Fanfic: Whitechapel Bromeliad.
Title: Whitechapel Bromeliad.
Rating: R, for language, themes, and a lovely bit of gore.
Fandom: Global Frequency.
Synopsis: You're on the Global Frequency. Jack the Ripper-style killings are being performed by a copy-cat killer -- or maybe more than one of them -- operating in modern London. Problem: they seem to be trying to send some sort of a message. How do you stop them before things get entirely out of hand? Miranda Zero is counting on you, and the world is counting on her...
This was written in answer to arib's request in the latest round of Iron Author. (Given that he gave me 'giddy' and 'lamplight', this is proof that I'm perverse.)
***
1.
So there's these five words, right? And maybe I signed up to hear them one day, if you really want to be all technical about it, but that doesn't mean I ever expected that I actually would. I'm not just a specialist; I'm a specialist's specialist, taking 'niche' down to a new and exciting level. My ex used to say I was the human equivalent of one of those rain forest plants that only grows in one place, in one kind of soil, when the weather is just so. Change the conditions and the thing goes extinct, forever. That's how specialized I am. Change my conditions and I stop functioning.
Last Thursday, the conditions changed. Because last Thursday, that damn phone -- that damn, stupid phone, the one I only agreed to take because...well, never mind why I agreed to take it, you can't change the past -- finally started to ring. 'It will probably never ring,' she told me. That's what she said. 'If it does, it's because your specific expertise is needed. The world could depend on you.'
Since when did the world go around depending on a historian who studies -- only and exclusively -- the folklore of the city of London, that's what I'd really like to know. So if someone could be kind enough to tell me, I'd be grateful.
But the phone rang. And so I, like a good, stupid little girl who keeps her promises even when she'd rather run screaming in the opposite direction, picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Susan?" said that damned familiar voice. "This is Miranda Zero."
"Yes," I said wearily. "I know." And then came the five words that I'd been dreading:
"You're on the Global Frequency."
2.
My name is Susan Garrety. I am thirty-two years old, slightly below average height, with carroty-brown hair that a former significant other once described as being the colour of overly boiled yams. I wear glasses, slacks, and sensible shoes; I have a cat, a small apartment within easy walking distance of the British Museum, a book contract that -- barely -- allows me to pay the bills, and a severe allergy to shellfish. I teach in the summers; English folklore. I used to teach all year long, before I managed to specialize enough to start writing. I fly back to America for a lecture circuit once every three years, and spend a lot of time on both sides of the pond trying to avoid discussing American politics.
You could walk past me in a crowd, quite easily. Given the way that coincidence is King in London, and Lady Luck is the unchallenged Queen, you probably have, several times. I'm one of those perfectly ordinary, perfectly average women that you can lose sight of, just by blinking.
I'm also the world's foremost expert on the native folklore of London.
That sounds a little cocky, but it's entirely true. If what you're looking for is obscure little stories about the ghost chicken in Highgate Cemetery, or the broadside sheets that used to be sold along Charing Cross Road, I'm the one you want to see. The things I study are so small and so strange in this modern world that no one else really cares about them anymore; hasn't cared about them for a very long time, if I really want to be honest. I'm a specialist's specialist, the bromeliad of the historical world, with my roots holding tightly to a single tree. Less work this way, but less competition, too, and I love the city. I always have. I love the stories that it's hiding, the secrets that nobody remembers but me. Finding them out, chasing them down and prying them out of the stones, it's like a form of magic. Small magic, but magic, all the same. And it's mine.
I'll admit it: I was flattered when, after another sparsely-attended lecture on the ghost stories of Knightsbridge -- give a talk on Jack the Ripper and it's standing-room only, with a waiting list besides, but talk about something interesting and only eleven people show up, half of them because they bought their tickets discount to make it into the Whitechapel talk I'd be giving next day -- I was approached by a woman who said she really, truly needed to speak to me. Didn't hurt that she was easy on the eyes, all sleek black hair and crisp, mannish business suit. She said she'd only need a few moments of my time, and while she didn't smile, exactly, there was something that might have been the seed of an expression in her very red, very pretty mouth.
I'm only human. I followed her like a lamb goes to the slaughter. I was expecting...I don't really know what I was expecting. Coffee, maybe. Dinner. At worst, a snide comment about how 'all you academics' really do 'swing the wrong way up the tree'. I've heard just about all of it.
I wasn't expecting her to pull out a phone, look me in the eye, and lead off with her name. "I'm Miranda Zero. I presume, given your field, that you've heard of me."
It wasn't a question, and it didn't have to be. Half of the study of folklore is the archeology of conspiracy theories. Think I'm kidding? Magical bullets and the mob drowning Marilyn Monroe are really just a few steps away from 'fairies stole my real baby, that's why I threw this one into the fireplace' or 'I didn't leave you to sleep with a Frenchwoman, darling, I was kidnapped by a mermaid'. Today's tabloids are tomorrow's fairy tales. I'm not a real student of modern folklore -- the past has enough to keep me busy, thanks awfully -- but it's impossible to move in the circles I'm a part of and not hear a few things. Like the name Miranda Zero.
Like the stories about her underground security organization, the Global Frequency, which recruits highly specialized people from all around the world, networks them, and -- supposedly -- leans on them to save the world from threats that no government is in a position to handle. Supposedly, they do this all the time. Every hour of every day, some threat pokes its head up, and Miranda Zero and her squadron of impossible dragon slayers turn about and whack it off.
Everybody knows the stories, and so of course, I've heard them.
I just didn't believe them.
Feeling a bit like my chain was being yanked, I looked at her evenly and said, "I'm going to need to see some ID."
"Of course, Miss Garrety," she replied, and produced her wallet, handing it over without hesitation. That's really when I knew. Oh, sure, I went through the process of checking her identification, studying the cards, looking at the flat, unblinking photos of the real, unblinking woman in front of me, but that's when I knew. It wasn't a hoax. It wasn't a joke. Her name was Miranda Zero. And that meant...
I flipped her wallet closed and handed it back to her. "All right. You're Miranda Zero. I've heard of you. What can I do for you today?"
"I want you," she said, "on the Global Frequency."
It was the best sales pitch I've ever heard, largely because it wasn't a sales pitch at all. It was just a series of calm, irrefutable facts, presented without hesitation, and without hyperbole. She wasn't trying to make things sound better than they were: she was telling the truth, setting it out in a series of thin, bloodless slices for me to examine.
"The world is under constant attack by forces which are, for one reason or another, beyond the scope of local law enforcement, government, expertise, or ethical capacity to handle. This is not a question of 'right' or 'wrong': it's a question of whether or not the world is going to be here tomorrow. In the past eight weeks, my organization has stopped an alien invasion transmitted through a series of electronic pulses, a nuclear war, the bombing of six major cities, the burning of Rome, a locust swarm which would have destroyed the heartland of America, and three viral outbreaks which would have wiped out the population of entire continents, two of which were man-made, one of which was a particularly clever crossing of Ebola with the common cold." Her expression remained level, unchanging throughout this recitation. "The men and women of the Frequency come from every cultural, social, economic and religious background in the world. They have been chosen for their expertise, and for the simple fact that they are needed."
"You collect bromeliads," I said, inanely.
Maybe it was inane, but it actually made Miranda smile. "Yes," she said. "I suppose I do. This phone," she held up her hand, "is connected to the Frequency. It will only ring when I want it to ring. I want you on the Frequency, Susan. You know things no one else knows. The world might need you."
She was offering me the chance to be a hero. To make folklore -- the folklore of the future -- rather than just playing with the folklore of the past.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't. I have...I have duties, and a schedule to keep, and...I can't."
She looked at me evenly. "It will probably never ring. If it does, it's because your specific expertise is needed. The world could depend on you."
