The woman smiled, but it was not like any smile Kate had ever worn.
She scampered down the dark, narrow stairs. A small landing with another discreet door marked the ground floor, then the steps continued down into the cellars. The woman saw a glimmer of light ahead and slowed. He turned the corner at the bottom and found herself in a long, low featureless brick corridor, painted black. There was no light here, but she could make out a fading glow at the far end, betraying the presence of someone fleeing with a torch. She took off in pursuit, catching only vague impressions of rooms off to her left and right, each marked by a low, round arch and some brick steps going down into a chamber. The squalid cellar entrances smelt of blood, shit and fear.
The woman barrelled on through the darkness, turning the corner at the far end to find a dead end and an old metal grille in the floor. It was still open, and the glow of the receding torch seeped out of it. She did not even look down into the sewers before jumping.
She splashed into cold, lumpy water that came up to her waist. The sewer was a round tube of Victorian brick. The current was strong, swollen by the heavy rains, and the water swirled and eddied, trying to pull her feet out from under her. The floor felt slimy beneath her feet and she knew that if she lost her footing she would be in big trouble.
She held the gun high above her head and waded forward, following the fading light around the curve of the tunnel.
She had only progressed a few metres when she stepped into space, a breach in the sewer floor, like a pothole. She unbalanced and fell backwards, disappearing into the raging torrent and being carried forward at speed. She lost her grip on the gun. Flailing around in the darkness, she broke the surface once, twice, gasping for air as she hurtled along.
For the first time it occurred to her that she might die down here.
She lost all sense of orientation. Down was up, left was right. The water roared in her ears, she saw flashes behind her closed eyes and felt the dizziness of impending unconsciousness.
Then she hit something. Something soft, which fell ahead of her, and then she and this object were tumbling together in the water. Something hard hit her on the side of the head; was that the torch or her gun? Just as she thought she was dead, the water threw her out into a void and she fell, momentarily free, drawing ragged, desperate breaths.
She splashed down into a lake of some sort and fought to the surface. There was no light down here. The torch had gone. She floated there, treading water as it swirled around her, calming herself, listening intently, trying to filter out the sound of the waterfall that had deposited her in what she assumed was some sort of junction.
She had not fallen down into this pit alone. The person she had collided with must be here too, somewhere in the darkness.
“Spider,” she shouted. Her voice echoed back to her a hundred times. This chamber was big and arched. “Spider!”
She waited, feeling the fatigue in her legs as they kicked against the tide.
“Miss Booker, you surprise me,” came the reply at last, his too calm voice seeming to come at her from every direction.
She turned left and right, trying to get a bearing on the bastard. It was no use; he could have been anywhere.
“If I could see you, I would shoot you,” he said, seeming more in control. Had he made it out of the water on to some ledge? He didn’t sound like he was swimming any more. “But I suppose I will have to settle for leaving you here to drown. Goodbye, Kate.”
‘Kate,’ thought the woman. ‘Who’s Kate?’
“I’ll find you,” she screamed. “No matter where you fucking hide, I’ll find you.”
“No,” came the reply, fainter now, moving away. “I will find you, if you survive the day. Trust me.”
“Spider?” she yelled. “Spider!”
But there was no reply, only darkness and water and white noise.
A COUNCIL WORKER found the woman later that night, unconscious, half dead, suffering from hypothermia, washed up on a brick shore half a mile under the city. Her body was swarming with rats. When he managed to wake her, she couldn’t tell him her name. Delirious, she muttered incoherently about webs as he radioed for assistance.
TWO MONTHS LATER, a nondescript car drove through a pair of wrought iron gates and down the driveway of a minor public school in Kent. It parked behind the main building and two people, a man and a woman, got out.
He wore a smile that spoke of familiarity and nostalgia. Her face betrayed no emotion at all.
“This way,” he said, and walked towards the rear doors, his feet crunching on the gravel.
She did not follow him immediately, pausing to take in her surroundings. The sports fields stretched away ahead of her, bordered on all sides by thick woods, lush green in the summer heat. The sky was blue and the air was clear and smelt of pine needles and fresh water. The only sound came from the soft rustle of the leaves in the gentle wind.
“You coming?”
She turned and trailed after the man, who pushed open the door and entered.
The building was impressive and old, but not as old as some public schools. This was a Victorian edifice, imposing and solid. The inside reflected this, with dark wood panelled walls, tiled floors and portraits of illustrious benefactors with big sideburns hanging on the whitewashed walls.
The man led her deep into the silent building, up a small back staircase once meant for servants, to a small door in the east wing. He opened the door then handed her the keys.
“Welcome home,” he said.
“It’s not my home, John.”
“It is now,” said DI Cooper. Then he added, smiling: “Matron.”
