Project Gemini (WATTYS 2016 WINNER!)

Chapter Thirteen - Power Outage. (Part 1 of 2).

HEAVY SHEETS OF sleet hammered the lead lined windows of Parliament, the Thames nothing more than a muddied blur beyond the clotted glass. Fat droplets of ice mixed with the late July rain wept down the windows, casting flickering shadows upon the high stone arches of the vaulted corridors as Harold paced restlessly.

He leaned heavily on his cane, his leg stiff with the abnormal cold. The tap-tap of it on the marble floors was drowned out by the chaotic chatter, leaking from the ajar oak doors of the main debating chamber in Westminster. He glanced at his watch once more, never breaking his stride, and shook his head again. Prime Minister's Questions was about to start, mere minutes until Litchfield made his appearance on the eve of the Reform, and yet here he was, summoned by his wife. The most important meeting before the day when ministers were voted in or out by the public after a trial, the nation's biggest popularity contest, and he was late.

His briefcase knocked against his good knee with each step, Store 97's files much too precious to part from. The Reaper unit at the entrance to the doors fixated on him, on the files, but Harold shrugged it off. He'd find the Chancellor's mole in his own damn time, and while the stench of the rat in Parliament was so strong, he had no intentions of being the next sorry sod to dance for the Piped Piper.

A flare of ginger hair cut through the crowd of long robed ministers, slicing through the slow procession of black suited men and women alike. His wife Meredith held a sodden umbrella slung over her elbow with her pale cheeks flushed, out of breath, while drips of meltwater splattered off her raincoat. His throat tightened at the sight of her. He didn't need a domestic, not now, not when their last row over their daughter was fresh in his mind. Her eyes were still bloodshot from crying, but as she reached him she snatched his arm, hauling him with her.

"Not here!" she whispered. "Come with me!"

"Mere—"

"Harold, please!" she hissed, dragging him further down the corridor.

He cast a look over his shoulder at the rest of the ministers as she pulled them into a deep alcove, slotted into the thick walls out of sight from the chamber doors. A huge brass statue of the War Prime Minister dominated the alcove, standing upon the wreckage of burning London from sixty years ago. His hand reached out above their heads to the gods and the other cradled a limp child to his chest.

Harold eyed it up but squashed himself into the shadows, his back against the cold wall as she pressed a finger to her lips for silence, pressing a button on her phone before she nodded.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low. "You're not allowed to be here—"

"They're at the house."

He froze. "Who?"

"Reapers," she said, her eyes darting around them. "I left as soon as I could, they arrived just after you left for work but—" She swallowed back the tears. "—they've took everything. Your files, the paperwork, my research, the family photos. Everything. Harold, I . . ."

She didn't finish; she didn't have to. They were the next ones being investigated. He was the junior to the Minister of Justice, and the bastard responsible for hunting the rat, but this was different. Too close to them to be safe. The Minister of Infrastructure and the Minister of Health, their neighbours on Darwin Street, had already been arrested in the past week. He couldn't afford to be next. His hands sweated over the handle to his briefcase, Store 97's files oddly heavy. Everything was going wrong. He tightened his grip on his cane, fighting to think straight.

"Does the Institute know?" he asked quietly. "Your work on—"

"They know," she said, "but I'd already sent it north to Scotland for safe-keeping."