Turquoiselle (19 page)

But
ignore the effect – doubtless stage-managed and sensibly unbelievable. The main
question now was another one. Anjeela Merville had stressed, many times and by
differing means, the two first and second syllable letters of her name. And
they made up the very same code clue as the others from Mantik. A and J and M
and V left SD. So what –
what
– was this woman’s connection with
Dusa, who had betrayed Mantik, and shopped Carver, and died as her reward?

Eighteen

Yellow.

Straight
through and done with turquoise and lime. Yellow now: 4th Level Alert.

Carver
had dropped asleep, drugged this time by silence and the surrounding wrap of
the dark. He thought he had dreamed of Anjeela again, standing under a magenta
maple tree that had burned through the greenness of the woods. “Drop your
pants,” Anjeela said. As
he
had said it. But that was all.

The
morning light was coming back now too. And above, the yellow glow in the shed
was dissolving. Did he only imagine it had become fully yellow? Or did he
imagine it was
not
yellow, or
lime, that it was the same greenish blue as it had been before or did he–?

“
Energies
.” Croft’s
voice, distinct as if physically heard. “
Nostocaris. That fish. Shining Knife. Casts no
giveaway
shadow.
Someone without a soul
.”

Carver
got up. His body felt stiff and unwieldy for a moment. But he was physically
well enough trained this went off at once.

He
was hungry and dry and his bladder angry. He pissed against the tree, thinking
of late revellers going home from the pub through the village woods around and
behind his house there, that house he had owned and lived in with Donna, and
how the drunks peed on the trees, as if this counted for anything.

He
considered Johnston also for the turn of one thought. What Johnston had been
doing, and why, and what had happened (forget fake reassurances) to Johnston
when Croft’s army, the nameless Us, arrived to grab Carver. And what had
happened to Donna, Maggie. And who had really assisted, or themselves only
facilitated Silvia Dusa’s blood-letting death.

By
then he was walking directly south towards the up-and-down building. The unwieldy
shape was soon clearly visible, some of its night lights still on, and the day
returning in pale waves. There seemed a lot of smoke going up in a solid column
on the far side. The smell of old burning was stronger now. A hundred large
wooden things – logs, chairs, tables – thoroughly consumed, a thousand bacon
sandwiches crisped to ashes in their flaming hearts.

Drawing nearer
to the building, Carver found he went by and through small herds of people
sleeping, or beginning fretfully to wake, on the ground. There was a scatter of
campers’ tents, some of which, inadequately erected, had collapsed. The
remnants of the fires lay on seared black mats of scorched turf. One or two had
kept partly alight. He saw at least five that had at some point got out of hand
and spread – marks of fire-extinguisher wet, damage to tree trunks and
foliage, a blackened creeper.

To
the south side, even so, at least from here, the smoke pillar actually seemed
less; its stench hung low. All this was like the aftermath of a poorly run
music festival. Along the edges of the gravel drive a couple of the rose urns
had been broken. Flowers spilled, showing their thorns.

Now
and then, as he passed, he had encountered a burst of random abuse, the sort
you might get from an unknown drunk dissatisfied in the street. Up close to
the building, Security was roaming about. The men looked as they had after
Charlie Hemel’s death. They were untidy, as if dressed and assembled in
unexpect
ed
haste, asked to act, and employ
methods they were entirely unused to and had not ever practiced.

One
man came shouldering over to Carver. The man’s hair had been slicked back
impatiently, and flared up in misaligned quills.

“Where
have you been?” he rapped.

“For
a walk.”

“Where
are you going?”

“Inside,”
said Carver.

“Get
in and stay in,” said the security man.

“Why?
What’s happened?”

“Don’t
fucking argue. Get in, go to your room, and stay put.”

“Sure,”
said Carver.

He
went past the man who, he was aware, turned to stare after him, making certain
the returnee did as ordered.

Other
people were milling around a side entrance when Carver reached it. They were
quarrelling fiercely, dedicatedly. One of the men was in tears of frustration. “You
think too much, you don’t
listen
–” Carver went by them. They seemed not
to see him. But as he moved into the as yet still night-lit hall space beyond
the door, one of the women ran after him. “Wait! Wait!” she cried. She flung
her arms around him. He tried gently to ease her off but she would not let go. “Why
have I had to wait so long for you?” she asked. There was less recrimination in
her voice than sadness. He did not know her, could not recall even noticing her
before. She was fairly ordinary, pretty, slender, average age and type. “Don’t
leave me,” she said, piteously.

