Текст книги "Half Bad"

Автор книги: Sally Green

Соавторы: Sally Green
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Cobalt Alley

I’ve eaten the BLT, drunk all the water, and I’m looking at Cobalt Alley. It can’t be that hard. Can it? I’ve got to get on with it. Bob and Nikita kept to the narrow pavement on the righthand side. Bob’s building stretches back from the corner to the wall at the dead end. It’s a rundown low building, one story with a slate roof, and its one door and one window are way up the far end of the alley.

I keep a steady confident-looking but not rushed pace and have my head slightly angled away from the Council side. My eyes are staring at the entrance to Bob’s place. I’m thinking, Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I know I don’t look casual, and I have to make myself slow down in case anyone from the Council building can see. But then I feel a pull toward the Council building and I think, Shit! Bob’s place. Bob’s place. And I keep my eyes locked on his door.

I get there. Thank you.

Bob’s place.

I knock.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I stare at the door. I’m muttering now, “Please hurry. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

Nothing.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I knock again. Louder. “Hurry up. Hurry up! Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

What do I do if guards come out of the Council building now? I’m trapped. The whole thing could be a Council trap. And I feel my body being pulled again toward the Council building.

BOB’S PLACE! BOB’S PLACE! I can’t wait this long. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

The door clicks and opens a fraction.

Nothing else happens.

I step into the room, turn and push the door firmly shut.

“Bloody hell! Bob’s place.”

“Yes, do come in. Glad you made it, but I’ll have to kill you if you even glance at the painting.” Far from being a threat, the words sound like a desperate plea for attention.

I turn to see a grubby room. Even the air tastes grubby. Against the far wall, which isn’t that far, as the room is narrow, is a wooden table with a bowl of fruit on it. There are a few apples and pears scattered across the table. To my right there’s a wooden chair and an easel and beyond them an open door through which the voice called. The position of the easel indicates the painting will be a still life of fruit. I go toward the next room, stopping to look at the work in progress on the way. It’s good, traditional and detailed. Oil on canvas.

In the next room I see a man’s hunched back. He’s stirring something in a small, dented saucepan. There’s a smell of tomato soup.

I wait in the doorway. The room has the chilly feel of a cave. It seems even smaller than the painting studio, but that’s because against two walls are stacks of large canvas frames, all with their bare, pale backs to the room. The only light comes through two small skylights. There is a small black leatherette sofa, a low Formica coffee table with three legs, a wooden chair like the one in the first room, a row of kitchen cupboards with a stained worktop, on which stands a kettle and a single electric ring. On the drainer by the sink are a large number of mugs and an opened can of soup.

“I’m making lunch.”

When I don’t reply he stops stirring the soup and turns to look at me, straightening up as he smiles. He holds the wooden spoon in the air as he might hold a paintbrush and a reddish-orange blob drops onto the lino. “I’d like to paint you.”

I don’t think he’d get my eyes.

The man inclines his head. “Probably not. It would be a challenge.”

I don’t reply. Did I say that about my eyes aloud?

“You look like you could do with some.” He holds the saucepan up and raises his eyebrows in a question.

“Thanks.”

The man pours the soup into two of the mugs on the drainer and puts the pan in the sink. Then he picks up the mugs and offers me one, saying, “I’m afraid I’m out of croutons.”

He sits on the leatherette sofa, which is small and narrow.

“I’ve no idea what croutons are.”

“What is the world coming to?”

I sit on the chair and hold the mug to warm my hands. The room is remarkably cold, and the soup only just warm.

The man sits with his legs crossed, revealing how incredibly thin his legs are beneath his baggy trousers, and also one red sock. He twirls his foot around and around and sips his soup.

I swallow most of mine in one gulp.

His foot stops. “It’s the dampness that’s the problem in here. Even on a summer’s day it never gets any sun, and there’s damp coming up from underneath. It must be the river.” He sips his soup, pursing his lips after each taste, and then puts the mug on the table, saying, “And the electric ring’s on the blink and not giving out much heat.”

I savor the last mouthful of soup. It’s not as good as the BLT, but it’s good. And I realize I’m relaxed. I know it is him. He is definitely no Hunter. He is Bob.

“I’m serious, I’d love to paint you. Like that.” He waves a hand at me. “Sitting on the simple wooden chair, half starved and young. So, so young. And with those eyes.” He stops waving his hand and leans forward to stare into my face. “Those eyes.” He leans back again. “One day maybe you’ll let me paint you. However, that is not for today. Today is for business of a different nature.”

