Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

Delbert made a face. ‘Of course! Of course!’

The lock clanked loudly and the thick door creaked inwards. Liam heard it almost immediately — the muted sound of something not so far away throbbing deeply. He glanced at Rashim who smiled back approvingly.

The generator’s close by. Perfect.

‘Here we are,’ said Delbert, stepping inside. He raised the lamp in his hand and shadows danced around the empty space as they filed in behind him. Above the throb — more of a vibration sensed through the brick walls and the floor than it was a sound — they heard the faint squeak of rats scuttling for the safety of a dark corner.

The girls will just love the idea of that.

‘I don’t believe yer goin’ to get any more private a place than this, gents!’ Delbert’s voice rang off the bricks, an almost endless echo that seemed to take an eternity to finally fade to nothing. He picked up a thick candle sitting on the floor amid its own solid nest of melted wax and lit it.

With the extra flickering light, Liam took in more details of their surroundings. It was about a third smaller than their archway under the Williamsburg Bridge. And no other rooms off this space. This was it. A rectangle of stone-slab floor, about twelve yards by six, encased by a low curving ceiling of bricks. Almost a dungeon… if you let yourself think about it that way. Or like a large cabin aboard some vessel. Liam suspected that the ever-present pulsing throb would eventually be no more a distraction after a while than the engine of an ocean liner.

‘This would be an appropriate location,’ rumbled Bob finally.

And we can make it like home, can’t we?

The other place had been just as spartan and grim as this. But they’d managed to make it comfortable. Make it theirs.

‘All right, Mr Hook,’ said Liam. ‘I think you have yourself some tenants.’

Delbert slapped him amicably on the back. ‘Oh, come now, to hell with this Mister Hook nonsense! Call me Hooky, or Del if you want, young man.’

He turned to face Liam with a mock-serious glint in his eye. ‘But not Delboy. Right? I draw the line at that!’ He flexed his neck and tugged down on his waistcoat, a subconscious tic of his, so it seemed. ‘The last cheeky plonker called me that ended up with a big fat lip. Didn’t he, Bertie?’

‘Uh… it’s Herbert actually.’

Delbert sighed. ‘Now, boy, let’s not show off in front of the clients. Right, then! Let’s go and discuss the rent, gentlemen!’

He led Liam and Bob out of the room. Rashim remained behind, taking in the space a moment longer.

‘You’re really an inventor, sir?’ asked Bertie.

Rashim shrugged. ‘More a quantum technician really.’

The young man didn’t understand the term, but seemed impressed with it all the same. ‘Well, that sounds jolly exciting, sir.’ He offered his hand to Rashim. ‘I do hope we shall have a chance to talk some time. I’ve got some ideas I’d love to share with you, if you’d care to…?’

‘Uh? Oh… sure, Bertie.’ Rashim shook his hand. ‘Yes, we’ll talk some time.’

‘Pft! You know, Dr Anwar, I hate it when Delbert introduces me with that damnable nickname. It’s only him that calls me Bertie. No one else!’

Rashim snuffed the candle out and stepped back out of the room to follow the others before the receding light of the gas lamp dwindled to nothing and they were left in the pitch-black darkness.

‘Herbert,’ the young man called out after Rashim. ‘My name’s actually Herbert.’ But Rashim wasn’t listening; he was trying to catch up with the dwindling lamp light.

The young man was alone in the gloom, the skittering of emboldened rats emerging now it was almost wholly dark again. ‘I was jolly well christened Herbert George Wells! Not bloomin’ Bertie.’

But Rashim had turned a corner and was gone.

7 October 2001, Harcourt, Ohio

Sheriff Marge McDormand cradled the mug of green tea in both hands as she stared at the computer screen in front of her.

‘Hell of a crazy world,’ she muttered to herself.

‘What’s that, Marge?’

‘Nothing, Jerry,’ she replied. She looked past the computer at her husband, sitting in the desk opposite hers. ‘And it’s “Sheriff” during office hours, my dear.’

Jerry pulled a biro out of his mouth and sighed. ‘It’s not enough I’m your office boy?’

‘The term is “Deputy”, hon… and that’s only until we can find someone else to stand in.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m sure we’ll find someone soon. Then you can go back to being a kept man.’

She looked back at the screen. Quiet day in Harcourt. She’d done her rounds this morning. Nothing much to write up. A stolen car dumped outside Gary’s Bar. No harm done to it other than the driver’s-side window forced and the steering column’s plastic hood broken to jack the ignition. That and giving Henry Learry — the town drunk — a lift in the squad car back home to his anxious wife. Marge had found him fast asleep behind the wheel of his truck after a night binge-drinking, still way too soaked to be trusted to drive the thing home safely.

Those were the sort of things that Marge dealt with day to day. The occasional problem with kids breaking into and messing around in the abandoned factories, the occasional domestic dispute, the occasional kitty stuck up a tree. That was it. Police work in Harcourt.

Suited her. She was far too old to be dealing with real crime. She carried a firearm on her hip, but in five years as sheriff here she’d yet to unpop the leather flap of her holster in the course of doing her job.

Which was just fine.

The morning’s breakfast round had ended up as it always did at the diner where she’d got into the habit of picking up a take-out coffee and doughnut for Jerry and a green tea for herself. The Williams girl, Kaydee-Lee, usually served her and kept her there talking about everything and nothing for five minutes longer than it took to serve up the order.

That poor young girl’s so lonely.

Marge wondered why on earth she stayed in Harcourt. This place was a town with a past, not a future: a glorified departure lounge for an ageing population that seemed to shrink by a couple of dozen every harsh winter.

This morning, though, Kaydee-Lee had had some company. A disarmingly pleasant young man with an interesting accent and charmingly old-fashioned manners. For some reason Marge thought he was Canadian until she got back in the car and placed his accent. Irish. The pair of them seemed to be getting on like old buddies. Thick as thieves.

That girl needed someone in her lonely life. And the young man seemed to be a nice enough find.

Good for you, girl.

Marge sipped her tea and returned to her routine of grazing through news websites and the state police intranet pages. The world really seemed to have gone quite mad in the wake of that terror attack in New York. The President was busy banging a drum for the whole world to go to war with Iraq for some reason. Even though there was evidence surfacing that the terrorists had mostly come from Saudi Arabia.

Go figure.

And what about those guys in Afghanistan? What were they called? Tally-something? Jerry kept calling them the Telly — Tallies. Like those children’s characters on TV. Weren’t they more likely involved in attacking the Twin Towers than this Saddam Hussein fellow over in Iraq?

Marge shook her head. Americans were quite rightly angry. Tens of thousands of New Yorkers were grieving for loved ones right now, but now was surely not the best of times to be making big decisions like who to go to war with.

The boys want a war. She sighed again. And they’ll get their war sure enough.