Night Watch 05 - The New Watch (32 page)

‘But she left you your documents and money.’

‘What’s true is true,’ I agreed. ‘She always did have style. But that flash stick . . .’

Fan spread his hands helplessly. The shield that he had pumped full of Power, which made the Taiwanese look slightly hazy, was slowly dissolving into the Twilight.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I’ll probably finish my tea, go back to the hotel and get changed. And then I’m going home.’

ANTON GORODETSKY WAS
watching TV.

He wasn’t one of those people who don’t have a television on principle, or who proudly declare that they haven’t switched it on for years. To tell the truth, he did watch it sometimes – the news almost every day, and even some film or other a couple of times a year, if he came across it on the airwaves by chance.

But right now he was watching TV thoughtfully, with serious intent. And the fact that he was switching from channel to channel every five seconds by no means indicated that he wasn’t concentrating.

Click.

‘Accused, why did you go to visit the victim?’

‘Well . . . I . . . wanted to have a drink with him . . . And he . . .’

Click.

‘. . . the verdict of the court is thirteen years’ imprisonment to be served in a strict-regime penal colony. The defence have already stated that they will appeal, and the guilt of the accused is in no way . . .’

Click.

‘. . . went off course and failed to enter orbit. But the specialists emphasise that the satellite was insured . . .’

Click.

‘. . . the size of the average pension will increase by eleven per cent to five thousand, nine hundred and seventy-four roubles . . .’

Click.

‘. . . and those terrible years, the decades of repression and tyranny, did not break the artist’s spirit, he carried on working and exhibiting his works, in defiance of the Communist regime . . .’

Click.

‘. . . advanced technologies. The scientists tell us that using them to produce nanotechnological cement will make possible a significant improvement in the quality . . .’

Click.

‘. . . it is proposed to remove the children from the family, since the parents’ level of income is inadequate to provide appropriate care . . .’

Click.

‘What I say is this, commander: if we try to withdraw, their blocking units will gun us down, but if we surrender, then at least there’s some kind of chance . . .’

Click.

‘. . . the largest in Europe! And this is indisputable proof that the policy being pursued is correct . . .’

Click.

‘The oysters in this restaurant are the best in Moscow, but the wine really is quite pricey – I couldn’t find anything decent for less than five or six thousand . . .’

Gorodetsky turned the television off, even though he still had ten channels left. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Anyone who said TV wasn’t worth watching was a fool. It was just that you ought to do it once every three or four months. That way it was more than just a blurred flickering in your eyes.

But, of course, if you only watched it every three or four years, that was even more instructive.

He walked over to the window and looked at the low grey sky hanging over the city. Then he slowly rubbed his hand over the cold glass.

The clouds parted and a chink opened up in the sky – a tiny little eye of dark blue. Somewhere behind the shroud of clouds the sun was setting.

Anton shoved his hands into his pockets, took out the little round earphones and set them in his ears. He clicked the button on the player. The band Picnic came up.

The gap in the clouds closed up. Anton raised his hand – and then lowered it again.

It would close over anyway.

He walked through into the kitchen, opened a small cupboard and took out a bottle of cognac that had already been started. He glanced round stealthily, poured a little into a paunchy glass and downed it barbarously, in a single gulp.

The bottle gave a despairing sigh. Anton screwed up his eyes and looked at it, trying to determine who had cast that spell.

Svetlana.

Anton poured a second dose, put the sighing bottle away in the cupboard and walked through into the sitting room. He stood in front of a cupboard with glass doors, studying the wooden chalice standing on one of the shelves.

Of course, artefacts of that kind really ought to be kept in the Watch office. But after studying it for a week, none of the analysts had been able to discover how to read the prophecy concealed in the chalice (or even if it was really there) and the apartment of two Higher Others (actually three, if you counted Nadya) was effectively defended against any kind of intrusion.

And so, on Gesar’s suggestion, Erasmus’s chalice had been returned to Gorodetsky. It was returned without enthusiasm – the Inquisition was very displeased that Anton had not tried to summon them to detain Arina. But Gesar had come up with a convincing argument: Erasmus might have tuned the chalice in some way so that the prophecy could only be revealed to Gorodetsky.

Gesar could always come up with a convincing argument if he really wanted to.

Anton looked at the chalice for a while, then opened the cupboard and picked it up. He held it to one ear, then the other. Then he walked into the kitchen, splashed some cognac into the chalice and drank it.

Naturally, the prophecy was not revealed.

‘Daddy?’

Anton was standing by the window with the chalice, lost in thought, and he hadn’t noticed that Nadya had come back from school.

‘What, my love?’

‘Did you . . .’ Nadya sniffed demonstratively, but she asked diplomatically: ‘Did you part the clouds?’

‘I admit it. Just a little bit.’

‘I noticed.’

Nadya shifted from one foot to the other at the door. She either wanted to ask him about something or she had something to tell him. Anton looked at his daughter and suddenly – completely out of the blue – he realised that his daughter was not completely a child any longer, that she was already treading the mysterious path that leads from childhood to youth, the path on which talking dolls, teddy bears and beloved parents are left behind, abandoned and forgotten . . .

Nadya had only just stepped onto this path, but there would be no return from it, there could not be . . .

‘Did you want to ask me something?’ said Anton.

‘Daddy, that chalice thing . . . I touched it too.’

Anton nodded, realising it wasn’t physical touch that was meant.

‘I think there’s something there. But it’s really well hidden: you can’t get it out, no matter how cunning or strong you are.’

‘If cunning or strength was enough, the Inquisition would already have understood everything,’ Anton said with a nod.

