Pax Britannia: Human Nature Read online

  PAX BRITANNIA

  HUMAN NATURE

  Squinting, he began to see shapes forming amidst the shadows.

  There on a walkway ten feet above his head, he saw, quite clearly, a lithe black and yellow shape run along a rope stretched taught across the void, seeming to defy gravity with its inverted aerial run. It wasn't Sidney's missing companion, but another simian altogether.

  And then there were more. As if he now knew what he was looking for, Ulysses could hardly miss them. There were rhesus monkeys dangling from ropes and walkways, gnawing nuts and bits of fruit; spider monkeys by the dozen, family groups gathered on shelf-like perches attached to the walls; mandrills scaling vertically suspended ropes. He even thought he could make out the squatting shape and orange fur of an orang-utan on one of the higher levels, half-hidden behind a balcony.

  "Don't bother answering that," Ulysses said coldly, his hind-brain hot with alarm, his grip on the gun in his hand tightening to knuckle white. "Where's the Magpie?"

  Preternatural awareness flashed through his brain like a migraine.

  "Right here!" came a cackle from the rafters above them. "As is you, Mr Quicksilver, as is you. Right where I wants ya!"

  An Abaddon Books™ Publication

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  First published in 2008 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

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  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

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  Pax Britannia™ created by Jonathan Green

  Copyright © 2008 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  Pax Britannia™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-001-3

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-023-5

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  PAX BRITANNIA

  HUMAN NATURE

  Jonathan Green

  For Michelle - Congratulations!

  Prologue

  Catch of the Day

  The Reverend Nathaniel Creed gazed out across the oily black waves towards the impossible place where sky met sea, and considered what it meant to be a man.

  In the unreal twilight that came just before dawn the North Sea appeared as an oily surge - an ocean of bleak blackness that mirrored the darkness slowly gnawing away at his heart.

  To be a man was to be a thing divine, was it not?

  The night was darkest just before dawn, or so they said. But what about the darkness that was slowly but surely eating away at his soul, that had consumed him from the inside out like the worm in the apple, like a rotten canker, for the last seventeen years? He felt himself tense, every fibre of his body tightening in impotent rage.

  His soul had never been more steeped in darkness and malice. Did that mean that redemption was waiting just around the corner? Was it darkest just before the light of revelation showed itself too? Was he on the verge of his own epiphany?

  The scales had fallen from Paul's eyes three days after he had been struck down on the road to Damascus. Nathaniel Creed had been struck down seventeen years ago. When would be his moment of enlightenment? When would his revelation come? How long did he have to serve like this before the Lord absolved him of his sins? How long?

  "How long?" he demanded of the sky. "How long?"

  His scream of frustration was snatched away by the wind sweeping over the hilltops and out to sea, and then it was gone, his desperate plea swallowed up by the turgid polluted clouds, his anger made impotent by the hugeness of the vista before him.

  The Reverend Creed's fists bunched in anger, knuckles whitening, nails digging painfully into the palms of his hands. The pain startled him, distracting him from his fury. He blinked, as if on waking from sleep, and looked down at his hands. He could feel that his palms were wet and in the near darkness his fingernails appeared glossily black. Without a moment's thought he wiped his hands on the material of his cassock, the coarse black cloth rough against his lacerated palms.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

  What was it to be a man? he wondered. To be a man was to be a creature bound by emotions, at the mercy of one's appetites, to love, to hate, to feel. But he was a priest; he was supposed to be above such transitory, ephemeral concerns. And yet didn't the Bible demand that he love his Lord and Saviour - Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength - hate the Enemy and feel with all the passion of Christ on the cross?

  And did not the Bible teach that all men are sinners? Wasn't it Man's fallible nature that had forced God to take human form that he might die for the sins of all? So, then, to be a man was to be a sinner.

  Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of sinners.

  Well, he was certainly one of those.

  He had sinned - O how he had sinned - and he had been repaid ten times over for it.

  Eyes narrowed, he fixed the brooding firmament with a gaze as cold and hard as stone, as if he was trying to discern heaven there beyond the clouds.

  "My Lord, why have you forsaken me?" he railed at the stormy sky. As if in response, the clouds broiled and distant thunder rumbled across the cold grey surge at the horizon.

  How had it all come to this? He had had hopes, dreams, aspirations... once. But they were long gone. He had had to give them up long ago, exchanging them for his penance, for his transgressions of the flesh.

  And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from off his bed, and walked upon the roof of the king's house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.

  The surf sucked at the rugged rocks at the foot of the cliff, the greasy waters petroleum-black as an oil slick. As sunrise drew closer the pollutant cloud cover lightened, puffs of magenta and turquoise appearing amidst the otherwise interminable grey.

