I detour down a dark, cobbled street, past an old prison complex that would have been a perfect jail for the likes of Dan-Dan and my other foes. I lose sight of the river for a while, before linking up with the path again just past London Bridge.
As I make my slow, shuffling way along the riverbank, I think about where I can pick up a decent power tool. I’d like to clock out in style. A really good, strong drill that will arrow clean through my skull, leaving only the smallest, most discreet of holes behind when I yank it out and drop it while I thrash around and die.
I know this area well, both from my human years and the time I spent exploring here over the past months. I’m trying to remember where the best DIY shops are located, but I’m drawing a blank, finding it hard to focus in my sorry, stressed state.
‘What a time to develop Alzheimer’s,’ I growl, jabbing at my head with a fist, trying to knock my senses back into place. My fingers brush against the nails which Dan-Dan hammered into my scalp. I pause, wondering if I can drive the nails in deeper, maybe by banging the top of my head against a wall.
‘It could work,’ I mutter. ‘Puncture the brain, drop me in my tracks, no need to worry about my hand shaking and misdirecting a drill. But what if it doesn’t quite kill me? I might just scramble my senses, become a wandering moron.’
As I’m picking at the nails and mumbling to myself like a madwoman, I catch sight of a familiar vessel and draw bitterly to a halt. HMS Belfast, where I first met Dan-Dan and the other accursed members of the Board. The cruiser was a popular tourist draw in the old days, but for me it’s a place of painful memories.
I glare at the deserted ship as if it was responsible for the foul crew it played host to, recalling the duels, the zombies I was forced to kill, the torment the humans put me through. I didn’t know it at the time, but worse was to come. That being said, this was where my problems with the Board began, so I hate this place even more than Battersea Power Station.
The memories make me wonder about Justin Bazini and Vicky Wedge, last seen fleeing from Mr Dowling’s army in Battersea, presumed dead but unconfirmed. And Barnes, the American soldier of fortune who took me captive, but later turned hero. When he bid me farewell, he was setting off to try and save his son. I hope he made it, that they were reunited and are lounging on the beach of an island free from zombies. But this world being what it is, I suspect that isn’t the case, that Barnes came a cropper, while Bazini and Wedge are living the high life in Buckingham Palace or some other suitably stylish spot.
As I’m considering the fates of my old enemies, I spot movement on the deck of the Belfast. A couple of people are playing with a ball, throwing it to one another.
I’m instantly wary. Backing up from the edge of the path, I resume my shuffle east. I’m bent over almost double with pain, which is good. That makes me less of a conspicuous target. I don’t want to be spotted by whoever is on board what should be a ghost ship.
But to my utter lack of surprise, Dame Fortune deserts me yet again. As I’m glancing backwards, one of the people on the deck misses the ball. It bounces over their head and they turn to chase it. Even though I’m almost clear of the cruiser, he or she spies me on the path and stops to check me out.
I carry on towards Tower Bridge, draping my left arm over my head — it looks as if I’m doing it to protect my face from the sun, but it also allows me to twist my head around and slyly keep an eye on the Belfast. I’m hoping the pair with the ball have mistaken me for an ordinary zombie. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t. In my rough state I look even worse than most reviveds. I’d be hard to peg as a revitalised up close, never mind from a distance.
The person who failed to catch the ball shields their eyes and stares. I know the watcher can’t see me in detail, given how far away I am and the fact that my back is to them. I don’t have anything to worry about.
But then the bugger raises a pair of binoculars and I groan. I can predict what’s coming next and, sure enough, a moment later the person shouts and gestures. He or she is joined by their companion, and that one has binoculars too. They study me for a few seconds, then cast the binoculars aside and race across the deck, no doubt heading for the gangplank.
I think about making a dash for it. There are lots of small streets and buildings on the far side of Tower Bridge where I could hide. But I don’t have the energy for a chase. Better to make a stand and face whatever manner of foe the universe has chosen to pit against me this time.
I limp along a bit further and draw to a halt outside the weirdly shaped glass structure of City Hall, the mayor’s old stomping ground. This seems as fitting a spot to fight as any. A good place to fall if it’s my time.
