Tourists milled about in the thick air and green grounds, snapping pictures of the towering, gilded statues of Victoria Memorial and stately Buckingham Palace behind it. The palace guards stood still and silent. Somehow, they managed to look dignified in their ridiculous red uniforms and over-sized fuzzy hats.
Wyland had decided, on a whim, that he had time to walk through the grounds of The Mall. He hadn't been here in many years, and it was a lovely place, full of pomp and national pride. Here, at least, the British Empire still flourished, although the sun now set daily upon Her Majesties' lands.
He walked through green fields full of art installations and old statues and columns. He walked over busy roads and round-a-bouts, past police camera towers and lazy Bobbies enjoying cheap coffee. He stolled past several beggars and street performers, all hoping for tourists' money. One man caught Wyland's eye, as he stood noble and erect, posing ridiculously in full costumed regalia, recounting Shakespeare's "The Tempest", as a woman equally costumed, or maybe it was a man dressed as a woman, stood by, listening over-intently:
"Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop."
Wyland walked on past him as Prospero's flowery words of prophesy faded from his ears, thinking about the bard's callous disregard for the characters in his own plays. Although "The Tempest" has a happy ending, most of the bard's great plays do not. He remembered, as he walked dreamily through the greens, of poor Hamlet, set upon by the greed of his kin, driven half mad, dying of poison and blood loss along with all the people he loves, revenge and cold steel his final gift to his treacherous uncle, Claudius. As a young man in high school, Wyland was insulted by the evil of Claudius and more appalled still when Hamlet was killed for standing up for what was, after all, his rightful throne. Wyland identified with the brooding, sullen prince and raged against his completely unjust fate.
He had grown up in Maine, and as a child, he daydreamed about being king of his own little cloud covered, rich, verdant green kingdom. The brutal truth of ruling a kingdom was brought home as he read Hamlet in high school. After reading that, he didn't have any more daydreams of being a king.
He had grown up in Maine, and as a child, he daydreamed about being king of his own little cloud covered, rich, verdant green kingdom. The brutal truth of ruling a kingdom was brought home as he read Hamlet in high school. After reading that, he didn't have any more daydreams of being a king.
This deep childhood reverie brought him all the way through the park, across a couple city blocks, and up to the landing of New Scotland Yard. It is a massively imposing glass and steel building on bustling Broadway, near the heart of London. He could smell the strange, almost fishy smell of the river Thames in the distance, mixed with all the other various city smells; diesel fuel and motor oil, food, urine, vomit, and sweat.
He had a meeting and was, as usual, a little late.
Wyland sailed smoothly through the security check, as the security officer just grunted at him and went back to watching some show on his phone. He knew that no one in their right mind would dare try anything funny here at the heart of the state's power, and was sick to death of this futile job. This particular security guard used to have the night shift, and got paid to sleep the night away, but was eventually caught sleeping and thrown on day shift as a reprimand. Two years later, he would be shot and killed sitting in almost the same spot he now sat, and would be hailed as a hero, this lazy, stupid, sullen brick of a man.
Wyland inquired at the front counter, and was pointed to the elevator, and given a name and office number on a little card.
He had a meeting and was, as usual, a little late.
Wyland sailed smoothly through the security check, as the security officer just grunted at him and went back to watching some show on his phone. He knew that no one in their right mind would dare try anything funny here at the heart of the state's power, and was sick to death of this futile job. This particular security guard used to have the night shift, and got paid to sleep the night away, but was eventually caught sleeping and thrown on day shift as a reprimand. Two years later, he would be shot and killed sitting in almost the same spot he now sat, and would be hailed as a hero, this lazy, stupid, sullen brick of a man.
Wyland inquired at the front counter, and was pointed to the elevator, and given a name and office number on a little card.
Arriving at the office with Constance "Connie" Oglevie painted on the door, he knocked hesitantly. The door opened to show the humorless face of Connie, a middle aged detective, now more of an office drone than a real detective. She was robbed of a previously enjoyable "street-beat" job by the age of constant computerized surveillance, robot eyes and high tech forensics. Her whole job could be done from her office console now.