If she'd just said 'please', I could have told her no. I've always been good at saying no to women when they've felt the need to tack a 'please' onto things. But she didn't say 'please'; she didn't beg. Miranda Zero doesn't beg. I could take the phone, or not. I could save the world, or not. I could know that one day we might all die because I was a coward...or not.
I took the phone.
Miranda smiled.
"Welcome to the Frequency, seven fifty-three," she said.
3.
So here we are, two years later, and the damn phone finally decides that now would be a good thing to read. Thanks, phone. Remind me to do a favour for you one of these days. Oh, I'd consulted for the Frequency a few times, but they'd never called me directly; never thrown me into action, as it were.
"You're on the Global Frequency," said Miranda.
"I got that," I said. "Why am I on the Global Frequency, Miranda? I expect this isn't a social call."
I could hear her smirking. "Number seven fifty-three, you are the only folklore specialist currently online. What is your status?"
"Home, alone, I -- wait, what?" The thing about being on the Frequency is that you tend to network, at least a little bit, with the other people who overlap your areas of expertise. I wasn't Miranda's only bromeliad. There was Mark, who studied urban legends and modern mythology, when he wasn't writing for the Weekly World News; Angie, who ran a website on the strange and paranormal; Tomy, who actually had a degree in parapsychology. "I can't be the only folklorist currently online. What about--"
"That isn't important right now. What is your status?"
I knew what 'that isn't important right now' meant. That meant 'the others have gone offline'. Going offline, well...
People don't come back online once they go off of it. Not since Lazarus, anyway.
I closed my eyes. "Available," I said.
"Good," Miranda replied. "Hold for your assignment."
The next voice to speak was brighter, more chipper, less controlled. "Hey, hey, hey," she said. "This is Aleph. Hey, Suzie. How's tricks?"
"Been better, Aleph," I said, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I made for the closet, and the Global Frequency jacket that's been hanging there, untouched, for the past two years. "Definitely been better. What's the situation?"
Aleph speaks my language: the tongue of pure, undilluted detail-freak, where the ashes on the floor matter more than the pipe that they came out of. Of course, she speaks it on a higher plane than, well, anyone else alive, but she understands the things I fixate on. Better than most people ever could.
"Been better," she said, with a light, sardonic note. "Have you been reading the papers? Eight murders in London over the last eight days."
"Murders in London happen all the time, Aleph," I said, shrugging into my coat and adjusting the collar before plugging the phone into the earpiece, slotting it into place, and dropping the receiver into my pocket. "I don't pay attention. Besides, I've just got back from tour."
"We know. If you hadn't been touring, you'd have contacted us at least six days ago." Something about the certainty of that statement made me go cold. "I'm sending the details to your PDA now. There are pictures. Have you eaten?"
"Given that question, I'm assuming the correct answer is 'no'," I said, as my PDA started beeping. I walked over to the table, picked it up, and clicked it on. "What am I looking at?"
"You tell me."
That's one of those statements that a sane woman never wants to hear. Of course, a sane woman never wants to see the pictures Aleph sent me, either.
The human body is a fantastic machine, full of small, intricately connected moving parts. And, like any machine, it can be broken. Things that work can be turned into things that don't work, through application of force or sabotage or just simple entropy. It's inevitable, really.
You can tell a lot from the way something breaks. A mechanic breaks a car in a way that is entirely different from the way a bored teenager with a sledgehammer would do it. The art and skill of destruction. Most people, when they get broken, rather than just breaking down, are broken by that kid with the blunt instrument; they're hit by buses or stabbed by jealous lovers or shoved off buildings. It's tragic, but it doesn't really stay with you. It's just parts.
These people had been broken by an artist. Every cut was surgical, precise...and familiar. I flipped through the set of photos five times, falling silent as I studied them. I could hear Aleph breathing, and the distant, unimportant sound of typing; I was still on the Frequency. I was still on, and I was staying on, damn them all, because of what they'd just handed to me. Six women. Two men.
Angie was number four.
Mark was number seven.
The other six were people I didn't recognize, but I was sure that one of them had been Tomy, who I had never met; it only made sense, given Miranda's refusal to tell me why the three of them had gone off the Frequency. Maybe I wouldn't have recognized Angie or Mark after what had been done to them, but it was all just damage, after all, bodies opened up like bromeliads, petals spread and pinned down on the streets.
"Three of these were in Whitechapel," I said, and was amazed at how calm my own voice was. "Is this an individual or an organization? Either way, there should be notes by now. No one tries to modernize Jack the Ripper without leaving notes."
"We think it's an organization, and they've been leaving notes at a rate of one per body," Aleph replied, promptly. "The police have been intercepting them; none have reached the press, yet, but it's probably just a matter of time. I'm sending you the files on all eight victims. They--"
I cut her off. "How many were folklorists?"
"All eight."
Of course. Nothing says 'fun way to spend the weekend' like poking at the potential organization of madmen who thought you'd look better with your insides somewhere else. "Right," I said, wearily. "Can I get copies of the notes?"
"They're with your partner. Meet Alexander Banks at the Books Etc. on the corner of Kingsbury and Dwight; he's got the original notes in his custody, as well as an annotated map of the areas where they've been found. Your forensics expert will be joining you this evening -- we're flying her in from Hamburg. Assuming the killers keep to their schedule, she should be landing about two hours before body number nine shows up."
"I always wanted to spend my Friday at a fresh crime scene," I said, clicking my PDA closed and shoving it into the pocket with my phone. "If Mr. Banks has all this stuff, may I assume he's with the police?"
"Scotland Yard, actually."
"Of course he is." I glanced around the apartment as I grabbed my laptop off the table, thankful that I'd never bothered to unpack it. "If I get deported over this, Aleph, you tell Miranda she damn well owes me dinner."
"I will. Now move."
I moved.
4.
London is one of the most frequently-sacrificed cities in the world. I don't mean that it has the most human sacrifices per year or anything stupid like that: I mean that if you go back through the history of London, it is a city that gets killed, or kills itself, on a regular basis. The London I walked through on my way to catch the train is not the London that Jack the Ripper or haunted, or the London that Boudicca tried to take, or any of the other Londons that came before it. It's my London, your London, the London that happens right now, and it's never going to happen again, because the city will kill itself -- or be killed -- before it has a chance to get too comfortable. That's why London will never really die. It's like a phoenix, going constantly up in flames, then rising again from the ashes.
The trouble is that when the city burns, it really doesn't care about who burns with it. It's hard to be concerned about that sort of thing when you're self-immoliating. Every time London goes up, people die.
Sadly, this was the cheeriest thing I could find to dwell on as I fed my travelcard into the gate and hopped onto a Jubilee line train. The cycles of history have always been something that could reassure me when things seemed bleakest. Even if we all die of plague today, we'll live on as stories, come tomorrow.
Maybe this explains why I never seem to hold onto a girlfriend longer than six months.
Once I was on the train and settled, I pulled out my PDA, skipping the pictures -- too public a place for that -- and going straight to the files Aleph had promised me. Dossiers on all eight of the victims, everything they'd ever done, everything they'd ever wanted to do; full profiles, right down to distinguishing marks and embarrassing Internet postings. I was wrong; Tomy wasn't on the list, which meant that she was offline for some other reason. Meant there was a chance she'd come back on, if she survived it. Mark and Angie, well...
Angie had been called in while I was in Singapore, discussing British legends with a collection of scholars from around the world. They tapped her because her investigatory skills were almost as good as her folklore -- she was like having your cake, and eating it too. Her notes were included with the dossier, and they were very, very good, cross-referencing the cases she'd had available to study with the Jack the Ripper legends on a variety of fronts, as well as with several lesser-known and copy-cat killers. It's always good to have the groundwork done before you have to start digging for yourself.
They called Mark in when Angie's body was found lying spread-eagled, naked, and filleted in the middle of a park in Crouch End. He arrived in London the next day. Ah, the powers of Miranda Zero and her frequency; I'd been trying to get him to come visit for over a year.
