Chapter Three: Vaniloquence

 

"vaniloquence" - vain or foolish talk

 

"Freedom is the will to be responsible to ourselves." 

--Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, 1888

 

"Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams."

--Fyodor Dostoevski

 

Finch had always maintained that New Scotland Yard was filled mostly with men and women they wouldn't have over at the Finger. Not smart enough--or too smart--not enough stamina... not brutal enough. His opinion of the uniforms had not been high, and his opinion of the detectives only a fraction better. Dominic liked to believe he'd gotten his job because he was the most qualified, but for the first few months as Finch's Detective-Sergeant--a replacement for one blown away by the Scottish National Army--he'd gotten the distinct impression that it wasn't by much.

 

Now that he was looking for his own DS, Dominic understood.

 

His duties with the Macbeth Project were still only supervisory in nature--and Agent Sykes could do that on her own--but Dominic was reluctant to leave her alone for too long, and High Chancellor Ducane had hinted at their last meeting that he wanted Dominic to assume a more active role in the uncovering and use of information. That would be lovely for Evey and the Voxers but it was turning out to be hideous for Dominic. In order to properly attend to his duties at Macbeth, he needed to find someone to act as his proxy within the Nose, someone who wasn't too corrupt, who wouldn't take bribes or be otherwise persuaded to look the other way if the law was being bent, broken, or otherwise mutilated in the unending pursuit of "Strength Through Unity, Unity Through Faith."

 

Frustrated, Dominic threw down his pen. He was looking for a saint in a cesspool and he knew it. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he buzzed for the next candidate to be sent in.

 

A tall, youngish man about his own age came into his office. He had brown hair, piercing blue eyes, a footballer's lean physique, and sharp, arrogant features. Dominic recognized him; he had been present at Finch's funeral, and had been one of the more sincere mourners. "Detective Steerforth," he greeted. "Have a seat." He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "Sorry."

 

"Not at all." Steerforth had a light voice, clipped and precise and, while superficially polite, slightly condescending. Dominic thought for a moment the man was being intentionally rude, but then decided it was more likely only the man's character. It would fit with his shrewd, narrow gaze and aristocratic nose, but oddly at variance with a mouth the just skirted the edge of pretty. Dominic peered at the detective through rather bleary eyes. "Y'know, you look nothing like your mother."

 

Steerforth stiffened. "You knew my mother, sir?"

 

His tone brought Dominic a little closer to consciousness. "I have met her," he admitted carefully.

 

"She was a lovely woman, wasn't she?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. Very elegant... very kind."

 

"She was, at that," Steerforth agreed, his voice softer now but still perfectly composed, only closing his eyes briefly before getting down to business. "You wanted to see me, Chief?"

 

"Yes. I'm looking for a new DS. You expressed interest in the position."

 

"I did, sir."

 

"You've got a fine record." Dominic picked up a file from the many littering his desk. "A list of commendations as long as my arm." He paused, turning a page. "And a list of citations three times as long. Care to explain those?"

 

Detective Steerforth offered a lopsided grin. "All the reprimands are from before the late Inspector Finch arranged for my promotion several years ago. My former superior didn't approve of my work."

 

"Lieutenant Trask didn't approve of your methods?"

 

"Lieutenant Trask didn't approve of me, sir. I was born in Canada, among other reasons."

"Right, right." On pretense of tidying his desk, Dominic opened a drawer in his desk, dumped a handful of manila folders into it and covertly turned on his jammer. "What about your own work, Steerforth? Do you approve of the work you do?"

 

"There is a history of law enforcement in my family, sir. Have to keep the home fires burning."

 

"But what about your work in Homicide? The procedures, the policies... The laws you're enforcing?"

 

The look on the younger man's face was guarded. "It is... not my place to approve, Chief Inspector Stone."

 

"Wouldn't it bother your conscience, if you knew you were upholding an unjust law?" Steerforth said nothing, either yea or nay. He was the first person Dominic had seen who had valued his skin more than a promotion; that was smart of him. Dominic took out the jammer and placed it where Steerforth could see it. "Wouldn't you change those laws if you could?"

