A Mage's Gambit: New York Falling (A Malachi English book) Read online

  For Cathy, Abi and Jonah, without whom it would all be pointless

  Contents

  Prologue

  5th January 1990

  Chapter one

  5 April, 2016

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  So What Happens Next?

  Author’s Notes

  Prologue

  5th January 1990

  ‘Will that be all, Sir?’

  Edwin Monk kept his head down and narrowed his eyes, giving every impression of intense concentration on the fax before him. He had absolutely no interest in it – merely another commission report from some worthless toad on the fifth floor whom Edwin would fire first thing in the morning, just because he could. No, the illusion of focus was simply to see how long the stupid cow would wait before daring to repeat herself. The record up to now was five minutes fourteen seconds, timed precisely on his black Rolex Submariner, lying flat on the desk by his right hand.

  ‘Sir?’ the bitch whispered. What was that, twenty-two seconds? He glanced up and the sheer hatred in his eyes made her stumble back two steps.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir, I – I was just wondering if that was all for now. Everyone else has gone. And I wouldn’t normally ask but I have a meal with Bobby tonight – it’s our twenty-fifth anniversary and he rang to say he had a table booked with the girls -’

  ‘No.’ It was all he could do to stop himself leaping across the desk and jamming his fountain pen into her pointless eyes.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No. It’s not alright for you to leave. It is not all for now. It is never all for now. There is always – always – work to be done. I expect to be here until around midnight. You will be permitted to leave at approximately nine fifteen. Is that clear? Is there anything I have not explained to your satisfaction?’

  She stood there, mouth hanging open like a fish. To his immense satisfaction a solitary tear crept down her left cheek. All day she lived in fear of him, only ever creeping off to the bathroom when he was taking a call, desperately hoping to be back by the time he yelled for her again. And here she was, having to screw up all the courage she could muster to ask permission to leave the office, two hours after she stopped getting paid for the work. It never even, he was sure, occurred to her anymore that she could leave and find work somewhere else.

  Was that not power? Was that not…succulent?

  He leant back against the black leather of his chair and levelled a stare at her. As she turned to leave he relaxed and his thin lips twisted into a semblance of a smile.

  ‘Mrs Lovejoy.’ She turned back. ‘Forgive me. I was playing a…prank. Childish, really. There is no excuse. Of course you may leave for your dinner with Bobby. I would be horrified if you were late on my account for such an important occasion.’

  The poor fool started sobbing and thanking him, snot bubbling from her nose and spitting down onto her blouse. Still, not long now.

  ‘One thing, mind you, Mrs Lovejoy, if you would be so kind?’ Her eyes opened and for a moment he thought she would start panting like an eager spaniel. ‘James is dropping the boys up in a minute. They keep asking to see Daddy’s office. At least, that’s what I imagine they’re trying to say. In any case, perhaps you could collect them and bring them through. They should be here very shortly. If it’s not too much trouble?’

  ‘No Sir, of course. It will be a pleasure. They’re such darling boys, so like their father. And their mother of course, with that beautiful blonde hair..’ The inanities continued long after she disappeared from the outer office and went round to the floor’s reception area.

  He stood quickly, working with swift, efficient movements. Across the plush beige carpet, into the lesser, but still luxurious, surroundings of the secretary’s area. Her handbag, smart but plain and so very, very cheap, was, as always, tucked inside the footwell of her desk. In a moment he had it open and retrieved a small dark-brown medicinal tablet bottle, replacing it with an identical one pulled from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Seconds later he was back behind his own desk, waiting patiently.

  A full minute and thirty four seconds later – why, he needn’t have rushed at all – the happy gurgling from the corridor announced the arrival of the fruit of his loins. Lewis (he thought), swinging on Lovejoy’s hip as she walked back in, and James (by deduction), stumbling beside her, half-walking, half-swinging on her hand.

  Twenty months now. He’d almost grown fond of them. He’d agreed to the pregnancy out of necessity, and the additional boy was entirely unexpected on his part, though he remembered Marie mentioning something about it around the six-month mark. Or was he imagining that? It was so hard to focus on her witterings. In any case, a spare was always useful, he supposed, although what he was meant to do with it in the long run was a bit of a mystery. Perhaps he’d in time shed both Marie and the spare. Yes, that would be the best way forward. Anything else would smack of a lack of dedication. And it was all so close.

  Oh, Lovejoy was speaking again. ‘…need to get going now Sir, if that’s alright. Shall I leave them here? Don’t touch Daddy’s work now, will you, you little lovelies…’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he smiled, waving her out of the door. ‘Oh, one minute!’ She looked back, anxiety pushing its way back onto her face. ‘Your tablets. You usually take them around now, do you not?’

  ‘Oh, never mind them, I can take them with some water in the cab -’

  ‘Mrs Lovejoy,’ he said sternly. ‘I will not hear of it. Please take them now, and I can rest easily knowing that I have delivered you to your Bobby in tip-top condition.’ She hesitated. ‘Mrs Lovejoy. I insist.’

