by Nick Green
Mrs Powell smiled. ‘Ra is rising.’
Tiffany looked at her. Ra was the Egyptian sun god, she knew that. The rays of the golden disc bathed Mrs Powell’s face, so that fleetingly she looked like a much younger woman with blonde hair.
‘Pasht the cat goddess serves the sun,’ she said. ‘For I am called the Eye of Ra. Watcher and protector.’
It was hard to know what to say to that.
‘Mrs Powell. Are you…?’
‘Do I follow those lost religions? Pray to Isis? Shun the evil Set? Bury my friends in pyramids?’ Mrs Powell turned her back on the sun and in the turn she aged again. Her face was lined and tired. ‘There are the things we hold onto. And the things it is best to let go of. The great test is to tell them apart. Come on.’ She took Tiffany’s hand. ‘Busy-busy. Chores to do. Cats to feed.’
A new path led them back among the trees. Tiffany drank in the pure peace of the wood. For the first time in a long while she felt herself safe. Ben’s plight back in London seemed far away, now that she no longer feared for him. She had found her teacher. Mrs Powell would sort their problems out. Everything was going to be all right.
THE SKELETON TOWER
It’s only a nightmare. The head of Martin Fisher bent over his bed. The plughole eyes glinted in their tattooed mask and Ben got ready to scream himself awake. Then he found he already was.
It was over. His cover was blown, the polecats had sniffed out the spy in their midst and Lucy and Ray Gallagher would spend the rest of their sad lives wondering what had become of their son. Screwing his eyes shut he called on his Mau body to save him. If he could only strike out before Fisher tore him apart…
‘Hello,’ said Martin Fisher. ‘Get up.’
It was no use. Fear was jamming his pashki skills. He clutched his motley bedclothes tight around him. Then he saw Kevin, Jeep and Antonia lingering nearby. Although they looked impatient, they weren’t exactly baying for his blood.
‘Good morning. It is night time. Nice and quiet. Goodnight.’ Fisher cocked his head and frowned. ‘A good night for work. You come with me.’
Kevin signalled urgently. Get up. Get dressed. Heavy with sleep and a horrible case of the shakes, Ben forced his limbs into their grey combat gear. He pulled on a pair of trainers that his parents could never have afforded and fumbled his bandana-mask around his neck. Why had they come for him? Not to unmask him, that much had sunk in by now. What, then? It had to be the Night Shift. The thing that Thomas and Hannah had been so cagey about. His fright gave way to a glint of hope. This was the chance he’d been waiting for.
Kevin followed Fisher down the platform at a respectful distance, with Jeep bringing up the rear behind Ben and Antonia. The long line of bodies slept, for a change, in silence, as if they dared not whimper while Fisher passed over them. Ben was sure he would be led down the tunnel, and got a shock when instead they headed into the escalator hall and up the steps.
‘Aren’t we going to–?’
‘What?’ hissed Kevin.
‘Nothing.’
Now he was afraid again. Was this the Night Shift or wasn’t it? But Hannah had said they’d gone down the Northern Line, the Embankment, which was miles from here. What reason could there be for marching him upstairs, unless it was to do something ghastly to him? They trooped through the dining and games areas. Then, in a concealed corner, he saw a ladder. Martin Fisher scaled it and unbolted a trapdoor. The team climbed after him, up into darkness, and wind chilled the sweat on Ben’s face. Shapes crowded round him, barns made of brick, glass and steel. The five of them emerged from what appeared to be a manhole and Ben got his bearings at last. This was the industrial estate on Hermitage Road. That secret glint of hope became a ray. The Hermitage had another way out.
‘Off we go,’ said Fisher.
He broke into a loping run and Kevin sprang after him, leading the team in his wake. Clearing the shadows of the business park they crossed the deserted street, where Fisher scrambled up builders’ scaffolding. Then he was off across the terraced roofs and his followers were struggling to keep up. That is, the polecats struggled. Ben found that up here, on the tiles, he was faster and more sure-footed than any of them, perhaps even Fisher himself. Not that he wanted them to know that. Not yet.
