The Crying Machine. Greg Chivers
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flinches and gives a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘You don’t have to.’ The corners of her mouth relax. The anger that possessed her moments ago seems to flow away, dispelled by some internal discipline or ritual of acceptance. Clementine watches, fascinated by the subtle transformation. There is still so much unsaid. What is it that moves this woman to care for her above the strays who wander through these doors? She’d thought at first it would be sex, but the bed has remained hers alone.
‘Who would set fire to the Mission?’
Hilda smiles sadly. ‘I’m afraid there’s a long list of suspects.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s easier. We don’t belong here, that’s one thing a lot of people in this city agree on.’
‘I don’t understand. The work you do …’
Hilda takes a breath. ‘It’s hard to understand the city until you’ve lived here. The work we do, helping the helpless, is a visible reminder of all the ways the city doesn’t work. People would rather turn a blind eye than see their own cruelty laid bare, and our beliefs frighten them.’
‘I thought you were Christians.’
‘Let me show you something.’ Hilda stands from the chair and steps over to the bookcases against the far wall, her fingers ghosting across the spines of old volumes bound in cracked leather. The titles are unfamiliar: The Revelations of Glaaki, The Pnakotic Manuscripts, De Vermis Mysteriis. ‘These books are our most treasured possessions, but they are not Christian scripture. Indeed, many Christians would consider them heretical. We gather knowledge because we accept there are truths in all faiths – they are all paths to connect with something greater than ourselves. We believe we all worship the same creator, whatever you wish to call her. So, yes, we are Christians, but we’re the wrong kind. We are not pure.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a threat.’
A long sigh escapes her. ‘If you’ve survived a thousand years by telling everyone they’re damned unless they accept your trademarked God, our mere existence is a threat to who you are.’
‘So the fire …?’
‘It’s only the beginning, Clementine. I’m afraid there is worse to come.’
The city burned bright last night. Four animated sparks of yellow twinkle in digital imitation at the corners of a cold blue street plan, shimmering in the air an arm’s length from Amos Glassberg’s desk. He blinks periodically in response to the recurring glitch that makes a section of the map flash bright white, a sudden annihilation. The sparks mark the sites of four fires, all at or near Christian sites of gathering or worship. You could link them by drawing the shape of a cross if you were so inclined.
‘Thank you for coming, Silas. I know it’s early, but last night was the worst violence we’ve seen this year, and there’s more coming.’
He stands by the wall display, his spare shadow darkening one corner of the map. An aquiline nose and short, steel-grey hair combine to give him the appearance of a cleaning implement, which, in a sense, he is. We don’t get on, but it is a mark of the man that he will turn to me for insight despite our personal incompatibility. His devotion to the city does not permit him the luxury of picking favourites. Still, his appeal for help marks the night’s events as exceptional. The most recent blaze still smoulders. He looks away before turning back to speak.
‘I’m sure you’re aware of the theories flying around. The less responsible news feeds are already calling this the opening salvo in a new war of faith.’
‘Amos.’ His head turns at the uncommon use of his first name, even though as ministers of state we are theoretically peers. ‘I’m glad you called me in, we don’t get many opportunities to talk.’
He nods at the platitude. In theory we are supposed to attend regular shared briefings. City convention dictates the holder of the title ‘Minister of Antiquities’ is responsible for running the city’s approximation of an intelligence service, which is supposed to assist law enforcement as and when required. When I took the job on, intelligence gathering was an inconsequential addendum for a city largely spared foreign influence, but times change, and I have tailored the role to fit them. The network of informants and contractors I have built up is of questionable utility to the public, but intelligence work is by its nature covert, so no one delves too deeply into what they actually do. The only downside to the arrangement is I must occasionally provide a morsel of genuine information as a fig leaf, and even if he does not suspect my involvement in the current unrest, Amos Glassberg will not be satisfied with banalities.
‘I understand you’re worried about the fires. Who wouldn’t be? But I’m concerned they’re a sideshow, meant to distract us from more pressing issues.’
‘Pressing to whom, Silas? I asked for this meeting in the perhaps misguided hope you could tell me something about the fires. Would I have better consulted our fearless chief of police?’
He watches, studying me for any sign of vulnerability. The goad could be a simple attempt to play to my arrogance, or he could be digging deeper. It is not impossible I have been lured here under false pretences. Amos has historically been too preoccupied with the city’s ongoing crises to look closely at ministries beyond his own, but complacency is a luxury I cannot afford.
‘That would not be appropriate … I fear he may be involved in illegal activity; that’s why I wanted to talk to you personally.’
‘Fear? You?’
‘Not for myself. For the city, of course.’
‘For the city. Obviously.’
He knows I’m hiding something. He doesn’t know what. I must tread carefully. An uncharacteristic display of civic duty would arouse suspicion, but if I play my part as avatar of necessary evil, pragmatism and duty will force him to rise to the bait. Of course, any information from me will be suspect, but corroboration is not hard to arrange, and the spectre of high-level corruption in the police force cannot be ignored. Taking action will hurt him; Ayed, the venerable police chief, is the closest thing he has to an ally, but a martyr like Amos does not shy from pain. The script practically writes itself. Even at the highest levels, police pay is meagre. Ayed has four daughters; one of them was involved in that messy scandal with the rubber costumes, and an opportunist who caught the incident on camera is bleeding him dry to keep it off the news feeds. All I have to do is let Amos draw the dots.
‘And what urgent action must I take against the man who is your primary obstacle to becoming even wealthier, Silas? I don’t understand you at all, you know? As far as I can tell you don’t even do anything with the money.’
‘These are matters of state, Amos. You would do well to take them seriously.’
‘I asked you here to talk about the fires. If you don’t know anything, you might as well leave. We’re both busy men.’
‘And I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time, minister. I’ve requested a briefing from one of my analysts who’s been looking into the matter, but he’s running a little late. I was merely trying to make best use of the opportunity to talk. Communications between our departments are not what they might be.’
He nods acknowledgement, mollified or unwilling to press the point; I cannot tell which. This testiness is unusual. In another man, I’d say I’d touched a nerve, but it would be unlike Amos to show it. Could there be something else, deeper, troubling him? Is it possible the years spent papering the city-state’s cracks are finally taking a toll? He has always seemed eternal, immovable – a foundation stone for the city’s government while other