Battle Lines. Will Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ of the Thames moved sluggishly beneath him, as sunlight gleamed off the stone and glass and metal of the buildings on either side of the river. The sky was bright blue overhead, the clouds the purest white. It was a fine day, the kind that you hope for every morning when you force yourself out of bed. Albert Harker took a sweet, lingering breath and climbed into the back of the car.

      They accelerated smoothly north, leaving the river behind.

      Albert watched the passing city with an odd sensation of grief filling him; he felt like he was never going to see it again. The fact that the man in the sunglasses had not felt the need to blindfold him suggested that the journey was one-way; they clearly didn’t care if he saw where they were taking him.

      The car ploughed through the thick traffic at the Aldwych, crawled up Kingsway and Woburn Place, and emerged on to Euston Road. Beyond the filthy, litter-strewn streets that surrounded King’s Cross Station, an area of London that Albert remembered being far, far worse as little as a decade earlier, they turned north on to York Way, past the goods yards and the sticky, almost stationary canal. The car’s big engine purred as it made its way on to Camden Road, where it pulled into the driveway of a tall, narrow house.

      The man in the sunglasses told Albert to stay where he was, then climbed out of the car. A second later the door beside him opened, to reveal the man holding it with such stolid politeness that Albert fought back the urge to laugh. He eased himself out of the car and looked up at the house. The door stood at the top of five stone steps, open to the warm afternoon air. Albert looked at the man in the sunglasses, who didn’t move.

      “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

      The man didn’t respond. Albert stared at him for a moment that seemed to last forever, then crossed the drive and slowly climbed the steps, one at a time. Beyond the door, he saw a man standing in a long, narrow hallway. His black suit was identical to the one worn by his colleague outside, and he gave no indication of having seen Albert Harker; he stood perfectly still, his hands clasped before his groin, the plastic earpiece behind his ear clearly visible. On the opposite side of the corridor was an open door. Albert approached it slowly, trying to slow his racing heart, and stepped through it.

      The room was long and tall, with a semi-circular set of bay windows beneath which sat an empty sofa. Standing in front of it was Albert’s father.

      “Hello, son,” said David Harker. He was wearing his Blacklight uniform, his hands dangling loosely at his sides, his face expressionless. Albert opened his mouth to reply, but then a second voice spoke from behind him, a voice that froze him where he stood.

      “Hello, Bert.”

      Albert turned slowly and saw his brother standing at the far end of the room. He too was all in black, and standing beside him was a man that Albert didn’t recognise.

      “Robert,” he said. “What are you—”

      “Look at me, Albert,” said David, sharply. “Your brother asked to be here, but it’s me you’re dealing with.”

      He forced himself back round. To Albert’s well-practised eyes, two thin patches of pale pink were clearly visible high up on his father’s cheeks. He had come to know them very well as a child; they were a clear warning that his father’s patience was nearing an end, and that his temper, a great and terrible thing, was very close to the surface.

      “Hello, Father,” he said, as calmly as he was able. He suddenly felt incredibly alone among these three men, whose loyalty to each other, he knew, far superseded the loyalty that either of the members of his family felt towards him. “What can I do for you?”

      David took a step forward. “What did you tell him, Albert?” he asked, his voice low and cold.

      “Tell who?”

      “The journalist. What did you tell him?”

      Albert shrugged. “Everything,” he said.

      “Why?” growled David Harker. “For God’s sake, why?”

      “Because I knew it would make your life difficult,” replied Albert, and smiled at his father.

      David crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. There was a blur of black, before his fist crashed into his son’s mouth, driving him to the ground. Albert felt pain explode through his head, felt his lip tear and his mouth fill up with blood. His stomach churned and he put his hands on the floor, trying to steady himself. He spat blood on to the wooden floorboards of the living room, then rocked back on his knees, staring up at his father. Behind him, from some great distance, he heard a vaguely familiar voice shout for someone to control themself, but paid it little attention. His gaze was fixed on the twisted crimson of his father’s face, at the expression of pure hatred that blazed there.

      “You stupid boy,” breathed David Harker. “You stupid, pathetic little boy. He’ll never print a word of what you told him. So all that you’ve done is embarrass your family, yet again. Why couldn’t you just have stayed in that rathole in Southwark, with your junkie friends? Or just died, like most of your kind already have? It would have saved us all so much trouble.”

      “I’m… happy,” said Albert, grinning through teeth smeared with blood, “to have… disappointed you… Father.”

      David Harker raised his fist again, but this time Albert’s brother was there, grabbing his arm and holding it in place.

      “No more,” said Robert, casting a brief, disgusted glance down at his kneeling twin. “Not like this, Dad. This isn’t how we do things.”

      David glared at Robert for a long moment, then his face softened into a look of such obvious pride that Albert felt it as a stabbing pain in the middle of his chest, like an icicle skewering his heart.

      “You’re right, of course,” said David. “Thank you.” He clapped his son on the back, then the two men looked down at Albert. An enormous quantity of blood had run from his mouth, soaking the front of his shirt red. He stared back at them with fear and loathing in his eyes.

      “This is long overdue,” said David. “I should have done this more than a decade ago. Your mother persuaded me to let you be, convinced me that you might eventually work out what it means to be a man, to be a Harker. Letting her do so was my mistake, and I see it now.” He looked up towards the door and gave a nod. “Get him out of my sight,” he said. “I don’t ever want to see his face again.”

      Albert’s mind was suddenly overcome with terror.

      They’re going to kill me, he thought. They’re going to kill me, oh God, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t think they’d really do it, oh God, I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

      Hands grabbed his arms and he began to scream, thrashing wildly in the grips of the men who held him. He screamed for his brother, for his father, screamed that he was sorry, screamed for another chance, one last, final chance. But Robert and David merely watched, their expressions calm, as Albert was dragged out of the room.

      He fought them all the way to the front door, kicking and bucking and howling his head off, and when one of the hands released its grip on his arm, he redoubled his efforts. Then something huge and heavy crashed into his lower back and all the fight went out of him. The pain was monstrous, indescribable, and he vomited helplessly as his suddenly limp body was dragged from the house and towards the idling car.

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