That intrigued him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m a scientist. I know what that creature is, and I know how we could make your penthouse invulnerable to it.’
‘It is invulnerable. If it hadn’t been it would have come for me before now.’
‘Why would it? There were plenty of people on the lower floors before. But most of them have gone. Yes, it might pick off those that are left and my friends first, but then it’s going to come here, Lucca. And you won’t be able to keep it out without me.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘What makes you so clever?’
Toshiko pursed her lips, impatient. ‘Do I have to go through my CV? Would you even understand it?’ she asked.
Lucca regarded her for a full ten seconds without a word then drew something from his pocket. Without taking his eyes off her, he brushed it with his thumb and a long steel blade sprang into his hand. Toshiko couldn’t help but look at the switchblade. The steel was dark and old and its edge was nicked and worn. It looked like it might have come with Lucca when he first escaped his homeland, and she didn’t want to think what it had probably been used for. Lucca watched her and read every thought that went through her mind. He had seen the same reaction – and worse – a thousand times.
‘You are very beautiful, Toshiko,’ he said gently. ‘You shouldn’t try my patience.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to die, either. That’s why I want to help you.’
Lucca crouched before her, and ran the knife’s edge gently over her arm. She felt the blade pass lightly over her bare skin, the sensation was electric, like a kiss.
‘Suppose I said you could save yourself – and me – but not your friends?’
Her eyes had been following the knife as it caressed her arm; now it paused at the cable-tie over her forearm. She looked at him.
‘I want to live,’ she said.
Lucca looked at her, then kissed her on the lips. It was gentle. Like a lover’s parting. Then he folded the knife away.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Toshiko,’ he said. ‘But you’re not going to.’
TWENTY-FOUR
They were on the twentieth floor when Gwen saw the shadow of the Weevil.
‘What was that?’
She and Jack had been taking the concrete steps two at a time, lighting their way with their flashlights, and their guns held aloft. They didn’t know what they might run into on those shadowy stairs, but Gwen hadn’t expected to catch sight of a Weevil.
‘Where?’ Jack asked, spinning around in the stairwell, sweeping the dull concrete walls with light. All he saw was the number 20 on the door to the floor and more stairs.
‘Out there,’ she said, and edged towards the door, and looked out through its porthole window. Beyond the glass the floor was lit eerily green by the emergency lights, and nothing seemed to be moving. ‘I thought I saw a Weevil.’
Jack looked from Gwen to the stillness beyond. He saw nothing.
‘It was just a shadow,’ she said, starting to doubt herself now. ‘Maybe I imagined it.’
Then Jack saw something move out there. Again, just a shadow. But there was something. Maybe someone hadn’t got out when the alarm went off; maybe they had been trapped when Lucca locked off the doors.
Maybe they should take a look.
The locking mechanism to the doors was on their side, so it only took one bullet instead of a full double clip to get through.
The sound of the shot bounced off the concrete walls of the stairwell and seemed to echo all the way up to the top of the shaft. Their ears were still ringing as they stepped into the carpeted corridor.
‘Hello?’ Jack called. ‘Hello? Anybody here?’
The silence was as deafening as the gunshot had been.
Jack started to move slowly along the corridor, the Webley held before him in both hands. Gwen followed, her eyes searching the gloomy green-cast shadows for movement. Her insides felt like they had bunched themselves up into a defensive ball, every nerve in her body felt like piano wire. She didn’t like it. She’d been in situations like this a hundred times and more, but she had never felt like this before. The gun grip felt slick in her hands and she realised that her palms were sweating.
As they turned a corner in the corridor, Jack caught her eye. There was more light here, there was a big window that looked out over the Bay below. Most of the restaurants and bars were turning off their lights now – Jack guessed it was something like three in the morning – but there was still enough light to tell that Gwen was scared.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said.
‘If it’s any comfort, me neither.’
He could feel sweat trickling down his back. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time. A gut-gnawing fear that started in your belly and spread out through your nervous system like a virus. The kind of fear that, if you didn’t get a hold on it, could paralyse you. That wasn’t the good kind of fear that pumped you with adrenalin and supercharged you to fight or run. It was the kind that got you killed.
Jack didn’t understand it. Weevil hunts were almost a downtime diversion for Torchwood. The Cardiff sewers had been crawling with them for so long now that they were soon going to be more a job for the city’s sanitation department than them. If anything ever got routine for Jack’s team, it was hunting out Weevils. You didn’t get blasé about one and a half metres of muscle and teeth that just lived for tearing your throat out, but you got accustomed to them the same way an alligator wrangler could work around ninety kilos of snapping jaw and not get chewed. You developed a life-preserving respect for them, but you weren’t scared of them like this.
‘There!’ Gwen cried, and opened fire.
Jack spun around with the Webley cocked, but saw nothing.
Gwen had fired four rounds. She stopped, breathing in the cordite of spent shells. Ahead of them she had shattered one of the apartment doors, but there was no sign of a Weevil.
Jack ran on down the corridor. Maybe she had winged it.
Gwen heard something move in the apartment and kicked open the door, holding her gun level with her face. She could feel the heat of the automatic’s barrel gently warming her skin. She realised that she was cold. Cold, yet sweating – that was not good.
The apartment was dimly illuminated by what was left of the lights in the Bay. It occurred to her that there might be someone in there taking refuge. She swept the apartment with her flashlight, and called out but got no answer.
Cautiously, she moved through the apartment and checked the bedroom and the bathroom. There was no one there, not even a cat. But she’d have sworn on her mother’s life that she had heard something in there.
She was sure she had seen a Weevil in the shadows outside the door when she opened fire. If she had just winged it and it got away in the gloom it was bloody lucky – she never missed.
She rubbed at her eyes. Her vision was blurring a little. She was tired and stressed out.
Christ, she could do with a drink.
She played the flashlight across the apartment again and saw a collection of bottles standing on a small table. One vodka would steady her nerves.
Just a small one.
She put her gun down on the table and picked up the bottle and poured out a large measure. She picked the glass up.
And that was when the Weevil came through the apartment door.
Gwen caught it out of the corner of her eye and cursed herself for dropping her guard.
Jesus, she was tired.
It was tall for a Weevil, but was dressed in the same boiler suit they all seemed to wear. It had no ears to speak of, just holes low down at the sides of its head and its eyes were buried in hollows punched in either side of the snub nose. It was an ugly brute – all of them were – and it snarled at her with a mouth full of savage teeth.