Chapter 5 - One Hell Of A Night
Now this is fun. Subtly, with body language and the occasional word, giving a barely noticeable grimace of fear whenever the name of Robert Griddle, ‘Big Bob’, is mentioned, you lead the young Anarchs to agree all of their own volition that, yes, the best thing to do would be to take you to Blackfriars. You even agree to have a bag placed over your head, then wait patiently while they try and find one. Eventually they agree that there isn’t actually anything suitable in the van.
So instead you bow your head and close your eyes, feeling the weight of the van shift as it turns, counting the streets, as they chatter on -
"...he'll make us barons for this, you'll see. Everyone knows he made Dissper honorary baron in the East End after the affair with that Lasombra."
"You're ignorant. Barons are a Camarilla invention. It's stuck-up cape bullshit. In the new society, there'll be no need for Barons."
"Is he a Baron?"
They all turn to stare at you.
"No," you say, politely. "No, I'm not."
*
The van doors open. Warily, as if they're afraid to touch you, the fledglings gesture to you to step out. Bespectacled Ellie is still holding her replica pistol out at arm's length.
You gaze around at the high, shambling apartment buildings. You always had a suspicion that the Anarchs had a base in Blackfriars - close to the dingy pubs and printing presses of Fleet Street - but it's good to have that fact confirmed. To the south, you can just make out the edge of the London Eye's great wheel, still turning, lit up in the darkness.
Ellie prods you in the back with the pistol.
"Welcome to the Temple, blueblood," she hisses.
*
Through a pass-code-activated door; up five uneven flights of stairs. At the top, a narrow, dilapidated threshold.
And you step into an attic space. Well-lit, fashionably decorated. A small kitchen space stands at the far end; the central floor is empty except for a long, roughly-hewn table, littered with dirty plates - at which sits a vampire. A female, grey-skinned, her white hair falling in clusters about her shoulders. Her long, untamed fingernails tap, nervously, constantly, at the surface of the table; and, you can't help but notice, her lips move to the rhythm of her hands. Whispering something.
Somewhat incongruously, she's wearing bright yellow pyjamas decorated with little dogs.
You lean forward, trying to catch what she's saying.
"...we'll never get to heaven, say the bells of St Clement's...they took away my child, say the bells of St Giles..."
The Brujah boy catches you by the shoulder, and gently pulls you backwards.
"Best to leave her alone," he says.
"Is she a Malk?" you ask. You can't seem to take your eyes of her quivering fingers.
He nods.
"We call her Victoria," he says, without emotion. "That's where we found her."
Slowly, as if hearing her name, Victoria raises her head. Her pupils are scarlet. She gazes at you, unblinking, her lips still moving as she continues to recite.
You shudder, very slightly, and turn away from her just in time to see Robert Griddle enter the room.
You know, of course, of the famous Anarch's condition. So you don't smile at the sight of the young boy, no older than twelve years old, bald-headed, dressed in a neat, open-necked suit, strolling into the room with the utter confidence of an older man. Which is just as well - because cold, adult eyes are gazing at you from behind that youthful face; and as he glances around, frowning, at the assembled Kindred, the light reflects off the flat, boiled, twisted mess of skin that comprises the entire left side of his visage.
"Evening, everyone," Griddle says, in his calm, melodious voice. His gaze comes to rest on you.
Ellie is the first to speak, stepping forward with a respectful nod of her head.
"Bob," she says, "we've captured a Cammie. One of their bigwigs, too. You recognise the Pat-"
"I know who he is," murmurs Griddle, waving a hand at her. He continues to stare at you. "Tell me, fledgling...why was he brought here? What, exactly, were you hoping to achieve?"
Ellie gapes.
"Well," she says, defensively. "He...I mean...even if we can't use him as a pawn, Bob - the Sabbat are after him. They've got a bounty on him. If we hand him over - well, you know. They could help us. The sky's the limit, Bob."
Griddle laughs. It's a light-hearted sort of laugh. A child's laugh. And for the first time, he glances across to her.
"So you thought it'd be a good idea to hand him over to the Sabbat, then?" he says. "Hm. Interesting thought there, lass."
