Christopher Fowler - Disturbia

'Be my guest.' Louie pushed his chair back from the monitor. 'It'll make you crazy after a while.'

'I'm going to have to buy myself a modem. Meanwhile, I need you to keep looking out for related material. Anything that helps explain what the League actually does.'

'Hey, what are friends for?' asked Louie.

On the morning of October the 22nd they met up at a deserted Tex-Mex cafe in Camden Town, and after ordering beers and nachos, Louie leaned forward, checking about himself with an air of exaggerated caution. 'So tell me, Secret Squirrel, how are your burrowings? Get any good stuff yet?'

'I'm three quarters of the way through the first draft now, about 16,000 words in.' Vince accepted a beer, waving away a glass. 'To think that just a short while ago I was eating off bone china. Now I'm back to drinking out of a bottle. Anything good come through on the Internet?'

'I downloaded a ton of stuff, but haven't had the chance to read much of it. It's mostly rubbish. Users who've come across the odd snippet about the League and want to convince you that they've uncovered another Roswell conspiracy, but nobody has any hard information. It's just the usual mystic mumbo-jumbo theoretical bullshit.'

'Well, I may have something.' Vince hunched down over his beer and gave a secretive smile. 'My contact, the good doctor, rang me last night. He made a couple of calls and found out that the Prometheans are holding their next meeting in chambers behind St Peter's Church, Holborn in nine days time.'

Louie made a quick finger-count. 'That's October 31st, man. You're not gonna tell me they're really into witchcraft ceremonies and stuff like that.'

'I don't know, but I need to be in the room where they're holding the meeting.'

'Do you think they'll let you attend? Hallowe'en and all. Could get strange.'

'I'm not going to wait for an engraved invitation. With any luck they won't even realise I'm there.'

'Couldn't you just put a bug in the room?'

Vince threw up his hands. 'How, Louie? How the fuck do you bug a room?'

'I thought you might know.'

'Well, I don't.'

'Okay, if you have to hide inside, try not to get caught, 'cause you'll be the one who's trespassing. They could take you to court.'

Somehow Sebastian thought that would be the least of his worries.

'YOU'RE NOT allowed to go in there,' the porter had told him, holding up his palm. 'Nobody's allowed in. Nobody.'

Vince responded well to a challenge. He had found a way in. He had entered the unassuming Holborn building to find a series of banqueting suites and meeting rooms that were leased out to special interest groups of every kind. He was surprised to find a black felt bulletin board helpfully pointing him up a broad marble staircase to the appropriate suite, but he was early and the great double doors to the meeting room were still locked.

On the opposite side of the corridor someone else's meeting was preparing to get underway. Vince had made himself known to the secretary of the Enrico Caruso Appreciation Society, and had borrowed the cleaner's keys he found hanging from their door long enough to unlock the room. After that, it was simply a matter of finding a hiding place in the chamber and closing the door behind him. He was nervous now, of course, but more in pain than dread. After he had been hiding under the table for almost an hour, his left thigh developed an agonising cramp. He tried massaging the muscle but it stayed locked, tightening further. Just at this moment, as bad luck would have it, they started filing into the chamber.

Ignoring knife-point prickles of pain, he forced the searing leg beneath him and peered out from beneath the crimson altar-cloth. There were twelve of them in all, males of course, no women allowed, and they were clad in rather boring grey suits and sashes. He had been hoping for more exotic attire, something between the Freemasons and the Sons of the Desert, a scarlet fez and a robe for each member at least. The sashes, in opal satin with a silver trim, were particularly camp and inappropriate. Instead of lending them an aura of mystery it made them look like a group of rejected beauty queens. If his leg had not been stinging so badly, he might have started laughing out loud.

What was it with 'clubbable' men? Why did they need to join societies and create funny little rules that only they could obey and understand? Was it a territorial king-of-the-castle thing, or were they so scared of women that they needed to build safe enclaves from them? Why did they need to keep secrets anyway? Who were they hiding them from? The Inland Revenue? At first Vince had assumed it was a class thing, but he remembered his father once taking him to a working-man's club where the wives were not allowed to buy their own drinks.

They were making speeches now, each taking a turn to read phrases from a little leather book that they passed between them. Ritual greetings, a lot of Hail Brother In The Name Of Astaroth gobbledygook. They would be reading the 'Lord's Prayer' backwards next. He had meant to take notes, but the chamber was dark, the space beneath the altar was too damned small, and besides, his dictaphone had packed up for some reason and he had forgotten to bring a notepad; not a good start to his professional literary career.

Six emerald green uplighters illuminated the wood-panelled room so that everything below waist-level was in virtual darkness. The decor in the chamber was telling; Edwardian master-of-the-house (hardwoods, armchairs of green studded leather, tables and chairs with inlaid brass trims), a few Tudor touches (the stone floor, the big gas-powered fireplace with the painted shield), some kind of sporting trophy – fixed on the mantelpiece, a bit of fifties homeliness (cut-glass scotch decanters, tasselled lampshades), a bit of eighties yuppie (the uplighters, the huge desk, Charles Saatchi crossed with Albert Speer), a bit of spooky mystical bullshit (the ornately carved altar, the brass astrological symbols adorning the walls) – and the moth-eaten embroidered banners. The banners.

Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out.

Honour Shows The Man.

Of Cowards No History Is Written.

Danger Is Next-Door Neighbour To Security.

Severity Is Better Than Gentleness.

He That Cannot Obey Cannot Command.

The chamber was rampant with hormonal arrogance. Vince knew for a fact that no woman had ever set foot in here. It was the sort of place where members of a rugby club might come and throw buns at each other before going home to duff up their wives. There was also only one door to the chamber. He wondered if he would be able to get out as easily as he had entered.

There were twelve of them. Was that significant? Zodiac signs, months of the year? Although he could not see clearly from his hiding place, he could tell exactly where Sebastian was standing; their leader was taller than any of the others, and wore a black and silver armband that presumably indicated his higher rank. He looked different from the rest of the gathering; attractive enough to represent their public face, with a fluorescent smile too sincere to be trusted, tall and fashionably pale and very sure of himself. From his vantage point, Vince watched Sebastian standing with his legs planted firmly apart and his muscular arms folded, quietly discussing business with his colleagues. He didn't so much ooze confidence as laser-beam it from every pore. It was the stance of a man who was determined to be taken seriously.

'All right, gentlemen, let's get down to the evening's main business. Who wishes to start the activity reports?' His clear bass tone cut through the general susurration, silencing the room. Vince tilted his head and tried to hear, but the heavy embroidered altar-cloth muffled the replies of the group. Something about 'European treason'. Something about 'initiative'. Snatches of sentences. 'Without borders.' 'Imposing the penalty.' 'Inappropriate behaviour.' 'Breaching acceptable codes of honour.' 'Considerable personal risk.' And then the tone lowered to discuss something that sounded far more serious… but he could hear no more.