Rollerskater: Spontaneous
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This instalment contains scenes some readers may find disturbing.
The shoogadoogadoong of a plastic bottle clattering into the bottom of a wastebasket.
“Are you all ready to go on, sir?”
The minty taste of Pepto-Bismol is still in his mouth, but the burning in his chest continues unabated. He can’t understand it, he had a light breakfast and a light lunch, just as his nutritionist recommended, and he did a cardio workout this afternoon. He could be developing acid reflux, but he’s been drinking water, not juice or soda (forgive the Americanism, but he lives in LA for half the year and it’s impossible not to pick up the lingo).
“Yes,” the talent-show judge answers, though that is a lie, of course. For a moment he wonders if he’s having a heart attack, but the ten-thousand-dollar, eighteen-carat smartwatch around his left wrist, which contains a built-in EKG, is not warning of any changes to his pulse. And he can stand just fine, which he does, rising from the dressing-room chair and taking tentative steps for the door, like a baby learning to walk.
He follows the runner from the dressing room, through corridors that smell of linoleum and wet paint, to a backstage area.
There are four of them, but he is the owner of the production company, which itself is a subsidiary of a larger company that also owns his record label. He plays up the “mean role”, the lady with blonde hair and red lipstick plays up the “gormless blonde” role, and the other two are D-list slebs that have been rotated in, the kind that arouse excitement if they guest star in an episode of Doctor Who but will never be invited to the Oscars.
The ultimate goal of this television programme, of course, is to make him richer, though he would never admit to that. The talented and the talentless come to sing for him, and over the course of weeks the wheat is separated from the chaff, until finally some winner is crowned; they win a record contract and a decent sum of money and go on to get exactly one single that gets into the Top 10 Adult Contemporary Charts, or perhaps an Oscar-baiting credits song for some crap blockbuster, and then fade into relative obscurity, occasionally appearing on television panel shows or episodes of Doctor Who. Meanwhile, his production companies continue to generate wealth, and he remains a mainstay of public consciousness and a household name. He considers it a form of symbiosis.
The burning in his chest continues.
Suddenly, he is walking out of the backstage area. Crowds are cheering. It’s the live final. He knows the drill by now, walk out, don’t pay too much attention to the shouts from the auditorium. The stage is set up with an enormous LED screen and fog machines. It will be a showstopper of an evening.
He is given last-minute touches to his makeup before the filming begins. He asks for a pitcher of water, and he is of course given it practically instantly, as if the production staff read his mind, so extensive is their synergy.
Now the show is beginning; two presenters joke and jest on the stage and tell viewers at home how to vote. The routine is as natural to him as it is boring. He gulps the water. Idly, he slips a hand between the buttons of his white shirt and feels warmth in his chest, like he has a fever. He wonders if, under the makeup, his skin is red. Perhaps he has an infection. He’ll rush to Harley Street as soon as he is able, but the show must go on.
After the preamble comes the first act: A thin, reedy, small woman who looks like a primary school teacher, and yet is blessed with a powerful contralto, comes out to sing Il segreto per esser felici from Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia, an opera with which many audience members are going to be entirely unfamiliar; they cannot tell if she actually performs the aria well, only that she performs the aria better than they could. Vote now on your phones.
And now here comes a man with an acoustic guitar and a canvas jacket; he performs “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran, in the histrionic way required of televised talent contests, which is to say that he yodels a vast majority of the lyrics in order to prove his singing ability, and in so doing earns the adulation of fans, who once again, having no frame of reference, only seem to measure his quality of performance based on how well they could sing it. Vote now on your phones.
Now the burning in his chest is worsening. They’re moving to ad break. He asks for Pepto-Bismol. A full bottle of it. It is placed in his hand. He starts by drinking capfuls of it, as directed, but the burning is just getting worse. He ends up swigging from the bottle like it’s beer, minty beer; the chemical blend fills his stomach, but he is starting to sweat. He feels hot. He asks for a change of shirt. The other judges look at him uncertainly.
