The Wolves of London (23 page)

As I descended the stairs and the blackness rose to meet me, I felt my hand creeping to the hard bulge of the heart in the pocket of my hoodie. I’d snatched up the heart before leaving the bedroom; it had already become second nature to either carry it around with me or have it within reach. It wouldn’t be over-stating it to say that I now thought of it as my lifeline to Kate, a sort of talisman. Deep down I might even have developed the idea that it was linked to Kate’s own heart, and that as long as it was in my possession and under my protection, my daughter’s would keep on beating.

I reached the bottom step and peered once again into the blackness, telling myself that it was only the lack of visual reference that made it seem to swirl like fog. Using the ticking of the clock as a guide, I turned left and walked straight ahead, knowing that the front door – or more specifically the old-fashioned brass light switch beside it – would be about five metres in front of me.

As I took small, shuffling steps I thought of a book that Kate had loved – that she
still
loved: Maurice Sendak’s
Where the Wild Things Are.
In the story the bedroom of a boy called Max slowly transforms into a moonlit forest. Blinded by darkness, I imagined my own surroundings undergoing a similar transformation. I pictured myself stretching out a hand to feel tree bark and hanging vines, or even something worse. What if I touched hair? A face? A mouthful of long, jagged teeth?

I had taken a dozen, maybe fifteen steps when my outstretched hand
did
bump against something: a hard surface, which jarred my fingers. I paused a moment, and then felt my way across a chunky Yale lock and the ridges of a door frame. At last I located the light switch I’d been looking for and clicked it down. Turning from the door, I squinted into the light.

And was confronted by a small, childlike figure standing at the bottom of the stairs.

I jumped out of my skin – and then realised it was Clover. She looked sleepy, her maroon hair hanging in tousled curtains around her face, half-obscuring her features. In her long nightshirt, and with nothing on her feet, she looked like something out of a Japanese horror film. She gave a huge yawn and stood blinking at me as I clapped a hand to my chest.

‘Don’t do that!’ I hissed. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry,’ she said through the end of her yawn. She widened her eyes, trying to wake herself up. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My mouth was dry. I was about to make a cuppa. Do you want one?’

‘I’ll have a hot chocolate if there is any. What time is it?’

I flipped a thumb at the grandfather clock. ‘Half-four. Sorry if I woke you up.’

‘S’okay.’ She pushed hair out of her face. ‘I was having bad dreams. Or think I was. Can’t remember.’

‘Why didn’t you say something to let me know you were there?’

‘Didn’t want to wake up Benny and Lesley.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go and stick the kettle on.’

I went ahead, and she padded slowly after me. She sat at the kitchen table while I busied myself looking through cupboards and drawers for mugs, spoons, teabags and hot chocolate. When I’d made the drinks we carried them through to the conservatory, where we could chat without fear of waking up our hosts. Despite her thin nightshirt and bare feet Clover didn’t seem to feel the cold. She switched on a table lamp with a tasselled shade that gave off a cosy red glow, and sat in the wooden-framed armchair she’d occupied for most of that afternoon, tucking her feet underneath her and tugging her nightshirt down over her bare legs.

I wondered whether, in other circumstances, I might have found her attractive, whether there might have been a spark of romance between us. She was certainly a beautiful girl, and I was only seven or eight years older than she was, but my mind was too full of anxiety for Kate, and fear for myself, and a dislocating sense of confusion at what we’d seen and experienced over the past few days, to have time for anything else.

Sipping my drink, I wandered over to the glass-panelled wall of the conservatory and tried to make out what I could of the back garden. In the daylight the view across the lawn with the trees flanking it on all sides was restful, but right now I felt like a goldfish in a bowl, vulnerable and exposed. It was so black that all I could see was the reflection of my own red-hued face in the glass and the dim ghostly image of the room behind me. I knew Benny had motion sensor lights out there, attached to the back of the house, which blazed white if anything bigger than a hedgehog moved so much as a muscle, but that didn’t help me shake off the fear that there might be unseen eyes in the darkness, staring back at us.

‘You’re like a caged lion,’ Clover said behind me.

I glanced at her reflection in the glass. Her white skin and nightshirt glowed with soft red light.

