The Annihilation Score (3 page)

“I'm sorry, Mo,” she says, quite sincerely, the ward cooling. She looks shaken. Maybe she got a bit of a soul-gaze in before my firewall kicked her out of my head.

“Where did you hear about Vakilabad?” I need to know: there's talking shop at a reception, and then there's this, this
brazen
—

“Weekly briefing report from Callista Soames in External Liaison,” she says quietly. “I'm the equivalent, um, desk officer, for Downstairs. We share, too.”

“Sharing.” I lick my suddenly dry lips and raise my glass: “Here's to sharing.” I do not, you will note, propose a toast to
over
-sharing. Or choose to share with her the details of the Vakilabad job, requested by the Iranian occult intelligence people, or the week-long
sleeping-pills-and-whisky aftermath it hit me with because
bodies floating in the air, nooses dangling limply between their necks and the beam of the gallows, glowing eyes casting emerald shadows as dead throats chanted paeans of praise to an unborn nightmare
—I shudder and accidentally knock back half my glass in a single gulp.

“Are you all right?” she asks, allowing her perfect forehead to wrinkle very slightly in a show of concern.

“
Of course
I'm not all right,” I grump. There's no point denying what she can see for herself. “Having a bit of a low-grade crisis, actually, hence someone penciling me in for the cocktail circuit by way of a change of pace.”

“Trouble at home?” She gives me her best sympathetic look, and I stifle the urge to swear and dump the dregs of my glass over her perfect décolletage.

“None. Of. Your. Business,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I'm sorry.” She looks genuinely chastened. Worse, my ward tells me that she
is
genuinely sorry. It can detect intentional lies as well as actual threats, and it's been inert throughout our conversation. I feel as if I've just kicked a puppy. All right: an extremely fishy benthic puppy
who did
not
have sex with my husband
seven years ago when they were destiny-entangled and sent on an insane mission to the Caribbean to smoke out a mad billionaire who was trying to take over the world on behalf of his fluffy white cat. “It's just, he was so happy to be with you, you know?”

“We are
so
not going to fail the Bechdel test in public at a diplomatic reception, dear,” I tell her. “That would be embarrassing.” I take her elbow: “I think both our glasses are defective. Must be leaking, or their contents are evaporating or something.” She lets me steer her towards one of the ubiquitous silent waiters, who tops us off. Her gait is unsteady, mincing. Almost as if she's hobbled or her legs are partially fused all the way down to her ankles. She's transitioning, slowly, into the obligate aquatic stage of her kind's life cycle. I feel a pang of misplaced pity for her: needing an ever-increasingly powerful glamour to pass for human, losing the ability to walk, internal organs rearranging themselves into new and unfamiliar structures. Why did I feel
threatened by her?
Oh yes, that.
Spending a week destiny-entangled with someone—in and out of their head telepathically, among other things—is supposed to be like spending a year married to them. And Ramona
was
thoroughly entangled with Bob for a while. But that was most of a decade ago, and people change, and it's all water that flowed under the bridge before I married him, and I don't like to think of myself as an obsessive/intransigent bitch, and Mermaid Ramona probably isn't even anatomically
stop thinking about that
compatible anymore. “Let's go and find a tub you can curl up in while we swap war stories.”

“Yes, let's,” she agrees, and leans on my arm for balance. “You can tell me all about the bright lights in the big city—I haven't been further inland than Aberdeen harbor in years—and I can fill you in on what the fishwraps have been pushing. The vigilantes would be funny if they weren't so sad . . .”

*   *   *

The accommodation on this former oil rig has, as I've mentioned, been heavily tailored towards its new function. Ramona and I make our way out through a couple of utilitarian-looking steel bulkhead doors, onto the walkway that surrounds the upper level of the reception area like a horseshoe-shaped verandah. The ubiquitous “they” have drilled holes in the deck and installed generously proportioned whirlpool spa tubs, with adjacent dry seating and poolside tables for those of us with an aversion to horrifying dry cleaning bills. And there's a transparent perspex screen to protect us from the worst of the wind.