Back from ad break, and a little girl comes out to sing Bobby Vee’s “Take Good Care of My Baby”. It’s killer schmaltz; she’ll have a record contract in hours if she doesn’t win. Her parents—
burning
Her parents—
burning water
Her parents—
burning water burning
The song ends.
“Are you alright?” someone is asking.
With shaking hands he reaches for the bottle of Pepto-Bismol and drinks the last few drops, then grabs a glass of water and drinks it.
“Hey,” someone says. “I think we need to get an ambulance.”
Ambulance can’t help, get me some water, you useless bastards—
And madly, he seizes a pitcher. The little girl is being escorted offstage. Already the show has cut to commercial, but this is the twenty-first century. The next few moments will be on Twitter in hours, if not minutes. Vote now on your phones.
Now the talent-show judge is screaming. He is screaming because there is a fire in his belly. This is not metaphor.
He is on fire, burning from the inside out. There is a thick miasma emanating from his gaping jaw. Many people in this audience will never eat pork again.
Collapsing to the ground and sweating, the pitcher crashes to the floor beside him. There are still a few drops. Water – water to extinguish the fire—
“Oh my God!” someone is screaming. “Oh my GOD! Fire! Fire!”
He grabs the broken glass. His hands are bleeding. He doesn’t care. He swallows droplets of rapidly evaporating water. He gasps, and feels something rise in his chest.
He vomits steam and fire and smoke like an exploding nuclear reactor, flesh carbonising.
The last thing he sees through his eyes, before they turn to lumps of coal and ash, is a face in the auditorium, where all others are turned from him, fleeing for the exits, staring at him, with a pair of dark glasses on.
The face is smiling.
*
The video on the dusty screen, shaky though it was, showed a man collapsing and transforming into a column of fire and smoke. It was the first time a case of spontaneous human combustion had ever been recorded on film.
K-Os frowned at the looping video, then looked at Socks.
They were sitting in his communal kitchen. Socks was perched on the sofa with a mug of tea, while K-Os was seated at the dining table in front of Socks’s laptop.
“So, what do you think?” Socks asked.
“Well, I strongly doubt it was spontaneous,” K-Os said. “That man was a household name. That was a targeted assassination.”
“Any idea who might be behind it?”
“It’s not one of ours. It’s too public, and the victim was a normal. Public opinion notwithstanding, we had no reason to kill him.”
“Then it was the government?”
“No, not them either. If they wanted to kill someone, they’d put ricin in his food or polonium in his tea – kill him quietly, not so publicly.”
“Well then who was it?” Socks puzzled. “There are two sides in this conflict, right? Wait, no – what was that business with the red crystal? The…vampires?”
“Harri-Bec had a second encounter with one of theirs a couple of weeks ago. This sort of thing doesn’t seem to be within their remit, at least from what we know of them. So I doubt it was them, either.”
Socks sipped the tea and gulped it.
“So…who—”
K-Os interrupted him.
“Things are rarely so binary,” she said. “In this conflict, there are individuals, some of whom happen to be aligned along a particular moral axis. There are individuals who are aligned against those individuals. And then…there are those in the interstice. Those who are a law unto themselves, who answer to no-one.”
“Wait, you’re saying this guy has chaotic abilities?”
“That is precisely what I am saying,” K-Os replied. “But why target such a public celebrity?”
“Perhaps it’s a sick way of sending a message.”
K-Os pondered it.
Socks sipped the tea again.
“Changing the subject for a moment – have you heard anything from Chelsea Rose and Dolly regarding Daisy?”
K-Os looked at him again, her eyes narrowed.
“No,” K-Os said, tersely. “If I had, I’d tell you.”
“It really annoys you that they’re not letting you have input on the operation.”
K-Os seemed to resent the truth in the remark.
“Socks, I’ve seen your species go from arrows to atom bombs. I’m no more annoyed by human stupidity than you are about the stupidity of ants.”
“You sound a little annoyed.”
K-Os huffed.
