Читать книгу Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard - Страница 14

Chapter 7

In the crisp afternoon sunlight, even the grey streets behind King’s Cross had a certain glamour about them. Patches of melting slush flashed bright reflections; the tarmac glistened. The drab pavements looked as if they’d been gilded.

Fool’s gold, and we knew it. Both of us. Me on the Sunday afternoon soup-run, and the bloke I was talking to, who hadn’t slept in a bed since last September.

‘Not that I believed all that stuff,’ he insisted, taking another sparing sip. ‘A city’s a city; this one’s the biggest, that’s all. You think, there’s got to be some kind o’ work here somewhere …’ He shrugged.

‘Preston, you said you come from?’

‘Aye.’ He smiled quizzically. ‘And you: Birmingham, right?’

I shook my head. ‘Coventry.’

‘Nearly right.’

I gave him a look – and grinned.

‘Well we’re all in the same shit-hole now.’ He glanced around him; past the parked minibus and its straggling group of customers, to the sombre façades that hemmed us in. The two huge stations loomed above and beyond them, to the west. King’s Cross, with its vaulted canopies; and St Pancras, towering and gothic. St Pancras Cathedral, I always wanted to call it: a real pile.

The sun hadn’t made it any warmer; hunks of dirtied, frozen snow still lingered in the gutters. I hunched my shoulders up inside my coat as the wind changed again – and almost felt guilty for the gesture when he did the same, with only his threadbare bomber jacket to keep it out.

‘Mind you don’t get cold now,’ he murmured, without irony. He sounded quite concerned.

‘Don’t worry …’ I assured him; and wondered how Nick would take it, if he knew.

Which he didn’t, of course. After we’d argued to a standstill the other night, the subject had been left lying. But I think he reckoned he’d had the better of it – and made me see sense at last.

So I’d volunteered to go on this afternoon’s run partly for the private satisfaction of doing what I saw fit. Partly. But there was a particular reason why I’d opted to go with the King’s Cross group, as well. A reason to do with the dream.

It was one of the few real details I remembered: something seen smudgily through the downpour as I’d breasted the rise. St Pancras Cathedral, off to the west; like a gloomy castle rotting under the rain.

The thought of using the landmark, and actually seeking out the waste ground, had appalled me when it first occurred; and grown increasingly fascinating thereafter. My reasoning mind had tried to shake itself free: warned of tempting fate – of tempting Razoxane. But all to no avail. My dream had picked up on something secret, I knew that much: something she wanted no one else to see.

So perhaps if I saw … and even partly understood … it might give me some kind of leverage against her. Something I could use, if push came to shove. Which, knowing her, it would.

I realised the others had started packing up; the ragged gathering around us was beginning to disperse. The bloke from Preston downed the last of his soup.

‘Listen … you ain’t got a fag, have you?’

‘Sorry – gave up a while back.’ Regretting it sometimes, too.

‘Very wise, flower. Wish I had the will.’ He gave me a worn-looking smile. ‘Thanks for the soup.’

I nodded, and watched him wander aimlessly off. A couple of older men – much further down the road to dereliction – passed behind him, snarling at each other. Jim Stanley’s touch on my shoulder made me jump.

‘All aboard again, Rachel.’

I turned my head. ‘No. ‘It’s okay: I’ll stop off round here. I’ve … got to check some train times.’

‘We’ll drop you, then. King’s Cross … ?’

‘No, no … Really. Five minutes’ walk is all it is.’

He looked doubtful. ‘You sure, now? It’s not the sort of area you want to hang around in. Not on your own.’

He was right of course: I didn’t want to. Not one bit. But the impulse had its hooks in now, and I knew there’d be no denying it. Just a brisk little wander was all it would be: looking over towards St Pancras, trying to line it up with my memories. Never straying too far from the busier main roads.

Work on the rail link was well underway now; open-cast construction sites spreading out behind the stations like mismanaged bed-sores. Old buildings – slums and storehouses – were being cleared away, and new foundations laid. So I knew pretty much what I was looking for. I just had to find my particular field of mud.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’

I smiled, but said it firmly, and Jim knew me well enough to leave it at that.

‘Okay then.’ He hesitated just a moment longer: a pleasant-looking bloke, with his thoughtful eyes and greying ginger beard. Then raised his hand, palm outwards. ‘We’ll see you, then, Rachel. Good to have you along.’

