Fabian opened his mouth in horror and gesticulated towards the two of them, frozen like a waxwork scene of the moment of murder. He emitted inchoate sounds.
‘Yes yes yes, Fabian. Answer or I slit her throat.’ Pete’s voice was still measured, urbane. ‘Is anyone else coming?’
Fabian’s eyes flitted around the room as he tried to gauge the situation. He shrieked as Pete pressed the knife to her throat, and blood welled up around it.
‘Yes! Yes! The police are coming!’ Fabian screamed. ‘And they’re going to fucking take you, you motherfucker…’
‘Nope,’ said Pete. ‘Nope, they won’t.’
He released Natasha and she touched her neck experimentally, screwing up her face, perturbed and confused by the blood. She picked up her pillow and pressed it to the side of her neck, watched it stain red.
Pete kept his eyes on Fabian. He fumbled on the top of the keyboard and gathered up some DATs which sat there.
‘Tash?’ he said. ‘Grab your record bag and a few twelve-inches. We’re going to go to mine until Junglist Terror.’ He smiled at Fabian.
Fabian bolted for the door. He heard a faint whispering and his left calf burst into agony. He screamed as he fell. The kitchen knife was embedded deep in the muscle of his lower leg. He fumbled at it with bloody fingers and screamed when he had the breath.
‘See,’ said Pete, sounding amused. ‘I can make you dance to my tune, but fuck it, sometimes other methods do the job.’ He stood over Fabian.
Fabian closed his eyes and laid his head on the floor. He was fainting.
‘You will come to Junglist Terror, won’t you, Fabe?’ said Pete. Behind him Natasha quietly gathered some things. ‘You may not feel like dancing now, but I promise you will. And you can do me a favour.’
The faint percussive thump of the Drum and Bass beat which wafted into Bassett Street was washed out, rendered nothing by the sirens. Two police cars slid to a stop outside the house. Uniformed men and women leapt out and raced to the door. Crowley stood beside one of the cars. Behind him, the residents peered out of their doors and windows.
‘Have you come about all that screaming? That was quick,’ said an old man approvingly to Crowley.
Crowley looked away as his stomach yawned. He felt sick with foreboding.
Next to the door a bicycle lay on the pavement. Crowley stared at it as the battering ram took care of the door. The police swept up the stairs in a confused mass. Crowley saw the guns at the ready.
There was a sound of heavy feet in the house, audible in the street outside. The faint Jungle beat jerked to an abrupt halt. Crowley strode after the advance party into the hallway. He jogged up the steps and waited by the front door to the flat.
A short woman in a flak jacket approached him.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing?’
‘They’re gone, sir. Not a sign. I think you should see this.’
She led him into the flat. It was thick with heavy bodies. The air was full of authoritative voices, the sounds of searching.
Crowley looked around him at the bare walls of the sitting-room. By the entrance to the room was a pool of blood, still slick and sticky. One of the white pillows on the futon was stained deep red.
The keyboard, the stereo, a handbag… everything was untouched. Crowley strode over to the turntable. A twelve-inch single rested on it. The needle had skipped, pushed off course by the vibration of the heavy police boots. Crowley swore.
When he raised his voice it dripped bile.
‘I don’t suppose anyone saw how far through the record we were? No?’
Everyone stared at him in incomprehension.
‘Because that way we could have told how long ago they left.’
They looked away, surly. Next time you try rushing a fucking lunatic and stopping to take notes, sir, they said with every look and gesture.
To hell with them, thought Crowley, furious. To fucking hell with them. He looked at the blood on the floor and the pillow. He looked out of the window. The constables held back the growing crowds. The bicycle lay alone, ignored.
Fabian, Fabian… thought Crowley. I’ve lost you, I’ve lost you. You were my lead, Fabian, and now you’ve gone.
He leant down and rested his head on his arms, there on the windowsill.
Fabian, Natasha, where have you gone? he thought. And with whom?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Scrawled notes were appearing on walls.
In a hand at once gothic and subliterate, they entreated Saul to a peace. They were etched into the brick, scribbled in pencil, sprayed with aerosol.
The first, Saul found on the side of a chimney stack he had decided to sleep in.
listen sonny, it read. were blood and blood
STICKS SO LETS US LET BYGONES BE. TWOS BETTER NOR ONE YOU KNOW AND IN FACT TWO CAN BE THE DEVIL.
Saul had run his fingers over the thin scratches and looked around the roof. The stench of King Rat was on the air, he could smell it clearly. The rats with him had bristled, and been ready to bite or run. He was never alone now, always surrounded by a group whose number was unchanging even as the individuals who formed it came and went.
Saul and his entourage had crouched on the roof and sniffed the air. He had not slept in the chimneys that morning.
The next evening he had woken in the corner of the sewer he had found, and painted above his head was another message. This was in white paint, paint that had dripped and slid down the walls into the dirty water, leaving the words only just legible.
LOOK YOU AINT DOING NOONE ANY FAVOURS CEPT THE PIPER.
It had been written while he slept. King Rat was stalking him, afraid to speak but desperate for reconciliation.
Saul was angry. The ease with which King Rat was still able to sneak past him rankled. He realized that he was just a baby, a little ratling.
He could not think about whether or not King Rat was right. It was irrelevant to him. He had had enough of compromise. King Rat the rapist and murderer, destroyer of his family, had no right to his collaboration. King Rat had released the Piper, King Rat had made Saul what he was. He had released him, but only into his new prison.
So fuck King Rat, thought Saul. He had had it with being bait. He knew that King Rat could not be trusted.
So instead he thought about what he could do for himself.
For all that he felt liberated, for all that he felt powerful, Saul did not know what to do. He did not know where the Piper lived. He did not know when the Piper would attack. He knew nothing at all except that he himself was not safe.
Saul began to think more and more about his friends. He spent a lot of time speaking to the rats, but they were only cunning, not clever, and their stupidity alienated him. He remembered his thoughts on the night he had left King Rat, the realization that it was his decision whether or not his world would cross those of Fabian and others.
He wanted to see Fabian more than anything.
So one evening he bade the rats leave him alone. They obeyed immediately, disappearing in a sudden flurry. Saul began to cross the city, alone again.
He wondered if King Rat was with him, was watching him. As long as the fucker kept his distance, Saul decided, he did not care.
Saul crossed the river under Tower Bridge. He swung like an ape along the girders which festooned its underside, convoluted thickets of vast wires and pipes. In the middle, just at the point where the bridge could split and open for tall ships, he stopped and hung by his hands, swaying slightly.
The sky was taken from him; the great mass of the bridge above him was all he could see at eye-level and above. At the very edge of his sight, buildings appeared again over the river. But for the most part the city was inverted and refracted in the Thames, a sinuous shattered mirror. Lights glinted on the water, dark shapes punctuated with hundreds of points of light, the towers of the city, the far-off lights of the South Bank Centre, far more real for him then than their counterparts in the air above.