Mind the Gap (26 page)

Jazz frowned. “You don’t know that. You don’t know a damn thing. They could have been watching you all along or just been content that if they couldn’t find it, neither could you. Jumping to conclusions would be stupid.”

Terence gave her a sharp look. Jazz did not flinch.

“Let’s say they
did
find it,” Harry said. “It could’ve been moved a hundred times. A thousand.”

Terence dismissed them both with a gesture. “I haven’t found it, so they
must
have.”

“All right, spit it out!” Jazz said. “Where is it?”

“You said you’d been in all of their houses,” Stevie Sharpe said, suddenly taking an interest.

“I haven’t been in the mayor’s house.”

They all stared at Terence.

“The bloody mayor’s house!” Stevie snapped.

“He’s not even a member of the club,” Harry said.

“True enough,” Terence replied. “But he’s their man, isn’t he? Does their bidding, yeah?”

“That’s what you want my help with?” Harry asked.

Terence glanced at Jazz. “I couldn’t do it by myself. Once I saw young Jasmine’s talents, I knew it could be done with her assistance. But it’ll take more than that. I’ll need people outside, a distraction. And it wouldn’t hurt any if you could take a walk past the house and tell me if you can sense anything.”

Jazz frowned. “What do you mean, sense anything?”

Terence arched an eyebrow. “Harry didn’t tell you about his little sixth sense? It’s why he was so helpful to me, back before he became a tunnel rat. He may not touch magic anymore, but he’s got a sense for it. He can practically smell it.”

“Bullshit,” Stevie said, snickering at the absurdity of it all.

But Jazz was watching Harry, and he didn’t laugh at all. Didn’t even smile. After a moment, Stevie’s smile went away as well.

“And if it isn’t there?” Harry asked.

Terence shrugged. “Then I’m no worse off than I am today.”

Long seconds passed until, finally, Harry lifted his gaze. He studied Jazz, glanced at Stevie, and turned at last to Terence.

“All right. We’ll give you a hand. The mayor sent a crew down here to drive us out, make some nice headlines about fighting crime, cleaning up London. They killed one of my boys. I owe the fucker. So there’s a bargain here. You’ll go in. You’ll take Jazz, but you’re taking young Stevie as well. He’s the best I’ve got, and I suspect you’ll need him. And while he’s there, he’s going to do a bit of damage and nick as many baubles as he can lay hands on. Mayor Bromwell’s got to pay for Cadge.”

Terence narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t about revenge, Harry.”

Harry smiled. “Isn’t it? You can talk all you want about the way the world ought to be, how we’ve got to put magic behind us to find the glory of the new age, or whatever bollocks you’re spouting now. And maybe there’s something to all of that. But once upon a time, back at the start, it was about the bastards murdering your dad. We all have debts to collect, Terry.”

Terence glanced at Jazz. “You in?”

She nodded. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still angry with you.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

He walked to the table and put out his hand. Harry stood and took it, and the two thieves shook, sealing the bargain.

Jazz hated feeling excluded. She knew it was for the best—the copper would have contacted the mayor’s men, and a new description of her would be circulating across London even now—but with one of the most audacious thefts in London’s history in the offing, the last place she wanted to be was in the dusty, grubby confines of the Palace.

Terence had gone back up to collect some equipment from one of his houses. He didn’t tell them which one and neglected to mention how many houses he owned, but Jazz guessed it must be several all across the capital. A man of mystery such as Terence could not exist in one place alone.

Harry and Stevie had gone up with him. Stevie was going to a long-term parking place he knew to purloin a car for the nick, while Harry would take a stroll past the mayor’s manor to see whether his weird sixth sense tingled. He’d given Jazz a strange look as he left—part suspicion, part complicity—and she wondered how much of what she had seen in the Underground played across his internal vision as well.

Tell that magician I said hello,
she wanted to say.
Whatever he is to Terence, tell him I see him, I know him.
But she said nothing of the sort. Such talk would feel so intimate and secretive, and Harry held icy anger for her in his manner. She honestly thought things would never be the same again between them. And the more she thought about that, the more she honestly did not care.

There was more to life than the Underground. Terence had shown her that. Though he was a man out for revenge—and however he tried to prettify his motives, that was the basis of his aims—he was at least pursuing it in style.

“Just promise not to leave me out of this,” she had said as the three men left the Palace.

“Lovey,” Harry had replied, “you’re a bigger part of this than any of us.”

She’d smiled and wished them safe journeys when they left; then she had the Palace to herself for an hour or more. She wandered around the place, searching the rooms with a new eye, but there was little down here she had not seen before. One room held a small door at floor level, a fresh scrape across the concrete floor showing where it had been levered open recently. She guessed this was where Harry and Stevie were hiding the box of money. Lot of good it would do them stuck down here.

