VALUES

Part Two

03.00

The rose lay limp on the white table, exposed beneath the naked white light like a corpse in a mortuary.

"It's of the species Hybrid Perpetual," the botanist, a pretty young girl called Abby Fenchurch, explained. "Very popular in Victorian England."

Pitt nodded grimly. Victorian, he thought. Victorian.

"Anything else interesting about it?" he asked. "Anything else I should know?"

The botanist shrugged and ran a hand through her dark hair. It shone briefly in the vivid white light. She turned back to the microscope for another look.

The detective work bored him. Back before the war he'd been on the Flying Squad, right on the front line. Nothing but action, then. He hadn't seen action or excitement in a long time. Just lots of wandering round dull grey buildings and standing in unnatural white rooms like this, staring through dirty windows at the lights of the city at night beyond as experts tinkered round. It'd probably turn out to be a dud lead, but hell, it was all he had at the moment.

"Looks like it was picked recently," Fenchurch said, matter-of-factly. "Where, I have no idea."

"What about the species?" Pitt asked. "Any symbolism? Any historical connections?"

"Other than the Victorian, not really. The Romans associated the rose with secrecy if that's any help. Sub Rosa – literally, 'under the rose.' And with the goddess Venus. The goddess of love."

Secrecy. Love. Victorian.

What the hell did it mean? And why had Irons been so terrified by the damn thing?

He didn't know. Right now, all he wanted was sleep, but a stiff coffee in the car would have to do. Scribbling the three points he knew down in his notebook, the Nose agent thanked the botanist and bid her good night.

03. 30

The battered Ford Escort was parked in the bright orange lights of a streetlight, opposite the grey block of the Botany building. At this hour, the streets were silent.

Agent Terrence Pitt, Terry to his friends, Pitt to everyone else, was sat in the front seat with a briefcase, a notebook and a Thermos flask in his lap. Occasionally he took a sip of the cloying, bitter coffee.

"The rose is a dead end," Pitt said, choking back a drop of the coffee. It was growing cold rapidly in the chilled air. As if it could taste worse. "Species Hybrid Perpetual. Just three things, and I have no idea how they're connected. The Romans associated it with Venus and secrecy. The Victorians liked it. That's it."

His partner, Neil Bond, nodded sagely, probably unaware that he was even doing it. The young man was deep in thought. "I've heard that before," he said.

"What, the Romans?"

"No," Bond replied. "The species. There used to be a rose garden up at the Abney Park Cemetery, back in the 1840s. That's practically where that breed was created, if I recall."

Pitt chuckled. "And how do you suddenly know so much about roses?"

Bond smiled and shrugged. "My mother was a gardener," he said. "Back when we had gardens."

"Well, it may not be much to go on," Pitt said, wiping his eyes. "But it's a lead. Come on."

He poured the tarry remnants of the coffee out on to the pavement, where they steamed briefly, and then started up the engine.

04.00

The dreams were always the same.

He was at Larkhill. The place stunk of stale food and cold coffee and bleach. Except on Thursdays, when the furnaces were running. Then it smelt like frying pork, like bacon a little too overdone.

He'd worked the furnaces once. They came on a conveyor belt, one after another, limp, pathetic things, little more than skeletons. When he'd lifted their cold, stuff bodies they'd have no weight at all, like bags of cloth. He felt no sympathy, no guilt, as he flung their remains into the black flames. It was like burning old clothes – just something you do. You pick them up, you toss them, you move on to the next.

It was an easy job. Hell, Larkhill was a pretty sweet break whatever way you looked at it. Stand around all day, beat on a few Pakis or pooftahs, have a chat and a laugh with the other guards and then return to your dorm. Good pay, too. Sure beat the hell out of the RAF.

He was on duty down on E-Block. He hated E-Block. Just one prisoner, but…

It was the eyes. Those piercing, flaming eyes.

And he stood outside Room Five, its hefty steel door like a bank vault, and he tried to look busy elsewhere, rather than think about those eyes. Those awful eyes.

He thought about his pretty young wife, at home asleep back in London, pregnant with his first child. He wanted a boy. Someone to take up his father's legacy, someone to follow his footsteps in the forces.

There was a loud thud on the door.

"Shut up!" he balked. "Shut up now, or I'll come in there and give you a damn good beating! You know what happens! You know!"

His voice, silk-smooth, like syrup. Drifting through the hefty door. "I've something to show you, Mr Irons. Something special."

He frowns, reaches for his pistol. The bastard would have to explain his way out of a black eye after this. He knew the bigwigs over at the medical bay didn't like him messing with the test subjects. But sometimes you had to teach them who ran the camp.

He fumbles for his keys, opens the door. Steps into the dark room.

It stinks of fertiliser. That smell, over everything else. They let him keep a garden. part of the experiment, he supposed. Too soft, he thought. Too soft on the git.

He was sat over a small patch of roses. He was smiling.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Irons chokes, holstering the gun.

He reaches for a single rose with delicate, graceful fingers, gently plucking it and handing it to the guard.

"Here," he says, smiling. "There are few of these left, Mr Irons. Perhaps the value of this will teach you a thing or two about the value of life."

Irons spits at him, hot rage flushing through his neck. He throws the flower to the ground, crushing it beneath his hobnail boots. "There!" he cries. "That's what I think of your bloody flower!" He turns to leave. "I should have them all torn up."

"But surely…" the man in Room Five says, still smiling serenely. "Surely in a world where there are no roses, the value of one is infinitely higher? Surely even you can see that?"

Irons shakes his head angrily. "You're absolutely balking," he sneers.

"We'll see, one day," the man says. His tone has changed completely now. That serene smile has faded as automatically as it appeared. "I'll teach you to appreciate the value of life, Mr Irons."

Irons shakes his head, slams the door, and then it's weeks later, and the camp is burning, and the bodies are melting, and the people are screaming…

And he's looking back, with those flaming eyes, and Irons knows he'll be back one day.

05.00

Richard Irons awakes quickly, his brow soaked in chilled sweat, his head swimming wildly. He glances around his surroundings, expecting to see those cold, heartless eyes, and instead he sees the normal grey surroundings of his Camberwell bedroom, Jean's dark lump sleeping next to him.

Somehow that's worse. He wants to throw up.

Richard Irons climbs out of bed. He walks over to his jeans, which still lay crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. He fumbles around inside. He finds the gun.

With his hands shaking, he sits in the seat at the end of the bed, rests the gun on his lap, and lights up a cigarette.

05.30

In the dark, cavernous depths of the Shadow Gallery, a man is calmly sharpening a blade. The mask is hung up in a cupboard along with the others, a row of grinning, all-knowing faces.

From the ancient Wurlitzer Dinah Washington is singing 'What a Difference a Day Makes.' He almost laughs at the coincidence, and then remembers that there is no such thing as coincidence. There is only careful planning, and patience.

And theatricality.

He reaches for his cloak, gently resting the blade against a wall. And prepares to embark once more into the night.

To be continued…