The dim light was kind and gentle, warming the very atmosphere with its golden glow. Harmonious with the shadows, light ebbed and flowed with darkness, dipping and diving along stone walls, renewing and enhancing ageless time itself. They embraced the artifacts as they embraced each other in an almost loving and venerable way, as if the artwork had always belonged there. For everything had its place, its order; nothing was cluttered and every piece was given careful reverence to – one never outshining another. All were equal in beauty and significance.
Brown eyes marveled at the sight, hardly able to take it in. A few curious fingers touched upon the rich mahogany of the piano, musing to herself if it was used for functionality as well as for decorative purposes. This place was the epitome of elegance and perfection, the likes of which hardly existed in the grey world from which she came from. This new world was filled with dazzling colour that heightened her senses. The Shadow Gallery felt alive, like it was a heart muscle beating new life into her veins, and its warmth certainly spread through every hall and corridor and room – its own living entity, just as it spread through every inch of her. A tall, handsome grandfather clock stood against a wall, marking the time that seemed to be nonexistent here. Though it was quiet, the sound of the clock didn’t cut into the silence, rather, the light sound and the lack of it complimented each other – just as everything did here. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon, it couldn’t be known so deep underground. It only added to the Gallery’s charm. Despite having been here a few days, Evey always found something new to marvel at around the main chamber – either an elaborately stitched tapestry hung upon a wall or a great, artfully carved statue sitting on the stone floor. The stories they must’ve had, the history behind the paint and marble … It was hard to fathom that this place was actually real and not something from a dream. Eyes scanned over the many books in their shelves as well as the few piles stacked upon mantles and tables, her footfalls steady as she went. None of the titles sounded familiar except for an occasional Shakespearean play that whispered from the recesses of her childhood – reminding her of her mother and the books, in general, reminding her of her father. Surely, one man couldn’t have procured all of these things by himself though, in the back of her mind, it was easy to believe he did. She smiled to herself, something that had been so rare to do but now came so easily. Though she was alone for the most part, she didn’t feel alone – not with so much history and culture surrounding her, as if the books, paintings, and statues had voices and they spoke to her in their own silent tongue.
“… a great feast of languages … liv’d long on the alms-basket of words.”
His deep tone pierced the air, causing her heart to trip over itself as she jumped in surprise and whirled around, hand on her chest. “You keep scaring me … and sneaking up on me.” Her eyes were wide as she accused.
V stood before her, gloved hands clasped around a book as the mask grinned at her, hardly moved by her response. The words he spoke were the opposite of its expression and were very sincere.
“I apologize,” he said at once, dipping his head down slightly. “I thought you might like to read something whilst you were here, so I brought you a personal favorite of mine. But every book you see here can be read at your leisure for you stand amidst the well-spring of knowledge and you may drink your fill — as much as you desire.”
Evey found the action almost touching and very different from the black hurricane that she had witnessed in the alley. The V then, had indeed scared her – with all of his daggers and explosives and insanity. This V, though, was starkly different by comparison – a gentleman, always aware of his manners, and who took such kind and careful steps around her. She knew he was the same entity, but it was still hard to fathom the two residing in a single body.
Large, gloved hands held out the book; small, feminine hands reached out to take it.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile until it faded away into awkwardness. It was very unnerving, not to mention challenging, to regard someone with an expressionless smile – the oxymoron that it was. What was he thinking? She wondered if she would ever find out his identity but always, it was only his warm, deep voice that seemed to carry the most expression, as well as his graceful movements that were nothing short of formal to her. In that way, coupled with light and shadow, the mask was expressive, but it was certainly something she had to dig deep or read between the lines to decipher.
With the slightest nod, he turned on his heel and disappeared down a dim hallway. Where it led, she didn’t know. She never had thoughts of following him to find out nor had she thought to explore the rest of the Gallery just yet. She honestly didn’t even know if it was allowed. Evey glanced at the book, a thin layer of dust upon the cover. Wiping it off, she settled down upon the black leather couch to read. Letting it rest in her lap, her mind slowly began to take in the reality of the situation. This morning, when she had apologized to him for her childish reaction the other night, it all seemed a blur as time melted away from all logic into forgotten memory. She was scared to remember; scared to take it all in for fear it would swallow her up. She was being held captive by the terrorist Codename: V for a year, yet she had helped him. She had maced a detective that had him stopped at gunpoint in Jordon Tower, the same detective that had been after her for having been with V when the Bailey blew up. The entire Nose was out looking for her, believing that she was his accomplice, and not to mention the terror of the Finger, all because she had dared to venture out after curfew. Yet here she sat, about ready to read The Cask of Amontillado when all instinct told her to run. Run from the safest place in London? V had assured her, with his utmost veracity, that the Shadow Gallery was the safest place in the country and that she could sleep soundly here in this sanctuary that was miles beneath the city’s streets, from any kind of government surveillance, and any black bag lurking in an awaiting van. She pressed her palms against her face and took a deep breath. She truly was out of her mind.
