‘Oh God, that’s so sweet,’ she whispered.
Two hours later, they remembered the champagne and opened it. It was warm by then, but they didn’t care.
EIGHTEEN
Flicker. Fast-cut: a bridge, a river, a palace. Shades on the high walls.
Too fast to follow, too jerky and chop-cut. Flicker. Edit. Edit. Smash-cut: the bridge, very old, very worn. Smash-cut: the thundering torrent of a river boiling along a deep, stone-cut channel under the bridge. The river is a mile wide. The bridge, therefore, worn and crumbling though it seems, is a mile wide too.
Smash-cut: the palace, made of silver-green bricks, towers reaching up into the clouds. The palace shimmers. Its high, silver-green walls are like the lustrous scales of a sleeping reptile. The sky is a silent bowl of black, marked by pinpricks of fire.
Smash-cut: the lurching segue of dream logic. Someone is running across the ancient bridge. Running fast. Fast footsteps on stone. Someone is running away from the palace across the ancient bridge. It’s him. He’s running away across the ancient bridge. Why is he running?
The shades on the high walls stir. Alerted by distant sirens, they begin to move, leaping and scurrying, like shadows, like whispers, like wraiths. They are barbed, and armed for killing.
They run faster than he does. Of course they do. They were made that way. They run faster, faster... faster than he could ever run. Leaping, bounding, they close the distance. They are catching up with him.
They are silent. They make no sound. Not even footsteps.
Still running, he looks over his shoulder. The shades are there.
One leaps—
He wakes. Bolt upright, wet with sweat.
‘Babe, what is it?’ she asks, head buried in the pillows beside him.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Weird dreams. Go back to sleep.’
Thursday morning, six o’clock. Still dark. Dean Simms gets up, and makes tea by the light of his single bulb. The B&B is quiet. He sneaks along to the bathroom and takes a quick shower.
Back in his room, he suits and boots as he sips his tea and checks over the electoral roll. Tovey Street. As good as any. He does his nails, digging the quick with the nib of a fresh orange stick. A splash of smelly. He pulls on his jacket and flicks his tea bag into the bin. Got everything? Keys? Briefcase? Secret?
He strokes the soft lump for a moment before zipping his briefcase closed. All set.
He goes out, locking the door behind him.
Outside, it’s sharp and clear. Frost on the pavements. Glitter in the bushes. He hears a milkman clinking on his rounds down the street, the rising then falling hum of the milk float coasting point to point.
Dean crosses the street. The milkman nods good morning as he whirs past on his chinking float. A good day, a clear day. Dean takes a deep breath. Cold air.
A tabby cat slinks by along a wall, tail down. Dean reaches his vehicle and unlocks it.
He gets in. The vinyl seat is cold. The hard plastic wheel is cold. When he starts the engine, cold air breathes through the vents. There’s frost on the screen, but nothing the wipers can’t handle.
Mirror, signal. He pulls out of his parking slot into the street.
Gonna be a good day, he promises himself. Game on.
As the kettle boiled, Davey Morgan spooned out cat food into a bowl. He set the bowl down on the kitchen floor. There were two other bowls there already, untouched. He picked them up, banged their contents out into the bin and washed them up.
He hadn’t seen the cat since Tuesday. Some one else was feeding him, Davey decided. The cat had got a better offer somewhere. Cats were like that. Fickle things.
Davey went into the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. There was a scab of blood under his nose and his left eye had blackened. Bloody bastards. He’d come home from Normandy looking healthier. Still, his skin hadn’t been translucent then.
‘I’ve got old,’ he told the picture on the hall table. ‘I don’t care what you say. Old.’
He wondered if the cat was all right. He put on his digging jacket.
Out in the yard it was brisk. His breath steamed. He rubbed his hands and pulled on his mittens. There was a proper mist that morning, swaddled all over the backyards and beyond. The sun was climbing reluctantly above Seraph Street, a thin, molten slice of light.
He limped up the path to the allotment gate. There was a funny smell in the air, like compost.
The grass was wet. As soon as he passed through the gate, he knew that something was up. Broken flowerpots, upturned planters, uprooted veg. The yobbos had been in overnight, ransacking. To get back at him, no doubt.
