Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“And if they don’t?” said Molly.

“Then we improvise. Suddenly and violently and all over the place. That’s what field agents do!”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Edwin Drood!” said Molly. “Just because we’re off to visit the witch in her gingerbread cottage. I have a really bad feeling about this. . . .”

“Situation entirely normal,” I said.

It turned out that the greatest and most dangerous telepath of our time had chosen to live in a pretty little cottage down on the Cornish coast, on top of a hill looking out over the sea. Miles from anywhere, with acres of desolate-looking landscape between her and the nearest town or village. Molly and I stepped through the Merlin Glass and emerged onto the very edge of the cliff top. Two more steps and we’d have both been grabbing handfuls of fresh air as we plummeted towards the crashing sea. I couldn’t really see that as a coincidence.

I have tried forming glider wings out of my armour, and I don’t want to talk about the results.

Molly and I carefully moved back a few paces, and I put the Glass away. It had already shrunk down to its original size without being ordered to, as though it were afraid of being noticed. I put it away in its pocket dimension, so called because I keep the separate dimension in my pocket, and looked down. Hundreds of feet below, the heavy swelling sea smashed against dark and ragged rocks, foam flying on the air.

A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and gulls hung in the air above us, keening mournfully. There is an old legend that says the gulls are crying for the sins of the world, and that when we finally get our act together, the gulls will stop crying. It was easy to believe such a story in a desolate place like this.

The cottage looked to be a good half a mile away, as the crow flew: across a bare stone and scrub plain. Molly and I looked at each other and started walking. There wasn’t a single living creature to be seen anywhere, and even the steady sounds of our footsteps on the stony ground seemed strangely muted. As we drew closer, I could see the cottage was fronted by a carefully laid-out garden. A low stone wall marked the boundaries, hand-built in the old style, and there were hedges and flowers and topiary trees. A splash of vivid colours in such a grey setting. We stopped before the wrought-iron gate that was the only entrance to the garden. Beyond the gate, a narrow gravel path led straight to the cottage’s front door. A simple sign beside the gate said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED . Molly and I stood before the gate, carefully not touching anything, peering between the bars. The garden looked lovely.

“I can feel industrial-strength protections and defences hanging in the air, waiting to be triggered,” said Molly. “They feel . . . strange. No magic, no tech, only the power of one person’s mind. I get the feeling we’ll be safe as long as we stick to the path. She knows we’re here, Eddie.”

“I’d be disappointed if she didn’t,” I said. “Stay put for the moment. Let her get a good look at us and our protections.”

“She’s been watching us from the moment we arrived,” said Molly, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. Molly’s never been one for standing around. Not when there’s dashing in where angels fear to tread to be done. “I can feel her attention, like a great weight pressing down, or like staring into a blinding searchlight. The sheer power I’m sensing is downright scary. And I don’t usually do scary. Ah!”

“What?” I said, looking quickly around.

“It’s gone. She’s not watching us anymore.”

The wrought-iron gate swung slowly open before us, the hinges making soft protesting noises. I knew Ammonia could have oiled those hinges, but chose not to, as a simple extra warning system. It was what I would have done. I strode forward, doing my best to exude confidence, and Molly stuck close beside me, head erect, eyes glaring in all directions. The gate swung noisily shut behind us, but I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of looking back. Our feet crunched on the gravel path as we headed for the cottage. The garden really was delightful: open and attractive, with all kinds of flowers, neat hedgerows, and trees trimmed into perfect geometric shapes. Someone had put a lot of work into this garden.

“A peaceful setting,” I said. “For such a famously unpleasant woman.”

“So all the stories I’ve heard are true?” said Molly, still scowling arond her.

“If they’re distressing, awful and appalling stories, almost certainly yes,” I said. “This is a woman who once called the current Anti-Pope a big-nosed idiot. To his face.”

“An accurate description,” said Molly.

“Well, yes, but you don’t say something like that to a cult leader with a private army of fanatical followers. Not to his face.”

“I do,” said Molly.

“Well, yes again, but you’re weird.”

“You say the nicest things, Eddie.”

“I do my best,” I said.

The cottage loomed up before us like a dentist’s waiting room; it might look pleasant enough, but you know there’s trouble ahead. Actually, the cottage, in its delightful setting, looked as though it should be a photo on the lid of a jigsaw box. Say about a thousand pieces, nothing too difficult, you know the sort. A charming, old-fashioned cottage with a brick chimney poking up through the neatly thatched roof, roses curling round the front door, long vines sprawled across the creamy white stone of the facing wall. Two large bay windows on either side of the front door, which, as I drew closer, I could see had no bell or knocker. Ammonia Vom Acht always knew when visitors were coming.

Bees buzzed loudly over the flower beds, and brightly coloured butterflies fluttered by, but no birds sang. Which struck me as a bit odd. And possibly even disturbing. I stopped short of the front door and listened carefully.

“It’s quiet,” said Molly. “Perhaps even too quiet.”

“Why aren’t there any birds?” I said. “Even the gulls are steering well clear of this place. You’re always saying you’re one with the wild woods; what’s wrong with this picture?”

“You’re right,” said Molly. “I’m not picking up a single living creature bigger than an earthworm anywhere near here. Not even a mole or a dormouse. And that’s not natural.”

“This means something,” I said.

Molly looked at me sideways. “Why are you so nervous, Eddie? You’ve faced far worse than this in your time. I know; I was there. This isn’t like you.”

“I’ve always preferred dangers I can hit,” I said steadily. “Telepaths . . . are sneaky. They come at you in unexpected ways, and they don’t fight fair. And this is, after all, Ammonia Vom Acht we’re talking about. You must have heard the stories. . . .”

“Pretend I haven’t,” said Molly. “Get it out of your system. What stories?”

“Some of her more famous cases, then,” I said. “Just the high points. She was once asked to help resolve a case of split personality in a very important and well-connected person, where the two personalities were in conflict with each other. The dominant good guy versus the usually subordinate trickster type. Ammonia decided she liked the trickster personality better, so she made that the dominant personality and put the other one to sleep. Lot of trouble there, until he was finally removed from office with a lead ballot. Another time, she was hired to investigate an amnesiac, only to discover he’d already paid a substantial amount to a previous telepath to wipe all his memories, because he couldn’t stand being the kind of man he’d become. Ammonia agreed, destroyed his memories again, only even more thoroughly, kept all the money the man’s family had paid her, and defied them to do anything about it!”