Author's Note: Thanks to all those who have read and reviewed the story thus far, and particular thanks to Pumpkinator for pointing out that rather embarassing mistake in Chapter Five. On my last read through I noticed a few more errors, such as for some reason referring to Pitt as 'Alan' as opposed to Terry in the first part. I'll clean them all up with the next update. Also, my apologies for the length of the next chapter - I'm setting everything up for the concluding chapters, which should all be a little shorter and snappier.

VALUES

PartFive

12.00

"I have no name," the man in the mask said. "You can call me V."

Richard Irons collapsed on to the bed, his whole body quivering violently. He suddenly wanted to throw up or run or something, but his legs were frozen solid. It was all he could do to gasp and stutter weakly.

"You look fearful, Mr Irons," V said calmly. His cloak billowed out through the open window, out into the crisp winter's air. "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more, is it not?"

"How did you get here?" Irons finally managed to say, his words barely audible to himself. "The Fingermen…"

"Have fallen upon a most horrendous accident. An accident that has resulted in their passing. As Ben Johnson once said, 'Allow for accidents. Allow for human nature. Especially your own.'" He yanked his cloak close around him, and the frozen mask just smiled. "For it was your doing, wasn't it, Mr Irons? Your failure to acknowledge the value of human life. Your own dismal failure to recognise it's worth. You hire two men to throw down their lives for yours and act surprised when they meet with death? It was at your own bloody hands! But whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."

"That's not true!" Irons cried weakly. "That was never my intention! You don't understand…"

"Don't I?" V said, an edge of anger rising beneath that calm, perpetually smirking façade. "I remember you, Mr Irons. I remember the way you used to bang on the doors sometimes just to make us jump. I remember when you'd kick over our plates of food and half-starve us in doing so, just as we were getting desperate. I remember how much pleasure you took in the torture and the interrogation. And I remember the way you'd hit the prisoners when they weren't looking, sometimes just to warm your hands on a cold day. And there were many cold days, Mr Irons. Bright cold days in April, when the clocks were striking thirteen."

Irons was crawling backwards on the bed. V stayed perfectly still, the black holes of his eyes keeping a steady fix on the quaking, pale figure on the bed.

"There is but twelve hours left," V said. "Twelve hours for you to show that you understand the true value of life. Try and stay the right side of sanity, Mr Irons. And remember what the dormouse said." His body turned to the window, but his eyes kept staring. "Feed your head."

And then he leapt out into the city beyond.

It was a long time before Irons could muster up the strength to walk, and when he finally did he seemed to be moving in a daze, as if he were under the influence of alcohol. His head swam wildly, thoughtless, blank. Cold fear churned in his stomach and he wanted to be sick. His gut seemed weightless.

He stumbled steadily out of the door, to the top of the stairs. He peered down.

Yes, there was the body of one of the Fingermen. Visconti, he thought dimly. Nice young man.

He wandered slowly down the stairs.

Visconti had taken three bullets. A large splatter of blood ran up the wall behind him, almost to the roof, so dark it was almost black. One of the bullets had taken off much of the Fingerman's head. His eyes, almost accusing, stared ahead at the other corpse.

Julian Brown lay on his side, almost curled into a foetal position. A puddle of blood and empty shell cartridges lay around him like a shrine. He still clutched the gun, and as Irons looked, a small wisp of smoke rose up in to the still kitchen.

He slumped to his knees. His hands fell to his sides.

Oh Christ, this couldn't be happening. This could not be happening.

He checked that he still had his gun.

Then he did something that he hadn't done since junior school.

He burst into helpless tears.

12.30

Jean Irons remembered when the British Museum had actually held artefacts. Real cultural treasures, from all across the world. Those memories, though, like all the memories of the old world, were faint and distant. A lot had happened since then. All she had left were blurry snapshots of memory, faded sepia images of a little girl looking at Egyptian tombs and Georgian portraits and dinosaur skeletons. Little negatives of a world Ted would never know.

Right now he'd have to be content with The English Museum, still in the same building, but all the foreign artefacts, all the remnants of a colourful and creative culture, had been destroyed. In its place was a huge propaganda display – room after room of soldier's uniforms, guns, poorly-drawn illustrations of great British victories – Waterloo, Trafalgar, the Second and First World Wars, right up to the Falklands. Union Jacks, with the Norsefire 'N' imprinted across the centre.

Still, it seemed to thrill Ted, who looked at the battered uniforms and old firearms with the sort of interest only a child could muster.

Jean's mind, however, was elsewhere. She was thinking of Visconti – of his pretty eyes, of the spark that jumped between them when they talked. And how, when she left this place, Ted be damned, she was going to run away with him.

