A light shone down on him from the top of the wall, ten feet above his head. ‘Only one,’ came a voice from behind it.
The door creaked open and another bright light shone directly into Jack’s face. ‘Put that down,’ he snapped, holding his arms up to shield his eyes.
He walked over the threshold and the door was shut again immediately. A young man clattered down a metal ladder and stood in front of him. ‘Your name?’
‘None of your business,’ Jack replied.
‘It is my business. No one comes in unless they are registered. It is against the law and it is not one worth breaking.’
He’d forgotten that. Reluctantly he took out his identification and handed it over. The young man glanced at it without interest. ‘Now, what do you want?’
‘I want to see your leader. Do not ask why, as I do not intend to tell you.’
The man, who had long unkempt hair and looked as though he had not shaved for days, grinned at him. ‘I will say you are here. If she says no, then you go away again. Understood?’
Jack nodded.
‘Now, come with me.’
He led the way in silence to one of the buildings, pushed on the door to get into it and stood at the bottom of an old dampsmelling concrete stairwell. The compound had once been a street of shops, or something like that, when shops still existed. It was probably scheduled for final demolition, to build more accommodation blocks for the ever-increasing population, but had been illegally taken over until the diggers moved in. When that happened, they would be evicted and go somewhere else. Until then, they lived and planted flowers and had even painted the buildings in bright colours. Pointless, but it kept them busy.
‘Sylvia!’ the young man bellowed. ‘Visitor! We’re coming up!’
He started marching up the stairs. ‘No lift,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We don’t have them.’
‘I’ll manage.’
They walked up three flights of stairs, and then Jack was ushered into the most extraordinary room he had ever been in.
It was large, about twenty feet long and wide, much greater than any usual living space for anyone but the elite. There was no furniture, only a floor covered in multi-coloured and patterned fabrics and cushions that were almost dizzying in their abundance. The walls had more material hanging down them, covering every square inch of space. The whole was illuminated by candles in glass bowls, dozens of them at different levels which gave off a yellow, flickering light, so that the room was at moments in darkness, at others perfectly clear. From them came strange scents, sweet and spicy, the like of which he had not smelt for years. He took a deep, appreciative breath.
‘Your implants do not work in here,’ came a quiet voice from the far end of the room. ‘You are quite alone now.’
It wasn’t a threatening voice; on the contrary, it was soft and mellow, pleasant almost in its tonal range.
Jack heard a rustling of clothes and feet walking across the floor. An old but handsome woman loomed out of the darkness. She was short, with close-cropped white hair — white from age, not fashion — and looked carefully at him.
‘I wasn’t trying to connect. I was sniffing.’
‘You are wet. Come and sit by the fire to dry.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘I prefer you to sit.’
Sylvia stared dreamily at the fire and ignored Jack. She had patience, more than he had. Reluctantly, Jack sat down. Or tried to; he had not sat on the floor for a long time, and it was painful to take up the required position. He felt absurd, ungainly, while she was peaceful and composed. It was stuffy in the room; he stopped shivering and began to feel the heat penetrating his clothes.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do not like people such as yourself standing over me. You may find that foolish, but then I find some of your ways foolish also. Perhaps you can now explain yourself?’
‘I have come to ask for your assistance.’
‘That is very surprising. You know that we do not take part in the affairs of your world.’
‘Of course. I will not ask for something you will not freely give. I merely ask that you lend me the expertise of a young woman called Emily Strang. I am told that she knows something about history, old documents. I need to find one.’
‘Do you offer anything in return?’
‘I am afraid I am in no position to offer anything precise at present, although I can assure you that any assistance will be properly rewarded.’
‘Not very tempting. You are aware, no doubt, that there is a renewed campaign of persecution against us. Hundreds have been arrested, dozens of Retreats closed down.’
‘That is nothing to do with the people I work for. In fact, I may be able to offer some small protection.’
‘We will listen. I advise you to hold nothing back and tell no falsehoods. I will go and find Emily. She will decide whether she wishes to help you or not.’
He had visited such places in the past, sometimes to arrest people but more often to conduct inspections and searches, and had never felt comfortable in them. Sometimes the inmates were hostile or fearful, though they were often indulgent even when he arrived armed with both weapons and official powers. Frequently they acted as if they felt sorry for him and answered his questions readily, as though they were trying to make his life that little bit easier.
Try as he might, he had found himself almost liking some, which was ridiculous. They were the self-appointed custodians of ideas and practices which had no purpose or function. They set themselves against the whole of society, weakening it by ignoring it. They refused to be happy, preferring their own misery; they refused to be comfortable, preferring the squalor of their own making, and they refused to be healthy, preferring what they decided were the natural processes of ageing and decay. The woman called Sylvia was no more than fifty; just a quick course of pills and she would be a young girl again. Why would anyone not want that? In his time he had found out a great deal about the Retreats, how they operated, what they wanted. Much was impenetrable, although whether that was because it was hidden, or because he simply could not understand, he did not know.
He did know, however, that many were believers in what they termed the preservation of the past, holding that what had gone before had some value. No one else agreed, at least not until Angela had come along.
He was businesslike, planning to lay out his requirements and to compel their acquiescence either by inducement or by threat, whichever was necessary. He did not really care which, as long as he got what he needed. He prepared to start when the door opened and the head of the Retreat returned with a young woman of striking appearance. It had to be Angela’s daughter, the girl Emily. The resemblance was obvious once he looked, but it required an effort to see the similarities. She was as tall as Angela, with the same bone structure, but, like most of her sort, her hair was cut close to her scalp without style or care, and the identity rings in her ears, so she could be easily spotted as dangerous by the authorities, were ugly. Nor did she wear any decoration of the sort that most adopted to enhance their appeal. Her skin was clear and her eyes bright, but dark patches under them suggested both lack of sleep and the absence of the medications most would use to hide blemishes. Finally there were the clothes, rough and coarse, shapeless and drab; only with the greatest effort could Jack see what she could have looked like had she taken a little more care, or had she lived in different surroundings.
Still, there was something about her face which made him wonder if he was interpreting her correctly. While Angela always seemed tense and in the grip of powerful emotions, this one was utterly calm and peaceful as she walked gracefully across the carpeted floor, then sat cross-legged besides Sylvia, back straight, regarding him not with apprehension but with an open and fearless curiosity.