So this was remembering. The force of it was huge, like continents. It was older than everything. It flowed through everything. He wanted to utter something brave at it, to make a joke at it. He couldn’t, not just now. What would it take to make it forget instead of remember? He felt the answer emerge: to make something forgotten would take an enormous effort, a continuous effort during every moment. To do that was way beyond him. But instead of forgetting. . what about trying to create a different version of what was remembered here, to remember not this horror but some of the other things this place had been or was meant to have been? Those memories wouldn’t be as powerful as the fear, for fear was always so strong, but. . his research had also said this house was a den of criminals, counterfeiters, who used that fear as a cover. Okay, so they wouldn’t still be here as ‘ghosts’, because there was no legend, no memory of that; besides, he had to get rid of even the idea that there were ghosts here. He imagined instead the remains of coins discovered in the gaps in the floorboards, an exhibit commemorating it, maybe, a plaque on the wall outside, this place as a historical building, the infamous counterfeiter gang, with modern actors playing the roles, that manager downstairs laughing about how they get the crime tours coming through here. . He made himself see the details-
And, for the first time, he felt the Sight pushing back against this world he’d found himself in. He could see these fragile things in his eyes now. Light had expanded from where he was, making a vulnerable space on the stage set. Knowledge was power, literally, in this city. He stopped himself from celebrating, because he knew this would last only seconds. He dared to step off the marker line. He grabbed Quill and Ross by one hand each. He started to drag them towards the door, pushing against the nightmares that confined them. Their faces were looking at things beyond him, their feet dragging along like reluctant toddlers. He pushed them into Costain, sent him, also, stumbling towards the door.
Four of them? They could have made their own circle, he realized, with a part of his mind he associated with deduction — with UC thoughts about what OCN shape was like. Only five would be better than four, the shape of the organization of five would be strong. Thoughts like these were being formed inside him by the sheer pressure around him, he suddenly understood: natural defences in operation, his persona finding a way.
But the fear was strong. The fear had more force. The fear had been thrown back and now was. . going to come crashing in on them again!
He gathered them all with him, and shoved them at the door. They rushed through it together. They got over onto the other side. They fell in a heap. The door swung shut with a bang.
And suddenly the light in the corridor was again provided by a bulb. The four of them were just lying there, staring up at the bulb in its dusty lampshade. Sefton thought they must look like something from an old painting, with their clothes and their hands flung out in glorious abandon. He started to laugh, but then he bit down on it. He didn’t like the feel of where that reaction might take him. He was panting too hard, so he put a hand over his mouth and took smaller breaths. He felt aware of his own failure that had led him to this knowledge.
The others started to sit up, to look at him and each other. They were shaken to the core. Costain had his hands covering his face. Footsteps approached. Footsteps on the stairs. But no, no. . not now.
The startled manager was peering at them. Slowly they got to their feet. Quill just nodded to her, no funny line appearing on his lips. Sefton just about managed to get himself down the stairs. The others stumbled down around him.
Costain found he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He reached out to Ross for support, and appreciated that strong shoulder. He felt as if he was going to burst into tears or else throw up. Doing either would feel like death. He had seen it again. It had nearly had him again.
They went back to the pub. Costain put his hands on his pint but didn’t trust himself to lift it. He didn’t feel able to look at Sefton, even though the man had saved him. That was wrong. He looked at the other two, who were shaking as much as he was. ‘Headless fucking ghosts. As if!’ he said. ‘We had no idea. We’re not even rookies. We’re just. . kids!’
‘We. . we learned something.’ That was Sefton, looking angry and defensive. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not; it’s what people believe, and-’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ And then the crushing limitations descended again. ‘Sorry, sorry!’
‘It’s okay-’ Quill began.
‘It’s not okay! We’re playing. . cops and robbers because it comforts us. That’s all there is to it!’
Ross took Costain’s hands in hers. ‘What did we all see?’ she said. ‘I saw. . my dad, over and over.’
‘I saw a lot. . of fuckwittery concerning myself,’ said Quill, ‘about which I feel like suing someone. Pity, then, that it was all true.’
‘Complicated.’ Sefton shook his head. ‘I need to think about it.’
Ross looked back to Costain. ‘So what about you?’
He didn’t want to answer, but. . this was still going to come out. It was beyond his control, and he hated that too. ‘I saw it again. . what I saw in Losley’s attic. The place I’m. . I’m going to.’
‘Hell,’ suggested Sefton, sounding like he wanted to say it out loud, but also sounding like he didn’t bloody believe it.
‘Back in the attic, you lot were being sent there, so maybe it appeared differently for you. I was just. . getting there early, so I saw all the details. And I saw them again just now.’
‘No,’ said Quill, ‘we don’t do theology-’
‘Jimmy, we have to,’ said Ross.
‘That smiling bastard was there, too. And down there he felt like. . like one of those gang enforcers who have done the really bad shit, the ones where you can see it in their faces that they can’t surprise themselves with how far they’d go, because there is no limit to. .’ He had to stop. He was shaking so hard, it took him a moment to continue. ‘The sort that put blowtorches to informers’ feet. Every UC. . we think about those guys, about ending up in the hands of one of them.’
‘Yeah,’ whispered Sefton.
‘He’s the biggest version going of one of those terrifying sods. He knew all about me, so I had no secrets I could give up to spare myself anything. He’s waiting for me when I die. I know he is, it’s just obvious. Does nobody get that?’
Sefton again nodded, grudgingly. ‘Yeah.’
‘And with him. . there was this informer. Sammy Cliff, his name was.’ They were silent now, listening carefully. ‘He kept pretending he didn’t want my money. This is years before Goodfellow. He kept saying he was “on the side of the police”; that’s the catchphrase we joked about with him. Fucking little bike boy, user, dirty fucking hair, burns. . that smell on his skin.’ He saw from their faces that they’d all known similar. ‘He kept saying how he was nothing, a pile of shit on the pavement; that’s what he once told me he was. When it became clear we weren’t going to get his boss, best we could do for him was not nick him. And it was bloody obvious to the gang, by the end, who the informer was. They can’t run anywhere, not kids like that. Their idea of running is going to a different mattress. He ended up with one of those blokes. They burned his feet off, worked upwards from there. They made a party of it, there were cans and condoms all over the warehouse. We heard all the details. So there he was, Sammy Cliff, waiting for me. He didn’t even look pleased. All he was there for was to wait his chance to see what had been done to him also being done to me. Forever.’