Shade turned away.
Ryan studied the exterior of the Manchester Central Convention Complex. He was scanning and planning. Preston, exhausted by the wait at Ellwood’s side, had walked up Deansgate in the rain to join him. As he stood watch, he found his attention returning to the big curve of the roof—an upturned boat with a hull of patterned glass. It used to be a railway station way back, he remembered his dad telling him once, designed with this grand high roof for the rising steam from the engines. Now that big glass curve would look down on a stage and a hall, a media center, meeting rooms, galleries, and press areas. Above the two boys was a white clock face at the apex of the building’s curve, hanging like a full moon: 4:55 p.m. The conference would be starting in two and a half hours, tops. Beneath the clock a flat-roofed foyer projected out across the stone-flagged pedestrian area. A string quartet were tuning up just inside the doors. TV crews hauled equipment back and forth. Vans pulled up, disgorged their equipment, and moved on.
Preston knew Ryan loved climbing, but he couldn’t imagine any way the guy could get up onto the curve of the roof, no matter how clever and fearless he was. Surely the way in would have to be somewhere else. The raised paved areas and steps in front of the building were thronged with cops and partitioned by temporary barriers for lining up. No chance of walking in the front doors looking like a member of the public.
So that left the sides of the building, and maybe the service entrances to the back.
That’s where Ryan had turned his attention as well. They sheltered in the steel and glass doorway of the Bridgewater Hall, looking out through the gathering late afternoon gloom across the crowds of people and traffic.
“There’s the underground parking lot,” Ryan said, nodding toward a curved drive which dropped down from street level into dark vaulted spaces. There was a barrier, a pay-point, and an attendant. Prices had doubled for party conference week. “I guess there might be a way in from there.” Ryan paced and bounced on the tips of his toes. He was sharp and fired up—running on fear and excitement. “Looks like they use the back of the place for deliveries. There must be food and drink—champagne and oysters and all that stuff, right? Where does that go in?”
They took the steps up to the station and watched as tractor trailors unloaded at the back of the center. There were two temporary buildings for extra security teams. Six guys with shaved heads and heavy raincoats were checking off deliveries with a handheld scanner.
Ryan cursed. “I need a bit more thinking time,” he said. Preston looked at his watch. Ryan grimaced at him. “I know, I know,” he said. “No time left. We need a plan.”
Back under the eaves of the Midland hotel, Preston, cold and hungry and wound tight with fear, found himself thinking again of Ellwood—and then of Shade. Armstrong had taken everything from the nightwarden: his job, his livelihood, his reason for working and living. He’d had the buildings stripped, the assets removed, the accounts frozen, and the valves shut down. But Shade seemed to have something left—some dark and brooding determination to set things right. Preston remembered the news article on the radio—the one that they’d heard on the early bulletin about Armstrong’s speech, the radio saying he was set to announce bold proposals to strengthen the UK’s criminal justice system. Tonight was Armstrong’s keynote speech, Shade had explained. Everyone would be there. TV cameras, reporters, newscasters, press, and photographers. If there was a better place to lift the lid on Armstrong’s brutality, Preston couldn’t think of it.
Then his thoughts turned to Alice, Chowdhury, Gedge, and all the other kids on the other side of the valves. There was a whole world hidden underneath the streets and the big curve of the convention center roof and the sounds of the kitchens of the Midland hotel and the taxi stand and the girl holding her dad’s hand as she jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk.
They had to do this or those kids would never come out again. They had to find a way in, and quick. But they needed Ellwood with them.
“I’m going back to check on her,” he said.
Ryan was so deep in thought, he didn’t even respond.
It was nearly six o’clock when Ellwood’s hands moved.
One arm was shifting in the dust. Preston dropped to his knees and lifted the wandering arm. Mace listened to her breathing.
“Easy,” said Shade. “It’s a good sign, yeah. But we’re not done yet.”
Preston looked at her strong face—the high forehead and cropped hair. Her eyelids were jittering like someone half-awake. Then she went still again and Preston stared at her for a long time, his head crowded with competing pictures: Alice, Ellwood. Old friendships, newer ones.