Dim shadows enveloped him as he left the warmth of the light behind with his new guest. Gloom seemed to feed off of his black clothing, encouraging his movements in lieu of hindering them and his heart flickered in response, remembering and knowing the joy that comes with darkness. V weaved in and out of rooms and corridors with ease, so fluid was his steps, great purpose within each footfall. As he journeyed further below its depths, the temperature changed abruptly. It was colder, more foreboding as the chilled air from the long forgotten train tunnels stretched and reached up through the Gallery’s veins and arteries, lingering like a sickness. But V made sure that the heart of his beloved home would never know such an ailment and dutifully kept that part of the Gallery very warm. His invisible path suddenly opened up to the mezzanine. A gloved hand smoothed along the iron of the railing which abruptly led to the backbone of the Gallery – a long winding, impressive set of stairs; one of many. Heading downward, he was really ascending up towards its optic nerves and neurological connections.
The girl would be preoccupied enough with the books and displays within the main chamber to get in the way of his immediate endeavors and for all the doors that held such secrets within were carefully locked from inquisitive minds and curious hands. V was hardly worried — not about her and certainly not about the things to come. The mere thought of the impending climax of his orchestra quickened his blood in its delight. Will it be only less than a year when the culmination of his life’s work can finally come to an end? Ooh, the things he had to show for it. For those not killed in the fires of a virulent past, V judged them all – every single one that ever worked at that facility; except for three — the three he was saving for the grand finale – the final act before the year was out. Valerie, you would be proud, he thought in immense veneration. A door stood ajar; gloved fingers pushed it open to reveal a room lit up by an entire wall of working televisions. The monitors cast a stark white shine upon the solid veneer as V walked calmly along the glowing wall, hands clasped behind him as he observed the many moving black and white images with great care and interest – his metaphorical chess board. There were interior scenes as well as images showing the grey streets and buildings outside. Some flickered on and off of illegal broadcastings and tv shows. A select few had sound. Bits and snatches of dialogue from the common people reached his ears, all recounting, in hushed and awed tones what had happened yesterday at the BTN — of the masked terrorist that spoke of words that seemed long dead in their vernacular vocabulary, words like ‘hope,’ ‘justice,’ and ‘freedom’ that slowly began to lift the fog of oppression from their eyes and rattle the chains that had them shackled to Tyranny’s wall. The fuse had indeed been lit and change was coming — the masked figure had assured them that.
V stopped to gaze at the image of an interior office room high up in Jordon Tower. A dark smile twisted scarred lips. He was glad to know that Dascombe had discovered his little present that he had left for him in the control booth. Who knew the bloke knew how to disarm a bomb under such taxing pressure? He cared about that place in the same way that Prothero cared about his plastic dolls, both heavily guilty of personal vanity. It was a pity that it held more importance than the flesh and blood of the citizens they are in charge of protecting and informing, treated like prisoners in a penitentiary. The fact that Jordan Tower still stood was a minor setback, nothing that couldn’t be worked around. A meticulous mind had innumerable options all leading to the same grand and vicious end. And though it wasn’t blind yet, London’s government would still be violently eviscerated, starting with the cutting out of its tongue.
A metal smile shown in the reflection of the television screen and unfeeling black eyes watched as a sandy haired man sat at a desk, talking fervently on the phone. V glanced to the side at an adjacent monitor of another interior scene – an office of the Nose where the chief inspector was in deep conversation with his partner. Ever since the destruction of the Old Bailey, they were dutifully assigned in tracking the terrorist down. Only when his work was finished would V ever think of “turning himself in.” Until then, they would have to be content in chasing after a ghost. Stepping back a pace, black eyes soon focused on the entire wall of television screens as a whole — all the players and pawns slowly making their way to their respective tiles, to be sacrificed or used to further his righteous means before they too, would be wiped from the board completely. Eyes roamed over the monitor wall until they spied a stocky looking man stepping out onto a street corner, no doubt the Voice of Fate on his way to record the daily taping for the evening — puppets on a string, the whole bloody lot of them. Gloved hands turned a knob near one of the monitors and a voice broke the stillness.
