Kingdom: The Complete Series (27 page)

Cathy clutches her
stomach, putting a pale hand on Donald's knee and swaying.

“
You
ok?” asks Donald.

“
I
think I'm going to be sick.”

“
I
wanted you all to understand precisely
why
we are not returning to
Glasgow for anything other than what is necessary. The King is trying to rattle
our cages. Each of these victims was displayed for the city to see, and left
with the same graffiti at the murder scene.”

Jamie narrows his eyes.
“What did it say?”

“
It
said: thy Kingdom come, thy will be done.”

“
From
the lord's prayer?”

“
Yes
– perhaps it means something different in this context. We've got people
analysing it all, of course.”

Mark stands up without
a word and heads for the door, knocking two chairs over as he goes. The Trespasser
depresses a button on his desk and the door seals shut before Mark can reach
it.

Mark tugs on the handle
without effect, turning with his face simmering with rage.

“
Open
the door before I rip it off.”

“
You're
not going to Glasgow, Mark.”

“
I
know,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I'm going to the
training room.”

The Trespasser stares
into Mark's eyes until he's sure that he can trust what he says, and then
presses the button again. Mark throws the door open and storms out, leaving the
group in silence.

“
If
he's trying to get to us, he's succeeding with Mark at least,” says Jamie.
“I'll go and talk to him.”

“
Let
him be,” says the Trespasser. “I've seen guys like that before; he needs to hit
something.”

This room is smaller,
the size of a gym, with treadmills and stationary cycles along one wall. In the
middle of the room are a set of mats for hand to hand practice – something that
they don't get enough of.

In the corner, in an
area designed just for him, stands Mark. His overalls are lying in a heap on
the floor, leaving him in his shorts like a bare-knuckle boxer. Before him
stands a grimy metal column, protruding from the floor like a tomb stone. The
monolith is dented and scratched on one side, pristine on the other.

Mark grits his teeth
and punches it again, planting his feet wide and leaning into the blow. The
pillar trembles as he punches it again, leaving small indents where his
knuckles sink into the steel. Punch after punch, high then low, jab then hook.
The dust jumps from the floor with every strike, sending a deep booming sound
through the facility.

He finally stops,
breathless. Sweat pours from his head, soaking his hair and plastering it to
his reddened face. Jaw slack, he leans forward against the pillar and closes his
eyes.

Tired though he is, his
temper still burns in his gut like a hot brand. He slams his fist against the
pillar once more, planting his forehead against the cold metal as if it will
cool his anger.

Something makes him
stop, and he perks his head up like a curious animal and listens. He hears it
again – a loud metal
clunk.
Frowning, he wonders for a moment if his
assault on the punching-beam has dislodged something in the facility. He steps
away from the beam, still breathing hard.

The door to the hall
hisses open, and a small figure in black overalls appears, their face hidden
with their back hunched over. They're dragging something, and Mark cranes his
neck to see.

“
Hello?”
he shouts across the hall.

She turns, and he
recognises Stacy's mouse-like features. She's dragging something heavy with
her.

“
Thought
I'd find you here,” she says, breathless like him. Standing up, she puts her
hands on her hips and then wipes the sweat from her brow.

“
You
uh,” Mark raises an eyebrow, still unsure what she's dragging with her. “You
need a hand with that?”

“
No,
no,” she waves him away. “I need the practice.”

“
Practice
at what -” Mark begins, stopping when she steps away to reveal her burden.

Lying on the floor is a
metal man, shaped like a crash test dummy, with a visible skeleton of steel
tubes. Its legs are double-poles with hinges at the knees, ending in long, flat
feet with stubby metal balls where its toes should be.

Its hips and ribs are
little more than metal hoops and flat steel panels: a man made entirely of
nuts, bolts, pipes and hinges.

“
What
the hell is that thing?”

“
I
call him Rob.”

“
Short
for robot?”

“
Nah,
he just looks like a guy I know called Rob.”

“
Poor
guy.” Mark mutters, walking forward to get a better look at it. “What does it
do?”

“
He
was built for me to practice on,” says Stacy, stepping back. “I'm getting
better, watch.”

She puts her hands to
her head and closes her eyes, and Mark watches the metal man twitch to life.
Rob's feet jerk first, as though he were being electrocuted. Then his entire
body spasms, and he rolls over onto his front, pushing himself up from the
elbows.

Rob, the metal man,
stands eye to eye with Mark. Where his face should be, however, Rob has been
given a flat block of metal upon which Stacy has drawn a crude smiley face.

The effect is
unnerving. Mark watches as a machine – a robot, he thinks – without any visible
power source or engine, cocks its head and waves at him.

Then, as suddenly as he
had been given life, Rob dies. His legs buckle and he clatters to the ground
with a sound like a box of spanners being dropped.

Stacy's armband has
flashed from green to orange, and she is rubbing her temples and biting her
lip.

“
You
ok?” asks Mark.

She nods. “It takes a
bit of effort to keep him up and working.”

“
That's
your thing, right? You can -”

“
I
can make mechanical things go. Or stop.”

“
Even
if they don't have a power source?”

She shrugs, nodding
again. “Seems that way.”

“
Only
mechanical things?”

