London Falling (48 page)

Quill was feeling totally useless as the paramedics got Ross into the back of the ambulance, gazing into her unconscious face as they got the collar on – the three of them looking down at her, helpless but horribly caring. He felt sick at what he was hearing from the radio, and from the police reports coming out of Upton Park. He kept holding the child who was a stranger to him, as the ambulance drove away, feeling that he was frightening her with how blank his face must be compared to whatever she was so desperately needing. He wanted to hand her on to someone else, but he couldn’t, and he felt guilty even at the thought. He saw how Sefton and Costain were standing about uselessly too. A copper thought saved him: they had done what they set out to do. Well, they had achieved Objectives one to three and seven, anyway. He felt ridiculously proud of his team, of what each of the other three had done to get them here. And proud of Ross, at the end: her sacrifice. For a moment, he thought that this must be what it was like to be a father.

And then, suddenly, he knew what it was like to be a father. That thought came crashing down on him, as if it was released out of the sky. Because there was no longer a will in this reality to block it.

And he fell to his knees under the weight of it. And he stared into Jessica’s face. And he knew exactly who she was.

Terry and Julie Franks, at home in Brockley, suddenly looked over to where Charlie aged five, Hayley, six, and Joel, seven sat watching television, because Terry and Julie had kind of felt the children would take themselves off to bed when they were ready. The kids had adapted a little already to how their parents were now. They were starting to deal with the shock, starting to accept the awkward, desperate trying-to-care they’d been offered as simply how things were now, part of the hugeness that had happened to them. Terry and Julie had been doing their best, buying them loads of stuff, because they felt they had to do the right thing. They had neighbours to fend off, too, people who they’d never realized were their neighbours until the TV crews started showing up.

It had been like one of those dreams where you’re called on to be an expert, only you’re really not.

But now there was suddenly this great lump of pain and history within their bodies.

They now knocked over furniture to get to those three children, because suddenly they needed to hold them so much.

When she was born, James Quill had put his enormous rough fingertips on the side of his little daughter Jessica’s red face, and felt how incredibly soft she was. She’d smelt like a butcher’s shop. A good butcher’s shop. He had put his nose in her hair so many times in the last year and a bit. She would hand him things when he was sitting beside her, as if he was just a convenient keeping-things-handy thing. Or she would just leave things falling in the air, expecting him to catch them.

She could drive him to fury because she was stubborn, exactly as her mother was, and would raise her voice higher and higher until she was screaming at him. And he could never be fully angry back, because he was her world, and that world should never be completely angry at the little one inside it. And that wasn’t something he had to try to be or not to be; it was just what he was.

And Jessica and Sarah . . . that smaller, shaking her head violently, putting her hands over her eyes, putting her arms over her head, impossible to get into her pyjamas, louder, small-explosion version of the woman he loved. A little clone of her. Them looking at each other, the little one not knowing a thing about love, as if Mummy and Daddy were her friends, and everyone in the world was like this, not understanding the way Sarah looked at her.

Quill grabbed for his phone just as it rang. ‘I want to talk to her!’ Sarah sounded as if she was crying, and he thought he was probably crying, too, but whatever
he
was doing had now suddenly rushed into the background and become so hugely
unimportant
—

‘Daddy,’ said Jessica, looking up at him as she said it to both of them.

‘Hello, girl,’ he said.

He was sure that, at this age, the witch would eventually be forgotten.

THIRTY

That night in the hospital, with two broken legs, three broken ribs and numerous vertebrae waiting for a specialist verdict, Lisa Ross had a dream.

She, Quill, Costain and Sefton were standing together in the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. They’d been there for real, of course, so there was loads of authentic detail. Ross looked around, amazed at the clarity of it. There was a framed picture on the wall of the tunnel. She went to it, and smiled when she saw that it was a picture of the four of them, with their names neatly inscribed, standing like four proud hunters, their feet on top of . . . the corpse of . . .

No, she
was
proud. She expected to meet her dad somewhere in this dream. She really was proud. Under the picture were written two words in longhand:

The Present.

She didn’t know what that meant, as she couldn’t find any information to analyse there. She looked to the others, and then walked up the tunnel.