He reached his own plot and came up short. He blinked. He started breathing hard, breathing in short, sharp gulps. Oh no, no, no...
The windows of Davey’s shed had been smashed in. Those responsible – Ozzie and perhaps four or five of his fellow yobs – were still outside.
What was left of them.
Taff Morgan had seen death, first-hand. The bloody debris left in the aftermath of a well-ranged mortar bomb. An entire advancing section atomised by a shell from a Nazi 88, nothing left behind except charred scraps of kit and pink mush. Friends he’d known cut up by heavy Spandau fire that sectioned them like hot wire.
He thought he’d been forced to see his share.
The bodies – there were no whole bodies, just pieces – had been scattered in front of his shed. It looked like a direct hit by an 88 round, except there was no crater, no litter of cordite ash. The poor bloody bastards looked like they had been pushed through a wood chipper. Bits of bone and half-limbs, some still partly clothed in meat, protruded from the soil as though they were heads of celery, carefully planted. Davey saw blood-black ribs, wet lumps of marrow, yellow, intestinal ropes glistening in the daylight.
Worst of all, whatever had killed them had preserved their faces. A row of Davy’s gardening implements had been staked out in front of the shed door: spade, fork, hoe, shovel, rake. From the top of each handle swung a limp, meat flag; the flesh of a skinned human face, scalped off, lank and heavy in the dawn breeze.
Davey gagged. The stench of blood and ordure took him back to ‘44, and he had no bloody wish to do that. Hadn’t he seen his share? Why was he being forced to confront this again?
Why?
Ozzie’s boneless face stirred in the wind.
Davey threw up. Hot, acid tea spattered across the cold frame.
He staggered over to the shed door and pushed it open.
‘What did you do?’ he demanded, his throat hoarse. ‘What the bloody hell did you do?’
The thing in the barrow wasn’t in the barrow any more. It was standing by the broken window on slim, metal, legs it hadn’t previously possessed. It turned its ovoid head to regard him.
It let out a low hum.
The hum changed pitch, then changed pitch again.
‘Don’t you give me that,’ Davey Morgan snapped.
‘Here you go,’ said James, handing the serviette-wrapped object to Gwen. It steamed in the dank morning air.
‘Ta,’ she said. ‘Oh, it’s chilly.’
Leaning against the SUV, arms folded, Jack looked over. ‘That’s chilli? For breakfast?’
‘No, I was saying today is chilly.’
‘Oh. OK.’
He looked back at them a moment later. ‘So what is that?’
‘It’s bloody delicious is what it is,’ said Gwen, taking another bite.
‘Did it once have a name?’ asked Jack.
Munching, James turned his own order over and read off the printed serviette. ‘It’s a... “Croiss-ham-wich®”.’
‘Uh-huh. Like a croissant? With ham? Sandwiched in?’
‘You’re grasping the basic concept, I believe,’ said James.
Jack shook his head.
‘You could have had one,’ said James. ‘The place is just around the corner. Breakfast served until ten. I did ask you if you wanted one.’
‘No,
thank you,’ Jack said firmly.
They ate on.
‘You know what that stuff is doing to your arteries, I suppose?’ Jack asked.
Gwen nodded.
‘Croissant. That’s like... butter in shrapnel form. Not to mention the processed flour. That’s going to make you sluggish later.’
‘At least,’ replied Gwen through a mouthful, ‘I’m not hypoglycaemic and tetchy.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Jack archly. ‘My body is a temple.’
‘Of course,’ said Gwen.
James sniggered. He balled up his empty serviette and, with no bin in sight, put it in his pocket.
‘Crumb,’ said Gwen, and brushed his lip. She finished her own Croiss-ham-wich®, screwed up her napkin, and looked around for somewhere to throw it. James took it out of her hand and put it in his pocket with his own.
‘You two are so sweet,’ said Jack. ‘Makes me want to barf.’
‘So, are we going to do anything?’ Gwen asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘shouldn’t that be: “Thank you, Jack, for letting me come out with you today”?’
