Summerland

18 CHICKENFEED, 1ST DECEMBER 1938

The Old Registry of the SIS was in St Albans, a quiet town known for its Roman ruins twenty miles north of London. That was where Rachel had started her Service career during the war, putting on a simple uniform and joining the ranks of female clerks and analysts who tried to make sense of radio intercepts and aetheric maps compiled by spirit scouts.

They had worked long days and nights, slept at first in temporary lodgings the locals provided, and then in hastily erected barracks. In the rare moments when the relentless pace of typing, translation and filing slackened briefly, they all trailed to the King Harry, a squat Victorian pub with low-hanging beams that they usually filled to the brim.

Rachel found herself there again now, on a Thursday night. This time, the crowd was farmers and local workmen in felt caps and muddy boots, but the smell of spilled beer and burned wood was the same. While waiting at the bar for the pink gin she had ordered, she could almost close her eyes, smell the hoppy air and feel seventeen again, remember Marjorie and Elizabeth and Wendy and John and Dilly waiting for her at the battered corner table, all ready to fight the Hun with their razor wit and the joyous idiocy that belongs to the young.

But when the gin arrived and she turned around carrying the small tray it was served on, only old Colonel Bill Woodfield sat there, waving at her unsteadily, his face already beetroot-red; and her mission was to steal one of the colonel’s jealously guarded files for a Soviet spy.

‘It is good to see you, Rachel,’ Woodfield said, after they had toasted and Rachel had told the barman to keep the gin coming. ‘Glad you thought to swing by while visiting Felix Cowgill’s boys.’

The Winter Court’s Iberian Section was also located in St Albans, although it was now considered to be something of a retirement home for rotten apples. As such, it had made perfect sense for Rachel to drop in for lunch and entertain the notion of working for the Section’s chief Cowgill, formerly in charge of Section V. He also belonged to Harker’s informal club of ex-Colonial officers.

‘Well, Colonel, I am very glad you still remember me.’

‘How could I forget? You had such bright eyes. Still do. I knew you would go far.’

Rachel sighed. ‘I am not entirely sure you were on the money, Colonel.’ She briefly related what she considered the official version of her story—a policy disagreement with Harker and an unfair demotion.

‘That is rotten luck, that is,’ Woodfield said. ‘But your star will rise yet, mark my words. You are not going end up an old drunk like me, only good for arranging old paperwork. Sure, every now and then, someone comes here from the city and I help them find things, and sometimes those things are even important. I am starting to look forward to passing over and have done my best to speed things up, but the old liver just keeps ticking.’ He poked his generous paunch.

‘Would you mind if we popped in to see the old place, after a few more?’ Rachel asked. ‘When things are uncertain, well, it is sometimes nice to come back to where things started.’

If Woodfield’s old habits had not changed, a few more gins would take him to near-unconsciousness, and Rachel would be able to go through the old files while he slept blissfully in his office. As plans went, it was not the most sophisticated, but for some time now, the most stringent security measures had been reserved for the Summer Court.

Woodfield looked at her sharply. ‘You are after something now, Rachel, aren’t you? I played the fool around you girls, you know, just for fun, but that does not mean I am one, and you are all grown up. What’s this about, then?’

Rachel sighed. She felt ashamed for trying to get the old man in trouble. Yet her mind was automatically compiling strategies. She could blackmail him: there had been rumours about Woodfield and the girls, back in the day. She could threaten to get him fired by claiming that he felt her up while they were having a drink for old time’s sake. But looking at the clear blue eyes in the dark, gnarled face, the words stuck in her throat.

She sipped her gin and put it down.

‘You are absolutely right, Colonel,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I am looking for an old file that I don’t have the classification to access. A joint Army and Military Intelligence file, from ten years or so ago.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? What do you need it for?’

Rachel hesitated. ‘It’s better if you don’t know the details. It has to do with Spain. But I don’t want to get you in trouble—I will sign the book and everything.’

Woodfield chuckled. ‘Rachel, you can see what I’ve become. Do I look like I care?’ He leaned forward and the golden fillings in his teeth glinted in the light from the pub’s fireplace. ‘I have three brothers in the afterlife, good lads, all went in the war. I never had much of a chance to be brave myself. But you have the look of a person doing something that scares her and is doing it anyway. So if I can help you by digging up some old file, that means more to me than whether you have clearance. Is that understood?’

He smelled of an old man’s sweat and minty toothpaste, but at that moment Rachel could have kissed him.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and ordered another round of gin.

