by Paul Cornell
She thought of the first number, trying to remember it as if she’d forgotten it normally. One . . . two . . . There was the smallest jolt of resistance at the thought of three. She could do this; it was like listening to the tumblers in a lock. If she had time. She would see it through. What was the worst that could happen, that she’d be trapped here? Then Peter would be safe, at least, no need to hurt him if she wasn’t around to be threatened by it.
She quickly thought through the numbers for each digit, built up a combination of six of them in her head that hurt like an enormous buzzing, that would reach the point of actual pain in seconds, if she kept trying to remember. She put her fingers on the dial, smelling burning paper, hearing the thump of a flame bursting into life. She spun the dial back and forth and heard the clicks. She let each number go from her memory as she did. There would only be one chance at this. She got to the last number, felt the door give and flung it open.
In the safe was a gun. An extraordinary gun. It was ornate, covered in decoration, shaped like a shotgun but with so much more—
She didn’t have time. She grabbed it, threw it into her briefcase and turned for the door. The piece of paper was on fire. It suddenly began to sing, the alarm call of a bird. It was dying.
As in a dream, she found it hard to haul her feet across the floor towards the doorway. She could feel the room starting to react to her presence, now the licence the paper had given her was vanishing. The giant was about to stop dreaming her. Her existence was about to vanish. She bellowed with the effort of it, and thought of nothing but Peter, and pushed herself through a roaring gale of nothingness to the doorway. She grabbed it with one hand and heaved herself through . . .
To stumble a few steps out onto the walkway. The spectral door shut like thunder behind her. The ashes of a piece of paper fluttered into her face as she turned, sad birdsong fading with them. She stood there panting. She’d done it. Hadn’t she? She was in the normal world again. She could feel the cold air on her face.
She looked into her briefcase. The gun and papers were still there.
She wanted to cry. She would not. She straightened herself up and went to find her car.
TEN
Night on the Thames. Costain was looking along the river from the deck of an unmarked vessel of the Met’s Marine Policing Unit. To someone with the Sight, the river was like a cascade of emotions, a restlessness that continually woke all the moments of history and story along its banks, stirred them into loudly restating all the details of their existence. He wondered for a moment why simple water did that, when actually it was only briefly of London, on a one-way trip from some underground aquifer far to the west and then out to the sea.
Oh no, Tony, you’re missing an important detail there, old son, he thought: you haven’t considered the rain. The water of the bodies of living Londoners evaporated upwards, became clouds, fell back into that river, or into the ground to be absorbed into that aquifer.
Everything they’d found in the Docklands ruins said that the Continuing Projects Team, which had come before them, believed that buildings and other physical objects were mostly responsible for the shape of the occult forces in the metropolis, but Costain’s lot, being coppers, knew that everything bad that happened was the fault of bloody people.
They had no idea tonight who they were facing, but it was a relief to, just for once, be one step ahead of the bastards. Since they’d got on to the lead about the Lone Star, the team had started to work again, once more all having particular tasks to accomplish. Maybe if they kept that going, things would get better. Unfortunately, in the middle of that there was Quill. There was something deeply worrying going on with him now. Sooner or later, they were going to have to confront him about it.
Costain looked over to Ross, in a life vest like he was, a shadowed shape on the unlit deck. He saw again the beauty of her face in silhouette, the awkward angle of her nose that was so brilliant. He’d been looking at her too often. She’d said a couple of things to him in the last few days, directly to his face. He’d responded normally, because he didn’t have the energy or the willingness to deceive her even slightly now. He might get back to a professional partnership with her by doing that, in time, but that wasn’t the way to get to where he wanted to be with her. He needed to change, to really change, to deserve her respect. That was an end in itself. She wouldn’t take him back when he did, he knew that, though a part of him really wanted that to be the case, like it was in the movies. If he could change, he could be free of needing her so much, they would both be people who stood on their own, and then perhaps she could meet him again as that different person. That was the best he could hope for.
