‘Welcome to our world,’ said Quill.
Costain started up the BMW, and looked over his shoulder at the three others sitting in it with him. What that note had said — We smell death near you soon — they’d all be thinking about that. In the past he had never thought about death, even when he’d been in really deep and one wrong word could have meant a bullet in the head. He’d been so stupid then, every moment. What would a good person do right now?
‘Proud to know you,’ he said. ‘You’re good coppers.’ He reached over his shoulder, and just Ross and then even Sefton shook hands with him, because that was the thing to do, yet no passion in it. Quill quickly did the same.
And that was it. It didn’t make a difference because there was still Hell.
‘Fuck it,’ Costain whispered. And he gunned the BMW forwards.
Ross felt almost nothing as they turned the corner, and accelerated towards their target. She was saving any feeling for when she had Losley right in front of her. She hoped that, like a hero in a story, how she felt would make some difference to what then happened to her. She held on to that thought.
‘Go go go!’ yelled Quill.
Costain launched the car, at high speed, straight at the garden fence, its headlights illuminating the woodwork-
And then they were through it, and slamming to a halt in that empty square of garden, wet soil and grass flying up and spattering the side windows. ‘Out!’ he yelled, though he didn’t need to, because they were all leaping out already. Sefton hauled his holdall along with him. The house above them shone brown and chitinous, polluting the air around it in waves, seeming fleshy cold in the night. The exterior looked exactly the same as the Willesden house, down to the type of front door.
He wasn’t up to this, was he? He was missing something inside him. He wasn’t what he pretended to be.
Fuck that, he’d have to do.
The uniforms were running in around them, the Ghostbusters forming up on the door in their usual reassuring, exhilarating way. The silent gestures, the sudden movement — and together! They swung their ‘master key’. The door burst in. They swung it back again and stepped aside.
Quill ran inside, yelling. His team went in along with him.
He had faith in his team. More than in himself, in fact. And faith in the uniforms behind them, who’d die to get those kids out. The four of them ran into the hallway, and stood looking around at what the exterior of the house should have already told them: it was exactly the same inside too.
‘Strangers!’ yelled the head perched on the newel post.
The uniforms rushed in behind them, astonished at the filth even they could detect.
Then the smell hit Quill. Could that just be hot water? ‘Cooking smell!’ he bellowed. ‘Up!’
They sprinted up the stairs that confused their senses, not caring about what they saw or where gravity was, falling and scrambling, while the uniforms made it look easy, in their ignorance, and came thundering up behind them. They rushed to the point where the attic access was directly overhead. There was noise from up there: a radio. . a radio football commentary.
Quill looked round for the ladder, and realized that, of course, here there wasn’t one. He jumped up on to Sefton’s shoulders and heaved himself upright. He burst up through the hatch and shoved it aside.
There she was, Losley. Offending the world, and him, with how she looked.
There were three naked children huddled in a cage beside her: Charlie aged five, Hayley, six, and Joel, seven, and they were screaming and sobbing but all alive, still alive. The room was full of information, pent up with it, as if it was all nearly ready, as if it could only be seconds more. And there was the soil, and there was the cauldron, the water in it boiling, on top of an impossible blue fire that crackled and sparked like bright animated paper. The noise of the radio filled the room, sounding perversely normal, and Losley was already turning to start screaming something over its racket-
Quill got one foot onto the floor and he ran at her. He was vaguely aware of the others, his three and the uniforms, clambering up, following. He grabbed the crucifix that Franklin had sent over, the one with the Bishop of London’s seal on it, from his throat and bunched it into his fist. He hadn’t felt any power in it, but he’d convinced himself that he believed in the power of horror movies and how it would be enough.
She was yelling at him, hurling threats. There was that outraged screech in her voice, as if she was amazed they’d kept trying, that she was so much more powerful than them, that-!
‘Kiss this!’ he bellowed, and smashed her in the teeth. She went back and down. She spun up again. She’d rolled up like a table footballer. The crucifix had done nothing more than his fist and surprise impact would.
But the cage had already been cracked open with bolt cutters, the kids were in coppers’ hands now, and they were running for the trapdoor.
Losley spun round to stop them-
‘Hoi!’ shouted Costain.
He kicked over the cauldron, sending water that smelled like decay roaring across a floor that exploded with dust on contact with it.
She turned to deal with that-
‘Losley!’
That was Ross, yelling what she was doing so the witch could hear it, as Ross unloaded the first super-soaker professional-standard water-pistol carbine full of piss and London holy water into her new container of soil.
But it wasn’t working! It kept flying off it. Something was protecting it-
The witch had thought of that. She’d changed it.
Losley spun back again to Quill, triumphantly.
But the uniforms were out of there now, the kids were gone.
And now Sefton had thundered up behind Quill, on his run up, throwing something with great weight right past his shoulder. The bagful of Millwall FC soil caught Losley full in the face. She screeched — like nails on a million blackboards. The uniforms must just be seeing an old woman screaming at all the ridiculous things they were doing to her but, for all that, Quill’s team were being proved right.
Yelling something incoherent, Ross ran into close quarters and let fly with the second carbine, pumping pure London holy water all over Losley. They had no idea if it would work, but the more the merrier.
Quill took the silver handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Off her feet!’ he yelled.
The four of them grabbed her at once, and they overcame their fear and they lifted her as if she was nothing — a bone frame with special effects attached — and they made for that table with her, keeping her feet from the floor. They had the advantage of surprise this time. They had learned this time. They had conquered their fear.
But the soil was intact, they knew. All the power was still there. They were terrified of her, and only their velocity was saving them, and that might give out any second.
The uniforms were all out of there; they’d got the children safely away.
Costain grabbed her hands and wrenched them over her head, behind her back. She screamed again, the very sound clawing at the air. The silver handcuffs snapped on, and they slammed her flat onto the table again.
Quill felt a huge frightening triumph rise up inside him. ‘Mora Losley!’ he yelled, making himself somehow keep his voice level, because now she was going to have a trial and a brief — she was going to be dragged through one now, like normal people, like scared little people on their level, for wanting to fucking boil children, and she was going to cut a deal with them along the way and turn it all back to the way it had been, and this was his tribal cry: the victory that would mean he was the thing he thought he was, ‘you are under arrest in connection with multiple charges of murder, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence-!’
‘You can’t stop me,’ she cried. ‘History is on my side.’