You’re a bigger part of this than any of us,
he had said. That troubled her and she didn’t know why.

Be anonymous,
her mother had told her.
Don’t be seen. Part of the crowd is as faceless as the crowd itself.

“I don’t want to spend my life being faceless,” Jazz said. And there it was: the stark truth. Harry might be able to find himself most at peace down here, and maybe some of the others had grown, or would grow, into such a way of life. But yesterday, topside with Terence, walking the streets and feeling the sun on her wanted face, Jazz had realized that she was destined for greater things. It was ironic that her mother’s attempts to keep her hidden away had perhaps contributed to Jazz’s burgeoning desire to do so much more.

Hattie was first back to the Palace. She brought a handbag with her, expertly chosen to match the hat she had worn out that morning.

“You’re back!” Hattie said, her pleasure at seeing Jazz untainted by suspicion. “I
love
your hair!”

“Hi, Hattie,” Jazz said, genuinely pleased to see the girl. “Like your new handbag.”

The girl smiled wickedly. “Wait’ll you see.” She upended the bag, spilling purse, mobile phone, and electronic organizer, as well as a slew of expensive makeup and a beautiful silk head scarf. “Silly cow left it on the back of her chair while she sat in Covent Garden drinking a ten-quid coffee with her snobby mate.”

“It’s nice,” Jazz said. “Hattie?”

The girl raised her eyebrows, hearing something strange in Jazz’s tone. “Jazz?”

“I need your help. Just for today—hopefully for the last time—I need to not be me.”

Hattie grinned, delighted. “You’ve come to the right place,” she said. “I’m an expert at being someone else. Come on.” She led Jazz out of the main chamber and into the bedroom the two girls shared. “I missed you last night. Kind of scary sleeping in here by myself. Sit yourself down and let me fetch my box of delights.”

Hattie went to a built-in metal cabinet in the corner of the room, and beneath the clothes hanging there was a big basket that everyone knew was Hattie’s private property. There was a strong moral code among the United Kingdom, and no one would have ever considered invading another member’s privacy. Jazz felt honored.

“Now, then,” Hattie said. “Young or old?”

“What?”

The girl laughed. “Come on, Jazz. You’re a beauty, and I’m sure you know you can play on that if you want. Or you can be an innocent teen. Up to you. Depends on the score.”

“Big score,” Jazz said. “The mayor’s house.”

Hattie’s face went slack. “Fucking hell.” It was the first time Jazz ever heard her swear.

“So, I think old,” Jazz said. “But nothing too constricting. I may need to move fast.”

Hattie recovered from her shock quickly, put on her usual cheerful smile, and started pulling things from her stash.

By early afternoon, everyone was back. They sat around the main room of the Palace, the United Kingdom familiar and relaxed with one another, Terence the outsider, and Jazz feeling apart from everyone. Harry did most of the talking. From what he said and the way things were going, Jazz didn’t feel the need to ask what he had sensed while walking past the mayor’s home.

As ever when planning a big score, Harry invited questions at the end of his pitch. There were none. A seriousness had descended over the group, one tinged with the still-raw death of Cadge and this prospect of getting back directly at the mayor, in however small a way. No one asked who Terence was or what he was doing there, though many of them eyed him suspiciously. Jazz was pleased to see a hint of discomfort in his forced smile.

After his address, when the kids were scurrying around the Palace in preparation, Harry and Stevie disappeared into a side room. Jazz glanced at Terence, who merely raised an eyebrow, then she followed. She found them huddled together in Harry’s bedroom. They both looked at her, not surprised to see her but not very welcoming either.

“Jazz girl,” Harry said. “Like your hat.”

“You taking that gun?” she asked Stevie. He looked at her and blinked slowly but did not reply.

“That’s his business and his alone,” Harry said.

“No,” she said. “It’s
my
business if we’re breaking into the same house together. We all know the mayor’s thugs might be armed.”

“It’s my gun,” Stevie said. “Not Harry’s. My choice.”

“And it’s my choice whether I’m a part of this or not,” Jazz said.

She stared at Harry and Stevie, who both stared back. She left the implied threat hanging in the air. Neither of them bit.
I should walk away,
she thought.
There’s very little holding me here now other than revenge. And though they say it’s sweet, more often than not it’ll come out sour.

“Shit,” she whispered. Neither Harry nor Stevie changed their expression. She turned and walked away, suddenly feeling part of something over which she no longer had any control.

As she entered the main room once again, catching Terence’s eye and deciding whether to say anything to him about Stevie’s gun, she sensed something closing in. A scream in the distance at first, heard more in her mind than through her ears, and a sudden heartbreaking sadness swept over her. She uttered a wretched sigh and fell to her knees. Leela and Gob both turned to look at her, both about to ask what was wrong.

