The Man with the Golden Torc

CHAPTER TEN Cutting out the Middleman

My next stop was on Shaftesbury Avenue, deep in the busy heart of London. I was looking for the legendary Middleman. Shaftesbury Avenue is a long road in two parts. Walk one way and all you’ll see is posh restaurants, top-rank hotels, and theatres with old and even famous names. (Sad to say, one of these venerable establishments currently boasted a large banner proclaiming their next big show. Jerry Springer, the Opera—On Ice. How are the mighty fallen; but anything to bring in the tourists.) Walk the other way, and it’s all cheap cafés, betting shops, and adult video stores with walk-in knocking shops on the top floor. The kind of place where a card tacked on the door advertises the friendly availability of the lovely Vera. It doesn’t tell you that there are in fact three lovely Veras, working eight-hour shifts, which is why the bed is always warm. Not to mention the basement clubs where underdressed and overly made-up hostesses encourage you to buy overpriced "champagne" for the privilege of enjoying their company. Though usually it’s just the foreign tourists who fall for that one these days.

I’d never met the Middleman before, but everyone knew he could be found right in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, where good meets bad, and often combines into something deliciously sinful. I was pretty sure the Middleman would know something useful, if I could get him to talk to me. The Man had been around, on and off the scene, ever since the sixties, and he knew everybody, good and bad and especially in between. His great skill and passion was in putting people together for mutual profit. If you were planning a bigger than usual heist, an underground conspiracy, or just to take over the world some day, the Middleman could put you in contact with every kind of specialist you’d need. He could arrange meetings, put together a team of like-minded professionals, or organise every step of an assassination. For a percentage. He’d never been known to get his hands dirty himself or take a risk that hadn’t been calculated to the smallest degree. Whatever happened, you could be sure there were always more than enough cutouts in place so that nothing ever came back to lodge at his door. Word was, the Middleman was so unbelievably rich these days, after so many industrious years, that he didn’t need to do it for the money anymore. He did it strictly for the thrill and for the challenge.

You find the Middleman behind a sleazy, deliberately run-down Thai restaurant. From the outside, it looks decidedly appallingly grimy and off-putting, the kind of place only a truly desperate or naïve tourist would try. In fact, the Thai language above the door supposedly translates as Piss Off, Foreigner, and Take Your Stupid-Looking Eyes with You. I peered in through the fly-specked window, past the indecipherable cardboard menu, and wasn’t surprised to find the restaurant was completely empty at a time of the evening when it should have been at its fullest. The rickety tables were covered in Formica, the chairs were cheap plastic and none too clean, and the linoleum floor was unspeakable. Somehow I just knew that if you were foolish or brave enough to enter, you’d never get anything you ordered, and if you tried to eat it anyway, the staff would lean out the kitchen door watching you, giggling and elbowing each other and going, Look! He’s actually eating it!

No one is ever supposed to eat there. It’s just a front for the Middleman. Even the staff send out for takeaways.

I tucked my head down so no one would get a good look at my face, slammed the door open, and strode briskly in. I ignored the startled Thai staff and headed straight for the kitchen door at the back. The waiters were too surprised to stop me, only just starting to react as I pushed the door open. I heard their cries behind me as I marched into the kitchen like I’d come to condemn it on health grounds, and then I armoured up, overriding the stealth function. The kitchen staff took one look at me in my golden armour and fell back with shocked cries, like so many startled birds. The waiters burst in after me, having armed themselves with knives and hatchets, only to lurch to a sudden halt as I turned unhurriedly to look at them. My family’s reputation goes a very long way. The headwaiter put down a butcher knife and gestured for everyone else to lower their weapons.

"Sod this for a lark," he said in decidedly East End accents. "Marcus isn’t paying us enough to take on a Drood. You want to see the Middleman, golden boy? Follow me."