A way out, she reflected. It's what you've been waiting for.

And she realised that she was being unfair – that, despite his temper, Richard was still a good husband. He had a steady job, he kept the mortgage payments up. He loved and cared for Ted. He had his flaws, sure, but, hell, maybe that was more to do with her. You're awfully hard on him sometimes, she reflected. And would you want to screw all that up with Visconti?

No. No, it wasn't worth it.

"Mummy!" Ted cried, yanking on her sleeve suddenly. They'd somehow wandered into the Clock Chamber, a display of British-made clocks and watches. None of them were particularly amazing, but they were all functional. Some, the plaques beneath read, had been used on great battlefields. There was a clock, set to eleven minutes past eleven, said to have kept time during the Battle of the Somme. Another small pocket-watch was said to have belonged to Wellington during the Battle of Waterloo.

"Isn't it lovely?" Jean said, feigning interest.

Ted stared intently at a white wall display, all pocket-watches dating from the Boer War. "What did people do before clocks?" he asked.

Jean thought about the question. "I guess they used sundials and stuff," she said. "You know, some people think that since people invented the clock, they became a slave to time. Because instead of saying, 'I'll start work or I'll go to school when the sun's up,' they could give themselves specific times, like nine o'clock."

"I think I'd rather be around before," Ted said. "Could stay in bed longer."

They both laughed, but Jean laughed with her mouth only. A slave to time, she thought. That's me. Counting down the minutes till Richard snaps and does some serious damage. Run with Visconti. Get away.

And the thought sent adrenaline rushing wildly through her system. For the first time since she became Mrs Irons, she felt truly alive. And she decided that, perhaps, she did love Bill after all.

13.00

The old Grandfather Clock in the cavernous depths of the Shadow Gallery chimed thirteen times.

The jukebox played a forgotten Rolling Stones song, 'Let's Spend The Night Together.' He barely heard it, but reflected that he would be spending the night with an entirely different person.

All the pieces were in place now, the instruments warming up, the players taking their seats. He had only to conduct, to guide things along, to keep the music flowing to its ultimate crescendo.

As the voice of Mick Jagger radiated around the cave, he thought of how the different strands were all lining up now, the disparate strands that would create his symphony of death. It would take a small amount of intervention on his part to move them together as one.

He left for a dark room with a huge computer terminal, through which he would keep one eye on events.

13.30

Eric Finch's return to his office caused Pitt to snap instantly back into consciousness from his brief slumber. His head continued to throb, and he had a weird taste in his mouth. The sunlight through the blinds, thin and watery, pierced his heavy eyes. He stretched and sat up.

"Sorry to wake you," Finch said, with a friendly and rare smile. "Catching forty winks on the job, are you?"

"Oh, sorry, Eric," Pitt replied, still adjusting to the world. A few office workers granted him concerned looks and went back to their work. "I'm sorry, I've had about two hours sleep in the past thirty-six, and one of those cat-naps barely counts. Did you speak to Susan?"

"Aye. You hit the jackpot today. You're free to access Fate's database from the terminal in my office."

"Smashing." Pitt stood up, stretched, attempted to infuse his muscles with some life, and yawned. "You don't mind me using your office, then?"

"Not at all," Finch said, stuffing a small measure of tobacco into his pipe. "But you might want to think about heading home some time soon, you look absolutely knackered. Take the afternoon off, if you…"

"No, thanks," Pitt said, entering Finch's office. "I'd best finish this up. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see it through to the end now. If it gets too much and I change my mind, I'll let you know. Until then, I'm going to keep the kettle warm and get to the bottom of this."

Finch shrugged. "Well, it's your decision. I'm off on call for an hour, see you later."

Pitt and Finch bid each other farewell and Finch left to attend to his business.

It didn't take long for Pitt to access the Fate network. He had some basic knowledge of computers, mostly accumulated through years of necessary research. Sometimes there was nothing better than a computer with information on every citizen in the country to lead you to a criminal.

The name 'Andrew Thatcher' produced a list of three hundred and thirty seven people. He narrowed it down to employees of the Nose, and was left with three.

Two, one an AS THATCHER, were still employed. The last had been retired for a year and a half.

Riding his lucky streak, Pitt accessed the retired Thatcher. Andrew Francis Thatcher was a former Nose agent and, prior to that, Fingerman from Northumberland. He'd been with the Nose since it's inception and apparently had retired for 'personal reasons.' He'd been pensioned off and now lived in Highgate.

Pitt scribbled everything down in a notebook, did the same for the other two, grabbed his coat and left for his car, already feeling alive again.

