Two Women and Some Books
A bird is she inside his mind
Who only thinks their souls entwined
Imagines love a cold obsession
His little bird a soft possession
And should he hurt her in his rage
With broken wing flies to her cage
And in her sorrow cares no more
Instead lies broke on the gritted floor
“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Cista Tyran found she no longer cared if her boss heard her anger, assuming that he was still her boss. “You set me up. You fed Dugsdall to the wolves. You gave me your word you’d let me hold his safety line. You’ve gone back on that. So now you want me out altogether?”
Perhaps if he hadn’t been lying in bed pinned by the weight of her body as she lay half over him and with the flush of exertion still on his skin, she might have responded differently. But she doubted it. She was done playing nice with the man she worked for who had become her lover. And yes, she was pretty confident that he did love her. He had shown it, putting himself out to protect her from events that could have ended her career. On her side, if not love there was real affection. It hadn’t started out that way, but no matter who else she had been seeing, he had been a constant. It wasn’t easy, but they were both highly capable of the kind of subterfuge it involved, finding ways and means to be together.
After all, he was Garn Jecks, head of the Coalition Security Force and she was one of his top project managers.
Outwardly, he seemed unmoved by her words, just shaking his head and remaining stone-faced. But that meant little.
“Right,” he said. “I’m sorry Cista.”
She stifled her usual annoyance that eight years into their secret affair he still insisted on using her given name and refused to call her Ty.
“You’re sorry but…?”
He lifted a hand defensively. Ty realised she had seldom seen him so incredibly distressed. Anyone else would have been screaming in her face, Garn Jecks just lifted a hand. “Right. I am. Truly. Things have changed and we have to change with them.”
“You mean the mad old bitch poked her crystal ball until it burped and you caved in to her crazy?”
He said nothing to that. But what could he say? They both knew it was true. Ty had no idea the nature of the hold Kahina Sarava had over Garn except it was powerful and had something to do with Future Data—the algorithmic crystal ball that seemed to be commanding everything. Sometimes she got the impression Garn was its victim, controlled by it. Which didn’t sit well with her image of him and she knew it must cut deeply into his own sense of self.
Feeling suddenly sorry for her outburst, Ty lowered her head to kiss him, but he moved impatiently and swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit up.
“You don’t understand quite how bad this is,” he said, his back to her. “And it’s not just Sarava. There is some…thing else.”
The slight hesitation made her wonder if he had been going to say ‘someone’. But it was hard to think of anyone with the ability to bring down Garn Jecks. After all, he was the man who was paid to ensure the security of every member of the Central corporate-political establishment. He knew where all the bodies were buried.
“This could destroy me,” he went on. “It will destroy you. Unless you let me get you out. Do you understand?”
A chill in the air made her skin prickle. He did love her, that was really sweet. So why was he being such a bastard about this?
“You think I could just walk away?”
She could feel the tension in his entire body and when he didn’t answer her right away, moved her hands to massage his upper back.
“I don’t want you to walk away,” he said at last. “I want you to run. Resign. Today.”
Something in his tone impacted deep in Ty’s guts. It punched into her anger and knocked the wind out of it. He was afraid. For her. She stopped moving her hands, resting them on his shoulders and leaning in to press her cheek against his, her hair swinging forward in a silver-blonde bell, loving how that was a stark contrast to his dark-complexioned skin.
“Maybe you should take a moment to explain what’s happened, what’s changed things, instead of just telling me you want me to resign from the service.”
“Right. I wish I could. I can’t.” There was an uncharacteristic note of hopelessness in his voice. This the man who was always in control. Always one step ahead in his planning. He turned to draw her into his embrace and buried his face in her hair for a moment. “Knowing would place you in even more danger. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you because of me.”
“I am all grown up, you know,” she said, squashing the surge of annoyance. “I work for the CSF. You may have heard of them? The S is for ‘security’.”
He sighed.
“You didn’t follow orders.”
