The Chosen Seed (7 page)

‘I don’t think I know,’ Ramsey said. ‘I know it looks like it, but for some reason my head just won’t accept it. After everything that happened with Bowman and his wife, it just seems wrong that he would do something like this.’

‘I agree.’ Hask was surprised by the relieved thumping in his chest. ‘Maybe we should take a quiet look into it. Revisit the evidence.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Adam Bradley was pulled in over the Man of Flies case. Perhaps we should take a look at that interview. What do you think?’

‘Can’t hurt.’

Hask smiled. They may not be able to do anything about the hysteria that would grab the country after the next day’s press conference, but they might be able to help out one friend.

It was warm in the private room at the top of Senate House, but none of the three men who were standing by the hospital bed removed their overcoats. The nurse checked the machinery attached by fed wires to the old man before leaving and quietly closing the door.

For a long moment, no one spoke. They stared at the figure bathed in the pale yellow light from above. No
Glow
came from the watery eyes that darted, panicking, around the room. His mouth moved madly as he tried to speak, and spit dribbled from his toothless gums and down the wrinkles in his ancient cheeks. He had looked old when he had been sleeping, but now that his face was twitching and awake, every year of his existence was engraved in the sagging skin of his neck and the hollows of his cheeks. His hair wisped like fragile clouds across the sky of his liver-spotted skull.

‘Wha — Wha— I don’t—’ The words finally came like wet farts from his mouth, before they were overwhelmed by his keening. Tears ran from his eyes into the snot leaking from his nose. None of the three men wiped his face.

‘Where is his
Glow
?’ Mr Dublin finally muttered. The old man’s eyes flicked towards him, still pleading for an answer to a question he couldn’t articulate. He looked lost, confused – as if he didn’t even know who he was any more. Mr Dublin’s mouth twitched in disgust. ‘Why does he have no
Glow
?’ he repeated.

‘Is this what we have come to?’ Mr Craven trembled. ‘The First is a drooling, gibbering idiot?’

In response, the old man began to cry quietly, parts of words lost in the snotty mess of his face.

‘Let’s not be hasty,’ Mr Bright said. ‘He’s only just awakened. He make take time to recover.’

‘You’re a fool, Mr Bright.’ Mr Craven spat the words out. His hands were trembling as he pointed a finger at the silver-haired man. ‘You
promised
us – you said the First would wake and all would be restored to its former glory.
We
would be restored to our former glory.’ He looked down at the figure in the bed. ‘And this is what you deliver us.’

‘The First with no
Glow
.’ Mr Dublin spoke softly. ‘How can that be? What does this mean for the rest of us?’

‘It means we’re all dying,’ Mr Craven snapped. ‘Not just me and the others, but you too one day. This whole crumbling kingdom: we’re decaying, and there lies your proof. The glorious First – our leader, the shining one. What would the rest say if they saw him now? We should finish him off. Give him some of his dignity back.’

‘I think perhaps,’ Mr Bright retained his calm, ‘it’s best we keep the news of his awakening to ourselves for now. Give us time to evaluate the situation.’

‘Give you time to come up with a way to explain yourself, you mean.’

‘I don’t need to explain myself, Mr Craven,’ Mr Bright said. ‘Don’t forget who I am.’

‘We’ll keep it quiet for now,’ Mr Dublin cut in, ‘but not for long. And I must warn you, Mr Bright’ – he carefully moved his fine blond hair out of his eyes – ‘that between this and the Dying, many of our number are going to want to find a way home. Rightly or wrongly, they will blame you for the decay around us.’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Mr Bright said. ‘Now I think I’d like a few minutes alone with the First.’

He saw the look that flashed between the two men before they turned towards the door. There was an alliance forming there – Mr Dublin didn’t like Mr Craven, that was clear, but that wouldn’t stop them discussing this, and plotting how the cohorts should move forward. It was exactly as Mr Bright had expected. There was danger there, for sure, but he wasn’t prepared to show his full hand yet – not until he was absolutely certain that all had gone according to plan. And anyway, Mr Dublin would be a fool to ally with Mr Craven; the latter would hedge his bets. The two would want to approach things differently, and they’d realise that soon enough. They could cause him problems, that was certain, but they would never work together, not like he and Solomon and the First had done, and alone they could never take him on.

