Extraordinaires 1 (31 page)

T
he Olympic Stadium was a vast bowl full of noise. It was the noise of 80,000 people enjoying the afternoon sun, a crowd that had already had a fine day's athletic entertainment but was looking forward to what promised to be a splendid awards ceremony. The band of the Grenadier Guards played what was meant to be selections from the national anthems of the competing nations, but which became, by force of repetition, a compote of brassy tunes. On the east side of the track, the second and third placegetters were assembling, readying to march to the Royal Box and receive their awards, many nations mixing in camaraderie unhindered by differences in language or background.

It was an entirely civilised scene, but one that Kingsley was far too busy to bask in. ‘Screwdriver,' he said to Evadne. ‘The short-handled one.'

She passed the screwdriver over his shoulder. The access panel was awkwardly placed behind one of the pillars that supported the banks of seating overhead, but this location made it unobtrusive, something that Kingsley was sure the Immortals had planned.

The covered way that ran beneath and behind the banks of seating allowed access to dressing rooms, refreshments, committee facilities and offices, and also provided a full perimeter around the huge stadium. A perfect location, Evadne had calculated, for the Immortals' harvesting devices to absorb the outpouring of positive animus that the culmination of the Olympic Games would produce.

Kingsley gingerly removed the last screw and eased the metal plate aside. ‘You're sure this is the last one?' he asked Evadne, without taking his eyes from his task.

‘My Ether Disturbance Monitor says so.' She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned, and waggled a shiny object in front of his nose.

‘I still think it looks like a tobacco tin with some holes cut in it.'

‘It may once have been a tobacco tin, but Westminster Abbey was once a heap of rough stone lying about in a marsh.'

‘I withdraw my observation. It's a cathedral among monitors. Now, if you'll just take it away I'll be able to see what I'm doing here.'

A wave of applause and cheering came to them, but Kingsley didn't look up. He was secure in the fact that almost everyone in the vicinity was out watching the parade and readying for the award ceremony – and any who were left would hardly notice them in the Demimonde accoutrements Evadne had provided. When he'd finally helped his foster father to her refuge, exhausted and filthy after their flight from the Neanderthals' home, he'd wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she had thrown these clothes at him and dragged him out – leaving Dr Ward under the medical care of the mysterious and stately Lady Aglaia, who Kingsley would have enjoyed questioning about Evadnes past.

He didn't like the way the grey flannel coat fitted him, while the cloth cap was itchy on his sweaty brow. Evadne, however, looked a treat with her hair tucked under the cap and the sleeves of her coat folded up. The outfit was a veritable guarantee that they could work away unnoticed and undisturbed, especially with the toolbox each had, and the sheaf of forms that Evadne tucked into her coat pocket. Brandishing these would be certain to turn away any half-interested official or policeman, convincing them that they had more pressing business elsewhere.

He leaned the metal plate against the wall and peered into the space he'd revealed. The tangle of wires was almost familiar after the four other devices they'd removed. It was more like a nest than a logical array of elements, and sitting in the middle of the nest was a fist-sized dodecahedron, its pentagonal sides glowing a baleful red.

Kingsley licked his lips. Inside, his wild self was wisely insisting that he cut and run. He soothed it by promising himself that was just what he'd do – making sure Evadne was ahead of him – if the object moved, changed shape, or started talking.

A shocking thought pushed itself on him. Could the Immortals have been planning to take advantage of the extraordinary gathering by turning it sour, setting troublemakers loose in the crowd, sowing discord and ill-will, setting spectator against spectator? Could that provide an outpouring of hateful animus ready for gathering?

Music seeped through the stands: ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes'. Sprightly, happy, greeted by cheering and a rolling wave of laughter. No hateful animus there, just the bonhomie of people assembled to give thanks and acclamation to the strong, the fleet and the nimble from all around the world.

No, whatever the Immortals had been planning, it wasn't something as vile as that.

