Burn Mark (20 page)

His wife hugged his arm and giggled. Her violet eyes were glassy. Lucas wondered if she was quite all there.

It was a relief to be called into the lecture hall. He settled down in his seat and tried to look attentive, even though the speaker, an American academic from the Salem Institute of Witchkind Studies, was not a particularly inspiring one. The only point of real interest was when Silas Paterson came on stage to say thank you at the end. So this was Josiah Saunders’s second-in-command at the Witchcrime Directorate. Lucas thought he looked intelligent, if forbidding; a tall, silvery man with a dark stare and a stately manner.

Afterwards the audience was invited to ask questions or comment.

Gideon got to his feet.

‘Religion has always been opposed to witchwork, and used to be our first defence against it. Does this mean that people in the secular West feel less of a moral imperative to limit witchwork than those in faith-based societies?’

‘Hrm, hmm. An interesting question,’ said the academic. ‘Perhaps someone in the audience would like to respond –’

Before he could think better of it, Lucas was standing up too. ‘You can use religion to justify whatever you want it to,’ he said. ‘Take Islam – the Koran forbids witchwork, yet some clerics argue that it’s legitimate in some circumstances. Witches are often condemned in the Bible, but King Saul goes to the Witch of Endor for help, and Moses performs witchwork-like miracles before the Pharaoh. So we need to deal with the world’s witchkind on a rational basis, not through faith or superstition.’

‘By way of UN Declaration 192, you mean?’ There was a sneer in Gideon’s voice. ‘Calling for the global decriminalisation of non-practising witches might be “rational”, but it achieves nothing.’

‘It would be more effective if people actually understood what it was about,’ Lucas replied. ‘Or managed to get its name right. I assume it’s
Resolution
192 you’re referring to.’

Somebody laughed. Gideon’s face tightened with anger as the audience rustled and hummed.

The academic looked uncomfortable. ‘Thank you both for your . . . er . . . thought-provoking contributions,’ he said. ‘I only wish we had the time to address them further. Now, if anyone else has a question –?’

Lucas sat back in his seat. He was almost as pleased with himself as when he’d first crafted the glamour.

His satisfaction didn’t last. Leaving the lecture hall, he wasn’t able to ignore the frown on Jonah’s face. And during the ride home, his father was more than usually quiet. ‘You shouldn’t have tried to argue with Gideon,’ he said at last. ‘You need to avoid anything that might draw attention to yourself – attention from inquisitors in particular. And Gideon Hale is going to go far.’

Lucas felt his heart twist. His father was only trying to protect him. But at the end of the day, Gideon was the kind of son Ashton Stearne should have had, and they both knew it.
Thank God I’m leaving for the coven
, he thought.
It will be better for both of us once I’m gone.

Harry Jukes made contact with Nate on Monday morning. Nate listened to a voicemail, frowned, then took his phone into the hall to listen to it again. Glory was careful not to look too interested when he came back and stood in the doorway to the lounge, chewing his lip.

‘What’s up?’ Jacko asked. He and Chunk, with Glory’s help, were packing up fake Chanel No. 5 bottles to sell online. The digitally-printed labels looked just like the original, and the perfume smelled pretty good as far as Glory could tell, though when she tried a spritz it gave her a rash.

‘A call from Lord Snooty. Y’know – the kid who deals our party-pills. And gave us the tip-off for the Dalton Street job.’

‘Has he got us another break-in?’

‘Dunno. His message’s all garbled. I’ll give him a bell.’

Nate went outside to make the call. He came back looking troubled. After pacing around a bit, he went to talk to Auntie Angel. Half an hour later, and still frowning, he went out. Glory watched him go down the road, but couldn’t quite work out if he turned right or left at the end of it. He must have asked the old lady to make him an elusion. Forty minutes later, he phoned Angeline, and she left the house too.

The two of them came back from their rendezvous with Harry mid-afternoon. This time, Nate had a swagger in his step. Earl, Patch and the boys were summoned to a conference in the basement stronghold. Auntie Angel might have insisted that Glory was included, but on this occasion she wasn’t told a thing. Nate shot her a triumphant look as he and the others trooped down the stairs.

