“Who? Who did you touch?”
“The goddess, Henry. The new Estella. She was so perfect. She was smooth between the legs.” He wheezed in exhilaration. “Do you forgive me? Henry? I absolutely need you to forgive me.”
“I don’t suppose it matters now,” I said, watching fistfuls of black flakes throw themselves in kamikaze assault against the windows.
“It’s all over. The great serpent is coming.” Mr. Jasper (“Richard Price”) coughed, a thin rasp which turned, horribly, into something gushing and wet. “You’ve seen the snow?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“It’s ampersand, Henry. Ampersand pouring from the sky.”
Another rattling breath, the line went dead and the snow fell more densely and more heavily than before, ceaselessly, without mercy, pouring onto the city like tears.
Chapter 25
Three days was all it took for London to run into the arms of chaos. The city embraced it willingly, all too eager to swap her staid old suitors of simmering calm and disgruntled order for this fresh admirer, this master swordsman of panic, anarchy and fear.
We arrived back at the flat late that afternoon. Several times during the journey the driver had come close to turfing us out his cab. He was going to make a break for it, he said, get the hell out of the city before catastrophe struck. It was only by stopping at another ATM and clearing out all that was left in my account that I was able to persuade him to take us home at all.
On the long drive Mum had got much worse, alternately enraged over old mistakes and infidelities, and weeping over what was hiding in the snow. By the time I got her to the flat, she’d grown almost delirious and Abbey, who, I noted with a warm glow of affection, was working hard to batten down her own panic and disquiet, had to help me put her into my bed, swinging Mum’s legs indecorously onto the mattress, stripping off most of her clothes, settling her down and doing our best to make her comfortable.
I’m sure it was wrong of me to think about such things at a time like that, but I realized, with a tingly thrill, that this unexpected houseguest would mean I’d have no choice but to share Abbey’s bed that night.
I brought Mum a glass of water, persuaded her to drink and, as she seemed finally to swim back to lucidity, introduced her to Abbey.
“You two an item?” she asked, as I wiped a strand of spittle from her lips. “I always thought you were gay.” She gurgled, spumes of spittle dripping from the corners of her mouth. “Never saw you with a woman. Assumed you were a woofter.”
“What’s happening?” Abbey asked when I came back into the sitting room and, frightened, we held one another just a little too tightly on the sofa. “Henry, what’s happening?”
“The worst thing you can imagine,” I said. “That’s what’s happening. The absolute worst thing you can imagine.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m fed up with all these secrets. I want to know exactly what’s going on. I want you to tell me the truth.”
So I took her in my arms and, as gently as I could, I told her everything — from what had happened on the day that Granddad collapsed, to my history with the Prefects, to all that I knew about the snow. When I’d finished, she just nodded, thanked me for my honesty and reached for the TV remote.
On the tiny screen of Abbey’s portable television (rescued from the attic after Miss Morning had smashed up its predecessor) we watched the news as the terror began. The hoofbeats of disaster were there in every story — an epidemic of suicide; the churches, synagogues and mosques filled beyond capacity; neighbor turning upon neighbor; violence on the streets, widespread, indiscriminate and hysterical. Bewilderment led to confusion, confusion to fear, fear to panic — panic, ineluctably, to death.
At six P.M., the prime minister called an emergency session of Parliament. One hour later, the government was advising everyone to stay in their homes, exhorting us not to venture outside. At eight P.M., we heard that the hospitals were overloaded, filled with manically gibbering patients (many of them former members of staff). At nine P.M., the telephone rang in our lounge.
I was checking on Mum when it happened. She seemed to be sinking into some kind of delirium, muttering about something coming out of space to swallow London whole. The strange thing was that when she spoke about it, it was with a pronounced lilt in her voice, an intonation of delight, as though she was actually looking forward to the death of the city.
When I got into the sitting room, Abbey was staring at the phone, gazing at it warily, like it was about to jump up and bite her. I asked her why she hadn’t answered.
She bit her lip. “I’m scared.”
I seized the receiver. “Hello?”
I didn’t recognize the voice. It was a man, about my own age. “Is Abbey there?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“I need to speak to Abbey.”
“Who is this?”
Now the voice had an undercurrent of belligerence, barely disguised. “This is Joe. Who’re you?”
“I’m Henry Lamb,” I said, and slammed the phone down hard.
Abbey looked at me, wide eyed and shaky. “Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” I said, and the way she stared at me it was like she knew that I was lying.
I took a glass of water to Mum and got her to struggle up and take a couple of sips before she sank back onto the mattress again.
“It’s all happening so fast,” she murmured.
“Don’t, Mum,” I said. “Don’t try to speak.”
She groaned softly. “Didn’t think it would end quite like this…”
Her eyelids fluttered shut. I kissed her once on the forehead, made sure the duvet was tight around her and left her alone.
Next door, Abbey was already in bed, dressed in a man-sized T-shirt, tense, fidgety and chewing on her fingernails. Self-consciously, I stripped to my boxers and climbed in beside her.
“How’s your mum?” she asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “A bit shaky.”
We both knew that I was ready yet to admit the truth of it. At least not aloud.
“She seems nice,” Abbey said. “From what I could tell.”
“Well, you’re probably not meeting her at her best,”
“Probably not.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
“Henry? Do you think we’re safe here?”
“Yes, I think we are,” I said. “My granddad told me to go home.”
“I did a bit of research on this house once,” Abbey said, suddenly eager for a chat. “It’s been here longer than you’d think.”
“Really?” I said, grateful for the shift in conversation, happy for any old nonsense to be spoken as long as it filled the silence.
“Back in the last century, before this place was divided into flats, there was a psychic who lived here.”
“A psychic?”
“A spiritualist, yeah.” She giggled, and that giggle, it was wonderful to hear. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“I think a lot of dark stuff’s happened here in the past,” I said softly. “I don’t believe anything’s been an accident in my life. Not even this place.”
The moment of good humor had passed.
Abbey sighed, rolled over and switched off the light.
Later, as we lay together in the dark, she said: “I can’t believe I’ve found you. You’re my second chance, Henry. I always wanted to do something worthwhile with my life. Something that makes a difference. With you, p’raps I finally can.”
I squeezed her hand and she squeezed mine as outside the snow continued to fall, covering the city in a second skin, in a carapace of jealousy and spite.
In the night, there were strange sounds — shouts and moans and smashing glass. Once, just after midnight, we heard a whispered invitation at the letterbox. Certain promises were made, certain boons offered in exchange for services rendered, for a number of small concessions.