When the door had clicked shut he pulled his gloves off and laid them on the side-table before taking a tissue from the box and carefully wiping the old man’s face. The crying got worse as he touched him. Mr Bright let his hand rest for a moment on the hot, dry forehead.

‘Try not to be afraid,’ he said, giving the thing in the bed a kind smile. ‘I will look after you – I will put you somewhere safe.’

Fresh tears sprang into the old eyes, and Mr Bright’s heart squeezed slightly with pity and more than a little guilt. If only the other realised the burdens he’d had to bear for them – for
all
of them. He wasn’t a monster, but he’d done monstrous things on their behalf.

He squeezed the old man’s hand and felt it weakly pull away. He wondered if he should get the nurse to sedate the creature in the bed, but decided against it. A return to an
unconscious state might have disastrous consequences. He would wait and see for now. He stepped back and smiled. It had been a long wait, but he was quietly confident that the plan they’d formed when the First had started ailing was all coming together. His heart thumped in anticipation, an excitement he hadn’t felt in many long years. It was like a return to his youth, to
before
, when they had all been so bold.

He left the room, and there was a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before. He had phone calls to make. By the time he’d reached the ground floor of Senate House, the old man’s tears were forgotten.

For the first time in weeks she felt like music. She stared out of the grimy window of the small attic apartment at the world below. She still felt its energy and excitement, but her superior confidence had faded. Artie Mullins had done what she’d expected and taken Cass Jones from them, and at the time she’d been pleased: she could keep track of him without having to answer his questions – and the one thing she’d learned about them was that they
always
had questions – and then find him again when the time was right. That was before they’d started weakening.

Over the past fortnight or so, these strange days and nights all blurring into one, she’d found she lacked the energy to play. She hadn’t extended beyond herself. She’d stayed
small
. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, while her old friend muttered in his fevered sleep, she felt as if this hectic, harsh world was consuming her. The possibility that they might not be able to get back hadn’t crossed their minds – not even just theirs; she was just the emissary, after all, and he was her companion – but
his
mind. Or perhaps it was just a risk he had been prepared to take. If they didn’t
return, perhaps that was information enough.

Frost covered the glass on the outside like a network of dead veins. There was so much hidden beauty here that sometimes it astounded her. She let out a long breath and watched the condensation form. She felt its damp heat on her face and ignored the sweet scent of rot it carried with it. She had become used to that now, as she had to the flecks of blood that appeared between her paling gums. But perhaps, she decided, as she turned away from the glass and headed over to the bed in the corner, all was not lost. Events were finally moving forward.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed a loose strand of her red hair from her face before leaning forward to kiss her companion’s cheek. His face burned. When his eyes opened there was still some humour there, even though he was no longer able to play his violin, not even on his very best days. She wasn’t sure which was drier, her lips or his cheek. She squeezed his hand.

‘Have you found the way home, Gabbi?’ he asked. He had been the one to try when he’d first sickened; he would go back and report and she would stay and wait to answer the so-faint call that had brought them all this way. He hadn’t gone, though. The Walkways were lost in the Chaos, and that had almost sucked him in. She had tried after that, with more urgency as his efforts added to his weakening state and she could see her old friend crumbling away, but there was no way out. They had found their way here, but there was no way back. Someone had locked the exit door. Perhaps that was about to change.

‘Not yet, but I think we will be home by Christmas.’ She smiled. He almost managed a laugh at that play on all the television shows that they had watched on the small machine that came with the flat.

‘He’s awake.’ She squeezed his hand again and felt sudden life flood his system with the excitement of her news. She’d felt it herself. ‘He called to me – it was so loud and clear it woke me. He knows we’re here; he’s been listening. He knows we’re sick.’

Her companion, still looking like the tramp he had so recently played, pulled himself up into a sitting position against his sweaty pillow.

