Amongst Our Weapons

17 Teamwork

We never did figure out how she got in. All the other sudden appearances were heralded by a flash and that bell-like vestigium that seemed so loud it was almost a real sound. Not to mention the halo and the wings of fire.

Certainly it was unlikely she walked through our perimeter, although, truth be told, it did prove a bit more porous than we might have liked.

Our best guess was that she was having a lie-down in the shelter’s women’s dormitory, although Greg swore later that he’d double-checked for malingerers. Perhaps the open reveal of the ring had brought her out, or she’d just finished having a nap and the timing was a coincidence.

One day we may find out. But at that moment I had other things on my mind.

‘Francisca,’ I said. ‘Hi.’

Behind me, I heard Spencer-Talbot yelling at Guleed to get off her – in our risk assessment it was decided that in this eventuality Guleed would grab any civilians while I tried to contain Francisca.

‘How are you doing?’ I asked.

Francisca cocked her head to one side and frowned as if seriously considering an answer.

‘I’m OK,’ she said.

‘Good, good,’ I said, hoping that Nightingale was on his way. ‘Heather was asking after you.’

Her face twisted then. Concern? Pain? Anguish? It was hard to tell. Definitely a strong emotion, though.

‘She was wondering whether you might come see her.’ I said.

Francesca’s face fell back into a puzzled frown, and I thought I might even be able to talk her down, when suddenly her gaze flicked over my shoulder. I had a choice then – keep talking or start the spell. I chose wrong.

‘She misses you,’ I said.

Behind me I felt, rather than heard, the distinctive ripping silk sound of Guleed letting loose and two thwacks in rapid succession. Then Lesley yelping in pain and Spencer-Talbot shouting in surprise.

Sīphōnem is a tricky spell at the best of times, and this was a modified version that I hadn’t had a chance to practise more than once. Even as Francisca tensed and prepared to act, I was lining up the formae, but I was rushing it and tripped over one of the inflectentes. Luckily, all that happened was that the spell failed.

Unluckily, Francisca went full Angel of Vengeance mode.

It might have been because I was closer, or because this was not my first angelic manifestation, but this time I actually followed the sequence. And had I been slightly less terrified, I would have been amazed by its beauty. It unfolded like a rose, with petals of pink and white and the smell of incense and orange blossom.

More importantly, I could feel the edges – the boundary between the physical Francisca and the allokosmos that was driving her power. Plus there was a definite suction, as if gravity had twisted through ninety degrees, and if I let go I would plunge into the source of that colour, sensation and power.

I wondered what I would find there.

Fortunately, the sensible part of my brain concluded that it was foolish to stand there gawping and made the command decision for me to throw myself to one side. Unfortunately, I landed face down on a table I hadn’t known was there, and went sliding across it and then head first off the edge.

I distinctly heard Spencer-Talbot shout ‘Oh my God!’ before I smacked into the rough cement floor. I managed to roll clumsily and, using a potted tree to pull myself up, I turned to make a tactical assessment.

Danni was pulling Greg towards the back door, but he was resisting and trying to get back to Spencer-Talbot. She was falling backwards after being pushed hard by Guleed with her left arm as she raised her extendable baton to fend off Lesley, who was trying to duck around her.

And Nightingale had advanced into the canteen area to block Francisca’s advance on Spencer-Talbot.

Francisca herself was in a rage – wings of fire scattering salt and pepper shakers and napkins off the canteen tables, knocking plants out of their hanging baskets. But not – I noticed – setting things on fire.

I dodged through the tables, trying to take a position behind Francisca – on her blind side.

Nightingale had his left hand extended, palm out, towards Francisca, while his right was tucked into his chest as if he was limbering up for a boxing match. I could feel the tick-tick-tick of his signare, but whatever he was doing, it was too subtle for me to track.

Powerful, though – and complex.

Francisca froze in place, spear raised but not aimed, wings half-furled. For a moment, Nightingale had her, and I took a second to help out Guleed by flicking a water bomb at Lesley’s head. I didn’t wait to see if it landed, because Francisca shuddered and lurched towards Spencer-Talbot, who had crawled under the table and emerged into the clear space between it and the main fight.

She held up both her hands, palms out.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ she said. ‘But all are welcome here.’

For a moment Francisca hesitated – the burning spear raised.

Then the spear lunged forwards, striking at her chest.

But the hesitation had been long enough for Nightingale to pick up one of the trestle tables and impello it between Francisca and her victim. The tip of the spear struck the surface of the table and splinters of wood exploded backwards. I dropped to the floor in time to avoid the shrapnel, but I heard Francisca scream in pain.

The table split in half, but Nightingale held both pieces in place and then sent them flying towards Francisca. I reckoned that since she was distracted, this was my cue to act. I didn’t bother with a spell; instead I swivelled around on my back and kicked at her heel with both feet.

