Tunnels 05 - Spiral

woodstove. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in the flipping Middle Ages.”
    “And don’t try playing hide-and-seek with Sparks — he’ll beat you hands down,” Drake advised with a grin as he tried to lighten the mood. “He can locate you just by your breathing.”
    “Come on, I let you win every now and then.” Sweeney let out a low, booming laugh, then swung his huge arm around Drake’s shoulders and squeezed him so hard his feet left the ground. Releasing Drake, Sweeney then leaned in toward him. “You and I need to talk,” he said, flicking his outlandish eyes in Will and Chester’s direction. “Very nice to meet you, lads.”
    “I’ll see you two back at the car,” Drake said, and the boys set off up the incline, leaving him alone with Sweeney.

    Once Drake had rejoined them, it was Chester’s turn at the wheel. When Will figured they had driven far enough that Sweeney wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop, he asked, “Can’t all the stuff in his head be taken out, so he’s normal again?”
    “Maybe, but he didn’t want them tampering with his brain a second time. Yanking out the wires after so long might cause all sorts of problems,” Drake answered, glancing over his shoulder at Will. “Sparks is pretty highly strung and can get a bit crotchety at times. But he’ll be very useful to us if I can persuade him to go operational again.”
    Will made a face. “Just as long as he’s on our side.”
    Drake nodded. “Know what you mean. And in a way, he’s similar to your mother — with both of them on the team, we’ll have the next best thing to a Styx radar. All of which is rather apposite, considering who we’re seeing next.”
    “And who’s that?” Will asked.
    “Professor Danforth,” Drake replied. “He worked in defense electronics, in areas like low-level radar and fail-safes for nuclear weaponry. Now he just potters around at home. . . . Well, sort of. The Prof is the cleverest man I’ve ever known — an out-and-out genius.” Drake gestured at the last building in the row. “Stop over there.”
    As the Land Rover ground to a halt, Will glanced at the rather twee cottage with its hanging baskets of red and yellow primulas beside the door and windows.
    “Anything we need to know,” Chester asked as they got out and began toward the cottage, “before we meet him?”
    “Not particularly — he’s pretty harmless, but he’s got a hang-up about being touched. Thinks he might catch something,” Drake said, going to the front door and placing his palm over what appeared to be a glass panel set into its surface. With a series of solid clunks, bolts retracted in the frame, and the door swung open.
    As they entered the brightly lit interior, the boys were at once struck by the contrast with Sweeney’s cottage. The interior was warm and dry, and the walls were a dark yellow and hung with fussy little watercolors of rural scenes. More pictures were arranged on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and the Georgian furniture in the room was so highly waxed, it shone.
    A man rose from an armchair. Sporting a pair of thick spectacles, he was neatly turned out in a russet-colored waistcoat and fawn trousers. He’d been working on something by the light from the window, and placed it on the table beside his chair before he came over. He was birdlike in his movements and his shoulders stooped. He resembled some ancient uncle.
    Drake towered over the diminutive man as the two faced each other. “After all these years, your palm scanner still works like a dream,” Drake said, holding his hand up and spreading his fingers as if the gesture were some form of special greeting between them. “And you left my imprint in the system.”
    “Of course — unlike your father, I never believed anything untoward had befallen you. I knew you’d be back with us one day,” Danforth said, adding with a chuckle, “The devil looks after his own.” He turned away from Drake. “And these are the boys he mentioned. . . . I mean Parry, not the devil — although I sometimes ask myself if they’re one and the same.”
    He focused on Will through his pebble-thick spectacles. “Albinism . . . so you’ll be Will Burrows . . . yes . . .” The Professor’s gaze became distant as he recited, “
His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire
.”
    Then the full force of Danforth’s scrutiny was back on Will. “Albinism . . . aka achromia,