14.00

Richard Irons finally broke two hours after finding the bodies of the Fingermen. He hadn't dared touch them – in fact, he hadn't dared gone near them. If he didn't contaminate the scene, there was a greater chance of them picking up clues that would lead to the bastard. He had to have screwed up somewhere. They'd find it out.

He'd made a vain attempt to contact Jean, perhaps warning her away from the house, perhaps just for defence. Then he'd sat in the living room, chain-smoking the remainder of his packet in a desperate bid to kill the shakes. There'd been the remainder of a bottle of Gordon's in the cabinet. He cleared that off. Checked he had his gun. Returned to the living room.

Checked one last time if there were any cigarettes left.

There weren't.

As the crumpled cigarette packet dropped to the carpet, he suddenly found himself thinking about the man he had been when he'd bought them from a street vendor just yesterday evening. Had he even thought, in his wildest nightmares, that his life could have plunged into the depths of insanity that it had plunged into today? A wave of hopeless nostalgia hit him hard, and he began to realise that normal life was a fragile thing. That one second you can have everything, and it takes just one pink rose on a table to blow it all to hell and leave you out here in the cold and the dark.

With a shaking hand he finally broke. He called the Finger.

"Hello, you've reached the Finger," a young lady's voice said down the line. "How may I help you?"

Irons went to talk, and found that his throat was dry. All that came out was a feeble, "I.."

After a short gap, the lady said, "Hello? Is there anybody there?"

"They're dead," Irons finally managed to say. "The Finger Guard. Dead. Both of them."

"I'm sorry?" the young lady replied.

"This is Irons! The Finger Guard you dispatched! He got them! Shot them dead, like a couple of dogs! Oh, Christ, you got to send someone here…"

"Wait, sir, I'm sorry," the secretary said. "Who is this?"

"Richard Irons! Richard Irons, of the Finger, of you! I work for you! Go ask Mr Almond, he'll tell you I've had a Finger guard due to an attempt on my life. And they've both been killed!"

"Ok, I… I'll be back in a minute."

The phone hit the desk with a soft thud and Irons fell to the stair, his hand so slicked with sweat that the phone nearly fell out.

Listen to you, he thought. You sound like a cretin. Just calm down. Take a deep breath. It'll be alright. They'll send over a guard, maybe even escort you somewhere safe. Somewhere he can't get at you.

And even through at all, there was a small voice saying 'Did you see him move? There's nowhere in the world that's safe. He'll get you anywhere, and you're dead. Run if you want, but you'll never escape. You've seen his eyes.'

"Sir?"

"Sorry?"

"I said there'll be two guards down there as soon as possible. Try and stay low. Are you armed? Is the killer still there?"

"Yes, no," Irons replied, floating on adrenaline. "Tell them to hurry, for god's sake."

"Ok, sir," the young woman responded, and hung up, leaving Richard Irons alone in his fear and paranoia.

14.30

Pitt arrived at Andrew Thatcher's small semi feeling truly awful. Along the way he'd manage to buy a muddy coffee from a Supersaver's in a horrible Styrofoam cup, and had he been in any other state of mind he could never have brought the foul liquid to his lips, let alone finish it. But he succeeded in both, and instead of waking him up, he now felt sick as well as tired.

On shaky legs he wandered up Thatcher's brief drive and surveyed the home. Pebble-dashed, well-looked after front lawn with a few tasteful ornaments. It could have been any other middle class home in the country.

He pushed the doorbell, and a charming chime rang back. It all seemed so normal, so still and silent. To think of what lurked beneath sent a shudder down Pitt's back, and he felt he could see the dark world lurking beneath the pleasant blue skies and shimmering emerald lawns, just beneath the surface.

He could feel it rising.

After a long time, a gaunt old man with neat white hair and a face like parchment, opened the door. He stared silently at Pitt.

"Mr Thatcher?" Pitt asked.

The old man nodded suspiciously.

"Terry Pitt," the agent said. "I work for the Nose. Could I come in?"

"Ah," the old man sneered. "The Nose. What are you wanting round here, then?"

"I'd just like to ask a few questions, Mr Thatcher. If you don't mind."

"Come on, then," Thatcher sighed. "You'd best come in."

Pitt was led into an ordinary front room, and once again he got the feeling that it was all just set dressing – tasteless little porcelain doll ornaments, commemorative plates, photographs of relatives on the mantelpiece – all little props, intended to create the appearance of a normal, retired life. That beneath it all there was a very dark story, lurking just inches beneath the net curtains and cheap seaside-souvenirs.

"Take a seat," Thatcher said.

Pitt almost collapsed into a threadbare armchair. Thatcher sat opposite him, and stared at him like he was an interesting insect specimen.

