Chapter Twelve: Jiggedy Jig

Chapter Twelve

Jiggedy Jig

Ellie caught up with Trisitan at the edge of the hanger. He was standing utterly still, like a column of basalt rock - a dark pillar against the pounding glare of the too bright sun. It was strange to stand amidst the shattered products of such unimaginable violence and yet for everything to be so utterly still.

There was no wind, not a breath of air to stir the black plumes of sooty smoke that still rose from the destroyed hangers. No birds sang. Not even the rustle of a leaf disturbed the morose tranquility. If she stood, as she did now, with her back to the corpse of the main hanger all she could see was gin clear blue sky, neatly mown, vibrant green grass and the rough beige of the concrete landing strip. If the silence had not been so oppressively unnatural the scene could have been, no, would have been idyllic.

It was only the smell that ruined the illusion. The acrid stench of burned wood, combusted fuel, hot metal.

And meat.

Ellie's stomach twisted. She'd seen the dead. Their charred, twisted, bloodied corpses. Those visions, juxtaposed with the smell of roasted flesh, a smell she had always previously associated with a bloody good meal made the bile rise in her throat. She looked at Tristian, his eyes obscured behind the goggles, a vicious snarl curling his lips.

Abruptly Tristian began to stride furiously forwards, his body almost quivering with ill-disguised rage. Ellie was confused until she realised what he was making for. On the other side of the landing strip a few hundred yards from the hanger a jet black 1967 Mark One VW Camper with alloy wheels and rather a lot of chrome trim crouched unscathed exactly where they'd left it when they joined the Fuga Libero those few short hours earlier.

By the time she caught up with him, Tristian was leaning with both hands against the side of the 'van, arms outstretched, head down. Ellie wondered if he might be about to throw up.

"Poor bastard," he muttered - "never even got a chance to move the bloody 'van."

As Ellie reached out a hand to comfort him Tristian's knees sagged and he collapsed sobbing to the floor. She crouched and awkwardly put her arms around the inconsolable black clad man. As she did so a brief wisp of errant breeze once more brought the faint stench of scorched meat to her nostrils and the image of that young, black overalled engineer cheerfully catching the camper's keys, and then lying as she'd seen him last, head twisted 'round the wrong way, with pale, unseeing glassy eyes and once irrepressible dark curls now slicked straight with congealing blood.

The terror, frustration and shock of the last day or so - she had no idea how long it had been since her abduction by The Auditors had thrown her into this bizarre and sickening misadventure - finally hit her and Ellie too dissolved into sobs.

-oOo-

George Mainwaring stood to attention in the austere office of Duke Regimen Asquith of the Singularity. The Duke sat behind a desk of white sycamore wood - little more than a trestle table really - on a simple chair of the same pale wood, hunched over a pile of paper screens that he was studying intently. As his clawed, almost skeletal fingers gently stroked and caressed key words and images the information on the papers changed as it opened links to related cross references.

If the cadaverous sallow faced man had noticed that the Clerk had been standing in front of him for nearly twenty minutes the Duke gave no sign. Eventually, and still without looking up, the old man spoke. "So, was the craft destroyed?"

Mainwairing remained rigidly at attention, eyes front. Only his mouth moved as he replied. "We fear not, my lord. It must have taken extensive damage, but readings indicate that it shifted just before the missiles from the final assault detonated."

The Duke's corpse like hands paused for the briefest of moments on the smart papers in front of him, but he showed no other discernible reaction. Still without apparently diverting any attention from his paperwork he queried "And the girl?"

"We believe that she may have evacuated the vessel in the company of the Traitor, my lord. An aircraft was observed by the assault fleet, but as they had no orders concerning such aircraft they ignored it."

At this point Mainwaring was trying desperately to keep any note of criticism out of his voice. Allowing the plane to leave had been a blunder, he knew, but the order to concentrate solely on the Fuga Libero had come directly from the Duke's office and so he had been unable to countermand it. His fear now was that his superior would, as superiors so often do, seek to pass the blame for the girl's escape onto the man commanding the operation in the air - namely one Clerk George Mainwaring.

Such a thing would be entirely understandable, of course. George Mainwaring would bear such an injustice with fortitude, as was his duty - the reputation of the head of The Auditors must be protected at all costs. Certainly the career prospects of a lowly Clerk could not be allowed to take precedence. He once again cursed the Traitor for causing so much difficulty - so far as Clerk Mainwaring was concerned, that was where the blame for all of this truly lay.

The Duke finally looked up, placed his elbows on the desk and looked intently at the still rigid Clerk over steepled fingers. "Good. What a waste it would have been for her to have been killed." He have a slight sigh and returned his attention to the smart papers. "Make sure you ascertain the status of the Fuga Libero. If it is still functional, launch another attack. That will be all."

Mainwaring did not move. "What of the Traitor and the girl, my lord?"

The Duke displayed no visible reaction, but there was just the faintest trace of irritation in his reply. "They are not currently your concern. Now, please do attend to your duties - I am sure you have much to do."

Mainwaring knew better than to push his luck further. Without another word he turned smartly on his heel and left the room. The Duke didn't even seem to notice, his attention taken by the picture of a black VW van on one of the smart papers.

-oOo-

Ellie and Tristian were sitting in the back of the VW, each avoiding the other's gaze, each slightly sniffly. Both had removed their goggles, Tristian and the Red Kite having scanned the area and declared it "safe enough for now". Tristian had returned his to their customary place around his bowler. Ellie's now hung around her neck.