‘Hypoglycaemic and tetchy,’ Gwen murmured sidelong to James.
‘I heard that,’ said Jack. ‘What did she say, James?’
‘I was saying,’ said Gwen, ‘my paperwork’s all done, so I’m a free woman. Besides, I’m here as a foil.’
‘A foil?’ asked Jack.
‘James reckoned you were so wound up about catching this bloke, you’d be a pain in the arse to be around all day.’
‘He said that?’
James raised his hands. ‘Don’t bring me into this.’
‘I’m here to make it more fun,’ said Gwen.
‘Kudos on that, so far,’ replied Jack. He walked up and down, looking around. Traffic droned past. Somewhere, an ice-cream van tinkled its tune.
‘OK, we’ve been here long enough,’ Jack decided. ‘Nothing going on. Let’s ride around a little more.’
‘What about him?’ asked Gwen, pointing down the street.
Jack looked where she was pointing. ‘He’s from the cable company.’
‘But is he?’ she asked.
‘He’s got a cable company van, Gwen.’
‘But has he?’
‘He’s not the guy, dammit,’ said Jack.
‘It could be an elaborate hypnotic cover,’ said Gwen. ‘James was telling me this bloke has the power to make anything look like anything he bloody wants. Jehovah’s Witnesses, for example.’
Jack glowered. ‘All right. All right. Just hold on.’
He set off down the street. They watched him have a conversation with the cable man. The cable man looked at Jack oddly. He said something to Jack. Jack walked back to join them.
‘Don’t make me do that again,’ said Jack. ‘Ever.’
‘Was it not the guy?’ asked Gwen innocently.
‘It was not the guy.’
‘Just as you thought?’
‘Just as I thought.’
‘Did he tell you to piss off?’
‘He told me to piss off.’
‘From which remark you deduced...?’
‘That it wasn’t the guy we are looking for, a fact I was pretty sure of before I went over.’ Jack walked around to the driver’s side door of the SUV. ‘Come on.’
Gwen and James followed him to the car. ‘How good at lip-reading am I, then?’ she said. ‘“Piss off” from a whole twenty yards?’
James shrugged. ‘I thought the hand gesture pretty much gave it away.’
On Tovey Street, Dean Simms said goodbye to Mr Robbins, and Mr Robbins said goodbye to six hundred pounds of the Darts Club raffle money. Mr Robbins was Darts Club treasurer, though Dean was fairly confident Mr Robbins wouldn’t remain in that post for very much longer.
Thirty-eight minutes. Excellent result to start the day. In and out, no messing around, clean close. No heavy punting required.
He walked back to his vehicle. Dean had been intending to do another two visits on Tovey Street but on the way over he’d spotted a couple of choice-looking places. Double garages, bay windows, Dunroamin’-esque house names on cedar plaques. To Dean, that said money. That said bored wives of a certain age taking the odd nip of sherry while they Mr Sheened the giant plasma TV for the umpteenth time. Game on.
He patted his briefcase and turned the key in the ignition.
‘This is dull,’ said Gwen. ‘This is... starting to make paperwork seem attractive. Are we going to do any running about at all?’
James yawned and leaned back in the SUV’s passenger seat. ‘With any luck, no.’
Gwen fidgeted in the back seat. She glanced out of the tinted windows to see what was keeping Jack.
James yawned again.
‘You tired?’
He nodded.
‘You had weird dreams again, didn’t you? I remember you waking up.’
‘Yeah. Very strange stuff.’
‘About what?’
James shook his head. ‘Still can’t actually recall anything.’ He stifled another yawn.
‘But they’re bothering you? These dreams?’
‘Doing my nana.’
Gwen eyes widened. ‘You were doing what? Oooh, I don’t wanna know!’
He looked around at her. ‘No, “banana”. Like doing my head in. It’s an expression.’
‘Sounds more like a radical lifestyle choice to me.’
‘I was not dreaming about my grandmother, Gwen.’
James seemed particularly sharp. She leant forwards.
‘OK, keep your lovely hair on. I was only playing. God, it’s really got to you, hasn’t it?’
He hesitated. ‘The thing is...’