Feeling he'd better justify his presence, Pitt began the inquisition. "I'm investigating a threat on the life of an agent of the Finger," he began. "During the course of my investigation I had a run-in with a man who claimed that he worked on a similar case with you a few years ago."

"Oh, god," Thatcher groaned, and suddenly appeared to age by a decade. "It's him, isn't it? He's back."

"I'm sorry?"

"The man in the mask," Thatcher frowned. "He's back, isn't he?"

"You know him?"

"Know him?" Thatcher cried. "That bastard ruined my career." He sighed, and reached for a dirty chipped teacup that sat in the ancient white carpet. "It was last year. Me and old Harry Linderman were investigating the sudden death of a promising young city banker. Autopsy report showed traces of poison, but he went down on the records as dying of natural causes. We did a little research, and found an interesting fact about our victim. He had worked at the resettlement camp in Larkhill."

"The what?" Pitt exclaimed.

Thatcher grinned, a hideous old man's grin. It made Pitt think of the awful leer he'd seen on Harry Linderman's face, in his cave deep beneath the earth. Edging in closer, Thatcher said, "Yes, I thought as much. Not many people know about Larkhill, even party members. I'd imagine they'd keep things like that away from the public."

"Well, I knew the government had resettlement camps," Pitt said calmly. "All those non-believers had to be shipped somewhere, we all knew that. This is the first I've heard of this Larkhill, mind."

"No, I doubt anyone will ever truly know what went on there," Thatcher chuckled. "Old Finch, maybe. A few of the other party higher-ups. Do you know Lewis Prothero worked there?"

"The Voice of Fate? No."

"Yes, I imagine they'd keep that quiet," he said, and slumped back in his chair. "We did a little research, managed somehow to get access to Fate. And discovered that our friend had struck before. And he was due to strike again." His eyes misted over, and Pitt got the feeling that the darkness was starting to surface briefly now, like a submarine breaking through crystal clear waters. "We got together a small group of Fingermen, me and Harry. Sent them down to protect another man, an old munitions worker, he was. Had his house completely covered, surrounded by armed men. No-one could get within a hundred yards of the place. And yet…"

Thatcher's voice fell silent. Pitt felt tempted to urge him on, knowing that he was getting close now. As Pitt watched, Thatcher's hand gripped the seat a little tighter.

"I was sat in the house, talking to this man, this munitions worker. He had a dog, a little Scottie. We were chattering away, smoking, occasionally watching the telly. I decided to go out for a walk. I knew something was wrong when no-one was watching the front." His eyes lit up horrendously. "They were dead! All of them, scattered around the outskirts of the house. Not a single shot had been fired! He'd just taken them all out, one after another."

"My god," Pitt mumbled.

"I panicked. Went round looking for old Harry. Well, I found him alright." Thatcher's hand was shaking violently. "Saw him just as he was lifted up. That man in the cloak, leapt down from the roof, grabbed him, and just swept him away. God knows what he did to him."

Pitt knew full-well what had happened to poor Mr Linderman. "And did you see his face?" he asked.

"Oh, aye," Thatcher said, and the grin was back now. "He had a smiley face, like an old Guy Fawkes. Remember those? Penny for the Guys? Well, he looked like one of those. A big grinning face."

Pitt nodded solemnly. "Thank you very much, Mr Thatcher," he said, pulling on his coat and turning to leave.

"One more thing," Thatcher called after him. Pitt turned to see the old man staring at him intently, almost forbidding him to leave. "We never told a soul about what happened that night. Far as I know, I was the only survivor. It wasn't worth it. I saw what that… that thing… could do. And for your sake, I wouldn't tell a soul either. And I'd let what will happen, happen. Go home, detective, and forget all about it. He'll get his prey one way or the other." He smiled again, one last time. "God knows he deserves it, this chap you're looking after. What they did at Larkhill… well, that was awful."

Pitt thanked him, but Thatcher had stopped listening, and was instead lost in his own thoughts.

He wasn't about to leave Irons to die, not at this stage on the game. Not when he was this close. That wasn't the way he'd been brought up. He'd see this through to the end now.

14.55

The Finger Guard arrived at the Irons household.

Richard rushed out to meet them, and suddenly realised that they were grabbing his arms and throwing him into the back of the van.

"Hang about!" he cried. "What are you up to?"

"You are under arrest, Mr Irons," the Finger Guard frowned. "For the murders of Mr Julian Brown and Mr William Visconti. And if I were you, I'd keep it quiet. Some of the boys are very upset."

The doors slammed shut on Irons, and he was driven away.

To be continued…