‘I’m just drinking my tea,’ I said.

‘All the same, you’ve got that look in your eyes. I keep expecting you to drop to all fours and start prowling in front of the window.’

I sighed. ‘Sorry. I’m just feeling a bit stir crazy. My little girl is out there somewhere, in the clutches of God knows who, and I’m… sitting around having dinner and drinking wine.’ I raised a hand. ‘And before you say it, yes, I know we don’t have much alternative, and I know that Benny has got people out there asking questions and gathering information. But even if we do get answers, what are we going to do? Formulate a plan? Go on the attack?’

‘That depends on what the answers are,’ she said.

I snorted, feeling helpless and frustrated, my stomach knotted up. I rested my hot, throbbing forehead against the window. The glass was so cold it seemed to exacerbate the pain rather than relieve it.

‘Don’t lose hope,’ Clover said softly. ‘We’ll find her, Alex.’

‘Will we?’

‘Course we will.’

I turned to her. My stomach was churning. ‘I’m going to level with you.’

She gave a mock grimace. ‘That sounds ominous.’

I glanced towards the door of the conservatory, and instinctively lowered my voice. ‘I know Benny’s helped us, but I still don’t know whether I trust him. And to be honest…’ I hesitated. ‘…I’m not entirely sure whether I can trust you either.’

I looked into her eyes, wondering how she would react. I half-expected her to be upset or disappointed, but in fact she looked stoic, sympathetic even.

She was silent for a moment, and then with a sigh she said, ‘I can understand that. After all, it was me and Benny who dragged you into this in the first place.’

I shook my head. ‘No, I got myself into it. But there’s no denying that you were there, conveniently placed, to nudge things along. And it was only when you and Benny got involved in my life that everything started to go haywire.’

She gave a little tilt of the head to acknowledge the fact. ‘I can see how it looks that way to you. Believe me, I can. And it probably won’t make any difference if I were to tell you that I’m one hundred per cent on your side. But I’m going to say it anyway, just for the record.’ She gave an ironic smile. ‘I’m one hundred per cent on your side, Alex.’

‘Well, that’s nice to know. But it doesn’t stop you from keeping secrets from me.’

‘Secrets?’ she said innocently.

‘Earlier today, when I asked how you knew Benny, how he knew your father, you changed the subject. So who
is
your father, Clover? Some big gangland boss?’

She smiled. ‘Hardly. He was a vicar.’

‘A vicar?’

‘I grew up in a village in Kent. My dad was the vicar there. But when I was five or six he was transferred to a new parish in London. Benny’s mum used to come to his church, and my dad was at her bedside when she died. Because of that my dad and Benny struck up quite a friendship. Then, when I was sixteen, my mum died, and a couple of years later my dad did too. I’d just started a business degree when my dad had his heart attack, and Benny took me under his wing, helping me out with a solicitor to deal with everything, and sorting me out with a flat. After I finished my degree I worked for Barnaby McCallum for a while, and then when Benny’s friend George Lancaster decided to sell Incognito, Benny helped me buy it. He thought it would be a nice little starter business for me.’

‘And has it been?’

‘I was doing all right – until all this stuff with McCallum and the heart. I wish I’d never got involved now.’

‘Crime doesn’t pay,’ I remarked drily.

Clover wafted a hand to indicate her surroundings. ‘Benny doesn’t seem to have done too badly out of it.’

I was about to respond when suddenly she stiffened and her gaze shifted. ‘Alex,’ she said apprehensively, fear blooming on her face. I realised she was looking not at me, but at something beyond and above me. At something outside.

I felt the hairs stiffen on the back of my neck. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice hollow. ‘Look.’

I stepped away from the window, not liking the fact that I was pressed up against the glass, and turned to look. At first I saw nothing but darkness and wondered what had frightened Clover. Then I realised that the darkness wasn’t darkness at all – it was something more solid. Something that was moving.

It was like oil or smoke in the shape of a thousand writhing snakes. But snakes that were so densely packed that they formed a constantly coiling mass. The mass was pressing itself against the outside of the conservatory, spreading across the glass panels and up on to the roof, as if looking for a way in. Although it didn’t seem solid enough to move the dry leaves that had blown on to the roof, it seemed somehow to absorb them, or maybe draw them into itself, like a whale swimming through the sea with its mouth open, hoovering up plankton.

