No, Peter did not hate West. Sometimes he wished he did.
Although they were alone now, the prime minister’s manner was tense. ‘Mr Bloom, I know you mean well, and no doubt my old friend Mansfeld Cumming’—he used C’s real name—‘has been pressuring you to influence me. I am afraid my decision is made and will not change.’
It had not taken Peter long to figure out why West could not visit him and his mother, especially after his political career started to take off. The continuing rule of Queen Victoria’s Summer Court guaranteed that in polite society, propriety was everything. Still, the man could at least acknowledge that a bond existed between them.
The anger gave Peter the strength to speak.
‘Perhaps you fail to recall the conversation I was referring to. You described a situation where you had been wrong, yet unable to admit it. Well, sir, in this case you still have the opportunity to do so.’
‘That is quite presumptuous of you, Mr Bloom.’ West’s soul-spark looked like a fortress now, pale grey blocks arranged in concentric rings, with faint orange light in the centre. ‘Why do you think I am unable to admit that I am wrong?’
‘Because you think the Summer Court has grown too powerful, and you need to show them that you are still in charge.’
‘Hmm.’ West sounded bemused. ‘That is an interesting argument. Unfortunately, it is also incorrect. There is a bigger picture that you cannot see, which informs my thinking. I suggest you—’
Suddenly, the prime minister’s soul-spark flickered, just as it had before. West made a small coughing sound. The thought-curtain surrounding the central spark of his mind opened.
A bigger picture, Peter thought.
And for a heartbeat, West’s thoughts were unguarded.
Peter dived forward and stared directly into the prime minister’s soul.
In Summerland, living souls were things of light: glowing polygons, flames, bubbles and very occasionally recognisable images. Soul-readers had compiled a basic dictionary of emotion over the decades, but every soul had its unique language of thought-forms.
Peter had never seen a soul like Herbert West’s.
It resembled a miniature cinema or a diorama. In the centre of it was a silver city of towers and buildings, layered like a wedding cake, with countless tiny sparks in every window and street. Giant faces hovered in the sky above the city: West himself and two others, Lodge and Marconi. Peter realised he was looking at the Summer City.
As he watched, a dark tree grew from the abyss beneath the city. Its black branches pierced the silver buildings and twisted themselves around the towers. Wherever they touched, sparks flickered and died. In moments, the city was a shrivelled husk, like an abandoned beehive stuck in a tree, grey and crumbling. A jagged, purple, insect-like thing hatched from it, and distantly, Peter recognised it as the thought-form for guilt.
Then the vision disappeared, replaced by the usual kaleidoscope of consciousness. Whatever tremor in West’s ailing brain had caused the images to manifest was over.
‘Camlann,’ West muttered. ‘Camlann, Camlann.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Mr Bloom. What were we discussing again?’
Peter hesitated. Then: ‘I presented my argument for allowing the Summer Court to continue running the Dzhugashvili operation and you rejected it, as is your prerogative.’
His voice was shrill. The vision in West’s soul burned with a cold fire in his mind and the fear shrank his self-image into boyhood again. He was glad West could not see into the aether.
‘Indeed. Then I think we are done. I have one more meeting tonight. No rest for the wicked, eh?’
Had Peter witnessed the fevered imaginings of a senile author? No, the images had been too powerful, too all-consuming. Somehow, they had to represent the bigger picture West had mentioned. He might have lost the operation in Spain, but perhaps gained something even more valuable to the Presence.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said aloud.
‘Mr Bloom? I do remember our conversation. You have to understand that the higher you climb, the more eager people are to push you off your pedestal. And I am presently standing on one leg. Under other circumstances, I might have viewed your argument in a different light. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Capital. Do keep up the good work.’
Peter watched the prime minister’s soul close up into a golden ovoid like a Fabergé egg, sealing away all its secrets. Then he entered the Chimney, shrugged his self-image back into adulthood and started the descent into the Summer Court to tell C the bad news.
The Finance Section of the Winter Court was dreadfully cold, and Rachel White had a hangover.
The white noise of the typewriters rolled over her in painful waves. She had been unable to stomach the morning tea in the staff room and her mouth was dry. She hunched over her desk: it seemed to help with the nausea. Thankfully, there was barely any light from the converted prison canteen’s gridded windows. The electric heaters were on full blast and dried up the damp air, but even so, she had to wear a thick scarf and fingerless gloves.
Very slowly, she took a purchase order from her in tray, rubber-stamped it and punched the serial number into her ectoterminal, one digit at a time. Later, she decided, she would start her path towards treason by seeing if there was a cash stream that could be diverted from a particular, little-used Cresswell & Pike account to fund Max’s small but growing operation. But that would have to wait until her brain dealt with its chemical imbalance.
One more reason to be jealous of the dead like Bloom.
* * *
Joe had heard about what happened at the Harrises’, of course.
Rachel was not sure who had called him: quite possibly it was Philby. When she woke up to the harsh clanging of her alarm that morning, still in that numb, semi-drunken state that preceded the main event of her hangovers, he was already up.
She found him downstairs feeding the finches, already fully dressed but unshaven. The birds were cold and sat still on their perches, fluffed up into feathery balls.
‘We need to keep them warm,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Let’s move them closer to the fire.’
After the ectoplasm incident, they had somehow reached a mutual, unspoken agreement to pretend it never happened. However, he had started taking care of the finches with a dedication that had the tang of penance.
‘I am not sure the female is well,’ Rachel said. ‘I am going to take them to Max’s tomorrow, see what he thinks.’
‘That sounds like a good idea, love,’ Joe said. ‘I could do it, too, if you want to rest.’
‘No, it’s fine. It gives me something to think about besides work.’
‘How are you feeling this morning?’
Rachel wrapped her dressing gown around herself tighter and huddled close to the gas fire.
‘A little worse for wear,’ she said. Her head was starting to have that feeling of fractured glass. Memories of the previous night emerged from the cracks, and she did not like the look of them. Had she really said all those awful things? Master plan or not, it had better be worth it.
‘Your mother tried to call last night,’ Joe said.
Her mother’s calls had been more frequent lately. She was clearly bored, with Rachel’s father travelling.
‘Of course she did. Did she actually speak to you?’
‘No. Gertrude picked up. Maybe you should give her a call tonight.’
Rachel had not returned her mother’s calls for the past two weeks. She was not sure how she would even begin to explain what had been happening. Telling white lies to her mother had been difficult even before she passed over, but now that she could literally see into Rachel’s soul, it was practically impossible. And when she was bored, she had a habit of spending some of her vim pension on thought-travel to hover around Rachel whenever she was in public spaces after sundown. Rachel alternated between finding it comforting and annoying.