He would act on this. He would demonstrate change. He had a terrible feeling it might involve sacrifice, but OK. He would do this proudly, deliberately. He looked in the other direction, to where the Met skipper, Sergeant Alex Petrovski, was in bemused conversation with Sefton. This hard-surveillance stop was going to be unlike any the sergeant had previously experienced, and Sefton was making sure there was nothing about the vessel they were on that might give it away to a Sighted observer. That process had included quite a bit of sniffing and tasting.
Somewhere ahead of them, upriver, was the Lone Star, heading for the point where the attempted murder might happen. They’d heard from the Dutch police, using undercover assets in the port of Ostend, that the ship had taken on a single crate there. Coming up fast behind it by now, showing as few lights as they were, should be a second police vessel, a fast-response Targa 31, with an SC&O19 specialist firearms team on it, trained for tasked interdictions of commercial and private vessels, the vessel crewed and steered by the Marine Policing Unit’s Tactical Response Team. The officers involved, from Inspector Patterson of the MPU on down, had expressed interest in being part of a raid organized by Quill’s mysterious little squad. Petrovski picked up the radio again and hit the button. ‘Marine Four One to Marine Six Eight. Do you have target in sight? Over.’
A confirming voice came from the other end of the channel. ‘ETA to interdiction approximately three minutes.’
There were two other MPU officers with them, in uniform, ready with the specialist equipment that would enable Quill’s team to board. Costain glanced over to Quill himself, who was pacing the deck, on edge as always now.
Ross stepped forwards to address him as much as the crew. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘For the third time . . .’ One of the crew made a humorous clearing of the throat, but that was the extent of the protests. ‘The crew of the Lone Star on this particular voyage numbers eight, all of them American citizens, three of them with criminal records for crimes ranging from GBH to armed robbery, all of those three plus two more with connections to the Ku Klux Klan.’ That detail was as in the story. Whether or not their opponents had the almighty powers imagined by Quill, they certainly had an extraordinary reach in the everyday world to arrange things like that. ‘We think they’re planning a drowning tonight. We suspect their potential victim is being kept in a crate secured to the deck, as observed by the plain-clothes units we’ve had trailing the vessel. We don’t know where they plan to throw that crate overboard. We think they’re now heading for deep water, and perhaps for a moment when river traffic is light.’
‘There.’ Petrovski was pointing downriver.
Costain picked up the binoculars he’d brought along. The Lone Star was a beaten-up-looking sea-going freighter, with a low deck, still running with all the correct lights. There didn’t seem to be any activity on deck as yet, but, and this was worrying, he couldn’t see the crate, not in the location reported by the last contact from the plain-clothes officers watching the vessel. He reported that to Ross.
Ross took up her own binoculars. ‘Hopeful assumption: they must have moved it ready to chuck it. If they’d already done so, I think they’d have scarpered back to open sea.’ Petrovski relayed the news to the other police vessel.
Costain hoped she was right. He couldn’t imagine the plig
ht of the poor bastard inside. He couldn’t feel anything of the Sight about the vessel. They continued heading towards the Lone Star. In a few moments, they would be level. The radio buzzed again in the skipper’s hand. He listened for a moment, then looked back to Quill. ‘Inspector Patterson is asking for go or no go.’
Quill looked relieved to be doing something. ‘Go,’ he said.
Petrovski relayed the order, increased his own boat’s speed and started swiftly turning the wheel, as the crew members readied the boarding gear. They were now closing with the Lone Star, coming alongside . . . Costain found himself tensing, waiting for someone on that vessel to notice, horribly aware that he had an urge to prove himself, the sort of thing that got soldiers heroically killed. He desperately wanted to make himself right by reaching for something beyond himself. He would. He would.
