London Falling (12 page)

She had known, rather than saw, that up ahead stood a building: a house with stark angular walls and five chimneys. A bad place. The weight and impending sight of it had told her so. Then the
car had gone through what felt like a gate, but there was no gate here in . . . in the real world.

And then there had been hands. Hands of air, snatching at them!

She had reacted, of course, she hadn’t been able to stop herself, but she’d contained it enough so the other two hadn’t noticed, because they really couldn’t see.

The hands had let go, too weak to hold on against the speed of the car. But Ross had seen the five coffins that contained the five perfect corpses, their breath rising in dust, the same dust
that killed—

And then the car had taken her out of that vision too, and they were now passing over Vauxhall Bridge. The Thames stretched underneath: such a huge new weight, she’d felt it writhing in
her stomach. It hadn’t given her time to stop breathing hard, to stop reacting to those clutching hands taking her back to when she was a child, to a point where she was almost expecting the
blows to fall across her face. It was as if she could hear – the vague sound, but not the details of – distant songs, as if all the associations and memories in London ran down to here,
collected here. There were churning shapes down there, yet more shadows in the water. Everything she was seeing, she had understood with that detached part of her, was all part of the same thing.
These were the symptoms of one big thing. Maybe that big thing was her mind falling apart. Or maybe this was her looking at something to do with what lay at the centre of the enigma she’d
described at the crime scene. This was what they’d been missing. Or maybe what she was seeing here was all just a metaphor for the problem she was working on, as if she was a genius in a
detective series. Only – she had found she was smiling, her awkward-shaped tooth biting at her lip, her image reflected in the horrible lights from outside – only she was no genius.

Then a ship, an old sailing ship with three masts, was speeding down the river, faster than any ship should be able to move. Its masts were too tall to pass under the bridge. It was going to
reach the bridge at the same time they passed over. She had looked in the other direction. Another ship was speeding towards them. This was a steamship with a funnel, smoke coming from it, and a
single mast. It looked like a warship but old, primitive. It was moving as if it was in an old film, speeded up, chuffing, impossible—

She’d looked back. From the other direction, the sailing ship was flashing forwards now. She’d made herself not yell, not grab her head and hide like a frightened animal, but just
look, keep looking, be ready to tell someone else what she was witnessing—

The ships passed straight through each other, and through the bridge and right through the car and through her and the others. Something contradictory rushed through them. It felt old and
despairing, like British rain. She’d heard once, she absurdly remembered, that London rain was the sweat of Londoners. It looked like silver, like sprue from model kits, like ancient glue.
Ross now felt invaded by something horrible and familiar.

The complex cloud of two ships that shouldn’t be one had zoomed out of the back of the car. She’d looked in one direction, then the other, noting the details on those ships, as if
she could report the incident. HMS
London
was the sailing ship, HMS
Victoria
was the other. The car had come to a stop outside the Portakabin. Ross got out and numbly, quickly, headed
for her own car, without even a nod to the others.

She’d driven home to her flat in Catford, having to stop several times: sometimes because her hands were shaking so much, sometimes because of something she’d just
passed and quickly driven on from. She finally got out of her car to unlock her garage, still shaking, looking slowly around the housing-block car park, expecting to see something horrifying from
out of her own head, and this time for it to be up close, just it and her. And she knew what it would be. She knew she was going to see it again sometime. It would so obviously be coming for her.
It seemed that all the time in between, the period of her becoming a serious adult and a police intelligence analyst, was just a dream, and now she was waking up again.

She’d looked up at the tower block itself: a patchwork of lights, balconies with flowerpots, satellite dishes, dead rugs on the rails, painted Jamaican flags. Even this late at night,
there was the distant noise of televisions, children and overlapping music. There were . . . things . . . up there, too. Nothing . . . huge . . . like she’d felt in the distance while in the
car. Nothing . . . that bad. Nothing near her own flat. She’d felt worse. She’d been present at worse.

She’d had worse done to her. Maybe that had been real.
Shit, maybe that had been real!
No, no, this wasn’t real. This now wasn’t real. It had to be that way round.

She shoved the fear down inside her, unlocked the door of the garage, relying on sheer routine to stop her peering fearfully inside it, like a little child, and then drove the car in. She
didn’t know how she was going to get through the rest of the night. Or the rest of her life.

She’d sat in her flat with her laptop open, every light fully on. She’d made sure there was nothing bad in her home. She had a sanctuary here. But that didn’t
make sense: how could any place be a sanctuary from what was inside her head? Especially when, last time . . . she killed the thought. She looked up details on voluntary admission to a psychiatric
hospital. There were so many in London. There was a phone number listed. It would provide a rest: no constant wondering about how she was.
They
would tell her how she was. She’d called
the number.

Quill found what he needed in the man’s furious expression. That meant he wasn’t going crackers. This seemed impossible, but he was experiencing it, so it
couldn’t be. This was something that was happening, and he’d got a reaction out of the . . . yeah, the suspect . . . in front of him. He was obviously a wanker, so he might as well be a
suspect. Harry was talking about his dad, but not quite as if he was here in the room with them. Because Harry didn’t realize that he was, did he? Not entirely. This was like one of those
cartoons where a bad angel is whispering in your ear. But Harry didn’t think it was real.

‘You ever think he’s still watching over you?’ asked Quill, with a glance towards the old man.

‘Yeah, my old mum keeps saying that. She goes along to a . . . whatchacallit, a Spiritualist meeting. She says she talks to him every week.’

‘So he owns a semi in the afterlife and still does the pools?’

‘The fucker,’ said Harry’s dad, ‘the arrogant arsehole always with the glib line. He never takes the time to understand anything properly – it’s always about
the comedy! Are you going to let him talk about me like that?’

Quill kept his expression unresponsive.

