by Thomas Emson
She rang Birch, and he picked up after five rings.
“Your rights have been rescinded, Christine,” he said. “Go home, let us take care of things, now.”
“But I saw this man, I saw him carry in a body,” she said.
“It’s theatre-land, Christine. It could be anything. A dummy, anything. It’s not enough, all right.”
She raged at him, saying he was endangering her children and that she’d have his job.
Birch was quiet for a moment, then he sniffed and said, “I don’t think so,” and hung up on her.
She walked away from Religion, back along Old Compton Street.
She passed an electronic goods shop, TV’s silently flickering behind barred windows. She looked at the screens. A woman was making a speech. The woman paused and wiped her mouth with a red handkerchief. But not really a handkerchief – too frayed; too leathery.
A memory flared.
Murray’s legs buckled. Hot, sour liquid gushed up into her throat, and she put a hand over her mouth. She felt clammy and sick and doomed.
The woman on TV was Jacqueline Burrows.
Chapter 80
THROWN INTO THE PIT.
CRANE tossed Sassie to the ground. Dust rose and filtered through the pores in the sack covering her face. The dust went up her nose, into her throat, and she coughed and spluttered against the tape covering her mouth.
Crane tore the sack off her head.
Lights blinded her for a few seconds. Then her eyes adjusted. She stared up at the strip-lights on the ceiling.
Crane stood above her, leaned down and sat her up. Her wrists and ankles were bound with tape.
She tried to speak, tried to tell him to let her go, but couldn’t with tape over her mouth. And in her frustration, she kicked out at him.
A woman said, “She’s a hot one,” from behind Sassie.
Sassie twisted around to see.
A dark-haired woman strutted by and went to stand next to Crane.
“Nadia Radu,” said Crane, “this is Dr. Sassie Rae, a nosy researcher who should’ve listened to me instead of taking a fancy to that meddlesome soldier.”
“He’s not a concern to us any longer,” said Radu. “Ion paid him a visit.”
Sassie’s stomach tensed.
“I called Ion,” said Crane, “asked him if he had the spear, but it was a terrible line.”
The woman glanced at her watch and said, “He’ll be back any minute.”
“Will the others be here?”
“They’ll all be here tonight.”
Ed rubbed his hands together.
Sassie struggled again.
The woman smirked.
Crane said, “Shall I stick her in the cage with the others?”
“No, Professor. Put her in the pit with that other girl. Another princess for our Lord Kea. A meal for when he awakens.”
Sassie screamed through the tape covering her mouth. Crane grabbed her wrists and dragged her to her feet. He sliced the tape binding her ankles so she was able to walk. She kicked at him, but he skipped out of the way.
Nadia Radu strolled off.
“Bitch,” said Crane, baring his teeth. He grabbed her hair. He hooked his hand into the crook of her elbow and yanked her towards the panelled flooring at the centre of the basement. A cage nearby held five youngsters. Sassie stared at them. They were sleeping, all of them huddled together.
She wondered if Murray’s children were among them.
Crane ushered her towards the trench in the wooden floor. She smelled something and it made her dizzy. She wished she didn’t have to breathe through her nose.
Crane dragged her to the edge of the pit and forced her to look into it. She thought she’d faint. That’s where the stink came from: the smell of blood and meat; the smell of death and decay.
A girl lay curled up in the corner of the pit. Blood covered her tattered dress and coffee-coloured skin. Her hair hung in clumps, matted with blood. Sassie saw her chest rise and fall.
Sassie’s eyes skimmed the rest of the grave. It was about eight feet wide and twelve feet long, and around seven feet deep. Blood soaked the ground. And in the blood, at the centre of the trench, a human shape was forming from the gore. It was red and raw, sinew and muscle, arteries and veins, blue and red and purple. Steam rose up from the shape and it smelled like rotting food.
Sassie stared at the figure.
And it pulsed.
A scream locked in her throat.