“Alright, perhaps I am a little annoyed. I just don’t understand you people. I take full responsibility for the capture of Daisy, though I may not show my remorse in a way you deem acceptable, but why does nobody understand that there are matters beyond my control? You are many, and I am but one. You are far too…far too…”
“Chaotic?” Socks asked, sheepishly.
K-Os curled her lip.
“We should find out who this person is,” she said, turning back to Socks’s laptop.
“Well, I agree,” Socks said, “But why, and how?”
“This person is not on our side, Socks. But they are not on the side of government either. Right now, I imagine the government is trying to mobilise people to track the killer down. If they can convince the killer to join them, we could be looking at an extremely efficient assassin.”
“So what are you saying?” Socks asked. “We…recruit him to our side?”
“No. I am saying that the killer needs to be stopped. And would you stop assuming that the killer is a man?”
“Well, see, that’s the thing, K-Os,” Socks said. He held up his phone.
On the screen was a blurred photo. A man with dark skin and sunglasses, dressed in a long black coat, looking away from the camera and grinning widely. Someone, fleeing the killing, had managed to capture the image.
“I think we already have a good idea what he looks like.”
*
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is burning.
The smoke and flames in an airport bring with them panic and distress. People are stampeding for the exits. The fire brigade have rushed in. Heavily-armed officers of the police are shouting orders at panicked passengers. All flights are grounded. Things tipping over become gunshots, doors slamming become bombs. Terrorisme sans terroristes.
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is burning.
These newspapers are free, placed in stacks at the departure gates to provide reading material for passengers flying out. Red-top tabloid pulp with a reading age of just eight years old. Today’s headline: “PM MOURNS DEATH OF—”
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is burning.
The fire brigade extinguish the flames. Outside, a young man with a beard and brown skin is seen running a little too fast. A policeman tackles and beats him. Another officer comes within seconds of shooting him. In six weeks, he will begin court proceedings against the police for wrongful detainment and assault.
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is smoking.
Two women crash into each other in their panic. One breaks her nose, the other her arm. Both are quickly escorted out by policemen and firefighters. There are numerous injuries like this throughout the airport. Paramedics are rushed in to deal with the rapid influx of “panic injuries”.
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is smouldering.
The plastic shelving has melted. There are only a few scraps of pages left. Part of the newspaper’s opinion column (condemning the centre-left social-democratic Leader of the Opposition as a communist traitor and venerating the Prime Minister as a great leader who has by and large led the country through the Episode Crisis) is trapped under a firefighter’s boot.
At Gatwick Airport, a stack of newspapers is smouldering.
The firefighters begin their investigation. Flights will remain grounded for the rest of the day. Precipitating from this single event will be numerous complaints about missed flights and what will later be revealed to be an unnecessary panic.
At Gatwick Airport, a pile of ashes is examined.
The firefighters will soon discover no credible source of ignition outside of the newspapers themselves. A man wearing the shirt for Liverpool Football Club will be held and questioned by police as a potential suspect. In four weeks, he, too, will be beginning court proceedings for wrongful arrest.
At Gatwick Airport, a dark-skinned man with dark glasses slips away amid the confusion.
He looks directly into a security camera, and promptly vanishes.
At Gatwick Airport, a message has been sent.
*
Downing Street and Whitehall were in lockdown. In the streets above, tourists and residents alike were moved along, buses and taxis diverted, armed police at every possible point of entry, with snipers on rooves.
The Cabinet were in the underground room. Gabriel Seymer sat at the end of the table. He put a telephone receiver back on the hook.
“Well, that was MI5,” he said. “The threat level has been raised to CRITICAL. It would seem that the attack on live television the other night was a warning shot. The same man appears to have committed an arson at Gatwick Airport. MI5 believes that this may be a threat directed at me. It is for this reason that we will be working out of this room for the foreseeable future, at least until this terrorist can be stopped.”
“Do we know yet if they have any connection to the Rollerskater?” Afua Boateng asked. The room was dimly lit, and clearly the proposition that she may be trapped here for a week or more was already wearing on her.