Pity his stay had to be so damn short.
Mark's notes were more confusing than Angie's had been, which made a measure of sense; she was a journalist, in her own weird way, while he was a researcher. That's also why his were probably going to be more useful. She wrote down the pipes. He wrote down the ashes.
I finished reading the third of the eight dossiers as my train reached the station where I was meant to disembark, and I kept reading while I walked out, into the lift, and then out onto the street. The lights were on in the Books Etc., shining gamely through a thin and drizzling rain. That's London for you; always willing to go the extra mile to be atmospheric.
I found Alexander Banks of Scotland Yard and the Global Frequency upstairs in the children's section, flipping through the latest Harry Potter opus with one eyebrow raised in what looked like mild amusement. He wasn't wearing his jacket, but I could see the logo on the phone that was propped oh-so-carefully in his pocket. That's the thing about secret societies; you've got to have your signs.
"Susan," I said, as I approached.
He looked up. "Alexander," he replied. "They didn't tell me you were American."
"And they didn't tell me you were Welsh. Isn't it lovely, what they don't tell us?"
"The world's foremost authority on the folklore of London is an American?" He put the Harry Potter book back on the shelf. "That's a bit of a blow to the home team, don't you think?"
"They didn't tell me you were a bigot, either. Could you be more casually insulting on the fly, or do you need some time to think about it? I'm gay, too, if that helps you come up with things." I shook my head. "I don't have time for this. Aleph said you'd have the notes."
Alexander's expression smoothed out, becoming professional and cold. He nodded. "They're in my satchel."
"Is there a place that we can go?"
"My flat is three blocks from here," he replied, with a nod towards the front of the shop. "We can put a kettle on."
"And talk about dead people," I said, dryly. "Sounds like a date."
5.
Alexander's flat was clearly a bachelor's abode. The place was cluttered, small, and smelled strongly of cat. Cats, actually, three of them, vast, spotted creatures who watched me from the top of their supersized cat-tree with all the dismissive calm of a predator that has the advantage of height. They were starting to make me nervous, if the truth be told.
"What kind of cats were those again?" I asked.
"Savannas."
"The kind that only stopped being wild African jungle cats three generations ago?" Alexander nodded. I sighed. "Well, at least I'll be killed by something other than a crazed cult of Jack the Ripper enthusiasts."
"How'd you mean?"
"Never mind. I assume Aleph sent you the writeups on the victims?" He nodded. "All eight of them were folklorists--"
"--and two were on the Frequency," he said. "Did you see that only four of them were local?"
"What?"
"Look." He produced a file folder, pulling out sheets of travel records. "Mark Guillory and Susanne Levitts were American; they both arrived within seventy-two hours of their deaths. Angie Dickenson was Australian, arrived Monday, died Thursday. And Cleone Law was French. She died the day that she arrived."
"That's...hang on." I pulled out my PDA, pulling up the list of names again. "This isn't right."
"'This' is eight people who were literally sliced into ribbons," Alexander said, grimly. "There's nothing right about it."
"That's not what I meant," I said. "Thomas Cunningham shouldn't have been in London; this time of year, he's doing the fairs up North, studying the evolution of real events into stories through word-of-mouth. Kathleen McDonald never leaves Cardiff until September at the very earliest. And Olive Walker hasn't set foot in London since the early eighties. Says the city is cursed to end in flames, and while that's very nice for those of us who want to deal with that, she's happier staying at home and not burning to death with the rest of us." I looked up. "The only one of these people that was actually supposed to be here was Selena Mitchell. She was doing a seasonal curatorship at the British Museum."
"Something brought them here, then," he said, frowning.
"The Frequency brought Mark and Angie here, but the rest of them..." I shook my head. "There must have been a lure. Hang on."
Calling Aleph from a Frequency phone is just a matter of touching a button. I was still wearing my earpiece. "You're on the Global Frequency," she announced, half a second after I reached for my phone. "What can I do for you?"
"Aleph, we have eight dead folklorists, only one of whom had any known reason to be London," I said. "Two of them came when called, but that still leaves us with five bodies who shouldn't have been here. Can you check any available correspondence for references to a London event that might have brought them out?"
"Accessing their files now," she replied. "Hang tight, you two. Are you playing nice with Mister Banks, Suzie?"
"You know me," I said, blandly. "Just as nice as Christmas morning. Call back if you find anything?"
"I will."
The connection clicked off as I turned back towards Alexander. "She's checking their files."
"Lovely." He gave me a thoughtful look. "World expert, you say."
"None better. That's why I'm on the Frequency. Why?"
"Well, if there's someone out there fishing for folklore experts, I'd be surprised if they didn't at least cast a line for you." He shrugged. "Have you been home recently?"
"I was on a lecture tour. I just got back this morning." I frowned, slowly. "I haven't even had the chance to go through my mail."
"That might be a thought, after we pick up Dr. Heike from the airport," he said. "If someone was trying to get your attention, there are probably still signs of it."
"Or they may have been waiting for me to come home," I said, reaching for my laptop. "How charming.
"I've always wanted the opportunity to be bait."
6.
Doctor Julianne Heike was a thin, petite woman with a corona of quail-coloured curls framing a deeply serious face. She was wearing street clothes when we retrieved her from the Heathrow arrivals gate, clutching an overnight bag in one hand.
"Doctor Heike?" Alexander asked, offering her his hand. "I'm Detective Banks, and this is Professor--"
"Hello, Susan," said Ju, mildly.
I quirked a brief smile. "Hello, Ju. Car's out front. When did they get you on the Frequency?"
"Six weeks after we broke up. You?"
"Six months."
"You realize Aleph is laughing herself sick right about now?"
"Yes," I said, mildly, and reached out to take her bag. "Come on. We need to go search my apartment for signs that crazy people have been there recently."
"Oh?" She gave me a politely innocent look. "When was the last time you were there?"
"I'm going to assume you two know each other," Alexander said, dryly. "Let's move."
Ju's the one who first told me I was a bromeliad. She didn't mean it as a compliment; it was meant to be a slap at the level of specialization I'd achieved, and the way that I kept increasing it, until she finally realized that I'd never be willing to leave London. She wouldn't give up on Germany, and so things sort of, well, fell apart. The irony of the both of us being exotic plants in Miranda Zero's nursery wasn't lost on me.
Too bad I didn't feel more like laughing.
The possibility that something had been planted in my apartment had transformed it into something frightening; a foreign landscape that just happened to seem achingly familiar if I looked at it the right way. Crime scenes and physical investigation have never been a strength of mine, so I hung back by the door as Alexander and Julianne began carefully, methodically taking the place apart, moving in tandem, like they'd worked together for years. It was almost like watching a crime drama on television, except that these were my things that they were sliding their hands all over, my shelves that they were searching for signs of an intruder.
Watching my privacy invaded on that level became quickly uncomfortable, and so I turned my attention to a small, mundane task: sorting through the mail that was piled next to the door in a vast, untidy heap. Most of it was just junk -- bills, advertising flyers, a few postcards from acquaintances in other countries, a letter from one of the American grad students that had been studying with me over the past year -- the usual. I was almost at the bottom of the pile when I hit a heavy, cream-coloured envelope that didn't look like anything I was expecting.
"The Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards," I read off the envelope. "I haven't heard of those before."
"What?" Alexander looked around. "Susan, what have you got?"
"An invitation to a conference here in London, looks like," I said, dismissively. Then I paused. "A conference in London that I haven't heard of."
"Give it here," he said. I obliged as quickly as if the envelope had been prepared to bite me. For all that I knew, it had. "Doctor Heike?"
"Here," Julianne said, moving to stand next to him. "Heavy paper."
"Cotton bond."
"Homemade. Look at the fibers; nothing machine-pressed those."
