London Falling (20 page)

They continued the row into the early hours. It exhausted them. They were silent for a while, but the row erupted again in fits and starts, and then died. They made a really
late supper together. She tried to tell him about how the delivery firm for the local paper she worked for had started to throw bundles of copies away rather than bothering to distribute them. How
that made her wonder why she herself was bothering. Her newspaper, she said, like everything else, was going the way of the dinosaur, but it didn’t mean they should just run away out of
London. ‘We’ve got a life here, haven’t we, Quill?’ Quill couldn’t answer.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said to her in bed, near dawn, when he woke from a terrible nightmare and realized that loads of it had been true. But he said it so quietly that he almost
wondered if he was talking to himself.

In the anonymous safe house that had become his home, Costain lay awake listening to the traffic outside. He’d fallen asleep, but woken and dozed again in fits and
starts. He didn’t want to sleep, because sleep felt like death. He kept thinking back to that house, and what he’d seen beneath him. That man, just a man in a suit, smiling up at him.
But what was fixed in his mind was different to what the others had described. It was something particular. Something personal.

He could try to do the right thing as much as he could – the right thing as others described it – and it lost him his freedom, it cut his bloody balls off, but okay. What he
couldn’t do was make up for the endgame he’d prepared as insurance, his escape route from both the Met and the Toshack mob. It was too risky to go and unearth it right now and, even if
he did, just having arranged it counted as a strike against him. Only, every day he kept it would weigh more and more heavily at . . . at the moment of his death, he guessed. The others had seen
speculation. They were being fed to a void. He’d seen a prediction: something already prepared for him.

At 4 a.m. he got up and shaved, then he drove out to Gipsy Hill, looking calmly at the horrors of the night that appeared to him. They were nothing now, compared to what was in his head.

Quill stood in the director’s lounge at the Boleyn Ground, Upton Park, looking at the assembled directors and chairpersons and hangers-on, including Brian Finch from
visiting Stoke City, and Peter Brockway, chairman of West Ham itself. From a great window behind them, he heard and now felt the gathering force of a Premiership football crowd assembling. On the
table lay the morning papers. The headline of the
Metro
read:
Mora: Score a Hat-Trick and Die
. ‘They’re already on first-name terms,’ he observed, picking it up.
‘I know what you’re thinking: why couldn’t she be like most Londoners and support Man U?’

‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Brockway. ‘She kills criminals, coppers, kids and footballers who score hat-tricks. She uses poison . . . or a bloody cauldron. Is there
anything
you’ve ruled out?’

Quill thought for a moment. ‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘But we do know her behaviour pattern indicates she’ll very much want to be here. And we think she might try to access
the pitch. Which is why we’ve had uniforms watching it since the early hours, and why we’ve now cancelled all leave and got more bodies in the ground than in Highgate
Cemetery.’

Brockway didn’t look particularly satisfied. ‘May I remind you, we had to
ask
you to bring in sniffer dogs. I should think she won’t get further than the turnstile.
Still, me and Brian have come to a gentleman’s agreement.’

‘I’ve told my players that if any of them puts two in, they’re to hang back and not go for a third. That’s all you’re getting. It’s against the FA code of
practice, as it is. And it’s giving in to terrorism.’

Quill managed a smile. He took the bottle of water from his pocket, drained it in one swallow, and handed it to a PA for a refill. ‘Got any more of that coffee?’

‘You’ll be going all through the match,’ remarked Finch.

‘I hope,’ said Quill, ‘I won’t have to.’

Ross, with Sefton beside her, watched the hordes pouring in through the home supporters’ entrance, just inside the tower-like gates on Green Street. They stood with their
backs to a wire fence, watching the warm bodies pass them, in their claret and blue. ‘Dad was always Arsenal,’ she said, feeling the need to say something. It was hard not to push
herself back into the fence. The sheer . . . weight that this mass of people brought with them, now that she was seeing them with the Sight . . . it was sort of like an expectation, a shape that
demanded a response from you. It felt terrible, like the raging of a mob, the sort of thing that could push you towards the kind of cynicism that coppers felt about the general public all the time.
But when you looked at any of these individual faces, they were just people looking all the different ways people looked. There were also uniforms everywhere, a density of them she’d never
seen before.