Jazz and Terence stared at each other, a moment of startling understanding passing between them.
This is about so much more than revenge,
Jazz thought then.
It’s about saving worlds other than this.
And then Terence offered her a tired smile before closing his eyes.

“Everyone sing a song,” Jazz said, and as a few groans of dismay rose up, the Hour of Screams rushed in.

It sounded like a train coming from the distance, but the noise of its wheels on the track were screams of pain, and the sound of its metal parts clanking together made desolate words out of nothing.

Jazz’s song came to her without thinking, and it was her mother who sang it.

Wish me luck, as you wave me good-bye.

Cheerio, here I go, on my way.

Her mum had always joked that she’d like it sung at her funeral. Jazz cried, an outpouring of grief that racked her body and caught in her throat every breath she took, because here and now was when she laid her mother to rest. There would be no funeral. However the Blackwood Club had disposed of her body, it was long gone to rot and dust. Here, during this Hour of Screams, was when Jazz sang her mother’s soul down into peace.

So she sang.

The air felt heavy, and every breath hurt. It was strange to bear witness to such violence upon the senses, and yet the solid walls and ceiling around them gave no sign, the floor did not shake, and the only dust in the air was kicked up by the United Kingdom falling to their knees in the old shelter.

At last it faded away, and Jazz felt something flit by beside her and stroke her cheek as it passed.

Sweet dreams,
her mother would say, touching her daughter’s cheek when she thought Jazz was asleep. But Jazz would always lie there awaiting this loving touch.

“Sweet dreams, Mum,” Jazz said.

The Palace fell silent, and Jazz closed her eyes.

By the time they were in position, it was almost five in the afternoon. Terence and Harry had agreed that this would be the best time to strike. The stream of visitors to the mayor’s home would peter off around then, and those on guard would start to relax. The streets in this exclusive neighborhood were quite busy as well, mumbling with Bentleys and Mercedes, Porsches and BMWs, as those who lived here started arriving home from work. Less-flashy cars flitted here and there too—other people leaving the area now that their job as hired help was over for another day. Nannies and gardeners, cooks and cleaners, common cars dodged the elite as class began to find its own level once again.

Stevie had nicked a Vauxhall Astra. It was quite new, so not shabby enough to be noticeable, but a basic model, so nowhere near flashy enough for anyone to pay them any undue attention. It was as nondescript as the three people inside could wish for, and for the last ten minutes they had sat at the side of the road without attracting one single glance.

Jazz sat in the front next to Stevie, while Terence lounged comfortably in the back. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of anxiety about him. He even closed his eyes for a time, breathing smoothly and evenly, though Jazz knew that he was not asleep.

This is the culmination of years of hunting,
she thought. She turned and glanced over her shoulder at Terence, and in his calm face she could see the evidence of strain; muscles twitched, and his eyes were not quite closed.

“Almost time,” Stevie said. He had not looked at her since they’d pulled up a street away from the mayor’s house. He had not even commented on her new look—a beret from Hattie, hair a mass of curls, frameless sunglasses. He tapped one finger on the steering wheel and whistled something under his breath, and it felt like they had never even met.

“I wasn’t born down there,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stevie said casually, and she was not quite sure what he meant.

“Stevie, I don’t think I—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said again, looking at her for the first time. His expression was like ice. “Time to go.” Before Jazz or Terence could say anything, Stevie had opened his door and climbed out.

Jazz did the same and heard Terence following suit. It would look strange if the three of them did not get out together.

All thought of discussions flitted away. They were on the job now, it had begun, and Jazz knew she had to concentrate fully to make sure she didn’t screw this up. So much hinged on this.

She linked arms with Terence. She felt his brief resistance, but then he looked at her and smiled. Jazz smiled back. “Shall we walk?” she asked.

Terence nodded. “Let’s.”

Stevie led the way along the street to the small road that connected with the adjacent road. The houses here were all grand and expensive, some of them almost hidden from sight behind high hedges or past wooded driveways. Brass nameplates beside gateways were often accompanied by speaker grilles and buttons, the gates electronically locked, cameras hidden away in trees or atop thin poles so that the owners could see who had come to pay a visit.

“My mum would have loved this place,” Jazz said, speaking without thinking.

“I have somewhere not too far away,” Terence said.

Jazz looked at him, surprised.

“Oh, nowhere near as grand as any of this. A modest five-bed. But it has its own grounds, and a wall, and there’s a secret tunnel to the house next door.”

“You have a house with a secret tunnel,” Stevie said, barely trying to mask his sarcasm.

“Well…no longer
that
secret, of course,” Terence said. He smiled smugly, and Stevie turned away and carried on walking.