Quill knew his London pubs, enough to diagnose one from a glance at the exterior. There were pubs that defined neighbourhoods, in that strange way that London had neighbourhoods just because of imaginary lines on the ground. There were pubs that were about the British going out into the world, changing and being changed, and coming back to find the old inn still standing, the old crowd around the fire — apart from those that had died of plague while you were away: the Road to Jerusalem; the Balaclava; the Pillars of Hercules. There were pubs about the trade guilds of the city: the Carpenters’ Arms; the Coopers; the Square and Compass. There were pubs for the heads of all the kings and queens, and for the heads of enemies brought back to Blighty.
He wandered down to the pleasant neighbourhood around the British Museum, and found a battered leather armchair in a pub which was all enormous windows, like being inside a jewel box, and which, after a quick inspection, had nothing terrifying about it. He opted for a pint of one of their pleasingly filthy real ales, leaned back and tried to relax, tried not to drink quickly enough to distract himself.
Until Harry and his dad arrived. .
‘Now you’ve got all of the Met working for you at every football match, brilliant!’ Harry was sounding his usual self, but these days Quill didn’t need his dad beside him to hear the subtext, to explain the strain in his face.
‘One of these days,’ said his dad, ‘he might even get around to including you.’
‘I miss having you about,’ said Quill, and he meant it.
Harry actually had to pause a second to reply, as his dad laughed mirthlessly. ‘Well, it must get pretty stuffy in that Portakabin, with the four of you filling the place up.’
Quill managed to laugh along. ‘How’s Goodfellow?’
‘Oh, limping to the finish line, Jimmy. But there must be an Aladdin’s cave of evidence somewhere, and we ain’t got it. We don’t have Toshack’s accounts. They’re probably somewhere on the Continent now. We don’t have his supply. And we’ve heard whispers of the top brass saying that, since Toto gets along so well with only the four of you-’
‘Oh, don’t give me that!’
‘No, no, it’s all right. You haven’t caught her yet, have you? God help us if you do!’
How had Quill ever enjoyed this? Harry had been the furthest thing from his thoughts during most of this investigation, but he’d always thought that somehow they’d get close again. But how was that ever going to work, unless they managed to force Losley to take the Sight away from them?
‘So, how’s. .?’
Quill missed what his friend said, because he was thinking of something else. And now he couldn’t even remember what that was. ‘Sorry, Harry?’
‘I said. .’
His own dad would have loved sitting here among the shininess of these horse brasses. They always had shiny stuff in pubs, like in churches. To take your mind off to relaxing places. And, no, he was missing something, again — he was bloody missing something! He made himself turn back and look Harry in the eye. He now realized he was breathing hard. It was as if his brain was using up his body’s energy as it tried to do something. Harry’s dad was looking at him as if he was a prize chump. ‘Harry, you’ll have to forgive me. .’
‘What’s up, old son? Are you falling asleep on me?’
Quill held himself in place, his arms locked on the chair. ‘Could you say that again, slowly?’
‘Oh, the great detective’s had a revelation. It’s one of those moments, like on the telly, where it all falls into place. From the top, then. .’
This time it was like something huge screeching against something else, two massive surfaces in contact, and it made his head hurt so hard. He knew that if he let his attention slip aside from what Harry was saying, it would stop hurting. Such a weight was trying to stop him from hearing Harry, from understanding him-
Quill felt himself on the edge of blacking out. He let his attention slide off into something pleasant: a vision of his dad walking a few paces in front of him, tall in the sunshine. He came back to reality a moment later to see Harry standing over him, looking shocked, Harry’s own dad, smiling all over his face, by his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ Harry was shaking him. ‘Jimmy, can you talk? Can you move your face?’
He feared Quill had had a stroke, and Quill wondered for a moment if that was true. He moved the muscles on both sides, put a hand to his brow. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Harry, there’s. .’ There was nothing at all going on here. ‘I’m just tired.’ He wondered what all the fuss was about. Harry was overreacting a bit, wasn’t he? Quill managed a broad smile. ‘Look, you get them in, while I go and have a slash.’
The toilets were as baroque as the bar itself, all imposing imperial Victoriana and boasting the names of every man who ever invented a sanitation device. Quill splashed some water on his face. He’d. . what, had he just fallen asleep? What had he missed? What was he missing? It was as if it was just there, just behind his reflection, just inside his idea of who he was, just beyond what his mind could touch.
Through the door, he heard the sound of Harry gasping.
Quill burst out of the Gents to see Harry floating over his chair, his skin red with heat, shaking and sweating, his eyes desperately fixed on a flickering light that was bursting impossibly up through the floor. The smell of it rolled over the thick carpet towards Quill. He didn’t look down, though. He was looking to where Harry’s dad stood beside their chairs. He was holding on to his son by one hand, almost affectionately, like a balloon. He kept glancing up at him.
Losley had been here. In just those few seconds, Losley had been here, but had left Quill, and taken Harry instead. Had what happened to him earlier been some sort of diversion? Hardly, she wouldn’t know he’d react like that. But it wasn’t too late, and Quill took a step forward.
‘Stop,’ said Harry’s dad, ‘or I let go of him.’
Quill stopped. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘She made me a bit more than I was, didn’t she? Now, my boy Harry here’s got a message for you. Haven’t you, boy? What did the nice lady tell you to say?’
Quill looked round, maybe hoping for some sort of help, but he just saw the looks on the faces of patrons who had probably watched him stagger back into the bar and start talking to some bloke who looked too out of it to reply. He saw them try and glance over, but the looks they gave instantly slid off something that felt too hard on their eyes.
Harry’s gaze located Quill, and he seemed to wake from the trance his terror had put him in. ‘Jimmy! Help me!’
‘I will, mate!’
‘My dad. . My dad’s holding me. . right on the edge of it. I can feel it, Jimmy. I can see what’s in there. Why is it my dad?! Why’s it him doing this?!’
‘It’s not your dad. It’s just. . just what you think of as your dad. You’ve always been thinking of him, haven’t you?’
‘I. . I ’spose! I never thought. . I never saw him like this. I always just thought he was looking down at me!’
Harry’s dad made a tutting sound. He tugged suddenly at Harry’s wrist, like he was warning a dog. ‘Go on, son!’
‘If I tell him the message, you’ll let go of me and I’ll be off down there anyway!’
‘Yeah, but if you don’t, I’ll do it anyway, and then she’ll have to find some other poor sod to do this to.’
Harry was sobbing, shaking his head, staring at his dad; he couldn’t believe it.
‘You keep him there,’ Quill reached for his mobile. He couldn’t hope to get his team here in time, and he had no idea what they could do to help, but he had to try.
‘No,’ said Harry’s dad again, letting go of Harry for a moment and then catching him once more.
Harry yelled in terror. ‘I don’t deserve this,’ he panted. ‘I haven’t deserved any of this. And this now, this now. .!’