‘He’s really awake?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I understand it all now – why the boy is so important.’

‘Do we go to him now?’ His eyes were wide, as if he’d never expected the news to come. ‘It’s been such a long time.’

‘He’s not ready yet. He’ll tell us when and where.’

‘And then we can go home?’

‘And then we can go home.’ She smiled as she spoke, but her heart twinged. She
hoped
they could go home. ‘I feel stronger already though,’ she added. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Play me some music,’ he said after they’d sat for a moment in silence. ‘There should always be music.’

And so she did.

He moves through the bitter night, his feet pounding against the pavement, thumping out his rage with every stride. His anger makes him stronger than he’s been in a long time and he fights the urge to become everything that he is; to shake off this tiny, frail body. But he can’t afford the wasted energy; he’d only have to pay the price later. These things have become a consideration
.

He pauses on the Embankment and looks out at the other side of the city carved off by the midnight river. Lights twinkle merrily, and further ahead another bridge is lit defiantly against the night. It is beautiful, and the thought feeds his bitterness. He prefers the bitterness to the fear; the fear makes him feel even weaker than his decaying body. The fear makes him feel like one of them, and that he will not abide
.

He turns his back on the water and faces the biting wind. His anger at the futility of their situation was fading. He would recover himself and start planning – tomorrow. He wouldn’t give up – he never had. But for tonight, he would let his power be felt in other ways. It was time to spread his word. For the first time that evening, he is smiling
.

Cass was in the dream again. It wasn’t a room, as such; it was a space somewhere
between
: a place where people became trapped. Cass was pressed against the pale wall, held back by a pressure he didn’t understand, and in front of him his dead brother and dead father stood facing each other. His father was burning, the fire engulfing him from head to feet, his thin hair waving upright in the orange and red flames as if he were under water. Cass could see him; his skin sizzled slightly, but it stayed pale, and his mouth hung open, as if trying to produce words that wouldn’t come. He didn’t look at Cass but stared directly at Christian.

His younger brother was wearing the dark trousers and pale blue shirt he’d been wearing the night he died. His tie was loosened. His shiny black brogues had spots of blood on them. He stood a few feet away from their burning father, the heat lifting his blond fringe as if he were standing in a breeze. Tears ran in streams down his pale face and evaporated on his cheeks. A drop of blood fell from the arm by his side and landed on his shoe. The sound made Cass’ eardrums ache.

Between his father and his brother, a Rastafarian teenager sat cross-legged, holding a baby. The teenager had no face,
but he was staring at Cass from somewhere within the dried bloody mess under his hair. He cradled the baby carefully.

Cass tried to take a step forward, but something pulled him back and he gasped as cold fingers pinched his skin. It wasn’t a wall behind him at all; it was the dead, and they were tugging at him. Hands came up through the floor and pulled him down until he was lying on his back. He called to Christian and his father to help him, but they didn’t move. He didn’t exist to them. He wasn’t there.

Cold bodies swarmed over him and he knew who they were; he recognised their touch. Kate, Claire, Jessica, the poor boy they had thought was Luke, the people Solomon had killed, the student suicides, the doctors, the Jackson and Miller boys. There were so many, and they all blamed him.

He tried to scream, but fingers crammed into his mouth and tugged at his tongue. They were all over him now, pulling his clothes away, eager to tear at his flesh. He caught flashes of hair and angry eyes amidst the rotting skin. For a moment, the ceiling above flashed into view: twinkling eyes within a ruddy face framed with silver hair stared down at him. Cass almost laughed in his terror. Mr Bright was looking down at them all, overseeing the game, as always.

The man lying on the ceiling winked. As he did so, the baby, out of sight, began to cry.

And the dead swarmed.

Chapter Nine

I
t was a strange farewell. After two months under his supervision, Cass still didn’t feel he knew Mac any better than he had on day one, and he figured maybe that was how he liked it. If Cass got nicked, all he could say about the big, bald man was that, despite the nickname, he wasn’t Scottish.