Juliet, reading
Kenny’s ghost, wailing, ‘
One note, one beat, one breath away from the mercy stroke, and I knew the demonic presence for what it was. Knew, what’s more, Asmodeus’s treachery and the depth of his hatred for me. How perfectly he’d set me up and how many layers of perverse sadism his little plan had wrapped up in it.
The whistle fell from my hands. It scattered the old lady’s knuckle-bones and she yelled in alarm and fear, but she was a second behind the times because the sudden silence had opened a hole in the net: the demon rushed through it and was gone, too intent on its own survival even to hit out at us as it left.
‘What are you doing?’ Caryl screamed.
‘Shut up.’ My voice was so thick that he probably couldn’t even make out the words. I lurched to my feet, made it as far as the door before my legs buckled under me. My knees hit the floor first, my hands a second later. I could hardly breathe. My chest was heaving but no oxygen was making its way through to my brain.
‘Mister Castor.’ Something cold touched my throat: the barrel of a tiny pistol. A Jesus gun. The old lady had a Jesus gun, hidden up her sleeve. How funny was that? ‘Finish the exorcism.’
‘Go — fuck — yourself!’ I panted.
‘Finish the exorcism, or I’ll have to shoot you. A bullet this small probably won’t kill you, but if I aim it straight at your spine I can almost guarantee it will leave you quadriplegic. ’
I didn’t answer.
‘It’s your call, Mister Castor. What do you want me to do?’ There was cold steel in the old lady’s voice. She’d have made a good nun: might even have been one, at some point, before she’d heard Gwillam’s call.
‘Pray,’ I suggested, with a bitter, choking laugh. ‘Pray for him.’
The gun stayed where it was for a moment longer, then withdrew.
The next time I looked up, I was alone. But not really: you’re never really alone in a big city. The screams and scuffles and the sounds of ruinous impact as the riot squad met the people of the Salisbury Estate right outside my window were more than enough to drive that fact well and truly home.
22
From the comfort of Mark’s bedroom, I watched the world end. Or at least, that was how it felt. Melodramatic, I know, but it’s not easy to keep a sense of proportion when the wind gusts with the bitter reeks of burnt flesh and half-spent tear gas, and ignorant armies are clashing by night right in front of your sleep-deprived eyes.
The riot cops had a hard time of it when they made their first charge. They got past the barricades at ground level and on the third-floor walkways, but they couldn’t penetrate on the eighth and twelfth floors — so the further they advanced, the tougher the going got. A plexiglass riot shield is a fine defence against a lobbed brick or a Molotov cocktail, but it’s not much use when an armchair drops on you out of the skies. They pulled back at last, leaving a few sprawled bodies — some in uniform, some civilians — behind them.
The second time was better coordinated, and they seemed to have larger numbers on their side too. Using the towers at the north end of the estate as staging points, they swept the upper walkways first, blasting away the barricades and the opposition with water cannons before venturing out themselves. The top-to-bottom sweep meant they weren’t exposed to attack from above, and they made good headway, moving on past me towards the southern towers which they hadn’t been able to crack the first time around.
But by then they themselves were visibly slowing as they felt the effects of the demon’s touch. One by one they started to take an interest in the broken glass on the walkways, jabbing shards of it experimentally into their own palms or seeking out rioters or former colleagues for impromptu knife fights.
With so many wounds in which to root itself, so much sliced and broken flesh, the demon’s power was increasing exponentially. My own palms were itching almost unbearably, and the cutting kit that had been in Kenny’s wardrobe kept coming into the forefront of my mind. It would be a useful thing to have to hand, in case I felt the need to . . .
No! I whistled the first few bars of the tune over and over again to keep the demon’s insidious tendrils from anchoring in my mind. And I tried not to think about blood. The blood that beats in the tell-tale heart of every one of us. The blood that’s thicker than water.
I couldn’t collect my thoughts: couldn’t get my mind through the minefield of sick despair to the point where I could start thinking of a way out of this. There didn’t have to be one. Maybe I’d really hit the wall this time, because I couldn’t complete the exorcism and we were way past the point where nailing up a few wards over people’s doorways was going to have any effect.
But it goes against the grain to give up just because you’re outnumbered, outgunned, painted into a corner and running a quarter of a tank past empty. I forced my numbed, sluggish brain to connect one thought to another, and I came up with three ideas which — together — made a kind of sense.
Matty. Juliet. Gary Coldwood.
Coldwood first. I fished my cellphone out of my pocket, tried vainly to remember his number before I finally found it in the calls-received list.
It’s a wonderful and awe-inspiring facet of modern technology that you can call out from the heart of Armageddon to share the experience and chat with like-minded friends.
Nothing the first time around: the phone rang for the best part of a minute before kicking me through to the voicemail service. No time to piss around with that: something told me it might be a while before Gary had a chance to catch up with his messages.
I tried again. Hung up again. A third time . . .
‘Hello?’ Coldwood’s voice, with a babel of other voices, movements, sirens behind him. They were the same sirens I was hearing, away out there in the red night, but slightly out of phase because radio and sound waves don’t march in lockstep.
‘Hello, Gary.’
‘Castor? Bloody hell, where are you? Basquiat said you–’
‘Weston Block, flat 137,’ I said.
‘Jesus fucking wept! You’re still in there!’
‘And you’re somewhere out on the edge, yeah? New Kent Road?’
‘Other side. Henshaw Street. Listen, if you want a rescue, you can forget it. We can’t get close. The riot boys have taken over, and their OCO doesn’t play well with others. They’re making a right pig’s breakfast of it, but there isn’t a bastard thing we can do. He’s got us running escorts for the paramedics and evacuating people out of the north end.’
‘I don’t want a rescue, Gary. I want Matt. I need you to bring him here.’
Silence at the other end of the line, apart from the sirens and shouted commands.
‘Did you hear me, Gary?’
‘No. I’m not sure I did. I thought you said you wanted me to bring your brother in to you.’
‘Yeah. That’s right.’
The next sound I heard was an incredulous laugh. ‘Did you fall on your head at some point, Fix? I told you, I can’t get in. And your brother’s on remand for fucking murder.’
‘Which he didn’t do. But that’s beside the point. He’s the only person alive who can stop this.’
‘Why?’ Coldwood’s voice was strained. ‘Explain the logic. No, on second thoughts don’t bother because this is not fucking happening.’
He hung up on me. I dialled again. There was nothing else to do except keep hitting at the one point and hope that something gave way. If it didn’t, I was going to sit here until the demon crept past my defences: and then I was probably going to do pretty much what everyone else was doing.
‘Fix, piss off out of it,’ Gary yelled down the phone.