I’m about to open my mouth to speak and he puts his finger to his lips. “No need for that.”

I smile. I like this guy. I’m fairly sure his magic is mind-reading, which is incredibly rare and—

“I have a certain skill, but a bit like my painting it’s competent and practiced—workmanlike you might say, rather than . . .” He stops and gazes at me. “I’m no Cézanne. For example, I have to concentrate hard to pull the key thoughts from the scrambled egg that is your mind. But still it is obvious why you are here.” And now he taps the side of his nose.

I think loudly, I have to find Mercury.

“Now that I got clear as a bell.”

Can you help me?

“I can put you in touch with the next person in the chain. Nothing more.”

So it’s not going to be straight to Mercury from here. But I’ve got a deadline to work to. Two months away.

“Time enough. But you must understand, and I’m sure you understand better than most, that caution is vital for all concerned.”

Does he know who I am? Why would I understand better than most?

“I heard a rumor that a prisoner escaped from the Council. An important prisoner. The son of Marcus.”

Oh.

“Hunters are out hunting him. And they are very good at that.”

He stares at me.

I realize I have let a thought out of the bag.

“May I see them?”

I extend my hand toward him, but he gets up and goes into the far room. I hear a switch flick and the lightbulb above me dithers about coming to life. Bob returns and stands in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are cool and thin and his bony fingers pull my skin so that the tattoo is distorted.

“They really are hateful, aren’t they?”

I’m not sure if he means the tattoos or White Witches.

“Both, my darling, both.”

He lets go of my hand. “May I see the others?”

I show him.

“Well, well, well . . .” Bob returns to his seat on the sofa and his foot starts to twirl round again. “We need to see if you are right, if these are some way of tracking you. If they are, well, my fate is sealed already.”

He holds his hands up. “No, no. No apologies necessary . . . Indeed I think I may have to apologize to you, because we are going to have to get someone to look at those. I suspect it won’t be a quick procedure, and I know it won’t be pleasant. The man I’m thinking of is a philistine.”

Bob gets up and takes the mugs to the sink.

“I don’t think I’ll bother clearing up. Time to move on. You know, I’ve always thought I should paint in France, search for Cézanne’s spirit in the hills. I can do better than this.”

Yes.

“Should I take the paintings?”

I shrug.

“You’re right, a clean start is best. You know, I feel better already.”

He disappears again into the far room and comes back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen worktop, he sketches. It’s good to watch him. His sketch is better than his oil.

“You’re very kind. I thought a picture would make more sense to you than some ugly words.”

The sketch is of me reaching up to feel on top of a locker, in what looks to be a railway station. There is a sign, but I don’t try to read it now. I’ll spell it out later.

He hands the drawing to me, saying, “You know you are beautiful, don’t you? Don’t let them catch you.”

I look at him and can’t help but smile. He reminds me of Arran, his soft gray eyes filled with the same silvery light, though Bob’s whole face looks gray and lined.

“No need to rub it in about my appearance. Oh, there’s something else. You will need money.”

I realize I haven’t given Bob anything.

“You have given me the chance of a new life and a little inspiration. You are my muse and, alas, I will have to make do with this merest fleeting glimpse of you. But others are less interested in life’s aesthetics and more in its grubbily begotten gains.”

How much will they charge?

Now Bob spreads his arms and looks around the room, “As you can see I am not an expert with money myself. I’ve really no idea about it at all.”

I now remember to ask about Nikita.

The girl who helped me—is she a witch?

“My dear boy, I hope you realize that if, twenty minutes after you leave here, I get a knock on the door from a man asking questions about you, it would be terribly rude of me to answer them. I would hate to talk about you behind your back and I would never dream of being that discourteous about anyone who comes here. Whether the knock comes in twenty minutes or twenty years, the same rules of conduct must always apply.”

I nod.

Thank you for sending her to help me. And for the sandwiches.

“I didn’t ask her to give you any food.” He smiles. “She’s a tough cookie with a bit of a soft center.”

I grin at him and turn to leave.

He calls, “Adieu, mon cher,” as the door closes behind me.

I walk quickly down the alley, sticking close to the wall on my left, eyes fixed on the far buildings, thinking, The end of the alley. The end of the alley.

