CHAPTER THREE: SOUTHAMPTON

by Josh Reynolds

Roland Banks shifted his kitbag onto his shoulder as he trudged down the gangplank. The Southampton docks were noisy, and he winced as the sheer wall of sound buffeted him. “You’re looking queasy,” Trish said, from behind him. “Still feeling seasick?”

“No,” Roland said, tersely.

“Good. Keep your eyes peeled. Mabati is supposed to be meeting us here.”

Roland sighed and kept moving. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Mabati, but they didn’t know anything about the man, not really. From what Roland could tell, he moved in the same subtle circles as men like Tillinghast or Carl Sanford. Which meant, in Roland’s estimation, he knew too much, and none of it good. The world had become – no, had always been – wilder and stranger than Roland was entirely comfortable with. He was still getting to grips with it all. Trish didn’t seem to have that problem. Then, she was probably used to nothing being as it seemed.

His eyes swept the docks as he reached the bottom of the gangplank. Crowds of disembarking passengers jostled crewmen and stevedores in raucous confusion. Gulls circled overhead, adding to the din. The air was thick with the stink of smoke, diesel, and bilge. He wanted a cigarette. Fumbling in his coat for them, he stepped out of the press and positioned himself next to the water. Something about the crowd had him on edge, though he couldn’t say what. Maybe it was just the noise; maybe it was his unsettled stomach.

Or maybe it was something else.

Trish reached him in time to snatch a cigarette from his pack. “You feel it, too,” she said, as he lit hers first, and then his own. It wasn’t a question. He nodded.

“We’re being watched.”

“Could be local hooligans. Looking for fat pigeons in the crowd.”

“Neither of us looks rich,” Roland said, giving the crowd a surreptitious once-over, searching for someone paying a bit too much attention, or pointedly paying no attention at all. Trish blew a smoke ring.

“Taylor told us to stay alert,” she said, quietly. “She wouldn’t have made a point of mentioning it, if she wasn’t worried.” Taylor had cornered them as soon as they’d returned from Alaska. They’d barely had time to write up their reports before they’d been en route to New York, and from there to Southampton.

Roland grunted. “Everyone’s worried.”

“With good reason.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he said. The world was on high alert, though everyone and their grandmother was trying to pretend it was business as usual. But things were far from normal. Likely they never would be again.

He read the papers. Whales were still beaching themselves and people reported that the wind sometimes smelled of incense or carried the soft echo of bells. Everything felt like a portent now. While they’d been in Alaska, he’d heard of hunters going missing, only to reappear weeks later, with feet burnt to the bone and muttering about something dragging them into the sky. During the crossing, he’d watched as seabirds dove into the water and never resurfaced. He hadn’t mentioned either to Trish, not wanting to worry her.

The world was off its axis; he could feel the misalignment in his bones. Trish could, too, though she never mentioned it. Sometimes Roland wished she would, just so he could talk about it with someone. Other times, he was glad for her silence.

Trish nudged him, breaking his reverie. “There he is.”

Roland blinked, half a step behind. “Who?”

“Mabati.”

Embarrassed by his lack of attention, he followed her gaze and saw the familiar figure of Nkosi Mabati waving to them from within the crowd. The other man looked much the same as the last time they’d met, when they’d come to Oxford looking for answers to whatever had occurred in Arkham. Roland hefted his bag and followed Trish into the scrum. It took them several moments of jostling and apologies to reach Mabati, who greeted them with a wide smile and a handshake. As he squeezed Roland’s hand, he leaned close. “You are being observed, my friend.”

“So we figured,” Roland muttered in reply.

Mabati nodded briskly. “Come. I don’t know about you two, but I could do with some tea.”

“I’d kill for a coffee,” Trish said, linking her arm with Mabati’s. He took them to a café on the high street, called Miss Farrow’s White Rose. It was a smallish place, with old-fashioned decor and only a few seats inside. Mabati secured them a table near the window, and they ordered. Thankfully, coffee was available.

“When Taylor wired me that she was sending you two, I admit I was somewhat overjoyed. I’m glad you both survived your… investigation, and that you have found firm support with the Foundation.”

“That’s a surprise, coming from you,” Trish said. “From what Taylor told us, she’s tried to recruit you several times.”

Mabati smiled. “I am not a team player. Besides, I detest paperwork.”

“So, tell us about Pickell,” Roland said, getting down to business. Mabati waited until their drinks – and a scone for Mabati – had arrived before he began.

“Pickell. Fine fellow, if a bit wet.” Mabati nibbled on his scone. “He was helping me run down a few things. On the Foundation’s shilling, of course.”

“Of course,” Trish said, with obvious amusement.

Roland snorted. “What things?”

Mabati sipped his tea. “Scapa Flow.”

Roland looked at Trish. She narrowed her eyes. “It’s a large natural harbor, in Orkney,” she said. “It’s also the site of the United Kingdom’s chief naval base. Isn’t that right, Mr Mabati?”

Mabati nodded and took another sip of tea. “Not to mention that it’s where the German fleet was scuttled, after the recent fracas. Which is why His Majesty’s government requested my… assistance in this matter.”

“And what matter is that?” Roland asked. He was starting to get a bad feeling about this whole thing. “What was Pickell helping you look into?”

Mabati sighed. “I believe it’s related to a matter already under investigation by your organization.” He glanced out the window, his expression unsettled. “The seas are getting rougher with every passing day.”

“You know something about the derelicts,” Roland said. Mabati studied his scone.

