Paul Cornell - London Falling

The map suddenly changed to show a particular borough of London and the signal tag appeared above a building. ‘Peckham!’ she shouted. ‘She’s in Peckham!’

‘Go!’ shouted Quill. Costain put his foot down, and the car accelerated off into the darkness.

They sped north, the lights on the roof and behind the radiator grill flashing. Costain took them over red traffic lights, cars pulling onto the pavements to get out of their way. She wished she could feel that the people they were passing were all on their side, cheering the good guys who were out to slay the wicked witch. But it felt as if those people would never sufficiently understand the world in which the team had now found themselves. She pulled up Peckham on Google Earth but, even looking straight down at the roof of the building where the GPS signal was located, the Sight said nothing to her. ‘She’s gone stealthy,’ she said. Which was why none of their random sweeps through London aerial maps had yielded anything. ‘Remembered or not, she’s afraid of us.’

‘She fucking should be,’ said Sefton.

Quill was on his phone. ‘Ma’am, we are on our way to Losley’s location. We have precise whereabouts, and we’re passing that to you now. No, no back-up. No armed response. Yes, thank you, ma’am.’ He clicked off the connection.

‘What did she say?’ asked Ross.

‘Just yes, yes to everything, like always.’ Quill was looking out into the night, as if he could make the car go even faster. ‘I don’t know how, or why, but thank Christ.’

The building on the corner of what was otherwise a civic shopping street looked dull, formerly something official, but with one of those hardcore sheet-metal doors that Quill associated with crack houses. There were rugs hanging up to curtain the windows on an upper floor, and an attempt at artistic graffiti on the lower wall. The street lights made everything shine. ‘She’s moved herself into a frigging squat!’ It had taken them less than ten minutes to get here. The pedestrian streets all around were almost deserted. The sound of the match came out of every pub, out of every window boasting a satellite dish. The spectacle, the unknown, all of London was centred on them. ‘She in there?’ he asked Ross.

Ross looked up from the monitor. ‘Yes.’

Sefton unzipped his holdall. Costain and Quill reached into the pockets of their coats. Quill had offered Sefton the gun he was carrying, but he’d turned it down in favour of his normal bag of tricks. The man had a weird certainty about him now. He saw Ross also check something in her pocket. After all they’d been through, he’d still baulked at giving someone who wasn’t a police officer a gun, but if she’d brought some sort of weapon along, good luck to her. ‘You all open up when you feel like it,’ Quill decreed. ‘Who knows if I’ll be in a position to give the order.’

‘Guv,’ said Costain.

‘You know who she. . well, you know everything, don’t you?’ He found he couldn’t look them in the eye. ‘I don’t have any speeches, but I’m glad you lot have. .’ He looked around at them, and found their expressions satisfied him. And there was no further need for words. ‘All right, then.’

Costain led them over to the door and knocked on it demandingly, but quickly, civilian-like. ‘Steve, mate!’ he called. ‘Fuck’s sake, you’re missing the match!’

A hard-looking man opened the door, after a minute or so of pounding. He looked blearily at them. ‘There’s nobody called-’

Costain grabbed hold of him and threw him out into the street and they were in through that door and locking it behind them, before he had a chance to leap back up and slam his fist against it and yell. And now they were in. There was a stairwell that had also been painted with graffiti, a kitchen full of hippies who were staring at them in shock. Costain pointed at them, then upwards, to indicate where they were going, and that it was nobody else’s business. They happily stayed put. Quill led his team slowly up onto the first landing. A distant radio commentary wafted through an open window. Still revealed the same level of tension. Still no goal. But, coming from above, there was an echo of the same sound.

Quill put his hand on the banister. ‘Here, you see what these stairs have?’

‘Newel posts,’ said Sefton, indicating the flat surface of the upright at the turn of the landing. ‘That’s what they’re called.’ He produced a piece of blue fabric from his holdall and, poised to act, started slowly upwards on his own, trying to look up ahead around the corner. Quill waited.

There came a sudden sound, a cut-off shout, and then a muffled yelling. Quill made a gesture, and the others followed him softly upwards. On the next floor, Sefton was standing beside a newel post, on top of which sat a head, presumably, but it was now covered entirely by what had been an anorak hood, pulled tight and secured by wrist ties at the bottom. Granules of salt were spilling out of it.

Quill nodded in approval, and stepped forward towards what had obviously once been an office. The remains of an old sofa, burned in some accident, took up most of the corridor outside. The graffiti were everywhere. But, over it all, Quill could see the shades of Losley’s typical house, applied here and there. That effect grew more pronounced, until the doorway itself looked exactly like the door they’d been through twice before, like a front door bizarrely located in an office corridor. The head had found its new position, presumably, because this was where the surrogate house’s stairs were meant to be. The sound of the radio commentary came loudly through the door, and Quill guessed that someone had been turfed out of their home to make way for Losley. Which probably meant another skeleton somewhere, and that bunch of people downstairs never being quite certain who was in occupation here now. And this was also a way in which she could be sure that there were no edits to show up in the tax records. Either for this ‘house’, or for who-knew-how-many she had left, all empty and waiting to be filled by the sudden arrival of her rooms?

They formed up in front of the door, in the way they’d rehearsed. No battering ram this time. Costain aimed the gun at the lock. Quill looked to the others, saw they were ready. His own anger radiated back from them, looking more certain than he was, even. Seriously strung out. At the end of everything now. Ross looked determined, as if she was ready to die. He turned back to Costain and nodded.

The noise was loud in the corridor. The lock flew off and the door was smashed open under Quill’s kick. They dived inside.

Quill felt as if he was moving in slow motion, in a nightmare. He heaved the gun up to firing level, remembering the words of his instructor on the range: not opening fire from the hip, but stock against shoulder, ready to fire one shot then assess again; not waiting for a sight picture to fire the gun, but going by sense of direction. .

But then he saw the cage, and the child inside it. She sat curled up and terrified. She’d been left on her own here, Losley needing only one now she was remembered, one who was so important to Quill, because — although he still didn’t know her, still didn’t feel their connection — he saw her face and knew she was meant to be his.

‘Daddy!’ she yelled.

Losley herself was standing over the cauldron. It was bubbling, boiling. She was already turning. The cauldron was sparking, had started suddenly blazing with noise, he realized. He heard the thunder distantly from beside him. And then the same roar was exploding off Losley herself, Costain letting off a full burst at her, sending her staggering back, pieces flying from her body, making her scream. Quill tried to join in, tried to fire, but all he could think of was the ricochets, and where all those rounds were going. Costain was yelling something as he fired. Sefton was now ahead of him, Ross beside him, both rushing at the tub of soil. They had in their hands condoms full of London holy water. If the spray hadn’t worked, then maybe this holy hand grenade would. Quill saw them fly aside, bouncing off of whatever was protecting the tub, as the bullets had bounced off of the cauldron. He skidded to a halt and made sure he could aim properly, and Losley was swimming back through the air towards him, flesh hanging off her, her face and body unprotected, but somehow still invulnerable. He fired. He kept it aimed straight at her as she rushed forward, the missiles ripping apart her clothes and her body. He fired it into her face.