“Nothing like home security,” Sparky said.
“Peace of mind,” the man said. “That's all it gives me.” He was a short, thin man, with closely shaven hair, a small goatee and piercing blue eyes. He looked exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes and heavy jowls. But Jack guessed he always looked like that, and probably had before Doomsday. He wondered what Gordon had been: Stock trader? Doctor? Shop keeper? He almost asked, but decided he didn't really need to know something so buried in the past. Nobody was what they used to be.
Gordon's eyes also looked haunted, as if he already knew why they had come to see him.
They followed him through the kitchens, store rooms, and back-of-house areas of the hotel, eventually coming to the service staircase that took them up twelve flights and six floors. By the end of the climb Sparky and Jenna were panting, and Lucy-Anne grinned at them both.
“You need more exercise!” she said. Emily was filming her, and she gave the camera two thumbs-up. Jack was pleased to see her smile.
“Give me a second,” Gordon muttered, disappearing through a door and leaving them alone on the top landing.
“Where's he gone?” Jenna asked.
“Security measures,” Rosemary said. “He must like you all.” They heard some strange noises from beyond the door-a whirring sound, clicking, and the clinking of dozens of bottles-and then the door opened and Gordon peered around the jamb.
He offered them a weak smile. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
The door opened onto the junction of two long corridors, perpendicular to each other. From the decor, carpet, furniture, and mirrors placed along the corridor, Jack could tell immediately that this had once been a plush hotel.
They followed Gordon along the left hand corridor, passing a complex arrangement of bottles, wires, and metallic stands that he must have just decommissioned. Jack wondered whether it was just a warning system, or something more sinister.
Gordon unlocked the door and waved them into a room.
“What's this, the Presidential Suite?” Sparky asked, but beneath the bluff and bluster, Jack could sense his awe.
The room was huge. It contained the largest bed Jack had ever seen, and even that was swallowed by the space, standing on a pedestal to one side and surrounded by a heavy oak four-poster frame and fine drapery. There was a large seating area with three full-sized sofas, a dining table that would probably sit a dozen people, and close to the main panoramic window there was a sunken area scattered with low tables, floor cushions, and what looked like a small water fountain.
“So, where's everyone else sleeping?” Sparky asked, leaping onto the bed. He wriggled his eyebrows at Jenna and patted the covers beside him, and she gave him the finger.
Emily giggled and aimed her camera somewhere else.
“I've never slept in here,” Gordon says. “There are several side rooms, and I have one of those. More than enough for me. But I do spend a lot of my time sitting here, reading, looking out over London…” He wandered across to the far wall, stepping down in to the sunken area and standing before the huge window.
“Can't you be seen from outside?” Jenna asked.
“Reflective glass. The only way anyone out there will see in is if I light this place up at night, and I never do that. A candle in the bedroom, that's all I allow.”
“Plumbing still work?” Lucy-Anne asked.
“Not for over a year.”
“Oh.”
Gordon turned around and smiled apologetically, and Jack thought he was enjoying this human contact. Maybe talking to people without having to wonder at their advanced, evolved powers was a refreshing change. “There's somewhere you can go down the corridor, room 608. The bath's filled with water and a bucket. Not the most luxurious of flushes, but it works well enough.”
Lucy-Anne nodded her silent thanks but remained where she stood. There was an awkward silence. Gordon glanced around at them all, and Jack saw something pass across his face, the shadow of the same haunted expression he'd seen downstairs. He knows what's coming, and he hates it.
“Gordon,” Rosemary said, “you did something for me a long time ago, and now these people need your help in the same way.”
Gordon nodded, then sat down slowly on a pile of floor cushions. “They know how it works?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
I wonder what he saw of Rosemary's family, Jack thought, but right then it did not seem like something he could ask. Maybe later.
“I'll go first,” Sparky said. He hopped from the bed, crossed the room, and dropped down beside Gordon. “Name's Sparky,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Sparky.” Gordon shook.
“Yeah, well, you don't look that pleased, mate. But my brother, he was here when it happened. And Rosemary said you can help. And I'd really…I want to…” Sparky trailed off. Jack had never seen his friend looking so scared. He could face wild dogs and drunken men looking for a brawl, but now he was close to the truth about his brother Stephen, and reality these days was known to bite.
“I can try,” Gordon said. “None of us can work miracles, and I never promise anything. But I can try.” He looked at Rosemary strangely then, frowning and glancing around at Jack and his friends.
“They know,” Rosemary said. “They've already had cause to see what I can do.”
Gordon slumped down, almost as though the cushions were swallowing him up. “Well then, Sparky, I'll need a drip of your blood.”
Sparky pulled his knife and flicked it open.
“Just a speck,” Gordon said.
Jack and Emily went forward, as did Jenna and Lucy-Anne. The air of the large room suddenly became heavy and uncomfortable, as though there were too many people breathing at the same time, and that reminded Jack of his strange dream of following his mother along the airless street.
“Are we really ready for this?” Jack said, and foolish as the question sounded to him, nobody treated it as such.
“I think so,” Sparky said.
Emily nodded.
“I am,” Lucy-Anne said.
“Good luck,” Jenna said. “Really, all of you. I should leave.”
“No!” Jack said. “You didn't lose anyone on Doomsday, but you're part of our gang.”
“Right!” Lucy-Anne said.
“Yeah.” Sparky nodded, then prodded the knife at his left thumb. He hissed, then stared at the dribble of blood that bloomed and then flowed down his hand and onto his wrist.
Gordon leaned forward, hand held out. “May I?”
Sparky offered this stranger, this Irregular, his shaking hand.
Gordon touched the wound on Sparky's thumb with his index finger, just enough to pick up a smear of blood. Then he went to the huge window and pulled on a cord, opening five fanlights at ceiling level. A breath of fresh air and the cooing of pigeons came in, and Gordon put the bloodied finger into his mouth.
They all watched him, and he must have sensed it because he lowered his head as he withdrew his finger. Jack edged to one side, trying to see the man's expression, and then he wished he'd remained where he was.
Gordon was cringing, almost gagging, as though he'd put something rotten and rank onto his tongue, rather than a droplet of a living person's blood. A tear squeezed from his eyes and spotted the expensive carpet at his feet.
Jack saw Rosemary's face drop, and she looked down at her feet. He knows, he thought. She's seen this reaction before.
“His name's Stephen,” Sparky said. “He lived in Peckham, last I heard. Taller than me.” Gordon did not react to his voice, and Jack could see desperation creeping over his friend. “Tattoo on his arm. His name.” He stood and approached the man, reaching out but pausing just before he touched the Irregular's shoulder.
“I'm sorry,” Gordon said, “but your brother's dead.”
Jack expected shouting and raving, denial and fury, and for a second he saw that and more behind Sparky's eyes. All that, and the temporary madness of grief.