The Neon Court (31 page)

“Glad to hear it.”

“But … do bear in mind this.”

“What?”

“That two Midnight Mayors died attempting to fight Woods. Your encounter with Oda left you half-blind and clawing for help. Do you want to be the next name on the list of corpses?”

I stared down at my feet. They were still wearing the big heavy boots I’d stolen from London Underground. I said, “My shoes and coat are in a locker in the disused section of Angel Tube. I want a large cold drink, a hot shower, a clean shirt, an apple and a Kit Kat. One of those big ones – not the two-finger wanky jobs. And not the dark chocolate or orange ones or shit: a proper, authentic, Kit Kat.”

“We can do that.”

“Right. And if there’s any pills you lot have which you use to help you keep awake during major-league crises, I could probably do with that, because I haven’t slept in what I guess counts as days, even though the sun hasn’t happened.”

“Again, we can provide.”

“Good. And someone give Penny a proper meal and a warm safe place to lie down and catch a few winks, set someone over her, make sure she’s safe, ignore the abuse.”

“We can do all these things.”

“Right.” I swung my legs up onto the black couch, lay back to look at the ceiling. “How many dying breaths have you guys collected down the years?”

“A lot,” she replied, picking up the canister and moving it towards me. “The British Library recently started a catalogue. We have no fewer
than seven last breaths of Merlin, although of course we have no way to test which one may actually be real other than having someone inhale them, which, while academically fulfilling, does carry its risks.”

One of the Aldermen detached himself from a wall, and wheeled over a box on a trolley. There was a clear plastic mask with a rubber band along the back, attached to a clear plastic tube that ran into the device. He parked it next to me.

I said, “You’d better do it quick, Dees, because I reckon you’ve got all of thirty seconds before I change my mind and run out of that door gibbering.”

She slid the canister into a slot that seemed designed for the purpose on the side of the machine. Something inside went
clunk
. “You know,” she went on, pulling the breathing mask down over my head and tightening the strap behind, “an unofficial survey six months ago found no fewer than fourteen Merlin’s skulls wandering around the underground markets, and seventy-nine finger bones, with or without mystical adornments. There are probably at least twenty dealers offering fraudulent vials of your blood, Mr Mayor. You could start a business.”

A flicked switch on the side of the machine produced the sound of a thousand giant ants doing riverdance on the inside of its metal case. One of the Aldermen moved towards the end of the bed; one towards the head. I strained to see them clearly: faces like prison walls. A small light on the side of the device went red; then yellow; then green. Dees laid a hand on my chest, palm pressing down on the middle of my breastbone like she was about to do CPR. “This could be a novel experience,” she said, and something at the back of the machine went
click-hiss
.

Nothing happened.

I waited a bit, breathing fast and scared through the mask, and nothing went on not happening.

A breath.

Another breath.

I could feel my heart slowing down.

I said, “You sure this thing is switched on?”

She thought about it, lips pursing tight. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “Let me check.” Then she leant forward, pulled the mask away from my face, peered into its clear plastic shallows, tossed it aside. She leant
down over my face, until her nose was hovering a few inches above mine, and then, very slowly and thoughtfully, pressed both her hands palm first over my nose and mouth. I tried to mumble, then I tried to scream, wrapped my hands around her wrists, tried to pull them free, but the Aldermen were holding down my feet and arms, and her fingers were growing silver claws and her eyes were turning the mad, empty red of the city dragon with its rolling tongue that guarded the old gates of London, and we screamed, our voice lost beneath her fingers. I tried to bite and couldn’t even open my lips, felt as if my teeth were about to be bent out of my mouth, my nose broken, I could feel blood in every tiny capillary, hear it in my head in the small veins round behind my ears, feel the inside of my chest seem to burn and shrivel like ancient dry popcorn, we tried to bring fire to our fingers and it wouldn’t come, the fire wouldn’t come, and Dees just looked at us, with mad empty red eyes and there was nothing human in her face, skin of silver and a rolling thin red tongue that curled and lashed at the air, hair turned to wire, back bending and breaking upwards as the lizard spines burst from the back of her coat. Static burst across my eyes like fireworks breaking and we thought

no no no no no nonononono can’t die can’t die can’t die haven’t lived haven’t lived haven’t lived

and the Pacific Ocean burst behind our ears and there was a pain in my belly like a fist made of barbed wire slicing through flesh and our whole body jerked and twisted and a sound like a dinosaur exhaling its final breath and our whole body snapped, lifted up off the couch, arching onto our shoulders and heels as every bone tried to break free of our chest and still Dees held on and we couldn’t breathe we couldn’t breathe and …

and there was a man standing just behind us.