“The…strange abilities he exhibits are certainly similar,” Anthony Regent said. “It could well have something to do with her.”
“Of course it has something to do with her,” Barnabas Mortimer said, his face a foul grimace. “These anarchist freaks are all working together.”
“Probably retaliation for our capture of that young girl on Halloween,” Regent added.
“Nevertheless, the Captain is proceeding with caution,” Seymer said. “This man is dangerous. It appears the range of his abilities is determined by line of sight. We are down here because he cannot get a clear line of sight on any of us. We have numerous operatives around Westminster with orders to shoot and kill anyone fitting his description, should they attempt to enter.”
“Pernicious bastards, aren’t they?” Mortimer remarked. “We’ve been much too soft on them. And by we, I of course mean the Prime Minister.”
“I am trying to prevent a descent into anarchy, Mortimer,” Seymer protested.
“Then smash it with fists and feet,” Mortimer replied. “Why the leniency and hesitation? If you ask me, we should have instituted martial law months ago.”
“If I may,” said a soft voice across the room. Mortimer wheeled on Douglas Baird, who had been sitting quietly, listening to the discussion. “Er, Prime Minister, sir, I can allocate extra resources to SAID-MI5 if you feel that will help us stop the Arsonist faster.”
“SAID couldn’t wring piss out of a toilet cleaner’s mop,” Mortimer said. “I say we declare a state of emergency and place the entire nation in lockdown. Deploy the army on every corner. If they see the fucker, or anyone who looks like him, have them ready to turn him into Swiss cheese.”
“Prime Minister, I must protest,” Regent said, indignantly. “This man has shown nothing but disrespect to the efforts of our armed forces throughout this crisis. If you will not remove him, I will tender my resignation.”
“You communist coward!” Mortimer roared. “Why don’t you just go and join the left-wing luvvies, if you hate Britain that much? How did you ever get made Minister of Defence?”
“Prime Minister, this is defamation—”
“That’s enough,” Seymer replied. “I cannot possibly do anything about the arrangement of the Cabinet right now. We are at threat level CRITICAL. We haven’t been at CRITICAL since 2007. If I let anyone leave this room now, and they are killed, the responsibility for that falls on me. The public will lose faith in the government. If that happens, rioting begins. When rioting begins, anarchy reigns. Do you understand? We are safer in here until the terrorist is stopped. For the good of England.”
Mortimer sullenly withdrew.
“You had better hope that he is stopped soon,” he said. “Or anarchy will reign nevertheless.”
*
“You’re really asking a lot of me, K-Os,” Liberty said, sitting on a grass verge in the country park. “You’re asking me to find a man with no name.”
“Nobody else I know has quite so much familiarity with the strings,” K-Os replied. “And it is crucial for our sake that we find him. The strings are our safest bet.”
“I’m no expert on them. My father wasn’t able to teach me much about them before he was taken. And the last time I cast myself into the strings, I loosed a creature that nearly killed your friend. Not to mention losing contact with my father.”
“The current crisis will put your father in danger,” K-Os said. “Understand I do not say this to manipulate you, Liberty. We need to find this man.”
Socks was idly tossing acorns down the verge, watching squirrels scurry after them.
“I’m still not sure why he would do it so publicly,” he said. “It seems very strange.”
“Perhaps this isn’t his first act of violence,” Liberty said.
“You mean he built up to it?” Socks asked.
“Perhaps. Have there been any other unexplained fires recently?”
“Maybe,” Socks said. “But deadly fires happen all the time. Who pays attention to that stuff?”
“We’ll check it out,” K-Os said. “But for now, we need to find this man. Can you do it, Liberty?”
“I can try,” Liberty replied. “Even though we’re some distance from any large population centres, this country park is a little too urbanised.”
“It’s the best we can do,” K-Os replied.
“Alright. Let me find a spot to sit in. I suggest that you and Socks wait here.”
She disappeared down the verge and into a woodland, and her footsteps gradually shrank away behind them.