Francisca threw up her spear to guard her face as the table halves slammed into her. The timing couldn’t have been better, as my heel connected with her ankle at exactly the right moment. She went over backwards and landed right on top of me. She was heavier than she looked and the impact knocked out my breath, but I still managed to lock my arms around her, pinning her own arms to her sides.

Francisca wriggled and grunted as she tried to break free. I could feel the power of her wings as a hot breath on my arms. Her physical body was hard and strong in the way some of my cousins, the ones who grew up on subsistence farms in Sierra Leone, were. I didn’t think I could hold her for long, so I looked around for help.

There was a confused fight amongst the tables as Danni and Guleed tried to drag Spencer-Talbot out, while Lesley tried to grab the ring from around the poor woman’s neck. Spencer-Talbot was struggling and yelling something incoherent about letting God help.

He certainly wasn’t helping me as Francisca smacked her head back against my face, once, twice. I felt my grip around her body weakening.

‘Peter, let go!’ shouted Nightingale from the other side of the room.

I released Francisca and she was dragged feet first off my body and up towards the high ceiling. I caught a sense of the spell – there was the aer forma, which gives you a grip on bits of air, plus a complex mass of other formae, all swirling around too fast for me to clock.

I rolled over and came up on one knee. In front of me, Francisca was hoisted and wrapped in bands of what I learnt later were thickened air – visible only in the way the light refracted through them. She looked at the time like a Barbie doll trussed with Sellotape.

‘Now!’ shouted Nightingale.

I tried the sīphōnem variant again and this time it went smoothly, almost naturally, and I could feel it working. I felt the edges of the spell catch at something that was simultaneously both around and inside Francisca’s body. I think she felt it, too, because she began to thrash, wriggling like a snake shedding its skin. I saw the barely visible bands that bound her suddenly shatter.

There was nothing I could do to speed things up – the spell was going at the speed it was going.

But I was almost there.

Francisca flipped like a cat and landed on her feet. With an angry snarl, she flung out an arm in Nightingale’s direction and he disappeared in a blizzard of bits of table, plant pots, chairs and jangling stainless steel cutlery. A chalk menu board flew across the canteen and smacked into the far wall with a bang and a small cloud of chalk dust.

I was sure I had her – even as she turned her gaze on me and raised her spear.

I had the connection; the power was beginning to siphon out … although something was pulling me into the boundary. I had the weirdest idea that I had to let go and allow myself to be sucked inside, as if an exchange was necessary for the spell to work.

That’s the trouble with magic – it’s unpredictable, and you never know what’s going to happen until you try it.

Francisca reared up above me, wings spread, spear poised.

For a moment Francisca was framed in a peacock’s tail of blue and green – like a stained glass window in full sunlight. And through it I felt the warmth of summer stone and the sound of running water.

I could feel a connection, as if part of Francisca stretched back into the unknown.

If I could just follow that thread …

Then something grabbed hold of the back of my belt and yanked me backwards.

The spear came down and the cement floor exploded as I skidded backwards. I heard Lesley shout, ‘For fuck’s sake, Peter! Get out of the fucking way!’

I slammed into an overturned table and before I could move, the spear came darting for my chest again. One thing was for certain. Francisca definitely had a thing about hearts.

A shield formed in front of me, a shimmer in the air with a tinge of blue. The spear struck it and slid upwards, so I went sideways. As I scrambled for safety I felt, rather than saw, Nightingale try the binding spell again.

Third time lucky, I thought, and tried to clear my mind.

But before I could line up the spell, Francisca screamed. There was a brilliant light and she vanished. Then there was one of those pauses that happen just before a disaster, and are just long enough for your realisation and too short for useful action.

I’d barely got to my knees when a concussion blew me over, tables and chairs splintered, and a nearby pillar cracked from one side to the other.

Not a real explosion, I thought as I got to my feet.

My ears were ringing, but they didn’t hurt. But powerful enough to fill the air with cement dust and leaves and petals ripped off the plants of the indoor garden, as though by a gale.

There was a smell of burning grease coming from the kitchen.

I couldn’t see Nightingale, Danni or Guleed.

But I could see Lesley standing nearby and calmly tying her hair back with a yellow scrunchie. The clothes she’d been wearing as a disguise were hanging in shreds to reveal a skintight blue and white lycra top. She must have heard me, because she looked over and smiled.

‘That could have gone better,’ she said, and bolted.

She went out through the back door, which was hanging off its hinges.

I hesitated – thinking that maybe I should check on the others first. But this was probably the best chance I was getting to get to nick Lesley, so I went after her instead.

The fire door at the end of the short corridor was still swinging closed as I shouldered through it. With the amount of magic we’d been flinging around, any operating phone or Airwave would have been dusted and I didn’t have time to fish out my backup.

I’d just have to hope that Seawoll’s perimeter would call it in for me.

There were a couple of members of that perimeter lying on their backs just outside the back door. I slowed, but the two TSG officers, in full protective gear including helmets, were swearing and clutching their knees.

‘Left, left, left!’ shouted one of them. ‘She went left – over the wall!’