Kev Sefton had a dream that night too, while he was lying in bed with Joe. He was standing, with Ross, Costain and Quill, in the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. There were pictures of famous players on the wall. Up ahead there were full-length ones, shining. He started forward . . . No, not pictures. Mirrors. They were going to walk through a tunnel of mirrors. He went ahead. He did it first. He carefully didn’t look to his left or right. He was being offered the opportunity to see himself as others saw him. To be judged. Did he think he was up to that? Those mirrors would reflect each other. Those visions of himself would go on forever. Wouldn’t that be grand? To see himself so thoroughly, so brilliantly – to shine gloriously like that?

Sefton was tempted. And then he realized he was being tempted. And, in stories, being tempted was never good, was it?

He shifted his feet a little. He kept his gaze straight ahead.
Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. Got the wrong bloke. I’m here by accident. I’m not in charge of anything. I don’t even know what I’m about.

Not yet.

He got to the other side, then he looked back to his friends, and he instructed them how to proceed.

Tony Costain, asleep in an uncomfortable chair a few feet away from Ross, also had a dream that night. He was standing with Ross, Sefton and Quill at the end of the tunnel that led from the home dressing room to the pitch at Upton Park. They didn’t want to take the last few steps out onto the pitch, because of a figure that stood in the shadows of the floodlights. It was breathing heavily, as if it couldn’t do it any other way. It was shaped roughly like a man. It felt like the smiling man. Because this was a dream, he knew that was who it was. But it was bigger than him now. And for Costain to see any more than he was seeing would be bad. He understood he was being deliberately spared that.
More fool you, then, son.
He led the others of his team to the door and then, as they went carefully past, he turned to look straight at the thing. It was hanging on here, he realized, to watch something, to check on the show it was staging. He made himself keep looking at it as the others headed past him. He was on guard. He was offering the big boss a challenge. The fear was still huge, but it stayed steady. He couldn’t discern any more detail, no matter how hard he looked. Sure, it was keeping itself concealed from him . . . but maybe that wasn’t entirely for his benefit. He nodded to it. Respect.
We’ll see.
Then he followed his mates onto the pitch.

At home, in bed with Sarah and Jessica, James Quill was having a dream. He was on the pitch at Upton Park, with Ross, Sefton and Costain. A handful of uniforms were hanging around. From the streets outside, there was the distant sound of continuing violence, shouting and sirens. Multiple arrests, he knew, because of a riot that had spread out from here. At the centre of the pitch stood a cluster of police spotlights. He led his team over.

A plastic sheet lay across the centre circle. This was a dream, so he wouldn’t be disturbing evidence, therefore he lifted up the corner of it. Underneath were the splintered remains of Losley. The clothing had been ripped up, and much of the body had been too. The intestines were spread out and had burst under people’s boots. There was shit, blood and offal fanning out. There was nothing left of the eyes. The skin was burst open all over, where every blow had fallen. The heart lay as an explosion of meat across her broken chest. It looked as if they had even taken some of her bones. There was still something of the Sight about her, only slightly. But, as Quill watched, the sparks of information that had been written into her and into London, all those centuries ago, slowly became as mundane as the frosty grass on which she lay.

‘It wasn’t a suicide,’ said Ross.

Sefton looked startled, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to speak in his dream. ‘What?’

‘She came here with one last, desperate wish, thinking she’d find at least
some
love. But by then that had all gone. When she went for one of their own players she became “the other”. That’s how they’re always going to see the people who deal with this stuff. If we keep seeing it, if we keep having to deal with it, we’ll never be cheered on as witch hunters. Even if we wanted to be.
Because we’re
the other
now
.’

‘So no change there,’ said Costain.

‘You know,’ said Sefton, ‘that this is
my
dream?’

Ross blinked. ‘No, it’s mine.’

‘Mine,’ said Quill and Costain together, and looked at each other.

‘Oh,’ said Sefton, looking around fearfully, ‘this isn’t a dream at all, is it? Not really. I mean, it’s in our heads, but—’ They instinctively drew closer, forming a copper’s square, back to backs, Ross doing it as second nature now.

‘Hullo, Tone, Kev,’ said a voice from right beside them.

He stepped out of nothing. He was wearing a shabby suit, and had small burns on his hands and face.

‘Well, well,’ said Quill, ‘Rob Toshack. Fancy seeing you here.’