Satisfied, fingers extended, he gently plucked the dodecahedron from its surrounds. It came away easily, and immediately the blood-red glow began to fade, exactly as had happened with the other four.

‘All safe?' he asked Evadne.

A pause. Then: ‘The ether has calmed. All is steady.'

Kingsley sighed. Unwilling to leave a job half-done, he screwed the access plate back. He stood and gave the inert harvester to Evadne. She took it solemnly and placed it in a bag in her toolbox.

‘I think I know what they were collecting,' Kingsley said.

A roar shook the stands above them. Had Queen Alexandra arrived?

‘High spirits?' Evadne guessed. ‘Good nature? Jollity?'

‘Civilisation. It's as Kipling said: this is the greatest expression of the influence of civilisation of this age.'

‘Civilisation? What on earth for?'

‘They want whatever they think is inside my head because it might tell them something about civilisation and the wild. I'll wager that this is connected with gathering the concentrated essence of civilisation.'

‘And not in a way that's likely to lead to good times for all, I'm sure.'

‘No. Not good times for all, but even if they're still around, we've stopped them for now.'

Evadne adjusted her hat. ‘In that case, would you like to watch the parade?'

‘Why not?'

F
or three days Damona wandered through the sanctuary of the True People. Sometimes, she stopped to pick up objects. She admired their craft. She contemplated murals and carvings. She remembered who lived in the dwelling spaces and workshops. She found additions she never knew existed.

Three days. She had barely slept since the disaster. She had hardly eaten. She was aware that she had eased into a state only lightly connected to the earth.

She coughed. Grimaced. Her throat was raw. It rasped in the air, which was still smoky. Sour.

She took a corner at random. It didn't matter. She was adrift.

Her people had gone. Every machine connected to the phlogiston grid had melted. Almost all the lighting had failed. Their sanctuary was dark, foul-smelling, badly made.

A few oil lamps lit her way. Quickly made after the disaster. They worked. More or less.

Alone. Damona was determined to visit every part of their sanctuary. A pilgrimage? An expiation? Was she apologising to a place she had hurt?

She stopped. Looked around. A workshop? She didn't recognise where she was. It didn't worry her.

She rested on a bench. Put her lantern on the parquetry floor. For a moment she studied the inlaid wood. Good patterns. Fine toolwork. True People stuff.

She shifted. Ignored the pain. Ran a hand over the bench. It was wood, too. A waterfall? Water, waves rolling down a stony slope. Every curve, every ripple smoothed by the long-ago maker's hands.

It was supremely comfortable.

The room was small. Damona could not remember who had lived here. Or when. Not a family place. A one-person place? A basin, cooking facilities, a small bathroom opening off the main area. For sleeping and for work?

A lathe, bandsaw, both rusty, against the far wall. Damona looked up, tried to find their power source. Cobwebs. Dust. Electricity? Could she turn them on? See their sturdiness in action?

‘Eldest?'

Damona shifted her weight and her hip complained. The title was a burden. On the wings of pain, she eased herself around. Gustave stood at the door. ‘What is it?'

‘The last of us are on the ramp. About to set off. I came to see if . . .'

‘If I've changed my mind?'

Gustave shrugged. He had stitches in his forehead. His beard was ragged from the fire. ‘If you want to join us.'

‘You'd have me?'

‘We don't want to lose you.'

Damona grunted. No-one had been hurt when the end had come. Gustave and his friends were brave, organised. They had arranged an evacuation to the furthest reaches. Then they went to fight the fires. Two long days. Then Gustave braved the main complex. Inspected it. Declared it safe enough.

Safe enough to begin their departure.

‘You have a destination?' Damona asked him.

‘Far away, I think.' He leaned against the doorframe. Damona felt his exhaustion. ‘Rolf and Magnus went out into the Demimonde, with the last gold we could scrape together. They say we can get a ship.'

‘Ah.'

‘We're tired of underground, Eldest. We want to feel the sun again. We'll risk a sea voyage.'

