Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Skimpole seemed uncharacteristically cowed. “I see. How can we help?”

“The Directorate has recently come under my purview…” He tailed off delicately. “There will be changes.”

“Changes?”

“Remove the boy,” Trotman demanded. “Then we can talk.”

Skimpole bent down and whispered in his son’s ear: “Go upstairs. Wait for me there.”

The lad nodded and lurched uncertainly away, manfully tackling the mountainous staircase alone and unaided. Throughout his son’s short life, Skimpole had never ceased to marvel at his courage.

“Take a seat,” Trotman said once the child had left. “This won’t take long.”

Meekly, Skimpole did as he was told.

“I shan’t be coy,” Trotman said. “I’m a plain man. (Judging from the expensive cut of his clothes and general air of affluence, this was transparently untrue.) “I expect frankness from my subordinates and I intend to grant you that same courtesy.”

Dedlock and Skimpole nodded, mock-appreciative.

“The Directorate has become a liability. Your methods are unorthodox, your agents unaccountable, your security laughably easy to penetrate. Slattery never should have got within spitting distance of this room.”

Dedlock began to protest but Trotman motioned for him to be silent. “Let me finish. You’ll have your say in due course.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I query the necessity for all this cloak-and-dagger behavior. Hiding beneath a butcher’s shop in Limehouse. All these agents of yours running around in fancy dress.” He tutted, appalled at the flamboyance, the showmanship of the place. “I’m sure if that particular foible of yours had never become policy, Slattery never would have got so far as he did. I have to be honest, gentlemen — the perception amongst my colleagues is that the Directorate is run by men who delight in wasting time, money and resources and who take altogether too much pleasure in dressing up.”

“Can I say-” Dedlock began.

“You may not,” Trotman countered briskly. “You know the correct procedure for registering your views and I think it’s time you used it. You’ve operated above the law for too long. I understand my predecessor had some sentimental attachment to you. Rest assured, I do not share that weakness.”

“What will you do?” Skimpole asked quietly.

“The Directorate is to be dissolved, effective immediately. If it ever becomes necessary to reactivate it, I can assure you it will be under different management.” Trotman softened. “Gentlemen, you needn’t worry. Your pensions have been arranged. You’ll both be provided for. And if I may be entirely honest, Mr. Skimpole, you really don’t look well. A man in your condition ought never to have been allowed so much responsibility. I suspect retirement will suit you.”

“Haven’t you read our reports?” Skimpole protested. “We’ve got two days until the city comes under attack.”

Trotman favored the albino with a withering look. “I think this crisis of yours his been vastly overstated. I’ve seen no hard evidence of a conspiracy. I’ve had absolutely no intelligence of any substance from you whatsoever. I find your reports to be recklessly alarmist and I seriously question your methods of information-gathering. I’m appalled that any government department should rely upon the word of a fortune-teller. We owe the Vigilance Committee a debt of gratitude in that affair, I think.”

“It will happen,” Skimpole insisted. “Innocenti was right.”

Trotman smirked. “I doubt we need concern ourselves with a nebulous threat conjured up by a table-rapper, do you? In my opinion, Mrs. Bagshaw is far better off in America. They’re a credulous people on that side of the Atlantic. No doubt she’ll make a killing.” Trotman got to his feet. “Pleasant though it is chatting with you, gentlemen, I have to go. I’ve three other meetings this morning.”

Dedlock stumbled up. “Please-”

Trotman waved him away. “If you wish to register a complaint you may speak to my secretary. Thank you for your attention. My department will be in touch shortly. Good day to you.”

Trotman sauntered from the room, whistling softly to himself (he was the kind of man who whistled a lot), apparently oblivious to the devastation he had left in his wake. Uniquely, Dedlock was lost for words.

“It’s outrageous,” he said at last. “They can’t do this.”

Skimpole didn’t seem to hear. “Stupid,” he murmured. “He’s left the city open to attack.”

“We’ll appeal. Speak to his superiors. Go to the top.”

Skimpole’s voice sounded distant and muffled. “Won’t do any good. He needs to be dealt with immediately. I know of only one body with such power. Highly unofficial… and not without an element of risk.”

“Who?” Dedlock asked eagerly.

“You know their names. I shall not speak them here.”

Dedlock sank slowly back onto his chair, suddenly ashen, the ruddy health draining from his face. “You’re not serious?”

“Afraid so.”

“You’ve no idea what they can do.”

Skimpole leant forward. “I can’t allow all this to be torn down. It’s the only thing left to prove I ever lived.”

“Bit morbid of you, old man.”

The albino staggered up. “I must go. My son is waiting. Leave this to me.”

Dedlock let him go, not trying to stop him despite his suspicions about what he was planning. He snapped his fingers and one of the ersatz Chinamen appeared at his side. “You heard everything?”

The man bowed. “Yes, sah.”

“Well, then. Bring me a bottle of brandy.” He grinned. “Two glasses.”

Skimpole had barely got clear of the room before the attack hit. He grabbed at the stair rails and jackknifed in agony, clutching his stomach impotently and biting hard on his tongue to stop himself from crying out. He hoped desperately that Dedlock wouldn’t leave the room and find him like this. As soon as he was able, once the worst of the pain had passed, he began the ascent to the shop above. He arrived to find his son chatting amicably to the proprietor, mercifully innocent of all that had transpired below.

“Thank you,” he said, wheezing his way across to the boy. “Thank you for looking after my son.”

“My pleasure.”

Skimpole began to shepherd his charge to the door when he stopped and turned back. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve never asked your name?”

The Chinaman grinned. “No, sir.” So he told him his name, something monosyllabic that began with a W . The albino forgot it, of course, almost immediately, but at least, just once, he had asked.

Out on the street, the two of them hailed a cab. Several passed by empty, refusing to accept so grotesque-looking a cargo, and it was some time before one finally stopped.

“Where are we going?” asked the boy as they clambered aboard.

“A special place, underground.”

“What’s it called?”

“I’d be breaking the rules if I told you.”

“Oh.” The child looked disappointed, but even at his young age he had begun to appreciate the necessity for discretion.

Skimpole ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and decided to relent. No time for secrets any more. “The Stacks,” he whispered. “They’re called the Stacks.”

Mr. Cribb peered across the cafe table at Edward Moon.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Last time we met you weren’t quite this friendly.”

“We have to be quick. The Somnambulist doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Would he mind?”

“He has this… It sounds ridiculous… This bete noir about you.”

“Really? Do you have any idea why?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Ah, well.”