She wasn’t alone either.
She had lost Donut and Courtney, but she didn’t have to cope with all this by herself. She could talk to someone, just as these two were talking now. She could share with them. She could sense that Blue and Maxie cared for each other and the kids they looked after. They’d lost friends along the way, just like her, but they were showing that you could make new friends. They couldn’t ever properly replace the people they’d lost, but they could still matter. Life had to go on.
Real life.
Maxie and Blue gave her hope, and the more she listened, the more she learnt about them and got involved in their stories, the more she liked them. What was Chris Marker always banging on about, surrounded by all his books? She’d never really got it before, when he’d talked about all the stories in London, how they were going on all around them, all the time, and how some of the stories were the same, kids going through the same experiences, and sometimes they joined together. Maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe her story had taken a turn and these other kids were going to become an important part of her life. Maybe it was time for her to rest for a while and let their story take over?
As the time ticked past, showing on the face of an old-fashioned wind-up clock, she listened and learnt. She put herself in their story. And the marks on the ceiling slowly became just that – marks. The cities and forests, the roads and train tracks and little villages faded away, to be replaced by cracks and stains. The last to go was the farm. Courtney and Donut were still there, in the kitchen, sitting at the table, drinking tea, chatting happily. They’d always be there if she ever wanted to visit them, but for now she had to say goodbye.
There were problems in the real world to deal with.
It was clear that David was holding Maxie and Blue prisoner here in the sick-bay. He was trying to keep them from their friends so that he could take over their crew. The two of them were plotting how to get away, escape from the palace, just as Donut and Courtney had done the other day.
They were talking about it now and had come up against one problem.
‘… say we did get out, yeah?’ Blue was asking Maxie. ‘Where would we go?’
‘We’ve got the whole of London to choose from,’ Maxie replied. She was posher than Blue, spoke differently. In the past Brooke might have laughed at someone like her, mocked her and teased her. Not any more. She knew that it made no difference where you came from, how you’d been brought up – the disease affected you all the same. They’d all lost parents, friends, brothers and sisters. They’d all had to fight to survive. They were all the same.
Just trying to get from one day to another.
What if they could escape? Get away from here. All of them, together.
For the first time since she’d lost her friends, Brooke wanted to get up out of bed, to run and shout and fight. To kick back against the world that was trying to get at her. The world of grown-ups, and disease, the world of David …
69
‘Do you think he’ll go through with it?’
‘If he can. He’s just mad enough.’
Jester giggled. ‘I’m not sure we really should have done that,’ he said.
David looked at him and shook his head. ‘You loved it, Jester. You can’t fool me. It’s what you’re good at. Persuading people. Working your magic. You are the magic man.’
‘Yeah, but is it white magic or black magic?’ said Jester.
‘It’s all the same. When this is over and we’ve won, we’ll write the history books, and we’ll both be waving to the crowds on the cover. Everything’s coming together right now. This is how it’s meant to be. We’ve struck a blow against Justin and his traitors. We’ll fatally wound them, and they’ll come crawling to us for protection. We won’t offer it to them, though, not at first. We’ll let them stew a bit and then march in with our new army and save their wretched socks. Then we’ll be holding all the cards.’ David paused, let a smile take over his face.
‘Just remember,’ he said. ‘Justin and Brooke. They’re mine.’
He went to an ornate drinks cabinet that stood in the corner and selected a decanter of whisky. He hated the taste of the stuff but he’d seen enough films in his time to know that when something like this happened you had to celebrate with a drink. A drink and a cigar.
He took the cut-glass stopper out of the decanter and sniffed the pungent, eye-watering amber liquid inside.
‘Drink, sir?’
Jester laughed. ‘Why not?’
70
Blue and Maxie were still talking, still plotting. Blue kept coming back to the fact that they didn’t know the area. These were unfamiliar streets to him.
‘We don’t know where’s safe.’
‘There must be other kids,’ said Maxie, who seemed more hopeful of escape. ‘This can’t be it.’
‘Nowhere else is going to be as well set up as this,’ Blue went on. ‘Nowhere else is gonna be as safe. David’s the only one round here who’s organized.’
Now Brooke heard a third voice, and at first she didn’t understand where it had come from.
It simply said, ‘David’s a liar.’
She recognized that voice. So familiar.
Of course. It was her own voice. She’d come back from the dead. Spoken without meaning to. The other two kids sat up and looked over at her.
‘What did you say?’ Blue asked.
‘David’s a liar,’ Brooke repeated. ‘He’s been lying to you all along. Why do you think he’s been keeping me out of the way up here?’
‘Because of your injuries?’ said Blue.
‘They’re not as bad as they look,’ said Brooke, and it was as if a tap had been turned on. All the words that had been growing inside her came tumbling out in a rush. She was saying things she hadn’t even thought. The sentences came out fully formed without seeming to pass through her brain.
