The Enemy (34 page)

Rachel swore. “Did they go up?”

“Dunno. Couldn’t hear anything,” said Nick.

“Have they gotten away?”

“They can’t have,” said Nick. “They was only just ahead of us.”

“Did they go the other way, then?”

“Could have. Could be anywhere.”

Rachel looked back up the escalator. Something was making her nervous.

“Maybe we should let them go, lover?”

“Let them go?” said Nick. “After al the food we’ve wasted on them?”

“I don’t want to go up top.”

“Maybe they’re not up there,” said Nick. “Maybe they never made it this far.”

“You think maybe they’re stil down in the tunnels?” said Rachel.

“Must be. I’l go back down and look.”

“I’l keep going up to the ticket hal ,” said Rachel. “I’l hol er if I hear anything.”

“Al right,” said Nick. “But be careful.”

“Ah, they’re only kids,” said Rachel, and she started up the escalator.

Nick ran off back the way he had come.

Rhiannon had been trying to hold her breath, to stop from making a sound, but it was too hard for her—she took a long rasping gasp of air that rattled in her throat, and Rachel’s flashlight beam swiveled around.

She came back down the stairs.

“Who’s that I hear?” she said softly. “Is that you, kids? Are you there? Don’t be scared, it’s only me. It’s Rachel. I know you must be terrified as anything, al alone up here in the dark. Don’t worry, I’l look after you.”

As she spoke she reappeared at the bottom of the stairs and edged closer to the pile of trash, her voice soft and reassuring, like someone talking to a kitten or a frightened bird that had gotten into the house.

Now her flashlight beam fel on the three of them, and she smiled, tilting her head to one side.

“There you are, my lambs,” she cooed. “Don’t be frightened, now. Just look at you. You shouldn’t be out, should you?”

Sam could feel Rhiannon next to him trembling, and he could hear her breath scraping at her lungs. He gripped his butterfly pin tight.

“Come on. Come to Mommy. I’l look after you. Haven’t we kept you warm and wel fed? Hmm? Haven’t we kept you safe from harm, kept the bad ones away? Hmm? You don’t want to go out there into the big world, now, do you? Whatever would you do? Al those crazies out there. You’re much safer with Rachel and Nick, now, aren’t you?”

She got herself into a position that blocked their escape, then straightened up and bel owed at the top of her voice.

“Ni-ick! I found ’em! They’re up here, love!”

“Get her!” shouted Sam, and he charged at her, butting her in the stomach with his head. She grunted and staggered back, but she was strong and Sam was smal . It reminded him of play fights with his dad. His dad had pretended to be beaten, to be hurt, when Sam knew al along he could have picked him up and tossed him across the room.

“Now, now,” said Rachel, holding her temper in. “That’s enough of that.” She cuffed Sam to the floor, and he went down hard. But now the Kid was up and out, beating Rachel with his fists. Even Rhiannon joined in. They had al seen the meat wagon. They knew what Rachel was capable of. Between the three of them they tripped her and sent her tumbling to the ground. Sam lunged at her with the pin, but only managed to scratch her neck.

“Where did you get that?” Rachel roared, final y letting her anger show as she struggled back onto her feet. “Give that back!”

“It’s mine,” said Sam. “You should never have taken it.”

“Give it to me!” Rachel snapped, and as she made a snatch for it, Sam stabbed it into the palm of her hand. She shrieked and jerked her hand back.

Almost immediately she batted him to the ground again, using the flashlight that she was holding in her other hand, smashing the bulb. She tried to stamp on Sam, but he rol ed out of the way and jabbed the pin into her leg. Her shriek this time was terrible. Loud and piercing, it echoed off the tiles. Sam scrambled up, grabbed Rhiannon and the Kid, and they started up the escalator.

It was agony for Rhiannon, and halfway up, Sam knew they were never going to make it to the top. He was just about to say something to the Kid when there came an almighty bang and a flash, and Rhiannon screamed.

The three of them stumbled and fel over in shock. Sam was stunned; the noise and the light had completely disorientated him. It was a few seconds before he realized he was unhurt, but Rhiannon was crying. She was three steps below him. He sat up and put his hand out to her. Her top was wet. He could see it stained black in the dim light. She was bleeding. Some of the shot from the cartridge had hit her.

It was clear she wasn’t going to go any farther.