Money

Bob’s warning about the Hunters has really got to me. I knew they’d be after me, but now my adrenaline spikes every time I see a person dressed in black. I find a park a few miles away and pace around. A dog walker helps me read the sign in the drawing, which says Earls Court. Also in the drawing is a man sitting on a bench reading The Sunday Times. The dog walker tells me that today is Wednesday, so I’ve got four days to get as much cash together as possible.

I’ve no idea where to begin but I know getting a job isn’t going to be the answer. I remember Liam, whom I did community service with, giving advice about stealing. “Find someone stupid and rich—there’s loads of ’em—and rob ’em.”

* * *

I’m near St. Paul’s Cathedral. It’s all quiet. The few people I’ve seen have come out of a bar and got straight into a taxi. I’m waiting farther along the street.

It’s late when a lone City gent appears, walking carefully and cursing the lack of cabs. He has really fancy clothes, shoes with no holes in them, and a waistline that indicates lack of food is not a problem for him. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I walk up to him from across the road. He is pretending he hasn’t seen me and speeds up. I move into his path and he stops. He must weigh over twice what I do, and he’s not short, but he’s weak and knows it.

“Look, mate,” I say, “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.”

He’s looking around and I realize he’s going to start shouting.

I step up close and push him into the wall. He’s heavy, but as he hits the bricks the air sort of flobbers out of him like a balloon deflating. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.” I have my arm at his neck, pushing his head to the side. His eyes are staring at me, though.

He slides out a long, slim, black leather wallet from his jacket. His hand is shaking.

“Thank you,” I say.

I take the notes, flip the wallet closed, hand it back to the man and then I’m off.

Later, when I’m curled up in a shop entrance, I think about the man. He’s probably lying in a nice warm bed, and he definitely doesn’t have a pack of Hunters after him, but he could have ended up in hospital with a heart attack. I don’t want to kill people. I just need their money.

* * *

The next day I suss out Earls Court station. It takes me a while to find the platform and the place that matches Bob’s picture, but the bench, the sign, and the locker are there. I’ve just got to come back in three days and get whatever is on top of it. I go and sweep my hand over it now but find only grime.

Now I need some rich, healthy young men to rob.

* * *

Liam should come down to London. He’d love it. The place is full of stupid rich people. A few struggle, and some try to hit me, but basically it’s all over before it’s started.

I’ve bought a suit and had my hair cut so that I blend in with the fains. But it’s dead in Canary Wharf on Saturday, and I’m glad because stealing from these guys is pretty low and they are all pretty hopeless. I’ve got over three thousand pounds and a reasonably clear conscience, but it’s no fun doing anything just for the money.

* * *

On Sunday I get the tube to Earls Court and walk around the station, checking for Hunters. No one is even looking at me; everyone is looking blankly ahead or at their phones. I walk to the end of the platform and back to the locker and reach up.

A piece of paper is there. I slide it to the edge with my fingertips, stuff it straight into my pocket, and carry on with hardly a break in my stride.

In a cafe I befriend a woman. She goes through the instructions. They are similar to the ones Mary gave me but not as precise. They are for Thursday.

Jim and Trev (Part One)

I’ve followed the instructions carefully. They have taken me to the outskirts of London, to a grotty house at the grottier end of the sprawl. I’m standing in someone’s front room. It is dark in here. Jim is sitting on the stairs. Whereas Bob is a struggling artist, Jim appears to be a struggling criminal, a White Witch of the lowest ability. He’s no Hunter, that’s for sure.

The house is small, owned by fains who, Jim assures me, “don’t know nuffin’ ’bout nuffin’.” The front door opens into a lounge area that leads to the kitchen. There are stairs in one corner and a large flat-screen TV on the wall, but no chairs for some reason. Jim has closed the curtains and the air inside is heavy. There’s a smell of onions and garlic, which I think is coming from Jim.

Jim hasn’t told me how to get to Mercury but has told me how important a good passport is, how I will actually need two passports, how his passports are quality passports, that they are in fact real passports, and on and on . . .

He wipes his nose on the back of his hand before sniffing a large amount of snot back into his chest.

“There’s more work in these than a bespoke suit, more skill, more everythin’. These passports will get you through the strictest checks. These passports may save your life.”

I don’t even want a passport. I just want the directions to Mercury. But I’m guessing I shouldn’t fall out with him. “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Jim.”

“You’ll see I’m right, Ivan. You’ll see.”

“So that’s two thousand then, for two passports and the directions to Mercury.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivan, if I’ve not been clear. It’ll all come to three thousand pounds.” He wipes his nose again, this time with the palm of his hand.