Fisher’s erratic path lurched from terrace to terrace, his footsteps on the eaves no doubt waking many a light sleeper and filling deeper slumbers with grisly dreams. Ben tried in vain to work out where Fisher was heading, until he wondered if this was a mere training routine, a midnight assault course. Only when he kept noticing bus stops on routes towards Tottenham did it dawn on him that Fisher did have a goal, and that his twisty rooftop trajectory was being guided by these very signs. But where was he leading them?
Apartment blocks propped up the sky. A gasworks glowed in the distance. At last, running after Fisher across a bare square of paving stones, they almost tripped over him, crouched there motionless. Ben noticed his team mates were panting hard. He pretended to have a stitch.
The night winds blew through a blustery space. Where were they? He scanned the darkness for buildings, before realising that the darkness was a building. They stood at the foot of a giant tower block. He hadn’t noticed it at first because every other tower in the sky was pinpricked with lights, while this one was black as a hole.
Calling on Mandira he squeezed out more details. The windows weren’t just dark – they were hollow, empty of glass. A vast tarpaulin hung down the tower’s nearside wall. Upon it, in pale letters taller than a man, Ben read: McLeod Demolitions. Below this: Sunday 6 April. He tried to remember what today was. All he knew was that in less than a week the Easter holidays would be over. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
‘Hey,’ Kevin nudged him. ‘Look sharp.’
Ben glanced around.
‘Where’s–?’ His heart stuttered. Fisher was nowhere to be seen. Yet Ben had only looked away for a moment. His Mau whiskers should have jangled like tripwires if any foot had taken a step. But… nothing.
Kevin shushed him. ‘He’s around, okay? Watching and listening. Here.’ He handed out folded sheets of paper. ‘Martin drew these for us. One each. I’ll explain the job inside.’
They crossed the square of flagstones to a fence topped with barbed wire and signs saying DANGER. KEEP OUT. Over they went. The tower’s main doors had been removed. The lobby wall bore two ragged holes where the lifts should have been. It looked as if everything had been ripped out: radiators, light fittings, even the banister of the stairwell that they climbed in single file. Ben saw doorways with no doors, empty window frames, scars in the walls where the plumbing had once been. Up they tramped, floor after floor, pausing for breath on the fourteenth landing. He gazed down the stairwell, into the darkness that rose below them. Was Fisher lurking in that gloom, following just out of sight, or did he wait for them somewhere higher up? The air smelled musty.
At floor seventeen Kevin called a halt. Jeep and Antonia unfolded their sheets of paper and Ben did the same. He saw sketches like an architect’s blueprints, roughly drawn in biro without a ruler and yet with an artist’s hand. They showed a floor plan and a side-on view (elevation, that was the word) of a tall building.
‘Can’t make it out,’ Jeep grumbled. Kevin lent him the glow of a phone.
‘Are these drawings of this tower?’ Ben whispered.
‘No, it’s Buckingham Palace, innit,’ said Antonia.
Jeep snorted. ‘So much for bringing him along.’
‘He’s useful,’ said Kevin. ‘See how he didn’t need the light?’
‘Yeah. Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘The Ferret said to bring him, so we bring him.’
Kevin told them what to do. It sounded simple enough. Simple and baffling.
‘Me and Jeep’ll do the top half. Toni, you’re with Ben. Start on the tenth floor.’
‘Why her?’ said Jeep. ‘I want to keep an eye on him.’
‘Relax. Martin already is.�
��
Ben hid his unease behind a cool cat’s blink.
‘Meet us in the lobby at four a.m. sharp,’ said Kevin. ‘You’ve got forty-eight minutes.’
Descending the stairs with Antonia, Ben noticed more interesting details. Shreds of gaffer tape, a toolbox on one of the landings, a tea mug with dregs still wet inside. Workmen had been here recently.
‘I think they’re going to knock this building down,’ he whispered.
‘Says who?’
‘Says the sign outside, for one.’
‘Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.’
He didn’t press the point. Their task was puzzling him.
‘Remind me what we’re doing?’
‘You are a bit dumb.’ Antonia rustled her sheet of paper. ‘We look for little round holes in the walls, count them, and mark where they are on these building plans.’
‘And?’
Antonia shrugged.
‘He wants us to count mouse holes?’ said Ben.
‘You can argue with the Ferret. Me, I’m gonna start looking.’