“Yes, Patricia. He’ll be staying late again, as usual, so prepare yourself, you know how he gets. Extra sugar, please. Thanks. I’ll need it. Right, right. I’ve got it here, I’ll look at it.” Dascombe set the phone in its cradle and heaved an irritated sigh as he ran a hand through his mousse sculpted hair.
A sound escaped the slit in the mask at Dascombe’s words and V’s mind subsequently returned back to the girl that was floors above him. It was at the BTN that his guest had worked and she’d most certainly have a key card on her, perfect for his reunion with the Commander. Like plugging variables into an equation, he placed the moments, situations, and connections in place and as always, it fit perfectly; all that was needed now was to solve it. V had no qualms at all about using her without her knowing and no matter how deep she’d be in with the Nose, she’d be safe here in the Gallery, away from their needless interrogations and away from the Finger’s black bags – she was utterly immune to their dangers so long as she remained Underground. But she was already a prisoner in their eyes, born into chains, as they all were, cogs in the corrupted machine of their radical ideology, too weak to pose any resistance and merely waiting to be dragged, broken in every way, behind the chemical sheds and shot – the fate of all that do not see and dare not do. Indeed, she was safer in his care.
There was a methodical method to V’s madness, each player having a vital part to play. Though he vacillated between hero and villain, he was ever focused on the bigger picture, the grand tapestry that was so meticulously stitched around them – the widening gyre of his making that would be the noose around their corrupted necks ere he would send the bottom out from under them, jerking their bodies to a final stop and leaving them to sway in their venal mistakes. And as he had told Evey in the alley, he did not think that their meeting was coincidental and as the days progressed, it proved all the more true. For now, he would water her malnourished mind with knowledge, history, and culture that she so desperately needed with his left hand and with his right, he would push her into the allotted tile that would be the most integral in this vicious cabaret.
“The hell is this?”
A voice pulled V out of his thoughts and he regarded the man with renewed amusement as Dascombe read aloud:
“I love you from the depths of me,
I love you with each breath.
A pity that you lie to me
And strangle Truth to death.
Is this a bloody joke?” Frustrated, the paper was shoved onto his desk with an irritated sigh.
“Enjoy my love note,” V murmured to the image of Dascombe as the man slowly rose from his desk, a cell phone pressing to his ear. V turned away from the wall of televisions and stepped towards the threshold, softly closing the door behind him.
Returning to the main chamber, a passing glance told him all he needed to know. Her head rested on the cushioned arm of the sofa closest to the hallway, body laid out on the couch and deeply engrossed in the book he had given her. V would never be seen as he made his way silently down the other end of the corridor towards his room that was now hers. Not making a sound, the door was pushed open. V entered and eyes swiftly scanned desks and dressers for various odd ends of her personal effects that were, perhaps, laid out for her convenience. He found nothing. The bag that was around her when he had first brought her here was the only personal possession she had and he suddenly spied it lying upon the bed. Stepping forward, gloved fingers pulled it open without hesitation and rooted through it. It didn’t take long before they suddenly clamped upon exactly what he was looking for. The mask appeared to smile in a maliciously satisfying way before the ID card was pocketed and his presence disappeared from the room completely, leaving the bag exactly as it was found.
It was a collection of short stories, but Evey read his favorite first, the story of a man that was so detail orientated that nothing got passed him to exact revenge upon an old friend turned traitor. And the scary part of it was that he got away with it. It sent a chill up her spine as her mind began to really think about whom exactly she shared this abode with, what all he did, what all he was capable of, and what he would do. But his kindness always seemed to assuage her fears and she pushed that growing feeling out of her mind and enjoyed the compilation of stories. She couldn’t understand why they were banished to the Black List, but there was a lot that she didn’t understand. The way the author wrote and the images that were conjured in her mind were vivid and beautiful, if not a little morbid at times. Growing up, it was always said that it was for the citizenry’s own good that anything not green lit by the government would be sent to the Vaults of Objectionable Materials. Being only a child, it went above her head the significance of those metaphorical bars closing before her and her family. A sad sigh escaped her as she turned a page.
* * * * *
The hard covered book had been old and nearly faded when it was first given to her, and it still retained that archaic look as trembling fingers lovingly caressed over the cover. Evey’s eyes were blood shot and very dark underneath from lack of sleep. The aspirin only helped so much. She sat in a chair near the bed, the pitch darkness of the room providing her its own kind of comfort. There was so much there in the annals of her mind that she wished to keep new and dust free, and this book was one of them – one of the very rare things that she thought to keep for herself, salvaged from a decrepit, decaying tomb. She never saw him again the rest of that day but she knew what all he did, if the next day’s events were any indication. It was that evening, after she had grown weary, that she had retired for the night and began to check in her bag for a single picture that was the only thing retained from her childhood when she noticed her card missing. She had no idea … she had no idea. Oblivious of her own sins that were committed well above her head, V’s actions made the world believe that she was his accomplice, that she helped him kill, and that she agreed with his morality and sense of justice. Even now, it made her nauseated to think of it. It was wrong … wasn’t it?