* * *

Rachel accompanied Colonel Woodfield to the old, shuttered manor house that now archived the papers of every SIS agent, countless files on Service-funded research programmes and cross-referenced research materials going back to the Service’s founding in 1908. She expected to see rooms overflowing with stacked paperwork, but instead, the place was spotless: rows upon rows of neatly organised filing cabinets.

‘I may be a sloppy drunk,’ the colonel said, ‘but I take being a librarian very seriously.’

Still, it took them half an hour to locate the CAMLANN file, a thick brown folder tied shut with a cord. Rachel opened it and glanced at the contents. Apart from the summary and budget pages, the rest was in cipher—neat groups of meaningless letters, pages and pages of it. At the end, there were a few photographs. She was not quite sure what they were, maybe copies of nyctoscope images, but they looked like X-rays, with indistinct black and white shapes.

‘Thank you,’ she told Woodfield.

Woodfield smiled. ‘I hope it is of some use to you, my dear. I look forward to seeing you at the King Harry again when you bring it back.’

* * *

It was long past midnight when Rachel made it home to St John’s Wood. The house was cold and dark.

She had a sleepless night ahead with the CAMLANN file: she would do her utmost to find out if it qualified as chickenfeed, and if possible, censor it before surrendering it to Bloom.

She holed up in her study, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of steaming tea, and fought both the fatigue and the drowsy numbness of the pink gin. The finches were asleep in their cage, curled up into tight feathery balls right next to each other. Rachel felt jealous, thinking of Joe and cold winter nights, lying cocooned under the sheets with a hot water bottle radiating at her feet and Joe’s warm, solid curve against her chest and belly.

He would ship out to Spain in a few days. During the Great War, she was too young to really fear for her friends who were sent to the front, and they tended to view it as a jolly adventure when they headed overseas. Now, death itself held far fewer terrors than back then—but she was more concerned about the danger to Joe’s soul. It would almost be better if he met an early end at the hands of the Republicans rather than be consumed by the thing that the RAF had turned him into.

But there was still a way for her to help him by catching Bloom. Maybe she could request a transfer to the Iberian Section, if things worked out.

She shook her head and tried to concentrate, spread the pages out on the floor and kneeled amongst them, trying to look for patterns. The ciphertext was obviously gibberish without the key—although Bloom might be able to crack it, having spent time at the Government Aetheric Codes and Ciphers School earlier in his career. There were schematics for some kind of deep-kata nyctoscope, an aetheric observatory built in the Summer City. Presumably it had been used to take the X-ray like images, although what they showed she had no idea. There were black branching lines against grey, and countless tiny white patches that could have been luz stones.

On the whole, it felt much more like a science project than anything to do with Spain. Still, it was difficult to judge whether she was about to give away something related to a haphazard, defunct programme or expose a key operation.

She was lost in thought when the room grew even chillier than before and the old ectophone in the corner rang—three metallic tinkles of a bell in rapid succession.

‘Hullo, hullo! Is Rachel there?’ said a cheery female voice.

‘Yes, Mother,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s me.’

* * *

Rachel’s mother, Henrietta Forbes-Smith, had been dead for a decade.

She had exercised her euthanasia right early when the lumps first appeared in her breast and had passed away in the place she loved the most, even more than India—the garden of their house in Ealing, sitting in a folding chair in warm May sunlight, the morphine drip in her arm. She had one last look at the Hinton Cube diagram of the Ticket in her lap, and then held on tight to Rachel and Rachel’s father, one with each hand. She leaned back, let out a satisfied sigh and was gone so quickly Rachel had to touch her smiling face to realise that her mother was dead.

Whenever Rachel felt as if she had forgotten her mother’s face and smell, she thought about the hand in her own: small, like hers, red and dry, with tiny cuts and callouses everywhere, black dirt under the fingernails, a gardener’s hand. It always brought back the rest.

They waited anxiously an hour until sundown, like they were supposed to, and then Rachel’s father fumbled with the tuning dials and fussed over the hiss of static and the howling noises of the passing dead attracted by the aetheric device’s operation.

And then there it was, her mother’s voice in the speaker, low and warm.

‘Hullo, hullo!’ she said brightly. ‘Did you know there are flowers here? Who could have imagined?’

* * *

Rachel sat down in the big armchair in front of the ectophone. It was an old-fashioned model the size of a wardrobe, and did not have a nyctoscope screen like some of the newer models Mr Baird’s company made.

‘How are you?’ she asked distractedly, holding the heavy Bakelite handset between her chin and shoulder, trying to keep studying the CAMLANN papers in her lap.

