It was the leathery woman who answered. ‘Why, nothing much. Just a big crossroads – where the main road came in from the port. It was a separate town then.’
I took a deep breath. ‘That would do it. Listen, we’ve got to get these streets clear now – but be careful. There may be things about you don’t expect – and that’s putting it mildly! Don’t get led around any corners, don’t get decoyed away from the rest of us. It’s more important than ever we stick together now. And if I disappear, don’t any of you come after me – right? Follow Sean here.’
‘Why? You planning to leave us?’ He grinned. ‘Daddy, who was that masked man?’
‘I’m not planning anything, but somebody else may be. As to who I am – ever read the business pages?’
‘Me? You’re joking, jimmy. Just page three and the football.’
‘Good. Keep it that way. Let’s move.’
Nobody was over-jubilant, I was glad to see. In fact, though we’d had no casualties, they looked more sober and less excited than before. They’d seen how well organized the rioters were and no doubt they’d got around to wondering why. Some sort of military organization pretending to be drunken criminals, with makeshift weapons – pretending pretty hard, with a bit of gang-banging along the way. What were they really after? And why were they striking where the Spiral was strong, in a place where many paths had crossed in space and time? Because that was where they came from?
A couple of smaller groups took one look at us and bolted, as if the word had got around. We kept on, sweeping the main streets, picking up one or two recruits as we went, getting a couple of casualties under cover. That was how we came
upon the second gang, the larger one. We followed the trail they left out onto a main road, and spotted them from there. They were busy around the foot of a church; wisps of smoke were boiling out from beneath its roof, light flickering behind its leaded panes. Faces turned as we appeared, and this time every single one of them looked alike, men and women all; the heavy faces, the same faces, piggy, brutal, blunt.
It was then I made the connection. The German rioters – these – and those monstrous helpers of Stryge’s. Even the general body shape was the same, in different sizes, in both sexes. As if they were related. As if the one might be cousin to the other; or might grow into it. Three ages of man; three stages of Unman. The more they grew, the less human they looked. The child is father to – what?
These weren’t any kind of rioters. I was looking at another human subspecies, like the Wolves, spawned probably by God alone knew what blend of abominable conditions and unearthly forces out along the Spiral. They were moving, quickly now, gathering in ragged ranks – or was that a spearhead? And if they were anything at all like the Wolves, they were incredibly dangerous.
I looked at my makeshift troops. Sean and Billy interpreted that look, and unshipped their guns. ‘That lot’ll take some shifting,’ muttered somebody.
‘Remember,’ I hissed urgently. ‘Don’t let them trap you into a full-scale fight – they’ll win. Pull back, harass them, keep them busy without sticking your necks out. In, bash, then out again, till they run or the cops come. Now –
move!’
I hardly needed to tell them. We were already spilling across the road, spurred on by shared anger and fear, breaking into a trot, and then, suddenly, into an all-out run. I saw the heavy figures mass to meet us, then heard a rattle and a sudden frenzied snarl. That woman should have been a general; her timing was just right, the effect shattering. The two huge dogs, freed from their chains, went racing out ahead of me with a furious howl, as if they sensed the inhumanity ahead, jumped the low churchyard wall and flung themselves at the leaders. The others jumped back, and we came pouring over the wall. I leaped over the struggling figures and swung at their followers with great roundhouse slashes that made the air sing. I felled
one, maybe injured more, but the main effect was psychological; they hopped like bunnies, ducked and fell over their fellows at the rear. Beside me a shotgun went off, then another, I kept on slashing and plunged headfirst into screaming confusion. A crowbar parried one blow, then bent uselessly; machetes snapped. A squat figure slashed at one of the young men with a garden sickle, then folded at a blow from the fireaxe; wooden poles jabbed out at face or stomach, or tripped up opponents. Around me, weapons lost or forgotten, fighters rolled and traded punches, or clawed at each other’s throats. That was what I didn’t want. I jabbed at a couple of the strugglers – and then literally jumped as something whistled by, shearing hair from my head and the shoulder padding from my jacket. Somebody else had a proper sword, and for the ursine bulk that was all I could see of him, he was no slouch with it.
