It had been only a few weeks since St. Cuthbert had seen Dr. Bajwa, but the doctor looked noticeably thinner and less muscular. It was obvious that his cancer had worsened. There were no magic cures. His eyes were sunken, and there was a pastiness about his clove-colored skin. He wore a curved little kirpan, or ceremonial dagger, on his belt in a scabbard gleaming with purple and green garnets. In fact, he’d just come from his brother’s wedding celebration, where the guests had reveled late into the night.
At least a dozen more constables and Met firearms specialists, tigered in green and black TotalCamou? suits, filtered out from the shrubs near the fence. They were hard to make out, presenting a visual facsimile of everything directly behind them (in this case, murky foliage). They carried glossy-white tactical autozingers as well as scoped neuralzinger rifles, both of which obviated TotalCamou’s effects. (Indeed, the strange sight of guns apparently floating through the air by invisible beings tended to draw attention.)
“Let’s stop this, Cuddy,” Dr. Bajwa said to his old patient. “Please. I have some—some rather extraordinary news, but it . . . it will take your cooperation, Cuddy.” He bowed very subtly toward Astrid. It was clear they didn’t know one another, but the doctor must have heard about Astrid’s gambit.
“Officer,” he said.
“Doctor . . . Bajwa, I presume? You’re the flying GP?”
“Right. I suppose I am. It’s just a hobby. I’m . . . I’m here . . . to help? If I can?”
“See, Cuthbert,” said Astrid. “We’re all here to get you help.”
“Cuddy, oh,” said Dr. Bajwa. “I was so worried.” He leaned toward St. Cuthbert, who moved closer to the ledge above the lion pit.
“Lad, please. Can we move away from the edge a bit? Are you all right? You’ve been hurt. There’s blood. On your face, Cuddy. Looks like you’ve been in the wars.”
St. Cuthbert nodded, but he didn’t betray any real appreciation of the words. He said, “Baj—here he is—Drystan. I tell you, this constable woman. She’s Drystan.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, humoring him. “You must listen to me, Cuddy. Listen: that NHS psychiatrist who tested you . . . Dr. Reece? His recommendations have all been rescinded. He was bloody overruled somehow.” He squinted at St. Cuthbert, as if waiting for a reaction. “I don’t know why. It’s unusual. But it means . . . it means, it means you can go back to your flat.”
The doctor looked around, as though fearful of a tiger springing down from a tree. “After this, er, incident has been cleared up. You can live at home. And come see me. You don’t need to run, Cuddy. You don’t need to be afraid.”
“But I’m not afraid,” said St. Cuthbert. “Not one little bit. Not for meself, anyway.” It wasn’t quite the truth. He feared death, and he feared Flōt withdrawal, but he feared more the annihilation of all he held dear.
St. Cuthbert turned and said to the inspector: “We and those who know must stop the Neuters. They’re already mixed in with us. I’ve seen a few in the zoo. The lions and the otters say I must make a sacrifice. For the souls of all animals. Or the Neuters will have them.”
“The who?” she asked. She shrugged toward Dr. Bajwa, and he shook his head.
“What’s this ‘Neuters,’ Cuddy?” The doctor smiled cordially. “What do you mean by that? When did that start?”
“The invaders—from outer space. The Luciferians. The animals ’av warned me all about them. They are opening a giant Gate to death. The lions understand. And there’s a little sand cat around here. He understands, too.” He pointed his thumb toward Astrid. “And Drystan does.”
There was a long silence. Astrid motioned with her hand for the camouflaged men with hovering neuralzingers to stay back.
Dr. Bajwa finally said, “Cuddy. Come with me. I will take you to hospital. You need to be seen to, my friend. At the very least, we need to get away from here. The animals, they’re everywhere, they said. You could be hurt. Please, my friend. I care about you, my friend.”
“It’s good advice,” said Astrid.
“I don’t understand,” said St. Cuthbert, pursing his lips. “You talk as if you don’t know a single thing about the Luciferian plan—thay aim to do in all the animals on earth. You’re the one we’ve all been waiting for.”
The officer and the physician shook their heads, wearing a similar pitying expression.
“It’s the Flōt, Cuthbert,” said Dr. Bajwa. “You’ve got hallucinosis, my friend. We can get help—at the hospital. We don’t hear lions speaking with words. We don’t hear otters. We don’t hear little cats. We’re not awaiting anyone. All we hear is a man desperately in need of looking after. A man almost destroyed by Flōt.”
“Flōt.”
“Yes, Flōt. It makes you see things.”
Astrid said, “But, Cuthbert. I know this will sound unbelievable. But I care about you. I don’t even . . . well, I think I may know why.” She smiled, but sourly, shaking her head in tight little wiggles. “Or not. A bit why. Maybe? But you’ve . . . you’ve drawn me here tonight. And I . . . I want to believe you. And I want to help you.”
Cuthbert felt his heart begin to gallop unevenly, and a vise-like pain shot up his chest. He looked up in the sky. There was the comet.