He led me through the surprisingly neat and clean kitchen, while the Thai staff watched me pass with expressions that weren’t in the least inscrutable. There are places where looks can kill, but fortunately this wasn’t one of them. The headwaiter took me out the back of the kitchen and down a long narrow corridor with lighting so subdued it was positively gloomy. The carpet was bloodred, and the deep purple walls pressed in from either side. The only decorations were stuffed and mounted heads of various animals, peering down from everywhere. Big cats and African wildlife, mostly. The eyes in the heads moved slowly to follow me as I passed. Now, I’m used to weird shit; I grew up in the Hall, after all. But something about those eyes seriously freaked me out.

"Let me guess," I said nonchalantly to my guide. "If I start any trouble, you just say the Word, and the animals connected to those heads will come suddenly crashing through the walls and have a go at me, right?"

The young Thai waiter looked at me strangely. "No," he said. "They’re just conversation pieces. The boss bought them as a job lot, to brighten up the place."

"Sorry," I said. "It’s the company I’ve been keeping recently."

We reached the end of the corridor, and he knocked briefly on the only door before opening it and standing back to usher me in. I stepped inside, and he immediately shut the door and retreated back up the corridor. I didn’t take it personally. The room was more than comfortably large, very luxurious, almost sybaritic. Deep pile carpet, padded furniture, drapes and throw cushions everywhere. More subdued lighting, but upgraded to cosy rather than gloomy. The air was perfumed sweetly with attar, the essence of roses, and just a hint of opium. And there on the great circular bed was the Middleman himself, Marcus Middleton, propped up against half a dozen pillows. He smiled at me in a resigned sort of way but made no move to rise.

He was wearing green silk pajamas, stylishly cut, and sipping at a slender flute of champagne. He was also smoking a slim black cigarillo set in a long ivory holder. His long slender fingers were set off by jet-black nail polish. He was handsome enough, in an aged and ruined sort of way, with flat black hair, surprisingly subtle makeup, and mild brown eyes that had seen absolutely everything before. He studied me for a moment, and then beckoned me forward with a vague smile and a languid gesture. I moved to stand at the foot of the bed, facing him.

The bed was surrounded by dozens of phones, all in easy reach, in a variety of styles from Victorian Gothic to the frankly futuristic. These were interspersed with a nice collection of crystal balls, magic mirrors, and even a scrying pool in a chamber pot. At least, I hoped it was a scrying pool. The Middleman started to say something but was interrupted by a sudden ringing from one of his phones.

"Excuse me, dear boy," he said calmly. "But I have to get this. Do make yourself comfortable."

He waved me towards a chair, but I declined, standing facing him with my golden arms folded across my armoured chest. It’s hard to look fierce and imposing when you’re sitting down, and I needed all the psychological edge I could get. The Middleman sighed theatrically, flicked some ash from his cigarillo over the side of the bed, and picked up a seventies Trimphone in puke yellow plastic.

"Oh, hello, Tarquin; what can I do you for? Dwarves…Really, dear heart, I told you only the week before that there was going to be a shortage…They’re all working on this tacky new fantasy film they’re shooting at Elstree Studios. Making good money too, from what I hear. Are you sure you couldn’t settle for pixies? I could get you a really nice price on a group booking…Has to be dwarves. I see. Well, leave it with me, duckie, and I’ll see what I can sort out for you."

He put the Trimphone down with a graceful sweeping movement and a swirl of his green silk sleeve, and then looked at me for a long moment, while taking another sip of champagne and a deep drag on the cigarillo. If he was impressed by my armour, he was doing a really good job of hiding it.

"Well, hello," he said finally, favouring me with an arch and decidedly self-satisfied smile. "And which little Drood are you?"

"I’m Edwin," I said harshly. "The new rogue."

"Really? How thrilling…It’s been such a while since anyone was able to tempt one of you away from the straight and narrow. Can I tempt you with anything? I have some fine beluga caviar, or perhaps a little Martian red weed? It’s such a smooth smoke…No? There must be something I can offer you, to make you feel more at home and relaxed. How about if I was to call in a pretty Thai lady or ladyboy?"

"Definitely no," I said. "I’m here on business."