 

Steerforth stared at the device for a long moment. "Will my answer affect my chances of getting this position?"

 

"Probably, yeah."

 

"Will my life be in danger, sir?"

 

Dominic leaned forward. "It will not leave this room. But I need to know."

 

A muscle in Steerforth's cheek twitched. "It does bother me," he admitted. "And I would change things, gladly, if given the chance."

 

"What kind of chance?" Dominic pressed. "Would you join the Voxers?"

 

"I have a family, sir. A wife and a widowed sister, and a small niece. If it were only myself, I would have joined the Voxers already. I hate this city and this country--I hate what I do, and the thought of my niece growing up in this stifling society--a land so needlessly repressive and cruel... I used to play the violin, Chief, did you know that? Irish folk and American bluegrass. But it's been so long since I dared pick up an instrument, let alone play it. I want my niece to have music in her life. If I thought it was worth risking their lives as well as my own..." He paused. "If they agreed, I would join. No doubt my wife would join as well. But I haven't brought the subject up."

 

Dominic nodded. "What happened to your parents? Your personnel file only lists their names."

 

"My father was French and Italian; he traveled in wines. He left the country on business shortly before Norsefire took power. We never heard from him again. Mum tutored at Oxford. She was taken from the house in a black bag. My sister and I were put to live with a Party family, a doctor and his wife. Good man. He paid a king's ransom to get me into the Academy."

 

"And why isn't any of that in this file?"

 

"The children of such people do not become homicide detectives. Inspector Finch knew that. After I helped him on the Rutherford case, six or seven years back, my parents' criminal records and heritage disappeared from my records. Shortly after that, I was promoted. I owe Eric Finch a lot. I would've liked to repay him."

 

"And would you be surprised to know that Finch supported the Vox movement?"

 

"Not really, no. Finch always seemed to me to be a man grown old in service to something he had no conviction in. For my own part, I know that if I had been in charge of the hunt for Codename V, I would have been searching as much for the answers behind the man as for the man himself."

 

"That's pretty much was Finch was looking for, at the end." Dominic stood to stretch his legs. "Well, Isaac, you might as well go and clean out your desk."

 

Steerforth sighed, certain he had shot himself in the foot this time. "I understand, sir. My big mouth gets me in trouble once again."

 

"Trouble? You have no idea what trouble is. Get your things and bring them up here. We've got a lot to talk about while you're setting up."

 

***

 

Evey rested her head on the cool metal of the work table in one of V's laboratories. She was tired. No surprise, honestly. She was always tired these days. Too much work, too little sleep, too little food... far too much stress. The Voxers had finally decided on their first course of action as an anti-government group, and it was up to Evey to coordinate all the necessary people, equipment, and times... Alas, as V had learned to his kitchen's detriment, organization was not Evey's strongest asset.

 

The skin on the back of her neck prickled suddenly. She ignored the sensation, forcing it aside, and picked up her pen to continue writing, trying to tamp down the rising twist in her stomach, hoping he would just go away. Not again... Instead, she sensed him move closer, felt the silent approach of his body right up until the moment when his hands slid over his shoulders, his fingers curling uncomfortably around her throat.

 

"You don't have to stalk me, you know," she pointed out quietly. "I live here."

 

The leather-gloved hands tightened a fraction. "You're the one living with a serial killer," he returned, just as calmly. "And there comes a time when we all must take responsibility for our mistakes." He hovered over her, the warmth from his breath radiating through the mask; she could feel it on her shaved scalp. "And what do you do so secretly, madame?"

 

"I'm working on coordinating the distribution of counterfeit food and water coupons. People are starving under Norsefire. There's no sense fighting to free a country that's dying for want of food."

 

"And do you think they want their freedom?" V pressed, leaning closer against her back. "They, who put Norsefire in power in the first place?"

 

Evey swallowed a grimace... with some difficulty. These circular arguments of his were becoming more annoying the more often he plied them. She was not a woman for deep philosophical debates, not when she was cranky; she could not fathom their purpose, and the unanswerable questions were only having the affect of souring her temper even further.

