The so-called “Judas Fly” (diptera acroceridae) was notable not just for its beauty but for its rarity. In fact, it was so rare that the UK government had a preservation order in place to mitigate against the growing risk of extinction. A Judas Fly was a veritable unicorn – so scarce as to be almost non-existent. Climate change had been killing them off in record numbers for decades now, and the few that remained in the country were carefully cultivated by experts in laboratories.
At least, that's all anybody with a passing interest in the natural world knew of the elusive Judas Fly. But in fact, that was not the whole story.
The whole story was that preliminary investigations of the Silvertown site had revealed not only evidence of Judas Fly habitation, but of a nest. Something about the soil made the area an ideal spot for them to thrive. Fortunately, David Carter managed to keep the story out of the hands of any do-gooder environmentalists, instead ensuring the information was known only by a handful of his own people.
Of course, David had done his share of cursing when he heard about those fucking bastard flies, but he knew it would take more than an insect to bring the project screeching to a halt. He just needed a "friendly" environmentalist, someone who was a sensible capitalist.
Fortunately, Norman Carnaby not only possessed a doctorate in lepidoptery, but he also had an ex-wife who sapped most of his earnings. Astonishingly, there was not as much money in the study of insects as he had naively thought in his student days. So, finding himself somewhat strapped for cash, he had been uniquely pliable.
David Carter did things the old-fashioned way: the briefcase full of cash had been waiting on Dr. Carnaby's desk one day when he got to work at the University of London. And so a mutually beneficial business relationship had been forged. It didn't take much coaxing to get the good doctor out to Silvertown, where he undertook a cursory examination of the site (strategically ignoring the evidence of Judas Fly habitation), before signing a number of legally binding documents that indicated not only was the site free of Judas Flies, but that it was free of any notable insect habitation that might be harmed by the construction project. Simple as that. A done deal. One less thing for David Carter to worry about.
By the time the Mercedes coasted to a halt once again outside Rob Linley's office building, Yuri Popov knew all about the Judas Fly. He knew what it looked like, the sound of its call, and its comparative rarity and value. He also knew that there was a nest of Judas Flies somewhere on that patch of flatland which would soon see the construction of the vast and all-encompassing Silvertown development.
"If I were you," Yuri told Rob, "I'd get somebody to look at that finger."
Rob didn't say a word – just got out of the car and headed inside.
*
"Jesus, what happened?" Chloe wanted to know when he got home that night, a wooden splint strapped to his broken little finger, and a roll of white tape keeping it straight.
"Just a stupid thing," he told her, feeling a little woozy from the painkillers. "Trapped it in a door, would you believe it?"
"Come on," his wife told him, "let me get you something to drink."
Rob slumped down on the sofa, his eyes not quite managing to focus on the TV. A minute later Chloe handed him a mug of tea. Her answer for everything. He looked down at the mug; at the steam rising from it. Two words echoed in his brain: Judas Fly.
*
Mikhail listened without comment as Yuri told him of the Judas Fly and how David Carter had tried and failed to keep its presence at Silvertown a secret. Yuri, as always, kept it brief. When he had finished, Mikhail said: "Good."
In many ways, it was better than he ever could have hoped for. A neat method for shutting down the Silvertown business without shedding a single drop of blood. All the Popovs needed was an environmentalist of their own; somebody who could conduct a discreet study of the supposed habitat over at the Silvertown site and then issue a statement. That would be enough to put a stop to the construction, or at least delay it. A delay would spook investors, and the information that the Judas Flies had been covered up would have them wondering what else David Carter was lying about. It was enough to bring David Carter's dreams crashing around his ears.
The next step was easy – almost too easy. David's "expert" had been bought and paid for, but the one used by the Popovs would not even need a significant amount of cash to provide his verdict. Just the promise that there really were Judas Flies there, and the opportunity to study them at leisure.
They ended up with a conservationist by the name of Judith Marsh, whose doctoral thesis had focused entirely on the mating habits of the Judas Fly. In scientific and academic circles, she was known as a puritan, with an almost pathological obsession with that rare, almost mythical insect.
But of course they could not simply walk up to Dr. Marsh and tell her where the fly was to be found. They would need to provide evidence. She was a scientist and an empiricist; they would have to treat her as such.
“But why me, pop?” Stanislaw wanted to know.
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“Because your brother is too busy.”
As a feeble show of defiance, Stanislaw had lit a cigarette and plumed smoke into his father’s office. But with one look from Mikhail, he quickly and somewhat sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette. “What you want me to do?”
“Simple enough,” Mikhail smiled, “even you should be able to handle it.”
And he explained the plan.
“Butterfly hunting?” Stanislaw protested petulantly.
“You will go to Silvertown,” Mikhail reiterated, “and you will take photographs. Simple.”
But Stanislaw still was not convinced. “This Silvertown is Carter territory, no?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to go there alone and take photographs of insects?”
Mikhail got to his feet and ambled over to the window. He peered out at the idyllic garden beyond. “Like I say, even you should be able to handle it.”
“What if there’s trouble?”
“Do not permit there to be trouble.”
“I need a gun.”