‘Yeah,’ smiled Harry, ‘they’ve all got pets and everything, too. She says he’s always around, looking after me and wanting me to get on. Load of bollocks.’
But Harry didn’t entirely believe that, obviously.

Costain woke up suddenly in the car park outside the Portakabin, and realized something was wrong before he could figure out exactly what. The driver had said something to wake
him up, and was now holding the back door open for him. He saw that the other two had bloody gone off and left him there. He got quickly out of the car, and thanked the bemused-looking driver. He
watched the vehicle head off. He was feeling vulnerable, cover-blown vulnerable, for no reason. Weird. It made him look over at his own car and hesitate before heading towards it, look around first
before he got in, then get out again and have a look underneath before he turned the engine on.

What the fuck was this? Everything was going great now. He’d even found that he’d been justified in betraying Rob. Was he just anticipating the world shitting on him again, or was
this about something real? Was he being set up, getting followed by Professional Standards or something? Was this to do with his instincts trying to get the attention of his brain? ’Cos,
hello, listening now, conscious mind in gear, thank you . . . But, no, he couldn’t find anything sensible to be afraid of.

He drove randomly, looking behind him every now and then, even stopping a few times, making sudden turns down streets to make it more obvious if someone was following him. Whenever he stopped he
would look upwards, expecting a police helicopter. He didn’t see or hear one, but there was
something
up there, he started to realize. It felt as if there were loads of things up
there, looking down at him, meaning him harm.

What the fuck? Was he on something and didn’t know it?

He finally stopped the car in a lay-by somewhere near Croydon, his hands still on the wheel, and tried to control this feeling. Yeah, there was something of the effect of cocaine to it, but he
hadn’t had any of the stuff since that night with Toshack. Trying to get hold of some over the last couple of weeks would have been suicidal, and he was pretty sure that, having worked so
hard to keep all his options open, he wasn’t trying to be self-destructive here. That was the exact opposite of the kind of person he was. So what was this about? It seemed to be deliberately
driving him away from London. Or, no, it didn’t care about anything:
he
was driving himself away from London because he had serious opinions on the subject of putting himself in
danger, and London now felt . . . dangerous.

But how could London
feel
like anything to him? There wasn’t any intel to base that reaction on. What . . . had he developed his own Spidey sense?

But, yeah, that was where it was definitely taking him. Every new turn he had taken in this car had taken him further out into commuter land, heading through all the lost suburban byways and
rat-runs. If he kept going, he’d soon hit the M25, and then he could just keep on going, right down to the coast, maybe get a ferry—

No, no, no!
Why?

Did someone’s unconsciousness really function like this? He’d seen movies where someone found themselves acting kind of weird, and it turned out to be about some psychological tic
they hadn’t recognized in themselves. That sort of stuff had always seemed like bullshit to him; he knew himself too well, but maybe there was something he could point to underneath this
urge. It was as if he was now directly feeling something that had always been out there somewhere, but always previously as an abstract entity, a crushing weight of judgement and prejudice and
arrogance. Except it was in a specific place now, here in London instead of all around him.

Was this a moment he’d talk about in the future, saying, ‘And then a little voice said to me . . .’? Because this thing was pretty bloody concrete, more of a big foghorn than a
little voice.

He had wanted to talk to someone, he realized. He’d wanted, ever since Quill appeared in the service station, to convince someone of . . . of what? His innocence? But he
wasn’t
innocent. He wanted to tell his story . . . only, since he’d woken up in that car, it had felt as if the thing was already starting to be left behind him now, was instead
. . . enormous, implacable, not to be bargained with.

Okay, so, let’s get this straight: leaving London
now
would be tantamount to running away. It would make him look guilty of something. It would deprive him of the kudos derived from
the successful op. And it would also stop him cashing in on his endgame. He’d prepared that for an emergency exit, and then left it hidden, back in London. He would be leaving all that behind
if he ran now. And, though his training and his inclination made running very much part of his world, he fucking hated doing it.

He forced himself to breathe more easily.
None of this is either/or, Tone
. How about a middle way? Call in sick tomorrow, maybe go to see a doctor, figure out if this feeling was . . .
fuck . . . brain damage or something. Or maybe an optician thing? He looked around carefully, and then stared into the dark distance. Nothing out there struck him as weird . . . but how could you
tell?

So, okay, Tony, how about you get some more data and then make a genuine decision?
He started the engine and set off again, making deliberate decisions about which turns he took now,
watching himself, undercover, in his own head. At every turn he took, he still felt that urge to head away from London. He went east instead and started feeling it more precisely, now he was
looking for it, almost as an actual pressure on his left shoulder. He passed through increasingly rural countryside, forests and parks. He was now in what used to be called Truncheon Valley, where
the needs of the Met, house prices and salaries all conspired to produce a belt of police officers’ homes. He saw a sign saying
Biggin Hill
, and turned right on a whim . . . and there
it went, London was right behind him now, making him relax more with every mile.

This was a pretty bloody clear message, wasn’t it? The sense of threat would recede completely if he went in this direction for a while. So maybe this was just himself letting go of the
tension, simply relaxing with the therapy of a long drive? Because, come on, he’d seen enough shit
outside
London, too; it wasn’t as if the city had a monopoly on oppression. He
pulled the car to a halt, made a three-point turn, and headed back the other way.

He felt it coming, ahead of him, after only a minute.

Fuck.

So he turned again, fled again. He passed a sign beside a bit of parkland that said
Westerham Heights: Greater London’s Highest Point
. He turned at the junction, parked up, the only
car on the gravel, and cautiously made his way on foot along a path between the trees, the only sound nearby being the night wind sighing through the branches. He had to get his eyeballs on to this
thing, find out if he could see it as well as feel it, once he was looking at it directly.