Paul Cornell - London Falling

With a great scream, she spread her hands wide.

Quill flew backwards. He hit the wall, and the gun was wrenched from his hands. He tried to heave himself up, but he was pinned there. Thump-thump-thump from around the room, and there they were, all four of them stuck up against the walls. Sefton threw something from one hand, but it fell back over him.

Then there was only the noise of the radio. The bubbling of the cauldron. The screaming of the child. The terror of Jessica . She was standing at the door of her cage, saying ‘Daddy’ over and over, in between howls that he’d never heard from a child before. Quill deliberately looked away from her, and finally spotted the cat. It was at the window, covered by fine drapery in here, by rough rugs from outside. It was staring in horror at Costain, looking as if it was wondering if this could somehow be its fault.

‘You keep trying.’ Losley stepped towards them. Her flesh was hanging from her in folds, great sidelong scars of it, ripped from her by the bullets, as if she’d been savagely scourged. Her face was a skull with one eye, the other eye a mass of blood. Her thin muscles held together visible bones. She was like something from a museum, or animated out of a plague pit. ‘I can repair damage. This doesn’t hurt. This is good. Now you can watch with me. Let us wait for a goal.’

‘There won’t be a goal,’ said Quill.

‘I know men. There will be a goal.’

And, at that point, the whistle blew for the end of the first half.

Sefton knew this was the moment. His holdall lay across his feet. He couldn’t reach it, but that didn’t matter. All that was in there, anyway, was a bunch of London stuff, more bloody marker pens. Those were just things. He had to go beyond. ‘That must take some doing,’ he said, looking Losley up and down. ‘Holding yourself together like that. And you haven’t had a sacrifice lately.’

‘But I am remembered now.’ She sounded tremendously proud of it. ‘They all know who I am. I can feel the tide of London supporting me. I knew it would, one day. I knew, if I waited long enough, it would come to me.’

‘The Witch of West Ham.’

‘Yes!’ She laughed and moved her hands in a gesture which made them all flinch, but turned out to be the first move of some ancient court dance, which spun her about the floor, making bloody spirals from the severed gristle trailing at her ankles. The dance took her to the cage, where she stopped, a smile on her face.

‘Don’t you touch her!’ screamed Quill.

‘Tell me again not to.’ She reached down and unbolted the cage, picked up the child and held her, as she squirmed and squealed. ‘Look at this new thing. What everybody thinks is so wonderful. But it’s got no history. People fool themselves into thinking it does, that it’ll be more of them, a new branch on a tree. But it could be anything. You don’t decide. It’s just chaos. A football team or a city, that’s growth, that’s a proper use of time. Never all of it replaced at once, always a tradition, always memory. I could dash this thing against the floor and you could just make another one.’ She raised the child, as if to do it. Quill yelled something again, thrashing against the wall. But she shook her head. ‘But that’s the last thing I’m going to do. I need her for the sacrifice. The pot is ready. Your feelings on hearing her screams, on understanding how long I can continue them with proper care and use of the ladle. . that will be a magnificent sacrifice to my lord.’

Sefton waited to hear what he needed to hear.

Ross was trying to contain her fury. She was only pleased that it wasn’t fear. ‘We know who you are,’ she said. It was nearly a playground thing, a pathetic attempt to demonstrate some childish power. ‘We know who your mistress was, where you lived, so don’t you tell us this is just business.’

Losley cocked her head on one side. ‘What?’

‘You were a victim, someone who had all their power taken away from them in a terrible way. Like every serial killer. Now you want to hurt someone else who’s powerless, just to get even with the world. Like every serial killer. What goes around comes around, that’s you. The witch bit, that’s just a bonus. You know how many movies and TV shows about your mistress there are? They remember her. Sometimes they say she was a witch.’

Losley screamed at her. ‘She was not !’

‘-and sometimes she’s a victim. And, I tell you what, Henry VIII? Jolly fat bloke. Threw meat over his shoulder. And you’re not in it. Where are you in it? I read that Anne Boleyn was never at that house of yours at all. How are you in it, again? You’re not a witch, you’re just a serial killer. You’re a scared little girl who started off by hurting animals. Not done for anything. Not for a mistress who left you-’ Ross’ head was slammed against the wall with such force that it left blackness rolling around the edge of her vision. But she bellowed against the pain and heaved herself forward again, and found that in the pain there was certainty to her words now. ‘You’re not doing it to me again , you bitch! Don’t you dare think everyone in that phone book’s on your side! You’re not even fooling yourself, so how can you fool us?!’

‘These are just words.’ Sefton watched as Losley, carrying the child, turned to look between them all. ‘You cannot wish me away! I am. .’ And she actually paused, as if needing to take a breath.

Sefton realized what had started up on the radio: ‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol. The commentator said it was being played at the ground as images redolent of missing children, Losley’s unknown victims down the years, abandoned toys and empty nurseries, appeared onscreen. That was what he’d got Quill to ask Lofthouse to arrange. Now — he had to do this now ! ‘What’s the matter, Mora?’ he called out. ‘Is it taking more of an effort to make them all forget? Now that they’re all trying so hard to remember? ’Cos you’ve got to work at it, haven’t you? All those victims, over all those years, anyone who’s still alive, you’ve got to keep on spending your energy to do it.’ He saw her expression falter, the realization starting to creep over her face. ‘Yeah, I’ve got it right, haven’t I? That’s how it bloody works! And it’s not just the ones at the ground now. It’s the ones watching on telly, maybe a lot of them who’re only just realizing that they’re missing someone. Maybe a lot of them, all over London, starting to pull more and more energy from you. You can’t help it, you set it in place, so you can’t just let them remember!’

Mora was actually starting to stagger now. Sefton understood it in that moment: he’d found his voice. He was changing the world with every word. And they were words about London, words often said in the accent of his school tormentors. London was giving him power now. The very ones who’d tried to hurt him had given him this weapon. They’d made his tongue into a sword.

He heaved himself away from the wall. He saw the others trying and managing to do the same. Losley didn’t know which way to turn. Clutching the child, she looked as if she couldn’t believe it. ‘How’s it feel now, then?’ he asked. ‘Still feel that all London’s on your side? They’re not all remembering you now — they’re trying to remember something else!’

Suddenly she looked right at him. ‘You understand,’ she said. And it was with a look of such amazement, as if she was seeing him for the first time as a person.

He stopped himself from goading at her further. In the same way Muhammad Ali had stopped himself landing another punch once he saw, in his most famous fight, that George Foreman was already falling to the ground. He had been made this way by his tormentors. But he was not like them. Or like her.