“I am going to raise unholy Hell. The Tosher’s Beat is going to ring again to the sound of escaping felons. The rooftops will buzz to the sound of our circular saws, and all across the mighty city of London things of enormous value will be liberated from vaults of veritable impenetrability. We will remind everyone on Earth that London’s crooks are the best there have ever been.
“And in the process, we will save the world.
“And if that doesn’t sound like fun, you rotten lot, you have forgotten the meaning of the word! So all those in favour…” he makes calming motions with both hands, as if holding them back. “All those in favour can signify by acclamation. My name is Joshua Joseph Spork. But you can call me: Crazy Joe! So let’s hear you say it. If you raise the roof of this place, we’re on, and we’re away.
“Now, then: what’s my name?”
There’s a roar of laughter and applause, and a lot of glasses raised.
From the back, a woman’s voice says: “Crazy Joe!” and then a man’s from the far corner: “Crazy Joe!” And then Big Douggie growls it out and Tony Wu, and even Dizzy Spencer, and then the great, too-cool, too-professional black-suited multitude are chanting it in a gathering wave of noise which breaks over Joe Spork and seems to set him alight, and he roars like a great ape and swears to God he will embrace every one of them, all at once, and it seems he will really try, and then his arms are full of a small, sassy, dark-haired beauty with outrageous toes, and as he raises her into the air for a passionate, demonstrative kiss, no one remembers or cares that Polly Cradle was the first to call out his name, or that her brother was the second.
Later, when the Pablum’s function room is all but empty, a man in a black suit is left standing with Mercer Cradle, who brings him to Joe Spork in a quiet corner. He’s tall and pale and very grave. Joe Spork takes his hand.
“Mr. Spork,” the man says, “my name is Simon Alleyn.”
“Very pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
The Master of the Honoured & Enduring Brotherhood of Waiting Men nods and says nothing. It’s very effective. Tool of the trade, no doubt.
“I’ve got myself into a big fight, Mr. Alleyn. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
“So I understand. It’s not really our kind of thing. Not even for Brother Friend, I’m afraid.”
“No.”
“No, we let the police handle that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure. But there’s something you might want to know, all the same.”
“Go on, then.”
“Billy Friend was murdered by Vaughn Parry.”
Simon Alleyn doesn’t blink. His face doesn’t change at all. And yet Joe Spork is aware of having his fullest attention.
“Should I understand, then, Mr. Spork, that Vaughn Parry has somewhat to do with all this?”
“In a way, he is at the heart of it.”
“In a way?”
“You could argue that he is… no longer who he was. That he has become someone worse.”
“Worse.”
“Very much worse.”
“And you know where he is?”
“Yes.”
Simon Alleyn studies the empty air in front of him for a moment. Then he nods. “The Waiting Men have business with Brother Vaughn. Whoever he is now.”
And then, later still, in a quiet moment, in an empty room.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the phone says cautiously.
“Hello,” Joe says. “You know who this is?”
“Well, I know who it can’t be. There was a chap I once sent socks to, and you sound like him—but that fellow’s been accused of all manner of frightful things. The government thinks he’s a regular walking Armageddon. Amending the Human Rights Act and passing all sorts of rather iffy laws. I don’t approve, to be honest. I think the law’s the law and it says what it says for a reason. Do you know, they sent a rather indifferent policeman up here to ask me if I knew anything?”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Lord, it is you. How extraordinary.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble.”
“No, no. It was rather exciting. I told him you breathed fire and ate raw meat. He seemed to think he knew that already.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“So what on Earth are you doing on my phone? I would have thought you had Sabine women to abduct and suchlike.”
“How’s the golf coming along?”
“God, what a question. Do you know, I think I hate golf? It was never my favourite thing, but somehow now I suspect it will kill me, in the end. That and the membership. I feel I can say this to you because you’ve got larger things to worry about than telling the board of governors I’ve gone off the game. And of course no one in their right mind will believe anything you say.”
“That is quite true.”
“But with the best will in the world, I doubt you really want to know about golf. It doesn’t strike me as your biggest worry, just about now.”
“Well, no. To be honest, I wondered if you’d do something for me.”
“Highly unlikely. You’re a sinner.”
“I quite understand.”
“Not an offer I can’t refuse, or anything? No horse’s head coming my way?”
“I always felt sorry for the horse. It didn’t have anything to do with him, did it?”
“No. But I think I hate horses more than golf. My grandchildren are at that stage. It’s actually more time-consuming than a marriage, having a horse, and suddenly I have four to take care of, because there’s no question of a ten-year-old really looking after a horse by herself.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, this isn’t that sort of offer. It’s the other sort, where you can say ‘no’ if you want to. I’m actually expecting you to, but I have to ask.”
“I suppose I had better hear what you want, just so I can refuse in fullest understanding.”
“Well, I sent you a package.”
“Oh, was that you? Marvellous gallery of fancy and lies, I thought.”
“It’s all true.”
“So you say.”
“Yes. But you read it, is the point.”
“Oh, yes. Mind you, I suppose, given what’s happening with the bees and so on, it’s no more far-fetched than the official line.”
“No.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Well, I’m going to steal a plane, and I wondered if you wanted to fly it.”
“Definitely not.”
“Right.”
“In fact, I’m going to come down there and refuse in person. Where shall I meet you?”
“I’ll have someone pick you up.”
“As long as you understand the answer is absolutely no.”
“I do.”
“I’ll bring my flight suit, just to rub it in.”
“Right.”
“What kind of plane am I refusing to fly here?”
“A Lancaster, I thought.”
“Good choice. If I was mad enough to do anything of the kind for you, I’d appreciate your sense of history. Save the world, eh?”
“I’m a madman. Everyone says so.”
“Hah. Well, I don’t think I could argue with that even if I was going to help you. You better have someone meet my train, I always get frightfully lost in London.”
On the roof of the Pablum Club, Joe Spork lies on his back and stares into the endless sky. The felons and free spirits have gone home, and the plan—call it one plan, though in truth it’s about a thousand plans, all jumbled together in a tangle of criminal behaviour so bewildering as to make even his eyes water—is in motion. Everyone else’s bit, at least. His own remains to be begun, let alone accomplished. The clock is ticking, and he can hear it in his head, imagines the tiny wings of Frankie’s bees on their way home. When the circle closes, he must be ready, or it won’t matter how good his plan was. On the other hand, if it’s not good enough, he’ll never get to where he needs to be. And yet, as he looks up and up and up, he finds that he is not worried about that at all. The things he will do over the next twenty-four hours—attack, fight, live or die—are the right things. The best things he could be doing.