Shade’s face clouded after a while. He checked his watch and scowled. Then, when he couldn’t pack and repack his bag of databands any longer, he knelt next to Ellwood, ushering Preston aside.
“What’s up?”
Shade checked the girl’s pulse, then lifted her eyelids gently one at a time, examining her pupils. “It might be nothing,” he said.
Mace said, “Do we need another injection?”
Shade shook his head. “Don’t want to risk an overdose.”
“So what is it?”
“Should be happening quicker than this,” Shade said.
Mace stayed with Ellwood, and once again Preston hauled himself across town, fighting the weary ache of his bones, heading for the convention center. Night was closing in. If Ryan hadn’t cracked it by the time he reached him, they were doomed.
He found him in brighter spirits. “Borrowed a phone charger from a kid in McDonald’s,” he said as Preston reached him. “And look at this.” Ryan prodded his phone with wet fingers, tucking himself in under the eaves of the hotel. Ryan held the screen out.
“What is it?” Preston said as he leaned over.
Ryan demonstrated. “Helpful website, eh?” he said, bringing up a complete floor plan of the building before them. It showed the interior spaces; sections were labeled—Central Hall, Charter Suite, Exchange Foyer, Auditorium—and when you clicked, the map spun and grew as you swept low across the rooms and into a computer simulation of the interior.
“This,” he said, “was made for us. Watch.” He held the phone up, planted himself in the center of the sidewalk, oriented himself and the screen, and then began examining the scene ahead of him and cross-checking it with the floor plan. “There’s interior photos as well,” he murmured. “And nice helpful little descriptions.” He quoted as he studied the plan: “ ‘Purpose-built state-of-the-art eight-hundred-seat auditorium fitted with high-specification audiovisual systems.’ That’ll be where the speeches happen, then. And the front section here has”—he peered at the screen, wiped the rain from it—“ ‘breakout rooms for networking.’ Whatever that means.”
“So what’s the way in?”
Ryan held up a finger and made another silent examination of the floor plan. Then he straightened up. “We need to be over there,” he said, pointing, his voice fizzing with excitement. “If I can get onto the foyer roof—that bit’s flat at least—I reckon I can find a way in through service pipes or vents. Then to the Charter Foyer and the Gallery.” Ryan turned, holding the phone out for Preston. He tapped the screen. “See this bit here? There’s cloakrooms, service rooms, bathrooms, and storage.”
Preston nodded. He got it. Those areas would have fewer delegates, and so less security; rooms which might give them somewhere to stay hidden while they worked out what the hell they were going to do next.
Crucially, though, they needed Ellwood with them. All of this would be for nothing if they didn’t have their secret weapon. She had to be with them all the way. “So how are we going to get Chloe in?” he said. The name sounded odd as he spoke it. “Ellwood, I mean.”
Ryan gave an exasperated sigh. “If I can find a way in through the roof, I might be able to get access to a fire door or a service entrance … ”
They spent another fifteen minutes pacing the exterior. It got harder as the place
got busier. The entrance steps were a congregation of politicians, diplomats, assistants, and aides, all meeting and making their way through the glass entrance into the open spaces beyond. TV cameras, each with lighting rigs and the convention center’s exterior spots, threw harsh shadows against the rain-washed paving.
Eventually, Ryan found what he was looking for: a quieter half-shadowed corner. There were three Dumpsters that provided precious cover and a door—locked, of course. The place was overlooked—everything was overlooked unless you were a watcher of the unwatched life—but Ryan seemed satisfied that if he was lucky, he might be able to find his way inside, and to wherever that door was.
“Right,” he said. His voice, Preston noticed, was trembling. He was as frightened as everybody else. This whole thing didn’t seem any less stupid than it had a few hours ago back in the warehouse. “I’m going to wait here, watch the crowds, see what security do. You’re going back to check on Ellwood, right?”
Preston nodded. “And Mace and me get her here by eight.”
Ryan bit his nails and checked his watch. “Eight. Right. So be at this door. Stay out of sight.”