The thing was alive.
Sassie struggled against Crane.
He laughed. “Time to meet your maker,” he said.
He shoved and Sassie fell into the grave. She hit the slime knees first and her legs sank into the soft, fleshy ground. She stared at the face of the thing coming alive in the trench. The odour was stronger, now. It made her want to be sick. She shuffled from the cadaver.
Sassie started to gag. She yanked against the tape trussing her wrists.
She tore at the tape over her mouth. Her feet gouged through the slime. Vomit filled her throat.
Her mind screamed: I’m dying, I’m dying.
She started to choke. The vile-tasting sick filling her throat and mouth. Her eyes were wide. Tears streamed down her face.
Crane smirked down at her. He waved, and walked away from the edge of the pit.
And then a shadow passed across her vision.
Sassie curled up into a ball as terror shredded her nerves.
A hand, cold and oily, pressed down over her taped-up mouth.
* * *
Stars flashed in front of Lawton’s eyes. He reeled away from his attacker.
The man, snarling as he charged, held the club out again – ready to swing at Lawton, ready to strike him another blow.
But the man didn’t see the bodies, rage tunnelling his vision, and he tripped over them. His face stretched into an expression of shock. He stumbled towards Lawton and threw out his arms to stop himself from falling on his face.
Lawton grabbed his chance. He lunged forward and slipped inside his attacker’s guard to prevent the man from hitting him, the man’s blows glancing off Lawton’s forearms and elbows. Lawton brought his arm down in a chopping motion, smashing it into the attacker’s collarbone.
The man yelled out in pain and dropped his weapon.
Lawton grabbed the man by the collar and swung him round, tossing him against the wall. The man’s head whipped back and struck the plaster. He swayed, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Lawton let him go, and the guy slumped to his knees next to Scar and the Bangladeshi.
Lawton pointed at the bodies and said, “You do that again, McCall, and you’ll end up joining these two.”
McCall cradled the back of his head with one hand, and rubbed his shoulder with the other.
Lawton grabbed the baseball bat and tossed it over to the kitchen, where it clanked against the oven. He kicked the door shut, then slumped into a chair.
“Want to tell me what that was about?” said Lawton.
McCall wasn’t listening. He stared at the bodies and then looked up at Lawton, saying, “You did this?”
“Only Scar-face over there. The other one’s my neighbour. Scar killed him.”
“Who is he, the guy with the scar?”
“I don’t know,” said Lawton.
“Jesus, you’ve got dead bodies in your flat, there’s dead bodies on the streets – things are going to hell.”
“What are you doing here, Mark? What the fuck was that all about, attacking me?”
McCall got up. He reached inside his jacket. Lawton bristled and was ready to fly at the man again. But McCall brought out a rolled up newspaper. He flung it at Lawton saying, “Front page.”
Lawton unrolled the paper.
“Recognize her, do you?” said McCall.
Lawton stared at the CCTV image of Jenna straddling a youth.
“You did this to her,” said McCall. “You were always trouble,” and his voice broke and he st
arted to cry, his body shuddering with emotion.
“I was right. I knew it’d end like this. With me losing her.”
McCall cried for about a minute, Lawton letting him, and then he wiped his face, saying, “No point crying, Crying won’t help, will it. I’ll get no sympathy from you, Lawton – not that I’m looking for any.”
Lawton said, “It doesn’t matter what I say – you’ve never liked me, and chances are you never will.”
“No, that’s right – I never did like you. Never liked soldiers. Soldiers are always trouble in my book. Always looking for a fight, always looking for a war.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I’m telling you, I never led Jenna into any of this. She had a mind of her own. If she wanted to do something, it was up to her. And the goths were harmless; they’re all right. But it was nothing to do with me, whatever she did. We weren’t together, Mark.”
“But she always loved you, Lawton. Always spoke about you. You should’ve stopped her then, if you didn’t like it; you had an influence.”