“Look, you said a thousand for one passport.”

“Oh, Ivan, you’re new to this, aren’t you? Let me explain. It’s the problem of the foreigners. I’ll get you a British passport at a thousand, but it’s best to get one from somewhere foreign as well. The States is a possibility, but I favor New Zealand these days. A lot of people got grudges against the Yanks for one reason or another, but no one’s got a grudge against a Kiwi, ’cept maybe a few sheep . . .” And he sniffs and swallows deeply. “Course, foreign stuff is dearer.”

I don’t know. I’ve no idea if a thousand pounds is a good price or not. It sounds a lot to me. Two thousand sounds ridiculous.

“Mercury will want to know that you’re being careful. She likes people to take all the precautions.”

And I’ve no idea if he knows the first thing about Mercury, but . . . “Fine. When?”

“Great, Ivan. Lovely to do business with you. Lovely.”

“When?”

“Okay, son. I know you’re keen. Two weeks should see us right, but let’s say three to be on the safe side.”

“Let’s say two weeks, one passport and a thousand pounds.”

“Two weeks, two passports, three thousand.”

I nod and back away from him.

“Brill . . . Half now, of course.”

I can’t be bothered to argue more so I pull out three wads that I have made up of five hundred each. I saw that in a film and I’m pleased I’ve done it. Everything with Jim feels like a cheap gangster movie.

“Pick the directions up at the same time in two weeks and follow them. It’ll be a different meeting place. Never use the same place twice. You bring the money etc. etc.”

“Are the instructions part of a spell, Jim?”

“A spell?”

“The instructions to get to the meeting point. A spell to ensure Hunters can’t follow.”

Jim smiles. “Nah. Though I do always check out my customers as they wait for buses and trains and if I saw a Hunter I’d be long gone.”

“Oh.”

“But mainly they’re directions. Don’t want a customer getting lost. You wouldn’t believe how thick some people are.”

Jim goes to the door and switches the light on. “Blimey.” We both blink and shield our eyes in the glare. “Just need a photo of you.”

While he’s doing that I wonder what Gift he has. It’s considered rude to ask, but this is Jim so I do.

He says, “The usual. Potions. I hate ’em.”

He continues, “And I thought . . . we all thought that I was goin’ to have a strong Gift. From childhood I had this special talent, and my mother, bless her, said, ‘My son will have a strong Gift.’ See, already from age three or four, I could tell witches from fains. Could tell it easy, and that’s rare, that is.”

“Yes. Rare, for sure. So how do you do it, Jim?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe this but it’s all in the eyes . . . I see little glints of silver in White Witches’ eyes.”

My mouth must have dropped open.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Jim, I’m just . . . amazed. What exactly are these glints of silver like?”

“Oh well, like nothing else, really. The nearest I can say is that they are thin slices of silver and they move around, twistin’ and turnin’, like bits in one o’ them snow-shaker toys. That’s what it’s like.”

“You see it in your own eyes when you look in the mirror?”

“I do. I do.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes, it is. Beautiful, really. Witches have beautiful eyes.”

“And what do you see in my eyes, Jim?”

“Oh well, your eyes . . . you’ve got interestin’ eyes for sure.”

“Do you see silvery sparks?”

“Ivan, if I’m honest, I’d have to say, not so much silvery . . .”

I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall.

“Do all White Witches have silvery bits in them?”

“As far as I’ve seen they do.”

“Have you ever met any Black Witches?”

“A few. Their eyes is different.” He looks worried. “Not silvery.”

“Like mine?”

“No. I’d say yours are unique, Ivan.”

No. They’re like my father’s.

Jim gives a huge sniff and swallow then sits next to me.

“I can tell Half Bloods as well.”

“You can?” I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Half Blood, someone who is half witch and half fain. They are despised by witches.

“They’ve got real pretty eyes. Weird, though . . . like flowing water.”

There’s a knock on the door and I’m on my feet behind it, looking at Jim. He’s smiling at me.

“All right, Ivan, all right. It’s just Trev.” Jim looks at his watch. “He’s late, though. He’s always late, is Trev.”

“Who’s Trev?” I whisper.

Jim gets up and stretches his back before wandering to the door.

“Trev’s the brains. He’s got skills, has Trev”—and here Jim lowers his voice to a whisper—“not a lot of magic but a lot of skills. He’s goin’ to take a look at them tattoos for you.”

