The Sons of Scarlatti. John McNally
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Finn already shared Al’s bony, clumsy physique, but had sand-coloured hair that grew in several directions at once (“your father’s”), and mad blue, deep-blue eyes (“your mother’s”) and now Grandma fretted that he’d inherited a tendency to have his “own views” about things too (rejecting all yellow food apart from custard, pointing out a teacher’s “confrontational attitude” at a recent parents’ evening and bringing up his “problems with religion” with a vicar, during a funeral).
Not that Finn wanted to upset anyone. He was just trying to stay one step ahead of boredom, which meant – as he pointed out on his Facebook profile – ‘not being on the same planet as school’. He loved Grandma and made every effort not to cause her unnecessary suffering – avoiding dangerous sports, playground conflict and potentially lethal pastimes (while retaining the right to self-defence, of course. And who could resist making home-made fireworks? Or skateboarding into a neighbour’s pool, or practising overhead kicks on concrete, or…).
When Finn was with Al though, there were no rules.
Other people’s uncles played golf. Other people’s uncles might give them ten pounds at Christmas. Al was happy to see every moment as an opportunity for discovery and entertainment and he never said no. Even Finn realised this might be crazy, but it made being with him a very exciting place to be.
“I’m training him up,” Al would say whenever Grandma complained.
“What for?!” she would demand, terrified (for she knew he sometimes operated out of a secret world). Life, Finn supposed, trusting Al’s training absolutely, for, if his uncle’s head was in the clouds, his heart was always in the right place. Yes, he was erratic and unreliable, yes, he might have “a difficult relationship with stuff” (which included parking, losing things and an inability to tidy up), but he bridged the gap between everyday life and the way life ought to be – impulsive and instructive and full of things that blew up.
He dropped in every couple of weekends, sometimes staying for a week during the holidays, and he’d stayed the whole summer after Mum had died.
“You pack a bag?” Al snapped at him.
“Yep!”
“Got your passport, checked the date?”
“Yep!”
Yap! added Yo-yo.
“Get all the gear ready?”
“In the garage, all lined up.”
“Weapons? You know they still have wolves?”
“M60 with grenade launch side-barrel.”
“Hah! This is not Xbox, this is life or death – sunblock?”
“Sunblock, shades, tent, clothing, waterproofs, Swiss Army knife, Mars bar, torch, lighter, hand-held GPS – I’ve even got a blow-up pillow.”
“Trust yourself,” had been one of his mother’s Big Three Rules. “You can’t always rely on other people.”
Finn’s stuff weighed 6.5 kilograms packed into a natty dry bag.
He was ready for anything.
“I bet you didn’t remember we were going till this morning! I bet you haven’t even taken a shower!” Finn teased Al.
Al pretended to be appalled.
“Hey! I’ve got credit cards, a restaurant guide and half a tube of Pringles. Now let’s load up and let rip.”
DAY ONE 07:33 (BST). Hook Hall, Surrey, UK
A convoy of six cars pulled up silently outside Hook Hall.
They were expected. Little was said.
In one vehicle was Commander James Clayton-King (Harrow, Oxford, RN, MoD, SIS, G&T Chair.), known simply as King. Not the jolly King of nursery rhymes, but the cruel, commanding type. Pale skin, powerful jaw, bone-deep intelligence. He wasn’t as menacing as his hooded eyes suggested, but he liked it suggested.
Two Security Service officers hopped out, one held open the door. From the cars behind, more senior figures emerged in similar fashion, including General Mount of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, three aides accompanying him.
They were led through the complex until they reached the Central Field Analysis Chamber (CFAC), a cathedral-sized, concrete-lined warehouse where researchers could recreate and control any climate or environment imaginable, from lunar desert to lush rainforest, and proceed to blow or blast or poison the jelly beans out of it simply to see what happened. In essence it was a giant test tube and one of only three such spaces in the world.1
They climbed a steel gantry to a reinforced glass and concrete control gallery that flanked the space. Others had already arrived: an eclectic mix of soldiers, scientists, engineers and thinkers.
A group of bespectacled experts from a research institute on Salisbury Plain clustered self-consciously. They looked like men who hadn’t slept.
There were handshakes and nods, but no high fives. Tea and coffee were offered and refused. A selection of biscuits lay untouched.
The Global Non-governmental Threat Response Committee (popularly reduced to ‘the G&T’) was formed in October 2002 to respond to extraordinary threats to global security and the fabric of Western civilisation. It had fourteen expert members and a decision-making core of five including Commander King as its chairman. They had only been forced to meet three times over the last decade2, and they knew whatever they were here for it would be serious.
Deadly serious.
A technician reported: “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Good. Seal the room,” said Commander King.
He waited as doors were locked and blinds whirred down.
“Now… You may be wondering why you’ve been called here.”
His voice was deep and used to command – controlled, no-nonsense and yet also theatrical.
“Well. One of our scientists is missing. And it seems he has released – this…”
The technician hit a key and up on the screen, in enormous scale, appeared an image…
DAY ONE 07:41 (BST). Willard’s Copse, Berkshire, UK
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill…
“Lamp trap?” snapped Al.
“Check,” said Finn.
“Nets?”
“Check.”
“Traps?”
“Check.”
“Pins?”
“Check.”
“Jars?”
Yap!
“Idiot dog.”
They were back at Grandma’s rambling old house now, going through the gear Finn had got together for their trip.
“Ethyl acetate?”
“‘The Agent of Death?’” mugged Finn. “Check.”
“Cards and fixing spray?”
“Check! It’s all here, let’s go!”
Yap! agreed Yo-yo (particularly