“I still can’t believe she goes barefoot everywhere,” Socks said. “I wince every time I hear a twig snap.”
“I imagine she’s used to it,” K-Os said. “The last time I went barefoot was an entire universe and some millennia ago. In a relative sense, anyway.”
“I’ll stick with these boots I got in the Notherethere,” Socks said. “They’ve not failed me yet.”
He sighed, tossing an acorn down the hill again.
“Things are weird, aren’t they?” he said.
“How do you mean?” K-Os asked.
“All this stuff with the government. Now there’s a madman on the loose setting fire to TV personalities. And there’s vampires and magic robots. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that God, if he’s out there, was making this crap up as he goes along.”
“I fear you may be right,” K-Os said. “And you know me. I eat gods.”
She gave a rare, very genuine smile. K-Os had a very nice smile, Socks thought, one that she only occasionally saw reason to reveal.
Socks looked down the verge at the bottom of the hill. Two magpies were playing and cavorting in the field below.
“One for sorrow,” Socks said. “Two for joy.”
He saluted them, though that was not strictly necessary – it is only the sighting of one, lone magpie that occasions a salute.
“You people and your strange customs,” K-Os remarked, shaking her head. “As though seeing a bird can in any way alter the structured chaos that is your lives.”
“Well, we believe what we have to,” Socks retorted, though not in a hostile manner. “I think we’d go mad without it. And besides, I saw you blow a man up by giving him a particularly nasty look once, so don’t go criticising me for following certain superstitions.”
K-Os smiled again.
“It has been a strange year,” Socks said.
“Yes,” K-Os replied. “A strange year indeed.”
*
“Have we learned anything about the Arsonist?” the Captain asked.
“No, sir,” Carlson replied. We’re checking birth records for a facial match, but so far, nothing has turned up.”
“Alright, Mister Carlson. Keep at it.”
They were parked in a large camper van somewhere off the M25 motorway, scanning the Internet, radio and signals for any potential sightings.
“The question is, why hasn’t he struck again since the incident at Gatwick?” Carlson asked. “What’s he biding his time for, after making such a public statement?”
“I’m not sure,” the Captain said. “The man is proving elusive.”
“When we get word of him, are we to capture or kill him?” Carlson asked.
“We are under strict orders to shoot him on sight,” the Captain said. “He poses a direct threat to both the head of government and the head of state. He is of no use to us otherwise.”
“Do you suppose he’s working with the Rollerskater?”
“Several members of the Cabinet believe that to be the case, yes.”
“That bitch,” Carlson spat.
“Captain, sir!” a young soldier called.
The Captain walked over to him. “Yes, Mister Jones?”
“I’m picking up a strange frequency here. Listen.”
He handed the Captain a pair of headphones and turned it up. The Captain put the headphones on.
There was a rhythmic, boiling sound, like a synaesthete’s interpretation of how the air disturbances over hot tarmac would sound; like singing Tibetan bowls.
“Music?” Jones said.
“That’s what I thought at first, sir, but no – this is a shortwave transmission. Someone nearby is broadcasting this.”
“How nearby?”
“Well, it’s not a strong signal, so if I were to estimate, probably within fifty miles.”
“Could it be him?” Carlson asked.
“Possibly,” the Captain said. “Mister Jones, get a map and work out what’s in a fifty-mile radius from here.”
“Strange,” the young soldier said. “The signal seems to be getting stronger.”
“Stronger? How do you mean?”
“Hold on…”
VU meters on an old piece of equipment were ticking up steadily.
“This is very sensitive equipment, Captain. These readings are weird.”
“Keep working on it,” the Captain said.
“Well, that’s the thing, Captain. It’s like it’s moving. Moving—”
Carlson coughed.
“Are you alright, Mister Carlson?” the Captain asked.
“I’m fine,” Carlson replied. “I’ve got acid reflux. It’s driving me crazy.”
Jones suddenly tore the headphones from his head.
“God, it’s loud,” he said.
The VU meters were over in the red.
