A Hero at the End of the World (21 page)

Ewan seemed to be getting further and further away, the bridge stretching out between them.

Oliver put his foot down on the next beam, only to have it vanish. He tumbled head first into the fog—

And woke up sweaty and shaken in his own bed.

Breathing hard, he turned to his bedside clock. It was half six in the morning.

It had been a week since Oliver had been suspended by the SMCA. If he had thought being stuck at home when he’d had amnesia was bad, being suspended with his memory intact was far worse.

After what had happened—both Ewan and Gardener Hobbeses escaping arrest, the Disciplinary Panel, Sophie’s anger—he was too ashamed to carry on his investigation by himself; even thinking about it made every muscle in his body feel tight. Before he had been unceremoniously escorted out of the Department of Unusuals, he had managed to grab his case notes, but had yet to reopen the folder. It sat on his kitchen table, and no matter where he was in the flat, he felt its presence. He had been giving it a wide berth, choosing instead to eat his meals on the living room coffee table.

Within the first few days, he had reorganized all his books according to the Dewey Decimal system, taught himself how to crochet, and watched all seven series of
Only Fools and Horses
. One day, he powered up his old desktop computer, only to find that, since he was under investigation, the Government had revoked his internet access. Things were beginning to look grim.

Worse, Sophie hadn’t answered any of his calls. Her silence stung.

Without much left to do, Oliver began taking daily walks. He had never truly felt comfortable in middle-class Angel, and so hadn’t done much exploring since moving there a little less than a year ago. He had always felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb amidst its fancy shops, trendy Upper Street, and posh flats, as though everyone there could tell that despite his being a hero he was still just a working class North East London boy. In the rest of London, he always felt like a star, but there was something about Islington that unsettled him.

Oliver could have gone to places he was infinitely more comfortable with, such as the Walthamstow Marshes or the mall in Stratford. Instead, he started off small, wandering up and down Regent’s Canal, first to St. Pancras and then, when he was feeling bolder, all the way north west to Maida Vale. He spent a few days walking through Camden Lock, and a few hours of another going all the way down to the South Bank by foot.

One day, nearly a fortnight after he had been suspended, an unmarked letter came in the post. It informed him that he was to go before the Disciplinary Panel in three days in order to explain his actions. He was permitted, of course, to bring along his union representative if he wished.

If you fail to appear before the Panel
, the letter read,
it will be assumed that you are declaring yourself guilty of misconduct, and your lack of appearance will be taken as your official resignation from the Serious Magical Crimes Agency.

Regards,

Shadowy Figure #3

Scowling, Oliver crumpled it into a ball.

He shoved his feet into his trainers and grabbed his jacket off the hook on the back of the front door. Today, he decided, seemed like a good day for a walk up to Alexandra Palace, where he could sit on a bench and gaze at the skyline.

An hour later and feeling no better, Oliver found himself by Finsbury Park, trapped in a crowd of Arsenal fans. There must have been hundreds of them. He couldn’t see over the heads of those wearing red and white knit caps and scarves, ready to chug down a few pints before heading off to their match. Police were out as well, trying to keep the lot of them moving and out of the roads; car and bus horns blared loudly as a family dashed across the road without looking.

“Excuse me,” Oliver grunted into someone’s armpit as he tried to shove past. “Sorry,” he muttered to a woman whose foot he had stepped on. A load of kids darted in front of him, and when he stopped in his tracks, the man behind him roughly shoved him in the back. “I’m going as fast I can.”

Sophie would hate this
, he thought. Suddenly, a mood went through him so black and dismal that it was like the sky had clouded over. Even his feet seemed to drag.

Was it worth saving the world again if everyone hated him for it?

The last time Oliver could recall feeling this way had been just after receiving word that he was meant to appear in front of Parliament and explain to them why he had killed Duff Slan. He could still remember how terrified and confused he had been—hadn’t he been helping?—and trying to talk to Ewan about it. But what he also remembered was the way Ewan had shut down—“Poor Oliver,” he had said without any emotion in his voice, “is it difficult being so wonderful?”—and how it had left him feeling like his best friend had deserted him.

