“Step two?”
“The new fecundity. We’ll publicize some multiple births. Everyone’s heard of sextuplets. And octuplets have occurred many times. We’ll work our way up from there until people are bored of hearing about multiple births. We’ll train medical staff in obstetric techniques for reducing the size of broods so that couples can have the number of children they want.”
“And the killer bite?”
“That is an admittedly more difficult issue. We might have to recognize some kind of genetic mutation and perhaps have a program of enforced gland removal. Maybe we’ll make it as routine as the old tonsillectomy procedure. But I foresee problems there. We might make an antidote commonly available. Perhaps the accoutrements of lovemaking in the future will include a vial of anti-venom next to the condoms or contraceptive pills. Perhaps we use legislation and the risk of a manslaughter or murder charge to maintain the responsibility on women to protect men. Certainly the balance of physical danger in sex will shift. Currently, women are at greater risk from men due to male physical strength and occasional violent misogyny. That relationship may well be reversed. And maybe nature will find its own way. Future generations might produce men with a greater tolerance to female venom, or greater sensitivity and the ability to detect danger early and er…disengage from the woman. Who knows? There are multiple avenues. And the greater muscular strength will become a common attribute among the entire population over time, so men might be able to defend themselves in the same way that male mygalomorphs are able to hold the female’s fangs at bay during mating. Most of the time.”
“What happens when there are no more men from the old race, or they’re insufficient in numbers? It must be happening soon, that the girls of Limewood will prefer their cousins to strangers. What will happen when family traits are amplified?”
“Ahh the consanguinity issue. Well we’ve coped with that for centuries. If monsters emerge we will have to act. But I feel confident that nature will be in the biological driving seat before too long. Through a combination of our old social laws and natural selection, people will make rational choices when finding partners. Monsters will be few at first and even scarcer later. But Xavier, this evolutionary debate is for another time. We need to know right now where your loyalties lie. Are they with Christmas and your soon-to-be-born children and the people who rescued you from your kidnappers? Or are they with everyone else with whom you think you share a genetic link, but nothing else?”
“Well the Limewood people were saving me from one of their own, so I’m not especially indebted to them as a breed. But my affection for Christmas and our children does give me a vested interest in their success.”
He stared hard, listening to my answer. “I’m very glad to hear it. I’m sure we can rely on you to do the right thing. Gillian will help you with some practicalities.” He nodded to her and she returned quickly as he said, “Now I am late for my next meeting. Since my secretary has been too far away to confirm it, I’m certain you’ll agree with me that this discussion about my favorite silk ties was informal and inconsequential.” He turned to the private secretary, “Gillian, let me know if there are any unexpected outcomes.” He gracefully extended a long arm. “Mister Fox, it’s been a great pleasure.”
As I shook his hand I looked at the handsome, oval face, straight nose and wide mouth and I knew that Ariadne would be proud of what he’d achieved.
Perhaps it was a facial micro-expression on my part, but he knew what I’d seen. He said, “Welcome to the neighborhood.” As one of the original eighteen and now head of the government, he held every thread of the fabric of this new society.
Christmas hugged him again.
He shook hands with Gillian and swept out of the room with his secretary and bodyguard, who closed the door behind him.
Gillian looked down at her tablet device saying, “In terms of practicalities, there are a number of items which we need to deal with.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gillian said, “I can tell you informally that the Crown Prosecution Service is unlikely to bring any charges concerning events at Limewood.” The private secretary looked at me to see if I was relieved, and not seeing the appropriate gratitude, she added, “You did kill two men with a nerve agent.”
“They got back what they’d given to me.”
“I’m not going to debate blame and responsibility with you. I’m simply giving you a little advance notice on likely good news. Also, Christmas dispatched four people it seems,” she turned to face Christmas, “and the gang leader died through someone else’s use of a weapon which is licensed to you for personal protection. I think that would ordinarily mean that your license is revoked.”
Christmas said, “I’d been kidnapped, tied up and disarmed. And I used my licensed weapons for exactly the purpose intended; protecting myself from criminals who were targeting me because of my connection to an MoD supplier and my personal wealth. That’s the fourth time I’ve fought off an attempted kidnapping. Each time, being armed has neutralized the threat, saved my father’s company from extortion and dealt fast justice to the criminal fraternity. Does the Home Office want to pay for protection officers for me? I already know the answer to that is ‘no’. That means I need my own weapons.”
“Again, I’m not the bearer of bad news. Early indications suggest there will be no action. I gather that the consensus among the local community is that it was an understandable tragedy.”
“Exactly right,” Christmas said emphatically.
“The police have arrested other people in Liverpool who are associated with the criminal gang that you ran into. They will likely be deported. So unless something comes to light which materially changes the CPS’s view of events, you can stop worrying about that.” Gillian looked at Christmas who had returned to nibbling on a ginger biscuit. “If indeed you were worrying about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
I said, “Thanks, I was worried. Mass shoot-outs aren’t a common experience for me.”