The plan was to defend the pitch if there wasn’t a hat-trick, to grab Losley if she tried to get more soil, to take her down by sheer numbers. If she was invisible when she did that, there
would be one of them watching the match at all times, and they’d send in the army of uniforms at any sign of pitch disturbance, and the stewards had also been told to pile in. If there
somehow was a hat-trick, and thank God that was very unlikely now, that defensive pattern would be altered to form an army around a much smaller target. The four of them with the Sight would be
watching every aspect of the audience in the stadium, hoping to pick out Losley.

Ross felt pleased at the size of the organization. It was a warm feeling of being in the Met mainstream. At the end of all this, though – and it felt like a risk to even hope there was an
end in sight – she was still going to have to deal with having been denied her revenge. But she had at least found a new depth to the world. And she would have helped rid it of something
terrible.

‘Well, duh,’ said Sefton, ‘I’m surprised your uncle got away with being an Irons fan in Bermondsey. I kept wanting to say something about how odd that was, when I was
acting as one of his lads, but, you know . . . guns.’

‘Listen to you,’ she said, ‘sounding more camp.’ Then she remembered she didn’t know him at all well enough to say stuff like that. ‘Sorry.’

‘No,’ he managed a smile, ‘depends who I’m with, yeah? I definitely stand straight among this lot. Not like the way police do, not like I’m in a club, just . .
.’ He indicated his own stance, which just looked normal to her.

‘You’ve thought about this a lot.’

‘Done it more than thought about it.’ He inclined his head towards the crowd. ‘One o’clock.’

It was a man who was trying to laugh along with his mates, but on his shoulders he carried a dead child, the boy’s legs beating against his chest with every step, his hands clasping his
hair tightly at the scalp.

‘Fuck,’ whispered Ross. Just a moment of random chat, and then it had all come crashing back.

They’d seen a few such things among the crowd, but not everything leaped out at them this way. The variety of things the Sight showed them included some quite subtle effects – stuff
that your eye could miss. Or maybe they were just starting to process it as they would through normal vision. As a test, they’d popped into the club shop and asked to buy some soil. It
wasn’t on sale now, they’d been told, because of health and safety. ‘True, that,’ Sefton had remarked. But they’d glimpsed a few sacks of it behind the counter, and it
didn’t seem to have any power associated with it.

‘If it did have power in itself,’ Ross had then said, ‘this stadium would be like a giant searchlight. It has to be something specific about the soil and her.’

Costain had meanwhile been patrolling the concrete caverns of the stadium, and now he headed up the steps to the Bobby Moore Stand. He looked out over the enormous crowd that
had now filled the stadium, just as the tannoy announced that the minute’s silence for Losley’s victims was about to begin. The huge sound of so many people swiftly quietened, became an
almost unnatural emptiness of distant coughs and shuffles. People looked at the ground or closed their eyes, appearing pious to show they could be, not knowing – because nobody knew –
who those child victims had been. There was something defiant in the completeness of it. This lot were determined that Losley wasn’t part of them. It wasn’t that he could feel that same
emotion inside them as individuals, not quite. He could almost . . . see it. But it didn’t feel great. It felt like a vacuum, a
need
to feel. The whistle blew for the end of the
silence, and a vast roar rose all around him, another empty assertion of togetherness.

Costain had grown up as an Arsenal fan, and his dad had often expressed a hatred of West Ham. These days he could just about name the squad, and he watched it on TV if it was on, but he’d
still been kind of dreading this moment. The crowd all started to sing, all at the same moment, as the club song came on the tannoy:
I’m forever blowing bubbles . . .
They had one
attitude, one purpose. They were one thing. And Costain, standing among them, felt his undercover hackles rise as never before. Here he was, an away fan, secretly one of the great enemy, possessed
of the Sight. It was like being in the mouth of some giant animal. He could feel the vast potential hatred for yet another facet of what he was, though it was deeply buried inside him. It hit him
like thousands of tiny blows, beating against his skin. He was the enemy:
the other
. Well, it was what he was used to. He now did what he always did. He took a deep breath and joined in with
the song.