His head was upside down, but so was the world. His face was old dressed up as merely middle-aged, skin bright, eyes sharp and cheerful, hair receding to reveal a round skull containing a round face that was happy with who and what it was. He was leaning on the palms of his hands, arms stretched out either side of him, like a surgeon examining the patient and wondering whether he should really bother. Then another burst of pain twisted our whole body and we screamed again, his face blurring behind a burst of salt in our eyes that crawled out of
our skin as if all water had decided to jump ship while it had the chance. Something was wrong with the lights, somewhere overhead a darkness that wasn’t just the cave being built in stone around the edge of my eyes, spreading, and then we jerked again and there he was, shaking his head sadly and leaning over to look us in the eyes. His pupils were grey, ringed with pale brown, and as his gaze met ours the pain in our flesh parted and we lay gasping and still, our body a limp bundle of communications interrupted. He sighed. His voice, when he spoke, was deep, level, calm and familiar. It was the voice that had taught me everything I knew.

He said, “Well, Matthew. This is a mess, isn’t it?”

I found I had nothing to say in reply.

His face was the last thing I saw as the world went out.

Because there’s no such thing as “can’t get worse”.

I opened my eyes.

This was an error.

Bakker was sat at the side of the black couch.

He was wearing a striped suit and a grey tie.

He was smiling.

Dead Mr Bakker.

I closed my eyes. I said, “Dees?”

A voice said, almost kindly, “Matthew?”

“Dees – the guy who killed me and who I killed in return is sat next to me and did you try to throttle me?”

There was a brief pause, that might have been something nearing consternation. Then, “No … and no. You started screaming.”

I opened my eyes again.

Bakker was still there. He leant forward, putting his chin on the top of his upturned hand. “Interesting,” he said.

I half turned my head, and there was Dees, sat near the other side of the couch, face pinched tight with weariness and doubt. I had never seen doubt in her before, but the universe had managed to pull a number even on Leslie Dees, Alderman and financial adviser to the ridiculously wealthy. “Bakker says ‘interesting’,” I wheezed.

“You are aware,” she began, “that he is both dead and not real?”

“The dead aren’t real?”

“I meant … in a strictly practical sense.”

On the other side, Bakker said, “She’s absolutely right, you know. What you are experiencing is arguably no more than a metamagical manifestation shaped by a mystic echo highlighted by my own death – which don’t think we’re not going to discuss, by the by – rather than any sort of profound theological or philosophical experience.” I turned back to him. He beamed. “There’s no point attempting to construct this event as anything other than what it is. Although
make no mistake: the fact that you are seeing me so strongly, so promptly, and your reaction to inhaling, if you don’t mind the concept, my dead breath, suggest that the near future will be … all things considered …” His lips puckered in concentration as he tried to find the words. His skin was too pale, thin and translucent. “… I believe the vernacular term which I shall deploy in the interest of being both brisk and to the point – is shit.”

I looked back at Dees. “I want that drink now.”

Wordlessly she handed me a stainless-steel flask. I sat up slowly, angling myself so my back was to the place where Bakker, or not-Bakker, or the thing that was most definitely and absolutely not Bakker’s ghost, was sitting. I unscrewed the lid, saw milk. Dees held up a Kit Kat. “Cup of cold milk,” she said, “and chocolate. The milk should be in a glass, really, but wonders do not universally abound.”

I took the Kit Kat, ripped open the package with my teeth, broke off a stick of chocolate, ate slowly, drowned it with a gulp of milk. When this was done I said, “You still not seeing any ghosts of sorcerers past?”

She shook her head, smiling apologetically.

“Where’s Penny?”

“At a hotel; sleeping.”

“How long was I … ?”