  She nodded her agreement. Of course she did. What else was she going to do? Defy him? While she fussed around with her bag he stood and walked to the window, sliding it open and breathing in the fume-filled noxious air of the early evening. The drones moving around on the streets below, existing only to service their masters in the brightly lit towers looking down on their frantic little lives. And here he was, sixty-one floors up and five to go. How quickly the years seemed to have passed. How many faces he must have known in his ascent. How few he remembered. How very few mattered. Lost in his memories he was only faintly aware of the dim thud as the secretary’s body hit the floor behind him.

  Turning to ensure all was in place – it was, of course it was – Edwin opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a sleek Motorola MicroTAC cell phone. Such a fine piece of technology. He really should use it more often, but he rarely wanted to talk to anybody else. Perhaps he could pretend –hold it to his ear, walk around the office a bit. So people could see.

  He felt rather than heard the call arrive. It often happened that way, what with the technology mixing with
…something else. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he said. The voice on the other end slithered and crawled, ticking and clacking, yet somehow it was all so perfectly clear. ‘Now, Sir. Yes, I understand. I am your obedient servant. Your will be done.’

  He placed the phone carefully on his desk and returned to the window. From his trousers pocket he took a small silver snuff box. Sliding the top open he tapped out a neat line of red powder onto the outer edge of the frame. A wind leapt up, grabbing the powder and claiming it particle by swirling particle, only to find it resisting, defying, creating patterns of its own accord. He would need to be quick.

  The boys stood together over the body of Lovejoy, confused. Perhaps, in their own little primitive way, concerned or worried. Fortunately, neither of them had touched the frothed saliva at the corner of her mouth or the thin line of blood that ran across her lips, dripping slowly onto the carpet. Even at such a momentous occasion Edwin couldn’t help making a mental note that the carpet would have to be replaced.

  The boys looked up at him. So similar. Which was which? And did it matter, really, in the end? The boy to the left had perhaps the keener look in his eye. Or maybe Edwin’s perception was twisted that way by the drool on the chin of the boy to the right. They’d both been prepared, both consecrated, but a choice had to be made. Only the finest would do. He picked up the left boy tenderly, provoking a delighted grin that moved him, as a father, not one iota.

  At the window he steadied himself, emptied himself, became a fit vessel. Slowly at first but with increasing speed he felt the forces gather, intrude, invade, violate his mind and being. Words came to him. Utterances unheard on this plane for centuries. His throat convulsed and bled as he screamed them into the night. Again and again, endless in their invocations, merciless in their hatred and defiance.

  At last all was silent.

  His tongue bled.

  His arms were empty.

  A minute or so later the first siren called up to him from the streets below. The first blinking blue lights pulled up at the base of the tower. Spent, he staggered away from the window, past the body, picked up the remaining boy with what little strength remained to him. Then out into the corridor, gathering his wits for the next act.

  As the elevator reached the fortieth floor he forced tears out of his eyes. At fifty-seven he blubbered and wept. The first anguished scream left his lips a full thirty seconds before the doors opened and the officers rushed out. He surrendered to the exhaustion, gratefully feeling himself fall.

  Chapter one

  5 April, 2016

  I started getting edgy as I crossed the polished marble floor in the lobby. It wasn’t the security guards. I’d long ago got used to feeling like anyone in uniform was taking an unhealthy interest in me. That was just paranoia, though. This was different. Something else. I always know when I’m being followed, and this was one of those times. A casual glance over my shoulder while I pretended to fish for my wallet didn’t reveal anything, but that only meant that someone, or, more likely, something, was being careful. Or that I’d glanced the wrong way. Or that I really was paranoid. I cursed (mildly, mind you) under my breath and carried on walking. It was my day off, my sightseeing day, the first of the year, and I didn’t need this.

  The Empire State Building is one of the rare unsullied joys of my life, and I try to get there four times a year if possible, to catch the seasons. There was a routine that I followed, carefully constructed over many visits, designed to drink everything in and drain every last drop from the experience: the art deco lobby with the gleaming metal relief of the tower between the gently billowing flags; the endless corridors; the queues for the lifts; overhearing the excited buzz of the first-timers. Hell, even the Skyride film with Kevin Bacon. Great, wonderful, innocent fun. In other words: the opposite of life as I know it.

  Little known fact: it is also, even if the unwashed masses don’t realize it, actual sacred ground. The rumor mill has it that deep below the foundations you’ll find, if you go far enough, the tomb of an angel. That could be true, or it could be complete crap. The reality probably lies somewhere in-between. Anyway, the place has a certain vibe, an essence that stops bad things happening. That level of protection normally calmed me down, but now my day was all going wrong, and that put me in a black mood. Almost as bad as I’d been last year when that tosser tried to pick my pocket, up on the observatory. And I’d only been in the building five minutes so far.