The woman slapped him playfully on the arm and allowed herself the tiniest grin as she stepped over the threshold into the flat. It was pokey but cosy. An small open fireplace sat in the middle of the far wall, with a flower print sofa and chair in front of it. There was a dresser, a bathroom with an old enamelled bath, a kitchen that barely had standing room for one and a bedroom with a single bed and wardrobe. The woman sighed and walked over to the living room window. The view of the fields and woods, with the thin skein of the river glinting on the horizon, was beautiful. This was a good place; quiet and peaceful, isolated from reality. The outside world would not bother her here.
“Yeah, it’ll do,” she said eventually, heartened by the green and the sun. It was hard to feel too low on such a gorgeous day. But she knew that looking out of this window on a cold, grey winter’s day would be a very different prospect.
She heard a click from the kitchen and the rumble as the kettle began boiling. She stayed at the window until the man tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a mug of strong hot tea. She thanked him and sat on the sofa. He sat opposite, on the armchair, sipping his own brew.
“So this is where you went to school, huh?” she said.
“Yeah. I’m on the alumni committee and everything.”
“I thought places like this only turned out lawyers and bankers.”
“Oh, no, soldiers too. There’s a cadet force here.”
“Seriously?”
“Once a week they dress the boys up in uniforms and teach them to shoot things.”
A flash of unease passed across the woman’s face.
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “Matrons are exempt. You won’t ever have to hold a gun again, Kate.”
After a short pause she said: “It’s Jane, remember? I’m supposed to be Jane now.”
“Sorry, I know. But not forever. Once we catch the bastard you can go back to being Kate again.”
The woman did not correct his misapprehension.
“The boys arrive tomorrow,” he continued. “Then you’ll be up to your elbows in Clearasil, TCP and black eyes.”
“Can’t wait.” Another pause, and then: “Do you have any idea where he is?”
The man shook his head. “If I had to guess, Serbia.”
The woman nodded.
“Were there any biscuits in the
re?” she asked. “I fancy dunking.”
WHEN COOPER HAD gone, the woman drew a bath and gently lowered herself into the near boiling water, letting her skin adjust to the heat in tiny increments, her lips pursed with the pleasure of pain.
She floated, weightless, closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. She took long, slow, deep breaths and pictured the cares and stresses of her day dissolving out of her into the bathwater.
But there were no cares and stresses to disperse. It felt as if there was nothing in her at all. She was hollow.
The woman considered the emptiness dispassionately, turning it over in her mind as one would a vase or an artefact unearthed at an archaeological dig, feeling its weight and form, assessing it.
“Jane,” she said out loud. “Jane Crowther. Matron.”
She said the name in different ways, trying different intonations, a question, and answer, a hail, a statement.
“Jane. Jane. Jane.”
It felt strange in her mouth. But it felt good on the inside.
Yes. She would be Jane now, the woman decided.
And it was right that she should be empty, she concluded, for that was what a newborn was – a vessel waiting to be filled with new experiences.
The woman who was now Jane ducked her head under the water for a moment and concentrated on the still warmth, the only sound her own heartbeat. Then she pushed her head back up to the air and took her first breath.
PART THREE
LEE
CHAPTER TEN
THE IMPLICATIONS OF what I’m seeing overwhelm me.
I stand there holding the gun, frozen in wonder and horror as the events of eight years ago spool through my head like a movie. Each event, each conversation, is suddenly reinterpreted with new and sinister emphasis.
If this is true, then that means... which means that... in which case...
I stagger back from the Speaker’s Chair as if hit, almost losing my footing. I think maybe I let out a cry.
“Surprise,” says the man in the cloak.
The sound of his voice brings me back to the here and now. I refocus my attention on him, steadying my wavering hands and aiming the gun right between his eyes.
“Oh, Kate,” says John Cooper. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I WAS A little nervous when I rode into Nottingham.
The castle was impressive and welcoming, although they insisted I leave my gun with them for the duration as apparently no firepower was allowed in the town. Hood had his own band of merry men and there was a family atmosphere that reminded me a little of St Mark’s. I had some concerns when I saw the army of Rangers training in the grounds, but those fears were dispelled when I met the man and his entourage. These were obviously good guys, which was a blessed relief.
Jack had been there three days already when I arrived and was fitting in nicely. There was something of the chameleon about Jack. He was good at blending in, finding the right tone to strike in a particular group or environment. In Nottingham he was blokier, more one of the lads than he was back at school. It had worked. He had met Hood a couple of times and been greeted with cautious warmth. As we’d discussed, Jack had proposed an arrangement whereby either of our settlements could, if seriously threatened, send a messenger asking for aid which would be immediately rendered.
Hood seemed open to the idea, but it was still early days. Jack was taken aback when I turned up intending to ask him to deliver on his end of the bargain so quickly.
“I don’t know if he’ll be up for that. Things aren’t exactly quiet around here,” Jack told me as we walked around the castle boundary on the day I arrived. “There’s some nutty cult on the rise and it’s got them a bit spooked. Plus, you know, they had a hard fight against that French geezer so they’re cautious about going looking for trouble.”