‘I am still dead,’ her mother said, ‘although it has been so long since you called that I could have been resurrected by the Second Coming in the meantime.’

‘Mother, I have been busy.’

‘I am sure you have.’ Henrietta paused. ‘You look sad. I can see your soul from here, you know, all tangled and spiky, like thorns.’

Rachel swore under her breath. Dealing with Bloom should have taught her how visible her mental state was to the spirits.

‘Never mind that. It was a difficult day at work. What have you been doing?’

‘I am well, Rachel, if a little bored. Your father is sending pictures from Cyprus. We were there once, you know, when you were young. I put his photographs in my thought-garden, to grow together with the memories.’

Sometimes, it was difficult to understand how things worked in Summerland. Unlike many other dead, Henrietta was retired, supported by Rachel’s father and a small portion of her own income. It was a nightmare scenario that anti-Dimensionist economists often brought up in newspapers—that each subsequent living generation would have to carry a vast, growing pyramid of the dead on their backs. It was clearly nonsense: there were so many applications for aetheric technology that in many fields the dead were becoming more important than the living. The Service itself was a good example. Her mother was happy, that was the important thing, and she had an eternity to start working again. Now it was her time to rest.

‘But you don’t really care about me, Rachel, you just want to hear my voice, since something is bothering you. I told you, I can see it.’

‘I … I was demoted. I am now working in the Finance section.’

‘What? It must be a mistake.’

‘I am not allowed to talk about it. But it is not a mistake, at least not one they will admit.’

‘Rachel, Rachel, I am so sorry. Surely it wasn’t your fault?’

‘I don’t know, Mother. Perhaps it was.’

‘Rachel, I always told you it was not a good idea to work for the government, no matter how much you liked your father’s silly stories. You can never trust them.’

Rachel sighed. Endless arguments had ensued when she announced her intention to join the Service. Her mother was intensely distrustful of anything to do with politics or intelligence work.

‘Never mind, Rachel, I know it is important to you. Can your father help?’

‘No, Mother. This was at a different level.’ As a young man, Rachel’s father had served as a junior signals intelligence officer in Russia, attached to the Navy, before he moved to India. He was now retired and travelling the Continent. She knew he would get angry, write letters and make noise, but he simply could not reach people like Sir Stewart or C.

‘Well, then.’

‘Well what?’

‘Then the question is, what are you going to do next?’

For a moment, Rachel wanted to be a child again and hear her mother tell her that everything was going to be all right. But Henrietta continued in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘When you have a child, you try to make them feel safe, like nothing bad will ever happen. But you are not a child anymore, little Rachel. You must accept that nothing is forever. In the meantime, flowers grow. And you will find some flowers, too, I know. Your Joe is a good man.’

Rachel’s eyes burned. There was static on the line, sharp pops rather than the usual background noise.

‘Mother,’ she asked quickly. ‘Tell me—are there other spirits with you?’

‘It is always so crowded here, in the city.’

‘Just look. Did you see any of them before, when you followed me?’

‘There are some that move quickly, like manta rays of light. One passed by just now. What is it? Why are you scared?’

‘I have to go. I am sorry. I love you. I will call again next week, I promise.’

Rachel switched the ectophone off. Its low hum took a while to die down.

With a cold certainty, she knew that the figure her mother had seen was a Watcher from the Summer Court. What was more, she was almost certain who had sent it.

She hoped that her mother was already on her way back to the Summer Homes and would not see what Rachel’s anger truly looked like.

* * *

Roger Hollis lived in a small first-floor bachelor flat in Redcliffe Mews in Chelsea. Breath steaming in the cold, Rachel stared up at a dark window and wondered whether Roger was visiting one of his mistresses or vice versa. Then she thought she heard a faint coughing sound and grinned.

She rang the doorbell a few times, and when nothing happened she resorted to banging the door with her fist. Lights went on in the neighbouring flats, and finally Roger opened the door, blinking. He looked dishevelled and was dressed only in a heavy nightgown.

‘Rachel? What the hell are you doing here at this time?’

‘Why, I am here to have a nice cup of tea with you, Roger. Are you not going to invite me in?’

She brushed past him, took the short flight of steps up to his flat in a few strides and switched on the lights. The furniture was old and grandiose against a background of green-striped Regency wallpaper, and a rather pompous bust of Nelson faced the main window. In the pale electric light, the place looked overcrowded and more than a little pathetic.

A young woman, a slim redhead of twenty or so, peeked out from Roger’s bedroom with a sheet wrapped around her. She did not look like Roger’s steady mistress, Kathleen.