Glory went to sit on Number Seven’s front steps. Several of the fake perfume bottles had faulty caps, leaking their sickly contents into the lounge, and she needed some air. There were traces of vomit on the pavement below. Joe Junior, presumably. As the coven’s so-called boss, he should be leading the meeting to discuss Harry Jukes; instead, he was sleeping off his hangover. Nate probably reckoned that if he recruited a witch for the coven, he’d get to be boss for real.

Glory scowled. Sooner or later, Nate would mess up big time, and the others would see him for the flash prat he was. Then Nate would have to be put in his place. But that was her problem – not the Inquisition’s or the police’s or WICA’s. Auntie Angel was adamant she’d fixed things up so that Cooper Street had immunity from whatever doom was heading the Morgan brothers’ way. Glory wasn’t entirely convinced. It wasn’t just her own safety she had to worry about. Nate and the rest were her responsibility too.

Someone came out of the door and sat on the step beside her. It was her dad.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Basement conference. I weren’t invited.’

‘Ah. Would you want to be?’

‘’Course. I’m a member of this outfit, ain’t I? I shouldn’t be hanging round like a spare part. I need to
do
stuff.’

Patrick stared down at his threadbare slippers. His big toe was poking out and he wiggled it reflectively.

‘Yes. You’re like your mum in that way.’

Her heart leapt. Glory had decided long ago to stop asking Patrick questions about Edie, because she saw how much it hurt him. Most of her stories came from Angeline. Now she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Am I? For real?’

‘Edie was like no one I’ve ever known.’ Patrick was still gazing at his feet. ‘You’re brave like her, and smart. Restless too. But your mum was a very private person. She’d been hurt, you see, in her past. It made her strong in some ways, fragile in others. I – I tried to look after her. But that wasn’t enough.’

There was nothing Patrick could have done to save Edie. As soon as Charlie Morgan had her in his sights, that was that. Soon Glory would have to tell her father the true story. It was why she’d been avoiding him over the last few days – the prospect was too wretched to contemplate. Now, however, she wondered if he might find the news a relief. Closure.

‘I know how important becoming a, er, witch is to you,’ he said hesitantly. ‘And I hope you get your wish. But it’s a lot . . . a lot to deal with. The pressure and so on. I think your mum . . . well, she found it tough.’

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
If
I come to it.’ Glory tried to smile, feeling the weight of secrets inside her, an indigestible lump. ‘I just have to make sure I’m prepared.’

‘Prepared . . . yes . . .’ Patrick nodded slowly. ‘That reminds me – Charlie phoned. He wanted to know how you were getting on. Some research project, he said.’

Balefire and blast him. Phoning her dad was a special kind of warning. A pointed reminder of who called the shots.

It had been a long time since Glory had taken a problem to Patrick, but sitting side by side on the steps having a proper conversation for once, she felt the urge to confide in him. ‘Frank had a look at our books,’ she said. ‘He told Charlie that someone in Cooper Street’s on the fiddle.’

‘So Charlie asked you to investigate?’

‘Yeah. I’m pretty sure Nate’s to blame, but I need to prove it.’

‘Hmm.’ He was quiet for an infuriatingly long time. Then: ‘It wasn’t Nate. It was Patch.’

Glory gawped at him.

‘His kid brother has a gambling problem,’ Patrick continued placidly. ‘Owes serious cash to some serious people. Patch said he’d help. Times past, he could’ve gone to Joe and asked for an advance. In this case, it seemed easier to sort things himself. So he siphoned off some cash from the Bishop’s Green depot job. It was only meant to be short-term, but when a debt someone else owed him didn’t come good, he panicked. That’s when he came to me: asked if I could fix the numbers, buy him some time. He’s been paying the money back in instalments. I should’ve known Frank would spot it.’

‘Damn right. You gone soft in the head or what?’ Glory got to her feet. She was more worried than angry. She liked Patch. He used to perform card tricks at her birthday parties when she was a kid, and only last week had nicked a stash of glossy magazines for her. With effort, she relaxed her tone. ‘Never mind. I’ll phone Charlie myself and sort it out.’

