City of the Snakes (28 page)

“Yes.”

“Ever worked out how they do it?”

“I would not be scraping my knee to them if I had,” he growls. “You will know if I unearth the source of their power, because the streets will be lined with white-robed corpses.”

“What do you think their next move will be now that I’ve rejected them again?”

My father shrugs. “They have set one sector of the city on fire in a bid to bend you to their will. Perhaps they will burn the rest.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

“That is their affair, not mine.” He offers his hand. I consider refusing it, but he kept his word during the night and his assistance proved invaluable. “Our paths will cross again soon, Al m’boy,” he predicts as we shake hands.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I hope we can run together again. This night has been a pleasure.”

“We’ll see,” I mumble, releasing his hand and lowering my gaze. “You helped me, and I’m grateful, but you have to understand, I’m not like you. I only do this because…”

Looking up, I stop. I’m alone. Wami has slipped away, unseen and unheard. Sighing, I sheathe my weapons, wipe my hands clean of the worst of the blood, and head for home, to shower and sleep, until it’s time to rise again and kill.

I
’m woken by my phone. Groaning, I answer to find Ama Situwa on the other end. “I tried calling you last night but your cell was switched off. I was worried sick. I would have come looking for you, but there are police blocks everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” I sigh, rubbing my eyes and yawning.

“Where were you?”

“On the streets. Damage limitation.”

“I think the Snakes started the riots.”

“I know they did.”

“I’m scared, Al. If they can provoke something like this…”

I walk through to the kitchen and run the tap. I’m reaching for a glass when I recall the pollution and kill the flow. “Any news about the water?” I ask.

“I heard a reporter say it should be safe to drink by early afternoon, though the mayor’s advised people not to take any chances.” A pause. “Are things as bad as the media make out?”

“Yes.” Then, changing the subject, “How’s life with Cafran?”

“Wonderful. We’re getting on famously. I’ve rediscovered my waitressing skills too. I did a full shift last night, though I kept ducking out to call you.”

“Don’t bother about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I can’t help it. Maybe I should come over and…”

I talk Ama out of that idea and promise to keep in touch. When she finally lets me go, I return to bed and slip back asleep immediately.

The riots continue through the weekend. Gangs claim streets by breaking up the roads and erecting crude barricades to keep out traffic. Booby traps and ambushes are set for police or soldiers unfortunate enough to be ordered in. Buildings are annexed, looted or gutted with fire. Fights flare hourly. The polluted water’s no longer working its antagonizing charms, but by this stage most people don’t need a chemical irritant to make their blood boil. Their homes have been destroyed, their friends and relatives injured or killed. They’re fired up for revenge. Some have the good sense to drop everything and get out, but most remain, hackles up, teeth bared, hell-bent on giving as good as they get.

I’m kept busy assisting those who need it, guiding refugees who want to leave to safety, cracking down on looters, killing those intent on evil.

I’ve tuned my TV sets to local news stations and leave them switched on when I’m home, keeping abreast of developments. As I eat a late Sunday dinner, Stuart Jordan, our crooked-as-they-come police commissioner, pops up, wearing the grim but stoic expression he’s been perfecting since the riots erupted. He promises a swift end to the violence and says he’s in the process of drafting more soldiers. If the rioters don’t play ball, he vows to level them, along with as much of the east as he needs to. A reporter asks if he’s worried about injuring the innocent. He growls, “In war, there are no innocents!” With luck the quote will return to haunt him in the next election.

As the report continues I note the worst-hit areas, where I’d be best employed. To my amusement there’s a short piece about “the dreaded Paucar Wami,” warning people to be on the lookout. There are CCTV shots of me in action last night, killing two men who lobbed homemade bombs through the windows of a church full of people being treated for injuries. No mention of the church—the men are portrayed as upright citizens—just a number of pictures of me callously finishing them off.