“
Man-made
mechanical things. I can't affect electrical circuits, for example - but I can
make a switch work.”

Mark looks down at the
metal figure. “Or a hinge turn.”

“
Yeah.
Anyway I thought you could maybe do with a sparring partner.”

He raises an eyebrow.
“Sparring? You want to fight me?”

“
I
doubt I'd last long.” She takes a deep breath, and her armband returns to its
green colour. “But Rob? He might. The more I use him the easier it gets; I
could use the practice, like you said.”

“
What
if I break him?”

“
Try
not to. I've gotten strangely attached to his big freaky face.”

“
You
have unresolved issues, Stacy,” says Mark, taking a swig from his flask and
grimacing as the whiskey burns its way down his throat.

He walks over to the
mat, and turns around, tensed, fists clenched at his side as he bounces on the
balls of his feet.

“
Get
him over here, then.”

Stacy closes her eyes
again, and Rob gets to his feet like a drunk, stumbling and falling before he
finally rises to his full height. Watching him walk gets a laugh out of Mark –
he totters back and forth like a toddler, arms out for balance.

“
You
weren't joking when you said you needed practice,” he chuckles.

“
Don't
distract me,” she says, her face screwed up as she focuses.

“
It'll
be more distracting when I punch him,” he says, laughing. “He walks like me
after ten pints.”

“
After
ten pints you walk through things,” she laughs.

Rob steps up to the mat
and mirrors Mark's position, hands up on either side of his dopey smiley face.
Mark suppresses another laugh.

“
Ok,”
he says, stepping forward. “Give me your best shot.”

It's raining in
Glasgow.

Gregor steps in out of
the rain, taking shelter in the draught-riddled warehouse, folding his umbrella
and shaking it dry before leaning on it like an old man. The warehouse has the
feel of an empty tomb, seeming to catch sound and smother it.

He checks his watch and
relaxes a little: they're on schedule so far.

A drenched figure in a
long black coat, carrying a crowbar in one hand, has leaned into the warehouse.

“
Sir,
we found it.”

“
Show
me.” says Gregor, waiting until he is outside until he puts his umbrella up.

He has to step over the
twisted bodies of two men, their skulls caved in and their faces crushed into
obscurity. The rain has diluted the puddles of blood from dark crimson to murky
brown. Gregor barely looks at them.

“
The
paperwork says that it was to be sent north,” his man explains, “up to
Aberdeen.”

“
What
the hell does Aberdeen need with our weaponry? Who's up there?”

“
Best
guess is just a buyer, sir. The guy still hasn't told us, and we've run out of
things to break.”

“
Oh
son.” Gregor puts a gloved hand on his shoulder, as gentle as a breeze. “You
never run out of things to break.”

The tap-dance of
raindrops on his umbrella stops when he enters the second building. In the
distance he hears traffic – but no sirens: he relaxes. The industrial estate is
fairly isolated: good for the smugglers running it. Good for those attacking
it, too.

Shaking his umbrella
dry again, Gregor passes it to his man and smooths his suit down before
strolling to the small office at the far end of the warehouse, a plasterboard
block with one door and one window. Through the glass he sees a bloodied man
surrounded by dark-cloaked figures, bearing down on him like a murder of crows.

“
Right
lads.” Gregor claps his hands as he enters. “You're excused. Go have a smoke or
something, then start loading up the vans. The King will be pleased to know
that our belongings are where they,” he smooths his hair back, “belong. Oh, and
go into the box with the yellow square on it – at the bottom you should find a
few canisters. Bring one of them to me.”

The men shuffle past
him, leaving Gregor adjusting his gloves as though he were wringing his hands.
He clicks his jaw, then cracks his neck and stretches his fingers, the tendons
snapping like firecrackers. Sighing with relief, he closes the door behind him
and regards the man sitting on the swivel chair, his hands tied to the back
arch.

“
I
d-don't know what else you want,” he stutters.

Gregor peers over the
chair and finds that his fingers are all broken, protruding at grotesque
angels. He tuts, shaking his head.

“
Amateurs,”
he says. “I'm very sorry. A professional would have finished this ten minutes
ago. I should really do these things myself.”

The man's bloodshot
eyes follow him as he crosses the office and leans against the table, adjusting
his suit and his hair in the reflection on the window, preening himself like a
bird.

“
I
told your men,” the man slurs, “I was sold the goods by another guy, his name
is Tam. Just Tam. I didn't know the King had been robbed -”

Gregor holds up a
finger. “I know,” he says. “That man was last seen hanging from his own window
with two chess pieces and seventeen nails in his skull. Imagine,” Gregor takes
a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, peeling away the gold foil, “what his
mother must have thought when she saw that on the news.”

The man looks down,
avoiding his stare. Gregor continues.

“
Imagine
his friends. They'll all be sitting in the pub in silence. None of them will
mention him. Not because they don't remember him, you understand; they
certainly remember him. They wont mention him because they're afraid. They are
afraid that by associating themselves with him, they will somehow incur the
same fate. People can be superstitious without even realising it.”

The man watches as Gregor
produces a metal lighter – a silver square with a crown embossed on it – and
lights up. He takes a thoughtful draw and lets the smoke out, shapes twisting
and curling in the air, catching the dry halogen light.