We crossed blades, slash and parry. He lunged with appalling force, I gave back, caught his blade outstretched and slapped it aside against a gravestone. I lunged in, connected and heard him grunt. But not enough; he recovered, cut at my legs and sent me stumbling. I slashed out again, expecting to send his sword flying; it was like hitting a brick wall. That, with a wound in him; these characters were strong as Wolves. We had to make them start running, break and scatter. He cut at me again, viciously hard, I ducked down, he bellowed in triumph and launched a fearful downward slash. His sword rang and smashed in two on the gravestone I’d ducked behind; they made them of granite in this part of the world. I sprang up and went for him. With only the stump of a sword he had every excuse for running, but as I’d hoped it broke the others. They pulled away, split and bolted across the churchyard, stumbling over the crosses and gravestones; the locals streamed after them. But my man went limping off around the far side of the church; and if as seemed likely he was a leader, I wanted to get my hands on him. I went after him; but abruptly a flash lit the corner of the building, there was a loud dull bang quite unlike a shotgun’s cough, and I saw him stagger back. Another flash and thump, and he was flung sprawling back over a gravestone, and slid down it unmoving, chin on chest.
I was about to duck away, when I found myself looking down the barrel of the original smoking gun. A massive Colt automatic stared at me with an eye blacker than
the night, and only the slightest tremor. But I managed to outstare it, and look behind the bunched hands that gripped it, the stiffened arms. ‘I might have known,’ I wheezed disgustedly. For some reason my mouth felt appallingly dry. ‘Aggro before brains, every time, Little Miss 1726!’
‘You!’ she barked, and her voice dripped venom. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it? Your idea of fun!’ She laughed an angry little laugh, and it cracked at the end. Her face was indistinct in the gloom, but one eye flickered, as if there was a tic in the lid; the pistol hardly wavered. ‘Christ, you and the Night Children – you must have really thought you were laughing now!’
‘The who? Christ. I’m not with
them—’
She wasn’t listening to a word.
‘Bloody well laugh at this!’
She squeezed the trigger. At that range she could hardly have missed; but it was her very steadiness that saved me. My teacher Mall had turned a pistol bullet in flight; I couldn’t do that, but the barrel made a steady mark, and squinting down it like that she couldn’t see me readying my sword. It was close-run, even so, because the clanging impact and the shot were simultaneous, and the bullet and the flame singed my cheek. No second chances here; I hared off at full tilt, hurdled a gravestone with a yelp as her second shot smashed chips off it, and zigzagged away among the trees. My merry men, discipline forgotten, were a long way down the street now, beating the bejasus out of such of their opponents as hadn’t run fast enough, and good luck to them; but she was between me and them, and I couldn’t attract their attention. Another bullet whined off the wall, altogether too close. Nothing for it; they’d have to manage for themselves now, I wasn’t hanging around with little Miss Paranoia 1726 on my heels. I legged it away up a passing side-street, and into the night once more.
I’d no idea where I was, but I kept on running, ducking, weaving, dodging suddenly around corners. I’d encountered some scary people in my time, and more than people; but that woman unnerved me. The gun, of course, had a lot to do with it. So did her sudden appearance. How had she just popped up like that? Had she been following me all that time? But then she’d have known I wasn’t with the Children or whatever she called them – or could her hatred of me have warped the facts around enough? It was possible. Every so often I stopped in the shadows, listened for following feet; but there
were none. The sounds of riot, though, still echoed around me, coming from ahead now; and at the end of a dark alley alongside a newish-looking concrete supermarket building I saw a familiar flickering red light. I took a firm grip on my sword, and went to see.
Just as I neared the end a dark form dashed into the alley mouth, stopped short as it saw me and sank down to its knees, half gasping, half sobbing. Coming closer, I saw it was a black man, West Indian by the look of him, in an old-fashioned but expensive-looking camel coat, one sleeve badly torn. I was about to go and help him up when a gaggle of other figures dashed up around him, and I heard the sickening thud of boots striking home.
‘Hey!’
I yelled, without thinking. ‘
You stop that!’
Faces rounded on me, pale faces, oafish faces, but wholly human. That didn’t make me like them any the more. One or two of them were oddly uniform, wearing heavy sideburns and oily curls topped with quiffs and cowlicks, and their jackets hung low and long-armed, making them look oddly apelike. The others wore sweaters or leather jackets, tight jeans and pointed shoes. They weighed me up, sniggering softly. ‘Gonna make us, then?’ mouthed one of the curly types.
