note from P. Ngwenya turned out to be a picture of a woman – presumably the P. Ngwenya in question – making a giant thumbs-up sign from on top of the Statue of Liberty. A caption underneath read:
WISHED YOU WERE HERE, BUT THE LOCALS SAID THEY LIKED THE QUIET LIFE
A quick note from one A. Huntley wished Mr Swift well in his enquiries, and invited him to drop by the Fields any time he needed further advice. An even shorter note from C. Wijesuriya informed the Midnight Mayor that the matter was being looked into, but, personally, she didn’t think it likely.
A few emails down from the still-populating top of the screen was one headed:
[A. Hacq] Re: umbrella
“That one!” Sharon exclaimed. “Umbrellas! That one there!”
Rhys clicked it. It seemed to take a very long time to open. As it did, Miles came through the door, holding, with some dexterity, three steaming mugs of tea. “You got into the emails?” he asked, laying the mugs down wherever he could find.
“Rhys did.”
“Ah – of course. I suppose you used the base incantation, routed through a proxy rack, yes?”
“Um… yes,” said Rhys.
“Good trick that – lovely to see it still works.”
Rhys bit his lip, and didn’t answer. On the screen, the email from A. Hacq unfolded with the softness of a stick insect. Sharon peered at it. It was one line long.
Found the needle. Tonight, 11 p.m., Longshore Quay, Deptford. Bring money. A.A.
That was all.
Sharon looked at Rhys, and Rhys shrugged. She turned to Miles. “Know anything about a needle?”
“I’m afraid not. Should I?”
“Dunno – guess it depends whether you’re a minion or a swot.”
Miles beamed, which Rhys couldn’t help but feel was the wrong reaction.
“Anything else from this guy?” she asked.
Rhys peered through the inbox. “One today.” It, too, was headed as re: umbrella. Rhys went to click on it, then froze. “Uh…” he began.
The screen shimmered. It seemed, to Sharon’s eye, that half the screen decided to go one way, while the other half went the other. It happened in the blink of an eye, and then settled back to normal service, but there was no denying the moment had happened. Rhys’s finger was frozen over the mouse button, ready to strike. But strike it did not.
“It’s got an attachment,” he murmured.
“Is that good?”
“It’s a hex file.”
“And…”
“ Uh…” This time, Rhys’s “uh” was the protracted, painful “uh” of someone seeking to give very bad news. The screen flickered again, and this time Sharon saw something move within it. It was a shadow, there only when the picture distorted, but, for a second, just a second, something was staring out at her from inside the screen.
The something was grey, pixellated, twisted, and had eyes.
Rhys lunged forward and turned the screen off with a sudden, decisive movement. “It’s a hex!” he called, pushing Sharon away from the computer hard enough that she stumbled over a pile of paper and fell sprawling into a great mass of files. “I need magnets!” he cried, diving under the desk and pulling the power cable out of the back of the computer. Miles was already making for the door with the not-quite-run of a man who wishes to be seen as making merely a strategic withdrawal, not a full-blown retreat. Rhys continued clawing cables out of the machine, but it still went on giving a rising, determined whine. Sharon looked up at the screen, and, though it was black, the glass was warping; something was trying to push its way out like the screen itself was liquid, trapped within a barrier no thicker than a sheet of cling film. Something long and thin; something which, as it pushed, developed shape, grew protrusions, grew, unmistakably, claws.
“Rhys!”
Sharon scrambled to her feet. Rhys stuck his head up from under the desk, saw the claw and exclaimed, “I really need m-m-m-magne… atchoo!”
“Rhys, this would be a great time to take your
WISHED YOU WERE HERE, BUT THE LOCALS SAID THEY LIKED THE QUIET LIFE
A quick note from one A. Huntley wished Mr Swift well in his enquiries, and invited him to drop by the Fields any time he needed further advice. An even shorter note from C. Wijesuriya informed the Midnight Mayor that the matter was being looked into, but, personally, she didn’t think it likely.
A few emails down from the still-populating top of the screen was one headed:
[A. Hacq] Re: umbrella
“That one!” Sharon exclaimed. “Umbrellas! That one there!”
Rhys clicked it. It seemed to take a very long time to open. As it did, Miles came through the door, holding, with some dexterity, three steaming mugs of tea. “You got into the emails?” he asked, laying the mugs down wherever he could find.
“Rhys did.”
“Ah – of course. I suppose you used the base incantation, routed through a proxy rack, yes?”
“Um… yes,” said Rhys.
“Good trick that – lovely to see it still works.”
Rhys bit his lip, and didn’t answer. On the screen, the email from A. Hacq unfolded with the softness of a stick insect. Sharon peered at it. It was one line long.
Found the needle. Tonight, 11 p.m., Longshore Quay, Deptford. Bring money. A.A.
That was all.
Sharon looked at Rhys, and Rhys shrugged. She turned to Miles. “Know anything about a needle?”
“I’m afraid not. Should I?”
“Dunno – guess it depends whether you’re a minion or a swot.”
Miles beamed, which Rhys couldn’t help but feel was the wrong reaction.
“Anything else from this guy?” she asked.
Rhys peered through the inbox. “One today.” It, too, was headed as re: umbrella. Rhys went to click on it, then froze. “Uh…” he began.
The screen shimmered. It seemed, to Sharon’s eye, that half the screen decided to go one way, while the other half went the other. It happened in the blink of an eye, and then settled back to normal service, but there was no denying the moment had happened. Rhys’s finger was frozen over the mouse button, ready to strike. But strike it did not.
“It’s got an attachment,” he murmured.
“Is that good?”
“It’s a hex file.”
“And…”
“ Uh…” This time, Rhys’s “uh” was the protracted, painful “uh” of someone seeking to give very bad news. The screen flickered again, and this time Sharon saw something move within it. It was a shadow, there only when the picture distorted, but, for a second, just a second, something was staring out at her from inside the screen.
The something was grey, pixellated, twisted, and had eyes.
Rhys lunged forward and turned the screen off with a sudden, decisive movement. “It’s a hex!” he called, pushing Sharon away from the computer hard enough that she stumbled over a pile of paper and fell sprawling into a great mass of files. “I need magnets!” he cried, diving under the desk and pulling the power cable out of the back of the computer. Miles was already making for the door with the not-quite-run of a man who wishes to be seen as making merely a strategic withdrawal, not a full-blown retreat. Rhys continued clawing cables out of the machine, but it still went on giving a rising, determined whine. Sharon looked up at the screen, and, though it was black, the glass was warping; something was trying to push its way out like the screen itself was liquid, trapped within a barrier no thicker than a sheet of cling film. Something long and thin; something which, as it pushed, developed shape, grew protrusions, grew, unmistakably, claws.
“Rhys!”
Sharon scrambled to her feet. Rhys stuck his head up from under the desk, saw the claw and exclaimed, “I really need m-m-m-magne… atchoo!”
“Rhys, this would be a great time to take your
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