“Go on,” she croaked. “You’l never make it with me.”

“No,” said Sam, but then Nick’s voice rang out in the half-light.

“Don’t move, none of you, I’l aim the next shot straight at you.”

“Keep down,” said the Kid, “and run like mad. He can’t shoot and point his flashlight at the same time.”

“We can’t leave Rhiannon,” Sam wailed.

“Just go!” said Rhiannon.

Sam didn’t know what to do, but the Kid decided for him—he pul ed Sam up by his shirt, and the two of them darted up the stairs.

Nick was running up after them, but when he got to Rhiannon she threw her arms around his knees and they went crashing down to the bottom. It was al the two boys needed to get away.

They were in the ticket hal at last, a pale light showing them the way out to street level. There were shouts and screams behind them. Sam tried not to imagine what was happening, but he silently thanked Rhiannon. He would owe her for the rest of his life.

They vaulted the ticket gates and headed for the stairs.

They ran up three steps at a time.

The daylight hit Sam like a blow. He was blinded. He staggered along, shielding his eyes from the glare. It was physical y painful, and he had an instant headache. He was vaguely aware of a church and tal old buildings.

He felt the Kid grab him.

“Move it, slowpoke,” he said. Sam squinted at him— the Kid had produced a pair of sunglasses from somewhere, a big pink pair in the shape of love hearts. Sam resisted the urge to laugh. It was the Kid who should be laughing; at least he could see what he was doing. He dragged Sam down the wet pavement. Sam could just make out, through the narrowed slits of his eyelids, where he was. This was the City of London—where old and new London butted up against each other, modern skyscrapers shouldering up through Victorian buildings on a higgledy-piggledy medieval street layout. “We need to hurry, dog,” said the Kid.

Sam stumbled on, feeling the Kid tug him across the road. They came to a paved area in front of a massive building that looked like a Greek temple.

Sam’s eyes were getting a little better. They weren’t hurting so much. He looked up at the statue of a man on a horse. Then something jerked him back, and he was thrown against a wooden bench.

It was Nick.

“I’m going to slaughter you, little pigs,” he snarled. His dreadlocks were flapping around his head like the rays of the sun in a child’s drawing. His face, though, was twisted into a picture of rage. There was no sign of Rachel.

He held his shotgun in one hand, but before he could bring it around on Sam, the Kid threw himself at his arm, knocking it sideways and smashing the gun into the base of the statue. The gun exploded in Nick’s hand, and he dropped it, the barrel bent out of shape.

Nick didn’t waste any time, and pul ed a knife out from inside his coat. He glanced at the Kid. He’d fal en heavily, the gun going off very close to his face. He looked stunned. Winded.

Nick turned his attention back to Sam, who was struggling to open his eyes properly, squinting in the bright light. He saw that Nick was having trouble, too; his eyes were red and tears streamed down his face. He wiped them away and blinked at Sam, raising his knife. It was old and wel used, with a wide, curved blade, worn thin from constant sharpening. He took a swipe at Sam, who ducked. He felt the knife swish across the back of his head, ruffling his hair. Nick immediately brought the knife back again, and as Sam dodged to the side, he felt a sting in his neck. He backed away, down some steps, toward the road. He splashed through a puddle. It had been raining. He realized that the sun wasn’t even out. Though the clouds were beginning to break up in the sky.

He was breathing fast. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for long. Nick was too big, too fit. Sam was just a kid.

“Hold stil , you little pig,” Nick hissed. “I’l make it quick and painless for you. If you muck me about, though, I’l string you upside down and bleed you slowly, just you see that I do. You’l feel every minute of it. I promise you that. Now, hold stil .”

“Go to hel !” Sam shouted, his voice a hoarse croak.

“I’m already there,” said Nick, and he chuckled, so sure was he of success. “Didn’t you know I was Satan, hisself? Old Nick. That’s me.”

Sam swore at him, using al the dirty words he’d ever heard, and some he’d made up. Nick just laughed louder.

Sam scrambled under a van, and for a moment felt safe, until he realized he was trapped now.

Idiot.

He should have run.

The ground here was oily, and he was soon black with filth. He saw Nick’s lower legs as he stalked around the van, banging on the sides and cal ing out in a high-pitched voice.

