London Falling Page 38

  Quill grabbed for his phone just as it rang. ‘I want to talk to her!’ Sarah sounded as if she was crying, and he thought he was probably crying, too, but whatever he was doing had now suddenly rushed into the background and become so hugely unimportant—

  ‘Daddy,’ said Jessica, looking up at him as she said it to both of them.

  ‘Hello, girl,’ he said.

  He was sure that, at this age, the witch would eventually be forgotten.

  THIRTY

  That night in the hospital, with two broken legs, three broken ribs and numerous vertebrae waiting for a specialist verdict, Lisa Ross had a dream.

  She, Quill, Costain and Sefton were standing together in the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. They’d been there for real, of course, so there was loads of authentic detail. Ross looked around, amazed at the clarity of it. There was a framed picture on the wall of the tunnel. She went to it, and smiled when she saw that it was a picture of the four of them, with their names neatly inscribed, standing like four proud hunters, their feet on top of . . . the corpse of . . .

  No, she was proud. She expected to meet her dad somewhere in this dream. She really was proud. Under the picture were written two words in longhand:

  The Present.

  She didn’t know what that meant, as she couldn’t find any information to analyse there. She looked to the others, and then walked up the tunnel.

  Kev Sefton had a dream that night too, while he was lying in bed with Joe. He was standing, with Ross, Costain and Quill, in the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. There were pictures of famous players on the wall. Up ahead there were full-length ones, shining. He started forward . . . No, not pictures. Mirrors. They were going to walk through a tunnel of mirrors. He went ahead. He did it first. He carefully didn’t look to his left or right. He was being offered the opportunity to see himself as others saw him. To be judged. Did he think he was up to that? Those mirrors would reflect each other. Those visions of himself would go on forever. Wouldn’t that be grand? To see himself so thoroughly, so brilliantly – to shine gloriously like that?

  Sefton was tempted. And then he realized he was being tempted. And, in stories, being tempted was never good, was it?

  He shifted his feet a little. He kept his gaze straight ahead. Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. Got the wrong bloke. I’m here by accident. I’m not in charge of anything. I don’t even know what I’m about.

  Not yet.

  He got to the other side, then he looked back to his friends, and he instructed them how to proceed.

  Tony Costain, asleep in an uncomfortable chair a few feet away from Ross, also had a dream that night. He was standing with Ross, Sefton and Quill at the end of the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. They didn’t want to take the last few steps out onto the pitch, because of a figure that stood in the shadows of the floodlights. It was breathing heavily, as if it couldn’t do it any other way. It was shaped roughly like a man. It felt like the smiling man. Because this was a dream, he knew that was who it was. But it was bigger than him now. And for Costain to see any more than he was seeing would be bad. He understood he was being deliberately spared that. More fool you, then, son. He led the others of his team to the door and then, as they went carefully past, he turned to look straight at the thing. It was hanging on here, he realized, to watch something, to check on the show it was staging. He made himself keep looking at it as the others headed past him. He was on guard. He was offering the big boss a challenge. The fear was still huge, but it stayed steady. He couldn’t discern any more detail, no matter how hard he looked. Sure, it was keeping itself concealed from him . . . but maybe that wasn’t entirely for his benefit. He nodded to it. Respect. We’ll see. Then he followed his mates onto the pitch.

  At home, in bed with Sarah and Jessica, James Quill was having a dream. He was on the pitch at Upton Park, with Ross, Sefton and Costain. A handful of uniforms were hanging around. From the streets outside, there was the distant sound of continuing violence, shouting and sirens. Multiple arrests, he knew, because of a riot that had spread out from here. At the centre of the pitch stood a cluster of police spotlights. He led his team over.

