He missed his books.
"Sod this," said Jayce. "It's better south of the river."
Everywhere people were hurrying to work. What did people actually do all day in offices? What did Father do? He was on the boards of companies, but for the first time Richard realised he had no idea what that meant.
"Is it always like this?"
Jayce might have shrugged, but Richard's attention shifted to the other side of the street, a couple with two children, well-dressed and laughing as they paused before the Apollo Theatre, pointing at the animated poster over the doors. Sourness rotated in his stomach. He watched as the parents hugged their kids, continuing their saunter down the Strand.
"Fuckin' plod's all over the place." Jayce nodded toward three police officers further down the street, and another trio beyond. "See what I mean?"
Before he became a criminal, Richard had thought of police as reassuring. Now he wanted to break into a run, but that would catch their attention.
"Can we get out of here?"
"Down this way."
Old steps sloped between two centuries-old buildings. At the bottom, Jayce turned left and Richard followed, continuing toward Waterloo Bridge. They climbed up to bridge level, made the long walk across – an ache throbbed in the back of Richard's legs – and descended an underpass to a round area below ground level, open to the sky, containing the black, shattered cylinder of the Imax Ruin. In the ramps and underpasses all around, Cardboard City was a packed confusion of makeshift shelters, grime-caked faces, tattered clothes, and a pervasive, heavy sourness that entered the nose and lungs and would not leave.
"'S crowded 'ere." Jayce had begun slurring. "Innit?"
Is he sick?
Or perhaps it was something to do with the green powder he'd taken last night. Whatever happened, Richard knew he had to steer clear of that stuff. Was there something he should do to help Jayce? The thought made his arms tremble, helplessness spreading inside him. And then Jayce was gone. Rubbing his eyes, Richard wove his gaze among the shabby figures, trying to spot… There. Jayce was wobbling his way through another underpass tunnel. What else could Richard do but follow? Among the fragrant stench of the lost, he made his way as best he could, only catching up Jayce when they were above ground, heading for the South Bank where the buildings shone and clean air blew off the Thames, the turbine vanes circling, and everything in its place.
Around the pillars and blocky sculptures, in the profusion of concrete architecture – Festival Hall, ramps, and walkways – were brightly-dressed figures who took Richard's breath away. Despite the early hour, they ran and vaulted over stairwells, rolled across concrete outdoor tables, threw themselves cartwheeling from walls, hit flagstones with a shoulder roll and came to their feet. Some used slideshoes, while others with boots and gauntlets spidered up buildings and took urban gymnastics to a level Richard had never seen.
"Who are they, Jayce?"
"Huh? Spidermen. Gekrunners."
"Will they talk to us?"
"Dunno, man. Tired."
"Jayce?"
But Jayce was sliding to the ground. He curled up sideways on the paving stones, shivered in hot sunlight, and fell into sleep.
What can I do?
He was too heavy to carry. Should he go to hospital? There were few pedestrians here – not so many offices for the commuters to rush to – and the whatsits, the gekrunners, were intent on their own thing. But a trio of police officers, bulky in their body armour, was heading this way. Trembling, Richard shook his head as if in disgust at the sight of Jayce, then walked on, head down, as if he had places to go, classes to attend. The more he realised this was a dream, the slower his paces became; and then there was a tap on his shoulder, and his bladder almost let go.
"You're his friend?" It was a girl's voice. "Jayce's friend?"
She was thin, about his height, wearing a helmet, gauntlets, and boots. Her sweatshirt flickered between two messages – Born to Jump and Head over Heels – beneath a moving graphic, a cartwheeling silhouette.
"Uh, yeah."
"You look straight. I'm Opal."
She held out her hand like an adult. It took Richard a moment to react.
"R-Richie."
The gauntlet, as he shook her hand, felt tough.
"You ain't been on the streets long."
"No." There was a crack of sound overhead. "Bloody hell."
A young man with dreadlocks clung spiderlike to sheer concrete, after a spectacular spinning leap from a table. He grinned at Opal and Richard, then twisted off and dropped, shoulder-rolling as he hit the ground, coming up into a skating motion, sliding away as if the flagstones were slick as ice.
"That's Kyle, and he's nuts. Good, though."
It was impossible to look away as Kyle vaulted over a stone plinth, cartwheeled, then skated onward.
"How does he do that?"
"Practice every day and you'll find out."
"But-" He stared up at the concrete wall. "I don't see how it's possible."
"Oh, that. Watch, and don't move a muscle." Opal curled the middle and ring fingers of her right hand, then opened them. "Totally still, now. Don't want to tear your skin."
She placed the palms of both gauntleted hands on his shoulders, then raised her arms a little. The fabric of Richard's shirt pulled upward. Then she crimped her fingers and the shirt dropped free.
"Gekkomere strips." She turned over her hand. "See? Sticks like magic."
"Fractal microtendrils." Richard peered at the strips. "Tap into the van der Waals forces between the molecules, the covalent bonds."
Opal looked at him.
"You so gotta talk to Brian. He's a right tech-head, too."
"Brian?" Then Richard remembered Jayce. "Oh, shit."
Looking back, he saw that the officers had hauled a wobbling Jayce to his feet.
"Let's hope they'll take him in this time," said Opal.
"You want them to arrest Jayce?"
"Stick him in a cell, inject him with anti-whatsit to clear his veins? Too right. It zaps the cravings for days. Give him another chance to go cold turkey."
Two of the officers, hands in Jayce's armpits, pretty much carried him along as they walked. The other officer was scanning everyone in sight. Richard turned away, feeling as if he were about to cry.
"Hey, what is it?"
"I just… don't know what to do. Where to go."
"Why don't you come with us?"
"Who's 'us'?"
"We are the Vauxhall Spidermen." Opal grinned. "Except I'm more Spidergirl myself."
Richard's eyes were blurring. He gave one sob, then caught himself. "Sorry."
"Come on. This way."
Technically the Spidermen lived in a squat, or a sequence of squats joined together. The street was part-derelict, but the local council had refurbished some of the houses: outer walls coated with cheap ceramic, rooftops shining with photoplastic. The gekrunners had possession of houses that were on the council's to-do list – or according to Opal, the won't-ever-get-aroundto list. The interiors were plain-painted, scraped back to brick in some places, decorated with movie posters looping through five-second clips. Several showed gekrunners performing daredevil acrobatics. Through the rear windows, Richard could see rows of photobulbs, soaking up sunlight. Inside, he counted twenty-eight different people before he gave up keeping track. Most were thin, some with lean muscle. Was everyone a gekrunner?
Laughter sounded from upstairs.
"Do all these people live here?" Richard looked at the varicoloured cushions scattered around the floor. "I mean, here or the other houses?"
Opal was about to answer, but a male voice forestalled her.
"Most do." The speaker was tall and white. "Me, I sleep over the shop most times."