‘It's a brave plan.'

‘Won't you come?'

‘Not just now.'

Gustave left. It took some time before Damona realised.

Her lamp flickered. She knew that it needed more oil. Without it she'd be left in the dark.

She was comfortable.

Damona had striven. She wanted to give her people a future, but she had failed. The Invaders had won.

She lay back. She remembered Signe. She remembered the songs she sang. She wanted to apologise to her but words were heavy on her tongue.

The lamp went out.

E
vadne poured.

The glass cupola of the Thames Foyer alternated between brightness and gloom as clouds and blue sky exchanged places. Kipling had chosen an alcove with window seats and red cushions, with plenty of room for Dr Ward's wheelchair. A violinist played, waiters wafted about, and Kingsley enjoyed the absence of being chased, beaten, sold, exchanged or abducted.

‘Muffins!' Dr Ward exclaimed as a waiter uncovered a silver dish. ‘Just the thing!'

Evadne finished pouring. ‘I couldn't agree more. Hot buttered muffins and tea is a wonderful way to remind one that one is alive.'

Kingsley had a high regard for Evadne's aplomb. She chatted, made a quip or two, and charmed both Kipling and Dr Ward with her wit and steady cheerfulness.

Kingsley ate half of his excellent muffin and admired Evadne's light blue dress. She'd pointed out, when she joined them at the Savoy, that it was chiffon and the lace jacket thing was a bolero. All by himself, he could tell that the hat had roses all over it, but she emphasised that it was a broad-leafed chip hat.

Just so
, Kingsley thought. He'd come out in a blazer and flannel trousers, topped with a boater, all well kept and hardly smelling of mothballs, despite having been stored away at Porchester Terrace since he'd left the place to pursue a life on the stage.

When Kipling found them at the Savoy, he had been overjoyed. Kingsley's telephone invitation had reassured the writer that they were alive and well, but it was a different thing, seeing them in the flesh.

The first half an hour of their reunion had been devoted to informing Kipling of the events since they had parted. It was a measure of the writer's imagination and patience that he remained silent while Kingsley and Evadne bounced the story between them, with a few solemn interjections from Dr Ward – and he expressed no incredulity.

‘And so we're staying at the hotel, here,' Kingsley finished.

‘We couldn't stay at Porchester Terrace,' Dr Ward murmured. ‘Not after what happened there.'

‘And I'm simply enjoying the luxury,' Evadne said. ‘My refuge is comfortable enough, but I wasn't about to pass up a room at the Savoy.'

‘That's a major disadvantage of the subterranean life,' Kingsley said, ‘the lack of view.'

Evadne and he shared a look. She challenged him with a smile that he returned.

‘We're grateful to you, Kipling,' Dr Ward said. His colour was better, and if it weren't for his still-recovering ankles, Kingsley was sure he'd be up and about under his own locomotion. ‘Your efforts at the Yard have smoothed the way.'

‘I did what I could, Dr Ward, but it was your reappearance and the testimony of Miss Stephens that convinced the authorities that Kingsley here couldn't be responsible for the death of Mrs Walters.'

‘And who do they think is?' Kingsley asked.

‘“Investigations are continuing,” I think the phrase is. At least, that's what I was told, but I have the impression that a few of my more senior sources know more than they're letting on.'

‘The PM, Kipling?' Dr Ward asked. ‘Did you inform him?'

‘Not the PM, Dr Ward, not yet. Once I was sure Evadne and Kingsley were safe, I did have a meeting with the Agency.'

‘The Agency? Of course. Should have thought of that. And do they think the Immortals could still be out there?'

Kipling cast a rueful look at Evadne. ‘I'm sorry, my dear, but we must consider the possibility that the torrent you unleashed didn't finish them off.'

‘I had,' Evadne said softly. ‘The world would be better off without them, but I fear that may be easier said than done.'

