Tom Pollock - The City's son

I start to scramble over the heaps of rubbish, and pain flares around my joints, charting my injuries: an intricate topography of burns, bruises and barely sealed cuts.

Gutterglass’ eggshells track me. ‘Now that you mention it,’ he said, ‘yes, I can think of someone worse. How about a chemical burns-and-drowning victim who’s been half-flayed by barbed wire?’

I ignore him, doggedly trudging uphill in the refuse.

‘Filius, you can’t,’ he says, sounding serious now. ‘The girl’s as good as dead; the same for the Russian. This is war. People die. It’s too late for them. Surely they don’t matter more than the lives you can still save? The rest of the city,’ he pleads, ‘your kingdom. That’s what matters now.’

I don’t answer.

‘You have a responsibility,’ Glas presses on. ‘The army needs you. You’re the son of the Goddess. You have to be strong for all of us.’

Finally I round on him, teetering on top of a smashed-in television. I feel furious, groggy, drunk on shock. ‘Yeah? Once you told her I’d collapse if she died. You were trying to get rid of her. “Weeping, wailing, beating of breast” — remember that? I do.’

He nods, reluctantly, but his resentful eggshells track me, and in my mind’s eye I can see Electra’s yellow eyes behind them too. Both are accusing me of getting too close to the human girl.

‘You were right, Glas. If she dies, I’m wrecked.’ I stumble into a kind of half-run, Glas’ baby avatar skipping along beside me, borne on a constantly renewing conveyor belt of insects. Painful pins-and-needles start to ripple through me as my muscles wake up.

‘Filius-’ His voice has climbed to a higher pitch; his infant face is stretched in despair.

‘I’m sorry, Glas. I’m not proud of it, but she does matter more to me.’ I don’t know if he heard me, because the wind is starting to roar in my ears as I run.

Chipboard hoardings were stretched across the end of a narrow lane off Ludgate Hill. Behind them, anonymous buildings had been torn down and a landslide of doors, window-ledges and unidentifiable hunks of concrete tumbled over the rim of the hoardings and sloped down into the alley: a natural ramp. Sweating despite the chill, Beth put her foot on the bottom — and hesitated.

A tangle of old scaffolding gleamed at the top.

And Beth stalled. She stared at the scaffolding, seeing it re-articulate into a snarling, snapping wolf in her mind’s eye. If Fil had been there, he would have goaded her to do it — or else it would have been him that needed the goading, and she would have had to have been brave to see him through.

But he wasn’t there. It was just her.

Beth shifted her weight, uneasily. Maybe there’s another way, she thought. Maybe the whole site isn’t surrounded, maybe I can sneak in…

Out of nowhere, the idea hit her like a steel wall. An idea so strange to her it made her gasp. She could just walk away.

Beth was appalled. She couldn’t believe she’d thought that, even for a second.

But the voice inside her which suggested it lingered. After all, it whispered, vile and yet utterly convincing, she’d already risked so much. It wasn’t fair; she’d pushed her luck to the edge of the precipice and she’d found the home she’d been searching for. She shouldn’t have to risk it all again now.

She remembered Gutterglass’ voice: Reach will rip you asunder.

Death. The realisation came with cold clarity. That was the fear she had been fighting since she left the dump: she was afraid to die. She’d never been scared of it before, but dying had never felt as close and intimate as this before. She looked around at the streets that had become her home. Now she had something to lose, death terrified her.

She set her back to Reach’s kingdom and took an experimental step, then another. As she started to walk out of the alley an odd relaxation trickled through her. Letting the fear win was kind of like pissing your pants: it came with shame and a mild horror at herself, but also a warm, numbing relief.

The railing-spear clanged onto the cobbles by her feet.

‘Do more. Do more than just run.’ Jesus Christ, what a pretentious, patronising arse I must’ve sounded.

As she reached the end of the alley, all the noise and colour of the main road broke over her. She looked left and right, peering into the flow of morning pedestrians preparing to throw herself back in. A slug of regret was lodged uncomfortably in her gut. Whatever I do in this instant I’ll carry it the rest of my life. She knew that was true.

She lifted her foot off the tarmac, and made a decision.

Then again, that’s likely to be about twenty minutes, so every cloud and all that She spun on her heel and started to run back up the alley.

You’re an idiot, B, you know that? she told herself as she ran. You always had something to lose — someone — and you almost threw her away. She’s waiting for you behind that damned hoarding.

She picked up speed and scooped up the spear without breaking stride.

And now you’ve got someone else to lose. This is the only way to protect him.

She remembered jumping into the Chemical Synod’s pool, the fear she’d felt then, and the spark of love for the boy who’d stood opposite her. She remembered the way she’d braced herself, tensing every muscle in her body until she almost vibrated, all so she could make him She thrust the iron-railing spear above her head. The concrete ramp reared up ahead of her. The scaffolding gleamed.

Beth, he’d said, I’m proud A hand flashed out of a gap in the fallen bricks and snared her ankle.

For a horrifying moment Beth flew, feeling the absence of gravity sickeningly in her stomach. Then she smacked hard into the concrete, three feet short of the ramp.

‘Argh!’ Her nose and lips felt puffy and stung. She rolled and came to her feet crouched, spear ready, poised for attack.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ a familiar voice said, ‘but Tsarina was about to self-kill. Was first thing could think of.’ Hunks of brick and concrete tumbled off a dusty tarp, revealing a figure in a threadbare greatcoat who wiped away the grey camo make-up from his face as he sat up. He pulled his beanie hat from his pocket, crammed it onto his erratic hair and fixed Beth with a hopeful grin. ‘Sorry!’ he said again cheerfully.

‘Victor?’ It was one surprise too many. The last of Beth’s cool fell tinkling into fragments on the floor

‘Da.’

‘Where did-? How did-? How the hell did you get ahead of me? ’

‘Well, back in Volgagrad was-’

‘Don’t tell me you were on the Siberian Olympic sprint team; I won’t believe it. I know you can’t run as fast as I can, so how?’

Victor looked embarrassed. ‘I take — you know — I take underground train.’

‘You took the tube?’ For some reason Beth found this deeply shocking.

‘Da, why not? I am old man now. Just because Tsarina go on foot-’

‘With what? You don’t have any money.’

‘Ticket collector, he from Old Country. He ask for ticket; I give him old Moscow greeting.’ He beamed.

Beth stared out at him sceptically over folded arms.

‘An old Moscow greeting? Did this greeting involve wristlocks, groin punches, chokeholds or anything else you might have learned in the Soviet secret police?’

‘Old Moscow greeting,’ Victor repeated. His smiling face shone with sincerity. ‘We understand each other very well.’

Beth stared at him, fury and fright swelling in her. She shook her head firmly. ‘No way. No way. The Thames’ll run with baboon sweat before I let this happen. Turn around, Victor, get out of here. This — it’s not your fight.’