“Geezer? Really, Jack? Geezer?”
“What?” he replied, I thought slightly shiftily.
I laughed. “Was that the commonly accepted term at Harrow for French psychopaths?”
“No,” he said, straight faced. “The accepted Harrovian term for a French psychopath was Le Geezer. But, you know, I didn’t want to confuse you with the complicated foreign lingo.”
“Right.”
He gave me a sudden appraising stare, as if trying to work out what I was getting at which, since I was just joking, made me wonder what he thought I was getting at. I shook my head and filed it under the category of ‘Jack being odd’.
“Anyway,” he went on, “they’ve got quite a force of Rangers. As you’ve found, they don’t carry guns, just knives, swords, bows and arrows, quarterstaffs. Proper mediaeval stuff.”
“So where,” I interjected, “did all De Falaise’s firepower end up?”
“I asked that, but they’re not saying.”
“’Cause we could use it, if they’d let us.”
Jack shook his head firmly. “No chance. Hood has a thing about modern weapons. If they had an arsenal somewhere, he’s either destroyed it or put it somewhere no-one else can find it.”
I nodded. “So how many men can he spare us?”
Jack winced. “I don’t know if he’s willing to spare us any, but I got the impression that the best we could hope for is maybe five or six.”
I looked up at the castle walls, where we’d seen at least fifty Rangers being put through their paces. “Fuck, really? That’s it?”
“He said he has to make the cult his top priority. Plus...” Jack trailed off, seemingly unsure of what to say next.
“Yes?”
“Well, what happened in Thetford? ’Cause whatever it was, those Rangers you came back with kind of hate your guts.”
“Things got complicated.”
He waited for me to say more, but I kept my mouth shut. Even I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened back at the compound. I kept replaying the moment I killed the begging snatcher, trying to reconstruct what I was thinking at the time, trying to work out whether it was justified. But I came up empty handed time and again. It was like I hadn’t been me at all when I pulled the trigger. I was beginning to suspect that I couldn’t recall what I’d been feeling because I hadn’t felt anything at all. And that scared me.
We rounded a corner and found ourselves back at the castle gates. Jack saw this girl called Sophie who he’d been mooning after, with a total lack of success on his part and no encouragement at all on hers, and took off to resume his charm offensive.
I went to find Hood.
THE LIVING LEGEND was pacing up and down in front of a map of the area which was hanging from the wall of what used to be the visitor’s centre.
Courteous yet taciturn, he had a weather-beaten face that spoke of a life outdoors. He seemed uncomfortable inside and every now and then I caught him flashing tiny glances at the walls as if suspicious or resentful of them. I don’t think he realised he was doing it.
He indicated that I should take a seat in one of the moulded plastic chairs that were piled up in the corner.
“Tell me about De Falaise?” I asked, substituting curiosity for small talk.
He regarded me coolly. “Like a good war story, do you?” The implication was unspoken but clear.
“My Dad and I had a run in with him, back in France,” I explained. “I’m deaf in one ear because of that bastard.”
He looked surprised and I admit I felt a little pleased with myself. I got the impression he was not an easy man to surprise. I realised that something about his quiet authority made me want to impress him.
“You were in France?” he asked. “What were you doing there?”
“Making my way home.”
“From?”
“Iraq.”
Now he was really surprised. I intended to leave it at that, just be enigmatic and cool, but I felt a sudden need to confess. Something about this strange, solid man made me want to unburden myself to him.
Hood pulled up a chair and sat opposite me as I
talked, listening without comment as everything that had happened to St Mark’s since The Cull poured out of me. The choices, the killing, the monsters and heroes. As I spoke the sun went down until only a solitary candle lit the room, catching the lines on his face until it seemed I was speaking to a statue or a demon. Hood had an amazing quality of stillness. I don’t think he even blinked while I spoke, and I spoke for a long, long time. In that quiet, half lit room it was as if there was something not quite natural about him, something more than human. Or maybe something less.
When I had finished – and I was completely honest about what had happened in Thetford – I fell silent and waited nervously for his response. He sat there, impassive, for what felt like a lifetime.
“Have you told your father this? Or Jane?” he asked softly, the voice seeming to come from the very fabric of the building.
“Some of it,” I said. “Not all.”
He rose from the chair and walked across to me. He laid his hand on my shoulder and looked down into my eyes. There was such compassion in them, but no pity. I felt a lump in my throat and realised I was about to cry.
“You should.”
“I...” I found it hard to form feelings, let alone words to express them. “I want...”
“I know what you want, son. But I can’t give it to you.”
He turned and walked to the door then paused and said, over his shoulder: “You can have a team of men. My very best. They’ll be at your disposal from dawn tomorrow.”
He half turned and looked back at me through the gloom.
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