“Good. I understand that you’ve incurred some out of pocket expenses, Xavier.”
I told her about the car rental fees for the vehicles that I’d abandoned, and that the bill for the blood-soaked one would be so large, I might be better off just buying the car. Then the long list of repairs and replacement in my flat.
She quickly put her hand up. “This isn’t an audit. If I arrange for you to be compensated with this six-figure sum,” she wrote a number on her note pad and showed it to me, “will that be adequate?”
“More than adequate. That’s probably ten times my costs.”
“Well you’ve been through a lot. Consider it payment for distress and discomfort too.”
“Is this some kind of bribe?”
“We rate distress and discomfort as a significant burden,” she said sternly. “I wouldn’t know about bribes.” She passed me a printed document. “Here is the password, log-in and security information for a Premium Bond account which we’ve set-up for you. It contains two hundred pounds; that’s two hundred bond numbers. You’ll be the lucky winner of a six-figure prize, three times during the next four months.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is how we’re compensating you. Otherwise, if we give you cash, you’ll have to give almost half of it back to my colleagues in the treasury department in tax. And, more importantly as far as we’re concerned, we don’t want to have to account for a sum which we pay to you from our meagre departmental budgets. People will ferret it out and ask questions. This is the best payment solution for everyone all round. And that includes the treasury, because we won’t be pressing them for this amount in funds.”
“I still don’t understand. It’s a randomly generated prize draw. How can you say that I’ll get a six-figure prize, three times? Are you saying it’s fixed?”
Without looking up, Gillian said, “Of course it’s not fixed. That’s why we’ve given you two hundred pounds worth. Let me know if it doesn’t work out
for some reason. We’ve got a record of the numbers by the way, so no fibbing.”
“Is this a usual method of payment?”
“No, not at all. Very unusual.” She said flatly. “Now that just leaves the matter of justice for the Naumowicz family. The police can’t say with certainty that a crime has been committed. It remains a technical possibility that Aleksy Naumowicz died from an animal attack, possibly a variant of the spider found at the scene. He might even have committed suicide, injecting himself with the fatal poison. Consequently, as I understand it from experts, the Naumowicz family won’t be receiving any payment from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority. They could bring a civil prosecution against the person identified as his killer, but since no one has been charged or even arrested, they’re a bit stuck.”
“I don’t think they’re interested in money. They want the person responsible for his death to be caught and convicted.”
“That doesn’t look as though it’s going to happen anytime soon, if at all. Alternative compensation is all that we can consider. The maximum CIC payment would be half a million pounds if he’d been unlawfully killed. We’d like to do something, particularly since the mother seems to be well connected in her home city and has raised a petition there. If we give her significant compensation, we can stop this turning into a cause célèbre. People have less sympathy for victims if they’ve received an enviably large sum of money. We think it might be useful to explain to the Naumowiczs that Aleksy died from accidental poisoning. HomEvo is willing to make a goodwill gesture and pay them half a million pounds. How do you think that would be received by Mrs Naumowicz?”
“I don’t imagine she’ll be satisfied, but even knowing that someone is locked up must be meagre consolation for people whose children have been killed.”
“Her son was frequently unemployed and often violent. A stain on their family, to put it bluntly. A premature end was always a possibility for him, and in some of the interview notes with the family liaison officer they’ve even acknowledged that themselves. Would you be willing to presage a formal compensation offer in a conversation with Mrs Naumowicz, letting her know that the case remains open, but an arrest and conviction looks unlikely? You’ve pointed out that money isn’t a motivation here. Will she accept something simple, without a long story about a new breed of people with strange abilities?”
“In money, not premium bonds, right?”
“Of course. Our counterparts in the Polish foreign ministry will present the proposal on HomEvo’s behalf as a sympathy payment. No admission of guilt.”
“But you’re saying that no one will have to account for her son’s murder.”
Christmas stirred at this point. “We don’t know for sure that it’s murder Zav. It could’ve been self-defense. It could’ve been an accident. Even if she’s found and questioned we might never know for sure.”
Gillian asked, “If who is found?”
“The blonde girl in the pictures from the restaurant,” I explained. I sensed that Christmas’s feelings were affected by the knowledge that her sister was the likely killer. I decided to discuss it with her later.
Gillian said, “Look, if you go into the full circumstances, we’ll have revelations which create mountainous issues, media attention, possibly even mob rule. We’d like you to help us with a moral compromise.”
“By concealing the truth.”
“No. By presenting a limited version of the known facts. The truth isn’t known. You can’t conceal it if it isn’t known. We don’t want you to give the bereft Mrs Naumowicz information which she then broadcasts to all and sundry, lashing out at imagined murderers and conspiracists. You have a stake in the success of Limewood and the protection of an embryonic race. Your children would be endlessly persecuted and live fearful lives if you encourage other people’s revenge.”
“I know all of that. But masking the facts with half-truths; I just don’t hear myself saying those words.”
“So what do you hear yourself saying? That a beautiful young spider-woman killed him with one bite and now the world should look out?”