“I don’t know exactly what I know, I’m afraid. Just that it’s all very familiar in an unpleasant sort of way. You remember the books I showed you the last time we met?”

Roland shivered. “Yeah. Hard to forget that place.” Mabati had called it the Chained Library – a collection of occult tomes, hidden beneath the stacks of the Bodleian. Something made of dust and hate had come for them there, and might have killed them, had Mabati not banished it, somehow.

“You found something in the books,” Trish said.

Mabati pinched off a portion of scone and chewed thoughtfully. He ate it plain, without cream or jam. “Yes, but as I said, I am still not certain as to what I found. Vague references to a– a spawning or a migration of sorts. A sudden resurgence from the deepest parts of the sea. But among those cryptic mutterings were locations. Most of them are gone now, swallowed by the ocean or the convulsions of the earth millennia ago, but some yet remain. And are relatively easily accessible.”

“Scapa Flow,” Roland said.

Mabati tapped on the table. “Got it in one, Mr Banks.”

“And you say Pickell helped you uncover this?”

“Indeed. He was surprisingly astute for one of Qiana’s – that is to say, Commissioner Taylor’s dogsbodies.” Mabati gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’ve met precious few of them who are adequately educated as to the true nature of the world we inhabit. Most cling to an idealized status quo with the desperation of drowning sailors, as if they can… force the world to be as they wish through sheer, bloody-minded willpower.” He looked at Roland as he said it, and the latter wondered if he were being insulted – or complimented.

Trish cleared her throat. “Maybe we should tell him what we found in Alaska.”

Roland gestured. “Be my guest.” His eyes strayed to the window while she filled Mabati in. It had started to rain. Ripples of water ran down the glass, tugging the colors of the street outside into unpleasant hues. Roland blinked.

There was someone across the street, watching them.

A man, dressed in a suit, wearing a trench coat and a homburg. He looked innocuous. He leaned inside a doorway, a cigarette glowing between his lips. It had been his act of lighting it that had caught Roland’s attention.

Mabati followed his gaze and twitched his chin. “He followed us from the docks. Do you know him?”

“No. Trish?”

“I spotted him before we came in. And no. Could be British Intelligence, wondering what we’re doing on their patch. Especially if our friend here has been working for them.”

“He is not one of theirs,” Mabati said.

Roland glanced at him. “How can you be sure?”

“Because he is carrying a ward of great potency. Not the sort of tool your average spy employs, I fear.” Mabati frowned and rubbed his temple. “I can feel it beating against my senses like the heat from a fire. I cannot say what it does, though obviously it is not meant to hide his presence.”

Roland got to his feet. “Maybe we should ask him.” He was already outside before Trish or Mabati could rise from their seats. The rain pelted down, and he was glad he’d left his coat on when they’d sat down in the café, though it had been more out of absent-mindedness than paranoia. He stalked across the street, his eyes on the doorway and the man now watching his approach. The observer flicked his cigarette into the street and stepped out into the rain. He flicked up the collar of his coat and started walking away from Roland.

“Hold on a minute there,” Roland called out. “I want to talk to you.”

But the other man kept walking. Indeed, he sped up. Roland hurried after him, but between the rain and the other pedestrians, it was impossible to catch up. Soon, he lost sight of him entirely.

The crowd ebbed and flowed around him, and he realized that he’d lost sight of the café as well. He turned, looking to see if he could see it, when someone caught his arm, startling him. He whirled, fists up, but paused when he saw that it was Trish.

She glared at him. “Are you an idiot? Tradecraft 101, Roland. Don’t get lured into a strange city by someone who was being a tad too obvious about watching us.”

Roland took a step back, out of the street, bemused. It was rare Trish got angry. “I wasn’t being lured, I was pursuing a suspect,” he said. It sounded weak, even to him. Trish blew out a frustrated breath and looked at Mabati.

“Tell him.”

Mabati spread his hands. “Tell him what? He knows. But from what I have seen in our brief acquaintance, it is his nature to storm into the jaws of the serpent and choke it from the inside.” He glanced apologetically at Roland. “I wouldn’t do it that way, mind, but then I am not an agent of the Bureau of Investigation.”

“Former agent,” Roland said. He looked around. “I lost him.” He was annoyed with himself, and he heard it in his tone.

“I know,” Trish said. She didn’t seem particularly upset; more relieved than anything. She looked at Mabati. “Could he have been one of those… things? I’ve heard that some could almost pass for human.”

Mabati grimaced. “It is possible. More worryingly, if… those folk are indeed involved as you claim, then this is not simply paradimensional spillover, as Commissioner Taylor might call it. Rather it is part of a strategy, and one that has potentially been eons in the making. Arkham was but the first ripple. There will be more, and larger.” Mabati looked towards the docks. “An inundation the likes of which our world has only seen once before, in the age when Atlantis was the center of creation.” He looked at Roland and Trish. “Pickell went to Scapa Flow and did not return. That is where we must start.”

“We?” Roland asked, glancing at Trish. “You’re coming with us?”

Mabati smiled. “Of course! I could not very well send you there alone. Qiana – Commissioner Taylor, that is – would have my head. And I do not know about you, but I like my head where it is, firmly attached to my neck.”

Roland sighed. “I guess we’ll need three tickets to Orkney, then.”

Read or listen to more of Arkham International Season Two: Call of the Cursed Sea.

Read or listen to Arkham International Season One: Shadow of the Drowned City.

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