I look down at the red dot that’s dancing around my sternum. “Trust me, he’ll see me.”
The laser sight disappears and I stand there waiting for fifteen minutes or so. Eventually, the large metal gate swings open and the man from the gun tower stands there, waving for me to approach.
I walk over to him slowly, full of confidence. I feel totally calm, but I know the nerves are going to hit soon and I’m trying to be ready for that.
“Follow me,” he says, and he leads me across the lawn and into a cavernous hall, its walls made of huge blocks of stone and its massive wooden ceiling so big that it bleeds into shadow. Our footsteps echo as we cross the immense floor, passing plaques that tell us this is where Winston Churchill lay in state, and there is where William Wallace was condemned to death.
We ascend a wide stone staircase then turn left down a long corridor lined with epic pre-Raphaelite paintings. We emerge into a huge circular chamber with an unlit chandelier hanging above us. I remember this space from television, watching MPs stand here justifying themselves to the press. Four white statues stand silent in the gloom as we turn right and walk down another long corridor to two wooden doors.
The building passes in a blur of murals, stained glass, intricate mosaics and elaborately designed floor tiles. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping the lid tight closed on the terror that threatens to bubble up and engulf me. This whole place seems exactly as I would have imagined it pre-Cull. There is no evidence of this being the headquarters of a cult. They’ve kept the place pristine.
We pass through another chamber and walk past a statue of Churchill, sticking his big round tummy out at me as if it were a challenge. Then we pass through a gothic stone arch that seems shattered and wrecked, walk through some big doors and I find myself standing at the far end of the House of Commons. A very faint hint of orange dawn light seeps through the grimy row of tiny windows that provide the only illumination. Tiers of green leather benches rise to my left and right. Serried wooden balconies loom over the room, lending it the air of an arena, which I suppose it always was.
The doors close behind me, the loud bang as they shut jolts me. I spin around but my guide has gone. I am alone.
The room is totally silent, the backbenches deep in shadow. I walk forward on the lush green carpet, towards the table over which the party leaders used to squabble. I’m sure it has some pompous name — the Debating Oak or something — but I’ve no idea what it is. There are ornate wooden boxes on either side of the table, and I know these are called the dispatch boxes. Or are they? Weren’t they the red cases they used to carry?
Oh, who cares.
It’s smaller than I imagined, functional and unimpressive but I still feel as if I’ve wandered on to a film set. That this room should have survived The Culling Year completely intact is hard to fathom. I know there were riots and mobs, mass burnings and massacres on the streets near here. But I suppose the security forces managed to hold the line long enough for attention to focus elsewhere. I know at least one guy who thinks the Government are still here, hiding in air tight bunkers under the ground, waiting for a cure. But the air in here is dead. This is a museum. No-one will ever argue about defence funding in here again. Thank God.
I hear a faint rustle at the end of the hall ahead of me. A rat maybe? I stare into the shadows. A shape leans forward out of the darkness and — dammit — makes me jump and give a little squeal of surprise. Like a fucking schoolgirl.
It’s a figure, dressed entirely in a black robe, hood down, sitting in the tall wooden Speaker’s Chair. His face is hidden in the darkness, but I know it’s him.
Spider.
I stand there, paralysed.
I’d pictured myself surrounded by his loyal troops, pulling out my gun and shooting him, then being instantly cut down, dying there but not minding.
Or I’d pictured myself being frisked at the gate, handcuffed, brought before him on my knees, forced to beg for mercy. But making my pitch well, securing a position as his official doctor, working my way into his trust and then striking the first time he dropped his guard, just a little.
Or I’d pictured myself held down as he raped me then slit my throat.
But this. Alone. Unwatched. Armed.
I reach down and pull out my gun, aiming it straight at the black space where I know his head is.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t ring an alarm or shout for help. Doesn’t raise a gun in my direction.
Instead, he laughs. Softly, genuinely. Then he leans back into the shadows, resting his head against the padded chair, waiting for me to make my move.
I step sideways, edging my way towards the gap between the table and the front bench.
“Remember me?” I say. I want to scream in his face, but there’s no need to shout. Every whisper carries crystal clear.
No response. I reach the corner of the table and begin walking towards him, gun still aimed true.
“Remember Manchester?” Halfway, now. The outlines of his cloak emerging as I approach and the sunlight strengthens from above.
“Remember my brother?” And, oh, yes, I yelled that. And here comes the anger and the terror and the nerves. My stomach floods with acid, my veins race with adrenaline. My hands shake with the force of it.
But I keep walking.
There’s a step at the end, just in front of the chair, and I mount it, shoving the gun under the fold of his hood into the black space.
And there I stand, unsure what to do. He’s just sitting there, waiting for death. Where’s the catch? What does he know that I don’t?
I stand there for nearly a minute, the only sound is our breathing — mine hard and ragged, his soft and calm.
Then he murmurs: “I remember, Kate. I remember it all.”
That voice. I feel faint at the sound of it. My arm drops for an instant as I go weak. My knees try to buckle, but I force them to lock again. Raise the gun level.
Then he slowly lifts up his hood and pulls it back, revealing his face.
And suddenly it’s eight years ago, I’m a completely different person, and the Chianti is warm on the back of my throat.
PART TWO
KATE
KATE GENTLY LOWERED herself into the near boiling water, letting her skin adjust to the heat in tiny increments, her lips pursed with the pleasure of pain.
When she was fully submerged, only her head poking up through the bubbles, she lay there for minute or two with her eyes closed and focused on her breathing. She took long, slow, deep breaths and pictured the cares and stresses of her day dissolving out of her into the bathwater. Then, her heart rate slow, her head clear, she stretched out a languid hand for the glass of red wine perched on the windowsill above her. She took a sip and moaned softly in blissful contentment.
It had been an awful, wonderful day. Her first shift at A&E. She’d trained for years in preparation, and had some training yet to complete. But all that study, that sacrifice, the sleepless nights and double shifts, the practical exams and psychological probes, the stuck up consultants, insolent orderlies and endless, endless paperwork, had led her to this day; an afternoon spent dressing a huge abscess on the back of a homeless alcoholic who smelt like he slept in a supermarket skip full of rotting meat.
She was going to have to scrub herself raw to get the stench out. The smoke from her joss stick merged with the steam from the bath. It smelt the way she imagined a hookah pipe would, and it made her feel exotic and elsewhere. Plus, it masked the rank odour that still haunted her nostrils.