I nodded, and watched him get in behind the wheel. Others waved from inside; I waved back. And then the minibus was off, and heading back down towards Pentonville Road, its exhaust pipe smoking in the cold.

The empty street seemed very quiet when it had gone. Most of the dossers had already withdrawn: fading back into the shadows like a phantom army. I was on my own now.

Digging my hands deeper into my pockets, I glanced uneasily around; then started walking. The rattle and clank of an incoming train drew my attention, but it was lost to sight behind buildings. I mentally followed it south to the brooding towers of St Pancras. Was this the angle I’d dreamed it from? I paused.

Perhaps.

Moving back onto York Way, I turned north, towards the main excavations. Even this main road was relatively quiet – just sporadic Sunday traffic swishing by. The building sites themselves were silent and deserted. Coming to the first, I peered curiously in between rusting railings – but mounds of churned earth blocked most of the view. There were old sleepers and chunks of masonry mixed in with the spoil. A little further on I had a tiptoe glimpse of derelict goods sheds, and nettle fields hedged with brambles.

None of which left me any the wiser. I paused again, not sure what I should do next. Something was nagging at the back of my head. I couldn’t quite place it; but plain common sense suggested I head west into Camden as soon as I could. This was hardly the most salubrious of districts, especially for a woman on her own. It wasn’t just the prospect of kerb-crawlers or aggressive addicts that was nibbling at my nerves, though. And a moment later, I twigged what my subconscious mind had already noticed.

The trickle of traffic had stopped completely. No cars at all had passed for several minutes.

Frowning, I peered both ways: the road was empty for as far as I could see. Almost as if it had been blocked somewhere.

The thought of the area being sealed up with me inside it was hardly likely, but it finally lost me my nerve. Quickly I retraced my steps to where the road branched westward, and turned along it. Goodsway, said the signs on sooty brick. The walls were high and grimy on both sides; but a set of gates on the right gave a view of the canal.

Still no traffic passing.

A building on the far bank caught hold of my attention. It looked like a ruined warehouse; the roof was missing, the windows glassless. Scaffolding braced the crumbled upper levels, and snagged at the sky. The place had a sinister, lowering air. At four or five storeys, it seemed as imposing as a fortress.

Something squeezed my heart like an iron hand.

It was nothing I could justify with eyes and ears; just a horrid sensation of being watched from those lofty ramparts. As if Razoxane herself had made her roost there.

Spooked, I looked away and pushed onward – round the corner and downhill: putting the wall back between us. I passed the old gas works, its girders standing out against the sky like the ribcages of giants. And then a car appeared, cruising steadily up towards me … followed by another. I felt an irrational upsurge of relief.

St Pancras Cathedral hove slowly into view.

There was more clearance work going on near the foot of the hill, but I wasn’t going to hang around investigating that. I made straight for the junction under the railway bridges. The afternoon sun was sinking fast, and the triple span cast a long deep shadow, soaking the road. A glimpse of the westering glow beyond made it seem for all the world like a gateway out of hell.

With a sentinel on sombre watch beside it.

I slowed almost to a stop; the impression was quite unnerving. Then I realized it was a policeman waiting there.

I felt a rush of reassurance; but only for a moment. As I drew closer, and took more in, I saw details that unsettled me afresh.

He wasn’t a beat PC: oh no. Not with that short black carbine across his chest – cradled lightly in the crooks of his arms. A weapon as real as the ones I’d seen at work, and twice as ugly: I couldn’t stop staring – not even when he turned his head to watch me pass. His eyes were flat and unfriendly beneath the peak of his cap. A black muffler covered his mouth against the cold, its ends tucked into his turned-up collar. I could see the in-the-ear headphone he wore, wired up to the handset beneath his coat.

I wondered what was up. A crackdown on the crack dealers, perhaps. Or maybe this was part of the anti-terrorist response we’d all been promised: more police on the streets, with the wherewithal to finish the job.

I sensed him follow me with his gaze as I walked on into the gloom. Heard him murmur something to his radio, and I knew he was talking about me. And even as my ears began burning, my stomach shrank towards the opposite extreme. In all my innocence, I realised I felt guilty. Suddenly I’d have preferred any number of building-site ‘appreciations’ to that quiet, clipped report.

