As he got closer to David’s camp, he slowed down and moved more cautiously. Lots of kids were leaving the park and crossing the road. Like rats escaping a burning building. They looked mostly like John’s squatters, though Shadowman spotted a couple of red blazers in among them.
Shadowman strolled over and merged in with them, walking casually. He knew that if you acted like you were supposed to be there people didn’t question you. He was checking their faces, looking for one in particular. No good – he needed a better view. He spotted a tree with some accessible lower branches near the edge of the park. He drifted over and pulled himself quickly up into it, keeping the trunk between him and the deserting kids. He climbed higher. The tree was just tall enough to give him a reasonable view of the battlefield.
The explosions had made a massive difference. Where once the sickos had seemed to fill the park, the rear half of them had gone – reduced to smoking debris. And most of the rest had broken up into small clumps, ragged and disorganized. To the south, kids were streaming out of Jordan’s encampment and tearing into them.
The battle was far from over, though. The sickos still massively outnumbered the children, and in the centre was St George – like a queen bee in the middle of a swarm – his sickos grouping up round him in a big circle. Slowly more were joining, getting organized again. And there, closer, another organized group, centred round a second powerful sicko.
No – definitely not over yet.
Shadowman switched his attention back to the road. He took out his binoculars and focused them on the deserting kids. Scanning them for a familiar coat. You couldn’t miss it. And only one person wore one like it.
A coat made of different coloured patches.
Shadowman had unfinished business.
It was only by pure chance that Jester had seen him. He’d sneaked to the edge of the camp to hide his coat under a hut. He stood out too much in it. He didn’t want to risk David or any of his guards spotting him as he made his getaway. He’d been super sensitive, looking around in all directions, and there he was, climbing up into a tree – Shadowman. Dylan Peake. Jester’s oldest surviving friend and the person who most wanted him dead in the world.
Jester sucked in his breath and then let it out with a curse. He knew in his bones that Shadowman was looking for him. He was up in the tree, perched there, scanning the road with his binoculars. He was good. Shadowman had always been good. If Jester hadn’t been alert to even the smallest movement he’d never have seen him up there, still now, blending in, the same colour as the tree trunk.
Jester had had it all planned. He was doing what he did best. Saving his own skin. He was going to go back to the palace while David wasn’t there and make it his own. Lock David out. It was the only sensible thing to do. Jester could do deals with everybody. Make friends. Get all this crap sorted out. David had been a good leader, but he’d lost it. When leaders wig out, you had to get rid of them.
Killing Nicola. That was wrong. However you looked at it. David had gone too far. Someone really needed to stop him.
Jester would leave that to a soldier. He was a thinker not a fighter.
Jester knew what Shadowman would say if he found him. Shadowman was one of those irritating people who always tried to do the right thing. Tried to be good.
He’d lay into Jester. Attack him for what David had done. Say that Jester was part of it. Say that Jester couldn’t just run …
The thing was, Shadowman was right.
Jester swore. Sat down behind the hut where Shadowman couldn’t see him. Fought back tears. He reached under the hut for his rolled-up coat.
He couldn’t leave the battle like this. He had to try to stop David. If Jester was ever going to look Shadowman in the eye again … No, not just Shadowman. If Jester was ever going to be able to look at his own reflection in the mirror again he had to do the right thing.
For once in his life he had to think about someone else.
He put his coat on.
He was going back.
68
‘It’s all right. It’s all right. Hold on.’ Archie Bishop was with one of the guys who’d joined them recently. The boy had a big nose and Archie was pretty sure he was called Andy. Didn’t know anything else about him. Never would now. In the last few days a lot of other kids had joined up with Matt. Drawn by the promise of heavenly protection. Of something else to believe in outside this world of pain and death and filth.
And most of them were dead.
Andy had a piece of fencing stuck through his body. A long, jagged bit of wood. Archie had watched helplessly as a mother had rammed it into him and then moved on.
Archie had his arms round Andy and was covered in his blood. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going. At least half of his friends from St Paul’s had been killed. They’d tried to protect themselves from the surging mass of sickos around them, but they hadn’t been strong enough. Religious chants and banners were no protection against teeth and fingernails, twisted bits of metal, rocks and spikes. Only the best fighters were left standing, or maybe just the luckiest ones, those that had better weapons. But they’d become cut off from the main body of Jordan’s army and now, in the confusion and chaos of the battle. Archie had no idea what was happening anywhere else. Were the kids winning? Or were the sickos massacring them all?
‘Attack me! I am the one! I am the Nemesis! Attack me!’ Matt was pushing past, holding up the first banner they’d ever made, the one that showed the Lamb and the Goat – the shining boy and the shadowy boy. With the legend ‘Angus Day’. Funny if it wasn’t so tragic. Like this whole day really.
Matt marched into the surrounding sickos and they fell aside, moved away from him like water when you dropped oil in it. Opposing magnets. They wouldn’t touch Matt. It was as if he had an invisible force field around him, which in turn made him invisible. Like dark matter. Archie grabbed him and pulled him back.
‘You stay with us,’ he said. ‘Protect us.’
‘Why won’t they attack me?’ said Matt, looking desperate.
