A Madness of Angels: Or the Resurrection of Matthew Swift (48 page)

 

“Chaigneau wouldn’t tell me who was in charge of the Order.”

 

For a moment his eyes turned to me with an effort; his hands trembled. “Anton Chaigneau? He doesn’t even tell people his name.”

 

“I cursed him.”

 

“You cursed Chaigneau? How?”

 

“He had my blood on his hands. There are some magics that don’t ever change.”

 

Sinclair’s eyes went to Charlie. “Charlie, dear boy… Charlie… leave us.”

 

“Mr Sinclair…” began Charlie, starting forward.

 

“Leave us, Charlie. I’ll call when I need you.”

 

Charlie reluctantly moved away from the door; I listened as he plodded downstairs. Sinclair gestured me closer still, until my ear was only a little way from his mouth and I could feel the strained tickle of his breath. “I mis-spoke when I said, before, that you were a poor sorcerer.”

 

“I don’t remember…”

 

“I said you were not powerful, before you became what you are, Mr Swift. I said you were merely average.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.”

 

“I mis-spoke. You are… were… perhaps… afraid of what you could be, what you could do. That is why you argued with Bakker. You were afraid. He wanted you to give power, so much power, the blood of angels in his veins – you said, Mr Swift, you said – some magics don’t ever change. You were afraid of that power. That isn’t weakness, it is intelligence. To feel so alive, have the heartbeat of a city under your shoes – fear it. Fear what you may do. It is human. For misjudging you, I apologise. And perhaps for misjudging
you
, I apologise.”

 

“You know about us?”

 

“Dear boy, it is my business.”

 

“I accept your apology.
We
accept your apology.”

 

“You are… smart…” he said hesitantly. “Yes, smart. You hide it well, perhaps; but you know when a power shouldn’t be used.” His eyes gleamed in the dull light. “You said some magic didn’t change. Charlie told me what you did, told me about your blood burning blue, told me that… and I know. Should not have lived, they said, fire in the blood. Isn’t that your story? We be light, we be life, we be fire? Such creatures that revel in such living, should not be afraid… Ask me.”

 

“Why does Oda hate magicians?”

 

“Her brother was one. She killed him.”

 

“Why?”

 

“No one knows. They say he turned bad, went mad with his power. I do not entirely believe it. I think they lie, and so does she. It is a question that you do not ask.”

 

“Why did you ask the Order to come to the house in Marylebone, the night we were attacked? Knowing what they are – it was a risk.”

 

“A risk? To expose so many magicians to such hate, yes, well, I suppose… a risk.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I think you may guess.”

 

“Chaigneau didn’t know who was in charge of the Order – he said he followed orders, and so does Oda.”

 

Sinclair’s smile widened.

 

“Mr Sinclair,” I said, struggling to keep some patience in my voice, “are you the head of the Order?”

 

“No, dear boy, no! Just
a
head. One of many. Best not to know how many there are, or who they are, or where they are; dangerous, dangerous indeed. No. A head, Mr Swift,
a
head.”

 

“You use them?”

 

“A tool. If you know who those are who hate magic with such fire that they would burn the world to be rid of it, you can tame them, use them, direct them, yes? Yes, and when you need them, perhaps you can give them that magic that they long to destroy, point them at a target and say, ‘There is the sorcerer’ or ‘There is the shadow’ or ‘There is the demon’ or ‘There is the angel’, yes? And they will strike, and it will not go back to me.”

 

“They have decided to kill me,” I pointed out reasonably. “That has me a little concerned.”

 

“Chaigneau will follow orders.”

 

“How ironic.”

 

“Oda won’t,” he whispered. “Once she has her target, she will not stop. I can tell them to stop – difficult, perhaps, but then you can always say, ‘He is a lesser evil. Let him be damned in his own time.’ There are ways to spin these things. Oda will not stop.”

 

“If you knew that, why did you introduce me to her in the first place?”

 

Sinclair grinned, then flinched at the pain even of that, and gave a grunting sound. “Because you are Robert Bakker’s apprentice,” he wheezed, pressing his fat fingers into his chest like he was trying to massage the pain from his bones. “Because you are the blue electric angels. And if he were to take your power, to catch you and work out how to steal that life that keeps your eyes blue… well… well… imagine.”

 

“So you’d have me killed?” I said, forcing my voice to stay low. “Like that?”