"The calligraphy, though -- that's a standard font."
"So open it," she said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger.
Alexander nodded, expression grim, and produced a knife, slitting the envelope expertly open. He cut away from himself, I saw; more importantly, both of them held their breath as he cut. When nothing visibly puffed out of the envelope, Julianne pulled on a pair of thin plastic gloves, took the envelope from Alexander, and slid her fingers gingerly inside.
My phone rang.
"This is Susan," I said, watching as Ju produced a small sheet of vellum, holding it up for Alexander to see.
"Aleph here. Susan, I checked the files on all your out-of-town guests. Three of them had written about attending the 'Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards' in London. Ring any bells?"
"Alexander and Julianne are studying one of those invitation right now," I said, grimly. "I've never heard of those awards before."
"Didn't think so, somehow, given that the only hits I'm getting are off the records of the deceased. Can you get me a picture of the invitation?"
"Hang on a second," I said, and pulled my phone handset out of my pocket. "Alexander, can you hold that up for me? Aleph wants to see."
"Of course."
The card was simple and elegant, calligraphy on semi-clear vellum. I held up my phone and snapped a photo, then took a moment to consider the text.
Please to remember the grotto,
It's only once a year.
We have our share of hardships,
So leave a penny here.
The Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards:
rewarding excellence in the study
of the forgotten world.
Admission by Invitation Only.
Invitation must be presented on arrival.
The address it gave wasn't one I recognized.
"Aleph, can you run that address?"
Her answer was immediate: "Return to sender, address unknown."
"So that's our lure," I said, grimly. "But why insist that people bring the invitations along?"
"Autopsy showed small traces of an unidentified psychotropic chemical in the blood," Ju said, abruptly. "They were drugged. Perhaps the paper has been somehow infused?"
This just got better and better. "Is there any way to test for that?" I asked, looking between them.
Ju blinked at me, blandly. "May I use your stove?"
7.
I do not understand chemistry. I have never needed to understand chemistry. I am a folklorist, and my need to comprehend chemical reactions begins and ends with not blowing my kitchen up. In the end, I went back into the living room to pace and fret while Alexander and Julianne disassembled my kitchen and turned it into a home forensics center, ripping the card into thin strips and testing them against every common stimulus that an invitation was likely to encounter in the course of being carried through the London night.
When Julianne came back into the room giggling under her breath and looking like she'd spent the last hour inhaling illegal substances in the back of someone's van, I knew that they'd found something.
"Ju?" I said, turning towards her.
She beamed at me. "In the paper! It's the paper! It's aaaaaaaall mixed into the paper, all opium and giddiness and the happy sound of birds in the springtime, tweet tweet, ha ha!"
Alexander walked into the living room, saying, "I've turned on the fan and opened the kitchen windows, but you still may not want to go in there for a while."
"So I see." I steered Ju gently away from a shelf of breakable ceramic bric-a-brac, asking, "What happened?"
"The 'invitations' are actually the solid state of a light and heat-sensitive chemical compound that begins releasing a sort of a...very, very happy sedative once it hits a certain temperature. The bearer gets giddy, for lack of a better term."
"Giddiness doesn't kill you," I said, catching Ju as she stumbled against me. She started playing with my hair, and I grimaced. "That's distracting, Ju. Please stop."
"Suzie, I miiiiiissed you," she crooned.
Alexander cleared his throat. "No, but the secondary chemical reaction knocks you cold."
"Secondary reaction?" I asked, sharply.
"Inhale gas fumes and you're out," he said. "That's why the victims were so easy to open. They didn't struggle."
Charming. Also worrisome. "They used opium and gas lamps to kill people," I said, quietly. "And they used the Highgate Grotto rhyme on their cards. And they're killing folklorists."
"Susan?" said Alexander, eyebrows raising.
"I know who's doing this," I said, with a shake of my head. "It all makes perfect sense. And we need to move."
8.
The Grottos of Highgate: just another bit of London folklore that appeared for no obvious reason, thrived for a few dozen years, then vanished as suddenly as it had begun. Children would cluster on the streets of Highgate Town, building tiny grottos out of stones, sand, bits of wood, and shells; then they'd beg passers-by for a penny, in remembrance of poor Tommy, who -- in the words of their begging rhyme -- had a 'mother in the graveyard, and a father gone to sea'. He had 'not a soul in all the world', so 'please, today, remember me'. It's a charming bit of folklore and nonsense. Almost entirely forgotten.
"Some people say the Highgate children were actually being paid by a secret society to be out there," I said, as Alexander took the corner at a speed that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Julianne was giggling aimlessly in the back seat, distracted by the mirror in a compact of blush. "They were giving a message to the people of London. The message was listened to, and the children went away."
"What was the message?" he asked.
"'Repent'."
He shot me a sharp look. "Do you believe that?"
"Well," I said, "I'm currently being driven through London by an agent of Scotland Yard, to an address that we got off an invitation made of pressed opium, while my ex-girlfriend the forensic chemist giggles herself stupid in the back seat of the car. Did I mention that we were doing this at the bequest of a secret organization of intelligence agents from around the world? Because we are."
"So you're saying that stranger things have happened."
"Exactly."
"What, precisely, are we repenting for?"
"It's not so much the repentance that matters. It's knowing that you could burn." I looked out the window, watching London flashing by. "London burns down constantly. That's part of what characterizes the city. These are people who want to keep the cycle of death and renewal going."
"Why Jack the Ripper? And why target the folklorists?"
This was the sticky bit. "Because Jack the Ripper is famous for doing what happens in London all the time: he's a sensational way of getting people's attention. Something the grottos did more slowly, and more quietly. They're trying to set the city on fire in the proverbial sense. As for targeting the folklorists, well..." I shrugged. "We're the only ones likely to say 'this is intentional' instead of 'this is the city eating us alive'."
"Ever more charming." Alexander pulled the car to a stop in front of the hotel indicated by my invitation. Huge, flickering gas lamps flanked the door. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?"
"No."
"Learn," he recommended, and handed me a pistol.
9.
If you've read this far in my little account, odds are good that you're looking forward to the big showdown. You want to see good versus evil, or at least 'not killing people in horrible, sensational ways' versus 'dicks who send sheets of pressed opium to the homes of innocent folklorists and then carve them up like sides of beef'. Guns blasting. Blood spurting. People screaming. You want to see a Quentin Tarantino movie playing out in the cinema of your mind, and I suppose that I can't blame you for that. But I can't write it. Because I can't remember it.
We walked into the hotel. We walked across the lobby while Aleph accessed the records, and directed us up to the penthouse.
I remember Alexander knocking politely, saying, "Scotland Yard."
I remember someone shooting a hole in the door six inches from his head. I remember him shouting, "You're on the Global Frequency, you candy-arse bastards!" and kicking the door in.
I remember Aleph saying, "Focus, Susan, focus. Stay with us, Susan. Focus," in my ear, over and over again, forcing me to keep paying attention to the sound of her voice.
I don't really remember much else before waking up in the hospital. Turns out Alexander and I have the same blood type.
Bully for me.
10.
The killings stopped.
Give it time, though. This is London. This city always burns.
At least Julianne and I are speaking again. And that's something, right? Tomy turned out to have been on assignment in Australia -- something about the Rainbow Serpant waking up and writhing in the bowels of the Earth. Details were classified.
Thank God.
If things can stay a little more classified around here, there's a chance that I might actually start sleeping again. Not that I'm planning to count on it, because there's these five words, right? I've heard them before. Last time I heard them, a lot of people died before they got to me. Doesn't mean I've wanted to hear them again; some things don't become any more appealling just because you know that they can do their share of good. Being a bromeliad means I like to stay up in my tree, roots firmly fixed in place, and stay alive.
Just five words. That's all. I never want to hear them again.
But I will.
Once you're on the Global Frequency...
