(eng) Mark Hodder - Burton & Swinburne 05 by The Return of the Discontinued Man

Author:The Return of the Discontinued Man [Man, The Return of the Discontinued]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

They caught their first glimpse of police constables at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. A tower—the tallest any of the chrononauts had ever seen—dominated the area, an unsightly edifice of concrete and glass.

“Centre Point,” Mick Farren said. “Completed last year. Thirty-two storeys, all completely empty. An eyesore and total waste of money.”

It was a dramatic example of how the capital had altered. Buildings crowded against each other, pushed upward into the sky, and appeared to occupy every available space. Here and there among their ill-designed and blocky facades, segments of the nineteenth century could occasionally be spotted, like broken memories clinging to existence, but little of Burton and Swinburne’s world remained beyond the major monuments, and to the king’s agent, even the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral—which bulged up into the crystal-clear air—looked suddenly small, helpless and insignificant.

After leaving the cars in Bedford Place, the Cannibals had walked to the southern end of Tottenham Court Road where they’d joined an enormous crowd of demonstrators. Farren told them an even larger crowd was gathered in Trafalgar Square, the two groups slowly working their way toward Grosvenor Square. Burton had witnessed protests in the 1850s, but nothing to match this. People were present in their thousands, long-haired, colourfully dressed, many holding banners and placards, and all chanting, “Ho! Ho! Ho Chi Minh! Ho! Ho! Ho Chi Minh! Ho! Ho! Ho Chi Minh!”

Farren put his mouth to Burton’s ear and shouted above the din, “Ho Chi Minh. Former president of Vietnam. He represents what the people of South East Asia desire for their region, as opposed to what the U.S.A. or U.R.E. wants.”

Following his lead, they pushed into the crowd, taking up position behind a group of youths holding a banner bearing the words “Merseyside Anarchist Group.”

Burton felt completely out of his depth. He obviously wasn’t alone in his sense of vulnerability; Sadhvi Raghavendra was clinging to his left elbow for security, Wells was looking nervously this way and that, and Trounce was staying very close, too, and was visibly trembling. Only Swinburne appeared at ease amid the uproar. He twitched and danced and laughed and added his shrill voice to the chanting.

Raghavendra tugged at Burton’s arm, nodded toward Trounce, and yelled, “Richard! I don’t approve of the stuff, but you have to give William another dose of Saltzmann’s. This is all too much for him.”

Burton nodded, drew a bottle from his jacket pocket, and at that moment saw the police constables. He dropped the tincture, and the glass shattered at his feet.

“Bismillah!”

There were twenty policemen standing in a row on the pavement.

But they weren’t men.

Swinburne shrieked and pointed. Trounce staggered against the king’s agent. Raghavendra put a hand to her mouth. Wells swore.

“Don’t stare at them,” Eddie Brabrooke advised. “Believe me, you don’t want them to notice you.”

“You understand now why I activated the beacon?” Farren asked.

“Yes,” Burton croaked. “By God, yes!”

The constables were humanoid in form, standing upright, with bulky torsos and short, thin limbs, but they possessed the heads of pigs.

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