Everything is frozen. It’s earlier than last time, before the explosions and the smoke. Before the blood.
She glances around, there’s hundreds of ghost people here, out in the streets, their faces blurred. Different atmosphere, almost happy. She can see bodies in weird static poses, dancing interrupted by the cessation of time.
The girl she’s looking for, though, she’s here. She looks less happy.
There are three of them, in fact—three huddled together. On the left a girl, in the middle a boy, on the right the face from her picture. It takes Mary a few seconds to work out what’s going on, but then it’s obvious. The boy in the middle is injured—a blood-soaked scarf is wrapped around his left arm—and the other two are helping him to stand.
They look strangely out of place, serious faces contrasting with the street-party vibe that surrounds them.
Not contrasting as much as Walker’s face, though, which looks alien here, wrong. The lighting not right, the perspective just off.
“She was here,” Mary repeats. “She’s helping one of her friends to walk. He’s been injured.”
“How do you know?” Walker asks.
“I can see her,” Mary says, allowing deadpan annoyance to seep into her voice.
Walker is unfazed, fake smile gone, a sudden, surprising hint of genuine concern. “Can you hear her?”
“Not now. But everything is frozen now. There’s no sound.”
“Is it always like that, Mary? Are people always frozen when you see them?”
“No, not at all. Usually I can control it.”
“Can you control it now?”
“Of course.” Mary blinks, unfreezes then time.
The first thing that hits her is the noise only she can hear—that overpowering music, those low, thunderous bass sounds that Tyrone loves so much, rattling her glasses, drilling into her skull. That and the shouting and chanting, the drumming, the sounds of celebration and defiance.
And below that, muffled by everything else, the sobbing, the panicked chatting.
They’re not going to let us out
They will
Ahhh god my arm god I think it’s broken
We’re best just getting to some first aid
Ahhh please
Be careful
They’ll let us out really trust me
The two figures are moving now, shuffling really, slowed down by their injured burden.
“They’re heading toward the gate.” Mary is aware she’s talking loudly, to be heard over the cacophony that nobody else can hear, worries it makes her look even more mad. She looks past the trio toward the gate, which is partly obscured by the fog-like mass of a boisterous crowd; she can only just make out Grids’s guards with their antique guns and the darkness of the underpass through the dancing, cheering translucent bodies.
“Can we follow them?” asks Walker.
“Of course.”
And then, before she has time to move, it feels like a third reality is intersecting with the two she’s already struggling to control as something large and swift and purposeful suddenly moves in front of her, blocking her way.
“That’s it, no farther. She ain’t going no farther.”
Tyrone is standing between Mary and the suit, his heart pounding.
“Ah, now… c’mon.”
“No, man. No fucking dice. I’m on orders. She don’t go through that gate, get me?”
“Now, please. We’re only just getting started here.” Walker steps forward, an arm passing by Tyrone to touch Mary gently on the arm.
Tyrone flicks the arm away, with enough force to shock the old suited fucker, enough that he nearly falls backward.
“Serious. Don’t fucking touch her again.”
Tyrone hears a click, ominous. He knows it’s a safety coming off, he’s watched enough DVDs, seen Grids’s boys showing off their tools.
“And you’re not going to be doing any more touching either, mate, step back.” Behind Walker and to his left the LA trooper has his gun raised, aimed firmly at Tyrone. Right between his eyes.
Tyrone throws his hands up, instinctively.
Two more clicks, behind Tyrone. Ozone and the other guy—a white kid with dreads—are moving away from the gate, their guns raised.
“We got a problem, Ty?” Ozone says, tough-guy voice, but Tyrone can hear the quiver of doubt, fear.
“Nah. Nah, Ozone, there’s no problem. It’s cool. Everybody is cool. There’s just been a little misunderstanding here, that’s all. Nothing major. We all just going to walk back to the shop now, all friends, and we going to discuss this with Grids.” He makes eye contact with Walker. “Ain’t that right?”
Flash of fake smile. “Of course.” Walker glances back at the young trooper, nods. In response the trooper slowly lowers his assault rifle. Ty checks behind him, sees the two guards doing the same.
As the rest of the group drift away and head back up Stokes Croft, Tyrone turns to Mary, puts one hand on her shoulder. She’s taken her glasses off, and her eyes look damp.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” She smiles back at him. “You?”
“Yeah. Think so. Jesus, I thought it was all going to kick off then.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Nah, nah, Mary. Not your fault. I need to stop putting ideas in people’s heads.”
Mary looks at him quizzically.
“I need to stop asking people with guns if they’ve ever shot anyone.”
Walker climbs into the back seat of the bust-up old Audi, the upholstery smelling of damp, mold, and dust.
“So?” His driver twists around a shaved head to show him a face mapped with scars, wrinkles, weariness. “How’d it go?”
His security detail slides into the front passenger seat. Doors clunk shut. The driver fights with the ancient ignition briefly and the car pulls away from the curb, starts to roll back up Stokes Croft.
“Well,” says Walker. “It was certainly a pleasant day out. Always good to get out of the office.”
“Get what you wanted, boss?”
“Not sure. Not sure at all.” He sighs. “It all felt strangely… vague to me. I mean, the girl seems genuine enough. She’s telling the truth, mad, or a fantastic liar. I liked her.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen, apparently. Interesting accent, couldn’t make it out. Irish?”
His security detail nods. “She’s a Traveler originally. That’s what the black kid told me.”
“Ohhh, maybe she’s got the gypsy magic, then.” Walker wiggles fingers mysteriously. Everyone in the car laughs.
“So, assuming she’s not put the curse on all of us, what do we do next?” says the driver.
“We tread easily, that’s what. Don’t get any ideas about charging in there, they’re jumpy enough as it is. Plus I don’t think even the girl knows what she’s sitting on.”
“Understood. But then… what?”
Walker is staring out the window, watching the walls and the graffiti and the gawping faces that haven’t seen a motorcar in months strobe past. And then it’s all gone, jump-cut away, as the car passes into the dark of the underpass.
They’re in there just seconds, three at most, but in the dark Walker sees memories stir, swirl. A hooded figure, a woman’s face, high cheekbones and eyes he recognizes from somewhere, staring back at him, impossibly familiar.
“Boss?”
“Sorry.” He laughs, quiet and short, embarrassed. “It must be catching.”
“What?”
“I think I just saw a ghost.”
7. BEFORE
Another night, another party.
This time it’s a spacious forty-sixth-floor penthouse teetering on top of a spindle in Manhattan’s Financial District, the walls covered with art and the precisely conditioned air filled with inoffensive commercial hip-hop. Half the crowd here are finance bros of every gender, the other half their partners, all with the kinds of job you can do in NYC these days only if your other half is a millionaire hedge fund manager. Meatpacking District gallery curators. Life coaches. Personal stylists. Social-media brand managers. Artisan cupcake distributors. Food bloggers. Lots of food bloggers.