The building was dark, as I’d expected it to be. If Peace was inside, he certainly wasn’t keen to advertise the fact. I walked over to the door, which I couldn’t see because the whole front of the building was in deep shadow. The street lights were on the far side of the trees, and only a faint orange glow penetrated into the central clearing.
There was no door: just a gaping hole in the brickwork. But as I went forward, one step at a time, into the deeper darkness within, my hands touched something at chest height that was cold and smooth and slightly damp. I explored it gingerly, finding that it extended both up and down, and out to both sides. It was a plastic curtain, suspended over the doorway to keep out the wind. Wet with early-morning condensation, it had an unpleasant, clammy feel.
If I pushed through it, I’d be announcing my arrival to anyone who was inside. Given the way Peace had reacted to my presence on board the Collective, and his promise about what would happen the next time we met, that didn’t seem like such a great idea.
I circled the building instead, looking for another way in. I had to watch my footing: in the aftermath of the fire, all that was left of the interior fixtures and fittings had been hauled out and dumped wherever there was room, and fly-tippers had added to the mess since, so the shell of the Oriflamme now had an additional rampart of rusting ironwork and rotting mattresses.
That worked in my favour, though, because as I went around to the back of the building I saw a possible way in. The rubbish was thickest and deepest here, piled against the wall to a height of ten feet or so – and at its apex it came to within spitting distance of an upstairs window, which like the front door had blown out and was now open to the night in a slack-jawed yawn. The only question was whether the mound of black bin bags, old fridges and wheelless bike frames would take my weight.
I climbed onto the lower margins of the scree, carefully, wishing I’d brought a torch so I could see what I was stepping in. The bin bags gave and squished under me, but they didn’t slide and I was able to keep my balance. Step by step, very slowly, and sideways on so that I could anchor myself on my trailing leg, I ascended the slope. There was a nasty moment halfway up when the whole mass settled a few inches under my weight and I almost slipped. But by that time I was close enough to the wall of the building to lean forward and rest the palms of my hands against it for a few seconds, until the rubbish-mountain found a new point of equilibrium.
After that, I made it to the top without incident, sat on the windowsill and swung my legs over it one at a time. I was in.
I was about to step down off the sill into the pitch-black room beyond, but natural caution made me lower one leg first to test the ground. This turned out to be a wise precaution, because there wasn’t any. The floor of the room must have collapsed during the blaze, so there was nothing underneath me but a twelve-foot drop back down to the ground floor and probably a broken ankle. Or two.
I sat on the sill and let my eyes adjust to the dark. It wasn’t absolute, of course: on this higher level, more of the light from the street lamps made it through the foliage, and the interior of the room was lit up, after a minute or so, by a faint wash of orange light. It was enough to show me that the beams had survived when the floorboards gave in: I could tightrope-walk along a beam to the door and see whether or not there were any stairs.
It still wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but I didn’t have any better ideas. Lowering my weight onto a beam that led directly across to the door, I tentatively let go of the sill with my hands and found my balance. This expedition was turning into a laugh riot.
The room wasn’t big: three steps would bring me to the open doorway and the deeper darkness beyond. I took the first one okay, and the second. The third became problematic because the beam gave an audible crack under me and shifted slightly. I abandoned Plan A and dived for the door, catching it in a tight embrace just as the beam sagged and parted, sending a clattering storm of sooty fragments into the void beneath.
There were no floorboards on the other side of the doorway either, so I was hugging a fat beam, charred in the middle but seemingly sound, while my legs dangled into emptiness.
‘You can let go,’ said a gruff voice from down there. ‘There’s a cement floor about eight feet underneath you. So long as you land on your feet, you should do okay. Throw your weight wrong and you’ll bust a leg at best, but I guess that’s the price you pay for breaking and entering.’
‘Think – you could manage – a stirrup?’ I panted, slightly winded.
The voice gave a sound between a snort of laughter and a throat-clearing hack. ‘I think you better do as you’re told,’ it said. ‘If you just dangle there like a Chinese lantern, I’m going to put some holes in you so the light shows through better.’
‘What light?’ I ground out, still holding on tight.
The voice sighed, long and deep and slightly ragged. Then a second voice that raised the hairs on the back of my neck said, ‘Give him some light, Dad.’ It was a little girl’s voice, distant and faint but perfectly clear. Abbie’s voice. I craned my head sideways to see over my hunched shoulder, but it was still too dark to make out anything in the room below.
Something scratched against something else, and a neon line wrote itself across the dark, blossoming abruptly into the flare of a match. The light dipped, guttered, and twinned itself momentarily into two yellow-white eyes. Then, as the candle caught and spread a meagre glow across the scene, Peace flicked the match away. It died as it fell.
He was lying on the ground a few feet to my left, a blanket spread over him. And he was pointing that fucking handgun straight at me. Maybe the candle illuminated one or two other details of the room below me, but for some reason the gun was the thing that drew my attention.
‘Drop,’ Peace suggested again. ‘I’m running out of patience here.’
I dropped, more or less straight, and managed to keep my balance when I hit the ground. The gun stayed with me all the way: at least, I assume it did. Either way it was pointing directly at my chest when I straightened up and turned to look at Peace again.
He looked as though he’d fared badly since we’d met on board the Collective. There was a ragged wound across his face, from his left temple down across the bridge of his nose to his right cheek: a heraldic bend sinister drawn in red so deep that in this light it might as well have been black. The rest of his face around that dark line was as white as milk. The hand that held the gun seemed to tremble slightly, as if it was hard work for him to keep it aimed straight.
Abbie stood behind him, almost lost in the shadows. She was little more than a shadow herself, the candlelight shining through her to highlight the rough texture of the brick wall in grainy lines of white and soot-black. She stared at me with curiosity – but calmly, without any trace of fear. Given how she’d died, that was impressive: a lot of ghosts never tear themselves free from the emotions they were feeling when they crossed over. The moment of their death becomes their destiny and their eternal rest. Or lack of it.
Because I was looking for it, I saw the glint of gold on Peace’s wrist. I couldn’t make out the shape with any clarity, but I knew what it was: he was wearing Abbie’s gold locket as a bracelet on his right arm, just as he had been before. He wasn’t taking any chances of being separated from her.