“Jones?” the Captain said.
“Sorry, Captain. I have tinnitus, if I’d left them on much longer I wouldn’t have got a wink of sleep tonight—”
Carlson coughed again.
“Anyone here got any antacids?”
The other soldiers laughed.
“Serious question,” he said. “Jesus, my chest feels like it’s on fire.”
The Captain turned to Carlson and gave the closest approximation of a “startled” look that he could muster.
“What did you say, Mister Carlson?”
Bang, bang, BANG, BANG
Everyone in the van stopped moving and turned towards the back door.
Bang, BANG, BANG, BANG
“Oh Jesus…” Jones said. “Oh Jesus Christ…”
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
The Captain held up his hand to silence the soldiers, and withdrew the Desert Eagle from his hip.
He moved slowly and carefully to the back door, pushed down on the handle, opening it—
Standing outside the van was a tall, black-skinned man, with a buzz cut. He was wearing a long black leather jacket, no shirt, and a pair of grey plaid trousers with brown leather shoes. He was smiling widely at them, and on his face was a pair of dark glasses, each lens containing a tiny, holographic icon of the Virgin Mary.
The Arsonist had arrived.
As ordered, the Captain unloaded the magazine into the man’s chest.
The Arsonist smiled, parting his black jacket, revealing the bullet holes. There was no blood.
“Now, Captain,” he said, his voice as deep and as monstrous as distant thunder on rolling hills. “I’d like to speak to you.”
*
“What do you mean, ‘you’ve found him’?” Seymer asked. “You were given explicit orders to shoot and kill.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” the Captain said, through the speakerphone. “But it would appear that the gentleman is rather trickier to kill than with bullets.”
“Well, is he speaking to you?”
“Yes, but we are keeping him away from any telecommunications equipment in case he poses a threat to you through it. We don’t know the extent of his abilities. So far he doesn’t seem to mean us any harm, but Mister Carlson is complaining of feeling hot. We believe he has been taken hostage, as it were, so that we do as we are told.”
“And what if you simply lose Carlson?” Mortimer asked.
“Then, Deputy Prime Minister, he will take another one of us hostage. And another, and another. If you wish to keep your SAID-MI5 strike force intact, I suggest we go along with what he says.”
“Is there any chance of neutralisation, Captain?” Regent asked.
“Not immediately, Minister. I suggest you all sit tight for now. Keep the military patrols going in Westminster. It will at least send the signal that the government has a handle on the situation. We will do what we can.”
“Alright, Captain,” Seymer said. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That will be all.”
“Farewell, Prime Minister.”
Click.
“Well, there you are,” Mortimer said. “He’s invulnerable. What do we do now? Is there some kryptonite knocking about in the vaults at the Bank of England?”
“This is no time for jokes, Mortimer,” Seymer snapped. “Our most elite Anomalous Persons detainment unit is being held hostage by the Arsonist.”
“And whose fault is that?” Mortimer retorted. “Letting these freaks run amok, because you decided that they have an inherent right to exist in affront to nature and God.”
“What are you implying, Mortimer? That I should have simply opened concentration camps and had them all shot?”
“Considering that it has come to this, yes.”
“I object!” Boateng shouted, rising from her seat. “Mortimer, we are Conservatives, not fascists. Winston Churchill was a Conservative. He stopped men like you, once.”
“Oh, come off it, Afua,” Mortimer replied. “Are we all so blind to the threat posed by these people? It seems that any measure to protect national security these days gets derided as fascism. Is wanting the people of your country to live normal, safe, healthy lives fascist? No. That is simple patriotism. I see the Guardian press has got into your heads. These people are the enemy of Britain. If we had sense we’d have rounded them up and shot them after the Episode.”
“I won’t hear any more of this,” Regent said. “What you’re talking about threatens the foundations of British democracy.”
