Peter made a face. But he knew his mother was right. He felt a cold flush of fear in his belly, remembering the night of the airship, his father’s unyielding grip and the anger in his voice.
‘Now, we will tidy up,’ Mrs Bloom said. ‘Then you will sit with me and do your homework. And not a word about crystal sets, is that understood?’
‘Yes, madam,’ Peter said quietly.
His father came home two hours later. When he saw Peter and his mother by the fire, his exhausted smile was like a light shining through buttered paper.
‘What have we here?’
‘My study was very cold today,’ Peter’s mother said. ‘I asked Nanny to bring supper here instead.’
Mr Bloom sank to his chair. ‘That sounds lovely. We had a rally in the Warringdon Pump House and it was dreadfully cold.’
A coughing fit made him double over. Peter’s mother got up and covered him with a blanket.
‘What about you, Peter?’ he asked, when the fit had passed. ‘What have you been doing today?’ He leaned back in his chair, eyes already half-closed.
Peter opened his mouth, trying to think of what to say. The truth was a leaden weight in his chest. But before he could speak, a gentle snore escaped Mr Bloom’s lips.
Mrs Bloom looked at Peter, and then back at his father. She smiled sadly.
‘He tries so hard,’ she whispered. ‘Do you understand now?’
Peter did not, but nodded anyway. Suddenly, he was furious at his father. How could he spoil everything, even when he was asleep? Oblivious to Peter’s rage, his mother smiled.
After he finished his homework and supper, he excused himself. He got ready for bed and took out the book he kept in the small space between his night table and the wall. The hiding place had been too narrow for the crystal set.
The Science of Death by Herbert Blanco West, said the title page.
Peter opened the chapter he had started the previous night, the one about William Crookes’ experiment showing that luz particles had an affinity with structures of higher complexity like brains. But it was difficult to concentrate.
It was not that he did not care about being alive, of course he did. But from everything he read, in Summerland things simply made much more sense. You could fly, for one thing, or thought-travel, which was even better. You were not trapped in a pudgy body that ensured you got picked on at school. And you could see other peoples’ thoughts.
In Summerland, his mother would not have broken the crystal set. Peter would have understood why she was so angry. And there would have been no need to keep secrets from his father.
Or maybe he had it the wrong way around. Maybe it was his father who would be better off in Summerland, without Peter and his mother.
After a while, he heard his parents coming up the stairs together. His mother stifled a giggle. Peter ignored the sounds and lay awake in the dim glow of his night light, imagining what it would be like if his father was dead.
* * *
‘So, Mr Bloom, what is your recommendation?’ the prime minister asked.
‘Sir, I am with the Chief. Dzhugashvili is our best option to calm things down and avoid an all-out war.’
The prime minister paced the room. His soul-spark brightened again and bopped to the rhythm of his footsteps like some exotic sea creature in a current.
‘Sir, I do urge you to consider the alternative,’ Sir Stewart said. ‘The Admiralty considers a military victory in Spain eminently achievable. There is a need to test new weapons in the field, against a modern enemy, and in our estimation it is doubtful that the Soviets would fully commit to an armed response. The logistical challenges alone—’
‘Would be challenging to a human intellect, I agree,’ the prime minister interrupted. ‘But that is not what we are dealing with here. To the Presence, such challenges may be trivial. Naturally, many of the claims about its capabilities are propaganda, but we should not dismiss them entirely. Indeed, if we truly appreciated the possibility that we are dealing with something more than human, we would not choose such an obvious course as using Dzhugashvili. Have you factored that into your analysis, Mr Bloom?’
The Chief butted in before Peter could respond. ‘So far, the Presence’s direct contribution to intelligence matters has been limited to vetting operatives in Russia, which is the primary reason why we have not been able to infiltrate the Kremlin. In practice, it is the NKVD old guard and the God-Builders’ inner circle who make the actual operational decisions. In fact, we have reason to believe that the Soviet intelligence apparatus is currently distracted by internal purges, so it is the perfect time for decisive action.’
West’s soul-spark formed into a glowing Platonic solid of clarity.
‘As Bloom has pointed out, there is the human element to consider here as well,’ he said slowly. ‘Franco may have been the wrong horse to back in this race from the start. I was never very fond of the little general. We shall try our luck with Dzhugashvili.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ C said. ‘You will not regret it.’
‘However, I want the Winter Court to take the lead in this one. It is clear that terrestrial assets, BRIAR and CARRASCOS, were the key elements here. Sir Stewart will create a team that will assume operational control of them both. I will also instruct the Admiralty to investigate the worst-case scenario.’
Peter could hardly believe his ears. C’s monocle came loose again and floated in front of his face like the lure of a deep-sea fish.
‘I must protest,’ Peter said. ‘I have been developing CARRASCOS so far, and it would be extremely detrimental from an operational standpoint to change handlers so abruptly. Not to mention the risk in arranging physical meetings—’
‘Your protest is noted, Mr Bloom,’ West said. He sounded tired. ‘Nevertheless, my decision is made, based on all the available information. Sir Stewart, I want a meeting with our man within the week, if possible. That will be all, gentlemen.’
C’s mouth was set in a grim line. Sir Stewart’s soul-spark was like a full moon, round and golden.
‘This is it, Bloom,’ the Chief hissed, not touching the ectophone circuit so that the PM and Sir Stewart could not hear him. ‘This whole set-up was that bastard Menzies making his move. The old man seems to listen to you. Try to see if you can make him change his mind, via any means necessary. Otherwise we are all in the shit.’
Before the ectophone circuit vanished, Peter spoke.
‘Prime Minister, sir, I would like to have a word with you in private.’
West’s voice sounded surprised, but his soul-spark shrank into solid, angular inscrutability.
‘And why is that, Mr Bloom?’
‘It concerns a conversation we had a long time ago. I feel it may shed some light on the Spanish situation.’
‘I see. And where did we have that conversation?’
‘In Palace Terrace Gardens, sir.’
The prime minister chuckled. ‘I suppose I did ask you here for your perspective. It is only fair that I give you another minute to share it. The rest of you, carry on. England needs you, and so does Spain.’
* * *
Three months after Mr Bloom’s death, in 1921, Mr West came to visit Palace Terrace Gardens, late at night.
Peter hid at the top of the stairs and watched him enter. Nanny Schmidt, their housekeeper, took Mr West’s coat and hat. Next to burly Nanny, he looked tiny and round, a bit like Humpty Dumpty. Even in the dim light, his eyes had a silver sheen. Mrs Bloom came to greet him, and they went into the drawing room together.
Peter tiptoed to the salon. The furniture there was covered in white bedsheets that made the cavernous room look like a snowy landscape. He crawled beneath the sheet thrown over a billiard table and huddled there. The musty cloth muffled the sound a bit, but he could still make out the conversation in the next room.