She wore a drab business suit, wore thin rimmed glasses, and had dirty grey blond hair wrapped in a bun. She had a thin frame and a slight paunch. She had beautiful, unblemished skin, save for a small mole on her left brow. She appeared entirely unimpressed by Wyland.
"Mr. Blake, come in. You're late." She said this with consternation in her voice. Her face showed slight anger.
He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize, I hoped I had time to walk through the park. It really is a beautiful place."
She said nothing to this, but smiled slightly. It was a librarian's smile, very slight and soft, somehow quiet, and completely insincere. While standing, She typed smoothly into her computer, bringing the screen around to face them as they both sat down at her little desk. A case file with a mug shot of a normal looking, dark haired Russian man stared back at him. His brow looked angry, but his mouth was smiling a strange smile in the picture, his teeth were showing, but one side of his mouth crooked up, the other crooked down.
Connie straightened up and began: "As per your e-mail request, I've pulled all our records on Ivan Petrovik. He's clean as a whistle, other than the dropped charges for hate speech and harassment and such. An old public intoxication charge from up in Moscow, but that's it. Our prosecutor thought better of trying him in open court, and let him go. There was absolutely nothing directly tying him to Mr. Jamesson's death. The official stance is that the event at the wedding and the event in the Bahamas are completely unrelated."
Wyland got the feeling she had given a version of this speech before, like this was a press release and no questions would be taken afterwards. Her silence afterwards, along with a patient but piercing gaze from deep, green eyes magnified by a stiff ocular prescription, confirmed this.
Wyland smiled lightly, and looked at his shoes. "I'm aware of the official stance, Mrs. Oglevie. I, as you know, have been tasked with investigating a similar circumstance stateside. I'm here to see if I can uncover any truth to the claim that curses may be real, and if so, how to legally prove such a thing. I am legally bound not to share any information with outside sources such as the media. Any information you might be able to provide may assist our entire nation, no, both our nations, to prevent future occurrences of curses, if this is, in fact, what they are." Wyland had anticipated her response, and this, he decided, was the most careful and diplomatic wording he could use to glean any new information.
She appeared to soften slightly, her shoulders moved back, and she leaned backwards in her chair. She lightly smiled at him, appearing perhaps just a little impressed by his diction and tact. She then shrugged her shoulders and lazily said "well, Mr. Petrovik is dead, killed unceremoniously in a car accident. The Jamesson's are dead, and the original lead investigator is dead. So I don't..."
Wyland cut her off there. "Wait, the lead investigator wasn't you, originally?"
"No, Mr. Steins originally had the case. He died of a heart attack almost immediately after being given the case. They suspect, superstitious idiots that they are, that Petrovik was cursed, and perhaps Steins as well, although he was not a healthy man and it could have been natural. My superiors decided I should not press my luck, and the prosecutor backed off the case. I think he feared for his life, and for mine. I don't know what to think, but honestly, I was relieved that I didn't have to worry about it, at least, that is, until I received your e-mail."
She tensed back up, and Wyland felt he was losing her and tried to cut her off again. He failed, and she continued, "if curses are real, Mr. Blake, then this is something orchestrated by someone who knows far more than we do on the subject, so we stand naked against them. There is nothing that can stop them from cursing you, from you dying a strange death at their hands. Or I, for that matter, and I have no intention of dying from such idiocy. Our legal framework has no protections from such things, and if this is anything besides stupendous coincidence, then it's surely quite lethal. I urge you to board a plane immediately, and cease all further investigations."
Wyland glanced at the clock behind her. Almost lunchtime. So he smiled at her, and said "very well, perhaps you're right. I'm no cop, just a lawyer. I do, however, have a company card and unlimited expense account privileges, so perhaps you'd like to go get a bite to eat? Just as a friendly thank you for your time and patience?"
She smiled at him, but it was a tired, grey smile, but then, suddenly, it brightened. "Ok, but only if we can go to the best Indian restaurant in London." A mischievous glint in her eye told Wyland all he needed to know. "Of course", he smiled crookedly back at her, and they gather up their things and left her office.
No comments:
Post a Comment