That brought her up short and she pulled away. Distancing herself. Then started hunting out her clothes.
“It’s what you pay me for,” she reminded him as she dressed. “If I did everything by the book I’d be as much use to the service as a fractured fusion core.’
“Right. No. This was not that.”
“Then what?”
“I told you when I transferred you from the team hunting Dugsdall that you shouldn’t contact him to tell him so.”
Ty frowned, her teeth digging into her lower lip. How could he know…? Of course, Future Data would have thrown it up as a high probability. But she was also certain Future Data had no way of knowing if it had actually happened. No one could know that. She’d used a one-burn link and an anonymised message drop which would self-delete as soon as Grim picked it up.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You did. You said it was important. You didn’t say why though.”
His gaze met and held hers.
“But you did it anyway.”
“No. Not yet.” The lie came easily. But then lying was her day job and she was very good at it. “I was going to, but I’ve been too sick at the thought of how he’d react knowing you’ve cut the line.”
She let how she felt about what he’d done to Grim creep into her voice. This wasn’t the first time Garn had angered her with a work decision, but she had a policy of never allowing work into their relationship. The fact he had dragged it in now was breaking all their rules. It was that which scared her more than anything else he was saying.
He looked away, lips tightening and then stood up to get dressed.
“I’m not sure it makes any difference anyway. If you haven’t, then good. But it changes nothing. You have to resign.”
She finished dressing and then sat and watched as he did the same.
“I don’t see why.”
“Right. You wouldn’t. But you must. Today. It has to be a clean break.”
A clean break? Ty shook her head. Surely he couldn’t mean…?
“You don’t want to see me again?” It was harder to say than she would have imagined it might be. Somewhere along the line this man had crept further under her skin than she’d intended.
He pulled on his shoes and avoided her eyes.
“It is not anything I want. It is, if anything, the exact opposite of what I want. But it’s not anything I have any choice about.”
“And I don’t either?”
“Right. There is more going on than you know—than you can know. It’s not just what you think it is. There are other factors in play here that weren’t before.”
“Can’t you tell me—?”
He cut across her. “I’ve told you all I can. More than I should. Don’t ask me for more.”
And that was that.
She knew there was no point protesting, his entire body language shut her out, until he finished dressing and drew her to him, briefly.
“Put in your resignation—but don’t let what I’ve said today stop you doing what you always planned to do.” He palmed something into her hand and brushed her ear with his lips. “Keep in touch. Please.”
Then he was gone.
From Iconoclast: A Necessary End by E.M Swift-Hook, the final book of Fortune’s Fools.
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
A couple of hours later, Em put out her best crystal glasses, a platter of cheese and fruit and a bottle of exceedingly nice sherry. Then she sat down to wait. It wasn’t many minutes before a perfunctory tap on the door heralded her visitor. The bishop’s secretary/supernatural liaison officer came in, walking very softly. Em reconsidered the sherry, opting for her best brandy instead. She poured two goodish snifters but said nothing.
“We have a problem Emmeline.”
“Aside from the bats thing?”
He took a fortifying swig of brandy before replying. “Yes. That would be easily dealt with. But.”
“But Doug Turner isn’t quite what he seems to be?”
“Indeed he isn’t. Only…”
“Only what?”
“What indeed? I was hoping you could help me there.”
“If you are sniffing around whether or not he’s one of mine. I can set your mind at ease there. He isn’t.”
“Oh. I rather thought that would explain why he wants rid of the bats.”
“Why would….” Em waved her hands distractedly. “Never mind. You think he’s a supe. I think he’s a supe. My friends think there is something not right about him. That leaves two questions. What is he? And why the heck isn’t he registered?”
“In a nutshell. That’s about the size of it. And it is disturbing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We will find out what is happening. Bishop Enoch is not about to have an unregistered supernatural being on his turf, so this will be resolved quite quickly. However. In the meantime…”
“Will I and mine keep an eye on him?”
“Yes. But. Keep your distance and no heroics. Whatever it is feels insane to me.”