‘When you cut your face, there’s a lot of blood,’ she said. ‘Rose fixed me up pretty well. I’m going to look like hell, but it’s only skin. David didn’t want me mixing with you lot, though. He didn’t want me talking. Once it was clear they were keeping me prisoner I made sure I didn’t speak, hardly even moved. Just listened …’
Best not tell them that she’d gone a little crazy. That could come later. Best appear to be on top of things. She needed their help and didn’t want to scare them off.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Blue. ‘Where are you from?’
Good question. Where was she from?
‘The museum.’
She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d meant … somewhere. Some safe place with her mum. A place that didn’t exist any more.
‘Museum?’ said Blue. ‘What museum?’
‘Natural History Museum,’ said Brooke, and once more the words came pouring out. She told them about her life there, and how they weren’t the only other kids around, that there were other places to go, and then she tried to tell them about her expedition with Donut, but that was when the words ran out. It was too soon to talk about that. She stopped before the tears came, and the words dried up.
‘It’s all right,’ said Maxie.
Yes. It was all right. She did have somewhere to go. A safe place. And she needed to get back there. She needed to connect with the friends she’d left behind at the museum. With Justin and Wiki and Jibber-jabber, with Kwanele and Zohra and Froggie … So many of them. So many faces. So many stories. With Maxie and Blue’s help she could get back there.
Maybe some small good had come out of the seemingly senseless deaths of Donut and Courtney.
She had linked up with these new kids.
They had things to do together.
Stories to tell.
It was fate.
‘I just want to go home,’ she said.
71
David and Jester were both gulping, laughing and grimacing. They clutched their throats in theatrical displays of choking. The room was full of thick cigar smoke and the reek of whisky. David t
ook another puff of his cigar and then tried another tentative sip from his glass. He coughed and Jester laughed even harder. David joined him. Soon they were both slumped in chairs laughing helplessly. David laughed so hard he blew a candle out and that only made the two of them laugh harder.
‘Whisky is disgusting,’ David gasped, once he’d got his breath back.
‘You’ll grow into it,’ said Jester. ‘Remember you’re just a fourteen-year-old boy. It’s easy to forget sometimes.’
‘We’ve had to grow up fast,’ said David, and he put his glass down on the table.
‘You should get a coaster for that,’ said Jester. ‘Or you’ll make a ring.’
David gave him a dirty look, then dipped his fingers in the whisky and flicked some at Jester who yelped and swore.
‘I’m not that grown up just yet, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready for my pipe and slippers.’
‘Look at us, though,’ said Jester. ‘Sitting here in Buckingham Palace drinking whisky and smoking cigars and plotting to take over the world. Can you believe it? How did it happen?’
‘Crazy, isn’t it,’ said David, and they began to talk about the past, everything that had happened to them, the twisted interconnecting paths that had led them to this room in this building on this night. The whisky they’d managed to force down had warmed their guts and they congratulated each other, bigging themselves up drunkenly. They babbled on, discussing how well their partnership worked, and sniggering at how stupid everyone else was, how easy they were to manipulate.
All in all, they were very pleased with themselves.
What could possibly go wrong with their plans?
There was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Jonathan.’
David looked to Jester. Then back at the door. Jonathan was a junior guard. It wasn’t normal for him to interrupt David when he was in a meeting. Only Pod and Jester had the authority to do that.
David rested his cigar in an ashtray, waving smoke away from his face.
‘What do you want?’
‘There’s a problem.’
‘Well, yes, I assume there’s a problem, or you wouldn’t be bothering us. What sort of a problem?’
Jester hauled himself out of his chair and went over to open the door. He glared at Jonathan who looked nervous and sweaty.
‘Well?’
‘I-it’s the royal family,’ he stammered.
‘What about them?’
‘They’ve got out.’
72
Stupid. How could he have been so stupid?
To doze off. Here. Exposed like this, within spitting distance of the strangers’ army. To drop his guard so disastrously …
Dead stupid.
After St George had brought the boy’s head out on the pole the strangers had somehow set fire to the shop. How they’d done it he had no idea. Had they really remembered how to use matches? Cigarette lighters? Or had it been an accident?
He didn’t know, and he’d watched helplessly as flames had climbed into the night sky. Then the strangers, with nothing to unite them, had milled about in the road, grunting and hissing and brawling with each other, as the supermarket steadily burnt down behind them. It had looked like nothing much more was going to happen tonight. Some of them had even broken up into smaller groups and found places to sleep.
At some point Shadowman had fallen asleep too …
And now they were here.
They hadn’t all gone to sleep. Some had obviously started roaming the streets, looking for more food, their senses alert. After all, there had only been that one lone boy in the supermarket. He wouldn’t have fed that many of them. As long as they’d been concentrating all their efforts on getting at him they hadn’t bothered with anyone else. Now they were bored and hungry and fired up by St George.
And no one was safe.
Anywhere.
