“I shall arrange it right away,” he replied. “Thank you for your efficiency. I will Hotline the details for you. Are you ready?”
She nodded and, with a few taps on the keyboard, he raised an overlapping grey screen of information. This he reached out to with his left hand and moved the information up so that it covered her image. Holding the fingertips of his left hand over the information, he once more placed the middle finger of his right hand over the cube and took a deep breath. The screen momentarily swam with a rainbow of colours like oil on water and then restored itself with the image of the agent. He breathed out and shook his head briefly as if to clear his vision.
“Did you get it, Carol?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back in touch if there are any problems,” she replied, giving a brief nod as the screen faded to purple again.
The display returned to the map once more before D’Scover removed the CC and replaced it in the drawer. He stood and stretched before walking to the door, opening it and leaning round it into the reception area to find Emma. She was reaching into a filing cabinet, holding a large bundle of paperwork.
“Emma,” he called, “I want no disturbances for at least two hours – and this is a Code Red instruction.”
“Absolutely, sir, I understand.”
She leaned over her desk and passed her hand over a small flat panel embedded in the surface. This flicked on and began to emit a pulsating red glow. As D’Scover closed his office door behind him, it gave off a slight hiss and a sucking noise as it sealed from the outside.
Walking back across his huge but sparsely furnished office to a blood-red couch standing against a vast expanse of window, he sat briefly. Drawing in a number of deep breaths, he closed his eyes and the room filled with a deep silence. When the silence seemed to begin to crush the air from the room, he stood and walked to the windows. One whole wall was made of glass, forming huge sliding doors leading out to a balcony, and it was towards this that he waved his hand. In silence the glass slid effortlessly open to reveal a wide and empty balcony overlooking the slate-grey mass of London in early February. This building was one of the tallest on the south bank of the Thames and from here he could see across the river and over the city and even out to the thin band of green where the countryside still tried in vain to resist the urban sprawl.
D’Scover walked out on to the damp stone slabs of the balcony and lifted his head as the wind forced itself around him, ruffling his hair and clothes. Closing his eyes, he raised his hands, palms skyward, in front of him. He held this stance for a number of minutes before moving his arms, still extended and palms upwards, out to his sides. Expelling a long breath, he raised his hands swiftly above his head, clapping them together. In an instant the city became dark, as though a gigantic shadow had fallen across it for just a fraction of a second. On the balcony a faint image of a man held its shape momentarily before it shattered into a million tiny glistening grey particles that swirled away with the wind.
Chapter Four – The Good Sister
D’Scover had returned to form hours later in a whirling mist that thickened until it took on the shape of a man, gradually becoming more recognisable until he lay re-formed on the couch in his room, regulating his breathing in a slow and steady rhythm. With each intake of air he became more solid until, after another ten minutes of steady control, he looked as alive as any person in the street. With a final deep sigh he sat up and smoothed his hair back and stretched. Standing, he walked over to his huge oak desk and flicked the intercom unit.
“Emma?” he said.
“Emma has Dispersed, sir,” a youthful female voice replied. “It’s me, Julie. Did you have a restful Dispersal?”
“Indeed I did. It has been a while since I was away for such a lengthy period. Are there any messages for me?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bring them straight in.”
D’Scover sat at his desk and looked down at his hands, idly fading them in and out of solidity while he thought. He looked close to forty, but as if it had been a lonely journey to get to that age. With his clean-shaven face framed by a thick gloss of collar-length black hair, his pale skin seemed to shine out from a halo of deepest night. His high cheekbones defined his lean face and his eyes were large and dark, and with no pupils they gave away none of his emotions. On the rare occasions that he smiled, it sat uncomfortably on his face like a party hat on a head teacher – an effort towards jollity that he did not really welcome. His work was everything to him and he made sure that all around him knew. Very few things – living or dead – in the world meddled with Toby D’Scover.
Julie wafted through the door to bring D’Scover his messages. Arriving in the room, she looked down at her empty hands, remembering only then that the file could not pass through the wood as she could. It had tumbled to the office floor behind her.
“I . . . I’m s-s-sorry, sir,” she stammered, turning back towards the door and banging her face hard against it.
“Julie!” he said brusquely. “I realise you have not yet finished your training, but what is the Prime Rule of the Brotherhood?”
She looked down at her feet as she answered. “Concentrate,” she muttered.
“Concentrate,” he repeated. “We rest our success on never being caught out. Those who are seen are not fit for the Brotherhood. Concentration ensures that we can move amongst the living without their knowledge. And what would one of our living agents say if they saw you marching through doors? You know it makes them uncomfortable to be reminded of their own mortality.”
“I’m truly sorry, sir,” she muttered through obviously gritted teeth. “I’ll try and concentrate harder.”
“Do so.” He stared hard at her as she stood in front of the closed door.
A moment’s awkward silence trickled round the room as she stared at her shoes.
“Messages?” D’Scover queried with his eyebrows raised.
“Oh!” she said. “Yes, the messages!”
She opened the door and reached out to gather up her fallen file and the paperwork that had spewed from it on to the floor. D’Scover impatiently flicked his hand and the scattered paper shuffled itself into a neat pile and rose through the air towards his desk.
“Do not bother,” he said dismissively. “I am in a hurry to get on with my work. Can you just get back to the desk and watch the incoming reports, please?”
Julie sniffed loudly and turned away from him before scuttling from the room and back to her desk. The door closed heavily behind her and D’Scover could hear her muffled sobbing through the wall.
“Amateurs,” he muttered to himself before looking at the folder of messages.
There were the usual reports of spectral sightings from around the globe, many of which he could recognise as familiar spirits that needed no further action. Some were spirits causing a fuss close to their Final Dispersal and could be left to pass on without any help – time would take care of those for him. Others were agents caught momentarily going about Brotherhood business: these would need a caution, but could wait until later
By far the most persistent reports were about fakers, charlatans. These were D’Scover’s pet hate, so-called psychics who cashed in on the beliefs of the weak and needy. Many of these he dealt with personally and had done so for as long as Spiritualism had existed. Not all of these people were fakers; in fact some of his best agents had been recruited from these meetings. Some people were genuinely sensitive and could maintain contact with the Spirit World, but most were just out to make money from the lonely and bereaved. This vile trade made him angry – and an angry D’Scover was a force to be reckoned with.
Often, all it took to expose the charlatans was to attend a seance or so-called ‘spirit reading’,