...you stay connected.
Rating: R, for language, themes, and a lovely bit of gore.
Fandom: Global Frequency.
Synopsis: You're on the Global Frequency. Jack the Ripper-style killings are being performed by a copy-cat killer -- or maybe more than one of them -- operating in modern London. Problem: they seem to be trying to send some sort of a message. How do you stop them before things get entirely out of hand? Miranda Zero is counting on you, and the world is counting on her...
This was written in answer to arib's request in the latest round of Iron Author. (Given that he gave me 'giddy' and 'lamplight', this is proof that I'm perverse.)
***
1.
So there's these five words, right? And maybe I signed up to hear them one day, if you really want to be all technical about it, but that doesn't mean I ever expected that I actually would. I'm not just a specialist; I'm a specialist's specialist, taking 'niche' down to a new and exciting level. My ex used to say I was the human equivalent of one of those rain forest plants that only grows in one place, in one kind of soil, when the weather is just so. Change the conditions and the thing goes extinct, forever. That's how specialized I am. Change my conditions and I stop functioning.
Last Thursday, the conditions changed. Because last Thursday, that damn phone -- that damn, stupid phone, the one I only agreed to take because...well, never mind why I agreed to take it, you can't change the past -- finally started to ring. 'It will probably never ring,' she told me. That's what she said. 'If it does, it's because your specific expertise is needed. The world could depend on you.'
Since when did the world go around depending on a historian who studies -- only and exclusively -- the folklore of the city of London, that's what I'd really like to know. So if someone could be kind enough to tell me, I'd be grateful.
But the phone rang. And so I, like a good, stupid little girl who keeps her promises even when she'd rather run screaming in the opposite direction, picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Susan?" said that damned familiar voice. "This is Miranda Zero."
"Yes," I said wearily. "I know." And then came the five words that I'd been dreading:
"You're on the Global Frequency."
2.
My name is Susan Garrety. I am thirty-two years old, slightly below average height, with carroty-brown hair that a former significant other once described as being the colour of overly boiled yams. I wear glasses, slacks, and sensible shoes; I have a cat, a small apartment within easy walking distance of the British Museum, a book contract that -- barely -- allows me to pay the bills, and a severe allergy to shellfish. I teach in the summers; English folklore. I used to teach all year long, before I managed to specialize enough to start writing. I fly back to America for a lecture circuit once every three years, and spend a lot of time on both sides of the pond trying to avoid discussing American politics.
You could walk past me in a crowd, quite easily. Given the way that coincidence is King in London, and Lady Luck is the unchallenged Queen, you probably have, several times. I'm one of those perfectly ordinary, perfectly average women that you can lose sight of, just by blinking.
I'm also the world's foremost expert on the native folklore of London.
That sounds a little cocky, but it's entirely true. If what you're looking for is obscure little stories about the ghost chicken in Highgate Cemetery, or the broadside sheets that used to be sold along Charing Cross Road, I'm the one you want to see. The things I study are so small and so strange in this modern world that no one else really cares about them anymore; hasn't cared about them for a very long time, if I really want to be honest. I'm a specialist's specialist, the bromeliad of the historical world, with my roots holding tightly to a single tree. Less work this way, but less competition, too, and I love the city. I always have. I love the stories that it's hiding, the secrets that nobody remembers but me. Finding them out, chasing them down and prying them out of the stones, it's like a form of magic. Small magic, but magic, all the same. And it's mine.
I'll admit it: I was flattered when, after another sparsely-attended lecture on the ghost stories of Knightsbridge -- give a talk on Jack the Ripper and it's standing-room only, with a waiting list besides, but talk about something interesting and only eleven people show up, half of them because they bought their tickets discount to make it into the Whitechapel talk I'd be giving next day -- I was approached by a woman who said she really, truly needed to speak to me. Didn't hurt that she was easy on the eyes, all sleek black hair and crisp, mannish business suit. She said she'd only need a few moments of my time, and while she didn't smile, exactly, there was something that might have been the seed of an expression in her very red, very pretty mouth.
I'm only human. I followed her like a lamb goes to the slaughter. I was expecting...I don't really know what I was expecting. Coffee, maybe. Dinner. At worst, a snide comment about how 'all you academics' really do 'swing the wrong way up the tree'. I've heard just about all of it.
I wasn't expecting her to pull out a phone, look me in the eye, and lead off with her name. "I'm Miranda Zero. I presume, given your field, that you've heard of me."
It wasn't a question, and it didn't have to be. Half of the study of folklore is the archeology of conspiracy theories. Think I'm kidding? Magical bullets and the mob drowning Marilyn Monroe are really just a few steps away from 'fairies stole my real baby, that's why I threw this one into the fireplace' or 'I didn't leave you to sleep with a Frenchwoman, darling, I was kidnapped by a mermaid'. Today's tabloids are tomorrow's fairy tales. I'm not a real student of modern folklore -- the past has enough to keep me busy, thanks awfully -- but it's impossible to move in the circles I'm a part of and not hear a few things. Like the name Miranda Zero.
Like the stories about her underground security organization, the Global Frequency, which recruits highly specialized people from all around the world, networks them, and -- supposedly -- leans on them to save the world from threats that no government is in a position to handle. Supposedly, they do this all the time. Every hour of every day, some threat pokes its head up, and Miranda Zero and her squadron of impossible dragon slayers turn about and whack it off.
Everybody knows the stories, and so of course, I've heard them.
I just didn't believe them.
Feeling a bit like my chain was being yanked, I looked at her evenly and said, "I'm going to need to see some ID."
"Of course, Miss Garrety," she replied, and produced her wallet, handing it over without hesitation. That's really when I knew. Oh, sure, I went through the process of checking her identification, studying the cards, looking at the flat, unblinking photos of the real, unblinking woman in front of me, but that's when I knew. It wasn't a hoax. It wasn't a joke. Her name was Miranda Zero. And that meant...
I flipped her wallet closed and handed it back to her. "All right. You're Miranda Zero. I've heard of you. What can I do for you today?"
"I want you," she said, "on the Global Frequency."
It was the best sales pitch I've ever heard, largely because it wasn't a sales pitch at all. It was just a series of calm, irrefutable facts, presented without hesitation, and without hyperbole. She wasn't trying to make things sound better than they were: she was telling the truth, setting it out in a series of thin, bloodless slices for me to examine.
"The world is under constant attack by forces which are, for one reason or another, beyond the scope of local law enforcement, government, expertise, or ethical capacity to handle. This is not a question of 'right' or 'wrong': it's a question of whether or not the world is going to be here tomorrow. In the past eight weeks, my organization has stopped an alien invasion transmitted through a series of electronic pulses, a nuclear war, the bombing of six major cities, the burning of Rome, a locust swarm which would have destroyed the heartland of America, and three viral outbreaks which would have wiped out the population of entire continents, two of which were man-made, one of which was a particularly clever crossing of Ebola with the common cold." Her expression remained level, unchanging throughout this recitation. "The men and women of the Frequency come from every cultural, social, economic and religious background in the world. They have been chosen for their expertise, and for the simple fact that they are needed."
"You collect bromeliads," I said, inanely.
Maybe it was inane, but it actually made Miranda smile. "Yes," she said. "I suppose I do. This phone," she held up her hand, "is connected to the Frequency. It will only ring when I want it to ring. I want you on the Frequency, Susan. You know things no one else knows. The world might need you."
She was offering me the chance to be a hero. To make folklore -- the folklore of the future -- rather than just playing with the folklore of the past.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't. I have...I have duties, and a schedule to keep, and...I can't."
She looked at me evenly. "It will probably never ring. If it does, it's because your specific expertise is needed. The world could depend on you."