Drugs
again, this time used on her, or by her on herself? Alcohol? She did not seem
particularly drunk or high. Only – upset.

“What’s
the matter?” He could hear the caution in his tone .

So
did she. “How can you be so cruel to me? After all this while – You and me.
Everyone
recognises that
– why can’t you?”

She
was insane. Something, or someone, had driven her mad. Just as the bicycle had
driven Charlie Hemel to the cliff’s edge and over.

“OK,”
Carver said. He patted her shoulder. “We need to talk, then.”

“Yes!”
she exclaimed. “
Yes
.”

“I
just have to see Croft,” said Carver – would she remember who Croft was, his
apparent significance? It looked as if she did, thank Christ. “I’ll be about
half an hour. Then I’ll meet you here.”

“Can’t
I come with–”

“You
know what he’s like.”

She
appeared puzzled then, already losing the thread because it made sense and so,
to her now, was meaningless.

“See
you soon,” said Carver. He moved from her grip and she let her arms fall.

As
he got into the first lift he could find, he did not glance back. She was
crying now, like the guy outside. Like Van Sedden. (Donna, Sara.) Too many
tears.

The
lift went up three floors only. Carver got out on the third, tramped down an
empty corridor that had coloured photographs on the walls of ships and castles,
and no windows. Turning into another corridor, lights on and lined by closed
doors, Carver picked up a low buzzing sound, some machine, and farther on several
voices shouting, words lost. No other evidence of life. But there was a second
lift. It would descend, judging by its placement, to a different area of the
building than the hall-way where the mad girl waited. Carver got in the lift.

When
the doors opened on the next floor down, another of the security men stood
there, and beckoned Carver brusquely out.

“Daddy
wants you,” he said jeeringly.

Croft?
Presumably. Or someone else who claimed to be in charge.

This
was a madhouse, Carver thought. Whatever organisation had nabbed him that night
in the village, was more than merely a collection of watchers or rivals or,
possibly, enemy agents at war with Mantik. Whatever these unnamed operatives
were, or had in mind, entailed something (
something
) indecipherable.

Even
should all this latest oddness prove to be some massive and choreographed set-piece
of mind-fuck, meant solely to break and remodel Carver, they themselves would
have to be genuinely crazy to waste so much theatre on him. There was
definitely no purpose to it. Carver was not a “
Star
”. He knew nothing and had access to
nothing of any true value. So – did they then mistake him for some other one
who
did
or
had
?
Scar
, he thought.
Three Scars. And I am what?
Say maybe the
Second Scar.
But
they think I
am the First – or the Third
– The one that
really
counts
.

Nineteen

The beaming girl
in the front office of Croft’s section was not beaming. She wore a cream kimono-ish
dressing-gown and her bare feet were up on a desk while she sat drinking tea.

“What?”
she asked, as the buttons by the metal door let Carver and the man in. “We’re
not open yet, you know.”

“You’re
open. Mr C wants this one.”

“No
he doesn’t.”

The
security man pointed out a chair for Carver to sit in. “Park yourself there and
wait.”

Carver
again obeyed. The guard shot a look at the girl. “Stupid bitch,” he said, in a
tepidly analytical manner.

The
girl ignored him. He went out.

The
door shut.

The
girl began to colour her toenails vivid phosphorescent crimson. From the polish
the long room filled with an acid and chemical odour. It seemed to Carver nail
varnish, as with hair lacquers, conditioners and similar things, had carried a
less raucous smell in his childhood. This stuff was like paint-stripper.

“Do
you fancy some sex?” the girl asked, squinting up, if remaining beamless.

Carver
did not reply.

“Well?”
she demanded.

“No
thanks.”

“No.
It’s too early isn’t it? Maybe later,” she added vaguely. “I’ll see how I feel
then.”

From
outside, and six, seven storeys down, there came a sudden rush of noise, a
seawave smashing on the blinded windows.

Carver
got to his feet, walked to the nearest window and slammed the blind upwards.

Beyond
the pane, below, the generalised vista of grass slopes, trees, and – currently –
the debris of the previous night’s celebrations. A large burned patch showed
baldly off to the left. Between that spot and the building, a strip of the
gravel margin and another urn in pieces, petals lying like torn out, freshly
coloured toenails.