 

"They want to be full and fed and warm, and Norsefire's not making the grade. We have to prove that we have the interests of England's people at heart, before we start blowing up historic landmarks." If I bring my arm up very quickly, I could probably grab the dagger he keeps in his sleeve... but he'll have snapped my neck by then. Evey turned that mental statement over and wondered idly how she could bear being at the point of strangulation so calmly, and when such detachment had taken her over. She didn't want V to strangle her--she was even fairly certain that V didn't want V to strangle her. So what does he want?

 

Before she could ask, the hands abruptly left her neck, and Evey glanced up to see V's shadow on the wall as he retreated from the room.

 

***

 

When Dominic walked into his project's office that night, the air beyond the door crackled with intensity. Standing in the middle of the room were Agent Sykes and Rupert Abelard.

 

Wisely, Dominic slunk into the corner where his other two staffers were huddled. "What's going on?"

 

"Sykes hates Abelard," reported Rose flatly.

 

"I can see that..."

 

She lowered her voice. "Don't you know? Judith Sykes was Creedy's hand-picked successor. But she didn't have the influence in the department that Abelard has, so he took power. She's rather miffed."

 

Leaning back in his chair, Palmer folded his hands behind his head and grinned wolfishly. "Sit back and enjoy the carnage."

 

"You're supposed to be reporting to me," the hulking Abelard thundered to his subordinate. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in weeks."

 

"My orders are to report when I have something worth reporting," Sykes shot back. "So far, we've have a lead of possible cooked books at a hospital in near Stratford, and it turned out to be useless. What more do you want me to do?"

 

"I want results, woman!"

 

"The Chancellor is so far satisfied with our work. Give us time, sir! There are more than two decades worth of files to be sifted through--over twenty years' worth of ill-kept papers and mislabeled computer documents. We're working as fast as we can!"

 

Abelard loomed over Sykes, or rather attempted to loom over her, as there was barely an inch difference in their heights. "If it wasn't for the fact that there's no one else would bother taking your place, I'd reassign you so fast your head would spin."

 

"And probably come off, I'll wager."

 

"You'll wager and be damned! I'd rather have Pike Steerforth fiddle a jig on my guts than be talked down to by a woman out of her place and above her station."

 

Rose's lips went suddenly white as though she had been struck, at the mention of her estranged son.

 

In that moment, Dominic knew that something had to be done, and quickly, if he was to be able to play both sides of the court with his head intact.

 

*** 

 

"I'm rather unclear why you're making this request at all, Inspector Stone," Ducane confessed, fingers playing idly with a pen while his cold grey eyes probed at Dominic, "as Detective-Sergeant-Elect Steerforth is not to have any access to Macbeth."

 

"But we will be working closely," Dominic countered, refusing to be unnerved by the Chancellor. "And, sir, if he were to--by accident--open the wrong file, or see papers with Rose Steerforth's signature, he would believe that I had intentionally lied to him. I don't want our working relationship to be ruined before it has a chance to start."

 

Ducane sighed. "With logic like that, what choice do I have but to acquiesce?" A lesser man than Dominic Stone might have rejoiced at the ease with which his request was granted, but Dominic hoped he wasn't that stupid. The High Chancellor shrugged, uncapped his pen, and pulled yet another stack of paperwork into better position. "My predecessor used to foist all this off on me," he commented ruefully. "I suppose I haven't yet become used to the abuse of power that allows a man in my position to fob off redundant bureaucracy on lesser mortals." He skimmed through the top sheet, and signed on the dotted line. "One down..." He shuffled through the stack as though it were a deck of large, floppy playing cards. "Seven hundred and some to go. Oh, and Stone? While you at it, you might as well tell Steerforth that his brother-in-law is alive and well, also."

 

"His brother-in-law, sir?"

 

"Luke Palmer. He's married to Steerforth's sister, Diane. There is a child... a girl, I believe. I've half a mind to let him see the girl, now and again, provided his work remains satisfactory. You'll keep me informed, of course."