"How very tiresome." The Middleman sniffed loudly. "Typical Drood; you people just don’t know how to have fun. I suppose it was too much to hope you might have been thrown out of your nauseatingly self-righteous family for actually developing a few civilised vices. So, what can I do for you, dear boy?"

"You’ve worked for the Drood family for years, off and on," I said carefully. "Helping us locate just the right specialist, when needed for certain out of the ordinary operations."

"Yes, and don’t I know it, duckie; your family uses me ruthlessly and never pays a penny. I do as I’m told, or they’ll shut me down. And they’re always so terribly rude to me. I don’t know why; I merely provide a service. I put people of like minds together for mutual fun and profit. What they do afterwards is no concern of mine."

"No," I said. "You don’t care how much trouble and suffering you cause. None of the blood that ends up spilled ever stains your dainty fingers. You make awful things possible but never take responsibility for your actions."

"Oh, how very tiresome. A philosopher Drood. But still something of a man of action, I hear. It’s all over town, what you did to the Chelsea Lovers, the poor dears. It’ll take them years to regain the ground you’ve lost them. Not that I care, of course. I never care; it’s bad for the complexion. And I can’t help feeling they’d find my little peccadilloes far too bland for their extreme tastes. I never had much time for revolutions anyway, of any stamp. I like the world just the way it is." He reached across his pillows and took a Belgian chocolate from a large open box. He popped it into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and then gestured vaguely at me with one black-nailed hand. "What exactly did you come here for, dear boy? Do get to the point. I have some important lounging about I should be getting on with."

"You have contacts inside my family," I said slowly. "You must…hear things. Do you know why I was banished, declared rogue?"

"I’m afraid not, no. Haven’t heard a thing, I promise you. The news came out of nowhere, no warning at all. You could have knocked me down with a feather, duckie. Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lady-boys, I thought. Not dear upright Eddie! You’ve established quite a reputation here in the city, these last ten years. Honest, upright, and depressingly incorruptible, I would have said. No wonder your family assembled such an army to attack you on the motorway…"

"It was you," I said abruptly. "The penny’s just dropped. You organised the attacks on the M4!"

"Well, of course, dear boy. Who else? And don’t think it was easy, contacting and putting together so many disparate elements, and getting them to play nice with each other for the duration of the attack. I wouldn’t have chosen half of them, but my instructions were very specific; all bases were to be covered, scientific and magical. Honestly, the disputes I had over orders of precedence! Half of them wouldn’t even talk to each other, except through me. I would have had them all attack you at once, get it over with, and be sure of killing you…but no, they all had to take their separate turn, to show what they could do…Why can’t people be professional?"

I lowered my arms and took a step forward, and he actually flinched back against his pillows. "There’s something else you haven’t been meaning to tell me, isn’t there?" I said. "What is it, Marcus?"

"All right, all right! It’s just that…this particular commission didn’t come from your family. As such. This was a private commission, from the Drood Matriarch herself. Dear old Martha, bless her black vindictive little heart. I danced with her, you know, one memorable evening back in the sixties, when Soho was still Soho…Of course, we were both a lot younger and prettier in those days. Such a glamorous scene…It was only after the attack on you failed that I got word you’d been officially declared rogue. What did you do to upset her?"

"Didn’t she tell you?" I said.

"Didn’t tell me one thing more than she absolutely had to, duckie. Just the hired help, that’s all I was. And she wanted the whole package put together impossibly quickly, as well as extremely secretly. Gave me less than twelve hours to get the job done, and then was very rude to me when I tried to explain how difficult that was going to be. The words guts and garters were mentioned, and not in a good way."

He carried on some more about how overworked and underappreciated he was, but I’d stopped listening. Grandmother wanted me dead and had only resorted to declaring me rogue when her assassination attempt failed. And twelve hours…that had to be significant. What could have happened in that short time frame, to set the Matriarch so fiercely against me? I did a good job at Saint Baphomet’s. Did everything I was ordered to do, and got out clean.

"So you don’t know anything useful," I said finally, cutting across his well-rehearsed self-pity.

"I could ask around," he said with a vague and very languid gesture.