If she'd just said 'please', I could have told her no. I've always been good at saying no to women when they've felt the need to tack a 'please' onto things. But she didn't say 'please'; she didn't beg. Miranda Zero doesn't beg. I could take the phone, or not. I could save the world, or not. I could know that one day we might all die because I was a coward...or not.
I took the phone.
Miranda smiled.
"Welcome to the Frequency, seven fifty-three," she said.
3.
So here we are, two years later, and the damn phone finally decides that now would be a good thing to read. Thanks, phone. Remind me to do a favour for you one of these days. Oh, I'd consulted for the Frequency a few times, but they'd never called me directly; never thrown me into action, as it were.
"You're on the Global Frequency," said Miranda.
"I got that," I said. "Why am I on the Global Frequency, Miranda? I expect this isn't a social call."
I could hear her smirking. "Number seven fifty-three, you are the only folklore specialist currently online. What is your status?"
"Home, alone, I -- wait, what?" The thing about being on the Frequency is that you tend to network, at least a little bit, with the other people who overlap your areas of expertise. I wasn't Miranda's only bromeliad. There was Mark, who studied urban legends and modern mythology, when he wasn't writing for the Weekly World News; Angie, who ran a website on the strange and paranormal; Tomy, who actually had a degree in parapsychology. "I can't be the only folklorist currently online. What about--"
"That isn't important right now. What is your status?"
I knew what 'that isn't important right now' meant. That meant 'the others have gone offline'. Going offline, well...
People don't come back online once they go off of it. Not since Lazarus, anyway.
I closed my eyes. "Available," I said.
"Good," Miranda replied. "Hold for your assignment."
The next voice to speak was brighter, more chipper, less controlled. "Hey, hey, hey," she said. "This is Aleph. Hey, Suzie. How's tricks?"
"Been better, Aleph," I said, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I made for the closet, and the Global Frequency jacket that's been hanging there, untouched, for the past two years. "Definitely been better. What's the situation?"
Aleph speaks my language: the tongue of pure, undilluted detail-freak, where the ashes on the floor matter more than the pipe that they came out of. Of course, she speaks it on a higher plane than, well, anyone else alive, but she understands the things I fixate on. Better than most people ever could.
"Been better," she said, with a light, sardonic note. "Have you been reading the papers? Eight murders in London over the last eight days."
"Murders in London happen all the time, Aleph," I said, shrugging into my coat and adjusting the collar before plugging the phone into the earpiece, slotting it into place, and dropping the receiver into my pocket. "I don't pay attention. Besides, I've just got back from tour."
"We know. If you hadn't been touring, you'd have contacted us at least six days ago." Something about the certainty of that statement made me go cold. "I'm sending the details to your PDA now. There are pictures. Have you eaten?"
"Given that question, I'm assuming the correct answer is 'no'," I said, as my PDA started beeping. I walked over to the table, picked it up, and clicked it on. "What am I looking at?"
"You tell me."
That's one of those statements that a sane woman never wants to hear. Of course, a sane woman never wants to see the pictures Aleph sent me, either.
The human body is a fantastic machine, full of small, intricately connected moving parts. And, like any machine, it can be broken. Things that work can be turned into things that don't work, through application of force or sabotage or just simple entropy. It's inevitable, really.
You can tell a lot from the way something breaks. A mechanic breaks a car in a way that is entirely different from the way a bored teenager with a sledgehammer would do it. The art and skill of destruction. Most people, when they get broken, rather than just breaking down, are broken by that kid with the blunt instrument; they're hit by buses or stabbed by jealous lovers or shoved off buildings. It's tragic, but it doesn't really stay with you. It's just parts.
These people had been broken by an artist. Every cut was surgical, precise...and familiar. I flipped through the set of photos five times, falling silent as I studied them. I could hear Aleph breathing, and the distant, unimportant sound of typing; I was still on the Frequency. I was still on, and I was staying on, damn them all, because of what they'd just handed to me. Six women. Two men.
Angie was number four.
Mark was number seven.
The other six were people I didn't recognize, but I was sure that one of them had been Tomy, who I had never met; it only made sense, given Miranda's refusal to tell me why the three of them had gone off the Frequency. Maybe I wouldn't have recognized Angie or Mark after what had been done to them, but it was all just damage, after all, bodies opened up like bromeliads, petals spread and pinned down on the streets.
"Three of these were in Whitechapel," I said, and was amazed at how calm my own voice was. "Is this an individual or an organization? Either way, there should be notes by now. No one tries to modernize Jack the Ripper without leaving notes."
"We think it's an organization, and they've been leaving notes at a rate of one per body," Aleph replied, promptly. "The police have been intercepting them; none have reached the press, yet, but it's probably just a matter of time. I'm sending you the files on all eight victims. They--"
I cut her off. "How many were folklorists?"
"All eight."
Of course. Nothing says 'fun way to spend the weekend' like poking at the potential organization of madmen who thought you'd look better with your insides somewhere else. "Right," I said, wearily. "Can I get copies of the notes?"
"They're with your partner. Meet Alexander Banks at the Books Etc. on the corner of Kingsbury and Dwight; he's got the original notes in his custody, as well as an annotated map of the areas where they've been found. Your forensics expert will be joining you this evening -- we're flying her in from Hamburg. Assuming the killers keep to their schedule, she should be landing about two hours before body number nine shows up."
"I always wanted to spend my Friday at a fresh crime scene," I said, clicking my PDA closed and shoving it into the pocket with my phone. "If Mr. Banks has all this stuff, may I assume he's with the police?"
"Scotland Yard, actually."
"Of course he is." I glanced around the apartment as I grabbed my laptop off the table, thankful that I'd never bothered to unpack it. "If I get deported over this, Aleph, you tell Miranda she damn well owes me dinner."
"I will. Now move."
I moved.
4.
London is one of the most frequently-sacrificed cities in the world. I don't mean that it has the most human sacrifices per year or anything stupid like that: I mean that if you go back through the history of London, it is a city that gets killed, or kills itself, on a regular basis. The London I walked through on my way to catch the train is not the London that Jack the Ripper or haunted, or the London that Boudicca tried to take, or any of the other Londons that came before it. It's my London, your London, the London that happens right now, and it's never going to happen again, because the city will kill itself -- or be killed -- before it has a chance to get too comfortable. That's why London will never really die. It's like a phoenix, going constantly up in flames, then rising again from the ashes.
The trouble is that when the city burns, it really doesn't care about who burns with it. It's hard to be concerned about that sort of thing when you're self-immoliating. Every time London goes up, people die.
Sadly, this was the cheeriest thing I could find to dwell on as I fed my travelcard into the gate and hopped onto a Jubilee line train. The cycles of history have always been something that could reassure me when things seemed bleakest. Even if we all die of plague today, we'll live on as stories, come tomorrow.
Maybe this explains why I never seem to hold onto a girlfriend longer than six months.
Once I was on the train and settled, I pulled out my PDA, skipping the pictures -- too public a place for that -- and going straight to the files Aleph had promised me. Dossiers on all eight of the victims, everything they'd ever done, everything they'd ever wanted to do; full profiles, right down to distinguishing marks and embarrassing Internet postings. I was wrong; Tomy wasn't on the list, which meant that she was offline for some other reason. Meant there was a chance she'd come back on, if she survived it. Mark and Angie, well...
Angie had been called in while I was in Singapore, discussing British legends with a collection of scholars from around the world. They tapped her because her investigatory skills were almost as good as her folklore -- she was like having your cake, and eating it too. Her notes were included with the dossier, and they were very, very good, cross-referencing the cases she'd had available to study with the Jack the Ripper legends on a variety of fronts, as well as with several lesser-known and copy-cat killers. It's always good to have the groundwork done before you have to start digging for yourself.
They called Mark in when Angie's body was found lying spread-eagled, naked, and filleted in the middle of a park in Crouch End. He arrived in London the next day. Ah, the powers of Miranda Zero and her frequency; I'd been trying to get him to come visit for over a year.