The dimness I’d walked into was damp and smelly, but the sunlight beckoned beyond it. A rhythmic clunk of sleepers overhead, and then I was out; the bridges behind me, and their dour guardian too. I could have sighed with relief.

There was a big police transit up ahead, parked with its wheels on the pavement; its bodywork like gleaming bone beneath a patina of grime.

I closed the distance slowly, curious now. Perhaps I’d get to see an operation underway; the sightseer in me felt a flash of anticipation at the thought. But the waiting vehicle still left me uneasy, like they always did: not just for its cold, aggressive bulk, but for its grimmer features – the wired-in lights, and the riot shield racked up above its windscreen like steel mesh shades. Community policing kissed goodbye; the riot sections rode in things like this. And the firearms units too: coppers with guns, like the one back there under the bridge.

God, Nick. Stick with your squad car. Stay smiling.

The side and rear windows were ambulance glass: I couldn’t see whoever was inside. I knew they could see me, though. I could almost feel the watchfulness coming through those black panes as I passed.

The driver was in his cab, and gave me an unsmiling glance. He made me feel like a potential criminal as well. I lowered my head and kept going.

‘Excuse me, Miss …’

I wavered – that guilt again – and then turned towards the man who’d spoken. He was already crossing the road towards me, a radio in one hand. Wearing one of those high-visibility yellow jackets over his uniform, the reflective stripes like ribs. There were silver pips on his epaulettes, I noticed. He’d be an Inspector or something.

‘May I ask where you’re going, please?’ Quite politely – but some reckless part of me still wanted to mutter No, you may not. The sort of witty riposte that gets you a night in the cells if you’re not careful.

‘Camden Town,’ I answered, sensibly; trying to appear all calm and unruffled. ‘I’ve been helping with a soup run by King’s Cross.’ Trying to seem the interested citizen too as I added: ‘Is this to do with the bombings, then?’

He looked like he hadn’t had more than two nights’ sleep in seven: his face pale, and shadowed with stubble. But his smile, when it came, was genuine enough: it widened his light blue eyes, and made him handsome. I guessed he was a little older than me; but even after all he must have been through these past few weeks, there was still something almost youthful in that wry expression.

‘Afraid so. We had some information … but it’s come to nothing.’ His tone was low and pleasant, with just a hint of exasperation. I found myself beginning to warm to him. With some people, things just click.

‘You … look like you’ve been on the job a while,’ I ventured.

‘Too bloody right.’ He scratched absently at the roughness of his cheek. ‘Surveillance stubble, you could call this …’ As he turned his head to glance upstreet, I saw a neat receiver tucked into his ear, too, its wire leading down into his collar.

The transit behind us started up, and sat there ticking over.

The Inspector lifted his handset to his mouth. ‘All units from Whisky Oscar One … Back to the transport, we’re moving on.’ He lowered the radio, and smiled at me again.

‘Best be on your way too, Miss. It’s not the safest area to be on your own in …’

I nodded; though it still felt safer than the one I’d left behind me.

Walking on, I couldn’t help wondering if they’d caught a whiff of Razoxane’s terrorists: somewhere round here. Or maybe Razoxane herself. If their information had really been correct, they’d have had a result, all right: a total blood-bath. No prizes for guessing who I thought would walk away. And I’d shared a smile with that bloke while knowing what I knew.

This time the twinge of guilt was real.

I’d walked a hundred yards or so when the transit passed me, cruising. I glimpsed the Inspector sitting up beside the driver. They reached the intersection just ahead – and came scrunching to a stop.

Give Way said the sign; but nothing was coming. The intersection stayed deserted, like the street. But the transit just sat there – its brake lights all the brighter now that the day was losing colour.

For no obvious reason, I began to slow my pace.

And then they were off again, tyres rasping over tarmac as they turned north, and put on speed, and were quickly lost to sight.

A personable bloke, that Inspector; but something told me he knew his stuff. As did his men, if the one I’d seen was anything to go by.

Well, Razoxane, I thought, resuming my thoughtful walk. I’d watch my bloody step if I were you.

Maybe the outcome of their encounter wouldn’t be such a foregone conclusion after all.