“Oh, yes—oh, Astrid, I can actually see you. We’re south of you, dropped onto the bloody Broad Walk like clumsy squirrels. It’s bunged up with autoreporters.”
Astrid spotted Omotoso, dressed in his civvies, waving at her. He wore a tight red and black leather jacket, which meant he’d ridden his cycle-glider, and incongruous navy and close-fitting elegant dress trousers. It felt funny to speak to her superior via optical and auditory neutral interface, standing so relatively close in the distance. But there was a certain intimacy about it.
“Astrid,” he said. “We are getting . . . intelligence . . . reports from some local psychiatrist—I don’t know the fellow, a Dr. Bajwa, and that’s confidential—that anyway, there’s . . . he is concerned the person inside the zoo may be a very old, rather helpless patient of his. The doctor’s himself apparently quite distraught about it all. The patient’s name, it’s Cuthbert—Cuthbert Handley. He’s a serious Flōter, we’re told—and certainly not in any stage of recovery, like you. Totally nonviolent. But this Bajwa chap, he says Mr. Handley thinks he hears animals at the zoo, and he says this fellow might believe they’re asking him—and I mean the animals—to release them. The doctor had heard from Mr. Handley tonight, via Opticall, and it was clear the NHS Twelve Code ‘danger to one’s self or others’ proviso was met, but the doctor, as I said, he’s upset. Mr. Handley’s very intelligent and evidently well meaning. But very dangerous in this circumstance, I might add. And, surely, he’s got that very English—you know—sadness. He claims to have ‘special powers’—don’t we all? But Mr. Handley, we think, is at the bottom of this whole mess. An old Flōt sot. Astrid?”
Omotoso, surrounded by swarms of people, was looking meditatively up into the sky as he spoke, as if stars were the only clear phrases he had to choose from.
Astrid thought of the grandfather she’d never met. He was, her mum said, ancient, caring, crazy, and Flōt-addicted. And there was the murky resemblance between her and Mr. Handley that Dawkins had alleged. She knew Cuthbert Handley couldn’t be him—that was impossible, right? There were tens of thousands of crazy old Flōters, weren’t there? Yet she didn’t feel even remotely less spellbound by this man for knowing it.
“I . . . I don’t quite know what to say. That fits with what the night watchman Dawkins said, sir. He said the man, this Mr. . . . Handley? Perhaps, he did indeed look as if he were spiring. Then he has some very serious mental health problems?”
Omotoso rubbed his cheek. “To say the least.”
Atwell had walked up to where she stood. Dawkins was there, too. There was also someone new, a very short woman in a most improbable and campy sort of archaeologist’s getup, including a khaki jacket with cap-strap epaulets, a rugged twill skirt, and, of all things, a pith helmet. She wore a kind of brace on her arm made of shiny brass gears. She had a round face with creamy skin and large, mildly protruding blue eyes, with two pieces of copper tubing arcing from her helmet down into her jacket. These features, with her short thick neck, gave Astrid the slight impression of a mechanical female bullfrog. To top things off, she held a small white snake curled in her plump hand. She was a kind of steampunk hobbit.
Astrid kept looking at the woman as Omotoso continued.
“Right. OK, here’s the thing of it, Astrid. Do you have any advice? With your community work and all, you know, your recovery meetings and such, how . . . how would you deal with a Flōt sot on the rampage?”
“Kindly,” she said. “And I wouldn’t say ‘rampage.’ This is a man whose problems are much bigger than Flōt. If he’s in second Flōt withdrawal, he’ll be angry. If he’s a sot, he’ll be in first withdrawal, at best, and that means—well—people get fairly off their chump. If he’s had BodyMods, and he’s old, and he’s still somehow alive and taking a drink, he could . . . yes . . . he could be talking to animals or any number of imaginary friends. But ‘rampage’—I wouldn’t put it like that.”
“Right,” said Omotoso. “Point taken.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Astrid, I’ve had a think, and here’s the hard bit: I, er, I need you to go home.” For a moment, she said nothing more. “Very sorry. You’ve had a long day. Just jack in the job, just for tonight, and go home and rest a bit, right? You are—temporarily—relieved of duty. Tempor—”
“Sir, why? What the fuck is that?” She felt blindsided—and utterly betrayed. “I don’t understand. Why? What the fuck—”
“Watch it,” said Omotoso. “This is still the constabulary.”