‘What if you don’t like the information?’
‘Then you don’t get paid.’
Sugar Niner gave such a huge and human sigh that I was certain it was put on for effect.
‘It’s a pattern of behaviour,’ he said. ‘The best agent you can have is a trusted member of the opposition, and that’s the same for them, too. So you need to be able to spot someone on your own side who’s been recruited.’
‘Do foxes join the opposition?’ I asked, even as I wondered who the opposition was.
‘No, but we learn about it in training so we can keep an eye on our human allies.’
And Sugar Niner had been taught about Henry Busybody, who worked for the Department of Important Business and thus had access to war secrets.
‘Which war are we talking about?’ I asked.
‘Not relevant,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘This is a training hypothetical.’
So the opposition has three main weapons to gain Henry Busybody’s co-operation – money, sex and ideology, or, as Sugar Niner put it, ‘Cheese puffs, mating and cat dependency.’
‘You don’t really mean cat dependency,’ I said.
Sugar Niner admitted he’d gone off track a bit. Money and mating were useful, but ideology was better because your potential agent will be cheaper, self-motivated and more likely to neglect their own safety.
‘But the thing is,’ said Sugar Niner, ‘nobody just wakes up in their den one morning and thinks that a long-haired Persian is the epitome of creation. First they have to engage with other cat lovers, to be exposed to the ideology of cat supremacy, until they are willing to put the interest of felines ahead of their own.’
‘Are we still talking about Henry Busybody and the war?’
‘Or that the National Socialist Party is the last hope for national salvation,’ said Sugar Niner – a bit testily, I thought.
‘Do you even know who the National Socialist Party were?’ I asked.
Sugar Niner hesitated.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But that’s not important. There’s a pattern – Henry Busybody takes an interest, meets a couple of cat fanciers …’ Sugar Niner paused again and recalibrated. ‘A couple of fascist sympathisers, reads some articles in the Daily Mail and thinks they might have some good ideas.’
It was obvious that Sugar Niner had no idea about the Daily Mail, fascism or probably World War Two – it was all Bible stories to him. I had this sudden vision of a classroom full of foxes being taught basic espionage techniques and each of them translating Henry Busybody’s flirtation with fascism into something more culturally appropriate.
‘But the thing is, you can’t have a useful agent if they have cat hairs all over them,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘They’d be spotted immediately.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Are you at war with the cats? Are they the opposition?’
Sugar Niner looked shifty.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who or what the opposition is.’
‘So what’s all this business with cats?’
‘Cats are dangerous, cruel and sneaky,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘They make good …’ His brow creased as if he was translating some difficult fox concept in his head.
‘Scapegoats?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Sugar Niner delightedly. ‘Excellent scapegoats.’
‘What has this to do with Brian Packard?’
‘He’s obviously interested in magic in America, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Then he drops out of sight,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘Because he found magic and he doesn’t want anyone to know he has. Or …’
‘Or?’
‘He was eaten by cats,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘That’s why they never found a body.’
‘I think one is more likely than the other.’
‘You’re right,’ said Sugar Niner. ‘Is that worth a reward?’
I started to have a horrible feeling about Brian Packard’s role in the whole case.
‘Let’s go see what’s in the fridge,’ I said.
Sugar Niner plumped for a couple of eggs because we were out of cheese puffs.
‘Can I have an egg box,’ he asked, and I found one at the top of the cardboard recycling box and, after slotting the eggs, put it on the kitchen floor.
Normal foxes crunch their eggs and I supposed Sugar Niner probably did, too, when he didn’t have an egg box, but now he carefully bit the tops off the eggs and licked them out with his tongue.
‘Makes them last longer,’ he said when he caught me watching.
But I wasn’t thinking of foxes. I was thinking of magic and siphons and fiery angel wings.
Later that night, when we were safely in bed and out of the prying eyes of minders, cousins and foxes, I asked Beverley to do something magical.
‘Is not my mere existence enough any more?’ she asked.
I thought very carefully before giving an answer.
‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘But I need something that affects the material domain beyond the confines of my heart.’
She put her Kindle on her bulge and gave me a suspicious look.
‘Have you been reading Greek love poetry again?’
‘No, I’m still working my way through Marcus Aurelius,’ I said. ‘I want to try something.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s a theory that some types of magical phenomena are in fact a type of boundary effect where an allokosmos intersects our reality,’ I said.
‘For example?’ said Beverley.
‘Do you remember the unicorns?’
‘Yes.’
‘We know they’re really creatures of Faerie, which is a type of allokosmos, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Remember how they used to be invisible half the time?’
‘Except when you were stupid enough to feed them magic,’ she said.
‘So which do you think is more plausible?’ I said. ‘That half a tonne of bone, muscle and killer spike could turn naturally transparent, or it was out of phase with our reality and thus invisible.’
‘For one thing,’ said Beverley, ‘I’d say they weighed at least a thousand kilograms, and for another, you got the whole out of phase thing from Star Trek.’
‘Just because it’s in Star Trek doesn’t mean it’s not true,’ I said.
‘And just because I don’t have an alternative working hypothesis doesn’t mean the first bit of technobabble you come up with is true.’
‘That’s why I want to test it,’ I said.
‘I walked into that, didn’t I?’
I wisely said nothing.
‘Fine,’ said Beverley.
She struggled into a more upright sitting position. Fortunately I have developed some skills in strategic pillow placement that have served me well during the later stages of pregnancy.
‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked.
‘Do a water balloon … Not yet!’ I said, as Beverley raised her hand. ‘Let me get into position, count to ten and then do a water balloon.’
I lay down flat on the bed and closed my eyes.
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to involve expectant mothers in science experiments,’ said Beverley.
But I’ve learnt to reach a state of receptiveness while under combat stress, so Beverley talking wasn’t going to disturb me. Had she kissed me, on the other hand, I would have been fucked.
The house, like most structures over fifty years old, had its own background bits of vestigia and, of course, Beverley had left her mark. Like the little splashing sounds and the smell of car wax and drying laundry. I wasn’t sure where the Russian church music came from unless Maksim had been keeping secrets – that was something I could check later.
I let the background stuff wash away.
At first I thought I might be wrong. I’ve never ‘heard’ Beverley when she’s being professionally goddess-like, but then I’d nearly always been distracted at the time. Then I felt a strange tickle and a flicker at the periphery of my mind. There was the catch at the edge of reality that I’d come to associate with certain kinds of magic.