‘Darling? What is going on?’

Roger followed Rachel up the stairs, tightening the sash of his gown.

‘Listen, Rachel, this is not on, you can’t just barge in here—’

‘Your Watchers violated my privacy by listening to a call with my mother, so I am violating yours. You there,’ she said, giving the girl a sharp nod. ‘Get out. Government business.’

‘Viola, don’t listen to her, she is crazy. I am going to get rid of her!’

Rachel folded her arms. ‘Are you, Roger? I am only flesh and blood, after all. But I can tell you from experience that it is much harder to get ghost spies out of your house. They are worse than rats.’

She turned back to the redhead. ‘Viola, is it? If you are not on your way in two minutes, dear, you will find yourself under investigation by Special Branch for seducing a key government official—although it pains me to include Roger here in that category.’ She flashed her SIS identity card at the girl.

Viola’s eyes widened and she scrambled to gather up her clothes.

* * *

Roger whispered a hasty goodbye to Viola in the hallway, but the girl was in tears.

‘There was no need to do that,’ Roger said when she was gone.

Rachel studied the Nelson bust. It appeared to be a genuine antique.

‘Oh, I think there was.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know why you are having me Watched. I want to know which Court you really work for.’ She sat down on the couch. ‘And while you are at it, I would not mind some tea.’

‘I have questions for you, too, Rachel.’ Roger stifled a cough and folded his arms. ‘What were you doing in St Albans yesterday evening? And what about all those meetings with Peter Bloom? The phone calls to Max Chevalier?’

A headache thundered in Rachel’s skull. She should have been more careful.

‘Would you believe that Max and I discuss the care and breeding of Gouldian finches?’ she said.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘He does know an awful lot about them. Tell me, Roger, who do you work for in the Summer Court? Who gave you access to the Watchers?’

Roger studied her and narrowed his eyes. ‘Symonds,’ he said. ‘I know you are running an off-the-books operation, Rachel. I want in.’

‘Why should I let you?’

‘Because otherwise I will go to Sir Stewart with what I have, and that will be the end of what remains of your career in the Service.’

‘Symonds,’ Rachel said. ‘Well, that is just dandy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bloom is the mole. Symonds is his best friend, and is probably trying to protect him. Or Symonds could be compromised as well. How do you know you are not actually working for the Soviets?’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘How has getting evidence on Bloom been working out so far?’

‘God, I need a drink,’ Roger said. He opened a cupboard in his small kitchen and took out a bottle of single malt.

‘Two fingers, please.’

Roger poured and handed her a glass. She swirled the amber liquid back and forth and took a sip. Flavours of honey and pecan blossomed in her mouth and made her head buzz. She would almost certainly have a hangover in the morning, drinking this on top of all that gin in St Albans. Maybe there was a correlation between her hangovers and Bloom, she thought.

‘What do you have on Bloom?’ Roger asked.

‘So far, nothing. Everything he’s done with me could be just like what Symonds has been doing with you—grooming an unofficial source inside the Winter Court. But earlier this week he asked me for some confidential files. Those could serve as a barium meal. I got the files from St Albans and went over them. I think we can safely use them: most of them are in cipher. If we are quick enough, he won’t be able to crack them before we have him.’

‘This is very dangerous, Rachel.’

‘Of course it is. But if we catch Bloom in a meeting with his handlers, he’s ours.’

Roger paced back and forth. ‘I don’t think I can bring the Summer Court Watchers into this. Do you have any assets on the Other Side?’

‘That is what Mr Chevalier is for.’

Roger sat down across from Rachel. There was a glass table between them and their reflections ghosted on its surface. He looked tired and worn out. There were lines around his mouth, dark bags under his eyes. She was an indistinct, blurry shape on the shiny surface, her face a pale oval in the darkness of her coat.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘We do it together. I run interference on the Summer Court side and help with the collar. The story is that we’ve been doing this together from the start and fully share the credit.’

‘Deal,’ Rachel said and emptied her glass. ‘I hope you enjoy the Summer Court, Roger. Although from what I hear, pretty secretaries are harder to come by there. And certainly less substantial. If that is possible.’

Neither of them spoke for a while.

‘Why are you so angry with me, Rachel?’ Roger finally said.

This is not for England, Rachel thought. It is for Joe.

She got up and walked over to him. Delicately, she touched his face, ran her fingers down his unshaven jawline, past the dour corners of his mouth.

‘Because you make me feel guilty,’ she said and set her glass down on the table. ‘And, believe it or not, right now that is exactly what I need.’