Small
figures, dwarfed by distance, were fighting. Empty wine bottles were being used
to bash heads in. Even as Carver scrutinised the scene, a man fell face down on
the gravel. Another two men, laughingly, kicked him. A woman, unseen, was
screaming. (“
Cunt!
Cunt!
”)

“Is
Croft up here?” Carver asked.

“Oh
yes,” said the girl. “Why don’t you just go in? You can find your own bloody
way. I’m sick of traipsing about after you all.”

A
broken glass sound splashed from below. An object flew up also, very fast,
flung towards the window, running on air but falling short; a woman’s high-heeled
shoe.

Carver,
having left the window, put his hand on the panel by Croft’s door.

The
door undid itself and there was the inner room, the orderly chairs, and the
desk, the large window behind it with its blind firmly down. Croft was standing
by the window. In silhouette, but already moving away, coming out towards
Carver.

“Thank
God you’re here,” said Croft. “I thought they might have trouble locating you.”

His
voice was calm, but heavy. His face, now daylight described it, the same. It
was a fact, he did not look particularly English, but that meant nothing.
Legally born and bred in Britain he could be citizen and patriot, until proven
otherwise.

His
hair
was real. It
had become dishevelled enough that had it been a piece, gaps would be discernible
and were not.

“Did
you have much trouble?” Croft asked.

“In
what way?”

“Coming
through the building, or – were you outside?”

“Yes.”

“Something
has happened,” said Croft. “I don’t know what and getting any info through has
become a nightmare. Communications – out or in – are no longer feasible. Most
of the IT has gone down. The computers will only – what was it they said? –
yes. They’ll only let you play games on them. Fantasy games. Kill the Giant,
Rob the Wizard, virtually buy a virtual farm. That kind of enterprise. Nobody’s
phone works. Mine certainly don’t. None of them.”

Carver
waited, but Croft now paced across the room to the left, back to the centre,
back to the left. He stood there, then, by a steel-fronted cabinet. He stared
into the steel, clicking his teeth.

“Do
you know,” Carver said, “what–”

“What’s
caused it? No. Nobody does. Or, the ones that are still compost mentis don’t–”
(Did he say that? Compost not com
pos
?) “And the rest of them,” said Croft. “Well.
You’ve seen. Something introduced,” Croft elaborated, “through the water
system perhaps, although that is, of course, supposed to be inviolable. All
Security is supposed to be. Or it’s something in the air, a gas, maybe...
Nobody spotted so much as a hot-air balloon... But it has caused anyway
trouble. You’ve seen. We’re in trouble. And getting worse. We have,” said
Croft, “you and I, to get out of here, Car. Quick as we can.”

“All
right.”

“Just
us,” said Croft. “The rest – anyone who’s still in working order – will have to
fend for selves. You and I. We’re important.”

Fantasy
computer games, Carver thought. Escape from the Danger Zone. And how,
precisely? He had noted there were no cars, no sort of real transport, anywhere
visible – perhaps some big underground parking facility existed. He had not, of
course, been shown.

“But
it won’t be done without trouble,” said Croft.

Trouble
. He had said
the word three, four times now. “Just play it cool, Carver. We play it cool.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.
You and I.”

The
door opened and the unbeaming girl stamped in with a tray. There was a coffee-pot
and a jug of water. The pot rattled emptily, and the slopping water did not
have its courteous ice-and-slice. She set the tray on the desk.

“Thank
you,” said Croft stonily, not as he had on that other occasion.

The
girl now said nothing. She went out again, failing to shut the door.

Croft
shut it. “We’ll take the lift down to the side terrace,” said Croft. “That part
of the grounds has as a rule less traffic – with luck, not enough of them will
be out there to cause immediate concerns. This is going to be tight shit,
Carver. Can you handle that?”

Carver
nodded once. He thought of Anjeela a moment, wondering where
she
was. But his
brain was by now mainly exploring the abrupt new idea: that Croft could enable
them – Carver – to leave the confines of the ‘Place’. For there
was
a boundary, a
way out – there had to be – and Croft would know where it was and how to use
it. Chaos had come. And as any of the gods in any proper fantasy game (even in
the Bible) knew, from chaos might be created – anything.