He shrugged, turning in a slow circle, looking for signs of life.
“And why has everything just stopped?”
The only thing moving in the whole city was the thick snow that had begun to fall silently around them.
The five spits and the two children stood in the rapidly whitening road and stared about them as the shock of what they were seeing slowly dawned on them.
“Whatever we brought back with us,” said the Officer slowly, “I don’t think it’s good.”
Unconsciously, they moved a little closer to one another, each feeling strangely alone in the silence as they peered down the unmoving streets, too caught up in what was happening around them to notice what was happening above them.
Which was a shame. Because what was above was definitely noticing them.
The stone gargoyle was perched on the very tip of the giant stone field gun on the top of the Artillery Memorial.
The Gunner saw it first.
He stepped in front of Edie and George, fumbling for his pistol.
“Look out, here we go!”
Everyone turned suddenly.
George’s hand shot out, and he pulled the Gunner’s hand down hard.
“Wha—” began the Gunner.
“It’s okay!” said George. “It’s okay.”
“Gack?” said the gargoyle.
George grinned. “He’s one of us.”
They looked at Spout. Then at George. Then back at Spout.
The Gunner put his revolver away. The Officer gave him a cigarette, which he lit, and they all stood there looking at the grinning gargoyle through cigarette smoke and heavily falling snow.
“Blimey,” said the Gunner. “If he’s one of us . . . we’re really in trouble.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s hard to write in a vacuum, and talking to other writers seems to ease things along on the tough days— especially when you have to raise your game to keep up with them. Thanks to the game-raisers for the help, provocation, and support over the years and across the disciplines—Alex “Nander” Cary, Fergus Fleming, Jonatan Darby, Al Whiting, Katie Pearson, Patrick Harbinson, Robert Harris, Amanda Silver, Rick Jaffa, Kate Bucknell, Rose Baring, Mary Miers, Barnaby Rogerson, and Mary and Philip Contini. Special thanks to my family, consiglieri, and other secret readers for all the help and support in getting Ironhand on the page— Kate Jones, Ron Bernstein at ICM, Michael McCoy at ITG, Jack, Ariadne, Zillah More Gordon, Finn Younger, and Charlie Harris. Much belated gratitude to the photographer Andrew Errington for taking a fantastic portfolio of images of London statues to get me going, and apologies to my dad for the bits where the Gunner was trapped underground—I forgot about the claustrophobia. Honest . . .
Ironhand Page 27