‘Yeah – nigger-lover!’ mocked another.
‘He’s old enough to be your bloody father!’ I hissed, wondering where these weird clothes had come from.
‘Maybe it’s ’is old man!’
‘Nah – ’is boyfriend! He’s a brown-hatter, see?’
They snorted with laughter. ‘Yer want ’im,’ said one, ‘yer come get ’im!’ He thrust out his hand, and it spat a short silver tongue. Others flipped their wrists, and blades swung out; a broken bottle glinted green. It was the flick-knives and razors that completed the image – teddyboys from the fifties, before I was born. Somehow I didn’t think I’d run into a fashion revival. They’d had race riots then, hadn’t they? Serious ones.
‘Something’s ’olding ’im up!’ guffawed the leading ted, and without looking around he back-heeled the groaning man on the ground. That did it. I stepped forward and swung my own wrist, bringing the sword up into the light. The teds gaped, I took one swift backhand swing and smashed the leader’s knife right out of his hand, probably breaking a few bones on the way. Then I brought the flat of the sword back against the side of his head. It connected with a smack like a shot, he
yelled and fell writhing at my feet. I set the point under the chin of the next boy, and backed him up against the wall, yammering with fright.
‘Now!’ I shouted. ‘Knives, razors, anything – throw ’em away! Throw, I said, not drop!’ I flicked the sword, and a severed kisscurl went flying. Metal clattered in all directions. I grabbed my sick-looking victim, spun him round and booted him hard in the backside. ‘Right! Now run like bunnies! Run, kiddies, or I’ll set your arses on fire!’ I herded them out like sheep, landing stinging slaps with the flat of the blade, and chased them along the road a little way, pinking them with the point. It was surprising how fast they could run in those funny shoes, though some of them would be eating their dinner off the mantelpiece for the next few days. Then I went back and found the old man picking himself up, muttering his thanks, and the ringleader still stunned and groaning. I turned him over with my toe, riffled his stupid-looking jacket and came up with a wallet holding about thirty pounds – quite a sum back then, probably. I tossed it to the old man. ‘Should help pay for the coat! Want me to see you home?’
‘No, thanks. It’s not far. You saved my life, man.’
‘Maybe. It won’t always be this bad.’
He sighed. ‘Ah, man, you want to bet?’
‘Take it from me. I
know.’
I grinned at him again, and set off back down the alley. I’d better try to retrace my steps, if the way hadn’t shifted already; the Spiral was like that. I tried not to think about where I might end up next. I cast around for some sort of stable point, some landmark, that might help. There was only one: the column of fiery smoke from the burning hotel. I didn’t care to end up there again, but at least it’d be in my own time. At the next turn I was fairly sure which way I’d come, down a narrow street overhung by old buildings; and there was red light down that way, certainly. Maybe Annie Oakley was still there, too, but that chance I’d have to take.
I sidled down, keeping to the shadow of the walls, although that meant treading in some really unpleasant puddles that gurgled as I passed, as if threatening to eat my shoes, and released amazing stenches. There was a roar of voices, the sound of glass smashing, and I tensed, gripping my sword. A flaming billet of wood, tipped with tar or something like that, flew past me and into the open gap of a shattered
window – an old leaded window, in a wall of heavy brick. I looked around, through the smoky air. Half the buildings were like that, brick and timber, only a few stone-faced in the familiar city style. I grabbed the torch out and dropped it sizzling into a puddle. A heavy hand slapped me staggering back against the wall. ‘Let ’er burn!’ screamed a big man, looming over me. ‘That’s a godless grafting brewer’s house there, that poisons the workers with his filth – burn ’ut for the Charter!’
‘For the Charter!’ screeched a mass of raucous echoes, and suddenly I realized I was surrounded by a much larger crowd than the mere teds, shadow-shapes of men and women flickering and dancing in a wide arc of torches. ‘Give us our Charter!’
And they started pitching torches into the gap, all of them, shouting and capering as the flames sprang up. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, the sheer stupidity of it. It started me shouting at them. ‘You bloody idiots! These old roofs catch easier than dry grass! You’ll burn the whole damn street—’ and then, as it sank in what they were shouting about and what clothes they wore, battered top hats, long dresses, leather aprons, ‘The whole damn town, more like! Your homes and everybody’s! Is any Charter worth that? Where’re your children? This winter where’ll they be?’