5

THE OVERSEERS

part from a few stragglers and passers-by, Camden Passage was quiet, and no one saw us step aside between two shops to enter the hairline crack in the wall that led to HQ.

A regular drip of water echoed along the unlit space, a space so narrow we had to edge through it sideways, shoes scraping over the gritty floor. At the far end a chink of light signalled the exit to Eventide Street, home to the Ministry’s headquarters. The gap widened and brightened as we moved towards it, and one by one we tumbled out, into a starlit alleyway.

It was night in the alley – it was always night-time here. Two gas-burning streetlights by the steps below headquarters washed the cobbled ground with amber, and the old brick building stood half in shadow, half in light, with shuttered windows and upper floors so dark they seemed to merge with the sky.

Taking the steps and heading indoors, we passed through a dim entrance hall and climbed a rickety staircase to the main operations floor. An eerie wind whistled around the upstairs and candles flickered in alcoves between the closed offices on both sides of the hallway.

‘Your meeting won’t last long,’ Lu said. ‘We’ll be in the waiting room when you’re done.’

‘And where do I go?’

‘The conference room. Where else?’

My heart slumped. I’d been nervous before, but now I felt close to panic.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Becky tried to reassure me as the girls headed off. ‘Something and nothing, most likely.’

As an apprentice I’d only seen a small part of Pandemonium House: the receipts office where I transcribed the lists of soon-departeds as the telegraph delivered them, the ever-expanding records room where all numbers and names were filed, the dispatch office where girls wearing heavy headsets chattered into desktop microphones relaying calls to the field day and night.

The conference room was the operations hub, the inner sanctum watched over by the living portraits of the Overseers. To be called to this place was no small matter. I hadn’t set foot inside there since the Halloween invasion, and I didn’t fancy standing in the glare of those twelve solemn faces again.

Besides, there were staff here, security guards known as Vigilants, who I was sure held a grudge against me for what I’d done that night. Working alone in receipts, I’d seen – or could’ve sworn I’d seen – Mum’s name on an incoming list. I’d stolen that list from the building, the most unforgivable thing an operative could do. As a result, our defences were thrown wide open, the enemy came roaring in, and seventeen staff were lost, taken body and soul. Could that be why I was here?

Two Vigilants were posted outside the conference room now, rifles strapped across their grey-uniformed chests. They gave me lingering dark looks when I approached, and I sensed their trigger fingers itching, but they stood back to let me inside.

The room was just as I remembered it, an immense hall of hewn stone walls with a log fire blazing in a cast iron fireplace. The elders, six to each side of the room, looked down from their portraits with ever-changing faces which faded in and out behind veils of curling mist. The conference table, smashed in two the last time I’d seen it, had been fully restored, and the crystal chandelier above it sent cascades of rainbow light through the air.

At the far end of the room were three stained glass windows which framed a number of colourful battle scenes, fierce clashes between armoured warriors and demons in many forms, some reptilian, some feline, others in shadow-form, shifting between one shape and another.

These historic scenes weren’t confined to the windows but covered the sculpted ceiling too, intricately detailed and slowly, subtly moving, vibrating from the horrors they showed. One scene in particular caught my eye. It looked familiar, very familiar, but I was distracted by a movement at the head of the table where a white-robed figure had just materialised.

At first I thought one of the elders had stepped down from its portrait, but all twelve judgmental faces were looking down when I checked. The pale figure stood with its back towards me, holding in one hand something metallic that reflected the chandelier’s light. When it turned slowly around, I realised the object in its hand was a long-bladed scythe – but it was the sight of its face that turned my blood cold.

It was the Reaper’s face, a pale grinning skull only partly shaded by the hood of its garment. Dull orbs of light shone deep inside its hollow eye sockets, the bared teeth clicked and chattered, and thunder crackled from its throat when it spoke.

‘You’re late, boy. You were called. Don’t you know what it means to be called?’

I fell back, too alarmed to speak, my heart thudding between my ears.

‘Young man,’ the figure said, rounding the table towards me. ‘Young man, have you any idea why you were summoned?’

I shook my head, heart in mouth. A flicker of lightning crossed the ceiling and fringed the scythe’s curved edge.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ the figure said. ‘Some here say you’re a born helper. Some call you Wonder Boy. Others believe you’ve done more harm than good, stoking the enemy’s fires and stirring the agents of darkness into the foulest of moods. Have you considered the consequences of your actions, have you asked yourself where this will all lead?’

‘No. . .’ I couldn’t easily breathe, let alone speak. ‘Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. Don’t hold it against me, whoever you are.’

‘And who do you think I am?’

The figure had moved nearer, within touching distance. Now it leaned nearer still until I felt its breath on my cheek.

‘Don’t know,’ I said, but I knew I was about to find out.

The Reaper threw back its hood, lifted a bony-fingered hand to its face and with a slap and a squelch peeled the skull mask clean off. With another flurry it cast the robes aside, revealing another figure in its place – swarthy and silver-toothed, dressed in ragged black clothing and knee-high boots. To this outfit, which I knew so well, he’d added a wide-brimmed black hat worn at a tilt, which made me think less of a pirate, more of a gunslinger.

‘Gotcha!’ he said, creasing with laughter.

‘You!’

‘One of these days you won’t be so easily fooled, Ben Harvester, and then how will I amuse myself?’

The Overseers certainly weren’t amused, some looking on dolefully while others clucked their tongues.

‘Mr October, I thought you were gone,’ I said. ‘Retired or dead. I thought. . .’

‘That’ll be the day,’ he said. ‘It takes more than a stray enemy fireball to keep old Dudley October down. But I must admit, it was touch and go there for a while.’

‘I can’t believe it’s you. I missed you. It’s so good to see you.’