Tristian's eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, his voice cracked and still quavering when, at last, he spoke. "Well, I suppose we can't bloody well sit here sobbing all day." He rubbed his eyes and forced a smile. "Look, I'm sorry about that." He waved a hand absently, "It's just, all this," once again he waved a vague hand at the world outside, ""is my fault. If I'd left George behind in the pocket reality and then collapsed it around him he'd be dead, and all of these people would still be here."

He buried his head in his hands again to regain his composure. "This place is flattened, all these people are dead. The Fuga Libero is either on the run and disabled or destroyed. Bunco is probably dead. And me?" He raised his head from his hands and met Ellie's watery eyes with his own. "I've lost nothing. I've still got Red. I've still got my van." He gave a snort of self disgust. "I can just carry on as normal."

Ellie almost reached out to him, but there was something in his expression that stayed her hand. She held his gaze though, "You saved me." Her voice shook, but her eyes were steady. "If you hadn't come for me, I'd still be at that Office place." She gestured to the devastation of the Air Station, "I've seen enough here to convince me that wouldn't have been good."

She leaned closer. "And then you escaped from armed guards, and saved me again."

Tristian shook his head. "I know you mean well luv, but"

"NO!"

The vehemence of her response surprised even Ellie, but she pressed on.

"Never mind me. Think of George. You blame yourself for all this carnage - all you did was refuse to murder your friend! What happened next is on him, not you."

Tristian shook his head. "You don't understand, I'm a soldier. I have a side. Those poor dead bastards out there, my loyalty was to them and I let them down!" he spat the last word with venom that dripped with self loathing and regret. Ellie's low chuckle took him by surprise.

She met his look of wounded reproach with sad eyes filled with rueful mirth, her head shaking gently. "Viscount, I owe you my freedom, maybe my life, and there's no doubt you're good in a fight, but seriously, you're no soldier."

There was an unmistakable snarl in the response. "What would you know about it, monkey girl? I've been fighting for your freedom for decades while you were living your safe little life! I've -"

Ellie put a gentle hand over his mouth. "Shhhhh" she breathed, "before you say something stupid." She took her hand away but remained leaning forward, her face just inches from his. "My granddad was a Para, so was my dad. My brother is serving with the RAF Regiment. Trust me, I know soldiers, and you aren't one."

"But -"

"No. No buts. You're brave, you're clearly good at fighting, you seem to be loyal, but that's not what it takes to make a soldier. You clearly don't play well with others, you don't take orders well and you would definitely find the "i" in team. You wouldn't last five minutes in a real army, and I don't want to pour salt on fresh wounds, but you don't seem to be getting on all that well with this "Black Guard" of yours."

She leaned back and sighed deeply. "Look, sorry, but you're beating yourself up over the wrong thing. You fucked up, but you didn't betray your rebellion! You acted out of loyalty and compassion - you didn't destroy this place! You didn't attack the Fuga Libero! You didn't kill these people! The Auditors did!"

She leaned forward again and levelled a finger at the Viscount's nose. "My brother would say 'the only question is, what are you going to do about it?' - so?"

Tristian leaned back into his seat, his head lolling backwards. He raised his fingers to his temples and exhaled long and loud. "Well, we can't stay here, and I can't leave you unprotected - The Auditor's want their fulcrum and they won't give up until they've got you."

He sat forward again, a new expression of determination on his face. "Look, you've been on the run for two or three days now. We can't do this indefinitely." He lifted his eyes to meet Ellie's emerald stare. Let's go."

-oOo-

Mrs Chatterjee bustled around the kitchen of the Bengal Spice, getting ready for the evening rush. Her movements were efficient, practiced, purposeful. But the expression on her face told you that her heart wasn't in it. Since young Ellie Sage had disappeared from under her roof she'd been unable to settle to anything. The police hadn't been much use, and if she was honest she didn't really think it was the police's problem.

She'd always wished for a daughter, and in the few months that Ellie had rented the top flat she'd come to think of her as the daughter she'd never had. For Ellie to have been taken from under her roof was too much to bear. She blinked back a tear as she prepared the spices for the curry pastes and absently arranged the ingredients on her board for the fourth time.

Samaar watched from the doorway, big arms folded and eyes full of sadness and concern. He'd never seen his mother like this - so defeated, just going through the motions. He stroked his beard thoughtfully and wondered what he could do. Which is when he heard the noise from the flat upstairs.

-oOo-

Ellie steadied herself against her kitchen counter and fought against the rising bile in her throat. She closed her eyes tight and shook her head to clear the purple and then dry retched again. She took a long, deep breath - breathing in the familiar smells of home. Spices. Minor damp. Four day old washing up. She turned her head towards her companion, who was standing in the kitchen doorway looking predictably fine and smug - although the red rimmed eyes betrayed his earlier distress. She frowned.

"Does that ever get any easier?"

Tristian smiled without mirth. "No. But you learn to hide it better."

Ellie shook her head ruefully. "Great."

"Look, not to sound sexist luv, but it's your kitchen and you know where things are. Can you put the kettle on? I need a brew."

Ellie smiled - broad and genuine, the light returning to her eyes for the first time since they'd arrived at the air station. "No problem - but I don't have any Earl Grey."

Tristian returned her smile, his pale face creasing into a grin that just about reached his eyes. He patted a waistcoat pocket. "Ah, but I do!" His smile broadened, "Never leave home witho-"

His voice stopped abruptly and he crumpled to the floor like an unstrung marionette. Ellie found herself looking into the confused, violent eyes of a very big, very angry Bengali man.

"Explain." His voice was tight, controlled, but the underlying fury was clear. "And after all the upset you've caused Ma, make sure it's good."

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