The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  ‘Such an exquisite boy.’ The accent was impossible to place but the words rippled like silk.

  Tommy gave a forgivably smug grin, relishing the attention. And then the smile became a grimace, as if the woman had just trailed thorns across his face. Curious, Winter peered at Tommy’s skin but it was unmarked.

  He let his gaze skip to Spanish, who was stood next to Tommy. There was a fine sweat on the Italian’s forehead. He didn’t meet Winter’s eyes.

  ‘Let’s see the money,’ said Creadley, prioritising.

  ‘Of course.’ She unlocked the latches of the case and raised the lid, revealing tight clumps of banknotes, stacked against baize lining. ‘Ten thousand, as we agreed. Now you show us the heart.’

  Creadley gave the nod. Winter took a step forward, the parcel in his hand. The woman regarded him, a glitter of fascination in her pupils. They had expanded to almost eclipse her irises but Winter had the feeling they were hungry for more than just light. It was as though they were absorbing everything in the room, every potential stimulus. Her eyes were cool but they craved.

  She raised her hand again, her lean, almond-nailed fingers eager for Winter’s skin. He caught her by the wrist and gave a polite shake of his head. She let her hand fall, disappointed but amused.

  Winter delved into Karina’s parcel. His hand emerged holding a small, plump bundle of wax paper. He cradled it in his palm, almost tenderly, and began to peel away the semi-translucent layers, as if unwrapping a butcher’s cut. There, in the centre, was a leathery, blood-blackened heart, the mound of veins and tissue shrivelled by age but recognisably human. Perched on Winter’s hand it began to beat in the stillness of the room.

  ‘This is Frontenac’s heart?’ the woman challenged, watching as it throbbed, the ventricles quivering almost imperceptibly in the half-light.

  Winter nodded. ‘Guaranteed.’

  ‘What do you want with it?’ asked Sparkling White, an ill-concealed note of disgust in his voice. Tonight was beyond both his experience and his understanding. This deal clearly didn’t sit well with him.

  The woman kept her gaze on the heart. ‘We just want to keep it safe. Such a precious object.’ She almost purred, a kitten with a wounded bird.

  ‘No more talk,’ said Creadley. ‘We trade now.’

  Winter prepared to exchange, motioning for the woman to hand him the money. She moved the attaché case closer, keeping her right arm parallel to his. For a moment they were synched in perfect mutual distrust.

  There was a sudden flurry of dust on Winter’s face. It had come from directly above him.

  He stared up, blinking the soot from his eyes. Something had disturbed the rafters of the old station. There was a shape there – but barely there, almost indistinguishable from the darkness that hid the rotted joists. A coiled, compact mass of shadow, as if the dark had contorted itself into something solid.

  The darkness uncurled and dropped from the rafters as a man.

  Winter barely had time to register a midnight-blue suit and wormy white skin before the heart was snatched from his hand.

  As one the gangsters pulled their guns. Sparkling was the first to fire and Sparkling was the first to die, his throat ripped by a slash of nails. Blood hit the wall, spattering the propaganda posters. The coppery arc of fluid stained the torn white eyes.

  Spanish waved his gun, protesting the death. ‘No! This is not what we agreed! No killing! We agreed no killing!’

  The figure in the dark blue suit turned to confront the young Italian. He had a pale, bald head, embroidered with veins. The skin was dragged taut across the bone, hugging the skull like a sheath. There was a scent in the room like spoilt fruit.

  ‘What do you mean we agreed?’ demanded Creadley, fighting to process what he’d just heard, let alone what he’d seen. ‘Who did you agree with?’

  Spanish battled the tremor in his throat. ‘Mr Creadley… I… Boss…’

  Now Creadley swung his gun at Spanish. ‘You cut your own deal? You sold us out to this bastard? You did this to me, you cheeky little sod?’ His knuckle tightened around the trigger. There was fury in his face.

  A bullet thumped into Spanish’s chest. He staggered, knock-kneed, to the wall, a surge of blood on his lips. Then he sank to the ground, his eyes dead.

