The Cull by G. J. Reilly

Author:G. J. Reilly [Reilly, G. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Cull, Cull, Part 3, Book of Jerrick
Publisher: G J Reilly
Published: 2018-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Snoop Unto Others

The afternoon was bright and clear, and perfect, but for the occasional whiff of the Thames. Reaching into his pocket, Catchpole drew out the mobile phone that had been vibrating incessantly for some time. Glancing at the screen, he grimaced and flicked at the Answer icon before holding the phone to his ear.

‘Yes. What?’

‘I have a call for you, sir. It’s the Grand Inquisitor,’ came the switchboard operator’s voice. ‘She’s been on the line for a while now and she’s beginning to sound impatient. Should I put her through?’

‘Unless you want to spend the rest of your life answering telephones in Siberia, I should think you might,’ Catchpole snapped, finding a convenient wall to lean on.

A short silence later and another voice crackled across the line.

‘Catchpole? Catchpole, are you there?’

Feigning a smile just for the effect it would have on his tone, the magister answered, ‘Yes, Grand Inquisitor, I’m here. What can I do for you on such a beautiful day?’

‘Cut the B.S. for a start,’ said Tamara, ‘I’ve got news, and I need you to organise a few things for me.’

‘Certainly, ma’am, I am your humble ...’

‘Alright, alright, that’s enough of that. I’m coming back to the academy in a few days, after we’ve taken care of ...’ The line became indecipherable for a moment. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ said Catchpole plugging his vacant ear with his finger.

‘I said, I’m coming back soon, after I’ve taken care of York,’ Tamara repeated. ‘We’ve taken ...’ The line cracked again.

‘Damn, blast it,’ Catchpole cursed. ‘Where the hell are you calling from, you stupid girl; a public phone booth?’

‘From the main office overlooking a factory floor,’ Tamara shot back. ‘And if you ever speak to me like that again ...’

Grateful that the line cut out again, the magister took a deep breath. ‘Yes, ma’am, I apologise.’

‘Look, shut up a minute, I’m losing my patience with this line,’ Tamara moaned. ‘Send word to the Home Secretary that there’s going to be a public execution in two weeks at ...’

‘Hello? At where, ma’am?’

‘Tower. Of. London!’ Tamara enunciated.

‘Wait ... An execution? Who?’

‘Just do it!’

‘Right away, Grand Inquisitor!’ Catchpole replied.

‘Where are you anyway? Why can I hear traffic in the background?’

‘Oh, I’m at chchchchshshshshshshschchchch ...’ said Catchpole emulating the noise from the other side by clearing his throat into the mic before hanging up on the call. ‘An execution indeed; what does she take me for? We haven’t executed anyone in public for fifty years or so. The marshals are going to have a field day with this one!’

Turning his back on Nine Elms Lane, he strolled along Cringle Street, the cuffs of his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and blue silk tie wafting in the faint breeze as his shoes clacked along the pavement.

Self-conscious though he was about the faded scars on his arms, mementoes of the follies of his youth, Catchpole enjoyed the feeling of warmth on them. They itched in winter and near drove him mad as they niggled at his damaged nerves, but the sunshine and air were a balm.

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