“Screaming, howling, foaming at the mouth?”

“Yeah, all of that.”

“Only a few minutes. Then you …” Her lips thinned. “I believe the term is ‘passed out’. As would anyone, under the circumstances.”

I put the flask of milk to one side, felt my throat, rubbed my knees and elbows, checking for injuries. Every part ached, but nothing more than the usual background throb of sleepless beaten-up fatigue.

I had another stick of chocolate.

Dees watched.

I had another slurp of milk.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

I started on my third line of chocolate.

Dees said, “How exactly does this work?”

“How does what work?” I asked through a mouthful of biscuit.

“How does Bakker’s knowledge work relative to your consciousness?”

I hesitated. “Dunno,” I said. “Try me.”

She shifted her weight on the stool where she sat, leaning forward with elbows on her knees. “All right,” she said. “How do we destroy Blackout?”

Bakker was standing just behind her. He hadn’t been at the beginning of the sentence, and there had been no word at which he appeared; just a breath and there he was, a faintly appreciative expression on his face. I screwed up my eyes tight and thought. “No idea,” I said finally. “Sorry. Not a clue.”

“She’s very to the point, isn’t she?” said Bakker, craning over her shoulder. “A woman who knows what she wants, what she needs, and intends that nothing prevents her from acquiring both these things. She likes you, you know.”

I bit my lip, felt heat rise somewhere.

“Not,” he added quickly, “in any sexual way. No more than is the usual chemical response of a pair of XX chromosomes to the presence of an XY combination. Not sex. But she likes you.” He leant down close, until his lips nearly brushed her face, and she didn’t move, didn’t twitch as the non-air of his non-breath ran over her skin. “Not that she will ever admit it. Far too dangerous to grow close to someone who spends as much time in danger as you do. Decisions could be flawed. Emotions could be damaged. Careers compromised. You’ll never get an invite to watch the kids play hockey from this one, I’m afraid.”

“Mr Mayor? You look … distracted,” said Dees.

“Uh … just appreciating a surreal and psychologically traumatic experience here,” I whimpered, gesturing vaguely in reply.

“These two though,” went on Bakker, straightening up and turning a stern gaze onto the Aldermen, “these two would kill you, if they weren’t afraid that they’d miss. They have it in their eyes: that voice saying do it do it do it do it kill him; but there it is … just on the edge, in the hollow of the tear duct, that other voice saying he’ll kill me he’ll kill me he’ll kill me if I try. You’ve done well, Matthew. While resembling a chewed-up rodent you’ve still managed to make them afraid. Then again, I imagine your blue blood helps.”

For a second, there was a flicker of something else in Bakker, something that sank his cheeks into bone, turned teeth yellow and lined like ancient rotting bone, made scraggly his hair, black his fingers,
nails turned to claws, just a flash, just a flicker, bursting out of the suit and, for just a moment, Robert Bakker cast no shadow. Then it was gone, and he was ambling round the room, trailing his finger along the black couch, turning his head this way and that to examine every detail of his surroundings.

“Oh, look!” he said idly. “You have an apprentice.” My throat tightened, I could feel every lump of phlegm there and every drop of saliva in my mouth. “Fascinating, the inside of your brain, Matthew. An apprentice who you would fight for, die for and, of course, kill for. A sorceress who nearly destroyed the city and you took one look at her and thought ‘she’s a train wreck on legs, a liability and a danger to all around her, let’s take her in because she’ll make excellent company’. I always wondered what made you pick the fights you did, Matthew. Maybe the Alderman is right. Maybe you do need therapy. Post-traumatic stress. Your blood tasted good, when you died.”

I became aware of something slippery under my fingers. The chocolate of my last stick of Kit Kat was melting beneath my touch. I rubbed my fingers clean on my sleeve, all the while hypnotised by Bakker’s slow wander round the room.

“I knew the last Midnight Mayor, of course,” he went on. “He was more imaginative than anyone ever suspected. Making you his successor, of all people! I underestimated him. Not that this knowledge does me any good now, since I am, of course, nothing more than a projection of some traumatic echo of consciousness given shape by my dust, your magic and … of course … your overly stimulated and somewhat disturbed brain.”