Cannonbridge (31 page)

Toby is off the stage and about to be manhandled out of the marquee when a terrible sequence of events occurs.

A savage roar of thunder, a flash of lightning right overhead, screams from the crowd. A surge of electricity in the air. The wind rattles the marquee hard, as if trying to tear it apart. Several of the audience faint away. The rest are afflicted by sudden, brutal headaches and the urge to weep.

Toby wants to shout another warning. But it is too late, far too late. The chain of cause and effect which began on the island of Faircairn, which stretches both forwards and backwards in time, is reaching its only possible conclusion, its unstoppable apotheosis.

And then, quite suddenly, as if the storm has swept him into their midst he is there. He is amongst them.

Toby yells out in furious despair, knowing that all is lost.

In the centre of the floor stands Matthew Cannonbridge, just as he was, frock-coated, his pockets bulging with stones, his clothes dripping with water as if he has but lately clambered free of the river.

Now he radiates power and energy. He is lightning incarnate. He is the god of the tempest.

As one and unquestioningly, the assembly drop to their knees.

When the creature speaks its voice is filled with the accumulated malice of more than half a century. He glances down at the man beside him, grovelling and weeping at his feet.

“Prime Minister?” he says, an awful sick amusement in his words.

The politician squeals an affirmative.

“Splendid.” Cannonbridge smiles for the first time since 1902. “Now, we need to discuss terms.”

After that, Toby goes a little mad.

And the whole world goes crazy with him.

1888

CLERKENWELL

LONDON

“F
ORGIVE ME FOR
troubling you so late, sir,” says the butler, a cadaverous septuagenarian poached at great expense from one of the country’s oldest families, “but the gentleman is here to see you.”

“
The
gentleman, Northrupp?” says the butler’s employer who, in spite of the lateness of the hour, is still at his desk and working, busy with ledgers and account books and, most of all, with numbers. “Don’t you mean
a
gentleman? Who the devil is it?”

“No, Mr Swaine-Taylor, I meant, as I said,
the
gentleman. I fancy that you know well to whom I refer.”

At these words, Daniel Swaine-Taylor, hitherto merely grumpily officious, starts from his seat and stumbles upwards. It is as though some terrific current has been passed through him. In other circumstances the effect might have been comical. But not here. Most assuredly, not here.

“Then show him in, man,” Swaine-Taylor snaps. “Immediately.”

“I feel it only proper to warn you, sir...”

“What is it now?”

“The gentleman is a state of some dishevelment.”

Like an animal cornered, Swaine-Taylor snarls. “Show. Him. In.”

The butler withdraws, retreating stealthily back into the house.

In the pause that follows, Swaine-Taylor sucks in a deep breath, runs his left hand over his lips and chin and does his best to compose himself.

An instant later, his master is in the room and Swaine-Taylor is fighting the compulsion to sink to his knees. He sees also that his manservant was quite correct. Matthew Cannonbridge, usually so dapper, so sober and suave, appears to be in a state of something like shock. The room is dimly lit and the man’s clothes are as dark as ever but Swaine-Taylor can see all the same that Cannonbridge’s suit is glistening with moisture and that his face and hands are stained and daubed with something crimson and wet.

“Daniel,” he says, and his voice is thick, not with emotion, but, Swaine-Taylor realises, with a kind of glutted quality, like a gourmet after the feast. “I fear I may have lost my temper somewhat.”

“No matter, sir. No matter. You are not as other men. Our rules do not apply to one such as you.”

Cannonbridge steps closer. He is sodden, Swaine-Taylor realises, drenched with offal and blood.

Another step closer, almost touching now, and it can be smelt upon him, the slaughter, the reek of the abattoir.

“I fear there may be consequences.”

“No, sir. We will make quite sure of that.”

“You will protect me, then? Reynolds will protect me?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

If Swaine-Taylor were in any doubt before of his damnation, those four words confirm it for him now.

“Reynolds shall always protect you. For you are Reynolds, sir. Truly. And we are you.”

Cannonbridge smiles at this, sharp teeth stained scarlet. “Thank you,” he says. “I knew I could rely upon the bank.”

