‘He’s late in his twenties,’ the girl said, ‘probably eleven and a half stone, maybe twelve. Spent a lot of time abroad, his skin shows too much tan for the weather here these last months.’
‘Sunbed?’ asked the voice.
‘Not the type,’ she replied. ‘He is alone and has been for long time, I think. He wears his clothes and hair like they are habits. He deals with them because he has to, not because he wants to be handsome.’
‘He sounds charming.’
‘And he’s stood right here,’ Toby reminded them both.
‘Oh, let him in,’ said Shining. ‘If he wants to kill me you can soon come to my rescue.’
‘Is damn right,’ she said, stepping back to let Toby pass. ‘I break his neck if he hurt my August.’
There was the sound of a door opening from above and Toby climbed around a corner in the stairway to come face to face with August Shining.
The man looked even older than his voice had suggested, with thin hair combed perfectly over a liver-spotted scalp. A white beard helped to hide some of the wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp – watching Toby from behind thin, designer wire-framed glasses. Wearing a fawn three-piece suit with a thick, dark-green checked shirt, Shining looked something between an old-fashioned country gentlemen and a fold-out fashion spread from GQ.
‘I don’t think he’s here to kill me, Tamar,’ Shining commented. ‘You can try to get some more sleep.’
‘I will keep the ears open,’ the girl replied, ‘and if he turns out bad you can shout.’
‘I certainly will.’
Shining stepped back and gestured for Toby to make his way through the door ajar behind him.
The office for Section 37 was a nest of filing cabinets and comfortable soft furnishings. Bookshelves lined one wall, framed black and white photographs another. A pair of leather sofas formed an avenue for the window to pour in North London light; it spilled out onto a carpet that was manila-envelope brown.
‘Sit down,’ said Shining, pointing to one of the sofas, ‘I’ll just get some coffee on the go.’
He stepped out of the room and there came the distant sound of running taps and coffee filters being banged against the plastic of a swing bin.
Toby walked over to look at the book shelf. It was a combination of geographical texts, political manuals, occult books and trashy horror novels. He pulled out a book and looked briefly at the blood-stained woman on the cover. Apparently it was a ‘thrill-storm of gore’ and ‘a meaty must-read’. He returned the book and moved on to the photographs. They were of locations all over the world, from obvious tourist spots like the Eiffel Tower or the Sphinx to other, more obscure locations: a West German alleyway; a rain-soaked street in Portugal; an icy bandstand freezing its wooden bones in an indeterminate landscape. Obviously they must mean something to Shining, but Toby couldn’t guess what. Places he’d worked possibly. If he’d been a member of the Service for as long as his age allowed, he must have seen his fair share of the world.
‘Do you take milk or sugar?’ came a voice from the kitchen.
‘No, thank you,’ Toby replied, having taken to drinking his coffee black as he kept running out of milk.
‘Then you’re easy to please,’ said Shining, coming back into the room with a pair of coffee cups, one of which he handed to his visitor.
Toby took it and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling stranded – in foreign territory.
‘My wailing wall,’ said Shining, nodding to the photographs before sitting down on one of the sofas and looking out of the window.
Toby found the conviviality disturbing. First he had been made a drink; now he was standing while his superior relaxed by the window.
‘It’s a good spot,’ said Shining, nodding at the view outside, ‘though I have no doubt my paymasters would begrudge my saying so.’ He looked to Toby and smiled. ‘The only reason people get sent here is when they’ve made someone stupid but important hate them.’ He gestured once again to the opposite sofa. Toby sat. ‘Was that how it was for you?’
Toby thought for a moment. Unsure whether to tell the truth or not. Eventually he decided it could hardly matter. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I let someone get away from me on a mission.’
‘We’ve all done that. Why was this a particular problem?’
‘I was cocky. I let him get away because I didn’t pay attention. I underestimated him.’
‘And he surprised you?’
‘Yes. He hit me over the head and ran.’
‘Hit you with what?’
‘Does it matter? A bust of Beethoven.’
‘It matters. It would hardly be funny were it a crowbar instead of a porcelain ornament of a dead composer.’
‘I don’t find it particularly funny anyway.’
‘No, but I bet your colleagues did.’
Toby shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘What do they call you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘After it happened, they must have given you a nickname – what was it?’
Toby didn’t really see it was any of Shining’s business. He had hoped to leave the name behind with the transfer. ‘They called me Ludwig.’
‘Really? I would have guessed at Rollover.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m old enough to know who Chuck Berry was. Doesn’t matter.’ He took a sip of his coffee and fixed Toby with a penetrating stare. ‘Are you washed-up?’ he asked. ‘Do you deserve to be hidden away out here?’
Toby didn’t feel annoyed by the question, something that would surprise him when he thought back on it. ‘Depends where “here” is,’ he replied, ‘and what I’m expected to do.’
‘A sensible, if evasive answer. Section 37 is an anomaly within the Service. A borderless agency that nobody can quite decide who runs. Are we part of the SIS or the Security Service? Neither, even if pressed, will admit to us. The ugly date brought home after a drunken night out. For all that, you’re expected to fight and, if necessary, die protecting your country. Does that sound unreasonable?’
‘Yes, but I’d probably do it if I had to.’
Shining smiled. ‘Good lad! Maybe we’ll be able to show them there’s life in Ludwig yet, eh?’
‘Do you have to call me that?’
‘No,’ Shining smiled, ‘but I probably will anyway. Never run away from the labels they give you. Wear them with pride and rob them of their sting.’
‘You’d need that philosophy,’ said Toby without thinking, ‘being called August Shining.’
Instead of being angered his new Section Chief laughed and nodded. ‘It’s not as florid as it sounds. I was born in August, and my parents were too busy to think of something better.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ Toby admitted, then immediately changed the subject for fear of getting onto the subject of his father. ‘So what exactly is it we do here?’
‘They didn’t tell you?’ Shining finished his coffee. ‘No. I imagine they wouldn’t. We’re the smallest department in the Secret Service, and exist purely by force of determination and my pig-headedness. We are charged with protecting the country or its interests from preternatural terrorism.’
Toby had to think about that. The words simply hadn’t made sense so he assumed he had heard them incorrectly. He repeated them out loud. ‘Preternatural terrorism?’
‘Absolutely. You’ve got a lot to learn.’
The sound in Toby’s head returned, that white noise of confusion that had assailed him when he was out on the street. It was the sound of a mind folding under the weight of things it simply didn’t want to process.
‘Do you believe in the paranormal?’ Shining asked. Toby simply stared at him, desperately wishing he had misunderstood the question, the word, the concept.