Pity his stay had to be so damn short.
Mark's notes were more confusing than Angie's had been, which made a measure of sense; she was a journalist, in her own weird way, while he was a researcher. That's also why his were probably going to be more useful. She wrote down the pipes. He wrote down the ashes.
I finished reading the third of the eight dossiers as my train reached the station where I was meant to disembark, and I kept reading while I walked out, into the lift, and then out onto the street. The lights were on in the Books Etc., shining gamely through a thin and drizzling rain. That's London for you; always willing to go the extra mile to be atmospheric.
I found Alexander Banks of Scotland Yard and the Global Frequency upstairs in the children's section, flipping through the latest Harry Potter opus with one eyebrow raised in what looked like mild amusement. He wasn't wearing his jacket, but I could see the logo on the phone that was propped oh-so-carefully in his pocket. That's the thing about secret societies; you've got to have your signs.
"Susan," I said, as I approached.
He looked up. "Alexander," he replied. "They didn't tell me you were American."
"And they didn't tell me you were Welsh. Isn't it lovely, what they don't tell us?"
"The world's foremost authority on the folklore of London is an American?" He put the Harry Potter book back on the shelf. "That's a bit of a blow to the home team, don't you think?"
"They didn't tell me you were a bigot, either. Could you be more casually insulting on the fly, or do you need some time to think about it? I'm gay, too, if that helps you come up with things." I shook my head. "I don't have time for this. Aleph said you'd have the notes."
Alexander's expression smoothed out, becoming professional and cold. He nodded. "They're in my satchel."
"Is there a place that we can go?"
"My flat is three blocks from here," he replied, with a nod towards the front of the shop. "We can put a kettle on."
"And talk about dead people," I said, dryly. "Sounds like a date."
5.
Alexander's flat was clearly a bachelor's abode. The place was cluttered, small, and smelled strongly of cat. Cats, actually, three of them, vast, spotted creatures who watched me from the top of their supersized cat-tree with all the dismissive calm of a predator that has the advantage of height. They were starting to make me nervous, if the truth be told.
"What kind of cats were those again?" I asked.
"Savannas."
"The kind that only stopped being wild African jungle cats three generations ago?" Alexander nodded. I sighed. "Well, at least I'll be killed by something other than a crazed cult of Jack the Ripper enthusiasts."
"How'd you mean?"
"Never mind. I assume Aleph sent you the writeups on the victims?" He nodded. "All eight of them were folklorists--"
"--and two were on the Frequency," he said. "Did you see that only four of them were local?"
"What?"
"Look." He produced a file folder, pulling out sheets of travel records. "Mark Guillory and Susanne Levitts were American; they both arrived within seventy-two hours of their deaths. Angie Dickenson was Australian, arrived Monday, died Thursday. And Cleone Law was French. She died the day that she arrived."
"That's...hang on." I pulled out my PDA, pulling up the list of names again. "This isn't right."
"'This' is eight people who were literally sliced into ribbons," Alexander said, grimly. "There's nothing right about it."
"That's not what I meant," I said. "Thomas Cunningham shouldn't have been in London; this time of year, he's doing the fairs up North, studying the evolution of real events into stories through word-of-mouth. Kathleen McDonald never leaves Cardiff until September at the very earliest. And Olive Walker hasn't set foot in London since the early eighties. Says the city is cursed to end in flames, and while that's very nice for those of us who want to deal with that, she's happier staying at home and not burning to death with the rest of us." I looked up. "The only one of these people that was actually supposed to be here was Selena Mitchell. She was doing a seasonal curatorship at the British Museum."
"Something brought them here, then," he said, frowning.
"The Frequency brought Mark and Angie here, but the rest of them..." I shook my head. "There must have been a lure. Hang on."
Calling Aleph from a Frequency phone is just a matter of touching a button. I was still wearing my earpiece. "You're on the Global Frequency," she announced, half a second after I reached for my phone. "What can I do for you?"
"Aleph, we have eight dead folklorists, only one of whom had any known reason to be London," I said. "Two of them came when called, but that still leaves us with five bodies who shouldn't have been here. Can you check any available correspondence for references to a London event that might have brought them out?"
"Accessing their files now," she replied. "Hang tight, you two. Are you playing nice with Mister Banks, Suzie?"
"You know me," I said, blandly. "Just as nice as Christmas morning. Call back if you find anything?"
"I will."
The connection clicked off as I turned back towards Alexander. "She's checking their files."
"Lovely." He gave me a thoughtful look. "World expert, you say."
"None better. That's why I'm on the Frequency. Why?"
"Well, if there's someone out there fishing for folklore experts, I'd be surprised if they didn't at least cast a line for you." He shrugged. "Have you been home recently?"
"I was on a lecture tour. I just got back this morning." I frowned, slowly. "I haven't even had the chance to go through my mail."
"That might be a thought, after we pick up Dr. Heike from the airport," he said. "If someone was trying to get your attention, there are probably still signs of it."
"Or they may have been waiting for me to come home," I said, reaching for my laptop. "How charming.
"I've always wanted the opportunity to be bait."
6.
Doctor Julianne Heike was a thin, petite woman with a corona of quail-coloured curls framing a deeply serious face. She was wearing street clothes when we retrieved her from the Heathrow arrivals gate, clutching an overnight bag in one hand.
"Doctor Heike?" Alexander asked, offering her his hand. "I'm Detective Banks, and this is Professor--"
"Hello, Susan," said Ju, mildly.
I quirked a brief smile. "Hello, Ju. Car's out front. When did they get you on the Frequency?"
"Six weeks after we broke up. You?"
"Six months."
"You realize Aleph is laughing herself sick right about now?"
"Yes," I said, mildly, and reached out to take her bag. "Come on. We need to go search my apartment for signs that crazy people have been there recently."
"Oh?" She gave me a politely innocent look. "When was the last time you were there?"
"I'm going to assume you two know each other," Alexander said, dryly. "Let's move."
Ju's the one who first told me I was a bromeliad. She didn't mean it as a compliment; it was meant to be a slap at the level of specialization I'd achieved, and the way that I kept increasing it, until she finally realized that I'd never be willing to leave London. She wouldn't give up on Germany, and so things sort of, well, fell apart. The irony of the both of us being exotic plants in Miranda Zero's nursery wasn't lost on me.
Too bad I didn't feel more like laughing.
The possibility that something had been planted in my apartment had transformed it into something frightening; a foreign landscape that just happened to seem achingly familiar if I looked at it the right way. Crime scenes and physical investigation have never been a strength of mine, so I hung back by the door as Alexander and Julianne began carefully, methodically taking the place apart, moving in tandem, like they'd worked together for years. It was almost like watching a crime drama on television, except that these were my things that they were sliding their hands all over, my shelves that they were searching for signs of an intruder.
Watching my privacy invaded on that level became quickly uncomfortable, and so I turned my attention to a small, mundane task: sorting through the mail that was piled next to the door in a vast, untidy heap. Most of it was just junk -- bills, advertising flyers, a few postcards from acquaintances in other countries, a letter from one of the American grad students that had been studying with me over the past year -- the usual. I was almost at the bottom of the pile when I hit a heavy, cream-coloured envelope that didn't look like anything I was expecting.
"The Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards," I read off the envelope. "I haven't heard of those before."
"What?" Alexander looked around. "Susan, what have you got?"
"An invitation to a conference here in London, looks like," I said, dismissively. Then I paused. "A conference in London that I haven't heard of."
"Give it here," he said. I obliged as quickly as if the envelope had been prepared to bite me. For all that I knew, it had. "Doctor Heike?"
"Here," Julianne said, moving to stand next to him. "Heavy paper."
"Cotton bond."
"Homemade. Look at the fibers; nothing machine-pressed those."
"The calligraphy, though -- that's a standard font."