I help Ramona into one of the tubs—her dress is, unsurprisingly, water-resistant—then collapse upon a strategically positioned chaise alongside. It's a near-cloudless spring evening on the North Sea and we're fifty meters above the wave crests: the view of the sunset is amazing, astonishing, adjectivally exhausting. I run out of superlatives halfway through my second glass. Ramona, it turns out, is a well-informed meteorology nerd. She points out cloud structures to me and explains about the North Atlantic thermohaline circulation
and frontal weather systems. We get quietly, pleasantly drunk together, and by the end of the third drink a number of hatchets have been picked up, collaboratively discussed, and permanently re-interred in lead-lined coffins. It's easy to forget that I've harbored an unacknowledged grudge against her for years: hard to remember how long it's been since I last had any kind of heart-to-heart with a girlfriend who understands what it is that I do.

Unfortunately I now need to curtail this account of our discussion because, drunk or not, diplomatic or not, some of the subjects we touched on are so far above your pay grade that it isn't funny. However, I think it is safe to say that BLUE HADES are concerned about CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN and are positioning their human-compatible assets—including Ramona—to keep a closer eye on our activities. They are (whisper this)
actively cooperating
, and you may see more joint liaison committees meeting in the next year than in the previous six decades combined. So it would behoove you to
pay attention
to whatever you're told in diversity awareness training courses about dealing with folks with gray, scaly skin and an affinity for outfits featuring high, opaque necklines. Beyond that, however, my lips are sealed.

*   *   *

I'm in my narrow oil rigger's bunk bed by midnight, lights out and head spinning pleasantly from the fizz and the craic. For the first time in weeks I am relaxed. There is congenial company, a job to do which involves nothing more onerous than staying awake during committee meetings, sedate middle-aged partying in the evenings, and zero possibility whatsoever that I will be hauled out of bed by a dead-of-night phone call in order to go and fight nightmares. What more can a girl ask for?

(Well, the bed could be wider for one thing, and half-occupied by a sleeping husband for another. That would be an improvement, as long as he isn't stressing out about committee meetings and co-workers and things that go bump in the night. (We both do it, and sometimes we actually make each other worse.) But anyway: that's a trade-off—blessed peace and anxiety-free quiet against the security blanket effect
of being able to reach out in the night and connect. And right now, peace and quiet is winning by a hair's breadth.)

Lecter is tucked away in his case, which in turn is locked inside the not-insubstantial gun cabinet that I found in my room when I arrived. I can feel his dreams, tickling at the back of my head: disturbing but muted echoes of Vakilabad. I feel slightly guilty that I haven't taken him out for practice in—is it really two days? Two days without tuning up? It seems like an eternity. But he's quiescent right now, even glutted, as if in a food coma. That's good. It means I can ignore his hunger for a while.

So I doze off to sleep. And I dream.

Did you know that keeping a work journal like this—only to be read after one's demise—can be therapeutic?

Let me tell you about my fucking dreams.

Lecter talks to me in my dreams. Like this one:

I'm dancing and it's black and white and it's a waltz, the last waltz at the Vienna Opera Ball—spot the stack of clichés, my internal critic snarks. My partner and I have the floor to ourselves, and we are lit by a lighting rig infinitely high above us that casts a spot as pitiless and harsh as the supernova glare of a dying star. My partner is a full head taller than me, so I'm eye-to-eye with the ivory knot of his tie—yes, white tie and tails, very 1890s. I'm wearing an elaborate gown that probably came out of a glass cabinet at the V&A, fit for a long-dead Archduke's mistress. I can't see his face and he's clearly not Bob (Bob has two left feet) for he leads me in graceful loops, holding me in a grip as strong as spring steel. I let him lead, feeling passive, head whirling (or is that the Buck's Fizz I put away earlier?), positively recumbent as he glides around the floor. It's a two-step in 3/4 time, rather old-fashioned and easy enough to keep up with, but I can't place the composition: it reminds me of von Weber, only . . . not. As we twirl briefly close to the edge of the stage, I glance into the umbral shadows of the orchestra pit, past my partner's occlusive shoulder. There are gaps in the orchestra, like teeth missing from a skull. A faint aroma of musty compost, overlaid with a graveyard tang. The musicians are dead and largely decomposed, swaying in the grip of their
instruments, retaining only such body parts as the performance requires. The lead violin's seat gapes empty.