“So you know everything?” I said, a little shocked.
“I’m speculating,” she said flatly, “and as I said earlier, I’m more interested in the larger agenda.”
I looked at her carefully. She didn’t have the distinctive look of the Limewood people. But she was on their side for some reason.
“Why should I be saying anything different to the unvarnished truth?”
“Because if you say it to Mrs Naumowicz, she remains uncompensated and just as unsatisfied. And you’ll eventually be the cause of slaughter and strife in Cumbria; there’s almost no doubt of that. And if a little money and common sense are insufficient incentives for you, perhaps we should be asking the CPS to take another look at those VX killings. You’ve got a day to think about it and then we need you to make the right kind of call to Mrs Naumowicz.”
We left the building. I waited outside on the wide entrance walkway while Christmas reclaimed her pistol from the police strongbox at reception. Shadows flitted around me from people walking a little too close. I knew that the fate of the Limewood people wasn’t going to be left in my hands.
Christmas came out of the main doors and walked quickly to my side.
“Why didn’t you tell me the Prime Minister is your uncle?”
“I’ve got a lot of aunts and uncles. I don’t even know most of them,” she said looking sideways at me with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
I looked at her and we both laughed.
“Besides, I did tell you that I’ve got an uncle who’s a politician,” she said lowering her voice. “He’s Prime Minister now but it’s only been a few months. You know how things change in politics. One minor drama and he could be out on his ear. And hardly anyone knows he’s my uncle. I’m adopted, remember? Can you imagine how it would look; Prime Minister’s niece kills Russian gangsters in shoot-out. That’s an international incident and a tabloid story that’d run for weeks. Not a word about my connection, alright?”
“Okay. You’ve got a village-worth of secrets all to yourself.”
“It’s a burden, but I’m a grown-up girl. Promise me you can keep them too.”
“I promise. But how come everyone knows all of our secrets? Did you put an ad in the paper to say you’re pregnant?”
“I called my dad. I think everyone listens to his calls. Sorry.”
A cab arrived as we reached the bollarded pavement; the only vehicle on the street. The driver seemed to be looking at us before we hailed him. He drove us to my apartment with military precision. A certain kind of driver, but not wearing a suit and tie this time.
Christmas watched his eyes in the driver’s rear-view mirror. She said, “Do you have a brother who drives for the Home Office?”
“I’ve got lots of relatives, Miss. No idea what they all get up to.”
“It’s a common problem,” she empathized.
We sat in silence for the rest of the journey. The cab stopped outside my apartment block.
Christmas said, “Do you want me to come up with you?”
“No, it’s okay. I need to think. Wait here though. I want to give you something.”
I left the cab and ran to the main door of my block, up the stairs and into my apartment. I turned the alarm off and hurriedly opened up my hidden box under the floor of my study. Snatching up the shiny, new spare keys for the front door, I dashed back to the cab in the street.
“Here are my door keys. Just in case something happens to me.”
She kissed me hard, “Please don’t get it wrong. Call me.”
Up in my apartment, I sat on the sofa, got up and paced around slowly. I felt tired with anxiety.
I drew the curtains in my bedroom and lay down on my bed. I imagined that the reason I was still alive was probably just out of consideration for Christmas. If I wasn’t father to our unborn children, I might’ve already had a tragic accident at the
hands of a secret service assassin.
I wondered how I might be killed. I felt in my jacket pocket for the antidote syringes. My heart missed a beat. They were gone. I remembered collecting them from the plastic tray at the security desk in the Marsham Street offices. That meant they were either here in the apartment or they’d fallen out in the cab. I searched my rooms quickly, checking tables, drawers, and every horizontal surface. I’d only been in a short while but I couldn’t see them anywhere. I checked the main stairs too. Eventually I called Christmas.
“I’ve lost the auto-injectors.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know for sure, but possibly in the cab on the way back from the Home Office meeting.”
“Well, everyone in Miranda’s gang is either dead or arrested and about to be deported. You’ll be ok tonight. I’ll bring the spares over in the morning.”
I thanked her and rang off. Then I set about tidying things away in the hope that I might find the missing syringes. Anxiety reasserted itself after a while and I collapsed on my bed again. I thought of Vanessa, her grandchildren and daughters, the girl in the café, the uncles and Ariadne herself. The idea that I might be the cause of fear and violence in Limewood made me shudder. Gillian was right. Mob violence would be inevitable if the story of the spider-people became widely known.
But I felt some loyalty to Mrs Naumowicz and every other old human soul. I thought about Aleksy, wondering what kind of a man he’d been when he wasn’t forcing himself on women. I wondered if the equation amounted to one life for many. If he’d loved Sophie and she’d been able to let him know that he could sacrifice himself to save all the people of Limewood, like a soldier making a heroic stand for something bigger than himself, would he have done it? Was he willing to die namelessly and unavenged? Miranda had intended sacrificing Christmas and me for the same type of reason. We hadn’t been happy to die for her cause.