And in a horrible parody of affection and gratitude, the old monster takes the man in his arms, holding Swaine-Taylor tight, until every sense the financier possesses is overwhelmed by blood and death and madness.

A YEAR FROM NOW

“S
O,
”
SAYS
D
R
Boyce in his most calm, sensible and professional tone, “you stick by your conclusions?”

He scans the notes which were left to him by his predecessor once again, looks quickly towards his new patient, a pale, haunted-looking man.

“I do,” says Toby Judd flatly. “I imagine you think I’m delusional?”

Boyce summons a reassuring expression. “What I think doesn’t matter. I’ve no doubt that all of these...” He eyes wander down to his sheaf of notes again. “All of these concerns are utterly real to you.”

“Hmph.” The patient wriggles on his chair. “That’s a pity. I’d hoped you might be someone who’d see to the truth of it. But no. Just like all the others. Taken in by the grand mirage.”

“I confess I’m intrigued by the specifics of your beliefs.” Again, Boyce consults his notes. “It is your assertion that the Victorian writer Matthew Cannonbridge, whose descendant now advises the government, was somehow an entirely fictional creation?”

“Not his descendent. The same man. You know that, don’t you? In your heart. That the descendant line is just a way to rationalise it.”

“Ah. Well, we’ll come to that, won’t we? But it’s true that you believe him to be an invented figure dreamt up by this chap called Blessborough? He was then given actual bodily form by the inexplicable properties of a Scottish island and subsequently taken over by the essence of a noted investment bank which has somehow acquired a form of consciousness. How am I doing so far?”

“Largely accurate,” says the patient with an exasperated huffiness. Boyce phrases his next sentence carefully. “How does it feel to have things laid out so starkly?”

The patient looks unmoved. “It’s like hearing a perfectly logical series of events.”

“I take it that you believe you’re the only man who can perceive the truth?”

“No. Not the only one. There always seem to be a few who can see the reality. Either because we’re particularly sensitive or, in my case, in an especially heightened emotional state. Some of us, believe it or not, like poor Spicer are close to madness. The fine line, you see, between insanity and true vision.”

“So where are they now? These other visionaries?”

Judd shrugs. “They’ll be like me. In places like this. Or he’ll have found another way to silence them.”

“You mean this present Cannonbridge might...” Boyce decides to let the implication hang in the air.

“Why wouldn’t he? There’s nothing and nobody left to stop him. He’s become too powerful. All those years deep in the darkness of the river, growing fat on our belief. He’s unstoppable—a psychotic with the power of a deity.”

Boyce looks sorrowfully at his charge. “And these beliefs, have they diminished in any way, or been brought into question, by the medication that you’ve been on?”

“The drugs make me drowsy,” says the patient firmly. “They make me sleep. They introduce... ellipses into my days. They do not, however, render me stupid or blind or forgetful. In fact, as your predecessor may have told you, I am writing a full account of it. The whole truth about Cannonbridge’s life. I’ve even gone so far as to dramatise some of the flashpoints of the author’s life. It, is think, a sprightly and unusual biography.”

“Ah. Now, I wasn’t aware of this particular project.”

“No? Actually I gave the man before you the first few chapters to read. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, Dr Marsden is sick at the moment.”

“Ha! I’ll just bet he is.”

“Good to see you’ve not lost your spirit, Toby. Well, I think that’s enough to get us started, don’t you? Lots to think about. I might experiment with raising your dosage. But I’ll see you again in a week. Shall I walk you back to your cell?”

“If you like,” says the patient truculently. “Suit yourself.”

“Super. Well, let’s shake a tail feather, shall we?”

The two men rise to their feet, step out of Boyce’s consulting room and set off along the corridors in the direction of the patient’s quarters. They’ve not gone far before Boyce starts to realise that something is wrong. The place—often unruly, its atmosphere clotted with mental illness—is suddenly far too quiet. It is deserted too—they pass not a single soul on their walk. Every door to every room is shut.