  The Reverend Creed stared down at the exposed rocks one hundred feet below, made rough and ragged by the relentless attentions of the sea. He could end it all now, should he so choose. He had that much power at any rate - the power to end his own life. The Lord had seen fit to give Mankind the gift, and curse, of free will after all.

  If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are.

  The hungry surges roiled and broke to white water on the black rocks, the gaping maw of a sudden hollow in the waves, a whirlpool forming as the surge pulled back out to sea for a moment, beckoning to him. But he ignored its tempting summons, as he had on every other occasion. He would not give the Lord his God the satisfaction of condemnin
g him to an eternity in Hell for taking his own life. No, he would see out his penance to its end, all the while hiding his shame from his parishioners, until God chose to end his life, and release him from his perpetual torment.

  To his flock he would ever be the genteel vicar of St Mary's, there to serve their every spiritual need. They would never know of the sin that stained his heart black, as black as the hungry sea.

  Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.

  Behind him, back along the cliff path, the squat church hugged the cliff top, as if it feared being uprooted from the exposed spot by the unrelenting wind. But it needn't have worried; behind it, on the wind-swept escarpment above the town stood the black skeletal remains of the Abbey that both raiders and kings had attempted to destroy in the past, and yet still it clung on, its stone pillars and buttresses seeming to grow out of the very ground.

  Reverend Creed turned his attention towards the town. Lights were coming on in windows on the other side of the Esk as well as in the nearer buildings that clustered together on the slopes beneath the church in the parish of St Mary's. Whitby was waking up.

  But while some were only just beginning their day, others - like the Reverend - had been up for hours already.

  Creed was momentarily distracted by a bobbing shape out beyond the coast, riding the rolling waves like a skittish colt. It was a fishing boat, clinker built, nets slipping from its sides. Whoever was on board would doubtless be feeling every rolling surge and sucking tug of the sea. But then, the Reverend considered, it probably wouldn't bother the lone fisherman, when so many of the townsfolk made their living from the sea.

  As he watched the fisherman hauling in the dragging nets, he was momentarily distracted from his melancholy as he considered that when it came to the fishermen of Whitby, what it meant to be a man was to be, in fact, half-fish, or so it seemed.

  For the briefest moment something like a wry smile twisted the priest's lips, a mouth unused to smiling forming a gargoyle grimace in its place.

  "Father?" a voice called from behind him, from the direction of the cramped graveyard.

  In an instant the smile was gone and he turned to face the figure standing there amidst the weather-worn gravestones. His penance was still not done.

  He closed his eyes and, with a harsh prayer, offered himself to God. Take me now, he willed, if you are done with me. He swayed there in the pre-dawn light, the wind tugging at the uncombed wisps of hair at the sides of his head.

  "Father?"

  He opened his eyes again. The Lord was not done with him yet.

  God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and He reserveth wrath for his enemies.

  Reverend Creed turned back towards the church, preparing to face another day of dealing with past sins made flesh, and cursed inwardly, the cruel scowl now shaping his features looking much more at home there.

  George Craven started, feeling his skin turn to gooseflesh beneath his weather-alls, despite the layers of linen, wool and rubberized fabric.

  "Someone must've walked over me grave," he muttered to himself. Still pulling in the net, hand over hand, the hemp rough going unnoticed under the thick calluses covering fingers and palms, he looked back over his shoulder, back towards the black cliffs of Whitby.

  He had that uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. For a moment, he thought he saw that someone, up there on the cliff, past the church of St Mary's, the squat building silhouetted against the torpid grey-green clouds.

  Squinting to perceive any more through the pre-dawn twilight and across such a distance, the fisherman blinked. And then the figure was gone.

  "Who was that, I wonder?" he muttered. "Who'd be out at this hour? Apart from you, George Craven," he laughed suddenly, the sensation of being observed passing, his goose pimples diminishing.

  Further back, beyond the edge of the grass-tufted cliffs, the ancient, semi-skeletal silhouette of the Abbey rose black out of the gloom. George's goose bumps returned.

  "Talking to yerself again, George," he said, hoping the sound of his own voice would shake the renewed feelings of unease, and then stopped, catching himself. "People'll say yer mad if yer not careful," he added.

  But he wasn't going mad, not really, and George Craven knew it. Talking to himself while he was out in the Mabel, was just a habit of his, something he did to while away the monotonous hours. No, he wasn't mad, bored with the monotony of it all maybe, but not mad.

  The fishing boat bobbed and rolled beneath his heavy booted feet, the fisherman bobbing and rolling with it, never losing his footing for a moment.

