Transmission 018 // “The View From Floor Fifteen”
The blinds were closed, shielding the room and its occupants from the night beyond the window. Thin slivers of streetlamp light slipped through the gaps in the slats, carving restless shadows across the parquet floor.
Neville Browning perched on the edge of a leather chair, his weight barely denting the cushion. The air around him was unnaturally still, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner. His fingers toyed with the knot of his tie, as though straightening it might somehow steady him. His attention was locked on the tall figure by the window.
Sir Richard Helpmann stood with his back to the room, the streetlight striping him in fractured light and shadow. The crystal glass in his hand caught a shard of the light, bouncing it around above amber liquid. He swirled the glass gently. Browning couldn't tell if it was absentminded or deliberate. Helpmann had a way of making every gesture seem intentional, even when it wasn't.
The seconds stretched out. Browning shifted his weight, making the leather creak—loud enough to make him wince. Helpmann didn’t visibly react, though Browning thought he saw his fingers tighten on the glass—just for an instant.
The silence continued. It should have been awkward. But Helpmann lived in these pauses, filling them with an invisible weight that pressed harder the longer they lingered. Browning swallowed. Lips wet, throat dry. Finally, he spoke.
“Do our young friends present a problem, Sir Richard?”
Helpmann took a slow sip from his glass, tilting his head slightly, as if savoring the taste. Or maybe the question. He waited a heartbeat longer than was comfortable, and the reply came.
"Quite the contrary, Neville,” Helpmann’s voice was as smooth as ever, edged with enjoyment. “They’re certainly an unexpected variable. Their little show very nearly caught me off guard in the library yesterday—which, as you know, is a rare occurrence.”
Browning nodded stiffly, his expression carefully measured. He made sure to maintain the usual posture: Useful. Agreeable. Unobtrusive. In that order.
Helpmann turned just enough for the slats of light to carve sharp angles across his face.
“The girl’s appearance has opened a door that I thought was long closed. To hear those names again… it was unexpected, to say the least.” He unfurled the suggestion of a smile. “But in surprise, there is opportunity. The teenagers are looking for answers. We gave them more questions. The right questions. They may now be the best chance we’ve had in years to flush Bennett out.”
Browning frowned, the crease between his brows betraying him.
“If he’s alive.”
Helpmann’s gaze snapped toward him, sharper than the edge of the glass in his hand. He swirled the liquid once, then set it down with a soft, deliberate clink. The sound cut through the air like the first strike in a duel.
“He’s alive,” he said, final as a closing door. “I know him.”
Browning parted his lips, an objection forming. Another look from Helpmann stopped it cold.
“The girl. She’s driven. Relentless” Helpmann continued, moving toward the desk. “She won’t stop until she gets her answers. That kind of fire can be useful, if given the right oxygen.”
“What do we do with her?”
“Force is a mirror, Neville. Apply pressure in the right place, and something always pushes back. Put her where she’ll be seen. Get her to look in the right places and Bennett—or someone close to him—may feel compelled to reveal themselves.”
Browning shifted again, the leather beneath him creaking. “The parents… You think she’s really that determined? That she’ll follow your trail?”
Helpmann’s smile deepened, though his eyes remained cold.
"Oh, of that I have no doubt, dear boy. She all but confirmed it, by coming here."
He turned the glass in his hand, considering it for a moment before setting it down with a quiet finality.
“Most people move on, their grief fades with time. But not her. She wears hers like armour.” He exhaled, a trace of curiosity behind it. “That kind of fire doesn’t just burn—it consumes. It will either push her toward the truth or swallow her whole.”
A pause. Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, the glint of something sharper. “Unless, of course, we give it direction. Harness it. Shape it into something… useful.”
Browning nodded in agreement.
“How well did you know them, Sir Richard? The parents.”
Helpmann reached for his glass again, swirling the liquid lazily, letting the weight of the question settle. The ice clinked faintly against the glass, punctuating the stillness. “That… was a long time ago, Neville. Water under the bridge, as they say.”
Browning studied him, but Helpmann’s expression gave away nothing.
“So, the plan is to put her on display?”
Helpmann’s smirk turned indulgent, almost patronizing—like a teacher watching a pupil finally stumble onto the right answer. “Precisely.”
“And the university, you think someone will be watching there?” Browning’s voice was measured. He had learned to choose his questions delicately. The trapdoors Helpmann set could be anywhere, and there was never just one.
Helpmann moved toward the globe-shaped drinks cabinet at the back of the room. The polished metal spun slightly beneath his fingers, catching the edges of the light. His hand traced the etched map of the world, pausing at certain points—just long enough to suggest significance that only he understood.
The silence stretched out. Browning waited.
“The Lockwood woman worked at the university,” Helpmann said finally. “It was a long time ago, but her ghost still walks the halls. I’ve long suspected Bennett still has ties there. But more importantly…”
His voice dipped.
“I want to know if anyone there knows about Ephyra.”
Browning straightened his tie, clearing his throat softly.
“You think someone does?”
"I have my suspicions. But not enough to act." Helpmann topped up his drink from a crystal decanter he pulled from inside the globe. "Not yet. But our new friends may be able to confirm my suspicions, especially if the Lockwood girl starts throwing her mother's name around. A fresh voice—one with historical weight—might stir up the right conversations. And if Bennett, Ephyra, or anything else of note comes up—"
He let it hang for a moment, relishing the idea.
"—we'll be on hand to clean up the mess."
The smirk was gone now, replaced by something Browning found far more unsettling—a glint of quiet amusement. Browning had learned to dread that look. It meant Helpmann knew something he didn't. And likely never would.
Helpmann took a short, measured sip from his glass, savoring the taste.
Browning shifted. "And what if they don't find anything? The girl, she's driven, but she's very young. And the boy—well, he seems like a liability."
Helpmann laughed—soft, dry as brittle glass. He stepped forward, his shadow cutting across the room.
"Never underestimate the power of well-placed pawns, Neville," he said, voice dropping to a measured cadence. "You, of all people, should know that by now."
Browning nodded in silent agreement.
“And you told them I’d been in the Navy? That I’d be keeping an eye on them. Should I—”
“Tail them?” Helpmann interrupted, raising an eyebrow, the question carrying a barely hidden trace of contempt. “Good God, no. Four years peeling potatoes in the mess hall doesn’t make you a navy man. You were a glorified kitchen boy. Besides, despite the constant disappointments, you’re of more use to me alive, dear boy. What would you do if Bennett did show himself?” He watched Browning like a cat watches a caged bird. “He’d eat you alive.”
Browning’s jaw tightened, but he smothered whatever retort had threatened to slip free.
Helpmann pretended not to notice.
Picking up his glass again, Helpmann swirled the ice once more, the soft clink a counterpoint to his words.
"No… For that, we'll need someone with sharper teeth."
His gaze locked onto Browning, steady and unyielding.
"Contact our friend. He'll be finished with his current assignment soon. Tell him only what he needs to know."
Browning nodded, the weight of the command settling heavy across his shoulders.
"Consider it done, Sir Richard."
"Good," he said, almost to himself. "Let's see what our teenage detectives can uncover."
Helpmann turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette stretching across the blinds. For a long moment, he was utterly still.
The clock ticked on, faint and steady. Browning slipped out, his footsteps barely registering against the floor. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sir Richard Helpmann alone with his thoughts.
