“Please, miss,” I said nicely. “If that doesn’t get him to the phone, I’ll go away; I promise.”
“I’ll be right back, Mr Swift.”
Vivaldi was the next composer, murdered by someone on a harmonica. Thirty pence later the woman’s voice was back.
“Mr Swift?”
“Still here.”
“I’m transferring you now.”
“Thank you.”
A beep. A long silence. A sigh of distant breath. I found I couldn’t speak. After ten trips of my shuddering heart he said, in that familiar, rich voice, “Matthew?”
“Mr Bakker, sir,” I stumbled, tongue tangling over the automatic, familiar words, feeling like a fifteen-year-old boy again, about to be prescribed tranquillisers.
“Matthew! My God!” Nothing but surprise; no anger, fear, just marvelling wonder, tinged with an odd flavour of almost laughter – perhaps delight. “I heard you were… there was a funeral!”
“Yes. I wasn’t.”
“Clearly, clearly. My God. God. But where are you? I must see you at once!”
Panic was beginning to make my skin burn; whatever I’d been expecting, this was not it. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.
“Matthew! Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“I must see you! You must tell me everything – they said you were dead!”
“They were pretty much right.”
“What’s happened to you? My God…”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m staying with some friends.”
“Well you must come round, at once! We have to talk!”
“No, thank you.”
“Why not?” Again, hurt, almost fatherly pain in his voice – whatever I had expected, it was not this, nothing like this, and for a moment, just a moment, I almost said yes. Then we shuddered in fear and turned our face away from the receiver. His voice came, tinny and small, through the phone in our hand. “Matthew? Are you there? Matthew!”
My teacher, Mr Bakker, who came and knocked on my mum’s front door when I was just a kid, voice full of worry and concern.
Give me life, the shadow had said.
And if you gave him a tropical disease, starved him for a month, fed him on nothing but darkness and fear, then Hunger’s face was Bakker’s.
I could taste the blood in my mouth again.
“Make me a shadow on the wall,” I said, leaning my head against the cold of the glass. “Mr Bakker? A shadow on the wall.”
“What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened! Matthew…”
I slammed the phone down on the hook, turned, and ran from that place into the dark, spreading my mind into the wings of the pigeons and the claws of the rats and the honking of the cars and the spinning of the wheels and the drifting of the dust until I forgot that I was running and forgot from what it was I ran.
I did not notice myself sleep, and my dreams flowed like the river.
I woke huddled in a corner underneath Battersea Bridge, brought awake by the sniffing of a dog at the hem of my coat, out for its early-morning run with its well-exercised owner. I smelt of river mud and cement dust; and my legs, when I tried to stand, burned. I had no idea where I’d gone or what I’d seen or done. Although perhaps if we wished…
…
…
Couldn’t remember.
Didn’t want to remember.
I picked up my few possessions and went to find a shower.
At midday, I found Oda sitting by herself on a bench overlooking the river, outside the white palatial mass of Somerset House, a strange building of stately, many-paned windows, massive stonework, pedimented roofs, and dignified statues surveying its spacious courtyards. It held within its walls a museum, a university, part of a tax office and more besides; a place as confused as the streets compressed around it.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked as I sat down.
“Went wandering.”
“At a time like this?”
“Needed to sort out a few things.” She grunted in reply. I glanced up at her, raising my eyebrows, and said, “Worried?”
“You’ve got us all together – for now – are you going to bail now?”
“I’m staying,” I answered.
“And you’ve made an alliance, sworn on blood – well done. Congratulations. Happy for you. What next? Pitched battle with Guy Lee, blood in the streets and so on?”
“No.”
“You’ve got a plan,” she groaned. “Naturally.”
“It’d be nice to just deal with Lee on his own.”
“Not going to happen,” she said sharply. “Not now San Khay is dead.”
“There’ve been battles before; but they have to be done quietly.”
“A quiet magical battle,” she said with a scowl. “That must be interesting. What do you do – poke each other with your pointy hats?”
“We’ve already got the perfect location.”
She stared at me, understanding. If anything, her expression of dismay deepened. “The Exchange?” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“You’re seriously going to try and get Guy Lee down there?”
“Yes.”
“And what makes you think he’ll be even halfway inclined to do what you want?”
“Because we’re going to be betrayed. Someone’s going to leave the back door open, knock out a few guards, turn off a few alarms and when we’re not looking, poof, Lee is going to sneak right on in there and execute the perfect, self-contained massacre.”
She was on her feet. “You are expecting the people in the tunnels to die?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “I said I’m expecting us to be betrayed.”
“Why?”
“Because we were at Sinclair’s house. Because you know, like I do, that the Tower has contacts everywhere. Because no matter how powerful and important an alliance like this one might seem, it will also look like the number-one opportunity to wipe out the leaders of all those pockets of resistance that Lee has been fussing over for all these years. Someone’s going to tell Lee where we are and what’s going on. Might even be you.”
“Me?” she echoed incredulously.
“Yes.”
“You think that I would…”
“You’ve made your feelings towards me and mine very clear,” I replied sharply, “I’m sure the idea of wiping us all out at a go doesn’t entirely upset you.”
“I don’t just… it’s not…” For a moment, just a moment, there was something in her eyes, a flicker across her face; but it passed, and the mask was there, harder than I’d ever seen it. She swept up her bag and stalked past
