Dark Winter

54

As the church filled up on the first floor, Suzy’s hands worked inside the carrier-bag, pulling away the cardboard and plastic packaging from the knives. I ripped the plastic away from the goggles, masks and the ten-pack of latex gloves, and stuffed half of them into my pockets. The rest were for Suzy.

‘This is how I see it. I’ll try to leave the front door open in case you need it. I’ll collect DW, and meet you back here. If I’m not back in thirty, or you don’t get a call, come and get me. If the front door is closed, there might be another way in through the church, or maybe round the back here. You need to check it out.’

She nodded and one of her hands jerked against the side of the bag as a knife suddenly parted company with its wrapping. ‘OK, thirty – then I’ll come and save your arse, yet again.’

I took off my bumbag and passed it over. I was going in there sterile, apart from the cell. She slipped me two of the shorter vegetable knives and they went into my jacket pocket.

‘Thirty, then?’ I got up, kissed her cheek, then started walking. I turned left out of the graveyard, back on to the busy main, then left again towards the building. Break-out had got busier and so had the church: people were filing in munching on sandwiches, or fruit fresh from the stall. I stopped by the bank of call buttons for the flats. The organ was thumping out a happy-clappy tune next door as I used a knuckle to press twenty-seven. It took for ever, but at last the speaker crackled. I heard someone coughing, then nothing apart from a burst of static. A truck roared past and I had to put my mouth right up to the intercom. ‘I’ve been sent from London. You’re expecting me.’

There was a delay, then the door gave a buzz. Once inside, I used my foot to stop it locking again, and had a look round. There was no CCTV: the only visible security was the intercom and door lock, a Yale-type device that couldn’t be overridden. I folded one of the masks over the bolt and pushed the door closed so it wedged in position.

I found myself in a white fake-marble hall that smelt of pine cleaning fluid. According to the signs, twenty-seven would be on the second floor. As I climbed the stairs, listening to a dim murmur from the happy-clappies and the squeak of my Caterpillars on the shiny floor, I started to pull on a pair of gloves.

The steel-and-glass fire door to the second floor opened into a clinically white corridor. There were apartment doors on both sides; I put on the goggles and all four masks as I squeaked down towards number twenty-seven. It was at the end on the left, which meant it faced the main.

Checking my protection one last time, I knocked on the door, making sure my face was directly in front of the spyhole. I was standing there for a good fifteen seconds before I heard the sound of gaffer-tape being stripped away. It opened eventually, just a quarter of the way, and what I saw made me step straight back against the wall on the other side of the corridor. Six foot, my arse: I wanted to be a hundred from this fucker.

The face at the door belonged to a young Turk or Arab, mid-twenties maybe, his hands stained red with paint. That didn’t worry me. What did was the state of his face. His eyes were bloodshot and he was soaked with sweat. He panted rather than breathed, and snot poured from his nose. I lifted my hand to stop him coming any further towards me. ‘You speak English?’

He nodded, then disappeared behind the door and gave an agonizing cough. Even through the masks, the smell of shit and decay seeping out from the flat was overpowering.

His head reappeared, framed by lank, greasy hair.

‘Bring the bottles to the door, OK? You get that?’

He nodded slowly, wiped his nose with his sleeve and shuffled back into the flat, leaving the door ajar. The happy-clappies were still doing their bit for God down below.

I moved left along the opposite wall until I got level with the doorway. The hall was small, square and empty, apart from the vomit covering the carpet and splashed up the walls, and the lengths of gaffer-tape that had probably been sealing the gap between door and frame. I heard more vomit hitting the floor and moved further left. Some of the living area came into view; I could see a big square window, curtained off with cheap material that let in the light. The walls were covered with the same red, spray-painted lettering we’d seen at King’s Cross. I moved a little more to the left to try to see more, and wished I hadn’t.

A dark-skinned body was sprawled on the carpet. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, because it was in an even worse state than Archibald. On the floor next to it were two shoulder-bags. I didn’t need Simon here to tell me what was inside.

I could feel myself starting to gag.

The stomach was so bloated that it had burst through the vomit-covered shirt. All the exposed flesh was covered with saucer-sized scabs, weeping pus that glistened in the light. More vomit clung to the face. I couldn’t tell if he or she was still alive; if they were, it wouldn’t be for much longer.

I heard the noise of retching from another room, followed by a wet, phlegm-laden cough that sounded like a drain being cleared. My guy was still trying to make it to the door.

