“I don’t see how it can be possible.”
“I am afraid I do not understand.”
“I mean, this place is big, but not big enough, surely?”
“I can assure you, Mr Resnick, that it is perfectly possible. The museum is more than sufficiently large to incorporate all of us, and our non-agent counterparts, with plenty of room for all.”
Marcus walked alongside a female agent through the vast main hall of the Natural History Museum. The building had long since closed for the day and the hordes of staff and visitors had left, giving the place a curious echo despite its many exhibits. The dinosaur bones rose above them in various realistic poses or peered out from plinths tucked away in the recesses to each side.
“The main hall is not usually occupied as it is a thoroughfare and the risk of detection is much greater.” She talked as she walked, forcefully and with a curt snap. “Only non-agents are allowed to drift along the corridors and through the main hall. We do our very best to stay out of the way of the true Shades and avoid interfering in any business they may have. You shall be placed in a wing on the first floor. This is not open to discussion and any drift from this wing will be treated as a disciplinary matter. As you are aware, I have close connections to the Senior Council and so will not tolerate any transgressions.”
“That’s OK.” Marcus trotted alongside her to catch up. “I promise I’ll be good. I’m just happy to be here. I always liked this place when I was a kid; this all kind of takes me back.”
They reached the foot of the main staircase, which curved away to both sides and up to the floor above them. The grey stone, polished by countless footsteps, glistened in the dim light from the windows above. Marcus and his new controller did not need the light; one of the benefits of the Ritual of Dispersal was that it enabled all agents to see in the dark.
She stopped and turned back to him and her thin face looked even pointier in the weak light.
“Naturally you may use levitation and transportation, if you have these skills, but only when the building is locked for the night. All substantial movements – changes of floor etcetera – are to be cleared through me first.” She certainly meant business. “My offices are on the first floor, the gem rooms.”
“Nice,” Marcus said. “They must be very pretty.”
“Pretty?” She looked almost puzzled. “Well, yes, I suppose they are; however, I see them merely as specimens. It was my field of study before I joined the Brotherhood.”
“You died here?” he asked.
She turned and walked up the stairs away from him, her spectral heels still clicking on the smooth steps. For a moment Marcus thought she had not heard him and he was about to repeat himself when she turned back and spoke again.
“Yes, Mr Resnick, I died here. As you are so interested, I suffered a heart attack whilst at work. I came in one winter with a case of chronic influenza, as I felt compelled to finish cataloguing some stones. The heating was very poor and my temperature rose throughout the day and eventually my heart could not sustain me and stopped.” She paused and stared at him. “I was bound to this place as I had not finished my work. I was deeply honoured to be invited to join the Brotherhood as, I am sure, were you.”
She turned away from him and began once more to ascend the stairs.
“I was run over outside,” Marcus babbled, rushing after her.” “Didn’t look where I was going and – blam – a black cab hit me. It was really . . .”
“I know all about your death, Mr Resnick,” she interrupted. “It was all in your file and so it is unnecessary to explain.”
“Oh.” He felt embarrassed. “I’ll just shut up then.”
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “I still have a lot of work to do before I can Disperse and I would appreciate it if you would not waste my time. Follow me to your new location.”
He followed her through the corridors of cased animals peering out from behind the glass, stuffed and frozen in time. They stood in various assumed, permanently aggressive poses as if caught by the camera eye in the middle of an attack. Marcus attempted to maintain the brisk pace set by his new controller, but the distractions were too great. He trotted along behind her, stopping and turning as he walked to take in displays that had changed very little since he had last seen them as a child. Thin beams of ice-white moonlight fell through him to the floor, gathering no shadow and giving the building a magical appearance. Marcus loved every bit of it.
“This place is beautiful,” he gushed, although it was clear that his companion was no longer listening. “Much better than being in the middle of the road.”
“Here!” she barked at him as they reached a huge pair of oak doors. “This is your department. You are allocated to share with another agent. His name is William Lawton. He is very talkative; I believe you two will get along just fine.”
“Thank you,” Marcus replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“I was merely following instructions.” She turned and began to walk away down the corridor. “I shall be in contact soon to see how you are settling in.” She threw the words over her shoulder and, with a whiff of burning coal and a momentary glitter of white light, she was gone.
Marcus stood for a minute or two at the door, still enjoying the silence and space of the huge building. He had spent so long in the noise and stench of the main road that this peace washed over him like sunshine, warming him to his core. He felt truly happy at last and, for the first time in many decades, he did not regret his decision to enter the Brotherhood.
He had led a less than blameless life, as he had been a con man who specialised in wheedling money out of the weak-minded and lonely. When he was killed on the road, he knew no one would grieve for him and he instinctively feared what would come next. He was not a religious man, crediting neither heaven nor hell, and so was more than surprised to find himself wafting about after death.
Offered the chance to join the Brotherhood, he had jumped at it without much thought and, fearing what could come beyond this state, he had stayed. At first eager to please, and keen to cast off the wicked acts of his life, he had been an excellent agent, aiding in the passing on of countless spirits, of which there were many, thanks to London’s busy roads. But recently he had been consumed with the idea of reallocation – and now he had it. Not quite what he had planned, but now he could make a difference again, with a fresh start.