“Yes. I’m not about to get in a fight with an unknown quantity. I’ll just put the Indian sign on him. Now eat some cheese if you are going to pilot that stupid little car of yours after a stiff brandy.”
When he had gone, moving as quietly as a wraith, Em cleared away the remains of his repast before staring fixedly at the phone. It didn’t ring. Instead a car horn tooted merrily outside. Agnes had arrived.
“I was on my way home,” she said accusingly.
“This is important.”
Agnes subsided into a chair and Em put the kettle on. Once they were provided with tea Agnes leaned her elbows on the table.
“Tell me then.”
Em outlined the salient points of the evening. Agnes’ eyes narrowed and her chin seemed more prominent as she took in the implications.
“Right. I’ll make sure the girls know he’s under suspicion. And you keep your bloody distance until we know what we’re up against. Now shut up while I compose a text.”
She got out her phone and her thumbs flew. Em watched, amazed as always by how fast her oldest friend typed – or texted if that was a verb. When Agnes put her phone down Em grinned at her.
“How do you do that so fast?”
“Practice. Now. Tonight’s meeting. The Crapper woman turned up. She’s a bloody mess. Kind of okay underneath but a jumble of insecurities, worries, and angst. Depressive if I don’t miss my guess. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy regular member but certainly not recruit material. And. She sat next to Lilian who says she smelled Harmsley-Gunn.”
“Yes, well that miserable old bastard was bound to be sniffing around. Anything else of consequence?”
“Yes. There is something not right at the housing association. People are being threatened with eviction.”
“Are they indeed? On what grounds?”
Agnes showed her teeth. “That’s what we need to find out. Fortunately I have a great niece who works in the council offices.” Agnes’ phone bleeped four times. “Right. That’s the reverend under surveillance. Now I’m off home.”
She bent to kiss Em’s cheek before bustling away. Em grinned at her departing back.
Part 10 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
They said it would tell the computer if you were happy, and that wearing it wasn’t compulsory.
Milo laughed hollowly at the glibness of the lies, but he wore the thing home so the algorithm could ‘adjust itself to his biorhythms’.
The bosses never bothered themselves about the lives of the workers – or they might have known about Milo’s brother Keaton. Who had the wristband stripped down and rechipped inside an hour.
Milo became a much happier employee when the algorithm marked him out for fast track promotion to managerial status – from which position he immediately scrapped the wristband program.
In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…
If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.
The village bus used to run twice daily. Most days the bus was half-full. Then, to save money, it was made twice weekly – in one direction on Monday morning and back again on Thursday morning. Which was no good for anyone.
A year later they stopped it.
The Councillor gave me his vague political smile.
“We would reopen the bus service, but there is no demand. No one used it. If people wanted a bus service they’d have used it.”
Irrefutable logic.
Then he got in his Mercedes and drove off.
Marie Antionette would have been so proud of him.
In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…
If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.
This morning followed I my nose
As it led a merry dance
My feet they went where’re it chose
My eyes took ne’er a glance
The scents of life my heart did feel
My ears did hear its song
I’ll never see a day more real
If my life be a hundred times long
The door slammed shut behind him and the solid sound of bolts shooting home followed, reinforcing the sense of finality. The room was a depressing dull grey from ceiling to floor. It was square with two beds, bunks, running the full length of one sidewall and essential facilities in the far corner. Zero privacy from either his cellmate or, through the door hatch, from the custodius. Above the door a vent the size of his fist was vibrating with an annoying humming-whine as it reluctantly circulated fresh air.
“Llewellyn? What did they drag you in here for? Sticking your nose too deep in someone else’s business?”
The voice was vaguely familiar, though Dai was slow to place it as the shaven head of the man sprawled on the lower bunk was not. His puzzlement must have shown because the man swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up.