Mikhail turned back to Stanislaw and snapped, “No guns. If anything happens on your visit to Silvertown, I will hold you responsible.”
“Then I want a bodyguard. In case of Carter’s men.”
Grudgingly, Mikhail consented.
The following day, Stanislaw Popov and a seven-foot, square-shouldered bodyguard named Piotr climbed into Stanislaw’s slick black Range Rover and set off. Piotr was a man of few words, but he could say a lot with just a look, such as the sideways glance he gave Stanislaw while the boss’s son sang along loudly and obnoxiously to Europe’s The Final Countdown on the car stereo. It was a look that said, “If you were not a Popov, I would take pleasure in puncturing your eyeballs.”
They got to Silvertown, and Stanislaw referred to the co-ordinates he had recorded in his phone. He kept glancing around somewhat uneasily, as though a carload of Carters might suddenly appear to beat the shit out of him. But the only people around were the homeless, and they had other things to worry about.
The two men found the spot quickly enough. It was far from any buildings or landmarks – in fact, it looked like some sort of battle-scarred farmland which had been levelled by enemy forces – but the coordinates Mikhail had provided were accurate. Stanislaw stood by idly while Piotr took the photographs. Stanislaw did not see what all the fuss was about; it was just an ugly little fly. The sort of thing he would squash with his boot if he saw it indoors. Once he had snapped a few shots, Piotr got back to his feet. The shins of his trousers were now covered with mud, but again, he resisted the urge to complain. He would remember who to blame for this unpleasant excursion: Stanislaw Popov. The boss’s playboy son led the way back across the barren land toward the Range Rover, and Piotr took great pleasure in picturing the various gruesome punishments he would inflict on him if only he were not the boss’s son.
“Jesus Christ!” Stanislaw spat. It took Piotr a moment to realise what it was that had provoked this outburst, but when he saw it he almost permitted himself a smile. Stanislaw’s beautiful, slick black Range Rover – which was, after all, a jewel of his collection of automobiles – had proved too good to resist for one of the drug addicts and layabouts that populated the area. With some sort of sharpened object – likely a stone or a bit of glass – the word cunt had been carved into the bonnet in large, wavering letters.
“Fucking bastards,” Stanislaw roared. He stomped back and forth impotently a few times, while Piotr looked on. Eventually, with no one in the vicinity whom he could blame, he climbed into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine, ike a toddler whose tantrum has finally run out of steam. Piotr climbed in beside him, and Stanislaw slammed down the accelerator, sending a great spray of mud arcing across the barren remnants of Silvertown.
But they had got what they came for.
*
Stanislaw had fulfilled his part of the operation, and Yuri’s part came next. He created several fake profiles on Reddit, disguised his IP address, and posted the pictures to a thread dedicated to discussion of the Judas Fly. He pretended to be an amateur lepidotrist who had been wandering the construction site looking for anything interesting who wanted confirmation that this really was the Judas Fly.
I heard they’re going to bulldoze the place, he wrote under a different name on the forum. Seems too bad, if it really is a Judas Fly nest.
Across town, Doctor March – who was a certified expert on the forum – was having lunch when she saw the post. When she did, the fork she had just raised to her lips clattered to the ground, salad spilling her the floor and her lap. But the shock didn’t last long. Quickly, she was on her feet, yelling for her assistant to call the Mayor and asking if she’d ever heard of this place Silvertown.
Twenty minutes later, Doctor March, her assistant, and a representative from the Mayor’s office were pulling up to Silvertown. The entire site was in an eerie kind of stasis. The hollowed-out husk of the old factory loomed over them like a slumbering giant. Doctor Marsh was reminded of Ozymandias and the ruined temple. The ground was slushy and patched with grass. No sooner had they emerged from the Renault than a glass bottle shattered at Doctor Marsh's feet. She jumped and let out a little squeal.
The bottle had evidently contained whisky and had been hurled by someone lurking in the shadow of one of the many abandoned outbuildings. The place was haunted by wandering vagabonds – those imported by David Carter to discourage other investors. Now they had positively overrun the place.
"Stay close to me," the Mayor’s representative said, importantly. "This is not a nice place."
Dr. Marsh gritted her teeth. "Just think about the Judas Fly," she murmured to herself. "Just remember the Judas Fly..."
The small group encountered a few more druggies en route, but they were able to steer clear of them. The assistant, meanwhile, was examining a printed out screenshot of the forum post, trying to decide where exactly the pictures had been taken.
“I think it’s over there,” she said, pointing towards a fire escape that was now so covered in rust it looked as if it were about to fall.
As they got closer, Dr. Marsh peered frantically, desperate to get even so much as a glimpse of the glorious little beasts.
Near the fire escape was a wheelie bin, which now lay on its side, half-buried in the ruined earth. The soil and air conditions were perfect. The temperature was perfect. The damp was perfect. Around the yawning maw of the wheelie bin hovered a few little black dots.
As the three people approached, Doctor Marsh spotted the distinctive blue-green markings on these tiny insects. She smiled. The man at the Mayor’s office let out a long sigh.
“This is going to derail things,” he muttered to the assistant.