I turn stiffly and watch the pair from the Belfast hurrying towards me. I try to crack my knuckles, but they only make a soft, soggy sound when I stretch them. I laugh softly and let my hands fall by my sides. I let my head hang too, not concerned about the identity of my assailants, figuring they can announce themselves if they want to. I won’t do them the courtesy of being curious.
They come to a stop a few metres from me. I can’t see their faces but I can feel them gawping. I grin tightly, saying nothing, waiting for them to make their move.
Finally one of them says, ‘B?’
It’s a girl’s voice, not what I was expecting.
I don’t answer. I think I recognise the voice, but I don’t want to raise my hopes, sure they’ll be dashed if I do.
‘Is that you, B?’ the other one asks, and this time it’s a boy. I’m sure I recognise his voice too, but again I’m worried that I might be imagining things. Maybe my metallic ears are distorting the sounds, making me hear what I want to hear.
‘Who wants to know?’ I grunt.
‘It’s us,’ the girl says.
‘The twins,’ the boy adds.
At that, I can’t help myself. I look up, expecting my eyes to contradict what I’ve heard. But, to my surprise, the vision matches the voices. A boy and girl a few years younger than me, with blond hair and fair skin. They helped clean me up when I first crawled out of a Groove Tube all those months ago.
‘Cian?’ I say dumbly. ‘Awnya? What are you guys doing here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ Awnya says.
‘And playing catch,’ Cian chuckles.
The twins sweep forward and hug me. I can only stare at the top of their heads like a dope, wondering if I’m dreaming.
Then Cian says, ‘What happened to your stomach?’
And Awnya says, ‘Ew! Gross!’
And suddenly I know it’s real. With a cry of shock and delight, I wrap my arms round them, and for the longest time I just stand there, hugging the young twins hard, without a single other care in the world, all thoughts of suicide forgotten, lost for a short, blissful period to an emotion I thought I’d never feel again in this undead life.
Happiness.
TEN
Eventually the twins tire of the hugging and let go. I would have been content to hug them forever, but I don’t want to appear like some kind of desperate creep, so I grin shakily and force a weak chuckle.
‘You guys will never know how relieved I am to see you,’ I mutter.
‘Who did you think we were?’ Cian asks.
‘Bad people?’ Awnya laughs.
‘The very worst,’ I tell them, my smile slipping.
The twins see the pain on my face. They study my wounds, this time seriously, saying nothing, concern and compassion in their gaze.
‘Are you OK, B?’ Awnya asks.
‘Of course she’s not OK,’ Cian huffs. ‘Look at the hole in her stomach. How could anyone be OK when they look like that?’
Awnya ignores her brother. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Pretty damn bad,’ I admit with a grimace. ‘But I’ve plugged up the worst of the damage and made it this far. I can battle on a bit further.’
‘Maybe we could find something to patch you up more efficiently,’ Awnya says. ‘There are some pharmacies cl
ose by. We could get proper bandages, plasters, anything you need.’
‘It’ll take more than that to put me together again,’ I sniff.
‘I think even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would have a tough time with this one,’ Cian nods.
‘Idiot,’ Awnya snorts, and we exchange a look that girls everywhere have been sharing since the dawn of time — boys!
‘So, all kidding aside, what were you doing on the Belfast?’ I ask.
‘Waiting for you,’ Cian says.
‘Really,’ Awnya adds.
I frown. ‘How did you know I’d come this way?’
‘We didn’t,’ Awnya says.
‘But Dr Oystein hoped you’d return to a place you were familiar with,’ Cian explains.
‘He posted Angels here, Battersea Power Station, your old flat,’ Awnya says. ‘Anywhere he thought you might turn up if you managed to escape.’
‘He didn’t think I was a lost cause?’ I ask hoarsely.
‘He feared the worst,’ Awnya sighs.
‘But he said if anyone could get out of that mad clown’s den, it was you,’ Cian smirks.
‘He never gave up on you,’ Awnya says softly.
‘He prayed and had faith,’ Cian whispers.
‘And his prayers have been answered,’ Awnya finishes with a shy smile.