"But all you’ll get at this stage is gossip. Of course, now that you’re rogue…If you were looking for a new role in the world, or a secure position, I’m sure I could find a use for you in my organisation. If only because it would be absolutely killing for me to be able to say ever so casually at one of my little soirées that I had my very own Drood on the payroll! I know people who would just shit at the very thought! I could be very generous to you, Eddie. And what better way to get back at your snotty family?"

"I don’t think so," I said. "I’m…otherwise engaged. There are answers out there, and I will find them. Nothing is going to stop me."

"Of course, of course," said the Middleman. He shifted uneasily, disturbed at something he heard in my voice. "But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you there. Nothing at all. I deal in people, you understand, not information. I could put you together with certain specialists who might be able to assist you in your quest. For a consideration, you understand."

"How about you help me, in return for my not killing you in horrible and inventive ways?" I said.

He sniffed and puffed sulkily on his cigarillo. "Typical Drood. Go ahead; threaten me, bully me, see if I care. Why should you be any different from the rest of your appalling family? No one appreciates what I go through for them. I swear, I’m so delicate these days that I’m not long for this world…"

I raised a hand in self-defence. "All right! How about you help me for the satisfaction of putting one over on the Drood family, who’ve been using you for years without paying you? Wouldn’t you like that?"

He considered me thoughtfully. "Why should I risk upsetting your very powerful, not to mention vengeful, family…when I could seriously ingratiate myself with them by handing you over? They might be so grateful they’d finally let me off the hook."

"You really think they’d do that?" I said. "The Droods never give up anything they own. And do you think you have any way of making me stay here till they come to collect me?"

"No…and no," the Middleman said sadly. "So…run along, dear boy. Don’t let me keep you; you’re free to go. I never bother with a threat I can’t back up."

"If only everyone was so civilised," I said gravely.

I was turning to leave when the Middleman leaned forward suddenly. "There is someone you could talk to. She knows many things, most of which she’s not supposed to. And she has more reason than most to hate your family. The wild witch Molly Metcalf."

"Ah," I said. "Molly. Yes."

"Do I detect a problem? You don’t sound too enthusiastic."

"Molly and I have a history," I said.

The Middleman laughed and spread his hands as though embracing the universe. "Who doesn’t, dear boy? It’s what makes the world go round!"

I armoured down as I walked out of the Thai café, the living armour melting back into my torc. Never wear the gold in public. I smiled slightly. I might be outcast from my family, and on the run, but I was still following their rules. Behind me, the Thai café staff hurried to lock the door and pull down the blinds. I didn’t blame them. I stood outside for a while, thinking, and then looked up suddenly as for the first time I realised how quiet the street was. I looked around me, and there was no one to see anywhere, up or down the street. No traffic, no pedestrians. The busy sounds of the city continued off in the distance, but my little part of it was completely deserted. Which just didn’t happen at this time of the evening, unless the whole area had been quietly and efficiently sealed off. And the only people with enough clout to do that, in the very heart of London, were my family. No one says no to the Droods. So; they’d found me. I looked around sharply as a man came strolling casually out of a side street. A very smart, very smooth man, with a familiar face, looking inordinately pleased with himself: Matthew Drood.

His manner was assured, even cocky, but I noticed he still came to a halt a respectful distance away from me. He smiled and nodded, and I nodded to him. As far as I could tell, he’d come alone, which worried me. That wasn’t family policy, when it came to dealing with a rogue. He seemed to be expecting me to say something, to defend or justify myself, so I just stood there, staring back at him. Matthew frowned slightly and shot the gleaming white cuffs of his expensive City outfit.

"I knew you’d come here first, Eddie," he said smugly. "Simple deduction, old boy. All I had to do was stake the place out and wait."

"Actually, this was my third stop," I said. "Late as always, Matthew. Why did they choose you for this? Volunteer, did you, to impress the Matriarch? Or maybe Alex? You’re not still mad at me over her, are you? It was a long time ago; we were just teenagers."