They came alongside, and at that exact moment, powerful searchlights blazed from the other side of the Lone Star, illuminating the deck as the loudspeaker of the other Targa blared into life. ‘Lone Star, Lone Star, armed police officers, armed police officers. Switch off your engine, heave to and prepare to be boarded.’ At the same time, metal ladders were flung over the opposite rail, and the black uniforms of armed officers in flak jackets and helmets leaped over, taking immediate firing postures and trying to acquire targets. Their aim, stated in the briefing, was to dominate and shut down, with the purpose of making the bridge surrender and bringing the ship in to the nearest dock. Suddenly, bright light erupted from the cabin, with a cracking sound like popcorn. One of the uniforms ran for cover; another fell and rolled away, shouting in pain.
Fuck. Fuck.
Costain just had time to look over to where their Targa’s crew were pulling hard on ropes, throwing their own boarding ladder over. Quill hadn’t bothered with ordering his team to follow, and he clearly wasn’t waiting for the armed police officers to secure the ship; he was running for the ladders, because he must have already seen what Costain saw now: that towards the bow of the vessel, in shadow, oilskins were being swiftly pulled from a crate that stood right beside the rail.
Costain ran for the ladder and clambered up it, Quill ahead of him, Sefton and Ross right behind. He wished he had a gun, but that was out of the question with uniforms about: he wasn’t authorized to carry. They all had Metvests on under their life vests, but that was the extent of their protection.
He hauled himself over the side of the ship and onto the unfamiliar deck, which was swaying violently. He felt deeply scared about Ross behind him, that she’d be shot and fall, but no, no, for fuck’s sake, don’t think, just run. Ahead, two men, who still didn’t seem to have spotted them, what with all the noise and the lights shining towards them, were heaving at a tall, thin coffin of a crate. They were trying desperately to get it to a point on the rail where its own weight would take it over. Fuck, this lot were professionals, to try to complete their job while their mates were under fire.
The first of them looked up and cried out just before Quill ran into him like a train, knocking him to the deck. The second of them grabbed – not a gun, thank God, not a gun – a crowbar and Costain was on him, full of anger, exulting in it, punching him in the throat and falling with him onto the slippery deck. They rolled and hit a door as it was opening, and out of it rushed two more men. One of them shoved something towards Costain’s neck, and he realized a second too late that it was buzzing with an electric arc, and—
Sefton threw himself aside as the shooting started, him and Quill and Ross having to scramble back along the slippery deck, desperately trying to find some cover. He saw in a moment holes appearing in the wood beside him, sawdust and water and bonfire-night smell in his face. There was nowhere to hide. He thought in that moment he was about to die. Then, thank Christ, light and sound from back down the deck, answering fire and the sound of running boots.
‘Police officers!’ he shouted, in case their own lot fired on them. He had time to look back to where Quill and Ross had their heads down, and now there was answering fire, back and forth, each side trying to keep the other pinned down. The two men Quill and Costain had tackled were inching their way back towards the crate. Where the fuck was Costain? God, had he gone over the rail? Now, one of the men got up and ran at the crate, actually dodging fire. All he’d need to do was throw his weight against it . . .
Sefton found that his legs were actually trying to make him clamber to his feet, to get into the way of harm, and he could feel Ross moving that way too, but beside them, with a roar of something that sounded more like pain than courage, Quill had beaten them to it. He’d pushed himself to his feet and was leaping to intercept the man who even now was hurling his weight against the crate. Once, twice, then Quill was on him, but it was too late. The crate went tumbling over the rail, and in that second the man who’d pushed it was revealed, a shaven head and a black T-shirt under a leather jacket. Suddenly, he jumped back as holes burst out of that T-shirt, and he fell. Quill hadn’t stopped moving, he’d just changed direction, and he was clambering up; he was on the rail in the way of bullets, silhouetted against the white light all around them. Then he was over; he’d hurled himself after the crate.
Sefton heard the splash as Quill hit the water.