‘How am I supposed to know?’ Archie shouted. ‘But if you can protect us then please do.’
Matt grabbed Archie’s arm so tightly it hurt, a mad look in his eye.
‘Help is coming,’ he said. ‘The Lamb is sending his angels. I see heaven standing open and there before me are two white horses, and their riders are dressed in shining gold. And they follow a king, dressed in a robe dipped in blood. The armies of heaven are following him, riding locusts that look like horses prepared for battle, and their teeth are like lions’ teeth. They are strong, they have breastplates of iron, and the sound of their wings is like the thundering of many horses and chariots rushing into battle.’
Archie wanted to hit him. They had to fight, not wait for heavenly superheroes.
‘Can you hear them!’ Matt cried out. ‘They are coming! They have heard us calling to them. The Nephilim have killed the boy, but the Lamb lives! They’re coming. Can’t you hear them?’
Archie could hear nothing, except the relentless, dreary drone of the fighting, the hiss of the sickos, the gasps and grunts and wheezing breath of the exhausted kids, the screams of the dying. Was Matt really expecting a swarm of locusts to come to their rescue? Locusts, or angels, or golden figures on horses …
‘Listen! Can’t you hear them?’
Archie was listening, but he felt a fool for doing it. There was no buzz, no hum, no beating of wings.
‘Don’t give up!’ Matt shouted. ‘I hear the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They are coming. He has not abandoned us. The Nephilim will be defeated.’
Archie had to believe him. He had no choice. The alternative was to accept defeat. To accept oblivion. Hope was all they had left. Hope and belief.
The Lamb would protect them.
69
Paul looked up at the sky. Boney-M was there, and he had his friends with him. They were black shap
es circling, their leathery wings tattered and ripped, their broken limbs held together with scraps of skin and sinew, their dark faces twisted, beady black eyes staring down at the battlefield. And every now and then one of them would come screaming down, take up a soul and carry it off to hell. They were cleaning the battlefield. Taking their harvest.
Now Boney-M himself swooped straight down at Paul. Paul shielded his face, yelled in fear, but Boney settled on the ground, clattered about, his long beak clacking. Staring at Paul, swearing at Paul, laughing at him.
‘You terrible streak of shite,’ he said. ‘You think you’re God? You’re not even fit to lick my toenails. Been talking to them, have you? The stinking sickbags? Giving them the word of God? Really? Earth to Sonny Jim – you’re not God. I am. The great God of War. Me and my Valkyries will strip the battlefield and make an army of the dead. You never were anything. You never amounted to anything. What was all this for? Your sister? Those children didn’t kill your sister and you know it. The Collector. Remember him? The greasy fat blob of guts. You know full well it was him that killed your Olivia. This whole thing has been a waste of time. They’ve beaten you, the sickos. They put their poison in you, their parasites. That’s all you are, a carrier for their germs. A dupe. And you see him, there, coming towards you …?’
Paul turned quickly as Boney collapsed into harsh laughter. Jester was pushing his way through David’s kids towards him. Paul turned back to Boney-M.
‘What does he want?’ he said, but Boney-M had gone, and when Paul looked up at the sky there were only seagulls there.
Jester looked at Paul. He didn’t know the boy at all. Had no idea what his story was. Why he was so unhinged. How he could communicate with the sickos. He’d run away from the Natural History Museum and joined David at the palace only a couple of weeks ago. He’d been crazy when he turned up and he was crazy now.
All Jester knew at that moment was that Paul was helping David, and David was helping St George. And Jester had to stop it. He should have done this before. He should never have let it get this far. He looked past Paul, past their flimsy wooden barricades, to where the vile horde of adults was trudging slowly towards Jordan’s kids. Ignoring David’s camp.
It wasn’t David’s wooden wall that was keeping the sickos from attacking them. It was Paul, using whatever weird skill he had. It was all down to his link with the sickos. However it worked, it had to be shut off, and there was a chance now, a tiny chance, that Jordan could swing the battle. Obliterate St George and his army, stop them from being any kind of threat. Surely every sicko for miles around was gathered here today. What if the kids could wipe them out?
Jester was going to do it. He was going to do the right thing. He was going to stop Paul from helping.
‘Paul!’ he shouted. ‘Stop this. Switch it off. That signal in your head. The voice you use to talk to them. Silence it.’
Paul shook his head. He was dripping with sweat, bone-white, the veins showing beneath his skin, his eyes red and feverish. He was trembling. But he was shutting Jester out.
‘I said stop,’ Jester yelled. ‘Stop now. Stop what you’re doing.’
‘I can’t stop it,’ said Paul, his voice not much more than a whisper. ‘It’s too late. It’s done. Let them all die. Let this be the end. The end of everything. Armageddon. Let it all finish now. No more pain. No more fear. Why struggle? Why fight against it? Let it all come down …’
‘You might not have anything to live for,’ said Jester angrily, tears in his eyes, ‘but I do. All those other kids out there do. You can’t allow them to die. You’re not more important than them.’
‘We’re none of us important,’ said Paul. ‘We’re all just parasites. What difference does it make if we live or die?’
