London Falling (46 page)

Ross looked up from the monitor. ‘Yes.’

Sefton unzipped his holdall. Costain and Quill reached into the pockets of their coats. Quill had offered Sefton the gun he was carrying, but he’d turned it down in favour of his normal
bag of tricks. The man had a weird certainty about him now. He saw Ross also check something in her pocket. After all they’d been through, he’d still baulked at giving someone who
wasn’t a police officer a gun, but if she’d brought some sort of weapon along, good luck to her. ‘You all open up when you feel like it,’ Quill decreed. ‘Who knows if
I’ll be in a position to give the order.’

‘Guv,’ said Costain.

‘You know who she . . . well, you know everything, don’t you?’ He found he couldn’t look them in the eye. ‘I don’t have any speeches, but I’m glad you
lot have . . .’ He looked around at them, and found their expressions satisfied him. And there was no further need for words. ‘All right, then.’

Costain led them over to the door and knocked on it demandingly, but quickly, civilian-like. ‘Steve, mate!’ he called. ‘Fuck’s sake, you’re missing the
match!’

A hard-looking man opened the door, after a minute or so of pounding. He looked blearily at them. ‘There’s nobody called—’

Costain grabbed hold of him and threw him out into the street and they were in through that door and locking it behind them, before he had a chance to leap back up and slam his fist against it
and yell. And now they were in. There was a stairwell that had also been painted with graffiti, a kitchen full of hippies who were staring at them in shock. Costain pointed at them, then upwards,
to indicate where they were going, and that it was nobody else’s business. They happily stayed put. Quill led his team slowly up onto the first landing. A distant radio commentary wafted
through an open window. Still revealed the same level of tension. Still no goal. But, coming from above, there was an echo of the same sound.

Quill put his hand on the banister. ‘Here, you see what these stairs have?’

‘Newel posts,’ said Sefton, indicating the flat surface of the upright at the turn of the landing. ‘That’s what they’re called.’ He produced a piece of blue
fabric from his holdall and, poised to act, started slowly upwards on his own, trying to look up ahead around the corner. Quill waited.

There came a sudden sound, a cut-off shout, and then a muffled yelling. Quill made a gesture, and the others followed him softly upwards. On the next floor, Sefton was standing beside a newel
post, on top of which sat a head, presumably, but it was now covered entirely by what had been an anorak hood, pulled tight and secured by wrist ties at the bottom. Granules of salt were spilling
out of it.

Quill nodded in approval, and stepped forward towards what had obviously once been an office. The remains of an old sofa, burned in some accident, took up most of the corridor outside. The
graffiti were everywhere. But, over it all, Quill could see the shades of Losley’s typical house, applied here and there. That effect grew more pronounced, until the doorway itself looked
exactly like the door they’d been through twice before, like a front door bizarrely located in an office corridor. The head had found its new position, presumably, because this was where the
surrogate house’s stairs were meant to be. The sound of the radio commentary came loudly through the door, and Quill guessed that someone had been turfed out of their home to make way for
Losley. Which probably meant another skeleton somewhere, and that bunch of people downstairs never being quite certain who was in occupation here now. And this was also a way in which she could be
sure that there were no edits to show up in the tax records. Either for this ‘house’, or for who-knew-how-many she had left, all empty and waiting to be filled by the sudden arrival of
her rooms?

They formed up in front of the door, in the way they’d rehearsed. No battering ram this time. Costain aimed the gun at the lock. Quill looked to the others, saw they were ready. His own
anger radiated back from them, looking more certain than he was, even. Seriously strung out. At the end of everything now. Ross looked determined, as if she was ready to die. He turned back to
Costain and nodded.

The noise was loud in the corridor. The lock flew off and the door was smashed open under Quill’s kick. They dived inside.

Quill felt as if he was moving in slow motion, in a nightmare. He heaved the gun up to firing level, remembering the words of his instructor on the range: not opening fire from the hip, but
stock against shoulder, ready to fire one shot then assess again; not waiting for a sight picture to fire the gun, but going by sense of direction . . .

But then he saw the cage, and the child inside it. She sat curled up and terrified. She’d been left on her own here, Losley needing only one now she was remembered, one who was so
important to Quill, because – although he still didn’t know her, still didn’t feel their connection – he saw her face and knew she was meant to be his.