Kingsley couldn't help himself. He reached up and touched the back of his head. He preferred his brain intact, and was determined to keep it so, immortal sorcerers or not.

Evadne caught his eye and nodded, emphatically, just the once.

It was enough.

‘It's remarkable, you know,' Kipling said. ‘I thought I knew a thing or two about the shadowy fringes of the world, but you've certainly opened my eyes. I'll never look at a manhole the same way again.'

‘The Demimonde is vaster and more mysterious than a few manholes,' Dr Ward said.

‘And how long exactly have you known of it, Father?' Kingsley asked.

‘My work introduced me to it years ago.' Dr Ward closed his mouth and frowned. Kingsley knew this was a matter for another day.

A three-tiered stand of small cakes and elaborate biscuits was placed on the table. Evadne plucked a pink concoction from the top level. ‘Superb,' she adjudged after taking a small bite.

Her lipstick was subtle and suited her, Kingsley decided, and was very evenly applied. He wondered if she'd invented a device to do it for her.

‘And what are you going to do with my son's story, Kipling?' Dr Ward asked.

‘It remains a fine and private thing, Dr Ward.' Kipling took out his notebook and started to read. His voice was low, but carried perfectly to the three listeners at the table.

Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why?

Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?

As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds, so fly I between the village and the jungle. Why?

I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light because I have come back to the jungle. Why?

These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?

I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.

All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look––look well, O Wolves!

Ahae!
My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

When Kipling finished, he looked at Kingsley. ‘I don't have to write your story, my boy, because I've written it already.'

‘But that's not me. I'm not Mowgli.'

‘I know. I meant that I understand your predicament. Caught between two worlds cannot be the easiest place to be.'

‘Perhaps,' Evadne said. ‘But being alone would make it worse.'

‘“Things that I do not understand”,' Kingsley repeated. ‘There are so many of them, still.'

‘Such as?' Dr Ward asked gently.

‘You told me of my parents. My real parents.' Kingsley bit his lip, then rushed on. ‘But all you said was that my father was a mysterious man who worked for the government.'

Kingsley couldn't fail to catch the sharp look that Kipling shot Dr Ward. ‘Mr Kipling?'

The writer grimaced. ‘A number of mysterious agents have been working in India over the years. The place is full of them.'

‘From the little I know, Greville Sanderson was a hero,' Dr Ward said.

Kipling cocked his head. ‘Greville Sanderson was your father, my boy? Extraordinary.'

‘Dr Ward is my father,' Kingsley said firmly. ‘This other man is someone I've never known.'

Dr Ward reached over and patted Kingsley's hand. ‘Troubled and troublesome as you might be, Kingsley, you're a good lad.'

Kingsley warmed to his foster father's words. The old man was often preoccupied, occasionally forgetful, but he was always generous.

‘Mr Kipling,' Kingsley said, pushing that thought away for later. ‘You obviously know something of my father. My other father. Would you tell me of him? In exchange for my telling you my story?'

‘That, young Mr Ward, is an offer a writer could never resist.'

Dr Ward leaned in the other direction. ‘And you, Miss Stephens, what are your plans?'

For an answer, Evadne held up a finger. Then she picked a small silver dragee from a cake and balanced it on the end of the handle of a teaspoon that was resting on the damask table cloth. With a tilt of her head, she tapped the bowl of the teaspoon and launched the silver sugar ball into the air. It landed, with a tiny splash, in Kingsley's glass of lemon squash.

‘We have an audience waiting for us,' she said when the applause died.

Kingsley had been listening. ‘We?'

‘I've been thinking that while juggling is all well and good, I'm looking for something new, something innovative. I thought a two-handed act might do the trick.'

‘I don't follow you,' Dr Ward said, on the verge of floundering.

‘Stephens and Ward: Juggling and Escapology.'

Kingsley sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘What about Ward and Stephens: Escapology and Juggling?'

Kipling tapped his glass with a fork. ‘I have a suggestion.'

It was perfect.