Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(14)

Richard sighed. I think he’d already planned to tell us everything, but old habits die hard and we suspected that all the Little Crocodiles had been sworn to secrecy. Even perhaps with a little supernatural something to seal the deal.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t take the magic seriously.’

Nobody does, I thought, until it smacks them in the face.

Guleed asked if the Little Crocodiles had stayed in touch after graduation.

‘God, no,’ said Richard. ‘We just did it for fun – well, most of us. Some people took it more seriously than others.’

We asked if he could remember the names of the ones who took it more seriously and then, because that was just as valuable, the names of the ones who didn’t. The analysts in the Annexe were going to be up all night cross-referencing and some poor sod was going to find their colourful university days knocking on their door and asking for help with its inquiries.

‘What’s the bell for?’ asked Guleed.

‘The bell?’ asked Richard.

Ah, I thought, not that keen on telling us everything.

‘The bell,’ said Guleed firmly.

‘The bell.’ Richard shifted uncomfortably in his bed. ‘The bell is complicated. You saw the quotation written on the side?’

‘Something in Greek,’ said Guleed, who’d pioneered the use of intersectionality theory as an interview technique. Richard took the bait – no matter what the evidence, the posh ones always think they’re smarter than you.

‘It’s from Euripides,’ he said. ‘He’s a Greek playwright, an ancient Greek playwright, and he wrote a play called The Bacchae and it’s a quote from it. That’s why we nicknamed it “the drinking bell”.’ He gave us reassuring nods. ‘It’s about Dionysus, the god of winemaking.’

We knew this, of course. Because I’d texted Dr Postmartin, our archivist and a noted classicist, who had not only recognised the quote but also criticised the translation. He’d then given me a ten-minute lecture on Euripides, The Bacchae and Dionysus that was really quite soothing considering I was less than twenty metres from an unexploded magical device.

And Dionysus was the god of winemaking, fertility and the theatre.

I didn’t miss that last little wrinkle, although looking back I possibly should have followed up a bit harder.

Dionysus had your standard Greek mythological bio – son of Zeus, mortal mother who burst into flames while pregnant, sewn into his father’s thigh as a foetus, torn apart by Titans and then resurrected. Famously, his worshippers met in forests where they got pissed, laid, and tore unsuspecting small woodland animals apart. Unfortunately, anything that much fun is bound to be frowned upon by the ruling class. And so they got a stern lecture from Livy and were seriously suppressed by the Roman state.

‘What’s the bell for?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Richard.

‘You weren’t curious?’ asked Guleed.

Richard gave a startled bark of a laugh that turned into a cough. I offered him some water but he waved me off.

‘Of course I was curious,’ he said. ‘But you didn’t ask questions – at least not more than once. Not if you knew what was good for you.’

‘Did Chorley say anything about the bell at all?’ I asked. ‘Anything that might indicate what it’s for?’

‘All he said was that it was a bell for ringing in the changes,’ said Richard. ‘To wake the nation.’

‘Which nation?’ asked Guleed.

‘I don’t think he was thinking about the French,’ said Richard.

I’m sure I had a snappy comeback, but I can’t remember what it was, because just then we heard Lucy challenge someone outside. Then, before I could react, there were three gunshots, astonishingly loud, a pause, and before we could react to that, two more.

I was out the door first, with shield spell half prepared, but it was too late.

Lucy stood in the far corner of the atrium, gunstock against her shoulder, barrel angled down to cover a figure on the floor. It was the Pale Nanny, dressed as a nurse, lying on her back gasping for breath while a dark stain welled up on the chest of her blue uniform tunic.

I dropped to my knees beside her and grabbed her hand and squeezed. Her skin felt hot, feverish, and she turned her head a fraction to stare at me. Her eyes were wide and uncomprehending.

I was vaguely aware of Guleed going for help and of Lucy keeping a clear line of fire – just in case.

You’re supposed to say the casualty’s name. They teach you that, to keep them focused on you, but they never say whether it actually helps. And we still didn’t know her name.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Hey, what’s your name? You’ve got to have a name.’

I saw her eyes focus on my face and she looked puzzled, as if surprised to see me there.

‘Is it Claire?’ I said – babbling. ‘Barbara? Aya? Maureen?’

People were moving around me. There was a whisper of cotton against my shoulder, voices calling back and forth, all the jargon you don’t want to be hearing while in a prone position.

‘Tell me your name,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing happened that we can’t sort out.’

Her lips parted and I thought she might be about to speak, but suddenly there was a blur of green and blue arms between us and, when they’d moved out of the way, she’d been intubated and masked. Her eyes still held mine for a moment and her hand squeezed one last time. Then her eyes unfocused and her grip went slack and she was gone.