Mike Carey - Thicker Than Water

I went after her at a flat run, along the full length of the walkway and into the gaping doors that led into the next tower block in the daisy chain.

The doors facing me — doors that led out onto another stretch of walkway — were still swinging. I headed in that direction, but something — some mistrustful gene that’s probably a precious part of my Liverpudlian heritage — made me slow and listen for half a second even as I took the bait. It was half a second well invested: the woman’s rapid footsteps were clearly audible from the echoing stairwell off to my right, and from below me. I slewed round and followed, taking each flight of stairs in two giant strides.

I guess Juliet is right about my aversion to planning: this kind of whimsical improvisation has got me into trouble more times than I care to count. But I only wanted to talk to the woman, in a spirit of bluff and intimidation, and maybe get a hint about how the Salisbury fitted into the Anathemata’s world-view. Plus my blood was up now: I was filled with the thrill of the chase.

That was probably why I walked right into what was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. As I rounded the final bend, still a dozen or so steps above ground level, a big hand thrust itself out of the shadows in the dank lobby, grabbed a generous swathe of my lapels and hooked me through the air to slam me hard against the wall.

It was Gwillam’s other friend: the tall, lean man with the planed and spirit-levelled face. He held me pinned against the wall with surprising strength, his hand pressing against my chest so hard that he squeezed the breath out of me like the air out of a bellows, making it impossible for me to inflate my lungs. He looked round inquiringly at the ponytailed woman, who was standing up against the street doors, which she’d pushed half open. She looked breathless and angry.

‘Scrape him off,’ she snapped. ‘Then fold and follow me.’

The flat-faced man brought his face up close to mine, staring at me slightly quizzically with his head tilted first to one side, then to the other. His movements were staccato, punctuated by perfect stillness.

‘Bad boy,’ he said, in a voice that was both deep and hollow, like an oracle speaking from a cave or from the bottom of a well. His tone was detached, though, despite the disapproving words — and his mouth, as I’d noticed the day before when he was talking to Gwillam, moved all of a piece, as though his lower jaw, like a puppet’s, was a piece of wood hinged at the ends.

I locked both of my hands on his one, and tried to lever it away or at least relieve some of the pressure so that I could draw a breath. Nothing doing: this guy wasn’t particularly thickset, but he was terrifyingly strong.

‘You — ’ he said, and he let the word linger while black dots clustered and spread behind my eyes. ‘ — really need to take a rest.’

He pulled me back and slammed me forward again so that I crashed against the wall once, twice, three times. I tried to let my head sag forward, but on the third beat he got the angle just so and the back of my skull smacked off the wall, turning the black dots into impressive techni-colour Catherine wheels.

There was one further impact, but it came from a different angle. I was dimly aware that the big man must have thrown me, or maybe just let me fall. Through the spiked fug of near-unconsciousness, I deduced that I was horizontal and used that as a clue to what it might take to get upright again. But my limbs had forgotten the effortless cooperation they’d developed over thirty-some years: I must have looked like Bambi on ice.

Unfortunately, Flat-face had lingered to make sure I stayed down, and he seemed to take my trying to get up as a deliberate provocation. I saw his foot draw back for a kick, aimed squarely at my head. I raised a feeble, futile arm to fend it off.

‘That’s enough,’ said a voice from over by the street doors. ‘Leave him alone.’

Flat-face lowered his foot and turned. Blinking my eyes semi-clear, I looked off in that direction too. The newcomer stood framed in the doorway, holding the double doors open with fully extended arms, but there was a querulous note in his voice that clashed badly with the dramatic pose. It wasn’t the voice of a man who knows he’s going to be obeyed.

‘Who says it’s enough?’ demanded Flat-face in a dangerous basso rumble.

‘I do, obviously.’ The newcomer took a step towards us. ‘I mean it, Feld. Look at me if you don’t believe me.’

Flat-face stared down at the newcomer. I stared at him too and I probably would have gasped if I’d had any breath left to do it. The big man didn’t gasp: in fact he didn’t respond in any way that I could see. But after a moment or two he flexed his arms and adjusted his cuffs, first left and then right.

‘I’ll take advice,’ he said in the same deep voice.

‘You do that,’ the other man agreed.

I watched Flat-face groggily from my floor-level ringside seat as he stepped carefully around the newcomer, staring at him the while as if to show that his readiness for mayhem hadn’t abated by a single degree. Then he walked out into the night, opening the doors by the novel expedient of slamming his head into them so hard that they flew back to their full extent. They hit the wall on either side like a pistol shot in badly synched stereo.

My rescuer helped me to my feet, which took a couple of attempts because I was embarrassingly weak and groggy after my recent anoxic experiences.

‘Out for a late-night walk?’ I asked sardonically.

He shrugged. ‘Just be thankful I was here. You make friends everywhere you go, don’t you, Felix? You really should think twice before coming into a place like this at night.’

There were lights going on up above us now, and faces peering over the banisters on the upper levels. Only a natural impulse towards self-preservation had prevented anyone from coming down and seeing what all the noise was about, but it could only be a matter of moments. Better to have this conversation somewhere else, far from the madding crowd: especially considering how spectacularly madding they could get around here. We left Weston Block, our shoes crunching on broken glass.

‘Well, it’s good of you to take an interest,’ I said as I led the way between the towers, heading north across the estate. ‘But any place that’s good enough for you and your friend Gwillam is good enough for me.’ Considering he’d probably just saved my life, the satisfaction I took in his startled expression was a little ungenerous. But I was starting to see a pattern, and it was one I liked even less than red and green Paisley.

There was one final broad flight of steps that led down from the concrete plain towards the New Kent Road. I took it, limping slightly, and my rescuer followed me.

‘I thought you gave up the pastoral stuff,’ I muttered over my shoulder.

‘Where you’re concerned, Felix?’ Matt answered with a sorrowful inflection. ‘I think I’ll always be my brother’s keeper.’

‘You’ve got a visitor’ were the first words that Pen said when she opened the door to me. Then she noticed Matt, standing in the puddle of moonlight behind me. ‘Oh,’ she appended, without enthusiasm. She walked away, leaving the door open behind her.

We came out of the warm sticky night into the warm sticky hallway, and followed Pen downstairs into her chthonic domain. Tales From Topographic Oceans was playing softly from below us, the occasional crack and hiss making it clear that we were listening to vinyl being played on Pen’s old Dual 2.2 turntable. Gary Coldwood was sitting on the shapeless leather sofa with a glass of brandy in his hand. Edgar and Arthur perched on the sofa’s back on either side of him, clearly acting as chaperones. They needn’t have worried: Gary is in love with his job.