“Well, are you bally well coming in or not?” a terribly posh voice said from apparently nowhere.
Marcus looked back at the doors which now had the addition of a head sticking through them. The head sported a large moustache and floppy fair hair that seemed to govern itself – badly. The face that carried it all must only have been about thirty, but it looked as though it had endured a hard life.
“Sorry,” Marcus replied. “You must be Mister Lawton.”
“Good God, man, nobody calls me mister anything – call me Bill, please.” He grinned and his teeth glistened from underneath their blond whiskery curtain. “And you still haven’t answered my question, old boy.”
“Sorry?”
“Coming in, or not coming in? Pretty darn simple.”
“Oh, y-yes,” Marcus stammered, “coming in.”
“Righto,” Bill said, and his head slipped back through the door.
Marcus took a deep breath to prepare. It had been a long time since he had transported, as being in the middle of the road did not often call for it. Cars automatically passed through him without any effort on his part. He was desperately out of practice. He closed his eyes and concentrated, forcing himself to picture his substance thinning out until it was so weak it could pass through the molecules of the wood in the door and reassemble on the other side. He felt the wood break down and his own particles jostle for position among the grain as he began to pass through. Then it was done and he gradually pulled his shape back together.
“You might want to nip back for that arm, old man.” Bill said, nodding towards the empty space in Marcus’s sleeve. “Unless you’re planning to do without it? You are pretty ’armless.” He guffawed heartily at his own joke.
“Blast,” Marcus swore. “I knew I was out of practice, but that’s embarrassing.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, old man; used to do it all the time,” Bill chuckled. “I’ll get the evasive wibbly thing for you.”
He strode to the door and reached into the wood, pulling out a shifting grey mass of loose particles, which he carried carefully back to Marcus.
“I believe this is yours?” he joked, and shoved the squirming bundle of particles back into Marcus’s chest.
Marcus concentrated for a moment and the particles gradually reassembled into their given shape as his arm.
“Welcome to your new home, old chap. The Ice Maiden told me all about you so we won’t waste time with dull explanations,” Bill blustered. “Pretty good place this, been with these slimy things in jars for over a hundred and ninety years myself, don’t mind saying so either. I know that some are not keen on saying how long they’ve been hanging around, but it’s not easy to embarrass Bill Lawton.”
“Ice Maiden?”
“Miss Diamonds, the queen of this here establishment, the snooty woman who brought you down here? Secretive thing, that one; always snooping around the corridors. Watch out for her. Did she tell you her name?” Bill asked.
Marcus thought about it for a moment. “No, now you come to mention it, she didn’t.”
Bill shook his head. “Didn’t think so. I reckon she’s forgotten it herself, just like she forgot to have a personality. She has to be one the deadest people I’ve met. Not me though, never forgot my name, although it should have been easy as not many people actually knew the whole lot anyway.” he babbled.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Marcus said.
Bill stood up very straight and brushed himself down with his white-gloved hands before raising his head in a regal pose. In the thin light he looked like a ghost from an old-fashioned children’s storybook. His white-blond hair and moustache were just the beginning of a stunning ensemble which incorporated a perfect crimson uniform with crisp white trousers, gleaming breastplate, shiny black boots and a sheathed sword hanging from his waist on a belt fastened with an ornate buckle.
“Sir William Charles Chapel Lawton, fifth Earl of Scarford and Commander of the second regiment, King’s Light Horse . . . at your service.” He reached up to a tall red hat, crested with a tuft of white horsehair that had just appeared on his head. He clasped it by the sharp black peak at the front and swept if off with a low bow.
“Very impressive!” Marcus acknowledged the bow with a nod. “So how come you’re here? Was it a war or something?”
“Ah.” Bill straightened up and it was his turn to look embarrassed. “Bit awkward that one actually. Not during a war, I’m afraid – although seen a good few skirmishes, I can tell you. Back when old Napoleon was giving us a bit of a hard time, my boys and I had to send him packing, but no, that’s not why I’m here.”
He turned back to the many cabinets that flanked the room like glass coffins on legs.
“It’s actually the fault of one of these fellows here.” Bill gestured to the cases. “Truth be told, old man, never could resist a wager. Just after I came home from the war, about 1816 I think, I was knocking around with some chums and we dropped into Montagu House to pick up a lady friend before heading off for the evening. She was there helping her father label some dusty stuff, bones and the like, lovely gel, very pretty and dashed clever too. There we were, all dressed up in best bib and tucker, and well, we were larking around a bit whilst we waited for her, as you do, and one of the chaps, Bertie Cauldwell, wagered that I wouldn’t eat a beastie or bottled-up thing of some kind.” He bristled at the memory.
“Well, you can’t turn down a wager, d’you see? So I took him up on it. Blasted fellow slipped me a poisonous creature of some sort and after I drank it down he scarpered quick fast without paying up. I popped off under this very cabinet here.” He tapped a beautifully polished glass and mahogany display case. “Blighter never did pay up either, so, you know the way the Brotherhood works, unfinished business, none to grieve, and here I am.”
