Simon Green - Property of a Lady Faire

“Are we talking deniable operations again?” said Molly.

“Yes,” I said. “Because the world’s like that sometimes. Especially the world of the secret agent. When the left hand mustn’t know who the right hand’s killing.”

“Like my parents?” said Molly.

I just looked at her. I had nothing to say. There was nothing I could say. In the end, Molly looked away.

“Am I to understand that you still have several of these . . . safe houses?”

“Yes,” I said. “Scattered here and there and all over the place. Because you never know when you can’t go home again. Like right now.”

And then I stopped, and looked thoughtfully at Molly. She looked right back at me.

“What?” she said suspiciously. “You’ve got that I’m only doing this for your own good look on your face. You should know by now it’s not going to get you anywhere.”

“This mission is all about getting my parents back,” I said steadily. “And the only way to do that is by stealing a major Object of Power from a living legend. Even if we do bring it off, the odds are we’ll end up paying for that crime for the rest of our lives, one way or another. You don’t have to be involved in this, Molly. I’d understand, I really would. You could sit this one out, safe here in your forest, till it was all over. I can take the blame, for the death of my grandfather and of everyone else who died at the Department of Uncanny. For once it really is all about me, and my parents. You don’t have to take the fall with me.”

Molly sighed heavily, and stepped forward to stand right in front of me. And then she slapped my face, hard.

“I go where you go,” she said fiercely. “Now and forever. You should know that.”

My face stung, and my ears were ringing, but I still couldn’t help smiling. “I do know that,” I said. “I just need to be reminded now and again.”

“Kiss it better!” Molly said brightly, and kissed me happily on the mouth. “So!” she said, bouncing eagerly up and down on her toes. “Where are we going?”

“You won’t like it,” I said.

I took the Merlin Glass out again, doing my best to treat it perfectly normally. I gave it the coordinates for a particular safe house I hadn’t used in years, and the Glass immediately jumped out of my hand and swelled up to Door size, hanging on the air before me. A grim grey street scene showed on the far side of the Glass, and Molly and I stepped through the Door and into the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, in the far North of England.

• • •

The first change I noticed was the light. The golden summer of the wild woods was cut off abruptly, replaced by the dour, overcast, and somehow grimy light of a city street on a dark and gloomy autumn afternoon. A cold wind went scudding down the street, blowing leaves and other small things along the pavements. Two long terraces of mostly anonymous housing swept up and down the street.

Molly and I were standing in the middle of Bayswater Road. Rumbling sounds of distant traffic replaced the wild birdsong. The only bird noises you were likely to hear in this neighbourhood were the pigeons, coughing consumptively. Molly shuddered suddenly. I understood. It wasn’t the grey light or the cold wind; it was how dark and oppressive and claustrophobic the city felt, after the wild, open freedom of the forest.

“Everything’s so grey,” said Molly. “Even the air. We’re up North, aren’t we?”

“Newcastle,” I said cheerfully. “A big bustling modern city, with impressive nightlife and a thriving cultural scene.” I looked around. “Not here, particularly, which is part of what makes it such a perfect place to hide.”

I looked carefully up and down the street. Everything seemed calm and normal enough. No traffic, and just a few nondescript individuals trudging along the pavements, intent on their own business and paying no attention at all to their surroundings. Not even a twitch of a curtain at any of the windows, from someone looking out.

“This is an area mostly occupied by students,” I said to Molly. “So people here are used to seeing new faces all the time. Just another reason why I chose this place. This way.”

I led Molly down the street, counting off the terraced houses in my head, until I came to a door that looked familiar. It also looked cheap and shabby and uncared for, which was sort of the point. I didn’t want anything that would stand out or attract attention. Best of all, who would look for a Drood in a setting like this? I produced a key ring I didn’t use every day, and searched through the assorted keys until I found the one that unlocked the waiting front door. The lock turned easily enough, but the door had settled into its frame and didn’t want to budge. Molly looked on, smirking, as I had to put my shoulder to it. The door finally stopped resisting, and let us in. I hit the switch just inside, and was quietly relieved when the light came on. I had set up direct debits for everything through a shell company, but you never know.

The long, narrow entrance hall was gloomy, quiet, and dusty. It clearly hadn’t been used for quite a while. Which was as it should be. The air was still and dry. I looked carefully at the bare wooden floorboards and saw that the thick layer of dust was entirely undisturbed, apart from some rat scratchings and what looked like recent droppings. No one had been here.

I moved quickly from room to room, slamming open the doors and checking out the rooms. My footsteps sounded loud and carrying on the quiet, as though the house resented its long peace being disturbed. I came back out into the hall, and Molly was standing exactly where I’d left her, looking around in a way that made it very clear she had no wish to go anywhere else until somebody did some serious cleaning. I didn’t blame her. There was no carpeting on any of the floors, no prints or posters or decorations on any of the bare plaster walls, and the secondhand furniture had been chosen for its cheapness and utility.

“Yes, it’s a dump!” I said cheerfully. “You’d probably have to spend serious money on an upgrade before it was good enough to be condemned. That’s the point.”

“How can you stand to live in a place like this?” said Molly.

“I don’t,” I said. “This isn’t a home, it’s a bolt-hole. A place to hide out that no one would want to look inside. It has four walls and a roof, and a door I can barricade. That’s all you need in a bolt-hole.”

“I don’t like to think of you living in places like this,” said Molly. “The cold and seedy side of the secret agent life.”

“For years, places like this were all I knew,” I said. “Hiding in unlit rooms, watching unobserved, checking out secrets or people, until it was safe to move on. Not a lot of glamour in the life of a Drood field agent. Until I met you.”

She smiled briefly, and then wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell ?”

“Any number of really unpleasant answers cross my mind,” I said. “I find it best not to inquire. Don’t get comfortable. We’re not staying here long.”

“Best news I’ve had so far,” said Molly.

I armoured up and looked around through my golden mask, checking the house’s security settings. None of the booby-traps had been tripped, and none of the shields and protections had been forced. Everything seemed to be just as I’d left it. I had to stop and think for a moment to work out that it had been eight years since I was last here, bodyguarding an art historian who’d found something nasty living in an old painting. Eight years . . . probably not a good idea to look inside the fridge. I armoured down again.

Molly made her way steadily down the hall, peering through the open doorways and quietly expressing extreme disgust for everything she saw. I didn’t blame her. It was all cheap and cheerful, where it wasn’t damp and dusty. There were cobwebs in the corners, and the sound of small scuttling things.