St James’s Park was blanketed from end to end by reclining office workers, tourists and tramps – all eagerly soaking up the unbroken sunshine. Only the tourists looked comfortable and happy. The office workers were sweaty and overdressed, whilst the tramps were beginning to resemble overcooked beef.
Russell reconvened with the others at the lake bridge.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Ceres, ‘I wasn’t expecting much from a cursory inspection. This thing prioritizes stealth and will surely be well hidden, possibly in plain sight thanks to a crude perception filter.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you would be susceptible to a perception filter,’ remarked Russell, as he observed the sunbathers.
‘Anyone can be fooled by sleight-of-hand. The trick is to recognize that it is present and then… second-guess it, so to speak.’
‘Okay,’ asked Russell, ‘so how do we “second-guess” it?’
‘By investigating what we feel most inclined to dismiss,’ replied Ceres. She cast an eye over the sunbathers and the park in general. ‘Who checked the islands?’ she asked.
‘I did, ma’am,’ declared Michael, ‘plenty of waterfowl; no fruiting bodies. No suspicious EM signatures of any kind that I was aware of.’
‘Maybe we are making the mistake of presuming this thing is static,’ suggested Ceres.
‘You think it could be one of the ducks!?’ asked Russell.
Ceres glanced at Russell and shook her head: ‘let’s take another sweep through the park, this time – stay together. Mr. Tebb, take the lead.’
‘As you wish,’ said Russell, eyeing up a group of young women sunbathers, ‘maybe we should investigate over there–’
‘No, take this lead,’ Ceres thrust a leather strap into Russell’s hand.
‘Attach this to Mr. Waterstone’s collar. And try to ensure that he doesn’t attack the birds.’
‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’ asked Russell.
‘There’s a clasp at the front of his collar, just hook it on,’ advised Michael.
‘I meant: how am I supposed to stop him going after the birds!?’
No advice was proffered by anyone so Russell reluctantly dropped down to his haunches next to the cat. From a distance of only a few inches he gazed into Mr. Waterstone’s large black eyes. The cat did not look happy.
‘Now, you’re not going to give me any trouble are you, fella?’ whispered Russell as he attached the lead. Mr. Waterstone remained silent, but he still looked cross. Russell instinctively stroked the cat over the top of its head and back, realizing that this was actually the first time he’d touched it. Mr. Waterstone was a bulbous barrel of iron-hard muscle; if he chose to give Russell trouble then trouble was what Russell was going to get.
‘Okay, we’re done. How about checking over there?’ he suggested, pointing to some distant corner of the park.
‘No,’ replied Ceres, ‘I think we should check out the ducks.’
To Russell’s great relief Mr. Waterstone generally behaved himself, even walking to heel most of the time. The birds, and the pelicans in particular, were a great fascination to the cat, but apart from the odd tug on the lead, Russell was given no real trouble.
After rechecking all corners of the park, the group returned once again to the bridge.
‘You are certain a fruity body is located here?’ asked Russell, now perspiring heavily under the relentless sun.
‘The bacterial report reveals a sharp concentration of hypha at this location. So, yes, I am certain, Mr. Tebb.’
‘The bacterial report!’ Russell snorted with contempt. ‘All this on the say-so of a bunch of germs? I mean – seriously!?’
For the first time since obliterating the Sponsors, Ceres appeared visibly angry. She rounded on Russell: ‘The misplaced conceit of multicellular life forms! Yes, seriously!’
Russell was cowed into silence.
‘Over there,’ said Ceres, in due course. The group advanced on some hobos quietly drinking under the shade of a tree.
‘Good afternoon, madam!’ said one, with an unrecognizable accent.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ replied Ceres with a warm smile.
The man smiled back: ‘Would you like a lager?’
‘Thanks!’ replied Ceres, collecting a cold can that one of the men had removed from a cooler. She took a long swig and beamed appreciatively at the tramps. ‘Do you gentlemen visit this park frequently?’ she asked, offering the can to Russell, who refused.
‘We’re the Saint James Homeboys! This is our turf!’
Ceres inspected the park: ‘It’s lovely!’
‘Thank you! We like it, don’t we, amigos?’ Everyone agreed that they liked it.
‘Not so nice in the winter, I bet,’ replied Russell.
The smiles on the tramps’ faces subsided slowly as they tried to focus on Russell: ‘Is he your fella? You could do better,’ said one.
Mr. Waterstone began to snigger.
‘A cat!!’ observed one of the tramps, ‘he’s a chunky chap, isn’t he?’
Michael stepped forwards: ‘have any of you noticed anomalous activity here? Electrical or physical inconsistencies that you deem erroneous to this particular environment?’
The tramps gazed blankly at Michael.
‘What the fuck is that!!??’ screeched one of them.