A noise must have disturbed Shadowman because his eyes snapped open and he was awake in a split second, his brain on a tight trigger. The supermarket was still on fire and there was a dim flickering orange glow in the room. He had just long enough to clock several large bodies bundling through the door before they were on him.
He’d been lying on his back on the bed, his weapons laid out next to him ready for action. There was no time, though, to get to them. By the time he was awake, a big father with no hair was pawing at him. Shadowman brought his hands up to protect himself and discovered that he was still holding his knife. He hadn’t totally dropped his guard. He slashed at the father’s forearms and rolled off the side of the bed.
He hit the floor with a thump and found himself surrounded by a forest of legs. He thought there must be five or six strangers in the room. The light from the fire over the road did little to lift the darkness. It was hard to see anything in here, which was worse for him than it was for them, as they acted as much on smell as on sight, whereas he had to rely solely on his eyes. His only advantage was how cramped it was in the room. The clumsy strangers were bumping into each other in their eagerness to get at him. He stayed low, scuttling across the carpet, avoiding grasping hands and slashing at the grown-ups’ lower legs. One went down heavily as he sliced through the tendons in his ankles. He lay there moaning and thrashing about, spraying blood all over the place as his useless legs kicked out.
Shadowman bumped up against the wall and two fathers cornered him, making a grab for his clothing. Shadowman forced himself on to his feet, powering up with all his strength and headbutting one of them in the chin. The father’s head jerked back and Shadowman heard a clack as his jaws were forced together. He got a glimpse of a bleeding mouth. He elbowed the second father in the throat, lashed out with his knife and pulled away from the two of them.
He had to get to the bed and reach his other weapons. He needed the machete.
But one of the other strangers hit him with something in the back of his head and he reeled across the room, stunned. Another managed to get hold of his cloak and jerk him back. As he went, he had enough sense left to push off hard with his feet so that he fell back with some force against whoever it was that held him. They crashed into the wall and he heard the hiss of air pumped from liquid-filled lungs.
Shadowman’s head cleared and he was filled with a wild energy. He knew he was fighting for his life. He whirled round blindly, his knife cutting anything it hit. He didn’t scream or shout. He was trying desperately not to make a sound in case it attracted the whole army. If that happened, he had no chance. He had to hope that this was just a small hunting pack.
He felt fingernails scraping down one arm, tearing at the material of his jacket. At least they didn’t seem to be armed.
No sooner had he had that thought when a long arm came flying out of the darkness and struck him in the chest with some sharp object. His ribs ached from the blow, as if one of them had snapped, and he felt wetness under his shirt.
He stabbed towards the attacker with his knife and it connected with something soft and stuck fast. He’d hit one of them. He pulled them into the light from the window. It was a mother. His knife embedded in her cheek. He tugged it free and as the unseen weapon battered him on the back he threw himself at the bed. His injured ribs sent a jolt of pain through his torso and he stifled a cry. There was a little more light here and he managed to get his hands on his loaded crossbow. As he twisted round, he fired off a shot point blank at the father he had headbutted. It got him in the chest and he toppled backwards, arms windmilling.
He jumped up from the bed.
That was three of them down.
Which meant there were only three left.
It was far from over, though. The remaining three came at him in a group, swamping him with their bodies. He had no time to reload and dropped the bow, wishing he had gone for the machete instead. As he struggled to bring up his knife arm, one of his attackers took hold of it; another was trying to bite his throat. The third one was at his back, pounding him with
his weapon. All three were pressed against him and the smell was awful. Fighting off panic, he once again powered backwards, knocking the stranger over behind him. The biter was still at his throat. Quickly Shadowman brought his knee up then kicked down, aiming at where he thought the biter’s knee might be. He connected with a satisfying crunch and the father shrank away from him, hissing with pain.
Shadowman was still only getting odd glimpses of his attackers as they stumbled about in the half-light. He looked round at the stranger who had his knife hand and saw a puffy mother’s face, swollen with boils and growths, twisted and misshapen. His knife was still out of action, so he would have to fight like a stranger now. If they could scratch, then so could he. He reached over and jabbed at the mother’s eyes. As his nails made contact with her lower eyelids, he tugged down hard. It was like ripping off an especially sticky bandage. There was a tearing noise and half the mother’s face came away. Shadowman was left with a handful of skin and pus. The mother loosened her grip just enough for him to be able to bring the knife up at last. He plunged it into the guts of the father with the broken knee, followed it up with a quick slash to left and right across the mother’s neck and he was left with only one assailant.
The father with the weapon who he had knocked over.
He’d scrambled across the floor and got to his feet on the other side of the room. Now he was holding back in the darkness, blocking the doorway.
Shadowman was fighting for breath, dripping with sweat and blood, and worse. There were countless small wounds all over his exposed skin, but as far as he could tell none of them was life threatening. His ribs burned, his throat was horribly dry, his legs shaking, his heart thumping, but he was still upright.