It was a courtyard surrounded on three sides by high Victorian red-brick walls. There was a closed double gate at the far end and stacks of pallets, industrial-sized silver bins and other catering cast-offs against the right-hand wall. The only thing on the left was a big chest freezer pushed up against the wall. I jumped up on it and, because this was Lesley we were talking about, cautiously looked over the top of the wall.

As a cheap alternative to barbed wire, broken bottles had been cemented along the top. A metre-wide gap had been blown to smithereens, leaving pulverised glass and cement dust behind. Beyond was the 521 bus depot, with ranks of single-deck buses lined up ready for use. I caught a flash of blue to the right and spotted Lesley sliding into the narrow gap between two buses.

‘In the bus depot!’ I shouted, in the hope that backup was just behind me, and I vaulted the wall.

It was a longer drop than I expected, and the shock jarred my ankles when I landed. I stumbled, and when I looked up Lesley was gone, but I’d marked her route.

It’s always the same problem when chasing an armed suspect. Not only can they run flat out while you check round every corner first, but you’ve got to avoid bottling them up with unsuspecting members of the public. Still, I didn’t think Lesley was going to start indiscriminately flinging magic around in a populated area, or blow my head off if I stuck it out.

Do something unpleasant, maybe. But not kill me.

And while she paused to do that, Nightingale would have time to catch up.

So I ran quickly down the narrow red canyon between the buses and didn’t pause as I emerged out into the access road beyond.

Ahead, I felt the sudden ticking of a clock and the long scrape of a straight razor sliding down its strop. Lesley’s signare again. And then a real-world sound like guitar strings snapping. Ahead of me was a line of double-deckers parked parallel to the access road. I ran through the short gap between two of the buses and ran into a brick wall. It was chest-high and topped with another two metres of chain-link fence. The buses were parked just far enough away from the wall to allow me to slide along to where a large hole had been melted in the fence. When I brushed my hand against the twisted ends of the wires, they were warm to the touch and resonated with the cry of a seagull.

On the other side of the wall was a 1950s council estate, six or so storeys, brick-built and solid in a way later estates aren’t. A concrete access road ran left and right but there was no sign of Lesley.

I sighed and hauled myself over the wall and through the hole in the fence. At my feet, I found a pile of rags. I squatted down and had a look – they were the remains of Lesley’s disguise. By now she would have grabbed a jacket from somewhere, changed her face and would be Jason Bourne-ing it off into the sunset.

If she knew what was good for her.

I heard running feet and looked left.

Nightingale was loping up the access road towards me. He slowed to a walk when he saw I wasn’t chasing anyone any more.

‘Do you think she went to ground in the flats?’ he asked when he reached me.

I said it was possible but not likely.

‘She knows how we work,’ I said. ‘She’s counting on the fact that we’re going to have to go door to door just to be on the safe side.’

‘How many dwellings do you think that is?’ he said.

There were two main blocks, plus a three-storey block that ran along the back.

‘Over two hundred,’ I said, and pointed out the other, bigger tower block over the road to the right and the even bigger high-rise to the left.

‘I’m not sure that would be a good use of our time,’ said Nightingale.

He was thinking that safely tackling Lesley would be a job for both of us, and even if we used Danni, Guleed and the TSG as beaters – Nightingale’s analogy, not mine – chances are she could still evade us.

‘And then, while we’re otherwise occupied,’ said Nightingale, ‘she could be about her business.’

Which was, for some reason, collecting rings.

‘She took a bit of a chance trying to grab it with us there,’ I said. ‘Not to mention Our Lady of the Radical Heart Transplant. She must want those rings quite badly.’

Nightingale’s eyes had never stopped scanning the blocks in front of us.

‘It appears so,’ he said. ‘Although she did act to save your life. Twice, in fact.’

‘I did sort of notice that,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t count on her saving it a third time,’ he said.

‘Interesting, though, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘First she warns us about the angel and then she saves my life. She could have gone after the last ring, but she shielded me instead.’

‘Do have any idea why?’ asked Nightingale.

‘We were friends,’ I said. ‘Mates are like family sometimes. You don’t always behave in your own best interest.’

‘True,’ said Nightingale. ‘Combat is disorientating – soldiers often act on instinct rather than rational consideration. I’d rather you avoided such situations in the future.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s what worries me.’

Somebody was frying something in a nearby flat and my stomach rumbled. I was about to suggest that we went in search of a working phone when Danni and Guleed drove up in a commandeered response car.

Given that both Francisca and Lesley had escaped, they seemed in a good mood. Danni was practically bouncing up and down on her heels and Guleed had that particular shade of non-expression that I’d learnt to interpret as unbearable smugness.

‘What?’ I asked when they walked over and Danni grinned.

‘Guess what we snatched off Lesley?’ she said.

And she held up a yellow and black narrow-gauge bungee cord tied into a loop and strung with silver rings. Platinum rings, to be more precise, and there were five of them.