‘Daddy!’ she yelled.

Losley herself was standing over the cauldron. It was bubbling, boiling. She was already turning. The cauldron was sparking, had started suddenly blazing with noise, he realized. He heard the
thunder distantly from beside him. And then the same roar was exploding off Losley herself, Costain letting off a full burst at her, sending her staggering back, pieces flying from her body, making
her scream. Quill tried to join in, tried to fire, but all he could think of was the ricochets, and where all those rounds were going. Costain was yelling something as he fired. Sefton was now
ahead of him, Ross beside him, both rushing at the tub of soil. They had in their hands condoms full of London holy water. If the spray hadn’t worked, then maybe this holy hand grenade would.
Quill saw them fly aside, bouncing off of whatever was protecting the tub, as the bullets had bounced off of the cauldron. He skidded to a halt and made sure he could aim properly, and Losley was
swimming back through the air towards him, flesh hanging off her, her face and body unprotected, but somehow still invulnerable. He fired. He kept it aimed straight at her as she rushed forward,
the missiles ripping apart her clothes and her body. He fired it into her face.

With a great scream, she spread her hands wide.

Quill flew backwards. He hit the wall, and the gun was wrenched from his hands. He tried to heave himself up, but he was pinned there.
Thump-thump-thump
from around the room, and there
they were, all four of them stuck up against the walls. Sefton threw something from one hand, but it fell back over him.

Then there was only the noise of the radio. The bubbling of the cauldron. The screaming of the child. The terror of
Jessica
. She was standing at the door of her cage, saying
‘Daddy’ over and over, in between howls that he’d never heard from a child before. Quill deliberately looked away from her, and finally spotted the cat. It was at the window,
covered by fine drapery in here, by rough rugs from outside. It was staring in horror at Costain, looking as if it was wondering if this could somehow be its fault.

‘You keep trying.’ Losley stepped towards them. Her flesh was hanging from her in folds, great sidelong scars of it, ripped from her by the bullets, as if she’d been savagely
scourged. Her face was a skull with one eye, the other eye a mass of blood. Her thin muscles held together visible bones. She was like something from a museum, or animated out of a plague pit.
‘I can repair damage. This doesn’t hurt. This is good. Now you can watch with me. Let us wait for a goal.’

‘There won’t be a goal,’ said Quill.

‘I know men. There will be a goal.’

And, at that point, the whistle blew for the end of the first half.

Sefton knew this was the moment. His holdall lay across his feet. He couldn’t reach it, but that didn’t matter. All that was in there, anyway, was a bunch of London
stuff, more bloody marker pens. Those were just things. He had to go beyond. ‘That must take some doing,’ he said, looking Losley up and down. ‘Holding yourself together like
that. And you haven’t had a sacrifice lately.’

‘But I am remembered now.’ She sounded tremendously proud of it. ‘They all know who I am. I can feel the tide of London supporting me. I knew it would, one day. I knew, if I
waited long enough, it would come to me.’

‘The Witch of West Ham.’

‘Yes!’ She laughed and moved her hands in a gesture which made them all flinch, but turned out to be the first move of some ancient court dance, which spun her about the floor,
making bloody spirals from the severed gristle trailing at her ankles. The dance took her to the cage, where she stopped, a smile on her face.

‘Don’t you touch her!’ screamed Quill.

‘Tell me again not to.’ She reached down and unbolted the cage, picked up the child and held her, as she squirmed and squealed. ‘Look at this new thing. What everybody thinks
is so wonderful. But it’s got no history. People fool themselves into thinking it does, that it’ll be more of them, a new branch on a tree. But it could be anything. You don’t
decide. It’s just chaos. A football team or a city,
that’s
growth,
that’s
a proper use of time. Never all of it replaced at once, always a tradition, always memory.
I could dash this thing against the floor and you could just make another one.’ She raised the child, as if to do it. Quill yelled something again, thrashing against the wall. But she shook
her head. ‘But that’s the last thing I’m going to do. I need her for the sacrifice. The pot is ready. Your feelings on hearing her screams, on understanding how long I can
continue them with proper care and use of the ladle . . . that will be a magnificent sacrifice to my lord.’