None of this panics Dr Boyce. He prides himself on his professional unflappability. Get the patient back to his room, he thinks, just get him safely installed there, then find out why the institution seems to be in lockdown. Stick to procedure. Follow the rules.

As soon as he enters the patient’s meagre pastel living space, however, he knows that today, in obeying the usual order, he has miscalculated.

Something metallic and hard is pressed against his left temple and an unfamiliar female voice says: “Hands in the air, doc.”

He does as he’s told, turning carefully towards the speaker, to face a strikingly pretty young woman in combat trousers and a pale green t-shirt, a gun held out before her with what looks like a good deal of expertise.

“Don’t do anything hasty,” Boyce says. “Whatever you want—we can work together to make sure you get it. Make sure everyone’s happy. I am, I should tell you, authorised to negotiate on behalf of this institution. And I fancy that you shall find me to be a reasonable man.”

“Shut up,” she says. “If you don’t want a bullet in that highfaluting brain of yours, STFU. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Gabriela?” The patient is staring at the young woman with unbridled joy and wonderment. His eyes are moist with tears. She seems less emotional.

“Yes, I survived,” she says. “Yes, I’m getting you out of here. And, yes, it’s time for a showdown with that evil, soul-sucking bastard.”

At this, Dr Boyce is about to offer some emollient words but before he can do so the girl raises the gun, clubs him hard on the head and the psychiatrist gives himself over to temporary darkness.

O
NE HOUR LATER
and seventy-nine miles away, in the East of the city, on the very highest floor of the Reynolds building, Swaine-Taylor knocks nervously and waits.

There has been a little restructuring in here since last we visited, as there’s been a little restructuring just about everywhere. The space is no longer open plan—its centrepiece is a grand, ornate, private office (there’s something monolithic about it, Swaine-Taylor thinks, something—he suppresses a giggle of hysterical terror—
Victorian
), the doors to which are presently closed. Outside of this is a kind of mock-Grecian antechamber in which Swaine-Taylor currently stands. There is only silence in answer to his knock and, for one moment of pure relief, he is able to convince himself that the room is empty, that he is alone in that place and that the resurrected man has gone.

And then the voice comes—deep and well-spoken and amused. “Do come in, Mr Swaine-Taylor.”

The financier, trying to stop himself from trembling, mopping at the sweat which pours in torrents from his forehead, pulls open the door and steps inside.

It is darkened within and the air is close—there is a smell of peaty decay (not just the soil now, Swaine-Taylor, thinks, it’s worse than that by far) and there is a buzzing of flies. Swaine-Taylor sees a flurry of them, the insects circling avariciously up towards the ceiling. There is a big oak desk at one end of the office, behind which sits the dapper, saturnine form of the most significant man in British history.

Seated on the other side of the desk, with his back to Swaine-Taylor, is another man, unspeaking and still, about whom the businessman absolutely refuses to think. Cannonbridge is looking through a great stack of papers—dossiers, accounts, reports—frowning rather as he does so. He looks up as the banker enters the room. The other man, the man in the chair, does not stir at all.
Don’t think about him, don’t think about him,
Swaine-Taylor recites to himself, over and over.

“Ah. Daniel. What can I do for you? Incidentally, I’ve been looking at last year’s figures and I’m really not sure we’re making nearly enough. We could go further. Squeeze harder. Increase our levels of... determination.”

“Sir, Daniel was an ancestor of mine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Giles, sir.”

“Oh? Of course.”

Cannonbridge shuffles the papers on his desk. “Hmm. Lost my place.”

“As I’ve said before, sir, we could get you a computer in here. You could be trained to use it.”

Cannonbridge grimaces. “No computers. I don’t hold with such... witchery.”

At this retort, the flies buzz louder.

“No, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Now, what was it you wanted?”

Swaine-Taylor passes the back of one hand over his horribly moist brow. “We’ve just had a report come in, sir. From a mental institution just outside Portsmouth in which we have an interest.”

“Oh?” Cannonbridge seems not in the slightest bit intrigued.

“It seems that one of their patients—a man called Toby Judd—has escaped. There was an accomplice, apparently. A breakout of some description. A few injuries but no fatalities.”