I can’t complain. With surveillance cameras in place all over the city, I should have been highlighted long before now, and would have been if not for the fact that I have allies in high places—Ford Tasso and the
villacs
. I’m
surprised this piece made it through. The editor must be new to the game. I’m sure someone will explain the rules to him before he has time to run a repeat.

Stepping clear of the furniture, I warm up. My body’s taken a lot of punishment these last sixty-odd hours and I’m feeling the strain—I’d give my back teeth for a full massage. Then I return to the fiery cauldron of the streets, hugging the walls and roofs, slipping by and through the baying crowds, looking for trouble and moving to quell it, resting only when I have to, thinking and operating as a machine.

Most of the rioters have retired by three in the morning. Ambulances and fire brigades move in to mop up and are allowed to operate unopposed. Stuart Jordan had the uncommonly good sense not to send his armed squads in. There must be new advisers on his staff. I continue my rounds for a couple of hours, enjoying the relative serenity, before circling back to my apartment. My legs drag as I climb the fire escape. Bed will be a blessing after this.

A note has been pushed through my letter box. No name or address. Frowning, I slit it open and look for a name at the bottom—Eugene Davern. My eyes slide back to the top and I read quickly. He wishes me well and offers his sympathies for any friends or relatives I may have lost in the fighting. He says these riots are good for nobody, and if there’s any way he can help, I’m to let him know and he’ll do what he can. “The prejudices of the past need no longer apply,” he writes with fake sincerity. “It’s time for our people to come together and forge a new, lasting, peaceful union. I extend the hand of friendship—accept it, and let’s put an end to this madness.”

I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the bin. Davern must have guessed that the Snakes started the riots, and figures they’ll come out of this as the dominant force in the east. The letter’s an invitation to join forces with him against the Troops.

I consider letting Ford Tasso know about Davern’s overtures. He’s sitting back smugly because he doesn’t think there’s any chance of the Kluxers and Snakes forming an alliance. He might be more willing to help if he knew Davern wanted to strike a deal with his traditional enemies. Alternatively, it might send him off in a panic after the Kluxers, leading to riots
elsewhere. That would divert Stuart Jordan’s forces, making it easier for the Snakes to take control.

All this intrigue is giving me a headache. I’m not cut out for it. All I want is to smoke out Bill Casey and get even with him. Why the hell can’t the clowns of this demented political circus look elsewhere for a ringmaster?

Night again. I shave my skull and face before heading out. I haven’t had a chance the last few days, so bristles fall thickly into the basin. I slip into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. The local laundromat was firebombed in the riots, so I do my laundry in the small sink in the kitchen. I wring out the socks and T-shirts and hang them on a rack inside the living room to dry.

After a simple meal I grab a few knives, reload my .45 and let myself out. I’m not expecting much trouble—word has leaked that Stuart Jordan’s planning a Tuesday raid, so most of the rioters are holding themselves in check for the big showdown—but the first few hours turn out to be some of my most testing. Lone agents—burglars, muggers, rapists—have taken advantage of the lull and scuttle around like malevolent spiders, hitting the weak while the strong aren’t looking. I have my hands full keeping track of them.

I take a break about one in the morning, grab some sandwiches and a Coke from a busted vending machine, and sit on the shell of a burned-out car. The street lights are out—much of the east is in darkness—and I have as clear a view of the night sky as I’ll ever get in this city. I’m admiring the stars when a woman shrieks. As I come alert, there’s another cry, softer this time, and I relax, recognizing the call of a feasting Harpy. Finishing off the last sandwich, I go looking for the cannibalistic ladies.

I find the three old women in a side door of a shopping precinct, feasting on the remains of a cop who must have been dumped there during the weekend. Jennifer Abbots stands nearby, keeping watch, patiently waiting for them to finish. “Good evening, Mrs. Abbots,” I call as I approach, not wishing to startle her.

“Mr. Wami,” she smiles. “I’m glad you haven’t been harmed.”

