Loping, stubble-bearded.
Provender Gleed.
46
On the twentieth floor of Block 26, Is and Provender were beginning to tire. They had lost count of the number of flights of stairs they had descended. They seemed to have become lost in a continuum of downward clockwise winding, their future an endless set of concrete risers coming up to meet them. The twentieth-floor landing offered release. There was a glass door leading out to a kind of cloister, which led in turn to a covered, colonnaded overpass, which terminated at the apex of a spiral staircase, which helter-skeltered all the way to the ground with overpasses radiating off from it at intervals. Still overdosed on stairs, the two fugitives exited at the first opportunity, heading across to Block 31. Is had calculated that there was little likelihood now of their and Damien's paths crossing. The estate library was on the other side of 26. He had no reason to be coming through 31. Still she wouldn't be wholly happy until she and Provender had found a phone, in fact until they had got clear of Needle Grove and were somewhere, anywhere else.
The overpass decanted them onto a recreation area attached to 31, and finding their way into the block itself seemed a simple matter. A recreation area invariably had easy access to and from the block it belonged to. The gathering of people on the netball court scarcely gave Is pause. They weren't a gang-tribe, just a bunch of ordinary Needle Grovers having a chat in a circle. Some kind of residents' discussion group? Probably. Is did not give them a second glance as she and Provender passed along the netball court's perimeter.
Then the residents started shouting Provender's name.
It was something that Is hadn't thought about, something that hadn't even fleetingly entered her mind. She was out in public with a Family member. Provender's might not be the best-known Family face but it was famous nonetheless. A coating of stubble didn't do much to disguise it.
Then she noticed that the people on the netball court had lit candles in their hands, and the penny dropped. ClanFans. She and Provender had had the awesome misfortune to stumble across a crowd of ClanFans who were out celebrating Provender's birthday.
'Fuck my luck.' Is seized Provender by the arm. 'Come on, we need to get moving.'
She said this because the ClanFans were themselves getting moving. A handful of them had broken away from the group and were stalking towards Provender, hesitant but with mounting confidence. They and the ones who remained rooted to the spot all had loose, inane grins on their faces and kept looking at one another - that was, when they could tear their eyes off Provender for a second - to seek reassurance that this was really happening, the person in front of them really was who they thought. They continued to call out to him, repeating the three syllables of his name in high, querulous voices like hatchlings in the nest vying for mother bird's attention. Then, all at once, the entire group surged forward, apart from the one they had left behind, who lay prone on the ground, insensible. With their hand outstretched, the ClanFans beelined for the object of their adoration...
...who stood immobile, uncomprehending. Is yanked on his arm. His body sagged in her direction but his feet stayed where they were.
'ClanFans, Provender,' she said.
Her words had no meaning to him. He didn't seem to know what he was looking at, why these people were calling to him. He was as mesmerised by them as they were by him.
Is's medical training kicked in. Procedures for rousing or getting attention of semi-conscious patients. Either: pinch the earlobe. Or: rub knuckles up and down median line of sternum.
The latter worked only if the patient was lying down. Otherwise you couldn't get any leverage. There was nothing to push against.
Is reached up and dug the nails of thumb and forefinger into Provender's earlobe.
'Oww!'
'Run. Now. Us. Fast.'
The ClanFans were a dozen paces away as Provender, galvanised, finally began to move.
It was love, pure and simple.
It was the need to touch, to grab hold of, to be sure of.
It was wanting to know if the person before them was flesh and not some figment of their imaginations.
It was the desire to lay hands on.
It was a form of lust.
It was worship.
It was greed.
It was all these things, and yet to the ClanFans it felt like nothing. A blinding urge. Indefinable. Primal.
When Provender was standing still, they had to home in on him.
When Provender took flight, they had to give chase.
Across the recreation area.
A square cavity in the side of Block 31.
A concrete tunnel burrowing into the building.
A narrower tunnel that jinked off to the side.
Stairs.
Is ran, pulling Provender after her. She ran in the knowledge that this was absurd, ridiculous. They were fleeing from a bunch of people who, by rights, were harmless. Ordinary individuals who normally wouldn't hurt a fly. Yet, in their devotion, their love for Provender, they might well tear him to pieces if they caught up with him. If nothing else, they were drawing attention to him, and that was exactly what he and Is did not need.
So she kept running, even as hilarity bubbled inside her, threatening to become hysteria. Had there been a moment to pause, had the ClanFans not been pressing hard on her and Provender's heels, she would have stopped and given in and laughed herself hoarse. But the ClanFans were right behind, yelping and imploring, a mass of needy arms, a rumble of desperate footfalls. 'Provender!' they cried. 'Provender, please! Please!'
She hit a landing, Provender still in tow, and barged through a doorway, which a woman with an armful of groceries was trying to negotiate from the opposite direction. Is shouldered her out of the way and the woman swore at her ripely and profusely. Next moment, the stampeding ClanFans burst through the doorway, and the woman and her groceries were sent flying.
Into an arcade, similar to the one in Block 26. Shops blurred by on either side. Ahead: a defunct indoor fountain, which a cluster of Orphans had commandeered - our spot. The Orphans, loaded to the gills with Tinct, chortled to see two adults come sprinting by, and laughed even harder at the sight of their pursuers, an assortment of grown-ups and children, all huffing and puffing frantically.