‘I think there’s some very clever release mechanism,’ Nadya went on, brightening up. ‘You have to do something that you would never ever think of. That you wouldn’t ever do. And then the prophecy will be revealed.’

Anton looked at the chalice in his hand.

Then he nodded again.

‘In that case, we’ll probably never find out.’

‘Are you upset?’

‘No,’ said Anton. ‘Not really. That is, not at all.’

HE WAS A
fine young man, one of those who had come into the Watch the year before, and was dreaming of becoming a field operative. An honest Fourth-Level, with every chance of advancing further. His name was Alexander – or Sasha – and only recently he had been studying at the Moscow Aviation Institute and dreaming of becoming a space-flight engineer. People like that only became Light Ones, because in 2012 in Russia only a complete child or a holy fool could dream of becoming a cosmonaut.

‘Anton Sergeevich,’ – he was trying hard to speak calmly and collectedly, but there was still a slight tremble in his voice – ‘are you certain they’ll come here?’ I shrugged, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit up and offered one to Sasha, taking no notice of his grimace of disapproval. He started fidgeting, then reached uncertainly for a cigarette.

I pulled the pack away.

‘Don’t. First, never smoke. Second, never do anything that authority figures suggest if you don’t like it. If I jump off the bridge, will you do the same?’

‘If necessary, I will!’ Sasha declared resolutely.

I looked down into the grey water of the river Moscow with the lighted street lamps reflected in it (in Moscow the stars in the sky aren’t often visible). I nodded.

‘That’s always the most important thing, understanding whether it’s necessary or not . . . Sasha, they’ll come here, because this is where the Call’s directed. When I was a little bit older than you, but probably not any stronger, it was very hard for me even to sense the vampire Call and to follow it. But now I can do a little bit more . . . and I know that the vampire is walking along the Bersenevskaya Embankment, and the girl is walking along the Prechistenka Embankment. Just recently it has become highly fashionable among vampires to take their victim on a bridge, then throw the body into the water. By the time it’s fished out, no one can tell what the person died of.’

‘Why can’t they tell?’ Sasha asked indignantly. ‘What about the loss of blood? And the marks from the fangs?’

‘Just think about it,’ I said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re a forensic pathologist. They bring you a body fished out of the water, considerably damaged, battered against the riverbank or the supports of a bridge . . .’

Sasha started turning pale. He was still young. A good lad, but young . . .

‘Even if you notice that there are small wounds of some kind on the body and there is almost no blood in it, what are you going to think? That there are vampires walking the streets of Moscow? Or that some young fool in love leapt into the water and spiked herself on a piece of metal as she fell?’

‘I would consider all the possibilities,’ Sasha decided.

‘That’s why you’re in the Watch,’ I said.

Sasha paused while he glanced vigilantly to the left and the right. Then he asked timidly: ‘Won’t the church stop them?’

I glanced at the massive, attractively illuminated building and shook my head.

‘Not this one, it won’t stop them. In general vampires aren’t afraid of religion – if they believed in God, they wouldn’t have become vampires. But you’re right in the sense that a genuine church, a shrine, can protect the victim. If it’s close by and the victim believes. Do you understand? It doesn’t frighten the vampire, it protects the victim.’

‘I think I understand,’ said Sasha, nodding thoughtfully. ‘But why won’t this one help?’

‘There are many factors,’ I replied evasively.

Sasha stood there, fiddling with a little lock dangling on the railings of the bridge. A funny habit that modern lovers have – come to the bridge, kiss, hang up a lock – and it’s as if they have locked up their love.

But love shouldn’t be locked up. That’s not what it’s given to us for.

‘I can sense him,’ Sasha exclaimed excitedly. ‘He’s coming! From the left!’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘He won’t . . .’

‘He won’t sense that we’re Others and he won’t even see what we really look like,’ I reassured him – without telling him that instead of me the vampire would see a skinny young guy with an earring in one ear, and instead of Sasha he would see a dejected girl. A standard sight for this spot – lovers who have fallen out.

‘I can sense the girl too,’ Sasha said with relief. ‘There she is, walking along . . . why, she’s almost a child!’

I turned my head slightly. The girl walked past us, gazing blindly straight ahead, and I agreed: ‘Yes, only fourteen or fifteen. That’s bad. If she was ten . . .’

‘What’s bad about it?’ Sasha asked in amazement.

Hadn’t he done his lessons? Did he really not remember that licences were issued . . .

‘They’ve disappeared!’ Sasha exclaimed excitedly.

I myself saw the vampire, who looked as young as my partner, take a step towards the girl and smile – his fangs had not extended yet, there was just a faint hint . . . and they both disappeared.

‘Let’s go,’ I said, pitching my cigarette end over the parapet into the water with a snap of my fingers. I sensed my shadow rather than saw it – and stepped into it.

Cold. The usual piercing cold of the Twilight. The world around was veiled in grey and slowed down, sounds became viscous, lingering and distant. Underfoot there was an uninterrupted covering of blue moss. Our feet sank into it like an expensive carpet.

The vampire was standing a few steps away from us, very young and handsome, aristocratically pale. He was genuinely young, too, not just disguising himself as youthful: he was the real thing – otherwise his Twilight image as an Other would have been quite different.

The vampire was standing there, holding the girl and kissing her on the lips. Kissing, not biting. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at me and at Sasha, who entered the Twilight clumsily behind me.

‘Night Watch – everyone leave the Twilight,’ I said in a humdrum voice.

I was really hoping that the vampire would expose his fangs and throw himself at me. Or make a run for it. Or start shouting that he hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d only kissed a pretty girl . . .