“Anthony, Anthony,” Mortimer said. “The British people don’t want ‘democracy’. In the last election, a third of them didn’t even turn up to vote. We know what Britons want, really. They want to know that they can get married and have children, watch Coronation Street six times a week, own a German or Japanese car, work honestly, spend frugally, and die having lived brief, though cheerful lives. British people don’t want democracy. They’d rather we did all the hard thinking for them. I doubt many of them would even notice or care if we began to step beyond the so-called ‘foundations of democracy’. No, I think it would be a good thing for Britain if we eradicated these vermin once and for all, and the British people would thank us for our service.”
Seymer breathed deeply and slowly, ponderously.
“These people have human rights, Mortimer,” he said, quietly.
“Human rights!” Mortimer laughed. “Gabriel, as if you really consider that thing in the rollerskates a human being. And the rest of them. Their abilities are superhuman, are they not? Then we are not dealing with human beings. And things that are not human do not have human rights.”
Seymer removed his glasses and removed a handkerchief from his expensive suit.
“In Cabinet meetings, you are to refer to me as—”
“Prime Minister, Prime Minister,” Mortimer sneered, mockingly. “It’s all I ever hear, Gabriel. We went to school together. We fagged together. You were always a snot-nosed, whingeing little bastard, weren’t you, and now here you are, lording it over us. Pretending that you have the moral high ground. You believe what I believe. The difference is, I’m brave enough to say it out loud.”
“That’s enough,” Seymer replied. His voice was as cold and ragged as a piece of black cloth blowing atop a piece of rubble. “Mortimer, when this crisis ends, I am removing you as Deputy Prime Minister. You have my word.”
Mortimer’s lips pursed and quivered.
“Coward,” he said. “Careerist. Failure. Your ministry will be remembered as a blot on our history, Gabriel. Nothing you do to me will change that.”
Silence fell in the Cabinet briefing room.
Douglas Baird, who had until now remained silent, removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead.
“Does anyone else feel hot?” he asked.
*
Liberty returned from the forest some time later.
“Find anything?” K-Os asked.
“Well, no names or anything,” she said. “You gave me very little to go on.”
“Damn,” Socks said.
“Well, hold on a minute. I did find something interesting.”
“Go on?”
“Strange fluctuations in the strings. A lot of thought-forms related to burning.”
“Right,” Socks said. “A lot of people are thinking about it.”
“Well, that’s the weird thing. Just thinking about fire is a static thing; you have a memory and an understanding of what fire is. But these thought-forms expressed intent.”
“Intent?” K-Os inquired, tilting her head slightly.
“It was strange, but it seems to be related to this man’s abilities. But that’s not the strangest thing.”
“I’m not following you,” Socks said.
“Well, with all these thoughts expressing intents to burn, I thought that maybe I’d find him, based on your description…and the strings just fall off when you get close to him. Like when you can’t think of the word you want to use or you’re trying to remember a dream. There’s a presence but…it’s just a big hole. An empty spot in the strings.”
“Wait,” K-Os said. “If that’s the case, then shouldn’t he be—”
“Dead?” Liberty asked. “Even the dead have afterimages in the strings. This is truly bizarre; it’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“That is strange…” K-Os said. “Tied to his abilities, perhaps?”
“Well, I suppose it would have to be,” Liberty replied. “But what that entails I don’t know…”
“I think we’re about to find out,” Socks said.
“There was one other thing,” Liberty said.
“What was that?”
“I felt something…an enormous circular road, with some loud chatter coming from the northwest.”
“A circular road?” Socks asked. “You mean the M25?”
“I know little about roads,” Liberty said. “But based on my limited knowledge…I think that may have been it.”
K-Os looked from Liberty to Socks.
“There’s no time to waste,” she said, and quickly went to leave the park, with Socks in tow.
“Hey, wait!” Liberty said. “Where are you going?”
“If we’re lucky, to stop anyone else getting burned,” Socks said, wincing at his own pun.
“Stay here,” K-Os said. “Stay out of sight.”
“Well, I’m coming with you,” Liberty said.
Socks and K-Os looked at one another.
“I really don’t advise that,” K-Os said.