  A plastic sheet lay across the centre circle. This was a dream, so he wouldn’t be disturbing evidence, therefore he lifted up the corner of it. Underneath were the splintered remains of Losley. The clothing had been ripped up, and much of the body had been too. The intestines were spread out and had burst under people’s boots. There was shit, blood and offal fanning out. There was nothing left of the eyes. The skin was burst open all over, where every blow had fallen. The heart lay as an explosion of meat across her broken chest. It looked as if they had even taken some of her bones. There was still something of the Sight about her, only slightly. But, as Quill watched, the sparks of information that had been written into her and into London, all those centuries ago, slowly became as mundane as the frosty grass on which she lay.

  ‘It wasn’t a suicide,’ said Ross.

  Sefton looked startled, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to speak in his dream. ‘What?’

  ‘She came here with one last, desperate wish, thinking she’d find at least some love. But by then that had all gone. When she went for one of their own players she became “the other”. That’s how they’re always going to see the people who deal with this stuff. If we keep seeing it, if we keep having to deal with it, we’ll never be cheered on as witch hunters. Even if we wanted to be. Because we’re the other now.’

  ‘So no change there,’ said Costain.

  ‘You know,’ said Sefton, ‘that this is my dream?’

  Ross blinked. ‘No, it’s mine.’

  ‘Mine,’ said Quill and Costain together, and looked at each other.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sefton, looking around fearfully, ‘this isn’t a dream at all, is it? Not really. I mean, it’s in our heads, but—’ They instinctively drew closer, forming a copper’s square, back to backs, Ross doing it as second nature now.

  ‘Hullo, Tone, Kev,’ said a voice from right beside them.

  He stepped out of nothing. He was wearing a shabby suit, and had small burns on his hands and face.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Quill, ‘Rob Toshack. Fancy seeing you here.’

  Ross took her time in looking Toshack up and down. It occurred to her that maybe there was something to be said for this world in which they found themselves, if there was the possibility of some justice in it. Or after it. But, then, if it was justice at the hands of the smiling man, then it was no justice at all – not with this man and her dad lumped in together. She was sad to find she still hated him, even with him now looking so pathetic. She still didn’t feel let off the hook, she’d wanted him in their hands. Under her judgement. She kept her face an impassive mask.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Toshack, noting their expressions, ‘I suppose what goes around does come around.’

  ‘You’re in Hell, then,’ said Ross.

  ‘Yeah, and I must say, it’s . . .’ he had to think for a moment ‘. . . way beyond anything you might assume it is. It’s like . . . the first time you come, pardon my French, the first time you fuck, the first time you break a bone. A whole different thing.’

  ‘So this visit is a bit of a holiday for you? Let’s not stretch it out too long.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, girl – after the betrayal and all.’ He glanced at Sefton and Costain. ‘You two and all.’

  ‘Yeah, but you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

  Quill stepped between them. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘My boss sent me, to offer you your reward.’

  ‘We know who he is,’ said Sefton. ‘We know how that story goes. We don’t take gifts from him.’

  ‘He said that’s what you’d say. Sends his regards to you, especially. And, may I say, I never had you for a poofter, Kevin. Came as quite a surprise, that one.’


  Sefton kept his silence.

  ‘No, you see, it wouldn’t really be a gift. You did him a favour by getting rid of Losley. You’ve actually helped him in this whole process he’s putting together. And, like any good head of the firm, he don’t see why people who’ve got nothing to do with it . . . ’cos you haven’t, have you, not really, and you’re just a bunch of coppers . . . he don’t see why you should have to worry yourself about it. Anyhow, the way he sees it, he owes you. All you have to do is ask, and he’ll take the Sight away from you. Now, wait a sec.’ He held up his hand, as if requiring silence. ‘It has to be from all of you, or none at all.’

  There was silence.

  ‘We could take a vote on it—’ began Costain.

  ‘This isn’t a democracy,’ said Quill, ‘but all right.’

  ‘—and I vote,’ Costain finished, ‘we keep it.’

  Toshack looked surprised. ‘If you keep the Sight,’ he said, ‘something will get you.’

  Costain strode forward and glared at him. ‘Not if we get it first. I’m not going to end up in Hell, whatever that takes. I’m going to need to see what’s coming after me.’