Beyond the fountain, a ramp. Down that, out onto a plaza, diagonally across to its only exit point, down another ramp to a disused swimming pool that had a residue of grimy water at the bottom in which car tyres and a rusty bicycle frame formed a reef. Around the pool, onward, till there were stairs, and more stairs, and yet more stairs, and suddenly, just like that, the ground.
They paused, Is and Provender, to take stock. They had managed to put some distance between themselves and the ClanFan pack, not much but enough to allow a brief respite from running. Compared with the majority of the ClanFans, they were young and relatively fit. Indeed, although they couldn't know it, there had been attrition among their pursuers. A few of the older and fatter ClanFans had had to abandon the chase and were strung out at intervals along the route, bent double, wheezing, experiencing all sorts of unpleasant palpitations to accompany the ache of anguish and frustration in their bellies. The rest, however, were still coming, undeterred by the fact that their quarry appeared to be getting away from them. They were relentless. They would keep after Provender as long as they were able to. Their lives had condensed down to a single objective: catch up with Provender, be with him, unite with him, embrace and cling to this avatar of Family, for ever. And as for that girl who was with him - what girl?
Is, panting hard, cast her gaze around. She didn't know Needle Grove all that well anyway, and down here on the ground it was another country, a gloom-hung, alien place, hostile territory. There were few map diagrams that hadn't had graffiti slapped over them and few signposts that hadn't been torn down, and the only other landmarks were car husks, which looked virtually identical, and trenches which the gang-tribes had dug out and fortified with rubble in the course
of their perpetual turf-wars. The roads that wound through led somewhere but not necessarily out into London. Is could have navigated her way out of the estate if they had been standing at the foot of Block 26, somewhere near the parking garage entrance, since she knew that route reasonably well. But they were standing at the foot of 31, on the far side of the block from 26. She had only the vaguest notion of which way to go.
Above, on the staircase, the ClanFan clamour was growing louder. The front-runners of the group were closing in.
'Where now?' Provender gasped.
'There,' said Is, pointing along a road that ran to the right, and added, 'I think.'
'You think.'
She rounded on him. 'Would you like me to leave you here?' She nodded upwards. 'To meet your adoring public?'
'Uh, no.'
'Then shut up and follow me.'
47
Walking back from the library, videotyped ransom demand in hand, Damien reflected on what he had done to Is. He felt terrible about it, even if he hadn't hit her that hard, just a backhand swipe, barely even a tap. It wasn't right. He should have been able to control his temper. Whatever the provocation - and boy had he been provoked - he shouldn't have lashed out like that. He had probably ruined any chance he had of getting back together with her. She wasn't going to forgive him in a hurry, that much was certain. Yet he remained hopeful that he could make it up to her somehow and that he and she could be reconciled. Perhaps once this kidnap business was over, when Provender wasn't there any more in the flat, when the money had arrived and the regeneration of Needle Grove commenced - then Damien could say to her, 'Look. See? It was worth it. All we went through, all the hassle and strife - all worth it.'
Is didn't know true love when she saw it. That was her problem. That and getting a bit too chummy with Provender fucking Gleed. But Damien couldn't even fault her there, not really. It was Is's nature to be kind, to see the best in people. That was one of the things he loved about her.
As the lift hauled him up to the forty-fifth floor, Damien contemplated stopping off at Mr Ho's along the way and buying some flowers. It would, however, be too corny and obvious a gesture. Is might even take it the wrong way: as if a bunch of flowers could just wave everything away like a magic wand. No, humility would be best. Honest, sincere contrition.
He was formulating his apology as he stepped out of the lift. He was still working on it as he unlocked the door to the flat. Composing himself, he swung the door open and began, 'Is, I've just got to tell you...'
She wasn't there.
She wasn't on the floor. She wasn't sitting in a chair. A glance through the bedroom doorway told him she wasn't in there either.
The flat was silent. Shockingly, tellingly silent.
What was the balcony window doing open?
Where the fuck was the table?
Then Damien caught sight of the loops of severed flex on the floor not far from where Is had been lying when he left. That was when he knew what had happened, but he strode over to the bathroom and flung the door wide, because he had to be sure, he had to see it with his own eyes...
And when he did, when the bathroom's emptiness gaped at him, he felt a tremendous downward rush, as though the building had vanished and he was plummeting to earth, five hundred feet straight down. Weak, he grabbed the door frame for support. He croaked, 'No,' and then 'No' again, as though by denying it he could somehow make it not have occurred. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, reopened them and looked up, hoping against hope that Provender would be there again, bound and helpless on the floor.
Of course he was not. The bathroom remained empty.
But not completely empty. Something was there which should not be there. Something had been placed there for him to find.
Bending forward, Damien reached out a numb hand and picked up his copy of The Meritocrats, which was on the floor next to the bath in the exact spot where Provender should have been.
There was handwriting on the front cover. Damien held the book up to the light and read:
Look on page 1.
This is how misguided and gullible you are.