"Of course I volunteered," Matthew said angrily. "You’re a disgrace to the family, Eddie. I always said you were no good, and now my judgement has been vindicated."

"What did they offer you?" I said. "Really; I’m curious. I mean, you wouldn’t have been my first choice to take down a dangerous and experienced rogue. You’ve never been any good at the physical side of what we do. The old ultraviolence…Leaning on stuffed shirts in the City is more your level; putting the wind up stockbrokers who’ve been caught with their hand in the till."

Matthew glared at me, bright red spots burning on his cheeks. "Once I’ve proved myself by bringing you in, they’re going to give me all your territory and responsibilities, old boy, as well as my own. I’ll be the biggest and best agent in one of the most important cities in the world. The Matriarch gave me her word, personally."

"She’s using you, Matthew, just like she used me." I felt suddenly tired, worn down. "She’s setting us both up. Can’t you see that? She’s ready to throw you away, just to slow me down till more experienced agents can get here. We can’t trust the Matriarch anymore, Matthew. She’s got her own agenda now."

Matthew looked at me as though I’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. "She’s…the Matriarch. Her word is law. We live and die at her pleasure. That’s the way it’s always been. And you’re just a dirty little traitor!"

I looked around me. There was still no sign of any backup for Matthew. Maybe he really had been the only one close enough…

"I don’t need any help to take down a traitor like you," said Matthew.

"I’m not a traitor," I said, taking a step towards him. He stood his ground.

"You’ve always been a traitor," he said, and his smile was cold and unpleasant now. "To the spirit of what we do. To the duty and traditions of the family. You should never have been allowed so much freedom; see what it’s done to you. A mad dog, running loose, that has to be put down for everybody’s good."

I studied him for a moment. There was definitely something in his voice and in his smile…"This isn’t official, is it?" I said finally. "That’s why you’re here without backup. The family doesn’t know anything about this. You’re here representing the Matriarch, and no one else. You’re not here to bring me back alive, are you, Matthew?"

His smiled broadened. "What good would that serve?"

"I never liked you," I said. "You always were teacher’s pet."

We both armoured up, the living metal leaping into place around us. It was eerie, looking at Matthew in his armour, like a mirror image. I didn’t know what weapons he might have, but I didn’t think he’d use them, for fear I’d use mine. They’d make the situation too unpredictable. And besides, we were both curious. We wanted to do this the hard way, head to head and hand to hand, just because it had been centuries since anyone had tried that. It was very rare for two Droods to fight in the gold. We were never allowed to do that outside of training sessions, because it was unthinkable that Drood should fight Drood. There were records of such clashes in the library, very old records, but they were long on flowery words and short on detail. I wanted to do this, and so did he.

And if we were both doing this for the wrong reasons, there was no one here to stop us.

We sprang forward, golden hands outstretched. Equally motivated, equally fierce, equally determined. We slammed together, and the impact of armour on armour sounded like a great bell ringing in the depths of Hell. We hit each other hard, throwing punch after punch with all our amplified strength behind it, not even bothering to defend ourselves. The awful sound reverberated in the empty street, but neither of us took any hurt. Our armour protected us. The unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. I barely felt the impact of his fists, and I’m certain he didn’t feel mine. All we were doing was wearing each other out. We wrestled clumsily for a while, chest to chest, neither of us able to gain an advantage.

Finally I tripped him up, and while he was down I kicked him so hard in the ribs he skidded several yards down the street. I ran after him, and while he was still scrambling to his feet, I grabbed him with both hands, picked him up, and threw him at the nearest building. He crashed halfway through the wall, held in place for a moment while dislodged bricks rained down on his armour. He pulled himself free with hardly an effort, and the wall collapsed behind him. He launched himself at me, completely unfazed, and we slammed together again.

We couldn’t hurt each other. Matthew pushed me away, reached out, and grabbed the steel pole of a streetlight. He yanked it up out of its concrete setting, the jagged end trailing wires and sparks. He wound up and swung the steel pole like a bat, and I couldn’t move quickly enough to avoid it. The heavy steel smashed into my ribs, lifted me up off my feet, and sent me flying through the air. I hit the ground hard several yards away, rolling over and over, and was immediately up on my feet again, unhurt, not even breathing hard.