It had been one of the last conversations he and Ewan ever had. He didn’t want his last memory of Sophie to be a fight, too.

It wasn’t just that Oliver missed working with her. It was more than that. He missed her biting wit and her insatiable curiosity; he even missed that giggle-snort thing that she did when she laughed and how she was the most impatient person he had ever met. He felt lonely without being able to have lunch with her or pop out for a drink after a long, miserable day. He liked her reading reports out loud to him and lecturing him about everything he had done wrong and telling him stories about her six sisters and her red lipstick and shiny hair and soft skin and—

“Oh no,” he said, stopping stock still in a horde of pissed football fans. “I’m in love with Sophie.”

¤

The next morning, Oliver was at the supermarket when his mobile rang. It had been so long since anyone had called him that he nearly missed it, wondering which oblivious person hadn’t realized they were receiving a call; luckily, the few sneaky looks he received snapped him to attention.

Heart speeding up, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket, hoping that maybe it was Sophie, wanting to see him—

It was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” he answered dejectedly.

“Oliver, it’s Georgia,” replied Ewan’s mum.

“Yeah, erm, hi,” he said, stiffening. “You all right?”

“I’m really sorry about this, but your colleague gave me your number. Ewan’s missing.”

Oliver swallowed. “I’m really sorry.”

“The police haven’t been able to find anything, but, well, I was wondering... he hasn’t been in touch with you, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t,” he replied.

Her voice was small. “It’s been two weeks.”

Oliver could hardly tell her that her only son had left London, and possibly Britain, to evade the SMCA. Or that he had tried to lead Oliver into a trap to kill someone for the second time in a fortnight.

As Georgia went into detail about the plan she had to find Ewan, which included getting her MP on the case, Oliver wandered over to the vegetables, idly throwing random ones into his basket. Deep in thought, he didn’t notice that someone else was reaching for the same veg he was. He butted fingers with a large, pasty-white hand.

He lifted his head, about to apologize, but his words died in his throat.

Archibald Gardener Hobbes stood on the other side of the stall.

“Nice cucumber,” Archie leered.

Oliver dropped his shopping basket.

“Mrs. Mao,” Oliver said into his mobile, “I’ll have to call you back.”

Chapter 22

T
hey locked eyes as other shoppers moved around them. Archie didn’t look as well-kempt as he had the last time they’d met. There were circles under his eyes as dark as bruises, and his hair stuck up as though he’d been running his fingers through it again and again. Whatever reason he had for coming back to London, it seemed to be keeping him up at night.

Oliver hesitated for a moment—but only a moment, because he didn’t trust Archie as far as he could throw him.

“What,” he said, “are you doing here?”

“Is this
your
local shop?” Archie asked, looking around with faux surprise. “What a coincidence.” “You shouldn’t have come back,” Oliver growled. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to pull out a cable tie before remembering that he had turned them in with his ID card.

Archie saw him searching, and the smirk dropped off his face. “I was hoping we could let bygones be bygones,” he said, taking several steps back. His eyes darted toward the exit.

Oliver quickly snapped out a binding spell. Before the last syllable had even left his lips, Archie’s hands were roughly wrenched behind his back, and he staggered, a look of surprise flashing over his face. Out of the corner of Oliver’s eye, he saw one of the shop employees begin to move toward them, but he stopped her with a, “SMCA. This man’s under arrest.”

“Oh, come on,” Archie protested, struggling against the invisible bonds. He grimaced. “This really hurts, you know.”

“I know,” Oliver said.

It wouldn’t take much for Archie to break the incantation; it wasn’t a particularly strong one, but, created with only one word, it was fast and effective. Hastily, he pushed Archie out the back exit of the shop in the direction of the parking garage, where another shopper gave them a shocked look but quickly hurried off without a fuss. Sometimes Oliver loved London.

“I’ve come to you for a reason,” Archie sputtered as they walked through the garage. “I’m on a mission to save humanity from Ewan Mao.”