  Creadley switched his aim to the figure in the blue suit. The blade-like nails sliced the hand from his wrist, severing the flesh in a swift, feral motion. Creadley’s hand smacked the floor, a slab of meat now, still clasping the butt of the gun, a signet ring gleaming. He barely had time to stare at the wet stump in his sleeve before the nails came again, shredding his face to rags.

  In the chaos the woman and her chauffeur had fled the room. Winter could see them racing to the Mercedes outside. They had abandoned the attaché case, spilling its upper tier of banknotes in the dust of the station floor.

  The man in the midnight-blue suit turned to face Winter and Tommy, the stolen heart in his hand. Winter stared at the intruder, taking in the bloodless skin and the curiously upswept ears with their jagged little tips. The eyes were robbed of colour, pale as quartz. It gave him the look of some blind fish in a lightless ocean trench.

  What was left of Jack Creadley wailed in the corner of the waiting room.

  The man who had taken the heart turned and ran.

  ‘Come on,’ said Winter, urging a clearly reluctant Tommy to follow him.

  ‘Right bastard night, this is,’ muttered Tommy, Creadley’s blood decorating his Turnbull & Asser shirt.

  They set off in pursuit, hearing the Mercedes tear out of the car park with a furious rasp of tyres. The man in the blue suit had already reached the mouth of the old foot tunnel. They saw him disappear inside, his thin frame quickly taken by the darkness. Winter and Tommy sprinted towards the archway.

  The entrance to the tunnel stank of dead water. Winter took the lighter from his pocket and cracked a flame, exposing the slimy ceramic tiles that lined the pitch-black hollow. It was a feeble attempt at illumination – the shadows in front of them were still a thick, forbidding wall – but it was all they had.

  They pushed ahead, into the tunnel, kicking through dank troughs of water, the tiny flame dancing and dwindling in Winter’s hand. It felt as though they were carving their way into solid night. There was no sign of the man they were chasing, no sound of footfalls in the tunnel’s depths. The smell of putrefaction almost made them gag.

  And then there he was, caught in the oily shadows cast by the lighter. He stood directly ahead of them, motionless, the heart still clutched in his fist. Gobs of moisture fell from the ceiling, striking his skull and running the length of his face.

  Winter and Tommy stumbled to a stop, their own breathing all they could hear in the echoing length of the tunnel.

  The figure regarded them with those colourless eyes.

  Tommy flashed his cocksure grin. ‘Nice tailoring, gorgeous.’

  For a moment the man made no response. And then the edges of his mouth parted, the lips peeling to expose a chain of teeth. The incisors were the size of nails. It was a smile, of a kind.

  Winter levelled his Mauser. But he didn’t shoot.

  Something was massing in the deep, wet shadows of the tunnel. Something that was gathering strength in the dark.

  The sounds came ahead of the shapes, echoing along the cracked tiled walls. A scratching and a thrashing and a shrill, half-crazed screech.

  A flood of sewer rats burst from the darkness.

  They swarmed upon the walls and surged through the potholes, their bodies tangling together, skinny tails whipping each other’s matted hides. There was another noise now: a sustained, incessant chittering, like hunger itself.

  Winter and Tommy ran. They turned on their heels and raced to the entrance, thrashing through water, skidding on the slick tiles. Breaking back into the night they made for the car park. The mass of rats pursued them, scrambling through the withered undergrowth, fast and ravenous.

  Tommy was the first
to reach the Jag. He tore the keys from his pocket and cursed as he missed the lock on his first attempt. Then he hauled the door open and threw it shut behind him.

  Winter slammed the passenger door, sealing them inside. ‘Start the car!’

  Tommy stabbed the key into the ignition. No response.

  The windscreen darkened. The rats were upon it, their countless teeth and tiny, almost ludicrously human hands squeezed against the glass.

  Again the engine failed to fire. ‘Shit!’ cried Tommy, again and again. He had the voice of a boy now.

  Something thumped the roof. And then came another thump, and another, and another, harder and louder, the weight of the things accumulating by the second. The windows of the car were running with the vermin. Now the only light came from the dim glow of the dashboard.

  The Jag’s engine finally turned over. Tommy thrust the gear lever into first. Releasing the handbrake he floored the throttle.