Patrick scratched his unshaven chin. ‘Um, maybe I should make the call,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Or Angeline. You should be out with your friends and enjoying yourself. Not worrying about coven business.’

‘Somebody’s got to.’

He looked at her with unfamiliar seriousness. ‘I know you want to find a purpose, Glory, and something to work for. But I don’t think it should be this place.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh . . . well . . .’ Patrick shrugged and blinked, his moment of authority already fading. ‘Nothing really changes here, does it? Same old, same old. It’s too late for us. It could be different for you.’

No, it’s too late for me as well
, thought Glory.
I’ve agreed to bring a government spy into our home.
Whatever happened afterwards, she knew nothing in their lives would be the same.

Awkwardly, she bent down and kissed her dad’s bald spot. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said.

Chapter 17

Lucas didn’t arrive at the coven until nearly ten on Monday night. The walk from the tube took him past smart Victorian terraces and yuppie wine bars, but the closer he got to the Rockwood Estate, the more run-down the buildings and people became. At the turning to Cooper Street, two skinhead hulks on bikes that were too small for them drunkenly circled the road.

For a moment, he couldn’t think what he was doing here. How had he got into this? It was impossible, absurd. Then he looked into a car’s cracked wing-mirror and saw Harry in the glass. Oddly, it steadied him. He was playing a part. He was wearing a costume, not clothes: loose layers over baggy jeans, as sloppy-looking as Harry himself. Whatever he did, whatever happened, was Harry’s problem. Lucas Stearne didn’t exist in this kind of world.

The lights were on at Number Seven, and music thumping into the street. Lucas knew if he hesitated for any longer he might never go through with it. He pressed the bell.

Nate Braddock let him in. A tight white vest set off his sun-bed tan and pumped torso. His hair was slicked back, his grin cocky, as they clasped hands in the hall. ‘Er . . . all right?’ said Lucas weakly. In his meeting with Nate and Angeline that afternoon, he’d had a script to follow. Adrenalin carried him through. But then he’d been in a public space, with Zoey close by. From here on, he was on his own.

The hallway was stacked with all kinds of stuff – crates of booze, shoeboxes, electronic equipment that looked expensive, and cutlery sets that did not. Before he knew it, Nate was leading him into a large room filled with people. Huge speakers pounded out drum and bass, shaking the door, the floor and the windows in their frames.

‘Glory!’ snapped Nate. ‘Fetch Auntie A.’

The girl glowered – she did a lot of glowering, Lucas remembered – but did as she was told. Nate indicated Lucas should take her seat.

He sat down, sweating slightly. The room was stuffy and smelled of unwashed clothes and hash, with a weird floral undertone. Like somebody had been spraying a particularly sickly air-freshener. Most of the space was taken up with a greasy-looking leather suite, and the largest TV and stereo Lucas had ever seen. A grizzled black man handed him a beer.

Earl, Lucas thought, trying to match the faces to the photos in his case file. Earl was sitting by Patch, who was thickset and acne-scarred. There were two younger guys, one with a long, pimply face, the other darker, with a tattoo of a snake on his arm. They must be Chunk and Jacko, and Harry – when played by Agent Barnes – had met them briefly before. Lucas returned their nods of greeting. A middle-aged man, who in spite of his sagging jowls had a look of Nate about him, was propped up in a corner.

Nobody said anything while they waited. They just drank, smoked and stared. The music was only switched off when Glory and Angeline returned. Lucas was interested to see that the old lady didn’t look as decrepit as before. Her wrinkly face was made up with childishly bright cosmetics, like a doll’s.

She pointed at Nate. ‘You checked him for the dubyas?’ Her voice was firmer too.

The three Ws were witchwork, weapons and wires. Earl patted Lucas down and searched his clothes while Nate went through his sports bag. Although Lucas was expecting this, he still tensed up. The glamour’s amulet was concealed in the strap of his cheap watch. But he had one more ready-made, hidden in the false base of a deodorant can.