Sage… From another part of the bar (the big room gone all flowery nouveau William Morris, but somehow retaining the old die-hard men’s club ambience), Faud Hassim and his pals cast smouldering glances. Like lovers betrayed. Ax would have to explain to those idiots, I
have to
schmooze with the PM, otherwise what the fuck use am I? The rock and roll stage was on his mind. He had realised recently that he needed the Chosen Few very much. Jor and Shay and Mil; and Maya. They’re my instrument, with them I make my best music, but I’m trapped, ‘we won’ and I’ll never be let loose again—

A supper party had been proposed at Jack’s place, no one having eaten dinner. Mr Preston and Mr Pender called Fiorinda, to tell her they would be even later, and found themselves in a car alone with Lord Vries: Jack facing them in the cavernous, leather-scented rear section. The clouds had burst, they reached Hyde Park in a black downpour. Ax glimpsed the stained, crumbling tower of the derelict London Hilton, former HQ of England’s first rockstar President, the monster known as Pigsty Liver. Saul Burnet. He had not thought of the Pig in years.

‘Ain’t you afraid to be alone with us?’ wondered Sage.

The scholar blinked. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll transform tonight. There is no full moon, and this is central London, not a locus of evil.’

‘You don’t say. Well, as long as you’re happy.’

Park Lane was in the process of being narrowed, obsolete impermeable surface being torn out. They left the car at a landscaped garage in the midst of the deconstruction. Only emergency services and diplomat plates were allowed into Central London sidestreets. ‘I won’t flout the law with the king of England in my care,’ said Jack, humorously. The driver ran around to provide umbrellas; but the rain had suddenly stopped. A van pulled up, and half a dozen armed, uniformed guards got down. ‘I’m not usually so grand,’ Jack explained, ‘but tonight I can’t take chances!’

They walked into the seclusions of Mayfair: three tall men wielding folded umbrellas, followed by a troop of armed bravos. Ax was disoriented, he hadn’t eaten since noon, and had drunk only water. The scene seemed Victorian, Mediaeval, an amalgam of both. This could not be the present. If Sage had not been stalking dourly beside him, radiating evil temper, he’d have been sure he was dreaming.

Jack’s place was in Berkeley Square, one of those flat-fronted Georgian mansions of the innermost city; highly prized by the new elite. Golden-white light spilled, extravagently, from the shell-ceilinged porch to the pavement. ‘I have yet to hear a nightingale!’ Lord Vries pointed his umbrella at the shadowy masses of the gardens. It must be a favourite line. For once Ax caught the native Flemish in his voice, a hint of Jack’s immigrant status, the naïve pleasure of someone who has fought hard to belong. ‘I hope you enjoyed your
Eid
, by the way, Sir. The Islamic holidays are very quiet, aren’t they? Inward turned, unlike the open, public, life-affirmation of the great Pagan rites.’

‘Very unlike,’ agreed Ax.

They’d had time to do some probing. Ax was certain that Jack Vries himself had been behind what happened to Marlon. Greg would have known about it, too, of course. But they were impossible to attack. Simple, they just deny everything, pick some scapegoats and shove them out to take the rap. He wondered about the bond between the two men, it didn’t strike him as sexual. Was Jack still going to get his Cabinet post? Or was that conditional on the result of the debate?

‘Maybe you should install a few,’ suggested Sage. ‘In concealed cages.’

‘Hahaha. Caged nightingales? That’s against the law, Sage!’

They reached the brightly lit steps of number 50. ‘Well, it was a lively performance. You play to win, Sirs, and so do I. But off the pitch I hope we’re going to be good friends!’

There were more lights inside: servants bustling. Suddenly Ax knew (something in Jack’s tone, complacent, sly) that this was where Marlon had been questioned. He saw the room where it had happened. A floor of red and cream tiles, dark brocade curtains. A white woman in a severe coat and skirt, not quite uniform, her features like holes in dough, faced the boy across a small table. Jack wasn’t in sight, he was listening and watching elsewhere. The woman’s voice was low and menacing, too low for Ax to make out the words, but he knew what she was saying.
Has your father ever interfered with you
? Marlon answered, staring back, damning her eyes,
Only when there was nothing on the telly
—

The vision lasted no time. It vanished and he didn’t know where it had come from. From his imagination, probably. Jack Vries was saying “good friends” with a smile of comfortable, insolent superiority. A veil of thin scarlet swamped Ax’s field of vision. He punched the smug puppet-master, hard and accurately, in the throat.

It would have been better if it had been Sage. The former Aoxomoxoa was a seasoned public bruiser, who knew how to land a smack on some annoying bastard for maximum spectacle and no serious damage. Ax had never hit anyone in his life, before he went to Yorkshire and learned to do it so as to maim or kill. Jack went down, the guards rushed up. Two of them crouched over their master.

‘Mr Preston,’ said one of the men, urgently. ‘You should leave, Sir.’

‘What—?’

‘Get out of here, I’m not kidding—’

Sage knelt and touched Jack’s throat. The scholar was breathing, but it didn’t look good. ‘
Sage, you got to get Ax away
,’ hissed the crouching guard; the other nodded violently. Sir! cried the rest of them, starting to panic. Get Ax th’ fuck out of this! Ax and Sage stared at each other. Dear God, what have I done? A car entered the square, less scrupulous than Jack about the byelaws. Maybe the Prime Minister was inside. Upper-caste voices and ringing footsteps approached from Bruton Street.

‘The guys are right,’ said Sage.‘We should leave. Sort the details later.’

They hurried, heads down, until the all-night streetlighting of Piccadilly made them double back: but that was a mistake. There was no escape route, no back alleys left open to intruders in this nest of privilege, and an outcry had begun. They hit broken-ants-nest activity, voices, flashlights, the affront of sirens. Sage thought of vaulting the railings around the next gardens, hiding under the bushes until the hue and cry had passed: but there were shouts, excited barking, lights and movement in there. Hunting us with dogs, well that clarifies the situation. The rain, which had become a downpour again, was their only shelter. Running, up one street and down another, waves of honeysuckle and jasmine scent escaping from secret cloisters.
Shite,
what a neighbourhood to choose. They kept hitting the concrete defences around the arse of Grosvenor Square, no Ambassador in residence but the fort was still standing. Either that or some other embassy’s armoured back yard, and are they sleeping, are they hell. Try again, more dead ends, we’re screwed, shit, this is a rat trap—

Hunkered between the bins in a narrow basement area, Ax could
feel
, a heartbeat away, the moment that he needed to reach, the moment
before
he had taken that terrible action. The rain hailed on him. At the end of the area a small flight of steps led to an ivied, wrought iron gate. The look on Fiorinda’s face as she turned and walked away, in the lights of Parliament Square. Oh, Fiorinda, oh God, I’m sorry—

‘Mr Preston?’ whispered a shadow, seeming clad all in glimmering white.

Ax was in his office, a room where they often sat together in the new regime, because the upper floor could feel mournful. Fiorinda was off somewhere. He was at his desk, knowing there was something very wrong because Silver Wing had told him so. Sage leaned by the window, in a characteristic pose. He was telling Ax that he was leaving, it was over. ‘When we were together before,’ he said, ‘in the dictatorship, I loved you, but we were rivals. Now we’re lovers and it was okay in Paris, but it gets in the way here. It makes me not the right person to be your grand vizier, so I’m leaving you. It’s for the best, babe.’