“Here, piggy-piggy-piggy, come to Nick.” Then he stopped and ducked down. Sam saw his grinning face appear below the edge of the van. He reached out a hand for Sam, who just managed to slither back from it. But it was a bluff. Nick quickly dodged around the van and made another grab for him. As Sam tried to shift again, his shirt caught on something and he was stuck. Then he felt Nick’s hand take hold of him, and he was dragged out, kicking and yel ing.

Sam looked for the Kid and saw him struggling groggily to his feet over by the statue. The Kid then bent double and vomited. Nick tucked Sam under his arm, clamping him tight, and strode back over to the Kid. Nick aimed a kick at his backside and pitched him into the street.

The Kid wasn’t going to be any help.

Nick set Sam down and held him upright with one hand. He raised his other hand above his head. The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone onto the blade, the sharpened edge glinting like liquid fire.

“I’m going to cut your little pig’s head off,” Nick said with relish.

He paused. Licked his dry lips. He didn’t want to rush this.

This boy had caused him a lot of trouble. He wanted to see the fear and pain in his eyes before he finished it. He wanted the brat to know ful wel what was about to happen to him.

The boy’s eyes were satisfyingly wide. There was a look of horror in them that pleased Nick. They were fixed on his knife, as they should be.

No. Wait a second. Something was wrong. The boy wasn’t looking at the knife at al . He was looking at something else. His eyes had flicked down and appeared to be looking at Nick’s hand.

Nick frowned and looked up.

A rash of spots was spreading across his skin; already one or two had swol en into fat blisters. His throat went tight. He could do nothing but stare, mesmerized.

He should never have come out into the sunlight.

Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away, either. It was like watching a piece of food in a microwave. Nick seemed to be cooking in front of him. Another crop of blisters and boils blossomed from the knuckles, as his fingers swel ed up like bloated slugs.

Nick moaned. The knife was wobbling in his grip, his puffed-up hand no longer able to keep hold of it. He dropped it, and it fel to the pavement with a clatter.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said in a strangled voice, and Sam looked at his face. The skin there was erupting too. Pearly boils were spreading from one ear across his cheek. His lips were growing fat, like sausages in a frying pan, the skin tightening then bursting.

It was as if al the evil inside Nick were erupting, forcing its way out of his body. The boils began to pop one by one, leaking blood and pus down his face. His eyes were swel ing too, the blood vessels showing dark red. They bulged out of his face. Sam could imagine that someone had stuck a bicycle pump in Nick’s ear and was inflating his whole head.

Then Sam had to look away as the eyes burst.

Nick let go of Sam and put his hands up to cover the wounds. He opened his mouth wide to scream, but Sam saw that it was fil ed with swel ings and lumps and ulcers, his tongue a fat warty toad-thing, forcing its way out from between his teeth. His throat was completely blocked, so that he could neither breathe nor speak.

He no longer looked human. His whole body was bulging and writhing. He dropped to his knees. Blind. His hands groping the air. They looked like two udders and were stil fil ing with liquid so that in a few moments the fingers had al but disappeared, the blackened stubs of the fingernails al that remained.

Sam saw the knife lying on the ground and picked it up, ignoring the stickiness on the handle. He felt almost sorry for the thing that had once been Nick. He wondered if he should put him out of his misery. But before he could bring himself to do anything, Nick’s skin split and he seemed to disintegrate completely. He col apsed to the pavement, a mass of putrefying, liquefying flesh and steaming entrails that bubbled and hissed in the sunlight.

Sam retched, and then felt the Kid’s hand on his arm.

He sang a little ditty.

“TV highlight of the week . . .”

“What happened to him?” said Sam.

“Blame it on the sunshine. That’s why Mrs. Spiderlady wouldn’t come out. She’s going to be so angered, but what can she do about it? Now let’s get gone from here.”

“Shouldn’t we go back for Rhiannon?” said Sam.

“Can’t,” said the Kid. “Look . . .”

He nodded to where a group of grown-ups was lumbering along the road toward them.

“We need to get out of here sharpish, skipper. Poor girl’s probably dead as a dormouse already. Just thank her in your prayers.”

“I don’t pray,” said Sam. “I don’t believe in God.”

“Wel , somebody up there’s looking after you, titch. Now let’s motor.”

They ran off down the road, hand in hand, Sam glad of the human contact.