“You know what they say—only the good die young.” We stand in silence for a while, watching the Harpies eat. “You should choose more
carefully next time,” I advise her. “Letting them feed on a cop is a bad idea. His colleagues will take it poorly if they find him half-eaten.”

“I know,” she sighs, “but there’s no stopping them when they get the scent. Luckily I found a lot of bottles filled with gasoline nearby—some anarchist’s stash, I suppose—and I’ve borrowed a few to soak him with before I set him alight. That should destroy the evidence.”

I nod approvingly. “Managing OK otherwise?”

“Yes. The girls were keen to get out all weekend, but I held them in until the trouble died down. One of Rettie’s teeth played up last week. I had to take her to a dentist for the first time in years. He was shocked by the bloodstains and scraps of flesh. He’d have called in the police, but Mr. Clarke bribed him.” She frowns. “I can’t say I approve of bribery, but in this case I had to make an exception.”

I hide a smile. It’s OK in Jennifer’s mind for her sister and Harpy friends to strip the dead of their flesh, but bribery’s a serious offense.

“Did she have to get the tooth removed?” I ask.

“No, just filled.” As we’re talking, Rettie finishes her meal and comes over to squat beside her sister. “Rettie,” Jennifer coos, “show Mr. Wami your tooth.”

The Harpy tilts her head and opens her mouth wide. To be polite, I peer into her red maw and pass favorable comment on the gold filling.

“Mr. Clarke made him use gold,” Jennifer chuckles. “He says it’s more ladylike.”

“I must meet this Mr. Clarke of yours sometime,” I smile. “He sounds like a character.”

Rettie closes her mouth, pulls a book out of the folds of her clothes and plays with it, opening the covers and peering at the words as if she can read. Jennifer yanks the book from her and wipes bloodstains from the pages. “Bad girl, Rettie!” she snaps. “This is Mr. Clarke’s. You know you’re not supposed to take it.”

“Perhaps she’ll make a scholar yet,” I laugh, then spot the spine and pause. “Can I have a look at that?” Jennifer passes the book to me and continues to scold her sister. I study the title—
Heart of Darkness
—and run a finger over the creased cover. It’s old and worn. I turn to the title page but it’s been ripped out. “This looks valuable,” I mutter.

“It probably is,” Jennifer says. “It’s a first edition, I think.”

My fingers freeze and the night seems to darken around me. “What makes you think that?”

“Most of Mr. Clarke’s books are first editions. He’s a collector. He’ll be furious at Rettie for taking it. Maybe I can slip it back before he realizes.”

My head spins. I gaze at the Harpy by my feet and a switch clicks. “Is ‘Rettie’ short for ‘Margaret’?” I ask, my voice a broken whisper.

“Yes,” Jennifer says, rubbing her sister’s head, gently tugging her hair to chide her for taking their friend’s book.

“Your name before you married—was it Jennifer Crowe?”

Jennifer stares at me, mildly surprised. “How did you know?”

I start to tremble. Rettie is Margaret Crowe, the girl Paucar Wami kidnapped all those years ago, the girl a tormented teenager was meant to kill in exchange for his doomed sister’s life.

“What’s Mr. Clarke’s first name?” I wheeze.

“William,” she says, and I laugh sickly.

“Your friend… Mr. Clarke… William,” I croak. “Does he ever absentmindedly refer to himself as
Bill?
”

J
ennifer doesn’t object when I ask if I can accompany the Harpies home to meet
Mr. Clarke
. I tell her I think I know him, and want to say hello. She has no reason to suspect my real motives. She packs the bloody ladies into her small car while I fetch my motorcycle, then leads the way across the city, out to the suburbs, driving slowly in order not to lose me.

I keep my thoughts blank while trailing her. I warn myself not to get excited. It’s possible that the bibliophile William Clarke isn’t the bibliophile Bill Casey. But I know in my heart that I’ve found him. After all these years, a mad cannibal has shown me the way. If I wasn’t so terrified by the prospect of the encounter, I’d howl with glee at the absurdity of it.