He knew the handwriting was Is's, and although he resented being called misguided and gullible he resented even more that she had defaced his copy of the book. It wasn't in the best of condition to start with, admittedly, but to scribble on the front like that was just plain vandalism. Sacrilege, even.
Look on page 1. Damien's fingers felt thick and clumsy as he obeyed the instruction. He leafed the book open to the start of the story, wondering what Is had done there. More defacing, he reckoned. That bitch.
He knew he should be out looking for her and Provender. He should be scouring the estate for them. He couldn't let them get away.
But first this. He had to see what was on page 1. Why he was allegedly so misguided, so gullible?
Here was the page. Initially Damien couldn't discern anything different about it. What was he meant to be looking at?
Then he noticed that certain letters had been highlighted - the first letter of each sentence of the first four paragraphs.
Providence saw to it that Guy Godwin was born and brought up in a house at the confluence of three types of transportation. Road ran alongside the house. Overhead a railway viaduct arched. Very close to the end of the garden, a canal flowed. Every minute of every day, almost, Guy could look out of a window and see voyagers go by...
And as he read, and as he perceived, and as he understood, there came that downrush again, that giddying sense of freefall, but worse this time, as though all certainties were collapsing, as though support columns were giving way and the structure of Damien's life was crumbling to pieces beneath him.
Now he couldn't hold himself up. He buckled to his knees. He began moaning, rocking his head from side to side, not willing to believe that such a huge, monstrous trick could have been perpetrated on him. Not just on him but on thousands of others. The magnitude of it. The evil of it!
How long he knelt there, he couldn't say. Abject in his misery, he went into a state of withdrawal, distant from the world, outside time. There was no meaning. There was no fairness. Everything was a hoax, a cruel prank. He seriously considered ending it all, there and then. Draw his knife from its sheath, plunge it into his guts like a dishonoured samurai. But his arms were nerveless. He couldn't reach behind him. He lacked the strength.
What finally roused him from his stupor was a rap at the door and a quiet voice saying, 'Excuse me.'
He had left the door open.
A man he didn't recognise was peering into the flat.
The man rapped again on the door, a formality, looking directly at Damien as he did so. Puzzled that Damien was crouched there in the bathroom doorway. Nervous.
'Yeah?' Damien intoned, bleakly, wearily.
'I'm, umm... I'm looking for Damien Scrase,' said the man. 'Would you be he?'
48
Milner fully expected the answer to his enquiry to be no. He had the correct flat, 45L, but the man slumped in the bathroom doorway could not have corresponded less with his vision of Damien Scrase. He looked confused, helpless, broken, lost. He looked like someone who couldn't, at this moment and maybe at any moment, tell his BOWEL from his ELBOW, or for that matter his ARSE from his EARS. No way could he be Provender Gleed's kidnapper. And no way could this flat, with its front door wide open, be where Provender was being held captive. As far as Milner was able to see, it was empty, the slumped man its sole occupant.
Provender, he concluded, was elsewhere, and so was Scrase.
Maybe with Demetrius Silver? Were Scrase and Silver in it together, co-conspirators?
Such a prospect was not at all comforting, and Milner felt it was time to cut his losses and run. He would get a call out to Carver. Carver would do the rest.
'My mistake,' he said. 'Didn't mean to bother you. I'll just --'
'Who are you?' the man demanded.
'Uh, nobody.'
'No, you said my name. Yo
u came to see me. Who the fuck are you?'
Milner was lost for words - a rare occurrence for him, a dereliction of duty, almost anathema. His mouth opened and shut soundlessly, even as his mind raced to come up with some sort of excuse for his being there and knowing Scrase's name. He grasped the enormity of the blunder he had made. He had assumed the man was not his suspect, and he had been wrong.
'I, um, I thought...'
Scrase moved fast - shockingly fast. He sprang to his feet and lunged. Milner barely had time to flinch, let alone take evasive action. All at once Scrase had grabbed him by the shirtfront and was hauling him into the flat. Scrase kicked the door shut, slammed Milner backwards against the wall, and thrust his face so close to Milner's that the Anagrammatic Detective could hear the breath whistling in and out of his nostrils.
Milner knew then that the anagrams had not lied. The furious, staring eyes that filled his field of vision were all the proof he needed. MEAN CAD RISES. INCREASES MAD.
SCARES MAIDEN? he thought, remotely. SCARES ME AND I!
'What do you know?' Scrase snarled. His breath reeked of tobacco. 'Where is he? What have you done with him?'
'I have no idea what you're --'
With a soft zing, just like that, a knife appeared. Scrase held it up in his right hand while his left continued to grip Milner's shirtfront in a tight knot at his throat. Milner's stomach went hollow, and for a moment he thought he was going to soil himself. Everything seemed to have turned upside down. Reality was gone and there was only an insane nightmare: the knife poised in front of him, its blade about a foot long or so it seemed, light playing along honed steel, Scrase's eyes behind the weapon looking hard and lifeless and pitiless, knifelike themselves.
'I'll ask again,' Scrase said with bitten-lip patience, 'and you will answer in a straightforward and completely truthful manner. I'm not in the mood for mucking around. First off, who are you?'
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