With a jolt, Sefton realized that it was true. It was why he’d felt no threat from this place. To be told he’d lost one of his senses made him feel — instead of the relief he’d been anticipating — suddenly vulnerable.
‘The definition of the Sight is being able to sense something that has a connection to, that takes power from, one of these other worlds I spoke of — like this one — while you’re in your own world. That’s meaningless here because we’re actually in one of those other worlds.’
‘So this is, like, another dimension?’
Brutus put a finger to Sefton’s lips. ‘You only get one question, so don’t waste it on physics.’
Sefton closed his mouth.
‘You were very brave to come here without understanding where you were going. You’ve obviously realized that the quest isn’t a matter of tramping over hill and dale, but that it’s within you. Your world — I mean the planet — is getting smaller and smaller with so many people living on it, slower and slower as everything runs out, also hotter and hotter, and that’s your own fault. You may have to start to find new adventures to aspire to, to find new shapes for stories. To overcome the inertia of history will be tremendously difficult for you. And there are those who are meanwhile taking advantage of this time of transformation and opportunity and horror — who are trying to turn the wheel in their own direction.’ He put a hand to Sefton’s face again, turning his head left and right, as if examining a horse. Sefton let him do so. ‘You know what Hell is?’
‘I don’t believe in it.’
‘Good. It is time that defines whether something is real or not. Time is what makes what people experience a tragedy or a love story or a triumph. Hell is where time has stopped, where there’s no more innovation. No horizon. No change. I sometimes think Hell would suit the British down to the ground, and that, given the chance, they’d vote for it. You’d better make sure they never get the chance, eh?’
Sefton took the hand from his face. It felt cool to the touch. He took care not to frame what he wanted to say now as a question. ‘I wish you’d just tell me who you are. So far, you keep contradicting yourself. You’re pleased I don’t believe in Hell, but then you tell me all about it. You’re playing with words. .’
‘I am a word.’ Brutus leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips again. This time Sefton let him. The kiss continued, long and hard, and Sefton started to wonder if this was going to be a significant part of whatever this out-of-body experience was. But, as he started to connect emotionally with the man he was kissing, to think about what Joe might have to say about this, to let his guard down, he thought he glimpsed something in his mind’s eye: the answer to who this was!
He stepped back, staring and panting. But he couldn’t afford to ask the question.
The man’s voice turned gentle, supremely careful. ‘As the song goes, I am what I am. At the moment, just for where we are now, I’m that Roman chap who killed his friend for the sake of the law, to save the people and to let their will prevail. I have all those memories, of a complete life spent in Rome, including its end. But, clearly, that particular Brutus didn’t talk as I do, and he had all sorts of dimensions to him that I don’t represent. Because I’m also something else that has continued further, and that goes back further. I also remember being that other Brutus, the Trojan, making that first footprint on that muddy British shore, with my expedition of Romans behind me, all following me, their noble foreign captain, as we arrived in a new land for the first time. And, in yet another direction, I also remember my father, King Efrawg of the Britons, who raised me in Britain, in the British tradition, to carry a green shield. Do you see what I’m being here, what I’ve decided to be, in order to meet you safely? I’m the son of the British, and the father of them, and also someone entirely separate from them.’
‘Are you saying that you’re. .?’ Sefton stopped himself. That had nearly been a question, and he didn’t want that to be his permitted question, because he didn’t want to hear the answer. This was crashing against things he knew to be good. ‘I won’t. . I won’t believe in some sort of higher power, you know. . ever.’
Brutus drew closer again. He smelt clean. Sefton could see the smallest pores in his face, the hard line of his jaw, the depths in his eyes. He so wanted to feel that connection again, to feel that love. But he was angry at it, too. He didn’t know how you could avoid being angry with something so much bigger than you were. Not a lot of difference between this thing and Losley, not at his present size.
‘Kevin,’ said Brutus, ‘I wouldn’t expect anything more or less of you. This information you’re taking in while you’re here, it’s rough stuff. It’s being pulled screaming out of nature only because of what you’ve undergone to get here. I’m just something that intervenes sometimes to make it all a bit easier. For you, I’m a slippery stepping stone in a very choppy river, not a bridge you have to cross.’ He gestured around him. ‘Things are complicated. Not everything is known. . and not everything will pass through this conduit. Although I’ve tried to make this communication as easy as I can, by giving you a place in which to have it, a person to have it with, some of it was always going to be garbled, incoherent, contradictory. Now, come on, you’re ready. So ask your question.’
Sefton wondered if he should ask something about the nature of the smiling man or, more practically, about Losley’s location. But, no, he hadn’t come here with any grand desire for illumination, and finding her was the only objective on the Ops Board they might be able to accomplish on their own. He’d come here with a specific purpose. He’d come here to save Quill’s child. ‘How,’ he asked, ‘do we defeat Mora Losley?’
Brutus inclined his head in approval. ‘You remember the bookshop? What you felt there?’
‘What about it?’
‘That’s another question.’
‘Tell me! Just bloody tell me!’
Brutus wandered away, shaking his head and laughing. But it was good laughter. He was laughing at Sefton’s courage, the policeman realized. ‘If you want to find me again, you’ll have to find another way. It must get harder every time, because otherwise, what would be the point of wisdom? You’re now an initiate. You have an instinctive understanding of these things. Now you must work.’
‘But I don’t know if I’ve understood. . almost anything here.’
‘You were brave,’ said Brutus. ‘That’s always a good beginning.’
Sefton woke up with a start. He jumped to his feet and looked around. He was at the bus stop, he’d never left the bus stop, he’d leaned back against the wall of the shelter and fallen asleep!
No, he was actually somewhere different. He was leaning against the metal edge of a bus stop, but. . it was a completely different one. The sounds and smells of London flooded back. People were walking past, all around him, glancing at him, wondering what was up with him. He took a few faltering steps and saw that he was just along from Cannon Street tube station, near a mobile phone shop and a business that called itself ‘London Stone’.
Well, maybe that was someone’s way of saying that what he’d just experienced had been real. But he felt disappointed, unfulfilled. He didn’t know if he’d discovered anything that could help Quill. He felt the Sight back inside his head, but there was a difference now. Just a slight one. He felt more confident about it, as if he’d calibrated something inside his head by. . switching it off and turning it back on again.