***We haven't played today,*** Lecter whispers inside my head.

“I know.” I lean my chin against his shoulder as he holds me tight, spinning before the empty eye sockets of the bone orchestra. It's easy to melt into his grip: he's a wonderful dancer and his iron embrace locks me in like my antique gown's stays.

***You shall join the orchestra eventually. It's your destiny.*** He means the orchestra of his victims, the musicians he has twisted and killed over the decades since his grisly genesis in Erich Zahn's workshop in 1931. He was created at the behest of one Professor Doktor Mabuse. Mabuse the Gambler was a monster, and Zahn his enabler—but Lecter has outlasted and surpassed both of them.

“Not
this
time.” I spare another glance for the shades beyond the stage. We have, it seems, an audience consisting only of the dead and drained. I squint: I have a feeling I should recognize some of them.

***No, my dear. This is not your destination; this is merely the vestibule.***

My dance partner pulls me into a slightly tighter embrace. I lean against him and he breaks with the dance, lowering his grip to my waist, lifting me from the floor to whirl around in helpless orbit.

“What are you
doing
?” I cling to him for dear life. He's overpowering and gorgeous, and despite the charnel horrors around us I find him exciting and exhilarating. Blood is pounding in my ears, and I flush, wanting him—this is silly—as if he's a human lover. Which is crazy talk and unimaginably dangerous and anyway I'm married, but
faceless strong stranger whirling me away in a romantic whirlwind race to nowhere
is an incredibly strong cultural trope to deconstruct when you're so turned-on you're desperately trying not to hump his leg and
get a grip on yourself Mo, this is
not
good
—

“Get the
fuck
out of my head,” I snarl, and awaken to find myself lying stone-cold sober in a tangle of sheets saturated with ice-cold sweat, my crotch hot and throbbing, while the cobwebby echoes of Lecter's dream lover giggle and chitter and bounce around the corners of my skull like so many Hallowe'en bat toys.

***Bitch,*** Lecter mocks. ***You know you want me.***

“Fuck you.”

***Touch me, sex me, feed me.***

“Fuck you.”

I'm on my feet, fumbling with the key to the gun locker. It contains no guns: just a scuffed white violin case that sports a dog-eared sticker reading THIS MACHINE KILLS DEMONS. Other, more subtle wards engraved between the laminated layers of the case bind the contents in an approximation of safety, much like the sarcophagus around the Number Two reactor at Chernobyl; the instrument itself is considerably deadlier than an assault rifle. I lean against the wall as I lift the case out and lay it on the damp bedsheets, then flick the clasps and lift the coffin-like lid.

Lecter gleams within, old bone in the moonlight shining through the cabin's porthole. I touch his neck and draw my fingers slowly down it, across his body towards the saddle. (Is it my imagination, or does his fingerboard shudder in anticipation?) I reach into the lid with my other hand and pick up the bow. A brief measure from the Diabelli Variations, perhaps? What could be the harm (other than the risk of disturbing my neighbors, who in any case are sleeping in the accommodation deck of a former oil rig, which was presumably designed with soundproofing in mind)?

I wrap my hand around his bridge and lift him gently, then raise his rigid body to my shoulder and rest my cheek against his rest. For an instant I have a disturbing hallucination, that I'm holding something that doesn't resemble a violin so much as an unearthly bone-scaled lizard, f-hole shaped fistulae in its shell flashing me a glimpse of pulsing coils of blood-engorged viscera within—but it passes, and he is once again my instrument, almost an extension of my fingertips. I purse my lips and focus, lower the bow to touch his strings as delicately as
don't think of that
, begin to draw it back, and feel for his pitch—

Then my phone rings.

***Play me!*** Lecter snarls, but the moment has passed.

My phone shrills again as I lower bow and body to the bed and
rummage under my discarded dress for the evening clutch. I get to the phone by the fourth ring and answer it. It's a blocked number, but that doesn't mean anything. “Mo speaking. Who is it?”