‘All right then,’ said Jester. ‘If that’s how you want it then that’s how it’s gonna be.’
He threw himself at Paul, grabbed him by the throat and toppled him to the ground. He could hear kids behind him shouting. Ignored them. Kept up the pressure on Paul’s neck.
He didn’t know if he could do it. If he could take Paul’s life. Even knowing that if he did he could be saving hundreds more. In the end Paul was a boy like him, and he had a look of such deep sadness in his eyes it was making Jester weak. He was just about to let go when something appalling happened. The side of Paul’s neck gave way like wet paper, as if there was nothing under the skin, the flesh all rotted away to nothing. Jester’s fingers sank inside Paul’s neck and his head flopped to one side as a gout of green and yellow pus squelched out from under his roll-neck collar. Jester yelled in fright and jerked his hand away. It was dripping with grey jelly. More of the jelly was oozing out of Paul. It seemed to be alive, writhing and bubbling and crawling. Paul pulled down his collar. There was a huge dark hole in his neck, packed with living jelly.
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiled and his eyes rolled up in their sockets and closed.
Jester doubled over and was sick into the grass.
Someone was pulling at his coat. Jester felt it rip. He looked round. It was David. He pulled Jester to his feet and away from Paul. Jester couldn’t look back, but David’s eyes were fixed on Paul’s dead body.
‘What have we done?’ said David. ‘What were we thinking …?’
Jester could feel a change. The link with the sickos had been broken. The magic circle was no more.
They had no protection.
70
Franny was working in the palace garden. She had a small team with her, heads down, kneeling by a vegetable bed. As long as they worked, they didn’t have to think about what was going on in Hyde Park. All the kitchen staff were still here, the garden workers, the nursing and household staff. All going about their business as if nothing was any different. Occasionally the wind would change direction and they’d hear sounds from the park – music, the cries of birds, shouting. Screams. Not enough to tell them exactly what was going on, but enough to remind them that something was. Something huge and momentous. And then there had been a series of explosions.
She was pleased that David was out there fighting the adults. Ridding the world of them. He would come back in triumph as their saviour. He’d be pleased that Franny had kept things together here at the palace. Maybe he’d even …?
No. He never thought of her that way. She was just good old Franny. Franny who looked after the garden. Franny who kept everything in order, who made sure they always had food.
She straightened up. Her back was stiff. She arched her spine, pulling her shoulders back, hands behind her head, and glanced up at the palace.
She frowned.
Pod was back. She set off running towards him, dodging between the beds, up to where he stood by the main doors that led from the palace to the garden.
Was it over? Had he come back to tell them the good news? Victory? No … As Franny got nearer, she could see that he was troubled. Frowning and fidgety, running his fingers through his thick helmet of hair.
‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’
Pod shook his head.
She hadn’t seen him like this before. Pod never worried about things. He just got on with stuff.
‘What is it?’ Franny asked, desperate for news. ‘Why are you back? Is David back?’
‘No,’ said Pod. ‘He is not. David is not back.’
‘What’s he doing?’ said Franny. ‘Are we beating the strangers?’
‘We’re not even fighting them,’ said Pod.
‘What do you mean? Why aren’t we fighting them?’
‘Because we’re on their side,’ said Pod and he laughed the worst, most horrible laugh Franny had ever heard.
Most of the other gardeners had come up to see what was going on. They were crowding round Pod, all asking for answers.
‘You’ve got to tell us,’ said Franny. ‘We don’t know anything here.’
And then Pod looked at her, with horror in his eyes, and he told her. And as he talked Franny put her
hand in her mouth, biting the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger. So hard it started to bleed. She felt like she was going to be sick. When Pod told her how David had shot Nicola, she actually screamed.
‘I had to come back,’ said Pod. ‘I couldn’t stay there. It’s wrong what David’s doing. If he comes back here we mustn’t let him in.’
Franny was trembling. Not let David back in? The world was shifting all around her. Everything she believed in was being turned upside down. What were they going to do without David? But what had David done? It couldn’t be true. It made no sense.
And then three of Pod’s guys came running out of the doors and into the garden.
‘You gotta come quick,’ one shouted and Pod hurried inside.
Franny followed. Desperate to keep up with what was going on. They got to the central courtyard. People had gathered here and there was a babble of voices. A group of palace kids were arguing with a group of squatters from St James’s Park.
‘Oi! What are you doing?’ Pod shouted when he saw what was going on. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘No, what are you doing here?’ said a squatter. Franny recognized him as their leader, John. ‘Shouldn’t you be in the park with King David? Partying with your zombie brothers?’
‘No,’ said Pod. ‘We’re not supporting David any more.’
‘Neither are we,’ said John. ‘We’ve come to defend the palace for when David comes back against you.’
Pod smiled. Franny didn’t. Pod wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. She wanted to shout out – you shouldn’t trust these people.
One of Pod’s guys came over.
‘This lot got in before we could close the doors,’ he said. ‘There’s bare more out on the parade ground. Do we let them in?’
‘I’m not sure they should come in,’ said Pod.
‘Nice way to make us welcome,’ said John. ‘We thought you was our friends. We supposed to be allies. We have an agreement.’