Preston nodded. “Got it.”
Ryan shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. “Good luck,” he said. He held out his hand.
Preston shook it. “Thanks,” he said. “You too.”
The last thing Preston saw as he made his way through the rain toward Back Half Moon Street was Ryan, hands in his pockets, goggles around his neck, looking up at the white face of the convention center clock, examining the curve of the building’s roof, working things out.
Planning his most important climb.
When he got back, it was almost seven. Ellwood hadn’t stirred.
Shade had roped Mace into checking the van with him and the two of them were now sitting in a tense silence, the preparations long since complete.
“Listen,” said Shade after they’d checked her again. “I can’t hang about any longer. I’m heading up to Blackstone Edge. It’s an old valve. It shuttles slowly. It could take me a good while to get through. We can’t risk Armstrong’s tech team realizing it’s still open.”
“Stay for a while,” said Mace. “Please. I mean—what do we do when she wakes?” He stumbled a little. “If she wakes.”
“If she wakes,” he said, “you’ll be fine. If she doesn’t … ” Shade checked his watch, abandoned his sentence. “I’ll get to the convention center as soon as I can. Assuming everything goes smoothly I could make it there by nine. Let’s hope I’m not too late.” Shade bit his lip, then crossed to Ellwood one last time, crouching and checking her. Preston watched the warden’s face, looking for signs of hope. There weren’t any. “Dammit,” hissed Shade, pressing a finger against the girl’s neck. “This isn’t working.”
He went then, silent and brooding.
Preston and Mace were left alone among the scuttling spiders and the dust and echoes, listening to the last of the rush-hour traffic. Seven thirty. It was dark outside now, and the empty warehouse was amber with thrown street light. If they didn’t do something, they were going to be very late to the convention center.
“Mace,” Preston said. “You’d better go and meet Ryan. I’ll follow.”
Once his friend had gone, recording a memo as he went, Preston paced the floor, hands in pockets to stop himself chewing his nails. It was nearly eight now. Armstrong would be taking the stage soon, Preston guessed. Making his speech. He felt dread tighten in his gut. If Ellwood didn’t wake soon, she’d probably never recover. It’d be like a coma, or brain damage.
Then it happened. Ellwood’s heel scraped against the floor. Preston spun around and stared.
Jesus. She moved.
Preston hurried to her. It took him a few moments to find the pulse; he was too nervous. Then he felt it thump against his thumb and it felt strong and steady, just as Shade had said it would.
Then Ellwood suddenly drew in a big breath. Her chest filled, her arms flexed, her head came up. She’d broken the surface like a swimmer. Her eyes were closed, but her pallor was gone now. She was coming around. Preston wiped his eyes, let out a shaky breath.
“Hoyle,” she said. It took a second to figure out what she was saying, what she was reliving. She opened her eyes, blinked rapidly, and said the name again. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Preston tipped water against them and she drank.
“We’re in Manchester,” Preston kept saying. “You’re safe.”
“Hoyle.”
“No,” said Preston. He had her nursed in his arms. “Hoyle’s not here.” Preston didn’t want to think about where the hell Hoyle was.
Ellwood spluttered and spat, then tried to sit up. “Faulkner,” she said eventually. Preston felt a crazy kind of pride. She remembered him. “What happened?” He gave her his best soothing smile. She pushed the water away. She was upright now, and her eyes were clear, as if she’d brushed away a bad dream. “Armstrong,” she said. “I need to find him.”
Ellwood was back.
The walk through Manchester was slow. Partly because Ellwood was exhausted and shivering, partly because they waited for out-of-date pastries at a bakery at closing time—bought half a dozen with a crumpled five—and partly because the girl kept looking up and around, watching the lights of the buildings, feeling the rain on her face, staring at parties of drinkers and office workers, smiling at her freedom.
