Paul Cornell - London Falling

‘No,’ he said.

All Quill could see was Jessica trapped in Losley’s hands. He had just one moment. One moment now that Losley’s power was being undermined by what was going on at the stadium, and while she didn’t seem to know what to do next. He dragged a breath into his lungs. ‘You, Mora Losley,’ he bellowed, giving in to everything he was and wanted to be, ‘are nicked!’ And he threw himself forward at her, intending to rip the child from her hands.

But in that second just before he reached her-

Her hand slashed across. The room was suddenly falling sideways. Quill tried to throw himself across the gap, but now he didn’t know which way he was falling. ‘She’s trying to leg it again!’ he shouted. ‘Stop her!’

But the room was folding up again, angling towards that red door, which had again become the plughole at the bottom of the world.

‘Stand like coppers!’ yelled Sefton. ‘Compose yourselves!’

The room folded around them, missed them, became an arrow darting for the door, with the streak of what had been the mounted head outside bursting in at the last moment, and then-

They were standing there in the tattered shell of a squat. Losley had gone. And she’d taken Jessica with her.

‘No!’ bellowed Quill. ‘No, no, no!’

Costain heard the noise, under whatever Quill was shouting. He looked over to the inner door, and then he ran towards it.

The cat was lodged in the gap. The force of the inner door had bent it almost in two. Blood was pouring from its mouth. Costain grabbed the door and pulled. The cat fell, breathing heavily. ‘I. . tried to follow her. I was too slow. And then something went from its eyes, and it lay there empty. Costain found the blood pounding in his head. He squatted down and put his hand on the cat’s body. It was utterly cold, immediately. He couldn’t feel for it. He couldn’t find anything in himself to do that. After all, it was just a cat.

He made himself stand up. He grabbed the door again and swung it wide open. The force that had tried to close it had cut off once the cat got in the way. Some sort of inbuilt safety mechanism. He made himself step through first. . into complete darkness beyond.

The others followed, Sefton using a wooden stake as a wedge to hold the door open. Quill got his torch out of his pocket and switched it on. They were at a T-junction in a corridor made of. . Costain couldn’t work out what it was made of. It was like rock, but utterly smooth, as if it had been made of something artificial. The surface showed no natural blemish or roughness. The corridor smelt of old houses.

‘Which way did she go?’

They tried left, then right, and found themselves with further options branching off from both directions. If they were now in a tunnel between Losley’s houses, it was between many of them, presumably all of them. Of Losley herself there was no sign. They made themselves be silent, and listened. There was no sound in the distance.

Sefton looked down. ‘Soil,’ he said, squatting to touch a thread of it that ran down the centre of the corridor, looking strange on the material. ‘Which, of course, means West Ham soil. Which means she needs to take power from it for some reason. So this line would form a sort of. . power cable. Connecting all her houses. What goes between those houses? Her home, the furniture, all that stuff. So these lines must provide energy for. . for moving all that.’

‘Didn’t help her much in Brockley,’ said Quill, ‘when she could only appear down in the street.’

‘Because you put that rubber wedge in the door then,’ said Sefton. ‘She must have sort of shorted out this system, by pushing against it. She had got all her stuff away, but not herself.’

Quill looked at his watch. ‘The match restarts in five minutes.’

Sefton reached into his holdall and produced the vanes. ‘These work with stuff that’s right in front of you,’ he said. ‘Like this soil is right now. If there’s power flowing through it. .’ He held the vanes as he had before. Everyone fell silent. The rods moved, just a touch, towards the left.

Sefton set off in that direction at a jog, and they all followed.

It was, thought Ross, as if they were running inside London itself. Not like in the underground, but inside something fundamental. She could imagine these routes connecting houses like spokes of a wheel, an alternative tube map where the distances were even less related to real geography. She wished her dad had got to see some of this, had got to try the amazing things Toshack had discovered, instead of being used as. . fuel for them. If that had happened, would she herself have become part of the crime family? Had her desire for revenge just made her choose another gang? She pushed that fragile thinking down inside her. She would do this anyway. This would complete her life. Fuck everything else. Fuck everything afterwards.

Quill ran, following Sefton, aware of time running out, aware of that possibility that he could one day love his child or, being more honest with himself, of that other possibility of terrible emotional harm being done to his wife.

He had still said it, though: ‘You’re nicked,’ had still been that bloke, and maybe he’d never change.

He heard a sound from ahead. The radio! They all broke into a sprint together. Quill followed Sefton, his heart pounding, left- right-left down choices of corridor. And there was a closed door ahead. And the sound was coming from behind that door.

Quill suppressed a great yell and rushed at it.

He smashed down the door and raised the gun to aim. .

. . at his own child.

Losley, or the tattered bloody mess that remained of her, was standing over the cauldron, still bubbling, now in a different shape of room. She’d spun with Jessica in her arms, astonished upon astonished. Jessica hung over the water.

‘And it’s still nil-nil,’ the voice from the radio was saying, ‘and let’s hope it stays that way.’

Quill and the others moved steadily forward, Quill and Costain both keeping their weapons trained on Losley.

‘Put the kid on the floor,’ said Costain.

‘Of course not,’ said Losley. ‘The ceremony is complete. I am ready to make the sacrifice that will give me the power to once again avenge my football club.’ But she made no move to attack them. Her face had a terrible stillness to it. Maybe she had nothing left.

‘Zoretska’s retrieved the ball, he’s going to knock it to the young defender, Faranchi. It’s like a training exercise out here, West Ham hanging back as much as the opposing team. There were a few early forays at goal, but there seems to have been a dressing-room talk at half time, and nobody’s had a go in the second half.’

‘Human nature seems to be doing all right,’ said Ross. ‘They’re not going to score for you. Are you sure you know men?’

‘We can make a deal,’ said Quill. ‘Make everything right again. You remove the Sight from us, serve your time for the murders, and we’ll-’

Losley’s laughter drowned him out.

‘Yeah, you fucker,’ he said, nodding along with her, ‘but I felt I had to make the offer.’

‘West Ham developing this strong left side of the field, which can — oh no!’

Quill froze at the sound in the announcer’s voice. A huge roar was coming from the stadium.

Losley tensed in anticipation.

‘It bounced off Faranchi’s boot! And the goalkeeper’s taken by surprise! He’s running after it. It’s rolling into. .! It’s gone in! West Ham have scored an own goal!’

Losley whirled round and stared at the radio. She looked as if she’d been physically struck by something that had impaled her at an angle to all her world’s rules.