In the murky waters of the Thames, James Quill plummeted down. He’d had time to take a big breath. He had in his hands a pocket knife he’d brought to cut ropes. He’d landed in the foam of the crate’s impact, so he must be right on top of it. Christ, the cold! He swam as best he could, a couple of big strokes, down, down.
There it was, standing upright on the river bottom, illuminated by the searchlights from the boat above. He was calm. This was nowhere near as terrifying as Hell had been. He didn’t feel in danger of going back there now, and that was his only measure of risk. Right now, his anger was all he was. He used it. If he could just save one person, he might make his life feel worthwhile. He had seconds.
He saw they’d cut fucking holes in the crate, so it would fill up. The thing must be weighted at the bottom. He saw fingers desperately clawing at those holes. He pushed himself, flailing, towards them. He shoved the knife into the gap between two boards and heaved. The blade broke and fell into the dark. He got his fingers into the gap and broke his own nails heaving where the victim was heaving.
The fingers touched his own. They grabbed his, tried to get him to pull, but there was still solid wood between them. Quill made a last desperate effort and got his legs down, tried to heave them against the top of the crate, and now suddenly there were hands on him, black gloved hands, pulling him away as more of them flocked suddenly at the crate, and he realized these guys were the underwater rescue unit. He had to let out his breath at the second a blessed oxygen valve was shoved into his mouth, and he saw, in that moment, the top being wrenched off the crate.
He saw a dead face staring at him.
Quill had been there at the moment life had gone. It was a man, and all Quill could think of was that he knew him from somewhere. Then he was being propelled upwards and he closed his eyes and let all thought go in a shout of fury as he broke the surface.
Sefton ran to the rail to help Quill scramble back into the vessel, which had only been secured a few minutes before. Across the deck, armed officers were standing above a row of surviving crew members, who were cuffed and lying face down. Quill’s expression was terrible to see. ‘I . . . knew him,’ he whispered.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Sefton looked round, and there was Ross, who’d found a blanket and rushed to wrap it round Quill.
Quill ignored that. ‘The important thing we have to find out . . . Did he ever live in London?’
‘What? Who?’
Quill gestured frantically over the side. ‘The victim. We have to find out.’
The divers were now hauling the body over the side, and Sefton found to his surprise that he too recognized the pale, contorted face of the corpse that was laid out on deck. Petrovski and his officers had organized a stretcher. T
he faces of the divers told a story of anger and failure. They’d been delayed a few seconds too long by a firefight that had had a greater intensity to it than anyone had expected.
Sefton shook his head to clear it. ‘Jimmy, the important thing is to find out what’s happened to Tony. The armed uniforms have gone down into the hull; they’re searching every inch of the ship—’ He was cut off by a shout. Armed officers were marching two more cuffed suspects out onto the deck, and behind them, being helped along by other officers, was Costain. His face was covered in livid welts and bruises, one eye almost fused closed by them. He saw Sefton and Ross looking over at him and pushed himself away from those holding him up, made himself stand, an impossibly stoic expression on his face.
Sefton looked to Ross. She turned back to Quill. ‘So,’ she said, too quickly, ‘who’s our victim?’
The crew of the vessel checked out as those registered to sail her. Three of them were now dead. The rest weren’t talking, were calm, even. It looked to Sefton like they felt the danger was over for them now. They were professionals, who’d regarded potentially going to prison as part of what they’d been paid for. He’d met a few like them in his time within gangs. He covertly tried the bell with the powerful sense of the Sight to it on those being held in cuffs, but got no reaction out of any of them. It wasn’t likely they’d get much more on interview.
As the Lone Star was brought in to dock, Sefton watched Costain accept only the minimum of first aid. He said he was sure he hadn’t broken anything. Sefton saw Ross concentrating on the victim’s body, taking photos of it, Quill standing beside her, still wrapped in blankets, staring, and finally decided someone should bloody do the decent thing. He went over to Costain. ‘So what happened?’