  I normally liked to spend around ten minutes in the lobby, savouring the spotless extravagance, but today I nudged past a group of Japanese men in loud shirts and headed straight for the ticket queues. It would mean I was standing still and easy to spot, but then my follower would theoretically be in the same position. Once I knew who it was, I could maybe smooth things over. End this before it started. Maybe it was one of Drozky’s guys, someone new who didn’t know the form, the rules. Better cut them a break. They’d make it hard to spot them, play it cool, blend into the background, but I was better. Paranoia makes me strong.

  ‘Malachi English? Is there a Mister Malachi English here please?’ The security guard was peering round the corner, scanning the queue. ‘Malachi English?’

  I avoided eye contact and stared at the ticket booth. Who was stupid enough to make a move like that? The answer was, of course, blindingly obvious, and I cursed for the second time that morning, taking me way above my weekly average. I was trying, and failing, to cut down.

  The guard moved off, and I considered whether or not to carry on. The decision was made for me by the big Irish tourist behind me in the queue, who launched a stiff elbow into my ribs and nodded towards the ticket desk. It must have been a quiet day – some visits it took me nearly an hour to get this far. I threw a note across to the young girl who served me. She didn’t smile or even make eye contact, which was really bad customer service, but the way the day was turning out I wasn’t surprised. I grabbed my change without checking it, pocketed the ticket and headed for the elevators. Maybe I’d get lucky and be left alone. Yeah, right.

  Twenty minutes later, after an unpleasant experience stuck in an elevator beside a corpulent Texan with the worst BO I’d ever smelt, I stood on the observation deck. A strong southerly wind stung my eyes as I looked out at the Statue of Liberty. Today was, I concluded after a bit of thought, pretty much my tenth anniversary, give or take a few days. Ten years living in Manhattan, four visits a year, deduct the lost years, so twenty eight times I’d stood here staring out. And it was as fresh to me now as it had been that first time. No matter how grubby it got in the streets below and no matter how sullied and soiled I felt by the work, up here on a good day I felt whole again. Maybe there was an angel down below after all. The black mood started to dissipate. Being above everything, looking out at the ocean, hearing the excited chatter around me, I felt new. Clean. Even as I moved around the deck and looked to the east and then the north, I could appreciate the orderliness, the neatness of the tightly packed urban sprawl. It all had a shape. It was all going somewhere. So many people, leading their lives by the clock, never knowing that they stood teetering above the abyss.

  ‘You’re a tough guy to find.’ A small arm circled through mine and a light kiss planted itself on my cheek. Minty breath.

  ‘Melanie,’ I muttered. Only her. And despite everything, I had to fight to stop myself grinning like an idiot.

  ‘Who else? I looked for you over at Benny’s but none of the guys there had seen you around for a few days. You didn’t have any jobs on, from what I know – and I know, you know? – so I thought: early April, clear day, he’s probably gone all touristy. And I was right. Yay me!’

  I turned to look at her. She must have been in heels, because I could stare evenly across into her bright, green eyes. She’d pulled her blonde hair back tightly under a headscarf, which, if she was doing it, must be the in thing this season, somewhere. A knee-length cream coat was pulled in at the waist and gaped open slightly at the top, revealing a red top with a laced hem that d
ropped low enough to hint at cleavage without actually showing any. A perfectly dressed, modest, demure tease.

  ‘You got a security guard running round shouting my name,’ I said flatly, looking away.

  ‘Relax, nobody knows you here – not by name, not in any other way. Even if they did, what could they do? You know what this place is, as well as I do.’ She must have caught the look of surprise cross my face before I could stamp it out. ‘Don’t be like that. I work things out eventually, even if I’m not as sharp as you and your little gang like to think you are.’

  I ignored the jab. ‘So what are you after?’

  ‘Something’s come up. I need you.’

  ‘You’ve never needed me.’

  She kicked my ankle. ‘You know what I mean. I don’t know why I bothered with the guard anyway. All I had to do was look out for a grumpy guy in a filthy trench coat.’

  ‘It’s not filthy.’

  ‘It is. I can still see that stain on the right sleeve. And it’s old. You told me you’d get rid of it.’

  ‘I changed my mind when your opinion stopped mattering. Come on then, get it over with. What do you want?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not here.’

  I glanced at her. ‘You said it yourself – here’s pretty safe.’

  ‘Pretty safe won’t do it. Not this time. Come on, let’s go somewhere.’

  ‘Wow. You mean, like a date?’ I tried to sound cool and sarcastic, but didn’t quite pull it off.

  ‘Stop it. You pick the place, I’ll shout you the coffee. And we’ll use this.’ She opened her hand to reveal a twisted piece of metal, laced with black hair and red silk. A Silvian knot – a kind of psychic shield – a quick twist and it’d buy you about fifteen minutes of complete privacy. Most were a waste of money, sold on by hucksters and bought by the desperate. But not this one. I recognized the work.

  ‘One of Becky’s.’

  She nodded. ‘Cost me enough. That woman’s going to price herself out of the market soon. Still, it’ll get the job done.’