  A series of fine cracks suddenly filled the windscreen. Beyond it was a shifting mass of darkness.

  The car was gaining speed but Tommy was driving blind, swerving erratically in a bid to shake the rats. He accelerated, stamped on the brake, accelerated again, trying to throw them free. The protest of the tyres merged with the squeal of the creatures.

  The windscreen was fracturing. Winter took a look behind him. The rear window was black with rats.

  No choice now.

  Winter twisted the door handle. Flinging the door wide he hurled himself out as Tommy accelerated again. Tarmac slammed against his body, tearing his hands as he tumbled. He rolled, fighting to steady himself.

  The Jaguar slammed into the wall of the car park, its bodywork crumpling on impact. Winter heard a shattering of glass. And then a scream, a scream that was quickly engulfed, then gone. The rats had found Tommy’s mouth.

  The ruptured fuel tank exploded. The Jag ignited with a hot bloom of flame, lighting up the car park and the ring of ash trees beyond it.

  Winter pulled himself to his feet, shielding his eyes from the fireball. Through the haze of heat he could see the man in the blue suit, emerging from the other end of the foot tunnel. He was on the hillside now, making for the viaduct, his thin body outlined against the early London light.

  Winter took a brass knuckle-duster from his jacket pocket and squeezed his bloodied fingers through its thick, scuffed rings. In his other hand he gripped the Mauser. He sprinted across the car park and scrambled up the wooded embankment, following the fox path through the brambles, thorns snagging his suit.

  On the crown of the hill the full span of the viaduct lay revealed. The abandoned bridge straddled the river on a row of semi-circular arches, squatting above the water like an infinitely patient spider. Winter estimated the ribbon of rail track had to be two hundred yards long, perhaps sixty feet high. The once-proud Victorian structure was crumbling now, shorn by the Luftwaffe strike in the war.

  Winter ran along the maintenance walkway, clattering down the plates and rivets. He took a rash shot. It was a waste of a bullet, lost to the sky.

  Another running shot. Another miss. The bullet rebounded, embedding itself in brickwork.

  Winter raced along the rusted tracks, closing in.

  The man in the blue suit tilted his tapered ears as Winter approached, hunting sound. He stopped running and began to turn. The motion was unhurried, utterly confident.

  Winter smashed the knuckle-duster into his face. Then he punched him again, harder still, straight across the mouth. The brass took the impact that would have cracked his own bones.

  The man reeled, Frontenac’s heart still clutched against his chest. With an irritated swipe of his free hand he knocked the Mauser from Winter’s fist. The pistol spun away to the ground.

  This part of the bridge had been half razed by the Blitz. The rails ended in scorch-blackened prongs, torn forks of metal that framed a gaping hole in the tracks. Directly below was the dirty-dark water, swilling over weeds and boulders. The wall, too, was gone, blown away on the right-hand side, leaving a vertiginous drop.

  The man in the blue suit snatched at Winter’s jacket, hauling him to the very edge of the breach. Brickwork broke beneath their shoes, tumbling through the gap to the river.

  Winter was half treading air, fighting to hook his heels on the broken spurs of the rails.

  He grabbed his opponent’s wrist, using him for leverage as much as blocking a potential blow. As he struggled to keep his balance he saw the man’s nails glint in the grey light. The hand was opening, the fingers flexing as they unfurled.

  At first Winter thought the man must be injured; blood was leaking from his palm, running from a half-moon scored in the skin. It was almost a stigmata.

  And then the skin broke like a wound. Twin rows of teeth emerged from the fissure.

  It was a mouth, yawning out of the flesh.

  It reached for his face, the tiny teeth shiny with blood and spittle. Winter thrust his head away but the hand was closing against his throat.

  Suddenly his opponent twisted, spasmed. Winter felt a shock of impact pass into his own body. He recognised it at once: the emphatic wrench of a gunshot. He flinched, wondering if the bullet had found him too.

  The man tottered, his colourless eyes narrowing with anger. He spat a single syllable, a word that Winter didn’t recognise. Then he lurched towards the shattered wall and dropped from the bridge, the heart held tight in his fist.