“Fine, if you want to paw around in the dark,” she said. “But if you take me with you, you might stand a chance of finding this person.”
“She makes a good point,” Socks said.
K-Os considered it a few moments.
“Alright,” she said. “But keep your distance.”
*
The van drove around the M25 to the northwest, and then departed from it, entering a set of lonely, dark streets, before finally reaching an industrial estate.
The doors came open and the Arsonist stepped out, followed by the Captain. Carlson was gasping for breath, his face red and sweaty.
“Can’t we do anything for him?” the Captain protested. “You’re killing him.”
“Just a little fire in the blood,” the Arsonist replied. “He won’t die. I want to be sure you comply.”
“Just who are you, anyway?”
The Arsonist smiled again. “Who I am is not important, Captain. What matters is that you do as you are told. This way.”
The Captain, half-carrying Carlson, and the rest of the soldiers, left the van, following after the Arsonist.
They entered an abandoned warehouse, with white-painted walls and gantries running along the top edge, accessible by stairways and ladders.
Arranged in the middle of the room was a stage built of pallets and tarpaulin, and a set of metal folding chairs with plastic backs.
“Have a seat,” the Arsonist said.
The Captain complied. Carlson was wheezing painfully.
“Water,” he said. “I need water.”
A soldier grabbed a canteen and handed it to him.
The Arsonist leapt up on the stage.
“Now, gentlemen, I’m sure you’re wondering why I have gathered you here.”
“You told us to drive here,” the Captain said. “There is no wonder.”
“Oh, Captain. That is the how, not the why.” The Arsonist laughed, spreading his arms apart. “I wanted to make myself known to the authorities at this time as I wished for an audience.”
“An audience for what, exactly?”
“Ah, that is the surprise, Captain. But first, some preamble.”
“Train your guns on him,” the Captain ordered his men. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”
“Captain, we have already established that won’t work. And I should not wish to bring any harm to your Mister Carlson.”
“The British government does not negotiate with terrorists.”
The Arsonist grinned. “If I may get back on script, Captain?”
The Captain gazed up at him resentfully. The Arsonist continued.
“That television judge was not the first, you know. He was burned simply because I had become so confident in my ability. But no, he was not the first.”
“Then who was?”
“I’m glad you asked, Captain. Do you recall, perhaps, back in October, there was a fire at the home of a controversial preacher? Nasty man. Didn’t like gay people very much, to put it lightly. Encouraged his followers to commit hate crimes. He said, and I quote, that ‘sodomites’ are so hated by God that they burn in Hell forever, yes? Well, I didn’t much like the sound of that. So I let him have a taste of what that was like. Of course, the mercy was that for him, it did not last forever…it is a shame that his poor wife suffered third degree burns when she woke up next to his roasting carcass…”
“So you’re some sort of left-wing terrorist?” the Captain asked. “Is that it?”
“Now, Captain, let’s not get political. No, sir, I don’t have any particular values. I simply see nice people and I see nasty people. And I don’t very much like nasty people. So I burn them.”
“Is Carlson nasty, in your book?”
“He is if you try to kill me again. Even if it won’t work.”
The Captain pursed his lips. “Who’s employing you? The Rollerskater?”
The Arsonist looked at him strangely. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar!” Carlson shouted, then went straight back to wheezing.
“No, I really don’t,” the Arsonist insisted.
“Then how do you know who we are?” the Captain asked.
“Oh, Captain. I thought you’d have figured it out by now.”
“Perhaps I need you to spell things out for me.”
“Very well, sir. Spell things out I shall.”
The Arsonist raised a hand and gripped the Virgin Mary sunglasses, pulling them off. His eyelids were closed.
He opened his eyes.
Though the Captain remained steadfast as ever, several soldiers cried out in terror.
Where eyes should be, there were two bright points of white light, like burning magnesium in the sockets. The Arsonist laughed.
“What you see before you is but a shell,” said a voice like crackling embers in a fire pit. “For I am legion…!”
Another time, another place…
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ARC THREE: NEW CULTURE
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