I shake my head wordlessly. I’m overwhelmed. I knew the doc loved us, but for him to pin this much hope on me, to keep the faith even though he must have known the odds were stacked sky-high against me . . .
When I was a child, I believed completely in my dad. I thought he’d always be there for me, that no matter what happened he would turn up to save me if I got into trouble. It’s been a long time since I had that sort of unreserved belief in a person, but Dr Oystein has restored it, made me feel like a kid again, in all the best ways.
‘That crazy, beautiful old saint,’ I croak. Then I remember what I witnessed at County Hall and my happiness evaporates. ‘But he should have been looking out for himself. County Hall has fallen. Mr Dowling attacked. I saw his troops killing everyone. Dr Oystein is probably dead. He should have focused on his defences, not wasted his time on a stray wretch like me.’
‘Easy, B,’ Awnya says. ‘The doc is fine.’
‘He doesn’t overlook anything,’ Cian says proudly.
I stare at them uncertainly. ‘But County Hall did fall. I saw it, just before I came here. The mutants overran it. There were dead bodies piled outside. Mr Dowling’s crew were throwing them on to a bonfire.’
Cian and Awnya both look downcast.
‘Dr Oystein thought that might happen,’ Cian says.
‘He wanted to withdraw everyone,’ Awnya says.
‘But Master Zhang convinced him to leave a small group of Angels behind,’ Cian goes on. ‘ To make it look like we were still based in the building.’
‘He didn’t want our enemies to know that we’d moved,’ Awnya says.
‘The doc wasn’t keen,’ Cian says glumly.
‘But in the end he agreed to Master Zhang’s plan,’ Awnya concludes.
‘What plan?’ I snap. ‘What are you talking about? This isn’t making sense.’
Awnya casts a disapproving look in my direction. ‘You should know that Dr Oystein thinks of everything.’
Cian nods. ‘He figured we were in trouble as soon as he heard that Mr Dowling had kidnapped you, and he immediately made plans to move us out of County Hall.’
I stare at the twins. ‘You’re telling me the doc upped sticks?’
‘Yes,’ Awnya says.
‘Why?’ I croak. ‘How did he know that Mr Dowling would attack?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Awnya says. ‘Maybe he just had a feeling.’
‘Or maybe he has spies among the clown’s people,’ Cian grunts.
‘Either way, he slipped us out of there,’ Awnya says. ‘We relocated to a base he’d set up ages ago in case we ever needed to evacuate in a hurry.’
‘County Hall might have fallen but the doc hasn’t,’ Cian smirks.
‘He’s safe,’ Awnya agrees. ‘And he’s waiting for us to bring you to him.’
My mind is reeling. I don’t know how the doc saw this one coming! Then again, I shouldn’t be too surprised that he was several steps ahead of me. He’s not a dumb foot soldier. It’s his job to think things through and make plans in advance, taking all the variables into consideration. Maybe he knew that Mr Dowling wanted to marry me. Maybe he gambled that I’d accept the clown’s proposal for one reason or another, and figured there was a chance that I’d find out where his vial of Schlesinger-10 was stored and manage to steal off with it. Relocating his base on a hunch was a brave, bold move, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Dr Oystein pinned everything on a gut instinct.
I’m so happy that I want to hop around like a lunatic and shout for joy until I’m hoarse. But I can’t summon the strength. The best I can manage is a wry smile and a very weak-sounding, ‘Wow.’
‘Come on,’ Awnya says. ‘We’ll take you with us. Dr Oystein will be sad when he finds out those we left behind were killed, but he’ll be delighted to see you again.’
‘This is incredible,’ I chuckle. ‘I can’t wait to see him, but how far is it to these new quarters of yours?’
‘Not far,’ Awnya says. ‘It’s in Bow, in an old factory where they used to make matches.’
That rings a bell. ‘I think I know the place you’re talking about. It was turned into flats. The Bow Quarter, near Victoria Park?’
‘Yes,’ Cian says, impressed. ‘How did you know?’
‘I used to live over that way. I’ve passed it loads of times. It was an eye-catching place.’