The body’s head moved, rolling to one side so that its dark eyes looked at me. The mouth smiled, just for a second or so, before it spewed its guts up, probably for the last time. Fuck ’em, they didn’t look or sound like martyrs to me.

He made it to the door, carrying a six-bottle wine carton. One of the spaces was empty. Maybe they’d had a breakage. That would certainly have explained why these two were in shit state.

I pointed to the corridor between us. ‘Down there.’

He coughed up a gobbet of phlegm the size of a golfball and bent down to do as I’d told him. As he turned back he spat it into the hallway, then moved back inside and coughed up some more. The door closed. Everything went quiet. The happy-clappies were obviously taking a break.

I couldn’t see any phlegm, vomit or shit on the bottles or box from where I stood. Not that it mattered: I still had to pick the fucking thing up.

My boots squeaked the three paces. I picked up the wine carrier with my gloved hand and started back down the stairs, my right arm held out so the cardboard didn’t touch my clothes. It wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference, but somehow it made me feel better.

I got to the front door and placed the box carefully on the floor. I took off my mask and goggles, making sure my gloves didn’t touch my face. The door opened with a gentle pull and the mask blocking the bolt fell into the street. I leant down, picked up the box and walked out, breathing deeply to try to rid my nose and lungs of the stench as I headed for the cemetery.

Suzy wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the graveyard. Clutching the goggles and masks in my left hand, I pulled off the glove so it enveloped everything, and dumped it in a bin. I found myself a free bench and began to feel a little worried about contamination – well, a lot worried. I knew I’d been reasonably protected, and had kept well away from them, but what about the bottles? What if one was leaking? I told myself there wasn’t time to think: there was still too much to do.

I pulled off my right glove, powered up the cell and called Suzy, but just got the messaging service. I cut off and tried again, with the same result. What was going on here?

I tried once more, and this time she answered. I could hear traffic, and the sound of her walking. ‘Where are you?’

‘On the main.’

‘I couldn’t get you.’

‘Must have been in a dead spot. I’ve just been having a look round the front.’

‘I’m back in the graveyard. I’ve got ’em. Bring some carrier-bags.’

‘I’ll be there in a couple.’

As I cut off the power and put away the phone in my bomber, people streamed past the windows on the first floor of the block. It was back-to-work time for the happy-clappies.

I had to assume the bottles were airtight. They wouldn’t have wanted the job getting fucked up more than it was already. They wanted the London attack to go ahead. That was why they’d sealed themselves in. They didn’t want to raise the alarm.

Suzy came in from the wrought-iron gates as I swallowed another couple of capsules. I gave her a casual-contact wave, and got a happy smile back as she sat down next to me. We greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, and she put her arm in mine. She handed over two white supermarket carriers, still stuck together at the handles.

‘It’s in shit state up there.’ I described what I’d seen. ‘Let’s get a cab and fuck off. Who knows? Maybe we can get an earlier flight.’

I started to pack the box into one of the carriers, but Suzy wasn’t ready to go just yet. ‘What about those two up there? Maybe there’s even more. They could decide to—’

‘No way are they going to compromise themselves and fuck up London.’ I wrapped the second bag around the first. ‘Let the fuckers weep themselves to death. Fuck ’em, they’re not going anywhere.’

She wasn’t having any of it. ‘But the rest of the bottle could still be up there. You’ve seen what that stuff can do. Come on, Nick, we’ve got to do something.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Listen, you get any bright ideas, just tell me. Until then, the best I can do is get this shit back to the UK. Kelly, remember?’ I picked up the DW and we walked out towards the main. ‘Sorry, but that’s how it is.’

We avoided the front of the apartment block, in case any of the ASU were looking out. I didn’t want them to see us together – we didn’t know if they had contact with the source.

It wasn’t long before we were in the back of a cab, heading for the airport.

There was no problem changing to an earlier flight. The last plane out was the busiest, so they were only too happy to have two passengers giving up their seats. We went straight into Departures, where Suzy bought some scent and two huge Toblerone bars, so that we ended up with two Berlin duty-free carrier-bags, one inside the other, for the wine box. It looked completely at home among the sea of red plastic bags that were waiting for our flight.

We took off for Stansted with the DW packed tightly into the luggage lockers, inside our coats. The flight attendant wouldn’t let us keep them by our feet. I made a mental note to get to the locker before the suit the other side of me when we landed.