Sefton waited to hear what he needed to hear.

Ross was trying to contain her fury. She was only pleased that it wasn’t fear. ‘We know who you are,’ she said. It was nearly a playground thing, a pathetic
attempt to demonstrate some childish power. ‘We know who your mistress was, where you lived, so don’t you tell us this is just business.’

Losley cocked her head on one side. ‘What?’

‘You were a victim, someone who had all their power taken away from them in a terrible way. Like every serial killer. Now you want to hurt someone else who’s powerless, just to get
even with the world. Like every serial killer. What goes around comes around, that’s you. The witch bit, that’s just a bonus. You know how many movies and TV shows about your mistress
there are? They remember her. Sometimes they say
she
was a witch.’

Losley screamed at her. ‘She was
not
!’

‘—and sometimes she’s a victim. And, I tell you what, Henry VIII? Jolly fat bloke. Threw meat over his shoulder. And you’re not in it. Where are you in it? I read that
Anne Boleyn was never at that house of yours at all. How are you in it, again? You’re not a witch, you’re just a serial killer. You’re a scared little girl who started off by
hurting animals. Not done
for
anything. Not for a mistress who left you—’ Ross’ head was slammed against the wall with such force that it left blackness rolling around the
edge of her vision. But she bellowed against the pain and heaved herself forward again, and found that in the pain there was certainty to her words now. ‘You’re not doing it to me
again
, you bitch! Don’t you
dare
think everyone in that phone book’s on your side! You’re not even fooling yourself, so how can you fool us?!’

‘These are just words.’ Sefton watched as Losley, carrying the child, turned to look between them all. ‘You cannot
wish
me away! I am . . .’ And
she actually paused, as if needing to take a breath.

Sefton realized what had started up on the radio: ‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol. The commentator said it was being played at the ground as images redolent of missing children,
Losley’s unknown victims down the years, abandoned toys and empty nurseries, appeared onscreen. That was what he’d got Quill to ask Lofthouse to arrange. Now – he had to do this
now
! ‘What’s the matter, Mora?’ he called out. ‘Is it taking more of an effort to make them all forget? Now that they’re all trying so hard to remember?
’Cos you’ve got to work at it, haven’t you? All those victims, over all those years, anyone who’s still alive, you’ve got to keep on spending your energy to do
it.’ He saw her expression falter, the realization starting to creep over her face. ‘Yeah, I’ve got it right, haven’t I? That’s how it bloody works! And it’s not
just the ones at the ground now. It’s the ones watching on telly, maybe a lot of them who’re only just realizing that they’re missing someone. Maybe a lot of them, all over
London, starting to pull more and more energy from you. You can’t help it, you set it in place, so you can’t just let them remember!’

Mora was actually starting to stagger now. Sefton understood it in that moment: he’d found his voice. He was changing the world with every word. And they were words about London, words
often said in the accent of his school tormentors. London was giving
him
power now. The very ones who’d tried to hurt him had given him this weapon. They’d made his tongue into a
sword.

He heaved himself away from the wall. He saw the others trying and managing to do the same. Losley didn’t know which way to turn. Clutching the child, she looked as if she couldn’t
believe it. ‘How’s it feel now, then?’ he asked. ‘Still feel that all London’s on your side? They’re not all remembering you now – they’re trying to
remember something else!’

Suddenly she looked right at him. ‘You understand,’ she said. And it was with a look of such amazement, as if she was seeing him for the first time as a person.

He stopped himself from goading at her further. In the same way Muhammad Ali had stopped himself landing another punch once he saw, in his most famous fight, that George Foreman was already
falling to the ground. He had been made this way by his tormentors. But he was not like them. Or like her.

‘No,’ he said.

All Quill could see was Jessica trapped in Losley’s hands. He had just one moment. One moment now that Losley’s power was being undermined by what was going on at
the stadium, and while she didn’t seem to know what to do next. He dragged a breath into his lungs. ‘You, Mora Losley,’ he bellowed, giving in to everything he was and wanted to
be, ‘are nicked!’ And he threw himself forward at her, intending to rip the child from her hands.