If a section broke off from the spear each time she used it – would she eventually run out of spear? Using the broken section as a guide, I tried to estimate how much ‘ammunition’ she had left. Four or five more strikes, I thought – four, plus three confirmed strikes, would make seven. The number of people with rings – could that be a coincidence?
Assuming that the spear didn’t merely regenerate itself every time it vanished into hyperspace.
We needed to break that spear.
Guleed was sceptical.
‘And what if it does regenerate?’ she asked.
‘Then we’ll learn something new,’ I said.
Since I was Falcon Two and thus, technically, more dangerous than he was, Cecil had wandered off for refs and I took the opportunity to have a rummage around the narrowboat. A POLSA search team had given it a thorough once-over and, while they’re trained to not be too disruptive, what had probably been a properly shipshape interior looked a bit dishevelled. Especially since the POLSA team had had the decking up to check the bilges.
‘You’d be amazed what people try to hide down there,’ said Danni, and she reached down to chivvy a section of decking back into its proper place.
Canal boats sit low in the water, so once down the narrow stairs in the stern you’re half under the surface level. The stern cabin seemed to be general storage, with waterproofs and coats hanging on hooks, cupboards and a fold-down table. Next was the shower and toilet – a composting toilet, the latest in eco-friendly loo design.
‘Because we’re half under water,’ said Danni, ‘the shower has to have a separate pump for drainage.’
I asked Danni why she knew so much about canal boats, and she admitted that a lot of her friends lived on the canals.
‘The non-police ones, anyway,’ she said.
The double bed was next, raised a metre off the deck in an alcove with storage underneath. The pale pink sheets and green duvet were rumpled and a 12 volt adaptor trailed a cable on the pillow.
‘Laptop,’ said Danni – now with the Digital Forensics techs.
There was a chunky crucifix mounted between the two square windows, both hung with yellow and blue flowery curtains.
It would have been cosy, I thought, lying here in the warm, with rain pounding on the roof and wind in the trees. Far away from car traffic or sirens or the sounds of the city. Your lover in your arms. For Heather it must have been heaven … Had Francisca felt the same way? Could she be persuaded that no mission or vengeance was worth abandoning this warm bolthole?
I touched the crucifix, not expecting anything, but the burst of vestigium was intense – the same soundless tone as in the spear tip. I took the crucifix down and found that while the Christ figure was silver-plated, the cross was plastic. It said Made in China on the back, so I doubted that this was another antique. And so it must have acquired its vestigium from Francisca. It was far too large for her to have been wearing it during our encounter in Middlesex Street, so it must have soaked up magic where it hung on the bulkhead.
Did Francisca leak magic when she was asleep?
Had that affected Heather? So far she hadn’t shown any changes in gross physical form or displayed any strange powers. People and children who’d been exposed to faerie had occasionally picked up some weird talents – we’d have to check for that in the medium term.
Faerie, I thought, allokosmoi, spare dimensions, boundary effects.
Francisca must be getting power from somewhere – the flaming wings, halo and spear had to be sucking up megawatts at the very least. Not to mention the teleporting and the walking on water.
Danni called my name and I went to check the rest of the boat.
Just for a change, I got back home before dark and, to avoid being waylaid by foxes, cousins and other distractions, I went in through the side gate so I could get a good look at whatever Maksim was doing with a JCB in the back garden.
Which turned out to be digging a big rectangular-shaped hole in the lower garden – although it looked like he’d finished for the night. The hole was covered with Monarflex, yellow and black hazard tape had been strung across the width of the garden, and a tarpaulin had been thrown over the JCB.
‘Can I go in now?’ said a small voice.
Lifting the tarpaulin, I found a miserable-looking fox sitting in the cab of the JCB. It seemed smaller than the others and had dark grey fur shading to black on its throat and belly. It brightened up considerably when it saw me.
I asked it what it was doing.
‘Guarding important diggy thing,’ it said. And, then, after some thought, ‘Getting damp. Can I go in? I haven’t seen any cats at all.’
‘Off you go then,’ I said and it shot off, not towards the house, as I’d expected, but over the fence into the recreation ground.
I looked back at the house and saw Beverley waiting for me in the covered section of the patio. She had a mug of something in her hand.
‘I’ve decreed an upper limit on the number of foxes allowed in the house,’ she said as I walked up and kissed her. She tasted of hot chocolate.
‘Where do the surplus stay?’ I asked.
Beverley passed the hot chocolate to me.
‘They have a provisional field operations centre down by the river,’ she said.
‘Which is what in reality?’
‘A big den lined with the lino offcuts Maksim had in his shed and equipped with Abigail’s old sleeping bag,’ she said.
I took a sip and handed the hot chocolate back. I saw Abigail through the kitchen window, unpacking Tupperware containers – she waved when saw me.
‘Why is Maksim digging a hole in the back garden?’ I asked. I thought I knew the answer, but it’s dangerous to make assumptions.
‘It’s for the birthing pool,’ said Beverley. ‘It was in the birthing plan.’
‘I thought we were going to Kingston,’ I said. ‘I distinctly remember that.’
‘That pool isn’t big enough,’ said Beverley.
We’d been shown round the birthing pool at Kingston Hospital the last time we’d gone in for a check. There were calming blue walls with a mural of a flower with sparkles rising out of it. Lots of nice clean medical bits and pieces within easy reach. The pool itself was the size of a hot tub, white and lit from below. There was room for Bev and a midwife, with me offering physical and moral support from the sides and other trained medical personnel on hand for complications.
The midwife had had reservations about birthing twins in a pool because twins can be tricky, but Beverley had reassured her that all would be well. So that had been the agreed birthing plan, as far as I knew, until the last couple of days.
‘Big enough for who?’ I asked.
‘Your mum, for one,’ said Bev. ‘And my mum, of course.’
That explained it – having the Goddess of the Thames turn up at Kingston Hospital would be massively disruptive. Things happened on account of her being a goddess, wherever she goes – the sort of things that require advanced public order planning.
‘Kingston nick will never know the favour we’re doing them,’ I said.
We had Korean that night, courtesy of the Ree family, who were amongst Beverley’s earliest … let’s say acolytes, because worshippers would probably be overstating things.
‘People believe in me,’ Beverley had said once, ‘because I don’t make promises I can’t deliver.’
‘What do you promise?’ I’d asked.
‘Good irrigation, for one,’ she’d said. ‘You should see Eun-Ju’s allotment.’
Certainly the cabbage in the kimchi was home-grown, although I suspected the grilled pig offal had come from a specialist butcher in New Malden. Even before I encountered Molly’s frugal ways with random animal leftovers I’d been raised eating cow’s foot and pepper soup, so the offal didn’t bother me, but I steered Abigail in the direction of the barbecued beef.