  He had chosen to fall.

  Winter reached the wall in time to see the figure hit the river. It smacked into the greasy water, sending ever-widening ripples to the banks. The body began to drift, claimed by the current. The heart remained in the man’s hand, cradled triumphantly against his chest as he floated deeper into this unloved tributary of the Thames.

  Winter exhaled. It was a pained breath. ‘Next time you might want to try a head shot. It’s a little more satisfying all round.’

  The girl faced him across the bridge. She was in her early twenties, dressed in a short, belted raincoat, her chestnut hair cropped urchin-style. The Webley & Scott revolver in her hand undercut her waif-like appearance.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘they did warn me you were a wanker.’

  Winter bent to retrieve his gun. ‘I’m grateful. Who are you?’

  There was a trace of north-west London in her voice as she replied. And something proud, too, just on the edge of defensive. ‘Libby Cracknell. British Intelligence.’

  Winter slid the gun into his shoulder holster. ‘Not interested.’

  She scrunched her nose as she considered this. ‘Not how it works, mate.’

  ‘I know how it bloody works.’ Winter looked away. The sky had brightened over the hills, the first streaks of blue emerging from the crush of grey. Another good day was promised.

  ‘Sir Crispin wants you,’ she said, simply. ‘At least hear him out. What have you got to lose, Mr Winter?’

  Winter gave a hot sigh. ‘Right now, damn all.’

  He returned his eyes to the river. Something nagged at him. A detail he’d clearly registered but his conscious mind had missed. He stared at the dark rush of water, replaying the man’s plummet from the bridge.

  It was then that it came to him, as obvious as it was inexplicable.

  The figure had fallen without a shadow.

  2

  The two-seater convertible sped through a waking London, a blur of British Racing Green.

  Winter watched the city pass, an elbow propped on the passenger door of the compact MGB. It was just after five in the morning and the streets already had a dawn rhythm. Traders were setting up stalls of fish and fruit as the last partygoers swayed home, bow ties askew, bra straps adrift. The air was cool, the early light a hazy blue.

  London had changed in the last year. It was as if the city had started to thaw, no longer the bomb-punished capital that had endured the flinty, penny-pinching years after the war. People were trading soot, tweed and ration books for the clean, plastic promise of tomo
rrow. There was colour and confidence now. You heard it on the radio and you glimpsed it in the street. Yes, the loss of empire was an open wound, but the future was rushing in regardless.

  Winter wasn’t convinced there was a place for him in this brash new London. He rather suspected it belonged to the young.

  He turned to Libby Cracknell, watching as she ran another red light, a peaked, checkerboard-patterned cap pulled low across her fringe. They had just passed Regent’s Park.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  Something impish played on her lips. ‘I found you three months ago.’

  She stole a look at him, the tip of her tongue playing against her teeth. The car’s engine surged again, the needle dancing as it swung into Hampstead Road.

  ‘Three months?’ Winter was sceptical.

  ‘I’ve been your guardian angel, Mr Winter. Been looking out for you. Saved your life once or twice. Sir Crispin really wants to keep you alive. Sentimental attachment, I suppose.’

  Another, even cheekier smile. Her eyes were bright as busker’s coins in the sun.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Winter, flatly.

  ‘That shoot-out in Silvertown? Who do you think had your back?’

  Winter’s mind flashed to a night in May. A fleeting armistice with the Krays had ended in an exchange of gunfire. Winter remembered the punch of the guns, bullets splintering the beams of a dockside warehouse. Two of Creadley’s men had died. A week later the Krays had sent wreaths to their funerals, a territorial warning in orchids.

  ‘Someone had a gun on me,’ said Winter, the moment still vivid. ‘I never had a chance to reload.’

  Libby nodded. ‘I know. I took care of it.’

  ‘I assumed it was a ricochet.’

  ‘Like I told you. Guardian angel. And I reckon you need one.’

  ‘So you were the one following us from Camden. Creadley’s instinct was right.’

  Libby seemed genuinely put out by this. ‘Shit. He noticed? I thought I was better than that.’

  The MGB growled as it gained speed, leaving an idling milk float far behind.