‘What?’
‘Usually, I don’t dream.’
Gwen frowned. ‘That’s silly. Of course you do.’
‘I don’t. I never have. Don’t dream. Ever.’
‘You’re having me on, Mayer.’
He looked around at her again. ‘Honestly. I don’t. Maybe I’m not having weird dreams at all. Maybe I’m having normal dreams and they seem weird because I haven’t had them before.’
She thought for a moment. ‘I tell you what is weird.’
‘What?’
‘You.’
The driver’s door opened and Jack climbed in.
‘So?’ asked James.
‘His name was Colin,’ said Jack. ‘He was very polite, a bit of a floating voter sexually, as far as I could tell. He was collecting for Age Concern.’
‘Not our guy then?’
Jack sighed. He pulled out his phone and dialled. ‘Tosh? This is becoming tedious. Got anything interesting?’
At her work station in the Hub, Toshiko sat with her chin on her hand, idly clicking her mouse to play Solitaire on screen. ‘Nope,’ she replied.
Jack hung up. He wound down his window and let in the outdoor smell of wet road and cold exhaust. ‘Shall we just leave this?’ he asked.
In the distance, an ice-cream van played its plinky-plonky tune.
Gwen looked up. ‘Oooh, I could just go a choc ice now.’
Jack stared at her. ‘On top of the fats you guzzled for breakfast?’
Gwen pouted. ‘Just saying.’
Jack sat for a moment. His brow furrowed slightly. He looked back at her. ‘Gwen... would you consider your appetite choices to be in any way freakish?’
‘Freakish?’ she asked.
‘Unusual, then.’
‘Generally, or by Welsh standards?’
Jack stared at them both and jerked his thumb in the direction of the open window. He had a certain look in his eyes. ‘It’s October,’ he said. ‘It’s cold. School’s in. And we can hear an ice-cream van at ten thirty in the morning?’
Toshiko’s screen suddenly blipped. Solitaire folded up into the drag bar. A new window opened.
She sat up. ‘He-llo,’ she said.
She began to type.
‘Owen!’
He was shooting
hoops with Ianto down by the cog-door.
‘Owen!’
‘What?’ he yelled back. ‘I said you could play the winner.’
‘Get here.’
He jogged up to join her at her station.
‘What?’
She pointed at her screen. ‘Say hello to my little friend.’
He squinted. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That’s different.’
NINETEEN
They slammed the doors of the SUV. Jack led them across the street, his hands in his coat pockets.
The van had been parked on a meter between a Volvo and a Mondeo. Trees overhung from behind garden walls, and the broad pavement was slick with dead leaves.
‘Mr Swirly,’ Gwen read. The van was old, an old Commer, its paint job fading and peeling in places: decals of ice-cream cones and space-rocket ice lollies pasted over a pink and cream background. James pressed his hand against the back panel grille.
‘Still warm.’
Cupping his hands around his eyes, Jack peered in through the hatch window. The interior was gloomy, but it was reasonable to conclude that Mr Swirly hadn’t dispensed ice-cream products for a fair number of years.
‘Look around,’ Jack instructed, rotating his hand. ‘He’s got to be close.’
Jack went one way, Gwen and James the other. They walked along the damp pathway, past the raw smells of cyanothus and creosote-drenched fencing.
‘Posh houses,’ said Gwen. ‘I hate posh bloody houses with names. Look. Bindreamin’. What the bloody hell is that about?’
James shrugged.
‘Bindreamin’. I ask you. Do you think it’s the home of a retired garbage collector?’
‘That would be Binladen, surely?’
‘Oh, you’re going to hell then,’ she said.
‘You know what Julius Caesar called his house?’ James asked.
She looked at him. ‘This is a joke, isn’t it? Hang on. The Laurels? No, no, wait... Caesar’s Palace?’
‘Dunroman,’ he said.
She winced. ‘I do not believe you actually had the nerve to crack that one,’ she said. Her phone rang.
‘Yeah, hello?’
‘Concentrate. Please,’ said Jack’s voice.
They looked back down the street at Jack, and Gwen gave him a cheery wave.