Oliver grabbed the back of his shirt and spun him around. “From Ewan?” he asked incredulously. “You must be taking the mick. Besides, who would send you to save the world?”

“My mother,” Archie replied.

“Oh, your mother.” Oliver took him by the arm and turned him around again. “Keep walking.”

“Abrams, listen to me—ow, ow, I don’t think the human body can naturally bend that way. Listen, if you don’t let me go, Ewan may accidentally blow up the entire universe. Do you want that on your conscience? The destruction of the
entire universe
?”

Oliver stopped in his tracks. “What are you on about?”

Archie twisted, and his hands came free of the bonds, the spell having already burned out. “Ewan stole a mechanism from my mother right before he left,” he replied, rubbing his wrists. “A very, very dangerous mechanism that has the potential to rip the universe apart at the seams.”

“Why would someone create a mechanism that could tear apart the fabric of the universe?” Oliver demanded, frowning.

“Do I look like a mind reader to you?” Archie asked haughtily. “All I know is that the Baahl is capable of—”

“The ball?” Oliver interrupted.

“No, Abrams, the
Baahl
. Not the
ball
.”

“Who names these things,” Oliver said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Better yet, who makes a mechanism that can destroy the world?”

Archie rolled his eyes. “Why is the sky blue? Why is the sun hot? Why is ice cream delicious?”

“You’re not even going to question this,” said Oliver.

“Who
cares
why the Lord Ravager would want to destroy the world? All that matters is that Ewan has the Baahl, and we need to get it back before he does something foolish. Like activate it.”

At the mention of Ralph the Ravager, Oliver balked. “So what you’re saying is your mum sent you to find a mechanism created by Ralph the Ravager that happens to have enough power to end the world—one that Ewan stole before he took off on his own, and since your mum has no idea where he’s gone, she wants me to find him for her?”

“Well.” Archie winced. “That’s not
entirely
what’s happened.”

Oliver stared at him until he sighed and said, “My mother left the Baahl behind when we fled. We returned when it became obvious that no one was after us. After going through what remained after the explosion—”

“
Explosion
?” Oliver repeated.

“—It was clear that the Baahl was gone, and the only person who could’ve taken it was Ewan.” Archie looked away. “Mother mentioned that she wanted it back badly enough to send
something
after him to get it back.”

The way Archie said “something” sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine. “Why would you try to help him?” Oliver asked. “If he’s taken the Baahl from Louise, doesn’t that mean he’s abandoned your cult?”

Archie’s expression turned defiant. “Are you going to help me find him, or am I going to have to do this on my own?”

“You couldn’t find him if you had all the magic in the world,” Oliver sneered. “And let’s not forget that the last time I tried to help you, it turned out you and Ewan had
very
different ideas of what helping meant.”

“You know, we were trying to save your life, too,” Archie snapped. “A little gratitude would be nice.”

Oliver shook his head. “What makes you think that you’re not doing just what your mum expects you to do?” he asked. “What makes you think she didn’t drop enough hints to get you to find Ewan for her?”

That shut Archie up. He dragged a hand through his unruly hair until it caught on his curls.

“I’m not certain what I’m doing,” he admitted after a moment. “But I didn’t want to take the chance that Ewan might truly be in trouble. What if I could have helped him and I didn’t?”

“
We
could be in trouble,” Oliver pointed out.

“Helping Ewan is the right thing to do.”

His own words being thrown back at him made Oliver stiffen. He searched Archie’s eyes for several heartbeats, trying to find something that would tell him that Archie was lying, that Louise was waiting for Archie to tell her where Ewan was. Oliver didn’t want his sense of morality to be manipulated again.

He didn’t find anything.

For some inexplicable reason, he believed that Archie wanted to help Ewan. In the end, it was far better for them to find Ewan and this mechanism than for Gardener Hobbes to.

And if Gardener Hobbes was depending on them to lead her to Ewan, well, Oliver wouldn’t let her get away this time.

But there was one small but significant problem.

“I can’t help you,” Oliver replied bitterly. “I’ve been chucked out of the SMCA pending investigation.”