The Sight didn’t like that. He could feel something huge and unknown, something beyond what these thousands of small people knew, reacting to it. Or maybe that was just the feeling of
gears slipping inside his head, as he pushed against the tide.

The song came to an end, and there was an enormous, explosive cheer. Costain walked to the end of a row, to look over to where Losley’s season-ticket seat had previously been. They’d
taken it out, and every seat beside it or behind it, including Toshack’s and all those to the distance of one seat away. As if even where she’d sat was infectious. Now a steward stood
to one side of the gap, in case anyone . . . well, who could guess? He wondered how pleased those other seven season-ticket holders had felt to be relocated. The authorities must have made a
decision as to how far to take that dislocation. It suggested a sort of rough instinct about the kind of thing the Sight revealed, that everyone had an inner knowledge about evil that didn’t
reflect science at all. Nobody in that meeting of directors would have said ‘Leave it, it can’t do any harm, it’s just a seat’. That viewpoint could only reassert itself a
few seats further out. They knew, but also they didn’t.

There was a well-dressed, powerfully built man walking purposefully along the same row of seats. He was keeping his head down, therefore Costain couldn’t see his face. He was walking in a
way that was out of the ordinary, something coppers always noticed, but it took Costain a moment to work out what exactly was odd. He didn’t seem to be having to edge around people’s
feet, or get them to lift up their plastic beer glasses out of his way. He was heading for the little square emptied of seats, and nobody seemed to be paying him particular attention. And surely
they would be. Maybe they knew him, as a director or something. But, no, then they’d be shaking his hand. But there was nothing of the Sight about him. It was as if he was . . . beyond all
that. Costain started to get a terrible feeling about the body language of this figure. He didn’t want to see that concealed face. Sod that. He himself started to move along the row, towards
the group of missing seats, but in his case that meant doing all that awkward stepping and looking down that the other figure had somehow avoided.

He took a glance up. The figure was now standing in the middle of the empty square where those seats had been, looking away from him, into the main body of the stadium, seeming pleased with
himself. The steward clearly wasn’t seeing him. The crowd wasn’t berating or applauding him, so they weren’t seeing him either. Costain increased his own pace, determined to get
his hands on him.

And then the man turned and looked straight at him. And he smiled an enormous smile. It was a smile of recognition.

Costain collapsed. He fell among the feet of fans who started bellowing at him. He felt as if the entire stadium was suddenly tilting on its side. He had a vision of it rolling downhill. The sky
was spinning overhead. Costain couldn’t allow this. This fucker was goading him now, challenging him.
Just because of where I saw him last, he thinks I’m his bitch, to knock over
with a bloody smile? Fuck gravity!
He launched himself forward, hauling himself from seat to seat, having to push his way past every intervening foot, making the people he was getting past yell
at him, the force of the crowd around him turning against him in an outraged roar as they saw where he was heading. And, all the while, that bugger kept smiling at him, and the force of that smile
was like a gale in itself.

Costain finally burst out at the end of the row. He was about to yell at the man, and land a hand on his collar.

Only suddenly he wasn’t there.

He collapsed again, this time inside the empty area. He was dragged to his feet by the steward, who was yelling something at him. And the crowd all around were yelling too, booing and starting
to throw things, coins and wrappers, now he’d ventured in to the place of taboo. Costain grabbed his warrant card and brandished it at the steward, who backed off, his hands in the air. He
felt like turning in a circle, holding it up to all of them.
See? See? I’m actually one of the good guys!
The catcalls and yells subsided, but only a little.

Quill eventually found him leaning against a concrete wall, somewhere in the depths of the building. The match had started, and Costain could hear and feel it ebbing and
flowing above them, the sound and sensation resonating through the stone. Costain reported his encounter in the correct manner, like a good copper, but he couldn’t help mentioning the thought
that had slammed into him through that gale of public opinion caused just by an invisible smile. ‘Listen, what if what we’ve discovered . . . what if this is the reason
everything’s so shit?’