She crept across the tenth floor landing to a doorless doorway. With no better ideas, Ben followed. He fingered the crater where a light switch had been and suddenly his mind teemed with images: cosy flats, burbling tellies, cheap sofas, children’s toys on the floor. Noisy neighbours, nosey ones. Friends saying hi on the stairs that vandals had spray-painted. Twenty storeys, eighty little worlds, each one called Home by somebody. Now the carpeted floors had been flayed to raw concrete and the wind gusted through the tower’s bones.
A search of all four flats revealed no obvious holes at all, but on the floor below they found lots. It was as if sections of wall had been nibbled by giant woodworm, their jaws an inch wide. These woodworm could count, too, for nearly all the holes came in sets of three. They seemed to prefer the taste of the outside walls and the stout columns near the stairwell, for the thinner partitions between the rooms had few holes or none. Antonia took her pencil and circled zones on the building plans.
‘Two hundred and thirty-three holes on this floor,’ she said.
The eighth floor was another barren one. Ben grew restless.
‘We’ve got twenty minutes left. We should take a floor each.’
Antonia stiffened. ‘Dunno about that.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Ben. ‘This place is empty.’
‘I ain’t scared, idiot!’ When the echo had died she whispered, ‘Go on, then. You do six. But if I shout you better come running.’
Ben took off down the stairs. All he really wanted was space to think. A quick survey of the sixth floor revealed no holes here either. The fourth, however, was riddled with them. Why? Were they to weaken the building so that cranes could bash it to bits? Now he thought of it, Thomas had mentioned drilling holes. But in a tunnel, not a tower block…
A faint sound needled him. Like a rat squeaking, only regular, insistent. It was coming from the farthest flat on this floor. He stalked across the landing and peeped through the doorway. Two eyes in a dark face widened in fright.
‘Antonia? You made me jump –’ Wait. That wasn’t Antonia. This person was shorter. And a boy. Ben gasped.
‘Daniel?’
‘Ben! In here.’
Ben bit his tongue before he swore the place down. He followed Daniel through a stripped hallway and noticed something silver in his fist.
‘You were blowing Tiffany’s dog whistle!’
‘Cat whistle,’ Daniel grinned. ‘Come on. We know you haven’t got much time.’
‘We?’
‘He means me,’ said a familiar voice. Ben rushed into the largest room.
‘Evening, Mr Gallagher.’ Geoff was squatting in the Sitting Cat pose, smiling beneath his white war-paint.
With an effort Ben managed not to hug him. His voice quavered. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you.’
Cecile, huddled beneath the empty window, waved.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’ asked Ben.
‘Did you think you were on your own?’ said Geoff. ‘You were never alone. Ever since you got yourself captured, I’ve been making sure you were safe.’
‘You followed me?’
‘Not exactly. I tracked you. With the Oshtian Compass.’
‘I– I thought you couldn’t use that on me.’
‘I couldn’t before.’ Geoff beckoned him to sit at his side. ‘Relax. You’ve earned it. Yes, my Oshtian Compass can lock on to you now. I’ve known you long enough and, well. I like you. You’re a great kid. Sort of remind me of me, when I was young. And I’m not such a bad bloke, am I?’
‘Course not.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Geoff. ‘It doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything.’
Ben laughed through his nose to stay quiet. ‘So you didn’t need Tiffany’s help this time.’
‘No. Luckily.’
Ben heard the arch note in his voice.
‘She’s gone somewhere, hasn’t she?’
‘Mm-hm.’ Geoff nodded. ‘And taken Yusuf and Susie with her. Don’t suppose she told you where?’
‘She might be trying to find Mrs Powell.’
‘Thought so. All that badgering me about the Compass. I should have put my foot down.’
‘Because we need her here?’
‘Yes. And because she’s wasting her time,’ said Geoff. ‘To reach someone across great distance, you need to be close to them. Really close. If I couldn’t find Felicity – me, her lifelong friend – how could Tiffany expect to? She knew her, what, six months? Arrogant kid.’
‘She only wanted to get help,’ ventured Cecile.
‘No doubt,’ said Geoff. ‘She thinks I’m not up to the job. Well, I know a man who is.’