“She wasn’t mine to stop. People can do what they like.”
“No they can’t. If she was my wife, my girlfriend, I wouldn’t have let her get involved.”
“This is stupid. You’re going to blame me whatever I do. If I’d saved her life a thousand times over, you’d still find something wrong with the way I did it.” Lawton went to the sink, poured a glass of water.
“You’d better get out of here, Mark. Forget everything. Jenna’s gone, now. She won’t be coming back to you.”
“You bastard.”
“Forget it. I’m not taking the blame anymore. She was your daughter. You’re passing the buck because you couldn’t control her – like you controlled Sarah.”
McCall glared at him. His face reddened and Lawton noticed the man balling his fists. Lawton didn’t care. He drank his water. He said, “You’ve got too much of a temper on you to cause me any trouble, Mark, and if you do I’ll fucking hurt you. Get out and go home to your wife. Treat her well for the time you have left, for fuck’s sake.”
“I hate you, Lawton.”
“Yeah, yeah, get a new tune, McCall. I don’t give a shit. I tried my best with you, was always polite, courteous. But you were a shit with me from day one. So fuck you and your grief. Fuck you and your anger. I’m sorry Jenna’s gone, but it’s not my fault. I can’t bring her back.” He rubbed his neck. The wound she’d made still smarted. The blood she took made him weak. He went on:
“If I see her again, I’ll tell her to give you a call – pay you a visit. I’m telling you, you won’t like that.”
McCall’s eyes skimmed over the bodies.
Lawton’s nerves tightened.
He knew what McCall was after.
McCall went for Scar’s gun.
Chapter 81
THE COLLABORATOR.
MURRAY strode towards Leicester Square. Police presence was heavy there since the previous night’s carnage. Sweat coated her body, and her clothes stuck to her skin. She fought to stem the panic flooding her heart.
Jacqueline Burrows had the red cloth as a comfort blanket. Bernard Lithgow had a scrap of it in a glass case on his wall. And she remembered where else she’d seen it.
She flashed her letter from Deere at the two constables manning the roadblock at the end of Wardour Street, leading into Leicester Square.
She hoped Birch’s threat to revoke her invitation hadn’t filtered down to the bobbies on the beat. The coppers took their time, creasing their brows as they read the letter, handed it back and forth between them.
Murray looked around while they pondered. Crowds pressed at the barrier, craning forward to see what was going on. One of the officer’s said, “All right, then,” and moved the barrier aside so Murray could pass.
A white tent covered the Square. Forensics officers trawled for evidence. Uniformed and plain-clothed police milled about.
She saw him and picked up her pace.
Rage flared in her breast. She clenched her fists, ready to pile into him. David and Michael flashed into her mind.
“Birch,” she said, fifteen yards away from him.
He turned, and his face turned the same colour as the ribbon flapping on his clipboard.
Turning to face her, he said, “Get yourself away from here, Christine, or I’ll have you arrested – ”
She reached him, flicked the ribbon and said, “I know what this is about, Birch, I know, you bastard.”
He blanched, leaning back away from the force of her anger.
Murray was shaking. She said, “I’m going to Deere, to the Chief Constable, let them deal with scum like you – but not before you tell me where my sons are, you evil bastard.”
Detectives and uniforms glanced over towards them.
Murray looked around and said, “Your Detective Superintendent is in on these murders. He’s helping these monsters.”
The cops closed in.
Birch smiled and said, “Christine, that’s a ludicrous allegation.”
The fury leached out of her and she realized what she’d said: it was a stupid allegation; it made her sound like a madwoman.
Uniformed officers were coming closer, some of them smiling, trying to make Murray calm down.
One copper said, “Are you all right, sir?” And Birch said, “Perfectly.
She’s missing her boys, that’s all. She’s angry. An angry mother,” all the time looking Murray in the eye and smirking.