‘Yes, I imagine it is.’ The silver tooth glinted. ‘Excuse the reaper costume, by the way. Thought I’d ring a few changes for the field but I fear that look is badly overstated. And the scythe – imagine how newly-departeds would feel, seeing that. They need comfort and guidance, not a danse macabre.’

‘Well, I prefer you this way,’ I said.

‘The old ones are the best, I suppose.’ He glanced at the portraits, then back at me. ‘As for the reason you were called here. Firstly, I thought – and my superiors here agreed – it would be best to break the news of my return to you in person rather than let you find out through idle gossip. Secondly, and more importantly, we felt the time was right to show you this.’

I followed his look to the ceiling, to the battle portrayal I’d spotted before. It pictured a transparent, slimy-bodied being with a yawning mouth as large as its head, a Mawbreed caught in the act of eating itself. I had a sudden giddy feeling because I’d seen this happen with my own eyes. More than that, I’d made it happen, I’d turned the Mawbreed against themselves right here in this room.

‘Not particularly pretty,’ Mr October said. ‘Of course I was indisposed at the time so I never saw for myself what you’d achieved, but I heard about it – and my, how the staff in the clinic like to talk. But be assured of this, Ben. What you did that night has already become the stuff of our history. It’s a tremendous honour for one so young to make their mark here and to have it recorded in such a way.’

Did one or more of the Overseers just smile? I couldn’t be sure, but the general mood radiating from the portraits felt like approval.

‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

‘Say nothing. There’s no time, anyway. We’re running late.’

With a quick bow to the portraits, Mr October excused us from the conference room. The elderly faces were sinking back into mist as he escorted me out to the hallway past the two guards.

‘So how are things with you?’ Mr October said. ‘I’ve been hearing great stories about the work your team has done in my absence.’

‘Oh, things are fine,’ I said.

‘Feel free to elaborate. Then again, actions speak louder than words, don’t they, as we’ve just seen. How’s your dear mother?’

‘Doing well, I think. On holiday now.’

‘A much needed sabbatical. So much pain and sadness in her life these last few years. Keep a close eye on her when she returns, Ben.’

‘I will.’

He didn’t need to explain. The enemy, the Lords of Sundown, set their sights on our loved ones as much as ourselves. Family and friends were our weaknesses as well as our strengths.

‘So what’s this talk about new enemy activity?’ I asked. ‘Joe Mort mentioned it, and Sukie told Becky. . .’

‘Rumours,’ Mr October said. ‘But behind most rumours there’s often a grain of truth. The enemy are never still, and our intelligence does suggest they’re stepping things up. I wasn’t speaking in jest before. Your good work has put them in a flutter.’

We stopped at the waiting room door.

‘Girls?’ Mr October called, peering inside. ‘Meeting’s over. Care to join us?’

They looked up together. Becky’s face was a picture of surprised wonder while Lu’s greeting, a polite little nod, told me she’d known all along but had been sworn to secrecy. The four of us trooped up the hallway, past records, past dispatch. As we reached the receipts office a joyful shout went up inside.

‘Mr October!’

Sukie looked up from the desk as we entered. Because of her telepathic skills she must have been among the first to know. She was in her middle teens and had a stormy appearance, all back-brushed hair and black clothing. A slight cast in her eye made her seem to be looking in two directions at once.

‘I’ve been dying to share the news,’ she said. ‘Hardest thing I’ve ever done, keeping it all to myself. It wasn’t the same without you.’

‘Good to see you too, Sukie. So how’s tonight’s schedule looking?’ Mr October said.

‘It’s all here.’

On the desk before her was a pistachio green Olivetti Lettera 22 typewriter and two stacks of typed cards, one of which Sukie passed to Mr October. We always kept two sets, one for the field and one for filing, all carefully transcribed from the lists pumped out by the ancient Stern & Grimwald telegraph machine across the room.

Whenever I entered this place – and I often worked long hours here – I became tense, willing the telegraph not to make a sound, not on my shift. When it did, often waking with a spark and a bang, the lists it spat out were significant. While the numbers explained how the soon-departed would go, the exact nature and cause of death, no one but the Overseers knew where the names came from. All we knew was that this cramped book-lined candlelit room was where they arrived.

Mr October tweaked the hat back on his head and skipped through the cards one by one.

‘Oh my. That’s tragic. How awful. Oh dear. And there seem to be a few weather-related incidents tonight – falling trees, collapsed chimney. . . What’s all that about?’

‘Forecasts of a tornado,’ Sukie explained. ‘Could touch down anytime tonight or early morning.’

‘Then let’s look lively,’ Mr October said. ‘Sukie, would you mind taking these to Miss Webster in records and working a little overtime? I’ll keep Ben with me on the rounds.’

‘Be glad to.’ Sukie collected her cards and stood up at the desk. ‘Love the new hat, by the way,’ she told Mr October. ‘Reminds me of Jack Palance in Shane.’

‘Pick up the gun,’ Mr October growled, narrowing his eyes.

Sukie laughed. ‘You’ve seen that film too.’

I smiled, clueless as to what they were talking about.

‘It’s a Western,’ Sukie explained, reading my mind, and reading Mr October’s she said, ‘It’s in service.’

‘Lu, better go prepare the rickshaw,’ Mr October said.

‘It’s in service,’ Lu said, looking in confusion at Sukie. ‘There’s a loaner, a Mustang convertible around the corner on Duncan Street. I haven’t tried bringing it through the walls yet.’

‘Nice,’ Mr October said, ushering us out. ‘Back in the 1960s I drove a Mustang myself.’

‘Did you work for the Ministry then?’ Becky asked.

‘I’ve always worked for the Ministry,’ he answered mysteriously. ‘Frankly, I’d be unemployable anywhere else. But shall we begin? This first call on our list looks like a toughie.’