“I don’t suppose you remember me. It was some months ago and I’m sure you’ve been a busy Submagistratus since then.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t…”
The other man laughed, which turned into a cough part way before he was able to speak again. “Gods! Politeness. Not heard a word of that since they locked me in here.” He pushed himself to his feet and straightened the green tunic, before offering a formal greeting. “Tertius Cloelius Rufus. It is an honour to share my captivity with you. A pleasure. You may recall we met in Viriconium before these unfortunate events.”
Dai found himself shaking the outheld hand as if they were at a social event or meeting, as his memory searched desperately for the name and face. When it came, he snatched his hand away and stepped back involuntarily.
“You were the cunnus of a medicus involved with a group holding vicious sex parties that led to the death of young streetgirls.”
“No need to use titles here,” the older man said brightly and then smiled at his own joke. “You can call me Rufus. It’ll make a change from seven-eight-one-one-two-six. It’s those little things you get to miss the most in this place. By the way, I hope you’re not hungry, you missed the evening meal. Nothing til tomorrow now.”
Dai felt a curl of cold revulsion in his guts.
“You disgust me.“
“Really?” Cloelius sounded unconcerned. “At least I’m not a traitor like you. That tends to evoke more outrage in our society at every level than any sexual adventures a man might embark on.”
“The difference is,” Dai snarled, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “I am not guilty of the faked-up charges against me, but I know for a fact you are guilty as charged. I caught you red-handed, literally. And the blood of a good Vigiles was shed that night too.”
Cloelius sighed and sat back on his bunk. “Appearances can be very deceptive Llewellyn, and like it or not your guilt or innocence will be decided in a court of law not by whatever you might choose to say or believe.” He lay back as if reclining on a lectus. “You might discover that I am in fact the innocent one and you turn out to be guilty. Now that would be an interesting outcome, don’t you think?”
The chilling realisation that the corrupt medicus spoke the truth staggered Dai. The words leeched all strength from his muscles and he sank down to sit with his back against the cold grey wall.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded, when the moment of weakness had passed.
“What a strange question. It’s not as if I can just stroll along to the atrium or visit the baths, is it?”
Dai lifted a hand in protest. “You know what I mean. You must have been here for months. Yours was an open and shut case. I signed off all the evidence myself back in Martius. It only needed a hearing before an independent Magistratus to…”
“Sentence me to death?” Cloelius gave a rasping laugh. “You show yourself the true Briton, Llewellyn. There are people I’ve met who have been held here for the last ten years.”
Dia bridled at that.
“But it’s against the law. No Citizen can be deprived of his or her freedom. They are tried and if found guilty, sentenced either to death or whatever fine is due.”
“Ah, British logic,” Cloelius said, his tone shifting to that of a teacher explaining simple facts to a schoolboy. “Those I speak of are Citizens who stand accused of capital offenses and are awaiting their day in court. They all have powerful friends in Rome using every legal wrangle there is to keep them from coming to trial. Some of the crimes have to be prosecuted within a certain time limit, so if they can delay that day long enough they can walk free. Others are commuted by prolonged negotiation from death to a fine. Everyday is a barter day. But you worked here in Londinium as a Vigiles so you really should know that.”
It was true that he had heard the rumours so it was not really a surprise. But his day-to-day clientele at that time had been almost exclusively non-Citizen criminals.
“You have powerful friends?”
Cloelius hunched one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Perhaps I do. Or powerful enough to keep me from trial so far. Don’t you? I am assuming you must do to have secured both Citizenship and a plum administrative appointment.” He leaned forward as if offering a confidence. “At the very least they might be able to have your Citizenship rescinded which would give you the chance of commuting your sentence to hard labour instead of the arena.”
That was something that had not occurred to Dai as a possibility before. It was true that committing any serious crime could lead to an application for the revocation of an awarded Citizenship – something given could be taken away. An option not open to those born with Citizenship status. But the kind of hard labour criminals were condemned to was brutalising.
“I don’t see that would be much better,” he said, hearing the bitterness in his own tone. “Just a slower way to die.”
