‘Come back!’ Gutterglass called after it. ‘Come back, please! I’ll pay!’ But it was pointless. Beth and the spider already had a deal.
For a long moment Gutterglass just stood there, her paper face smooth with shock, then she exhaled. She began to pat herself, searching for something. She popped a cigarette between her lips, but couldn’t find any matches. She looked utterly lost.
Moved by a strange pity, Beth picked a half-empty plastic lighter from amidst the rubbish and lit Gutterglass’ Lucky Strike. She turned to go, but then paused. ‘What was their price for you, Glas?’ she asked quietly. ‘When you made Fil what he was? What did the synod make you pay?’
She looked over her shoulder at the decaying woman.
‘What did you use to be?’
Through the smoke that twisted between them, Beth saw the sour-milk tears stain the paper face. And below them a smile that remembered happier times.
‘Beautiful,’ Gutterglass said.
CHAPTER 56
Beth Bradley and the street-urchin Prince, on the day they stood together on the roof of the world.
Beth’s sketches of her and Fil grinned out from the metal. Above Beth’s image a signature had been scrawled. The space over his face was empty.
Beth leaned back to scrutinise her handiwork. It was still rough, but it was definitely coming along. A vast three-dimensional map now covered the back of the throne: streets, squares, parks, plazas. St Paul’s, Big Ben, the Wheel: London as she could see it from the top of its highest skyscraper. The tower block crown sprouted from the middle of the financial district, camouflaged as just another set of anonymous offices.
Beth’s spray can clanked as she dropped it back into her backpack and rummaged around for the silver. Before she was done, every Lampfolk encampment, Demolition Field and God-possessed crane would be marked on here. She shaded her eyes from the sun and got her bearings, and then began to spray in a crop of tiny streetlamps. She’d already painted in the Motherweb, the radio tower to the south.
Monument; memorial; mural: it was an invitation to anyone who came up here to tread in her footsteps and see what she’d seen. It was risky, but somebody crazy enough to climb this tower in the first place, somebody able to trust the map enough to follow it — well, it might be worth it.
A tickle in the back of her throat was her only warning. A second later a hacking cough burst out of her. She bent double, bracing her hands on her knees, until eventually she was able to straighten up.
‘Testing,’ she said tentatively, still feeling a little giddy. Her voice came out as a dry whisper: ‘Testing, one- two-three.’
She sighed. Bloody typical: her voice had decided to return when she was a seven-hundred-foot straight drop away from any possible conversation. She glanced at the metal railing that ran around the pyramidal roof and — just for a wild moment — she considered vaulting it and scrambling harum-scarum down fifty storeys. After three weeks of silence, the prospect of a chat made it almost worthwhile.
But there was no time. Instead she squatted down on Mater Viae’s oversized throne. She definitely didn’t want the Pylon Spiders to think she was reneging — deals were sacred, after all. ‘Might as well talk to yourself then, B,’ she said huskily, letting her voice swim around her in the air. The thought that she might have forgotten what she sounded like worried her.
‘Salamander. Loop-de-loop. Bling. Cockerspaniel. Supercali fragilisticexpiali-bloody-docious.’ She smiled. ‘Fuck, shit, bollocks, piss and crap.’ She exhaled hard. ‘Love.’
She looked at the picture she’d drawn.
‘I really did love you, you filthy little bastard,’ she said. It felt important to speak it aloud when she could.
A static crackle carried through the air and she sighed. Time was up.
She felt needle-pointed feet pricking between the fine bones in her foot, and then they scrambled up her leg. She only saw the spider for a second, when it crested her shoulder, then it vanished under her chin and prickled in the hollow at the base of her throat.
‘ Ready? ’ The spider’s voice had been borrowed from some sports radio broadcast.
‘Yes,’ Beth replied, and she felt two pricks where the spider’s mandibles split the skin of her neck.
‘ Set. Go! ’
It didn’t hurt, but her vocal chords went taut and she felt the sound bleed out through the puncture wounds, drop by drop, syllable by syllable. She was gripped by an irresistible urge to swallow, to steal a few decibels back, keep a whisper for herself — but she knew it didn’t work like that; the deal had been for everything: her entire voice. The Motherweb had a long history with Gutterglass, and their price for helping Beth to expose her had been very high. The ‘volunteers’ the spiders kept lashed to their radio mast never lasted long; they were exposed to the elements, and without food or water their voices soon dried up and died, leaving the spiders to range out over the city again, tapping the wires for the forgotten and vulnerable.
Beth had offered her own voice, strong and sustained — they could have whatever sustenance it gave them, for the rest of her natural life. The only condition was that they had to collect it from her in the wild. She’d let the Pylon Spiders farm her, but at least she’d be free range. And if she gave them everything they needed, then they didn’t need anyone else.
Last night Beth had watched as the red-haired girl had stumbled free of the spiders’ tower. She, at least, had embraced the chance to face the world again.
After the spider had finished feeding and gone, Beth sat for a while on the roof. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, but nothing came out, not even a hiss. She looked up at the mural, her story, etched in paint and pigment on the City itself, and her lips twisted into a wry smile. It was worth it.
Pen waited for her at the bottom of the tower. It was a Sunday, so there weren’t many people walking the steel-and-glass-lined streets of Canary Wharf. Those who did stared at Pen’s scars, making Beth wince, but Pen stared fiercely back, which made Beth prouder than anything.
‘All right, B. How’s the picture going?’ she asked.
Beth nodded and shrugged at the same time, universal sign language for Okay, I guess.
Pen’s face softened. ‘The spider come?’ She stroked the side of Beth’s face with her fingertips. ‘You okay?’
Another shrug-and-nod combo.
Pen hugged her tight. ‘That’s backbone, Beth Bradley,’ she whispered into Beth’s ear. ‘Proud of you.’
They walked slowly around Westferry Circus and into Limehouse. The skyscrapers gave way to brick terraces and concrete blocks of flats. Whenever they found a quiet spot, Beth would crouch and ink in a quick marker picture — a turtle, or a crane. Pen occasionally jotted a line down in the pad she carried, but she didn’t tag. Graffiti had always been more Beth’s thing, and Pen didn’t feel the need to copy her anymore.
‘Back to school tomorrow.’
Beth nodded.
‘I wonder what the other girls will make of this.’ Pen traced her fingers over her face. She started to say something else, then changed her mind. Instead she asked, ‘What about you? Are you coming back tomorrow? I asked at Citzens’ Advice and they said Gorecastle was well out of line for booting you out for what we did. We can get your exclusion lifted.’ They paused at a junction. ‘How about it, B? That hole of a school won’t be the same without you.’
Beth bit her lip. She’d moved back in with her dad, at least nominally, and it was going okay. She felt safe there now but she still spent most of the time out in the streets. And there were times, especially after rain, when dusk fell and she looked up at the monolithic grey tower blocks, at the sodium light washing against clouds, and felt a pull.
If you do this, a voice in her memory said, you give up home, give up safety forever.
Beth didn’t know if a single bed in a two-up, two-down would really be home again.
‘Let me know what you decide,’ Pen said, then, ‘You coming?’