“Why are you asking me? I seem to recall that you wanted to make a deal.”
A feminine cry sounded in the haze of a broken mind as young Evey hugged the only person that had ever cared to help her, that had made the most difference in her life. She felt the warmth of his body emanate beneath the jacket. Evey wanted to help him morally, a tiny hope that maybe she could deter V from that violent, unforgiving path the way he had stepped in and intervened with her. They could save each other.
“I won’t do any more killing, V …”
“… not even for you,” she whispered despondently to the quiet and solemn shadows that hugged her form. They empathized in a way that nothing else of flesh and blood could hope to come close to. Her young, naïve voice coalesced with his deep tone and it wasn’t long before more memories flashed beneath her eyelids. Even when her eyes were open sometimes, it came like a torrent and she had no choice but to see it through, every muscle in her body locking up and her heart beating fast in her chest until she was finally released from the visions. It was physically painful and incredibly exhausting. She was haunted, day and night by the ghost of an idea and the trials and tribulations of her unforgiving past. Though solitude was vicious and unremorseful, the darkness only cloaked her further in its strange consoling way. Like a process that she had experienced daily, warm tears slid down her face next and it wasn’t long before she pulled the book to her chest and sobbed into the night.
“You think she’s going to be ok, Chief?”
The cop car stopped at a traffic light, the red signal glaring off of the windshield. Finch’s expression remained the same as before as he glanced over at his partner.
“You keep asking me that, Dominic, and what is it that I always say?”
“I just worry about her. It’s not healthy, not normal …”
“Her entire life’s not normal, Dominic. She’ll come around, one day though. You can never put a time limit on grief and that girl’s been through more than anyone should ever have to.”
Dominic grew silent in thought, feeling a growing suspicion that Finch knew more than what he was letting on. After having met briefly with Miss Hammond during that year that she and Finch helped get the country free from its chains, it was found out, from the Chief Inspector that she had only been forced into those seeming coincidences, and not of her own volition, that connected her with the Terrorist: her escape from Creedy’s men, her ID card information at the scene of a crime, records of a mix-up at the agency concerning Bishop Lilliman … The law was the law, and if she had been helping him out, she would’ve had to have been taken in. But the Terrorist had succeeded anyway. But it was worth it, Finch assured him later after they could stop to breath for a moment after scrambling about in panic with everyone else that night. It was hard for him to believe the Inspector’s sentiments now. This country went from one evil end of the spectrum to the other – how was that better? How had that even been possible? It’s all gone wrong, he thought, and remains so.
Dominic had asked him if he had found anything in the tunnels when the Inspector had disappeared down the stairs of the abandoned Victoria Station. The only reply he had gotten was a shake of his head and a somber, “No.”
“You didn’t see anythin,” Dominic pressed once the two were back at Headquarters after the madness of the destruction of Parliament. Finch continued to shake his head but there was a strange look in his eye, as he turned away, that nagged at the young cop. This whole case was bollocks with too many coincidences that, more than likely, drove his friend and superior mad. He had never seen him so obsessed – or possessed — with finding the truth and bringing the Terrorist to justice. But they failed. The building was blown up anyway with no arrest or a body – just hundreds of thousands of those shit-grinning masks and hours of phone calls, paper work, and corpse ID tags.
He blinked, willing his mind away from that night that still sent a shiver down his spine. It had been chaos and more than a few times, he had feared for his life. All of those screams, all of that needless violence. If only no one had shown up that night, it all could’ve been avoided.
But finally, after a year of tracking down a ghost and another year of watching the country slowly crumble in on itself, they were finally going to do something about it. The country needed leadership, a sense of direction out of this spiraling anarchy that only made good people go insane with greed and crime. It needed a proper governing, before Sutler had been appointed Chancellor and before his establishment of the Head. Dominic just hoped that she would see it their way and agree with this underhanded dealing that was nothing short of desperation.
“You alright?”
Dominic blinked again and looked at his friend. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Um, how did you know where she’d be?”
A grunt as the car turned into the lot of headquarters and into a parking space. The ignition was turned off. “Wot’s that? Who?”
“Evey. How did you know where she’d be?”
At the question, a very rare thing happened — the corners of his lips pulled in the smallest smile. “I had a feeling.”
The Shadow Gallery 