“Perhaps. But at least, my British friend, you have options. Who knows? We may even grow old together in this cell.”
From Dying to be Innocent the 9th Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.
You can also listen to this extract being read on YouTube.
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
Earlier that same afternoon, Em had been debating which of her quietly coloured jersey dresses to shove on for the monthly meeting of the Ladies whilst wondering to herself what this Cropper woman was going to be like. From the voice – she assumed wispy, middle class, and somehow not happy. The phone breaking into her thoughts was, for once, a welcome distraction.
“Emmeline Vanderbilt speaking.”
“Ah. Good afternoon. Christopher Charles Cassington here.”
For a moment Em was at a loss. Then she remembered. This was the bat man. Injecting her voice with a warmth she was far from feeling she responded.
“Good afternoon Mr Cassington. To what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your colony of bats.”
“Hardly ‘my’ colony, but what about them?”
“The colony is being registered with the authorities as we speak, theoretically ensuring its protection. But I’m not a trusting man, and I have my ear to the ground. I heard rumours that the bats may be in danger, so I have taken a few precautions. This evening, before the bats awaken fully I’m bringing in a ringing team to ring and weigh and record. In addition to the volunteers there will be: a team from Natural Nation taking photographs, a journalist and photographer from Batty about Bats magazine, and a crew from Middle England TV filming a piece for the local news.”
Em began to feel truly fond of the odd little man. “Oh. Well done,” she said fervently.
“I thought you might want to come along and speak to the telly people. I’m not good with that sort of stuff. And you look. Ummm. Imposing.”
Em laughed. “Very well. What time?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Very well. I’ll be there.”
She put the phone down. Grinning. The jersey dresses would have to wait, as would the Ladies. Casual, she thought, if impeccably tailored.
Promptly at six-thirty a smallish convoy of vehicles drew into the village street. There was a minibus full of earnest bat-ringers, a Land Rover emblazoned with the Natural Nation logo, a bulky outdoor broadcast van, a white Volvo she guessed was the Bat magazine, and a Frog-Eyed Sprite she recognised with a wry grin. The vehicles disgorged their passengers and Em quietly tagged onto the end of the crocodile which made its way into the church.
Erasmus briefly appeared on her shoulder. “The small bats will cooperate. Once I made them understand this would spike the vicar’s guns.”
“We hope. But thanks.”
He flapped off and Em made her way into a church that was now a hive of activity. The television reporter was a fattish man in a loud sports jacket, and Em wasn’t looking forward to speaking to him. But he had his eye on different bait. There was a coltish teenager with dimples among the bat-ringing crew and he already had an avuncular arm about her shoulder. She caught Em’s eye and offered the suspicion of a wink before gazing soulfully at the reporter. Em retreated to a quiet corner and prepared to watch the show. The pretty teenager managed to tactfully shake off the reporter, who straightened his toupee before giving a piece to camera about the colony of rare bats found in the belfry of St Barnabas Church in Little Botheringham.
He was in full spate, and the comely teen was displaying a newly-ringed bat, when the church door banged open.
The vicar stood in the doorway, he was breathing heavily and his face was puce with rage.
“Get out of my church,” he bellowed.
The television cameraman, with the faultless instincts of his ilk, turned his lens on the furious clergyman in the doorway.
“Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera and clear off.”
He was all but dancing with rage, and Em wondered what he might do next. She wasn’t due to find out, though, because a gentle voice spoke from the back of the church.
“Do calm down, Reverend Turner. All necessary permissions have been granted.”
The vicar jumped as if he had been stung as the owner of the voice stepped towards him. Bishop Esmond’s principal secretary arrived at his elbow and placed an admonitory hand on his biceps.
The secretary turned his practiced smile into the lens of the camera.
“My colleague and I will just clear up this little misunderstanding. Carry on.”
He waved a white hand and steered the fulminating vicar out into the churchyard.
Em found Arnold at her side and they high fived.
“Get out of that you bastard,” she crowed.
Part 9 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
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