different positions. And I am not alone, as you know. The Dying is coming toall of us – even you, Mr Bright, one day. You won’t be so keen to stay here then.’ He let out a long breath and the stink made Mr Bright grimace.
‘I think mad Mr Solomon was right.’ The fight had gone from Mr Craven’s voice and now he spoke as if only to himself. ‘This whole place is dying. Mr DeVore says the Interventionists are barely projecting any more. The data stream is a jumble of darkness and infrequent nonsense images.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ Mr Dublin cut in before Mr Bright could. ‘We know that the Interventionists are having their own problems. They’ve been changing since they arrived – this could be another phase for them.’
Mr Craven snorted. ‘The only difference between the Interventionists and us is that they want to be dying. If I have to die, I don’t want to do it here, not like this. Not so small .’
‘Please.’ Mr Bright raised his hands. ‘This is getting us nowhere. We’re all agreed we need to find the emissary; that must be our priority.’ He flashed a look at Mr Craven. ‘And just because the emissary has got here, it doesn’t mean she knows the way back.’
The phone on the desk rang and Mr Bright stared at both Mr Dublin and Mr Craven for a second before answering. Whatever the call was, at least it had ended the difficult conversation.
He listened to the excited speaker and then smiled. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there shortly.’ He put the receiver down and allowed for a moment’s dramatic pause.
‘Well, gentlemen.’ His eyes twinkled and golden Glow sparkled triumphantly at the edges. ‘It appears that the First has woken.’
Chapter Eight
T hey were in the pub by half-five, but night had fallen so heavily that by the time they were on their second drinks it could have been midnight. Each time the door pushed open to let red-faced and runny-nosed customers in or out a blast of icy air swirled around the tables, so dry it hinted at snow. It was a perfect nearly Christmas evening.
Hask stared down at his vodka and tonic. He’d made a half-hearted effort at drinking, but his stomach wasn’t really in it. Beside him, Ramsey’s pint was barely touched.
‘This time tomorrow,’ the American policeman spoke quietly, ‘this place will be empty. Don’t you think?’
‘Probably. Worse than that, they’ll all be at home wondering about who they spoke to or slept with last night or last week.’
‘The test centres will be flooded. I guess it’ll at least give the government some real idea of the spread of Strain II through the population.’
‘You think?’ Hask leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his vast belly. ‘I’m not so sure. Most people don’t actually want to know. How many tests did you have before the bug came along? When it was just plain old less-complicated HIV?’
Ramsey didn’t answer.
‘I never had one either.’ Hask smiled softly. ‘But if I saidI’d always played safe, that would be a lie. I just hoped I was fine, and thought that those things tended to happen to other people. Poorer people.’ He sighed. ‘This man is trying to level the playing field.’
Groups of people laughed and joked around them, filled with the optimism that comes with the approaching end to a year and the start of a fresh one. In some ways, Hask envied their ignorance – at least for this evening.
‘Sometimes I get the feeling that the world is on the brink. There’s a strange atmosphere everywhere, haven’t you noticed?’ Ramsey picked up his pint and took two long swallows from it.
‘This is London. There’s a different atmosphere every ten minutes, depending where you are,’ Hask said.
‘Not like this: it’s in the air. It’s as if I’m half-seeing something from the corner of my eye – something big that we’re all missing. But then it’s gone, and I’m not sure if I’m just going slightly mad.’ The
‘I think mad Mr Solomon was right.’ The fight had gone from Mr Craven’s voice and now he spoke as if only to himself. ‘This whole place is dying. Mr DeVore says the Interventionists are barely projecting any more. The data stream is a jumble of darkness and infrequent nonsense images.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ Mr Dublin cut in before Mr Bright could. ‘We know that the Interventionists are having their own problems. They’ve been changing since they arrived – this could be another phase for them.’
Mr Craven snorted. ‘The only difference between the Interventionists and us is that they want to be dying. If I have to die, I don’t want to do it here, not like this. Not so small .’
‘Please.’ Mr Bright raised his hands. ‘This is getting us nowhere. We’re all agreed we need to find the emissary; that must be our priority.’ He flashed a look at Mr Craven. ‘And just because the emissary has got here, it doesn’t mean she knows the way back.’
The phone on the desk rang and Mr Bright stared at both Mr Dublin and Mr Craven for a second before answering. Whatever the call was, at least it had ended the difficult conversation.
He listened to the excited speaker and then smiled. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there shortly.’ He put the receiver down and allowed for a moment’s dramatic pause.
‘Well, gentlemen.’ His eyes twinkled and golden Glow sparkled triumphantly at the edges. ‘It appears that the First has woken.’
Chapter Eight
T hey were in the pub by half-five, but night had fallen so heavily that by the time they were on their second drinks it could have been midnight. Each time the door pushed open to let red-faced and runny-nosed customers in or out a blast of icy air swirled around the tables, so dry it hinted at snow. It was a perfect nearly Christmas evening.
Hask stared down at his vodka and tonic. He’d made a half-hearted effort at drinking, but his stomach wasn’t really in it. Beside him, Ramsey’s pint was barely touched.
‘This time tomorrow,’ the American policeman spoke quietly, ‘this place will be empty. Don’t you think?’
‘Probably. Worse than that, they’ll all be at home wondering about who they spoke to or slept with last night or last week.’
‘The test centres will be flooded. I guess it’ll at least give the government some real idea of the spread of Strain II through the population.’
‘You think?’ Hask leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his vast belly. ‘I’m not so sure. Most people don’t actually want to know. How many tests did you have before the bug came along? When it was just plain old less-complicated HIV?’
Ramsey didn’t answer.
‘I never had one either.’ Hask smiled softly. ‘But if I saidI’d always played safe, that would be a lie. I just hoped I was fine, and thought that those things tended to happen to other people. Poorer people.’ He sighed. ‘This man is trying to level the playing field.’
Groups of people laughed and joked around them, filled with the optimism that comes with the approaching end to a year and the start of a fresh one. In some ways, Hask envied their ignorance – at least for this evening.
‘Sometimes I get the feeling that the world is on the brink. There’s a strange atmosphere everywhere, haven’t you noticed?’ Ramsey picked up his pint and took two long swallows from it.
‘This is London. There’s a different atmosphere every ten minutes, depending where you are,’ Hask said.
‘Not like this: it’s in the air. It’s as if I’m half-seeing something from the corner of my eye – something big that we’re all missing. But then it’s gone, and I’m not sure if I’m just going slightly mad.’ The
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