Thicker Than Water

‘He lives in Weston, which is one of the blocks that’s on the far side of the barÃsidh=""ricades. And Gwillam - that’s where I have to go.’

‘One of the policemen said that there’s a relief van somewhere nearby,’ Trudie said, putting a hand on Bic’s shoulder. ‘I’ll take Bic there and then rejoin you.’

Bic looked at me, and I nodded. ‘Go with her,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure your folks are okay, and I’ll bring them to you as soon as this is over.’

Reluctantly the boy allowed himself to be led away. I turned to Gwillam, who was looking at me with something like mistrust. ‘Why is the location important?’ he demanded. ‘Why can’t you do the exorcism from here?’

‘Because I fucking can’t, okay?’ I snapped. ‘If you think you can, go ahead. You’ll be trying to reel in a whale from a rowboat. It’s too big, Gwillam. It’s not like a ghost you can just summon to wherever you happen to be. When I tried something like that at the Royal London, I ended up in a place that looked like Hell’s sub-basement. And you saw what happened to your own people when they took the thing on. It’s camping out in a thousand different places - every piece of wounded or broken flesh on the entire estate. But it has a focus - the place where it first broke through onto this plane - and I’m going to take a wild guess and try Kenny’s flat.’

‘Why there?’ Gwillam demanded.

A wave of weariness swept over me. I felt like I’d explained this a hundred times already. ‘Because Mark Seddon was a self-harmer, and this demon has a hard-on for incised wounds. You figure it out.’

‘The boy’s activities summoned something. An unintentional invocation.’

‘Exactly. If I’m wrong, we shift ground and we try again. But either way, this thing isn’t coming to us. We’ve got to go doorstepping if we want to have a chance.’

Gwillam looked at Feld, who - impossible though it seemed - stood an inch or so taller as he prepared to take his orders. ‘Get the others,’ he said. ‘All of them. Meet us on the eighth floor of Marston Block.’

Feld nodded once and strode away, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea parted for Moses, only with a lot more swearing.

‘What do you need from me?’ Gwillam asked.

‘As much back-up as I can get,’ I admitted. ‘The demon is going to fight back - hard - and it’s outside my weight class. Your people will have to anchor me and - if they can - run interference while I play so I can stay focused on the tune and not have to worry about getting my frontal lobe fried.’

Gwillam nodded. ‘All right.’

‘I’ll probably need some physical protection as well. Best-case scenario - the guys on the walkways are just running wild. Worst case, the demon’s got some measure of control over them. Either way, I could get sliced and diced before I get a single note out.’

‘I’ll do my best to ensure that doesn’t happen,’ Gwillam said. ‘And Castor . . .’

I paused as I was about to walk up the steps. ‘What?’

He seemed to be choosing his words with some care. ‘In the organisation I have the privilege of serving,’ he said, ‘someone with your background and your very considerable skills could rise further and faster than you’d imagine.’"

"‘Well, how about that,’ I mused. ‘We’re up on a mountain top in South London, Gwillam, and you’re showing me all the kingdoms of the world. Now guess what I have to say to you?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Retro me, Satanas.’

‘I said—’

‘You’re serious. So am I. Get your hand out of my pants, you God-bothering bastard. I’m on your side for as long as this takes, but don’t think for a moment that I won’t beat the living shit out of you the next time I meet you without your muscle.’

He touched his bruised cheek. ‘Well,’ he said calmly, ‘I had to try. Keep your friends close . . .’

‘You think disciples are the same thing as friends?’ I demanded. ‘Try asking Jesus.’

The walkway ahead of us was eerily silent, but the rubble and broken glass that littered it made it clear that the silence was a relatively recent development. Dark, irregular splashes and streaks on the walkway’s cracked concrete showed black in the actinic glare of the police spotlights, but from closer up, I was willing to bet, would turn out to be the rust-brown of dried blood.

Facing us was Boateng Tower, and beyond that was Weston. Maybe fifty yards, across no man’s land and into the valley of death.

We’d had it easy up until now. Gwillam’s magic paper and the police escort it conjured up had got us up the stairs at Marston Tower and through the police barricade - passing along the way a very large number of tense young constables waiting for the riot squad to arrive and scared shitless that they were going to have to go back into the breach before that happened.

But now here we were, on the front line.