Ben felt the weight of Geoff’s hand on his shoulder. It was suddenly hard to speak.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Geoff.
‘You came to ask me what I’ve found out.’
‘And to check you’re okay,’ said Cecile.
‘I haven’t found out anything.’ Ben stared at the floor. ‘I can’t. I’ve tried.’
‘You’re scared,’ said Geoff. ‘I know. You’ve done more than I had any right to ask. Please forgive me. I made you my cat’s paw.’
‘Cat’s paw?’
‘Tool, it means,’ said Geoff. ‘Agent. Someone who does my dirty work for me. Etcetera. I never really thought you’d go through with it. You’ve done me proud.’
‘Even though I can’t tell you anything useful?’
‘Oh, you’ve told me quite a bit by leading me here.’
‘I wish I knew what.’
‘They’re going to blow this tower up. Not tonight,’ Geoff added, seeing Daniel’s expression. ‘This coming Sunday. Crowds will gather to watch it fall down. Now you tell me. Why does a mad ferret-man visit a place like this?’
‘He told us to find the holes in the walls.’
Geoff nodded. ‘Those holes are where the demolition crew will pack the explosives. Someone wants to know where they are in advance.’
‘Fisher’s going to steal the dynamite–!’ A hand clamped over Daniel’s mouth.
‘I think the folks down in Chelsea didn’t hear that.’ Geoff cautiously let Daniel go. ‘Yeah. Sherlock here is right. Soon each of those holes will have a small charge inside it. If you dug out all those little bits and put them together,’ he paused, ‘you’d have one big bomb.’
Ben’s flesh crawled. ‘Why would Fisher need a bomb?’
‘Good point,’ said Geoff. ‘He’s mad, and a killer, but a terrorist? Hardly. We’re missing something.’
‘The police can find that out,’ said Cecile. ‘Or whoever it is we report terrorists to.’
‘Send the plods after Fisher?’ said Geoff. ‘That’s like trying to swat a flea with a cricket bat. He’d disappear before they got near him, and I’d lose him all over again. No, we bide our time, keep watching, and stay under his radar.’
‘We
ain’t letting him build a bomb, Geoff!’
‘No, Cecile, we ain’t.’ Geoff made a calm-down gesture. ‘Keep your fur on. If he is coming back for the dynamite, he’ll have to wait till it’s in place. Which won’t be till Saturday at the earliest.’
‘How do you know all this cool stuff?’ asked Daniel.
‘I was a soldier of misfortune,’ said Geoff.
‘Huh?’
‘Spent a year in the army,’ Geoff explained. ‘One of those daft things. I was pretty messed up in my head after I lost touch with Felicity. Still, I learned a fair bit–’ He broke off. ‘Hear that?’
Silence set in, till Geoff broke it again.
‘Maybe nothing.’
Daniel hugged himself. ‘I ought to get home. Before my mum finds out the lump in my bed isn’t me.’ Cecile nodded fervently. Ben felt a thought creeping up on him, half-formed. Maybe his spying hadn’t been a total waste.
‘Geoff,’ he murmured. ‘You said we might be missing something? Well, there are these two kids at the Hermitage. They were doing a job for Fisher. Using a drill. They mentioned Embankment station –’
‘Hush.’ Geoff turned his head so sharply it blurred. ‘Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘How many polecats came in with you?’
‘Three. But I don’t know where–’
‘Keep still, all of you. Do not move.’
Two gleams vanished as Geoff’s eyes closed.
‘Four sets of footsteps,’ he whispered. ‘He’s here.’ The smell that Ben had been trying to ignore came to choke him. A musty reek.
‘Who?’ mouthed Cecile.
Ben was gagging. ‘Can’t you smell it?’
‘No,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s him,’ said Geoff. ‘He’s close. Below us.’
Seeming to float on all fours he stole into the apartment’s hallway. Ben followed just as stealthily, wincing at the noise his friends made behind him. Nearing the threshold that would have been the front door, Geoff made a fierce gesture: zipping his mouth shut. Ben sank to his belly on the dusty concrete to peer through the crook of Geoff’s arm. At the stairwell’s elbow a wiry spectre paused, then spidered into the apartment across the landing.