‘Hmm, interesting, ma’am. Long-term alcohol abuse appears to have allowed this individual to slide past the perception filter!’ Michael advanced on the tramp who screamed at the top of his voice causing others in the park to turn and look. When they spotted the tramps they quickly lost interest.
The man kept on screaming until Ceres slapped him hard across the face.
‘Marcus is inclined towards hysterics, madam. Please forgive him,’ said the first tramp. Marcus silently rubbed his cheek and kept a fearful eye on Michael.
‘Marcus,’ said Ceres in a soft reassuring voice, ‘don’t worry about him, he’s not a real spider, he’s just a machine gestalt–’
‘Just!?’ exclaimed Michael.
Mr. Waterstone began sniggering again.
‘Marcus,’ Ceres tried again: ‘what’s your least favourite part of this park?’
Marcus looked nonplussed, ‘stupid question!’ he said, before returning his attention to Michael: ‘Right here, right now!’ he cried.
Ceres began to look exasperated. She flicked a quick gesture at Michael who promptly vanished into some nearby undergrowth. She returned her attention to Marcus:
‘Forget about the spider–’ she began.
‘You said it wasn’t a spider, you lying witch!’ screamed Marcus, and he received another hard slap for his troubles. He began to weep.
‘Alright, Ceres, tone it down!’ demanded Russell, half expecting to get slapped himself. But Ceres backed off.
‘You talk to him, Mr.–’
‘Dog Shit Alley!’ shouted Marcus suddenly. The other tramps burst into cackles that soon descended into coughing and also some retching.
‘Is that a place, or your state of mind?’ demanded Ceres, moving in on Marcus.
‘Over there! Over there!’ Marcus pointed across the park, over the lake, towards Horse Guards Road, near where it met Birdcage Walk and the parked Bentley. The area contained several mature trees and was relatively shaded and deserted compared to the rest of the park.
‘Thank you!’ replied Ceres, as she strode purposefully towards that area of St. James’s Park.
Russell offered the tramps some cash which they readily accepted, except for Marcus, who grabbed hold of Russell’s arm:
‘Be careful of that one. She’s not your friend!’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Russell.
Russell, Michael and Mr. Waterstone – now off the lead – caught up with Ceres as she approached “Dog Shit Alley”.
‘Agh!! This place is rank!’ exclaimed Michael, ‘the council really ought to do something about this. Aren’t there laws against dog fouling!?’
r />
Everyone began to take greater care of where they placed their feet. All attention was focused on the turf.
‘We didn’t linger here on the previous occasion, did we?’ remarked Russell, gingerly pacing about, any thoughts of the Malevolence forgotten.
‘Gee, I wonder why!’ muttered Michael. Perhaps because of his extra legs and the fact that he didn’t wear shoes, Michael felt more sensitive to this issue than the others.
‘Where is the dog muck?’ asked Ceres.
‘Probably trodden into the grass!’ replied Michael, clearly still not happy.
‘For someone who relies on a perception filter you are remarkably blind to the filters of others, aren’t you, Michael!?’ remarked Ceres. She turned to Russell: ‘The limitations of the machine mind,’ she whispered.
‘Unlike hearing!’ replied Michael, indignantly, as he continued to study the ground intently. Then he suddenly stopped. ‘Oops!’
Trodden in something?’ enquired Russell.
‘No,’ replied the spider, ‘I’ve just twigged what ma’am was on about. It’s in the trees, isn’t it?’
The group turned their attention to the overhead canopy of mainly beech and sycamore. Nothing looked out of place, but in late summer the foliage was sufficiently dense that almost anything could remain obscured.
‘This thing really does hide well!’ remarked Russell, ‘assuming it’s actually here and this isn’t just a dog dumping ground.’
‘Ma’am, the smell is genuine, and caused by particulates in the air – so I should be able to locate the source… Yes, over there, I believe.’
Michael led the others north-eastwards towards Horse Guards Road and close to where one arm of the lake extended. The foul stench was no more intense, as far as Russell could tell, but the desire to leave increased.
‘There it is!’ whispered Ceres.
‘Where?’ asked Russell.
‘I see it, ma’am,’ added Michael.
Russell followed Ceres’s gaze towards the top of a mid-sized poplar tree. On the main trunk, approximately thirty feet up, sat an odd looking outgrowth. Vaguely resembling a partially closed tulip flower, but about five times the size and dark featureless grey, the thing seemed to absorb light; there were none of the highlights or shadows that should have been observable in this sharp sunlight.
‘I don’t like the look of that!’ said Russell. ‘Does it know we are here?’
‘I don’t think it does,’ replied Ceres. ‘Look, it’s directional, like a satellite dish. It’s focused elsewhere. Very specifically – somewhere!’
‘Where?’ whispered Russell.
‘Beyond the park to that building there!’
‘And where is that?’
‘That’s Downing Street, Mr. Tebb. Our Malevolence is pointing directly at Number 10.’
***