 

“I would have anyone killed whom I deemed a risk,” he replied, voice rising in stern reproach. “And you always will be a risk. But, I think, you will always be smart, and smart enough to be afraid. And perhaps that will be enough.”

 

“We have something else we need to ask.”

 

“Go on?”

 

“Did you summon us? Did you bring me back?”

 

“No, Mr Swift. I would like to see Bakker gone, but to bring the blue electric angels into this world? No. A risk – indeed, a terrible risk. Such a deed would have required a sorcerer’s skills. I would suggest, in fact, that if anyone did summon you, it would have been Bakker trying to bring the angels into being, or, perhaps, his more sensitive apprentice, Dana Mikeda.” He let out a long, easier breath. “You will have to fight her, sorcerer. That’s how it is in these things. Neither of you, I think, can just walk away.”

 

“Dana Mikeda is my problem.”

 

“No,” he murmured. “Not any more. She serves Bakker now. He took her hand when they held your funeral with the empty coffin, and he said he was her friend, her new teacher; now she serves him utterly. He helped her when you were gone; she’s his apprentice now, not yours. And I would not like to think what he may have taught her; no, indeed. You may, in fact, save some time by directing Oda her way.

 

You could eliminate two threats in a single stroke – the woman

 

who…”

 

“No.”

 

“The Order hopes you will destroy each other; Bakker and Swift. Why should these two not do the same?”

 

“No,” I repeated.

 

“I can send the Order word, command them to…”

 

“Our blood is in your veins,” we insisted. “Some magics never change. Leave Dana Mikeda to me.”

 

His voice didn’t alter, nor did his light smile; but there was that edge there, that danger. “Kindly don’t threaten me, blue electric angels. You are so far lost in this world that the lightest push could send you toppling over the edge into madness. Save your anger for someone else.”

 

I swallowed. “There is one last thing I need to know.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“The night we were attacked, the first night I met you…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Who attacked us?”

 

“At a guess, San Khay’s men.”

 

“And who sent the litterbug to attack me on my first night?”

 

“Those kinds of magic… Guy Lee.”

 

“How did Guy Lee know where I was?”

 

“I would suggest,” he said carefully, picking every word out like a piece of stuck apple from between his teeth, “that the house you were living in was sold on after your death to a woman who works for a company called KSP. KSP stands for Kenrick, Simmons and Powell and is the company run by Harris Simmons. I suggest that, since you clearly returned to a place of comfortin your old home, she phoned Simmons on the night of your resurrection and warned him that a naked, confused-looking man had just crawled out of the telephone lines and that perhaps someone should investigate. Lee would have been the one to send the litterbug; Khay would have been the man following on foot. You see – the Tower doesn’t like loose ends.”

 

I thought about the business card stolen from a wallet in my old home that I’d seen on the first night of my new life; Laura Linbard, Business Associate, KSP. I said, “I… I had friends, before this. I haven’t dared… it seemed risky to…”

 

“Until the Tower is gone,” replied Sinclair flatly, “everyone you knew or valued is being watched. Bakker will know by now that you are… perhaps shall we say… more than you once appeared. He’ll have worked out why the phones went silent the night you returned; he isn’t a fool. He will do anything he can to find you and if that means killing the people you once knew, he will. That’s the Tower, Mr Swift, that’s why you should really be fighting rather than from any motive of revenge; and when this is over that’s what I will tell people you died for – a good, heroic cause, rather than your loosely defined sense of injured personal pride. My advice, if you’ll take it – and please, consider it well intended – is to forget everything you were and everything you think you can continue to be; to stop imagining that things can go back to normal when Bakker is dead, and accept. You are not Matthew Swift any more.”

 

I nodded. “Mr Sinclair,” I murmured, “I feel I must tell you something.”

 

“Of course, of course.”

 

“There are times when I can believe that you are right.” I met his eyes, and he didn’t look away. “There are times when there isn’t
us
in our skin, when there isn’t the fusion of miscellaneous life and thought that is what we have become, Swift and angel mixed up into one great roiling cauldron. There’s just me, just fire in the blood, just vengeance and anger and pure blazing blue life. I let the angels be all that I am, let them do what they want and… do you know why, in the telephone lines, we would tell those who wished to listen, ‘come be we, and be free’?”

 

“Enlighten me.”

 

“When we are the angels, we do not care about the thoughts of men, or their laws, or their ideas, or their conceptions of morality. We are beyond that, above that, free from these petty fictions by which you live your days – laws, rules, duties, responsibilities. We are pure fire and light and life, and nothing can contain us or bind us, and nothing can make us die. That is what it is to be free. That’s why I
let
them be me.” I straightened up, shook my head. “That’s it. That’s all that I wanted to tell you.”