Ross took her time in looking Toshack up and down. It occurred to her that maybe there was something to be said for this world in which they found themselves, if there was the possibility of some justice in it. Or after it. But, then, if it was justice at the hands of the smiling man, then it was no justice at all – not with this man and her dad lumped in together. She was sad to find she still hated him, even with him now looking so pathetic. She still didn’t feel let off the hook, she’d wanted him in
their
hands. Under
her
judgement. She kept her face an impassive mask.

‘Yeah,’ said Toshack, noting their expressions, ‘I suppose what goes around
does
come around.’

‘You’re in Hell, then,’ said Ross.

‘Yeah, and I must say, it’s . . .’ he had to think for a moment ‘. . . way beyond anything you might assume it is. It’s like . . . the first time you come, pardon my French, the first time you fuck, the first time you break a bone. A whole different thing.’

‘So this visit is a bit of a holiday for you? Let’s not stretch it out too long.’

‘I’ll be seeing you soon, girl – after the betrayal and all.’ He glanced at Sefton and Costain. ‘You two and all.’

‘Yeah, but you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

Quill stepped between them. ‘Why are you here?’

‘My boss sent me, to offer you your reward.’

‘We know who he is,’ said Sefton. ‘We know how that story goes. We don’t take gifts from him.’

‘He said that’s what you’d say. Sends his regards to you, especially. And, may I say, I never had you for a poofter, Kevin. Came as quite a surprise, that one.’

Sefton kept his silence.

‘No, you see, it wouldn’t really be a gift. You did him a favour by getting rid of Losley. You’ve actually helped him in this whole process he’s putting together. And, like any good head of the firm, he don’t see why people who’ve got nothing to do with it . . . ’cos you haven’t, have you, not really, and you’re just a bunch of coppers . . . he don’t see why you should have to worry yourself about it. Anyhow, the way he sees it, he owes you. All you have to do is ask, and he’ll take the Sight away from you. Now, wait a sec.’ He held up his hand, as if requiring silence. ‘It has to be from all of you, or none at all.’

There was silence.

‘We could take a vote on it—’ began Costain.

‘This isn’t a democracy,’ said Quill, ‘but all right.’

‘—and I vote,’ Costain finished, ‘we keep it.’

Toshack looked surprised. ‘If you keep the Sight,’ he said, ‘something
will
get you.’

Costain strode forward and glared at him. ‘Not if
we
get
it
first. I’m not going to end up in Hell, whatever that takes. I’m going to need to
see
what’s coming after me.’

Toshack, a mocking smile on his lips, glanced to the others. ‘Boys and girls, trust me, I’ve seen it all now. So far, you’ve only run into a fraction of what’s out there. You’re joining the game long after my boss has moved the goalposts. It’s all going his way.’

‘This is something I can do,’ said Sefton. ‘Something I’m well into now. It’s given me a voice. I’m not losing that. So I vote keep it.’

And then Quill looked to Ross. ‘What about you?’

She’d worked out her own answer, way back. Looking at Toshack now just made her more certain. ‘There’s something I have to do, and I’m going to need the Sight to do it.’

‘What would that be, then, girl?’ asked Toshack. Was it her imagination or did he actually look worried?

‘That, you fucker,’ she said, ‘is an operational matter.’

Quill had felt relieved that the others had said it first. But now Rob Toshack had turned to him, and he considered his words for a second. ‘The attestation we read out when we become coppers,’ he said, ‘it says we’ll do our duty to “the best of our skill and knowledge”. You see what that means for us lot? Even if we can’t see it, this stuff would still be going on. We’d
know
it was going on. We’d hear about something mad and think “Oh, is it that?” We’d know there were leads we couldn’t follow, evidence we couldn’t see. Someday we might find a body, or lose a mate, and know that whoever did that was
definitively
out of our reach. Already, we’ve acted on intel concerning major crimes, found a way to approach an operation, sourced information, planted an informer and, whether or not we caught our suspect, closed the case and achieved four of our operational objectives. We nearly had her.’ He walked up to Toshack and put his finger under his nose. ‘And, however much front your boss is putting up now, about this all being his game, about how he owes us a favour . . . well, we know how reliable a source he is, don’t we? If this
is
the Old Bill versus Old Nick, we’ll have him too, sunshine. You tell him
that
, eh?’