It was just after eight by the time they got to the convention center. The Dumpsters were arranged in lines along the side of the building near the kitchens. Preston sent a quick text: Here, cursed his dying phone battery, and crouched down. Ellwood ate greedily and finished a bottle of water, stronger now. As they waited, they watched the little bright boxes of the rooms across at the Midland hotel, arranged like a honeycomb of cells. Now and again, a figure would cross the yellow space between the curtains and be silhouetted there. On the top floor, a man was leaning from his window, smoking and talking on his phone.
From where they hid they could see the taxicabs filing up, the passengers stepping carefully across the rainwater in the gutters, the camera crews and reporters delivering their bulletins; they could hear the string quartet playing when the doors hissed open and shut.
The service door behind them opened a crack.
Ryan’s face appeared. Thank God. The gap widened, the metal grumbling and rusty. No one had used this particular back way for a while. “It’s not much,” Mace said from inside. “But we call it home.”
Ellwood and Preston slipped inside. There was an awkward four-way embrace that Preston extended beyond necessary, feeling a wild kind of relief at being with his allies. “Long story,” he said into the tight space between them.
“You okay, Chloe?” Ryan asked.
Ellwood tousled his hair. “I’ve been better.”
“Hi.” Mace introduced himself. “I’m Elliot.”
Ellwood smiled at him, warmer now, stronger all the time.
“We’ve brought food,” Preston said, the paper bag of stale pastries in his fist.
They were in a cinder-block service passageway, musty and dry. A battered store closet, an old fire extinguisher, and a raincoat were the only signs of recent use.
“Down here,” Ryan explained through his food, pointing down the passageway, “there’s a couple of stockrooms and the bathrooms. Most of the doors are locked and the rest of the building’s just huge open spaces full of people. The ventilation shafts were dead easy really. But from here on in, it’s going to be hard. There’s loads of security. Big guys in black jackets.”
Ellwood, who’d been examining their bolt-hole carefully as Ryan spoke, flicked her eyes meaningfully upward. When Preston turned and followed the girl’s gaze, he saw the problem. There was a wall-mounted CCTV camera tucked into a high corner up there. “It might look old,” said Ellwood, “but we can’t gamble on it not working. Let’s stand here.”
They pressed their backs against the wall beneath the camera, well clear of i
ts line of sight, relishing the pastries, groaning with delight at the luxury of it all. “Been thinking,” Preston said, swallowing. “There’ll be speeches and stuff, won’t there? Debates, talks, presentations, that sort of thing. They’ve got to start soon, right?”
“So?” said Ryan.
Ellwood picked up the thread. There was a light behind her eyes now. It was partly the meds, partly the sustenance, partly the zeal that came with being close to her goal. Armstrong was nearby, and the knowledge of that was in her every gesture and decision—in the clear force of every word she spoke: “So things will quiet down then and we can start to move about a bit. We need to find out what’s going on, and where he is.”
Ryan wiped his greasy fingers and swiped his phone alive. He checked the floor plan again, cursing the Internet speed. “Yeah,” he said, putting it together. “We’d need a conference program. A running order or something.” He pocketed his phone, pushed the hair out of his eyes. “We’re gonna have a hell of a time hijacking Armstrong’s speech if we don’t know when or where it’s happening.”
“Exactly.”
Ryan rubbed his eyes. “Maybe … ” he started. He’d noticed the stock closet. The padlock was only small. “Gimme a hand with this, will you?”
Together they kicked at it, wincing at the noise, nervously eyeing the camera. The door gave pretty easily and a nest of spiders scattered. Preston tore the filmy webs aside and rummaged, working quickly. There were gloves, a high-visibility bib and safety helmet, a couple of cans of paint, gaffer tape in gunmetal rolls, some matches.
Mace spoke into his phone. “We’re in a service corridor, breaking into a closet. Sadly, there’s nothing to help us here.”
“Hang on.” Ellwood had seen something. “That sign.”
Preston pulled it free of the junk and wiped it down on the sleeve of his jacket. It was a grubby, plastic-coated metal thing that read “Out of Order” in bold, and beneath, “Manchester Central apologizes for any inconvenience caused during maintenance work.”
“This, plus the tape … ” began Ryan, his eyes lighting up a little.
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