 

"Of course, sir."

 

***

 

Dominic brought the Steerforths to Evey a few nights later, recounting for her in private the fight between Abelard and Sykes, the conversation he had had with Ducane and the things the Chancellor had told him of Steerforth's family. "Why is it that I'm always the one on the outside looking in?" he asked. He knew he was whining, but he couldn't help it. "Like I'm watching an old silent movie, but without the cue cards. Everybody's more in the know than I am, or has got a bigger part of the story than I do."

 

Evey smiled tightly. "Yeah, well. Maybe you're the lucky one, then." She turned her attention to the people Dominic had brought. Yes, there was Isaac Steerforth, just as he had been described, and with him was his wife Charlotte, a quiet woman with a self-effacing air that made her almost invisible, but for the sharp, bright glitter in her eyes that was impossible to ignore. Evey nodded to the older woman, a gesture that was returned for the acknowledgement of a shared pain that it was. But she knew nothing of Isaac, and so resorted to speech. "Detective Steerforth," she offered neutrally. "You are welcome."

 

The police officer looked down his nose at the revolutionary. "Do you always take the time to meet each and every potential terrorist who wants to join your organization?"

 

Dominic winced at the snide tone; Evey either ignored it or heard something else under the sarcasm, because she took Isaac at his word. "Up to this point, yes."

 

"So you and your people are now big enough for you to deputize duties out to others. I had no idea you were so large a group."

 

"If you're trying to winkle that kind of information out of me already, you may be the worst undercover agent I've ever met."

 

"I'm not undercover; I'm thorough."

 

Evey eyed him critically. She had long since come to the conclusion that the majority of Vox members were not only desperate for change, they were also all teetering on the brink of some form of clinical insanity, a thought which included herself and V, and most likely, the married couple before her. She opted for the direct approach.

 

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Outside the line of duty?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Did it bother you?"

 

"Not particularly."

 

"Could you do it again?"

 

"In a heartbeat."

 

Dominic felt cold; how in hell had this bloke managed to pass the Yard psych tests?!

 

"Any special talents I should know about?"

 

"I'm very good with explosives," Isaac replied with some pride.

 

Charlotte rolled her eyes at her husband's eagerness. "Isaac want big boom," she explained dryly.

 

Evey couldn't help it; she chuckled. "Well, he'll be a great help to Ciaran Foremen when it comes time for the pyrotechnics."

 

"Ciaran Foreman...?" Charlotte's mouth dropped before she could stop herself. "He's alive? How in hell...?"

 

"Seth Vickery, former head of Covert Intel, wanted him kept alive." Charlotte's expression turned very dark. "You know that name, I see."

 

"Oh, I remember Seth very well. Too well. I was at Oxford with his son, the poor bugger." She shook her head. "So Ciaran's alive. Is that a good thing?"

 

"Sorry?"

 

"Being alive isn't necessarily a good thing, when you've been in the camps, Chief Inspector."

 

Dominic considered. "I've only met him once so far. He was absent-minded, brusque, and seemed more than a little crazy."

 

"Oh, good." Charlotte relaxed and smiled. "He's all right, then," she commented, with a tone of expression in her voice Dominic couldn't identify. "I remember him with great respect. He was a man of incredible decency."

 

The Chief Inspector stared at her, suddenly cold. "You... you knew Ciaran Foreman."

 

"Yes. I just said that. Why?"

 

"In Neverdale."

 

Evey tensed, eyes narrowing. Charlotte frowned, and her chin went up. "Yes."

 

"Oh my God..."

 

Quick as a flash, Steerforth had a pistol pointed in Dominic's face to protect his wife, but Stone barely noticed the weapon. "You're one of the women who escaped," the chief said dully. "You and Helena Horn. You killed six guards, getting over the wall. Tore their throats out with your teeth..." It hit him then, hard and fast and finally--not a bullet or even the butt of Steerforth's pistol, but the abrupt realization that he, Chief Inspector Dominic Andrew Stone of New Scotland Yard, was a traitor: plotting to overthrow the only government he knew with murderers and terrorists, men who threw knives and gleefully blew up public buildings and woman who killed with their teeth. His stomach flipped over and he swayed on his feet.