  Toshack, a mocking smile on his lips, glanced to the others. ‘Boys and girls, trust me, I’ve seen it all now. So far, you’ve only run into a fraction of what’s out there. You’re joining the game long after my boss has moved the goalposts. It’s all going his way.’

  ‘This is something I can do,’ said Sefton. ‘Something I’m well into now. It’s given me a voice. I’m not losing that. So I vote keep it.’

  And then Quill looked to Ross. ‘What about you?’

  She’d worked out her own answer, way back. Looking at Toshack now just made her more certain. ‘There’s something I have to do, and I’m going to need the Sight to do it.’

  ‘What would that be, then, girl?’ asked Toshack. Was it her imagination or did he actually look worried?

  ‘That, you fucker,’ she said, ‘is an operational matter.’

  Quill had felt relieved that the others had said it first. But now Rob Toshack had turned to him, and he considered his words for a second. ‘The attestation we read out when we become coppers,’ he said, ‘it says we’ll do our duty to “the best of our skill and knowledge”. You see what that means for us lot? Even if we can’t see it, this stuff would still be going on. We’d know it was going on. We’d hear about something mad and think “Oh, is it that?” We’d know there were leads we couldn’t follow, evidence we couldn’t see. Someday we might find a body, or lose a mate, and know that whoever did that was definitively out of our reach. Already, we’ve acted on intel concerning major crimes, found a way to approach an operation, sourced information, planted an informer and, whether or not we caught our suspect, closed the case and achieved four of our operational objectives. We nearly had her.’ He walked up to Toshack and put his finger under his nose. ‘And, however much front your boss is putting up now, about this all being his game, about how he owes us a favour . . . well, we know how reliable a source he is, don’t we? If this is the Old Bill versus Old Nick, we’ll have him too, sunshine. You tell him that, eh?’

  Toshack looked back at them almost sadly, as if they’d chosen the most awful path. Ross saw an echo of her dad’s pain in his face. But she held herself steady. ‘All right, then,’ Toshack said finally. ‘All right. You’ll still find you’ve got an appointment with him.’ He turned, took a last look at them, and walked off into the darkness. A second later, his guised dignity vanished into a scuffle and a scream.

  Ross felt pleasure at the closeness of the other three, as if they were standing around the kettle in the Portakabin, instead of inside who-knew-what in some cosmic who-knew-where.

  ‘What’s this plan of yours,’ asked Quill, ‘that you need the Sight for?’

  ‘Hostage situation,’ said Lisa Ross. ‘In the fullness of time, I’m going to propose an operation to get my dad out of Hell.’

  And then she woke up.

  It was daylight. A nurse came over to check her vital signs on the monitor. ‘We didn’t expect you to be awake yet.’

  Ross could just about get her parched lips to form words. ‘Stuff to do.’ She looked over to the other side of the room. There sat Costain, looking startled. Then he managed a smile. He’d just woken up too.

  Quill woke up to see Sarah glancing down at him. He looked quickly to his side, and saw Jessica curled up, snoring.

  ‘I’m going to need to know everything now,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Terrifying as that’s going to be.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re just agreeing with everything right now, aren’t you? You’ve got your happy copper face on.’

  He put a hand to her face. ‘I realized what I was missing.’

  ‘It was giving them the memories back,’ said Sefton, lying against Joe’s chest. ‘That was the win Brutus was talking about. That was the moment when I felt I’d won.’

  ‘’Cos you’re a good bloke.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sefton. ‘I think my mum would approve.’ And he kissed him.

  And then they started to argue about who was going to get up and make the coffee.

  While Ross was in the hospital, Costain found himself faced with the strange prospect of being on leave. He didn’t know what to do with it. He went to a couple of movies, and found he really didn’t like 3D now. And when a movie did take him out of himself, let part of his brain relax, he found other parts kept taking him back to thoughts about an informer and a cat.