You catch the flash of something metallic slipping out of his sleeve.
"The enemy of our enemy-" Ellie begins.
And Griddle's right hand moves fast, dragging her downwards by the wrist, even as the straight-bladed razor slashes upwards.
Ellie shrieks, and topples, clutching at her face. Blood flicks up, and out.
The Brujah boy takes a step forward, imposing himself between the girl and Griddle, who grins toothily up at him and snarls,
"For fuck's sake, Dennis - get out of my face before I tear yours off. Take your shithead friend downstairs to get bandaged up."
Dennis hesitates. And then nods, turning and lifting the sobbing Ellie bodily off the floor. The Toreador girl stoops, and gingerly picks up something fleshy off the floor in her handkerchief. All three of them retreat down the stairs.
Griddle calls after them, wiping his razor absent-mindedly on his trouser,
"It won't just be an ear next time, girl!"
He waits until the door slams, far below, and then turns and strolls calmly back across the floor towards the kitchen space.
"Sorry about that, blueblood," he mutters, pocketing the razor. "Fancy a drink? I've got a couple of kine downstairs I like to feed on. A squat. They're so wasted they don't even notice; it's like plucking fucking flowers."
"That would be kind," you tell him. He opens up the nearest cupboard - stretching, with a little difficulty - and begins to fastidiously pour out two glasses from a plastic decanter on the side.
"The problem is," he says, abruptly, sliding a glass over the counter towards you, "the problem is, my neonates watch the television. They remember what it was like to be living. And they remember how, when kine want change, they go out into the street, they step out into the squares and the plazas - and they make their feelings known. But our kind, see...we can't speak out. We can't shout in the street. So we lurk in bars and dingy churches and these dumb kids start to say, hey, at least the Sabbat are free. Maybe they can be reasoned with."
"A sentiment you don't share," you answer, sipping gingerly at your blood. It's actually not bad.
Griddle pats the tortured side of his face.
"I remember what they're capable of," he says. "Not that I don't hate you pricks either, but...ah, fuck it."
He downs his glass. And halts, as if struck by a thought.
"You could have ripped those three fools apart," he says. "Why didn't you?"
You shrug.
"I saw a chance to speak with you," you tell him, "and I took it. A clever Kindred always likes to get the chance to meet new people. Call it networking."
He laughs at that.
"You know," he says, waggling a stubby finger at you, "you know, you're right. Maybe this was good fortune. I've heard plenty about you, Patrician. They say you have the best kine contacts in London. They say you're the real man in Whitehall. And yet...well, and yet you're still not a Baron, are you? The title and the prestige still goes to the fat, incompetent arsehole who happened to get bitten by the cape from the right generation." He pauses, for a second, before adding, "I mean, you're a nasty bastard, sure. But you're good at what you do."
"In a world like ours," you tell him, "I think you'll find nasty bastards are very much in demand."
Griddle leans forward across the counter. His expression takes on a curious sort of intensity.
"But you'll never be baron under the Camarilla," he say. "Kirkbeck's a worthless old fool; he only stays because the barons find it useful to maintain the status quo. And all of the barons stay in place - even the idiots like your du Marchais - because even they have support from their friends, who, in turn, rely on their support when it's needed. And if you try to declare yourself independent, all of them - du Marchais, Ferk, Eames, Rannigan, Turcov - would unite to tear you down. Nothing changes, Patrician. And nothing ever will change, unless the whole apple-cart's upset at once."
"You're talking about war?" you say, managing successfully to make it sound like a question. You don't respond to the mention of Rannigan.
He puts his glass down, very carefully, on the side.
"I'm talking hypothetically," he replies, after a second. "That's how we Anarchs are. Always talking in ideals and dreams and fantasies. Little wonder nobody takes us seriously. All I'm saying, blueblood, is that if it ever came down to it - if it ever came down to making a choice, taking sides...well, I hope you'd do the right thing."
You hold his gaze.
"I'll get a car to take you home," he says, eventually. "Don't worry, you won't be exposed to those three shitheads again. I sired the boy - can you believe it? Waste of fucking space, if you ask me. Once again - very sorry."