We went to it again, raging up and down the street, smashing everything we came in contact with except each other. We hit out with everything we could lay our hands on, punched each other through walls, demolishing the street from one end to the other. Buildings collapsed, glass shattered, and fires broke out, and we didn’t even notice. We fought like gods, trampling heedlessly through the paper and cardboard world of mere mortals.

Finally we ran out of room and came to the barricade set up at the end of the street. Behind a row of steel posts strung with barbed wire, half a dozen police stood watching from behind their parked cars. Behind them, a crowd of curious onlookers, drawn by the noise. They all watched in dumbstruck horror as Matthew and I went at it hammer and tongs right in front of them, so caught up in the righteous anger of what we were doing that we didn’t give a damn about the armour being seen in public.

The police and the onlookers scattered as Matthew and I crashed into and through the barrier, the barbed wire snapping instantly, as insubstantial as fog to our armoured strength. We were outside the exclusion zone now, where everyone could see us, and the screams brought me back to myself. I tried to back off, but Matthew was too far gone now to stop. He picked up one of the police cars as though it weighed nothing and threw it at me. I ducked, and it sailed past me to crash into a storefront. I grabbed a nearby parked car and threw it at Matthew. He stood his ground, and the front half of the car concertinaed as it smashed against his immovable form. It exploded suddenly into an expanding orange fireball. The closer buildings caught alight, and the air shimmered from the intense heat. And Matthew came walking out of the heart of the fireball, brushing blazing wreckage away from him, entirely unhurt. People were running now, screaming hysterically, and the police were on their radios yelling in unmanned voices for armed backup.

I looked at Matthew, in his gold, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Was this how people had seen me? This terrible, inhuman thing?

While I stood there, frozen by insight, Matthew picked up another car and smashed it down on top of me, catching me off balance and throwing me to the ground. He leaned on the car with all his strength, trying to pin me down, but I just pushed back, and the metal of the car tore like tissue paper under our armoured strength. I rose up through the wreckage of the car, and we threw the broken pieces aside to get at each other again. People were still screaming in the background. They sounded like animals, maddened by something they couldn’t comprehend. The fire was spreading. It occurred to me that the family were going to have a hell of a time hushing this one up.

Matthew charged straight at me. I waited till the last moment, and then sidestepped. He stumbled past me, off balance, one arm out to brace himself against the wall ahead of him. I took out my portable door and slapped it against the brickwork, and he fell through the new opening into the interior of the building. I ripped the door away, trapping him inside. And then I used my armour’s strength to pull the whole damned building down on top of him.

Ton after ton of brick and stone and concrete and steel came thundering down, piling up on top of Matthew. The ground shook with the impact, and the street filled with smoke. I waited a while, tensed and ready, but nothing happened except for the great pile of rubble slowly settling. I snapped my golden fingers at dear defeated Matthew. The armour would have protected him even from this, but he’d still be a long while digging himself out. By which time I fully intended to be long gone.

I took one of the abandoned police cars. The officers had retreated so quickly they’d actually left the keys in the ignition. I drove off, armouring down as I went, turning down a side street as I heard the approaching sirens of fire engines and police cars. I wasn’t in the mood for any more confrontations. Soon enough I was back in the main flow of London traffic, driving calmly and carefully, and no one looked at me twice. No one ever looks at a police car unless they have to. I stopped the car as soon as I could and walked away from it. Once again Shaman Bond was just another face in the crowd, no one special, nothing to look at. My cover identity was the only real protection I had left. No one in the family knew my use-name. They’d never asked. Never cared.

I headed for the Underground again. For better or worse, there was only one person I could go to now for help and answers. The one person the Matriarch would be sure I’d never approach. The wild witch Molly Metcalf. She shouldn’t be too angry at seeing me again. It had been months since we last tried to kill each other.

You know, sometimes I swear the whole universe runs on irony.