"So open it," she said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger.
Alexander nodded, expression grim, and produced a knife, slitting the envelope expertly open. He cut away from himself, I saw; more importantly, both of them held their breath as he cut. When nothing visibly puffed out of the envelope, Julianne pulled on a pair of thin plastic gloves, took the envelope from Alexander, and slid her fingers gingerly inside.
My phone rang.
"This is Susan," I said, watching as Ju produced a small sheet of vellum, holding it up for Alexander to see.
"Aleph here. Susan, I checked the files on all your out-of-town guests. Three of them had written about attending the 'Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards' in London. Ring any bells?"
"Alexander and Julianne are studying one of those invitation right now," I said, grimly. "I've never heard of those awards before."
"Didn't think so, somehow, given that the only hits I'm getting are off the records of the deceased. Can you get me a picture of the invitation?"
"Hang on a second," I said, and pulled my phone handset out of my pocket. "Alexander, can you hold that up for me? Aleph wants to see."
"Of course."
The card was simple and elegant, calligraphy on semi-clear vellum. I held up my phone and snapped a photo, then took a moment to consider the text.
Please to remember the grotto,
It's only once a year.
We have our share of hardships,
So leave a penny here.
The Grottos of Highgate Folklore Awards:
rewarding excellence in the study
of the forgotten world.
Admission by Invitation Only.
Invitation must be presented on arrival.
The address it gave wasn't one I recognized.
"Aleph, can you run that address?"
Her answer was immediate: "Return to sender, address unknown."
"So that's our lure," I said, grimly. "But why insist that people bring the invitations along?"
"Autopsy showed small traces of an unidentified psychotropic chemical in the blood," Ju said, abruptly. "They were drugged. Perhaps the paper has been somehow infused?"
This just got better and better. "Is there any way to test for that?" I asked, looking between them.
Ju blinked at me, blandly. "May I use your stove?"
7.
I do not understand chemistry. I have never needed to understand chemistry. I am a folklorist, and my need to comprehend chemical reactions begins and ends with not blowing my kitchen up. In the end, I went back into the living room to pace and fret while Alexander and Julianne disassembled my kitchen and turned it into a home forensics center, ripping the card into thin strips and testing them against every common stimulus that an invitation was likely to encounter in the course of being carried through the London night.
When Julianne came back into the room giggling under her breath and looking like she'd spent the last hour inhaling illegal substances in the back of someone's van, I knew that they'd found something.
"Ju?" I said, turning towards her.
She beamed at me. "In the paper! It's the paper! It's aaaaaaaall mixed into the paper, all opium and giddiness and the happy sound of birds in the springtime, tweet tweet, ha ha!"
Alexander walked into the living room, saying, "I've turned on the fan and opened the kitchen windows, but you still may not want to go in there for a while."
"So I see." I steered Ju gently away from a shelf of breakable ceramic bric-a-brac, asking, "What happened?"
"The 'invitations' are actually the solid state of a light and heat-sensitive chemical compound that begins releasing a sort of a...very, very happy sedative once it hits a certain temperature. The bearer gets giddy, for lack of a better term."
"Giddiness doesn't kill you," I said, catching Ju as she stumbled against me. She started playing with my hair, and I grimaced. "That's distracting, Ju. Please stop."
"Suzie, I miiiiiissed you," she crooned.
Alexander cleared his throat. "No, but the secondary chemical reaction knocks you cold."
"Secondary reaction?" I asked, sharply.
"Inhale gas fumes and you're out," he said. "That's why the victims were so easy to open. They didn't struggle."
Charming. Also worrisome. "They used opium and gas lamps to kill people," I said, quietly. "And they used the Highgate Grotto rhyme on their cards. And they're killing folklorists."
"Susan?" said Alexander, eyebrows raising.
"I know who's doing this," I said, with a shake of my head. "It all makes perfect sense. And we need to move."
8.
The Grottos of Highgate: just another bit of London folklore that appeared for no obvious reason, thrived for a few dozen years, then vanished as suddenly as it had begun. Children would cluster on the streets of Highgate Town, building tiny grottos out of stones, sand, bits of wood, and shells; then they'd beg passers-by for a penny, in remembrance of poor Tommy, who -- in the words of their begging rhyme -- had a 'mother in the graveyard, and a father gone to sea'. He had 'not a soul in all the world', so 'please, today, remember me'. It's a charming bit of folklore and nonsense. Almost entirely forgotten.
"Some people say the Highgate children were actually being paid by a secret society to be out there," I said, as Alexander took the corner at a speed that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Julianne was giggling aimlessly in the back seat, distracted by the mirror in a compact of blush. "They were giving a message to the people of London. The message was listened to, and the children went away."
"What was the message?" he asked.
"'Repent'."
He shot me a sharp look. "Do you believe that?"
"Well," I said, "I'm currently being driven through London by an agent of Scotland Yard, to an address that we got off an invitation made of pressed opium, while my ex-girlfriend the forensic chemist giggles herself stupid in the back seat of the car. Did I mention that we were doing this at the bequest of a secret organization of intelligence agents from around the world? Because we are."
"So you're saying that stranger things have happened."
"Exactly."
"What, precisely, are we repenting for?"
"It's not so much the repentance that matters. It's knowing that you could burn." I looked out the window, watching London flashing by. "London burns down constantly. That's part of what characterizes the city. These are people who want to keep the cycle of death and renewal going."
"Why Jack the Ripper? And why target the folklorists?"
This was the sticky bit. "Because Jack the Ripper is famous for doing what happens in London all the time: he's a sensational way of getting people's attention. Something the grottos did more slowly, and more quietly. They're trying to set the city on fire in the proverbial sense. As for targeting the folklorists, well..." I shrugged. "We're the only ones likely to say 'this is intentional' instead of 'this is the city eating us alive'."
"Ever more charming." Alexander pulled the car to a stop in front of the hotel indicated by my invitation. Huge, flickering gas lamps flanked the door. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?"
"No."
"Learn," he recommended, and handed me a pistol.
9.
If you've read this far in my little account, odds are good that you're looking forward to the big showdown. You want to see good versus evil, or at least 'not killing people in horrible, sensational ways' versus 'dicks who send sheets of pressed opium to the homes of innocent folklorists and then carve them up like sides of beef'. Guns blasting. Blood spurting. People screaming. You want to see a Quentin Tarantino movie playing out in the cinema of your mind, and I suppose that I can't blame you for that. But I can't write it. Because I can't remember it.
We walked into the hotel. We walked across the lobby while Aleph accessed the records, and directed us up to the penthouse.
I remember Alexander knocking politely, saying, "Scotland Yard."
I remember someone shooting a hole in the door six inches from his head. I remember him shouting, "You're on the Global Frequency, you candy-arse bastards!" and kicking the door in.
I remember Aleph saying, "Focus, Susan, focus. Stay with us, Susan. Focus," in my ear, over and over again, forcing me to keep paying attention to the sound of her voice.
I don't really remember much else before waking up in the hospital. Turns out Alexander and I have the same blood type.
Bully for me.
10.
The killings stopped.
Give it time, though. This is London. This city always burns.
At least Julianne and I are speaking again. And that's something, right? Tomy turned out to have been on assignment in Australia -- something about the Rainbow Serpant waking up and writhing in the bowels of the Earth. Details were classified.
Thank God.
If things can stay a little more classified around here, there's a chance that I might actually start sleeping again. Not that I'm planning to count on it, because there's these five words, right? I've heard them before. Last time I heard them, a lot of people died before they got to me. Doesn't mean I've wanted to hear them again; some things don't become any more appealling just because you know that they can do their share of good. Being a bromeliad means I like to stay up in my tree, roots firmly fixed in place, and stay alive.
Just five words. That's all. I never want to hear them again.
But I will.
Once you're on the Global Frequency...
...you stay connected.