While over their head scudded the inked scout selves of Grisamentum, she and Billy ran toward the vehicle’s hide, past birdlime streaks and posters for albums and exhibitions. Come meet us, she had said. We need you. Shamed, Fitch had the engine gun and the lorry lurch out of its burrow into the surveilled streets.
The paper helixed plughole out of the dark sky and mobbed the lorry. It pushed through them. They were sentient, but the papers had the feeding-frenzy throng of multitude predators, mothlike butting themselves against the windscreen. When it met Saira, Billy and the few Londonmancers and squidly loping krakenbit who had been able to run, the vehicle was thronged with excited paper.
Dear God, Billy thought, at the thought of what the appalled locals must think they saw from behind their curtains. Close to him were two Londonmancers and two krakenbit still morphing into teuthic midway forms. They whipped their limbs and sprayed the last of their bleach. Fitch threw open the back and yelled at them to enter. With the unity of a school of fish, the papers gusted back toward the factory.
“They’re going to get Byrne and the rest of himself,” Billy said. “They’re going to come for us now they know where we are. We have to go.”
“But where?” Fitch said.
“Drive,” said Billy. “We’re meeting someone.”
“SO WHAT DO YOU RECKON?” COLLINGSWOOD SAID TO HER COMMANDEERED assistant.
“About what?” he said. They were the same rank. He did not call her ma’am. But he went where she told him to and did as she said.
“What now? Got any burglaries?” She laughed. They drove through a little rain, through sliding, dark and lit-up streets where people still lounged by twenty-four-hour shops while others ran from unholy gang fights.
“Don’t know,” he said.
“Let’s just get back to the bloody office.”
Marge felt safe in the car. She watched Paul. His face was anguished but resigned. He did not speak. His tattoo spoke. Marge could hear its smothered rage, its terror, in wordless growling from under his shirt.
“It’ll be alright,” she said to him foolishly.
She heard another tiny mumbling. She looked about. The words came from her neck.
Marge blinked. She looked at Collingswood, who continued to tease her colleague. Marge touched her little crucifix. At the contact of her dirty fingers the voice came again, a little stronger. “Hey,” it said.
The silver Jesus whispered. Marge looked away into the violent night streets, into what she had gathered might be the end of the world. And here came this messenger.
“Hey,” she whispered herself, and raised the crucifix. Paul watched her. She focused on the tiny bearded face.
“Hey,” it said again.
“So,” she said. “What’s the word from heaven?”
“Wha?” the metal Christ said. “Oh right. Funny.” It coughed. “Put me to your ear,” it said. “Can’t talk loud.”
“Who are you?” she said. Collingswood was watching her in the mirror, now.
“It’s Wati again,” he said. “I got a message, so listen.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“So did I. Don’t wash your hands. Billy needs you to do something.”
“What’s up back there?” Collingswood said. “Who you chatting to?”
Marge held up her finger so peremptorily Collingswood actually obeyed. The tiny chained Messiah whispered to her, for a long time. Marge nodded, nodded, swallowed, said “yeah” as if at a telephone call. “Tell him yeah.” Finally she let the crucifix dangle back below her neck.
She sighed and closed her eyes, then looked at Collingswood. “We have to go somewhere. We have to pick someone up.” Paul sat up. The other officer looked backward nervously.
“Yeah…” Collingswood said thoughtfully. “Not very clear on the whole police prisoner thing, are you?”
“Listen,” Marge said slowly. “You want to take us in? Take us in. But look around and listen to me.” There was a helpful scream of fighting from some nearby street. Marge gave it a moment. “I’ve just been given a job to do, by Billy. You know Billy? And by this little guy on my necklace who I just saw killed by the most evil, terrifying bastard. Who was out for me.
“Now, I’ve been given this job on the grounds that it might be the one thing that stops the end of the world. So. Do you think your arrest report can wait a couple of hours? Where do you want to go on this?”
Collingswood kept staring at her. “Goss and Subby,” Collingswood said.
“You know them, then.”
“I’ve had my tangles,” Collingswood said.
“There you go then.”
“Wati just had his own little barney with them?”
“He’s told me where to go, and what to do.”
“How about you tell me what he said, and we can have a chat about it?” Collingswood said.
“How about you fuck off?” Marge said without rancour. She sounded as tired as she was. “Look around and tell me if you think we’ve got time to waste. How about-look, I’m just throwing this out there. How about we save the world first, and then you arrest us?”
There was silence within the car. Above them was the excited mourning of the siren. “I tell you what, boss,” the other officer, the young man driving, said suddenly. “I like her plan. I’m for that.”
Collingswood laughed. Looked away and up into the sky over London where clouds wriggled. “Yeah,” Collingswood said. “Might be nice to see tomorrow. You never know. But then,” she said, and wagged her finger at Marge and Paul, “we are definitely taking you in. So what’s the plan?”
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” SAID MO OUTSIDE HER HOUSE, HER broom held up like a weapon. Trees shuddered. Marge held the crucifix out at her. “I’m not a vampire,” the woman said.
“No, for God’s sake,” Marge said. “You know Wati? We’re Dane’s friends.”
“Jesus bollocks,” said Collingswood to Mo. “Am I going to have to police brutality you? Let us in and listen.”
“We’re here for Simon,” Marge said in the hallway.
“That’s a bad idea. Simon’s still haunted.”
“Tough,” said Collingswood.
“We’re down to the last one.” One tenacious dead self. Mo hesitated. “He needs rest.”
“Yeah,” said Marge. “I need a holiday in the Maldives. And needs must.”
“She ain’t wrong,” Collingswood said. “I’m with the prisoner here on this.”
Simon looked up at their entry. He was in a dressing gown and pyjamas. He held a ball of squeaking fur.
“We’re friends of Billy and Dane,” Marge said.
Simon nodded. From the air came a faint wrathful ghostly melisma. He shook his head. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“Message,” Marge said. “We need you to move something. For Billy. Don’t look at me like that…”
“But… I can’t. That’s why I’m here. This… it’s like an addiction,” Simon said. “The knack’s like a drug. I can’t go down that road again, I…”
“Bullshit,” said Wati, faint but audible.
“Let me lay it out for you.” Paul spoke, for the first time. He coughed. There was a groaning from his back, and Simon’s ghost responded in moaning kind. Paul scratched himself hard against the doorframe until his back was silent.
“I just done in the most dangerous piece of shit you can imagine by the most horrible method I ever had to use to do anything,” he said. “Wati said you got into this because you was paid to and you might’ve saved the world. If Griz’d got what he wanted earlier… So thank you. For that. But you are going to help. Knacking ain’t a drug. What did for you was dying and not noticing you’d died, again and again.
“Tomorrow you can do whatever you want. But London owns you now. Understand? One more thing needs porting. You don’t even have to beam yourself, no more snuffing it. You are going to do this. I’m not even saying please.”