‘What is it?’ Clover asked, her voice quiet but strained.

‘I don’t know.’ I sniffed. ‘Can you smell something?’

‘Like what?’

‘Garlic or…’ I’d been about to say ‘mustard’ when I suddenly remembered a documentary I’d seen about the aftercare (or lack of it) of the thousands of men who had been badly injured during the First World War. I recalled how one centenarian, who resembled a mummified corpse hunched in a wheelchair, had described a particular smell.

‘Oh shit,’ I breathed.

Clover’s eyes flickered towards me. ‘What is it?’

‘That smell. I think it’s mustard gas.’

‘Mustard gas. What’s that?’

‘It’s highly toxic. It causes chemical burns on the skin. In extreme cases it can lead to blindness and internal bleeding. We need to get out of here. Go upstairs and get dressed and wake Benny and Lesley.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’m good to go.’ When she still didn’t move I barked, ‘Go on, Clover,
now!
’

She jumped to her feet as though given an electric shock. Keeping her eyes fixed on the black mass, which was still slithering over the conservatory, she darted out of the room. I pulled the collar of my hoodie up over my mouth and nose as I heard her running upstairs. I knew I ought to get out of there too, but I was reluctant to let whatever was crawling over the house out of my sight. Above me the glass ceiling creaked, as if the darkness had a weight to it. I backed hurriedly to the doorway, remembering something else I’d heard or read somewhere: that the safest place to stand during an earthquake was directly beneath a door frame.

The ceiling creaked again – and then with a sharp crack a line appeared down the centre of one of the glass panes. Although the pane held, it could only be a matter of time before the glass gave way under the pressure. And when that happened the thing, whatever it was, would bulge or ooze into the house, bringing with it more of that lethal mustard gas.

The blackness enveloping the conservatory was like a leather-gloved hand curling around a glass paperweight. I half-turned my head to yell up to Clover, but then something happened out in the darkness that dried the words in my throat.

Directly opposite me an insipid light suddenly appeared in the seething blackness, the darkness around it appearing to shrink back like the centre of a sheet of cellophane exposed to a naked flame. Within the light stood a figure. At first it appeared small and distant, and I had trouble making it out. But as it got closer, strolling casually towards the house, it became more distinct, until I could see that it was a young man, perhaps twenty years old, with a pale, thin face and dark hair that was slicked down and gleaming with oil.

Accompanying the man, growing louder as he approached the house, was a sound. Faint and distorted, like a far-off radio signal carried on the wind, it was nevertheless distressing enough to cause my stomach to tighten and my balls to shrivel up into my belly. I had never been involved in a war, and yet I identified the sound immediately as the clamour of a terrible battle. I could hear explosions and gunshots; cries of fear and mortal agony; grown men reduced to terrified children, screaming for mercy, or for their mothers, or simply begging desperately for their lives.

If I hadn’t been holding the collar of my hoodie over my nose and mouth I might have clapped my hands to my ears. Instead I tried to block the awful sounds from my mind as best I could, and to focus instead on the man walking through the darkness towards me. He didn’t look particularly threatening; in fact, he wore an expression that I can only describe as haunted. His eyes, set in hollows so deep that from a distance they looked like the pits of a skull, were intense – the eyes of a man who has seen too much at far too young an age. His complexion was sallow, his lips almost bloodless, and as he walked he puffed greedily on a roll-up no thicker than a lollipop stick, which he brought to his mouth every few seconds, his arm going up and down like a metronome.

Perhaps even odder than the man himself were his clothes. He looked as though he had stepped out of a World War One period drama. His double-breasted demob suit was a couple of sizes too big, his white shirt was wrinkled and grubby and the knot of his tie was askew. The only smart things about him were his black brogues, which had been polished until they gleamed. He cut rather a sad figure – and yet there was something intrinsically, chillingly
wrong
about him. It wasn’t the darkness, or the smell of mustard gas, or even the sounds of battle that he carried with him. No, it was more that the misery, fear and desperation that clung to him seemed so powerful, so profound, that I got the impression it could suck the very life out of you.