  The Cravens had always been fishermen, for as long as anyone in the family could remember. George had followed in his father's footsteps to the sea, like his grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather before that. It probably went all the way back down their family tree to the bottom, where it was rooted in the very sea bed itself.

  George's grandmother would cackle like the fish wife she was, through cracked teeth and blistered gums, that Old Man Craven must have married a mermaid, and that their offspring had been trying to get back to the sea ever since.

  George smiled as he remembered his grandmother, a cheery soul, and a dab hand with a net needle and a length of twine, as well as with a penknife and a piece of Whitby jet.

  Distracted, George's gaze fell to the nets at his feet, now swamping the bottom of the boat. The haul hadn't been great and he would be making a pretty poor showing at the fish market later that morning. By the light of the swaying oil lamp hanging from the mast he could see that there were precious few fish of any worth, meaning he would be back out again tonight after precious little rest. Octopuses and cuttlefish writhed slimily over the wriggling fish as they all suffocated on the deck of the small boat now that they were in the open air. A spider crab or two crawled over the catch, not large specimens themselves, but worth a bob or two at least. He was almost surprised they weren't bigger though; with the increasing industrialisation of the North of England, the growth in unchecked pollution levels in the sea had gone hand-in-hand with the growth of some of its inhabitants.

  "Yer not goin' t'make yer fortune with this little lot," he complained to the salt-sea air. "Yer not ever goin' t'make yer fortune out 'ere," he mused, pensively eyeing the shoreline again. No, he was never going to get rich this way.

  And then there was something else... something else that by rights shouldn't even be amongst the catch.

  The fisherman squinted again, this time peering at the glistening conglomeration of glistening creatures caught in the net. The catch looked like one grotesque amorphous creature as it pulsed and heaved, all misshapen tentacles, barbed fins, gasping gills, flicking tails, scales and sucker pods.

  "Is that hair?" George gasped in surprise.

  The catch seethed and moved and there it was again. If it hadn't been right there before his eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. Gasping and choking, the gills at its neck flapping uselessly, the creature was dying, but George just stood there in the rocking boat, staring in dumb amazement.

  "Neptune's beard! I don't bloody believe it!" he exclaimed, and dropped the net.

  ACT ONE

  The Curious Case of the Whitby Mermaid

  November 1997

  Chapter One

  Gabriel Wraith Investigates

  The waiting room was opulent to the point of over-extravagance, Miss Michelle Powell considered, grander and more grandiose than what she was used to certainly, even though her father's legacy had made her independently wealthy. London's foremost consulting detective was obviously doing very well for himself off the back of such a reputation. But then it was also patently clear that he was someone with money and breeding as well. A house in Bloomsbury, no less, only a stone's throw from Russell Square and the austere edifice of the British Museum.

  Rising from the chair to which she had been guided on being admitted
to the town house, Miss Powell began to pace the room, as one would if enjoying the works of the grand masters on show within the National Gallery.

  She admired the Qing dynasty vase above the mantelpiece, the black ebony-wood pedestal bearing a marble bust of the Roman emperor Hadrian and a decorative screen from nineteenth century Japan. She paused before the portrait of a girl in seventeenth century Dutch dress. It was of the Flemish school, she believed, and as a result she strongly doubted that it depicted a distant family member of the house's owner. The oil painting was just another adornment, something of monetary value to be collected and then subsequently shown off.

  There was something of the air of an art gallery to this room, in fact, as if everything were on show for appearance's sake, rather than it being there for any reason of emotional attachment or because it spoke to the soul of the house's owner. But then that, in its own way, spoke volumes about the mysterious Mr Wraith.

  "Miss Powell?"

  The young woman jumped, and gave an involuntary cry of alarm, startled by the sudden reappearance of the manservant. Where a moment before she had been alone, the hawkish butler had suddenly appeared in the doorway, as if he had miraculously materialized out of thin air.

  "Are you all right, Miss Powell?" the butler asked, in that forbidding monotone drone of his. It was how she imagined the Grim Reaper would speak, which was an analogy that went well with the manservant's pallid features and hollow cheeks, their gauntness merely serving to highlight the underlying bone structure, giving his features a knife-edge sharpness.

  "Y-Yes. Th-Thank you. I'm fine," she stammered, trying to regain her composure. Nervously she adjusted the purple velvet top hat that was already carefully positioned on top of her immaculately coiffeured hair, held in place with half a dozen hat pins, before straightening the bodice of her fitted crushed velvet jacket. She looked - and indeed was - the height of fashion. Only the brass-trimmed velocipede driver's goggles hanging around her neck seemed incongruous when put with the rest of the outfit. But then where was it written that chic young ladies couldn't be budding amateur engineers as well, in this more socially-enlightened Neo Victorian age?