 

"Easy, Chief," Steerforth murmured, his aim never wavering, as Evey's arm shot out to steady the queasy man.

 

Dominic didn't know which way to turn; he didn't know whose side he was on. He didn't know whose side anyone was on anymore. "Goddammit, this isn't fair!" Dominic shouted suddenly.

 

Steerforth raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he drawled. "And what's your basis for comparison?"[1]

 

"Is this a stupid test of loyalty?" Dominic whirled on Evey. "Or some kind of sicko joke?"

 

"This is reality," Evey replied coolly. "We're all in this for something different. You're here for Finch. They're here for their family. And I'm here because I don't have much of anything else left. But the idea's the thing. The rest of us? We can fall by the wayside. And most of us probably will. We're all criminals here, Dominic. I'm the accomplice of a dangerous terrorist, remember?"

 

"But you were innocent!" Stone protested, but in vain.

 

"Weren't we all?" Charlotte asked.

 

"No one is now, at any rate," Steerforth added.

 

Evey shook her head. "No one ever was." She paused. "You haven't read the diary yet, Inspector, have you?"

 

With all eyes on him, Dominic had no choice but to admit that he had not.

 

Steerforth and his wife exchanged a look; they who had never read the document in question but who knew its contents nonetheless, and Evey spoke for them all. "Read it, Dominic. You said you were tired of being outside the story."

 

***

 

Finally arriving home in the Gallery at some indecent hour of the night or morning, Evey collapsed on the couch, cold, wet and exhausted, slinging her knapsack onto the coffee table. Her head was pounding; so much for being superhuman. No doubt her immune system was still shot from her stint in 'prison,' so she had probably caught a monster cold. And her stomach was killing her in just that particular way. There had been blood on her thighs when she had awakened that morning, for the first time in months; God, that first month after her release had been nerve-wracking, until V had explained how a woman's cycles suspended themselves under malnutrition and stress. She clearly remembered that day; it was one of the few times she had seen him well and truly embarrassed.

 

As amusing as the memory was, the bittersweet tinge of it brought a lump into her throat and made her headache worse.

 

Forcing herself to stand, she peeled off her wet jacket and went into the kitchen alcove to make some hot tea, pressing a random button on the Wurlitzer as she passed.

 

The water running into the teapot masked the opening measures of the song, but once the pot was on the burner, the lyrics began to filter through Evey's clogged brain.

 

Alas, my love, you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously

And I have loved you for so long

Delighting in your company

 

The lyrics of the song were beautiful and haunting, abhorrent to Evey's ears, but she was rooted to her spot and unable to move. Oh, God... stop it stop it stop it... But no fortuitous power outage struck the Shadow Gallery, no convenient earthquake opened the ground and obligingly swallowed Evey whole.

 

It was "Greensleeves," of course, that she had sung to him when he was lying in the infirmary, riddled with bullet holes and blood. "Greensleeves," that he had begged her, groggily, time and again, to sing him to sleep with.

 

I have been ready at your hand

To grant whatever you would crave

I have both wagered life and land

Your love and good-will for to have

 

She missed the sound of his voice, low and warm with a soft rumble like a purr, or hearty and mischievous when he was in one of his theatrical moods. Now he spoke to her only rarely, with a dangerous, predatory growl, short and angry. Evey wanted to scream, to run howling madly at the Wurlitzer and smash it with a chair, to fall to her knees and sob.

 

If you intend thus to disdain

It does the more enrapture me

And even so, I still remain

A lover in captivity

 

But she could neither move, nor cry, nor seemingly even breathe, but only stand staring down at the dripping faucet, while the kettle whistled piercingly, her hands gripping the edge of the sink, unable to let go.

 

And then, as the last notes of the song faded into the stone depths of the Gallery, V appeared, reaper-like, in the alcove.

 

"What ails you, woman?" he demanded with cold anger, sounding outraged that Evey would dare to become upset over a mere song. "If it pleases you to grieve for me as though I was dead, why did you not let me die and have done with it?"