“Well, what about your girl? Didn’t she grieve?”
“Tragic fact is, old man, she’d been carrying on with Bertie behind my back anyway. I’ve often wondered if the whole thing was planned just to do away with me. Ah well, there you go. It’s done now and he was killed in a shooting accident two years later anyway and here I am whilst he’s long gone and forgotten.”
“Did you say Montagu House? Wasn’t that the old British Museum? You didn’t die here then?” Marcus asked.
“No, this place wasn’t even built when I died, but the collection was moved here in 1883 and I seem to have become attached to this cabinet. I can’t say that I miss Montagu though; that building was simply heaving with addled old spirits and musty books. What do you think of this place?”
Marcus looked around at the oak-panelled room surrounding them and the rows of splendid displays.
“I think it’s amazing,” he replied. “I’ve spent so long in the middle of the road, dealing with people who’ve been run over – this is a real step up for me. I had no idea a place could look so good.”
“That’s the spirit, if you’ll pardon the pun!” Bill laughed, and slapped Marcus heartily on the back. “Now it can get a bit dull in here at times; the chaps at the Brotherhood tend to leave us alone unless something special comes along. Far too many of us in this area to get regular work in passing people over, so the nights can be a bit long unless you want to spend it all in Dispersal. Do you like to gamble?”
“Why?” Marcus replied nervously. “What did you have in mind?”
“Who is she?” Marcus whispered.
“Name’s Daisy something-or-other; she was a cleaner here about sixty years ago until she fell off a ladder under the big fella over there.” Bill gestured to the dusty blue whale that hung from the ceiling in the hall of mammals. “Broke her bally neck, crickkkk.” He made an exaggerated cracking noise and tipped his head at a crooked angle to demonstrate his point.
They were both crouched behind a woolly rhino and watched as the girl vaporously moved from exhibit to exhibit, passing a cloth gently over each one.
“What’s she doing?” Marcus whispered.
“Cleaning of course. What else would she be doing? She’s a cleaner.” Bill’s hoarse croak of a whisper suppressed his usual bellowing voice. “Come on, it’s nearly time.”
Bill slipped out from their hiding place and, looking upwards at the gantry above their heads, he began to lose his substance until he had disappeared from the ground floor and reappeared on the upper level looking down on the main display space. He beckoned for Marcus to follow and follow he did after a first failed attempt that left him halfway through the floor.
“Here’s a good place. Better be quiet though; the Ice Maiden hates it if you wander around without asking her first.” Bill crouched back down, this time behind a stuffed lion that was so shabby it looked as if it had died of old age. “Not long to wait for the main event.”
“What do you mean by that?” Marcus shuffled around to avoid Bill’s sword poking right through him.
“Each night, this poor gel dies again, and it is about time . . . So, what species do you think she will cark it under tonight?” Bill was grinning broadly.
“What?” Marcus was shocked.
“Oh, come on, old man. It’s not as if she’s never done it before,” Bill chuckled. “She’s no more real than fairies and goblins, just an echo of the girl who died here, like a stuck record. She’s not an agent after all, so she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She never falls in the same place two nights running; it’s like she can’t remember. This hall has been rearranged dozens of times since she died. No harm in having a bit of a wager if she’s going to pop off anyway. Just think of this as a big old game of treasure hunt, you know, like at the village fair with the little flags to mark the spot? We have no money to wager, but it doesn’t mean we can’t do it just for the fun of it.”
He looked over the gantry and down to where the luminescent outline of the girl wafted from mammal to mammal, flicking specks of dust from their backs as she went.
“Right.” Bill rubbed his hands together, the movement causing his sword to clink against the buckle. “I’m going to have the bears tonight I think – how about you?”
“Well.” Marcus hesitated. “Oh, all right, I’ll have the . . . big cats.”
“That’s my boy.” Bill slapped him heartily on the back. “More fun with two. Not long now, just another couple of minutes.”
They watched in silence, but Marcus could see the excitement in Bill’s face as the girl drifted first towards the bears. Her white form cast an eerie glow over the dark fur of the animals as she drew close to them, and then past them. She wafted on round the room for a few more minutes until she looked upwards.
Marcus pulled back rapidly, fearing she had seen their hiding place.
“Damn,” Bill muttered.
“Has she seen us?” Marcus whispered.
“No, she’s looking for her ladder; looks like she’s gypped us both tonight, old man,” he replied.
“What?”
“Watch.”
Marcus leaned back over and could see that the girl had ascended a little as if she was climbing steps where there were none. She got to a height of about two metres, began to sway a little, stretched out her hands and fell. Marcus stood up instinctively and reached out to her, but he was too far away to help her even if it was possible. She seemed to fall in slow motion and, as she hit the ground, her head twisted at a grotesque angle. She crumpled down into a tangle of limbs and her cold eyes stared into nothingness. As they watched, her body began to blur until all that remained was a smooth puddle of light that faded and was gone.
“Awful.” Marcus stared at the spot where she had vanished. “Just too awful,” he muttered.
“Bally right, old man.” Bill stood up and straightened his uniform. “Underneath the rhinos this time, no bloody use for either of us.”