Bank of Westminster

Chapter 7

Birmingham New Street Station.

6:07 p.m.

Rain drummed down in sheets, bursting into metallic droplets on the curved, iron-framed glass.

Baron stood at the entrance beneath an umbrella, eyes sweeping the station through the silver curtain of rain. Only after confirming there were no cameras or the "suspicious figures" Lawrence had warned him about did he slip inside with the rest of the rain-dodging crowd.

The concourse was all flowing curves, a marriage of chill minimalism and venerable age. Built first in 1846 and rebuilt in 1968, the iron-and-steel shell had carried a century of Britain's glory and decay. Today, in the aftermath of the Second World War, it had become the busiest station in the country after London.

Inside, people hurried back and forth, every face taut with private worries.

"Birmingham Evening News: One hour ago, Sheffield Industrial Bank at Birmingham New Street was robbed. Eyewitnesses and preliminary police investigation indicate six perpetrators... Residents nearby are urged to report any suspicious individuals..."

The chill of the night wind swept the hall, the mechanical voice of the news bulletin echoing overhead.

Baron followed the instructions he'd read in the newspaper and located Platform Five—the passage to the Inside. A queue had already formed. Besuited English gentlemen in impeccable tailoring stood shoulder-to-shoulder with expensively dressed ladies. Men in dark coats and sunglasses clutched briefcases like trained agents in a film.

All of them were here for the 5:00 p.m. train from Birmingham to Edinburgh.

When Baron arrived, they looked up at the same moment, then lowered their eyes again.

Baron adjusted the Unbelievable Black-Frame Spectacles on the bridge of his nose and buried his face in the high collar of his trench coat.

The line shortened quickly. When Baron's turn came, the ticket clerk closed the shutter and hung up a sign: "Sold Out."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. All tickets to Edinburgh have been sold... If you need assistance, the customer-service desk—"

"Sold out so early? Waste of time..."

The queue behind him dissolved in noisy complaint.

"Excuse my French," Baron said without changing expression.

The clerk blinked, glanced around, and lowered her voice.

"Last dragon-subway entrance: Lift Four, basement level, row four, column five. Departs at nine sharp, three-minute stop. Fare: one ounce of gold."

Baron's hand froze halfway to his wallet. He turned and left.

In 1987 an ounce of gold fetched a little over four hundred dollars—about two hundred pounds. His previous self had earned £107 a week; a single ticket cost half a month's wages.

He'd already broken out of prison. Fare-dodging hardly seemed worse.

...

Lift Four's doors slid open. After checking for cameras, Baron darted inside like a stray dog.

The elevator descended to the basement. When the doors parted, the damp, acrid smell of formaldehyde stung his nostrils. Baron cast a cautious glance around and found "row four, column five" among the forest of concrete pillars.

A long, rectangular stone wall—clearly load-bearing—bore a giant GG advertisement of John Lennon. The murdered musical genius cradled a guitar, strumming a rock riff. Below, white paint marked the date of his death; beneath that, red paint spelled out an insurance slogan: Westminster People's Bank—Keeping genius from madness. Contact number...

Westminster People's Bank... The name struck Baron as a jarring East-meets-West hybrid.

He tapped the sequence of numbers in the contact line exactly as the newspaper had instructed. The GG panel slid noiselessly aside; a cold wind and the clatter of metal heralded the slow descent of another lift.

Baron stepped back warily until he could make out another elevator in the shadows.

The doors opened. Inside stood a woman in a check-patterned wool skirt, chiffon gloves, and a grey knitted cap. Her face was hidden behind a copy of the Mercury Times—an edition not available on the Outside.

Baron did not board. Instead, he glanced at the headline: the "legendary escape" of two convicts—himself and Lawrence.

Baron's lips curled in a silent grin. He remained outside, preferring to wait for the next empty car.

The woman refused to oblige. From behind the paper came eyes the colour of snow under moonlight: "Bloodless scion?"

Baron froze, fingers tightening on the handle of his briefcase. After a moment, he nodded.

"Curious how I knew?" She lowered the paper and beckoned him in. "Lucky guess."

Baron stepped inside. The woman pressed the button; the numbers changed, and the sensation of descent reversed—he felt himself rising.

"Care to read the paper? Catch up on the real world? I imagine your memories of the Inside are already blurring."

The doors opened; the woman stepped out, leaving the newspaper in Baron's hand.

He glanced down. The black-and-white photographs on the page moved like living images; the text rippled like tadpoles before rearranging itself into new paragraphs—just the sort of fantasy he'd expected.

"Hy-Brazil reappears west of Ireland; the Knights Templar dispatch over a dozen Black-Iron Pegasus Knights to investigate..."

"Unicorns are disappearing in record numbers; Holy Cross and the Divine Office vow to determine whether heretics are responsible..."

"Britain's boldest prison break ever! Two condemned men escape from London's Prison Thirteen at noon today! Prol Court dismisses the story as fabrication!"

Baron read carefully. For political reasons, Prol Court had not yet acknowledged the escape. Residents of London had looked up at the sky and seen a dark shape streaking through the clouds—alien technology, some claimed. The Mercury Times had interviewed Westminster cabbies and pieced together the tale of the unprecedented breakout from the prison that once held a Gold Knight and was said to be the strongest of the Old-Blood gaols.

At the end of the article, the writer had thoughtfully left an email address, hoping directors in the Inside with artistic aspirations might contact him to turn the escapade into a film.

Baron smiled, not at the paper's wit but at the information hidden beneath: Prol Court had not yet placed him and Lawrence on any public wanted list. For now, the heat was not yet at five-alarm intensity.

His gaze dropped lower.

"Bloodsucker strikes again on the Outside! Entire family of three murdered in Birmingham!"

Baron's expression hardened. He was about to read on when he heard the elevator doors open behind him. Casually he folded the paper, slipped it into his coat, and melted into the shifting crowd on the platform.

...

Steel beams and girders arched overhead like the ribs of a vast egg, smooth and shining. From below, the throng moved as though inside a shell; rain battered the dome with a brittle, cracking sound.

The platform lay at the yolk's center. Two pairs of tracks ran left and right, warning lights winking as icy gusts swept from the far end. In the more secret angles of the "eggshell," bright sigils glowed. When Baron took off his spectacles, the runes vanished—probably the alchemical arrays Lawrence had mentioned.

Baron followed the crowd. The air was thick with perfume and the click of leather and high heels on terrazzo. He relaxed a fraction.

Everyone queued along both sides of the platform. Baron checked the sign—Inner London—and was about to join a line when angry voices rose from the other queue.

Someone had cut in.

Eyes turned toward a lanky man in a trench coat who stood at the very front, yawning, radiating boredom. The woman behind him tried to strike his arm in frustration; he seized her wrist with a mocking smile.

No one dared intervene. The man was Frank family—legendary demon-hunters in the Inside. Several enforcers in the Hunter Association owed his clan favors.

The queue-jumper was Bill Frank, second son of the Frank clan, a Bronze demon-hunter.

Baron looked once and looked away. A veteran of countless internet cases in his past life, he had no intention of playing hero.

Even if the woman being cut in line had handed him that newspaper in the lift.