  One day he went up to Kilburn and, using the carte blanche that Lofthouse seemed to have established for the four of them, visited the local nick. He walked around, nodding wisely at things, perplexing his uniform escort. He took a piece of paper out of his wallet and asked her about a specific shoulder number. He found the officer in question standing by his marked car, parked in a bus stop outside a kebab shop. He was finishing up talking to the owner about a missing pane of his window, now replaced by wood.

  Costain watched him for a while. Still a constable. Bit paunchy. Going by the book, bit of a smile as encouragement for the owner. Costain then went over, walking in such a way as to be looked at. He hadn’t visited this nick in his business suit, but wore his hoodie, and now he put the hood up. He did a slow cruise past the uniform, looking him up and down. The copper clocked him, suddenly turned his attention towards him. ‘All right, sir?’ Blandly said, with no spin on the ‘sir’. Nothing about him that connected to what Costain had remembered for so long: that stop-and-search, that racial slur. There was nothing for Costain to build on here. No rage he could make a new version of himself out of. He was going to have to find something. But maybe his way forward had to be based in the future, not in the past.

  Costain shook his head and moved on. Reaching the corner, he took the piece of paper with the man’s shoulder number on it from his wallet, and chucked it in the bin.

  Ross stayed in the hospital for a week, until the doctors were certain there were no spinal injuries, and that she could start walking on crutches. She got on to them like she’d wanted a pair all her life, and was soon doing laps round the hospital, pushing her muscles until they begged her to ease up.

  The other three, having visited in shifts, were all there on the designated day to take her home. Quill stepped forward, took her head in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘The life of my child,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forget that.’

  They drove back across London, taking the Rotherhithe tunnel under the Thames. Sefton signed one of her bandage strips. She’d been trying so hard not to start laughing or crying or something. She felt chemically all over the place, and she was finding it hard to deal with all this concern. ‘So now Toto will be wrapping up?’

  ‘Lofthouse wants us to stay together,’ said Quill. ‘That last house of Losley’s stayed put, so there’s enough evidence to try and put some sort of reasonable narrative together. The media have almost made it all
sound possible. We “flushed her out”, they say. And, thank God, we were nowhere near the riots, so we’re the flavour of the month. I should think Lofthouse may well have turned down medals on our behalf. It’s causing havoc in the Met, but it looks as if you lot are on permanent attachment to a squad they’re still finding a name for, headed by yours truly.’

  They passed, on one of the narrow thin pavements that ran down the side of the illuminated concrete tunnel, a bag lady pushing a supermarket trolley loaded with her possessions. Behind her, Ross noticed, skipped a row of small creatures wearing hooded brown robes.

  ‘What’s going on there, then?’ asked Quill, having noted it the same moment she did.

  Sefton stopped the car. He put the flashing light on the roof, and set the warning lights to ward off passing vehicles.

  The four of them walked back to where the woman was already panicking, looking as if she was about to run. ‘I’m not supposed to be down here—!’

  Costain smiled at her. ‘Relax, ma’am, it’s not you we’re after.’ He reached down and grabbed one of the little creatures, which reacted with a squeal of shock to be torn from what it had obviously thought was its invisible cavorting. Costain slammed the entity against the wall of the tunnel. The bag lady just stared. To her, it must be like they were harassing her darkest imaginings.

  Quill stepped up to the thing in Costain’s grasp and addressed it. ‘Are you bothering this lady?’ It hissed at him. ‘Well, you can stop it now, shortarse,’ Quill continued ‘Put this out on your grapevine. No, tell you what, I’ll do it myself.’ He got his mobile out, and found a particular number. Ross, looking over her shoulder, saw it was the same one that had been displayed on the Ops Board. The same one from which the darkness had texted them at the bookshop. Unfamiliar dialling code, but she was sure it was a London number. From the most distant borough of all. ‘The number of the beast,’ said Quill, and hit it.

  They all waited through the ringing tone. Then it was picked up. From the other end of the line there came silence.