* * *

Trev looks like an expert, but I’m not sure in what. He is exceptionally tall, balding, with wispy gray hair growing from below the level of the top of his ears to his shoulders. He’s wearing a worn brown suit, thick beige shirt, and rust-red knitted waistcoat. Trev is expressionless in every way. His body seems to float along with hardly any arm or even leg movement. His voice when he says, “Hello, Jim,” is flat and toneless. He shows minimal interest in me and hardly looks at my face, which is fine. He is, however, brought to life by my tattoos.

“I’ll have to take samples,” he says, peering at me and pulling my skin around and moving from my neck to my hand and then my leg. “Of the skin and bone.”

“The bone?”

“I’ll take it from your ankle.”

“How?”

Trev doesn’t answer but kneels on the floor and opens a scuffed, black leather bag. It looks like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.

I notice that Jim is grinning.

“Are you a doctor, Trev?” I ask.

Trev possibly hasn’t heard as he doesn’t reply. Jim sniggers and sniffs heartily.

Trev pulls out a plastic bag, rips it open, and lays a blue surgical sheet on the floor. Next out of the bag is a scalpel; it too is in a plastic bag that is quickly ripped open and thrown to one side. Soon there is a glinting row of surgical implements, most worryingly a small hacksaw.

By this stage Jim is hopping around with glee.

Trev lays another blue sheet beneath my leg and then starts to clean my ankle with a surgical wipe, saying, “It’s better if I don’t use anesthetic.”

“What?”

“Except the patient usually jerks around too much. Think you can hold still?”

“Probably not.” My voice has gone higher.

“Shame.” And he turns to his bag and removes a hypodermic needle and some clear liquid. “I need to analyze the skin, tissue, and bone. If there’s some anesthetic in there it may skew the results.”

I don’t know if he’s making this up and just wants to make Jim’s day.

Jim looks expectant.

“Okay. I’ll hold still.” And I wonder at what stage I can change my mind.

“Jim can help . . .”

“No, I don’t need him.” I don’t want his snotty fingers anywhere near me. They’re more terrifying than the hacksaw.

“Don’t do any healing until I say I’ve finished. I’ll be quick.”

To give Trev his due, he doesn’t hang around.

I don’t jerk. I’m rigid, watching it all. I don’t make a sound either, no screaming or moaning, though my jaw and teeth ache, I’m clenching them so tightly. I’m drenched in sweat by the end of it.

Jim watches me heal and says, “Blimey! You’re quick.”

Trev then asks how the tattoos were applied and while I talk he pops lids onto the four small, round plastic trays that contain the bits of skin, blood, flesh, and bone. Then he stacks the trays and puts a large elastic band round them, holding them together. He carefully places them in the corner of his bag. Next he rolls up the bloodied plastic sheet with the surgical tools into a large bundle, gets Jim to hold open a bin liner, and slides the lot in, then screws up the sheet that was under my leg and tosses that in as well.

He peers at my ankle and nods. “I took the ‘0,’ but you can see it’s already reappeared on the scab. That’s very clever. It’s all very clever. I’ll take a few photos.” He gets out his phone and clicks away.

“Interesting scars,” he says, looking at my hand. “Acid?”

“You’re studying the tattoos,” I say.

“Just professional interest.”

“How soon will you be able to tell me the results?”

Trev looks at me totally blankly. “I need to analyze what chemicals are in the tattoos. That should be straightforward, but there’ll be magic involved, which makes it a thousand times more complicated.”

“How soon will you know if they’re tracking me?”

Trev doesn’t answer. He snaps the lock on his bag and stands up to go. He says to Jim, “The tattoos are unlikely to be used to track him.” And Trev picks up his bag and walks out.

Jim shuts the door. “No manners. That’s ’cause he’s too bright for ’em. Still wouldn’t do ’im any ’arm to try.” He sniffs, swallows a mouthful, and then says, “He never rushes neither. Never. I’ll give you the latest when I see you in two weeks.”

“He didn’t mention money.”

“A sad failin’ of our Trev, that is. Thinks he’s above all that. ’Course he’s got to eat, ain’t ’e? Like anyone.”

“I’m guessing he isn’t cheap.”

“He’s an expert, Ivan. Experts ain’t cheap. Experts in passports, experts in tattoos, experts in anythin’ ain’t cheap. He charges by the hour. I’ll let you know what sort of region he’s goin’ to be in when I see you next time.”