 

If he had taken a sledgehammer to her heart, he could not have wounded her more deeply, and with a hot blaze behind her eyes, Evey found the power to move; she turned on him, teeth all but bared. "Because you can't leave me! Not again, not like they did!" They--the images of her parents, the cold, dry file photographs that haunted her nightmares. "You can't leave me alone. You destroyed me, V! You took me apart piece by piece until I was as crazy as you! I need you!"

 

"Two insane terrorists do not a sane mind make," V snorted.

 

"You bloody bastard--you've turned me into a mini version of you! I feel like I'm being torn in half, like there are two separate people living in my head, fighting to get control of me! I'm going mental and it's all your fault and I need you to keep me sane!"

 

V's silence hung over the both of them like an icy shroud. "I did what I did to give you the tools to live without fear, to survive in the world I thought I was leaving behind. If that meant making you in my image, then so be it. If I failed to take the effects of my unfortunate and unforeseen survival on your psyche into account, that is not my fault."

 

"Well, it bloody well isn't my fault that you didn't die! I put you on the train, you crawled off it! You're completely deluding yourself, V, you know that? Your head and your heart are speaking two totally different languages. You're not looking for an excuse to die; you're running away from your reasons for living."

 

A sound like a snarl came from behind the mask. "You still don't understand, do you? I'm not here because I want to be. I'm not here because I'm free, I'm here because I'm not free. There's no escaping reason, no denying purpose, because--as we both know--without purpose, we wouldn't exist. It is purpose that created us, purpose that connects us and pulls us, that guides us, that drives us. It is purpose that defines and sustains us, purpose that binds us together. I am here because of you, Eve Hammond, because thanks to you, I no longer have a purpose."[2]

 

"You can be such an officious hypocrite sometimes, you know that? All your blathering on about personal responsibility--what about your responsibility for yourself, eh? Just who's responsible for you?"

 

"I was created! At Larkhill--"

 

"You were abused and tortured, but they didn't make you. They didn't make you spend twenty years building bombs and stealing books and hunting people down. They certainly didn't make you crawl off that train. Nobody made you do any of that. You've been in control of your own mind this whole time; you did everything you did because you wanted to!"

 

"You ungrateful little bitch!" V snarled, lashing out and catching her on the side of the head with a heavy leather hand, knocking her down. "How dare you? After everything I've done for you--"

 

"Done to me, you mean." Regaining her feet defiantly, Evey ignored the pain in her temple, while a disjointed part of her brain noted with surprise that this was the first time she had ever heard him curse. "You had a choice, V! You could have just slunk down into this hole and died, but you decided you needed to follow your vendetta. Fate be damned, you chose to become 'V'! What did I choose? I've done everything you wanted me to do, become the leader you wanted me to be, and all without your help--where's my choice?"

 

"What makes you think you deserve help?" V shot back viciously. "I had no one to help me." He strode stiffly towards the door.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"For a walk. Does that meet with your approval?"

 

She crossed her arms and leveled a glare at him. "It's no skin off my neck."

 

***

 

Alone in his apartment, Dominic Stone was reading a horror novel. At least, he fervently wished he was. He was shaking as he read, because he was terrified.

 

The Surridge diary was even more explicit and horrifying than the sections Finch had handwritten from memory and allowed him to read. The Chief's notes had made the Larkhill experiments seem like little more than six months. The actual length of the journal was closer to six years.

 

"Christ and all his angels," Dominic moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

 

***

 

Not far from Dominic's home, three separate murders were committed that night. Three petty criminals and two Fingerman were attacked, murdered, and mutilated so badly that even the officers on scene and the coroner examining them turned green. When V returned home from his feverish, solitary walk, he found Evey glued to the television in mute horror.

 

The Vox Council was preparing for it. Norsefire was tensed for it. V had planned and prayed for it. But no one was ready.

 

"So," he intoned, his deep voice dropping into the echoing room like a tolling bell. "It would seem that Anarchy... has come."