I consider the walk to Bow. The twins are right, it’s not far away, an easy hour and a bit if I was in good shape. But in my current condition it’s an unappealing prospect.
‘I’m not up for the journey,’ I tell them. ‘It would take hours. I can barely manage a crawl.’
‘We could carry you,’ Awnya suggests.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We’re strong enough,’ Cian growls, puffing himself up.
‘I’m sure you are,’ I reply, ‘but I’d slow you down, and speed is important. Mr Dowling’s mutants will start looking for me again when they’re finished at County Hall. The sooner I can link up with Dr Oystein, the better.’
Cian rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘So what do you want us to do? We can’t just leave you here, injured and alone.’
‘Tell you what,’ I decide, thinking about the route east. ‘You guys can help me get to Brick Lane. You need to pass close by it anyway. There’s an old brewery there that I know well, where I can lay low. Drop me off and I’ll wait there for you to bring Dr Oystein to me.’
‘Are you sure?’ Awnya frowns. ‘Maybe it would be safer if one of us stayed with you.’
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘You two work better as a team. I’ll be fine by myself. It’s a nice place to rest. Mr Dowling has no reason to suspect I’ll head there.’
The twins glance at one another, think about it, then nod.
‘OK,’ Awnya says.
‘If that’s what you want,’ Cian chirps.
Then they move to either side of me, link arms with mine and we’re off, like Dorothy and her friends on the road to Oz. But there’s no way I’m going to sing ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road’. I was always a lousy singer, even when I had lungs to sing with.
ELEVEN
It takes even longer than I anticipated to cross the river and complete the short march to Brick Lane. The twins are shocked when they see how hard I find it to drag one leg after the other. Awnya suggests I stop before Brick Lane and rest up in the Tower of London or Aldgate. But I have the Truman Brewery in my head now, and the lure of it keeps me going. I want to lie back somewhere familiar, study Timothy’s paintings, reflect on all that has happened. I’ll feel safe there. I’d be uneasy anywhere else.
The twins are wearing ha
ts, sunglasses and jackets to protect them from the daylight. They offer to find the same for me, but I barely notice the discomfort that walking around in the sunshine usually causes. I have far more painful crosses to bear.
Eventually we get to the turning for Brick Lane and I smile painfully. ‘Home sweet home. You can leave me here. No need to come all the way.’
‘Are you sure?’ Awnya asks.
‘What if you’re attacked?’ Cian says.
‘And what if a meteor falls on me?’ I respond tetchily. ‘Look, even if I collapse, I won’t fall far short, so you’ll know where to find me. By the time I get there, you’ll be halfway to Bow. Coming any further with me would be a waste of time.’
‘In that case we shouldn’t have bothered bringing you this far,’ Cian says and I feel like giving him a slap. But then he sticks out his tongue and laughs, and I forgive him.
‘Take care, B,’ Cian says.
‘I will.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you?’ Awnya asks.
‘I’m sure.’
The twins shrug and turn to leave.
‘Hey.’ I stop them. ‘Thanks. You saved me. I won’t forget it.’
‘You’d have been fine,’ Cian snorts.
I shake my head slowly. He catches my dark look and his grin fades.
‘You guys hurry on back,’ I mutter.
They wave at me and set off, fast as hares now that they don’t have me to slow them down. I watch them depart, feeling lonely again, but nowhere near as lost as I did before they linked up with me and told me hope was still alive. Then I turn into Brick Lane and start hobbling.
I pass the first of the legions of curry houses which this street was once famous for, and remember a conversation with Timothy, when he offered to cook me a meal. The artist was as loony as Mr Dowling in his own way, but sweet with it. I still miss him, even though I didn’t get to know him that well.
I spot a few zombies lurking in the shadows of the restaurants. They can tell with a glance that I’m one of them, so they pay me no mind.
It’s only as I draw close to my goal that I recall the last time I was here, the day that Mr Burke tried to kill Dr Oystein. My old teacher had found me in the Brewery, acting as a makeshift curator, taking care of Timothy’s paintings. Rage was with him, helping cart a trolley full of folders across the city from wherever they’d dug them up. Rage and I left Burke there, poring over the paperwork.