Bryant & May 07; Bryant & May on the Loose b&m-7
Page 30
The hunted had knelt before the huntress to take his own life. At least, that was how it would have looked. And who for a moment would have disbelieved the notion that Toth had become even more unbalanced, finally choosing to kill himself in accordance with the mythology he had so tirelessly promoted? The circle would have been perfectly closed upon itself…
Mr Fox looked different now. He kept emergency supplies hidden in alley binbags around King’s Cross, and had collected one from behind the Tesco supermarket on Caledonian Road.
Newly bald, bespectacled, dressed in a smart grey suit, white button-collar shirt and black tie, he headed down onto the Jubilee Line platform without a final destination in mind. He watched those standing on the escalators around him, the students and middle managers, the personal assistants, housewives, receptionists and computer salesmen, and saw only slack-stringed puppets, dozing creatures with the rudimentary qualities of animals, cows, dogs, mice, but mostly sheep.
If they ever woke up, he thought, if just one of them could stop thinking about mortgages and sex and job prospects for a few hours, I might find myself faced with a challenger. But I know now it will never happen, not while everything conspires to keep them asleep.
As he boarded the first train to arrive, he smiled to himself. All he knew was that wherever he was going, he would find his place in a corrupt new world.
All life, and all lives, were there for the taking.
♦
Arthur Bryant stood with his hands pressed against the cold windowpane, watching dark rivulets of rain, and the smeary streets beyond. He was furious with his own stupidity and wilfulness.
You’re a foolish old man who places lives at risk, he told himself angrily, just because you refuse to give up outdated ideas. Liberty DuCaine is dead because you were too busy holding court with your staff. You were so pleased with the sound of your own voice that you didn’t take time to secure your suspect properly. You forgot the first rules you ever learned: Protect the innocent, and never lower your guard on duty. You don’t deserve the people who work for you and trust you.
Behind him on the desk was a note Mr Ed Tremble had sent through, the answer to a question he had asked about Battlebridge, the site of Boudicca’s last battle. Tremble had discovered that the legend was based on little more than a linguistic error. The name of the village was merely a corruption of Bradford Bridge, which in turn came from ‘Broad Ford’. There had once been a bridge over the Fleet river.
So there had been no Roman battle here. No mystical link to ancient gods. No pagan retribution. Just human greed and cruelty.
You should have seen that, he thought bitterly. You should have been an academic, not a detective. All that time spent attempting to convince everyone of the mythologies that surround you. How can we ever really know anything about the past? They talk about ‘the lie of the land’ – well, this land is filled with lies. Even our own memories can’t be trusted.
He wiped at a rheumy blue eye as the rain swam on the window. I will never again make this mistake, he swore. I will spend the time I have left hunting you down, Mr Fox, and I will kill you.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 4878dbd7-ab9c-490b-9a1b-b044a9238ed7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 9.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.50, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Christopher Fowler
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