“All right, madam,” said a blonde with sergeant’s stripes, “let’s go and have a cup of tea –
”
Murray wheeled around to face the blonde. “I don’t want a fucking cup of tea, you bitch, I want my boys back and this bastard – ”
But before she finished, cops grabbed her.
“Be gentle,” said Birch.
They dragged her away, back towards the barrier. She screamed, calling Birch a bastard, calling him evil, a murderer.
The two cops who let her through looked sheepish as they eased the barrier out of the way so the officers could shove Murray back into the crowd. She turned, faced the blonde sergeant who said, “Count yourself lucky, lady.”
Murray said, “Birch is in on these killings. He’s in on it and Jacqueline Burrows at the Home Office, she’s in on it – ”
The crowd gasped and whispered, Murray hearing things like:
“Burrows?” and “Home Office, that’s what she said” and “Conspiracy, I told you.”
“Go home,” said the blonde sergeant, “and let us do our job.”
“You can’t,” said Murray, “because he” – pointing back to where Birch would be – “won’t let you.”
Chapter 82
ARE YOU WITH ME OR
AGAINST ME?
LAWTON pushed the gun into McCall’s mouth, and McCall’s eyes widened with terror.
Lawton said, “I haven’t got time for this crap, McCall. Now, you either help me or you fuck off – I don’t care which, but I am giving you the option. And that’s really, really nice of me under the circumstances.”
McCall stared up at him, his lips an “O” around the barrel of the gun.
McCall had reached the gun a second before Lawton, but Lawton kicked it out of his hand. He’d smacked McCall across the head, retrieved the gun, and then stuffed it into McCall’s mouth.
And now Lawton said, “So what’s it going to be? Do you want a crack at the people who actually killed Jenna, or are you going to ignore the real villains just because you hate me?” He could feel the rise and fall of McCall’s chest beneath his knee. He could smell the sweat pour from the man’s body.
McCall shut his eyes and nodded.
Lawton stood. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later they were on a bus from New Cross Gate to Canada Water.
Lawton held on to the handrail as the bus rumbled through streets strewn with uncollected litter. A copy of London Lite flapped across the road, pages spilling
out of it. A poster for the We Are Londoners campaign – the “one” in “Londoners” standing out in red – peeled from a lamppost.
Lawton scanned the other passengers. He could sense their fear.
Vampires had targeted buses over the past few nights. Lithgow nearly got nailed on one. But Lawton knew, as the sun streamed into the vehicle, that they had nothing to worry about, now. It was only when the sun went down that the vampires came out.
His army rucksack hung on his shoulder. The spear in its scabbard was strapped to his back. He didn’t know what it might have looked like to passers-by. A guitar, maybe. He might look like a busker. Anyway, he didn’t give a shit. Anyone tried to stop him, they’d not get far. The scarred man, the one referred to as Ion by the voice on the phone, his gun was tucked into the rucksack. And if Lawton had any trouble of the human variety, he’d bring out the pistol.
He thought of Sassie and hoped she was all right, and that after this was done they could get kissing again. His rage mellowed as her sitting on his lap last night, her lips on his mouth, came to his mind.
She’d been warm and soft and delicate. She was in his head, now.
This was how soldiers with wives, with girlfriends felt before they went into battle: their loved ones on their minds. A mixture of fear and desperation, excitement and apprehension. Nerves tight, ready to explode into the enemy.
He thought what thousands of soldiers had thought; he thought:
Will I ever see her again?
Chapter 83
FINDING AN ALLY.
THE woman tore the tape off Sassie’s mouth, and Sassie gulped in air. The reek of methane and decay filled her head, but at least her lungs were able to function.
“I’m Aaliyah,” said the woman with bloodstained skin. “And we’re in shit.”
Aaliyah freed Sassie and then they stood over the human shape forming in the dust and blood at their feet.
“I’ve no idea what’s happening,” said Aaliyah, “but they hang kids from that rail up there, slice open their throats, and the blood fucking rains down into this pit.”
