Night of the Animals(106)

“Fucking hell. Marcus? I saw him earlier tonight. He was sober. He’s kind of a prick, but he’s all right, he’s—”

“Not anymore. The Watch, Astrid. The bastards neuralpiked him. He was already full of drugs, and they killed him. May as well have done it for sport. They are cold bastards. But your name came up, and I’ve just been . . . asked . . . told, really . . . to take you off tonight’s situation, as a precautionary measure. The Watch, they’re absolutely terrified of Heaven’s Gate infiltrating any of the police forces. If there’s a perceived connection, an active suicider, they’ll want to have a look. It’s nothing to worry about, Astrid. You can understand that, I’m sure?”

“But I thought . . . you know . . . that the king and his lot approved of FA and all? That’s not FA. It’s not immune, after all, from the same kinds of temptations any other organization has in England. I thought Harry liked us?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Indeed, there are things that concern me—new policies—that are going to touch on FA and hundreds of other orgs, I fear. Your name was in the mouth of a dying cult member. It’ll need to be cleared up. It’s bollocks.”

“Marcus . . . he wasn’t a cult member. He was just a Dublin fecker. He was all right.”

“I hear you, Astrid. And there’s something else. This is why I didn’t use the blue-freq system, Astrid. I have . . . heard . . . from people I trust. I have heard that the king—and God knows whether it’s even coming from the king himself—but I have heard that there’s a Privy Council L7 directive coming. Astrid, FA—the king’s people are saying there’s a link, with the cults.”

“That’s a disgusting lie. That’s a lie. It’s not true, guv.”

“I know that. You know me. I know this is all naff. But here’s another thing: with the Army of Anonymous on the prowl, too, the whole ‘anonymous’ thing isn’t playing well . . . with the nobility, right?”

“That’s crazy. We’ve nothing to do with AA-UK, with English republicanism, with politics of any sort. God damn it!”

She felt gutted about the directive. She had seen dozens of suicidal men and women saved by the fledging self-help organization. The L7 order would deeply damage if not destroy it. It would mean mass EquiPoise examinations. It would mean the inevitable hoodings, forced “serfing,” the reclassification of middle-class members.

“FA helps the king. This is a nightmare. And all that you said before, where you asked me for my advice? Were you just splurtin’ brown sauce on my chip butty?”

“No! Come on, you. I . . . It’s not the kind of thing anyone wants to bring up. Is there someone—one of your FA friends, perhaps?—someone, someone like that you can, you know, sort of have a chat with, too?”

“I’m off FA at the moment, sir. I’m not drinking—but I’ve sort of gone off it.”

“Gone off? That doesn’t seem wise. You didn’t sound like that a second ago.”

“Yes, sir. Off.”

“Yes, well,” said Omotoso. “I’m—you’re not just saying that, because you’re afraid of the Watch and the directive?”

Omotoso was now looking at her directly, with the same kind of tolerant expression he might have worn were they standing beside one another. “But that’s . . . that’s your business, naturally. OK. Go. Go home. Go. Is that clear? Inspector?”

Atwell was standing right beside her now, clearly trying to eavesdrop. She wore a somber expression and kept shaking her head whenever Astrid spoke, which Astrid found both consoling and grating.

“Yes.”

“I don’t like how you sound. Something’s off. You know, Constable, Astrid . . . you . . . I see this special thing inside you, like a guardian ori,* as my mum would call it—a ‘head within the head.’ And all will be well—for you, anyway. But . . . I’m sorry. I really am. You must go home. Do not delay. Take care of your mum. And yourself. Ring your FA mates, right?”

“I don’t want to ring them.”

“Astrid. Things look bad now, but you once told me that someone told you ‘The best is yet to come.’”

“On that score, guv, I think Mr. Handley . . . I believe he knows something we don’t, Chief Inspector.”

“Good night, Astrid.”

She blinked off, her heart pounding again, her thoughts swirling like blown oak leaves. A crowd of people enveloped Omotoso and he was gone. Astrid felt as if she wanted to embrace Jasmine Atwell, out of fear and pain and confusion.

The round-faced woman with Dawkins and Atwell was staring at her.

Astrid said, to Atwell, “Constable.”

“This is, as you can probably surmise, Una,” said Atwell. “She just walked out. Dunno how. There must be an opening in the main gate somewhere.” Atwell leaned in toward Astrid. “She’s dumb—I mean, she’s a mute. And she’s very worried.”

“I know the feeling,” said Astrid. She felt speechless.

As Astrid recounted the conversation with Omotoso, and explained that she’d been relieved, Atwell nodded slowly, with an open expression, surprisingly unperturbed. It made Astrid feel both warmer toward her and, in another way, suspicious. They remained several meters away from the giant media, police, and zookeeper scrum assembled on the Broad Walk along the eastern edge of the zoo. The air had grown considerably cooler. Astrid herself was beginning to feel queasy and chilled. She wondered if the enterovirus everyone seemed to be moaning about that week had finally infected her.