 

“A curious choice of conversational matter,” he said with a half-laugh. “Are you telling me in the hope that I will… maybe reconsider my orders; perhaps, even, permit your demise? A strange hope, for a creature who blazes without thought for lesser species in its path. Perhaps you’re just telling me for the sake of telling someone. It must be lonely, yes indeed, of course it must, inside your life. Not quite anything at all. Not quite human, not quite angel. Come be we and be free – and you’re stuck as both, and neither. Indeed, difficulties, naturally. I am tired.”

 

“Tired? Is that it?”

 

“For now,” he replied, waving absently towards the door. “Charlie!” He hardly raised his voice and Charlie was there. I stood up, acknowledging my dismissal, and noted his slow, shuddering breaths.

 

“Mr Sinclair?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Who do you think betrayed us the night you were shot? How did they know we were there?”

 

“A pertinent question, indeed, yes. I would say Oda – but no, it isn’t her style. Perhaps the warlock…”

 

“He’s dead. He died fighting Lee. Lee stuffed paper down his throat to catch his dying breath.”

 

“Indeed.” Sinclair showed not a tremor. “I trust the fortune-teller, she has too much history to be a convincing suspect; and the wizard died. The Bag Lady, well, she is…”

 

“I know about the Bag Lady.”

 

“Well, then,” said Sinclair mildly, “you are starting to run short of suspects, aren’t you, Mr Swift?”

 

I nodded and forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr Sinclair. I hope you recover soon.”

 

“I will, Mr Swift, I assure you, I will. It’s all in the blood.”

 

I glanced at his face, but his eyes were shut and his expression that of a sleeping child, innocently relaxed as if it had always been that way. I let Charlie show me out, and wandered off in search of a bus.

 

 

This is the history of Harris Simmons.

 

He was born Harry Simon in a small town just outside Colchester, a fact that he didn’t like other people knowing – to the tune of one dead teacher, a mysteriously vanished family member with a Swiss bank account, and an arson attack at the local County Records Office. At the age of twenty-two, Harry Simon disappeared from his job at the local estate agency and Harris Simmons materialised in London with a degree in Econometrics from the London School of Economics, a perfect new pinstriped suit, a big briefcase, an accent that could have been polished on velvet and three months’ work experience with HSBC in Boston. Perhaps it was simply a bad year for PricewaterhouseCoopers in terms of intake – or perhaps they respected the kind of man capable of forging such credentials, as a useful asset to the team on his own basic merits. Whatever the reason, potential employers found it hard to say no to such a confident and self-possessed young gentleman, and Harris Simmons was soon earning more per bonus than his entire family had earned in twenty years of taxi-driving and bar service down at the pub. Sinclair ascribed no great moral evil to the fact that Simmons no longer supported his family – once he was so much more than just Harry Simon, he didn’t look back; and that, it was grudgingly admitted, was probably the only way to survive, with such an ambitious agenda.

 

At twenty-five, Harris Simmons became the youngest, best-paid executive inside the Golden Mile, that area of EC postcodes in the centre of London where between Monday and Friday you cannot move for sharp suits, and which on Saturday and Sunday lies as still as the morgue. Somewhere around this point, he was also introduced to the supernatural, and on the realisation that it was possible to manipulate markets by something as easy as cursing a German steel company on the Wednesday, having invested in their competitors on the Tuesday, he took to it with the slick ease of a man bred to such devices. At the age of twenty-six, a few months before I abruptly found myself dead beside the river, Harris Simmons was approached by Mr San Khay on behalf of a budding new finance and investment company largely owned by Mr Robert Bakker, and asked if he would like to be a partner. When he demanded what this company had going for it that made it worth his highly expensive time, the answer was simple. Market manipulation was a profitable business and at this company they knew the value of a good goblin in the files. Thus, Kenrick, Simmons and Powell was born, and quickly swept into the FTSE 100 and onto the markets with Simmons’s hand at the rudder. Indeed, its success was so astounding and its predictions so true and accurate, as it followed market fluctuations, that several discreet investigations were launched within its first year, in an attempt to determine whether it might be influencing events to its own advantage. But no conclusive evidence was found, and even the concerned citizens, of whom Sinclair was one, had difficulty understanding how such a new company could have such astounding success.