He steps forward, and extends his little hand for you to shake. His grasp is firm.
"You know where to find me now," he tells you. "Oh...and should you see Kirkbeck again in the near future, you tell him from us - that thug of his who washed up dead by the Thames Barrier? We won't be blamed for that, and he'd better not fucking try. I don't know what he's up to - but we've done nothing wrong. And we won't be fucking blamed. You tell him that from us, Patrician. We won't be his scapegoat any longer."
As you turn to leave, you pass once again the long table where Victoria sits. Her hand snatches out, grabbing you by the wrist, and, leaning across towards you, her red eyes fixed on the floor, she hisses,
"Here comes a candle, to light you to bed;
Here comes a chopper, to chop off your head.
Chip chop. Chip chop. The last man's dead.
It's got into the churches. The water runs deep.
It's already here."
*
You text Oscar in the car, letting him know where you've been. His response comes just as you're unlocking your front door.
Footage of ur man in Vxhll. You may wnt 2 c ths 4 urslf.
Pocketing the phone, you push the door open. Almost instantly, you're greeted by the sight of Edgar Fellowes, lounging across the easy chair in your front room, his long hair tied back in an elegant ponytail. His favourite two long-barreled revolvers sit on the table, next to an old-fashioned tape recorder.
"Evening, Patrician," he says.
"Evening, Fellowes," you respond, tossing down your keys. "Do I want to ask how you let yourself in?"
He smirks.
"Upstairs bathroom window," he says. "Don't worry, don't worry, I didn't damage the frame - and it was bloody cold outside. It seemed prudent to wait for you in comfort."
You slump wearily down onto the sofa.
"Your girl Wilkinson," Fellowes tells you, "has turned out very nicely. Very nicely, indeed. That was wily of you, Patrician, promoting her. Because last night - twenty minutes after I told her she'd be working much closer to you from now on - she headed out towards the Abbey, ducking past Greycoats Hospital, cutting through the Victoria crowds in order to lose any tails - after which, outside the Muddy Duck tavern, I observed her using a public phone-box."
He chuckles to himself.
"Not too shabby," he adds. "I half-expected her to be dim enough to use her mobile. Anyway, it was a bloody quick call, but Oscar was on the case, so we got most of it. Have a listen."
He presses a manicured finger down on the 'Play' button.
Wilkinson's voice, you recognise immediately. A North Yorkshire twang, over-energetic, eager-to-please;
"...didn't suspect a thing. I've got there, Bishop. I'm practically in the inner circle now!"
The second voice, when it comes, is slow, a little shrill, each syllable drawn out as far as it will go, as if the speaker is taking a strange sort of pleasure in torturing the English language. The voice of Bishop Dubrik. The vampire who tried to kill you.
"Understood. We will contact you with further instructions soon."
The phoneline goes dead. And, after a moment, you hear Oscar's distinctive Irish growl,
"Number was 0151752633. Ya got that, Eddie? And you can tell old Blueblood he'd better buy me a feckin' enormous new server for getting him this."
Fellowes turns off the recording.
"Tell me," he says, proudly, "how does it feel to have the number of the Sabbat's spymaster in Liverpool, Patrician? Bloody good, I'll wager. Er...Patrician?"
You let yourself sink back into the folds of the sofa, closing your eyes.
"Sorry, Fellowes," you murmur, dream-like. "But it's been one hell of a night."
*
CONTACT LIST UPDATED!
Tomorrow night lies ahead. How will you take action? (Pick any two choices; the order you give them is the order you'll do them in. Obviously this means that if your first choice has any instant repercussions that disrupt your plans, you may not be able to put the second action into play.)
A) Visit the Sheriff.
B) Visit du Marchais.
C) Watch Oscar's footage of Rannigan's kidnapping, either by visiting him or, if you prefer, by making him send it to you.
D) Contact Bishop Dubrik.
E) Find out Dubrik's location, and order an attack on him.
F) Visit the secret in the sewers.
G) Pick up some weaponry.
H) Ask Fellowes to help you...brush up on your combative talents.
I) Visit the Home Secretary.
status. These ruffians already laid their filthy hands on our finery, must it get even more damaged?
