He felt rejected. Whatever power resided here had turned its back on him, folding its arms and tapping its foot until he left the premises.
“Soon,” he said, moving back through the reception area. “I’ll come back soon… and I’ll have them with me. My friends. The Three Amigos.”
Upstairs, from several floors above him, he heard the sound of laughter. It sounded like a girl, and it was familiar. He strained to remember where and when he had heard the childish sound before, but nothing came to mind.
The laughter had died, replaced by a sharp clicking sound, like cards being slowly shuffled. This, too, sounded familiar, and it filled Simon with such a sense of dread that he felt like crying. He was a child again; he was terrified. The bad man was coming, Captain Clickety was on the loose… and he was coming for Simon.
A familiar emptiness yawned within him, threatening to consume him, so he left the Needle and headed back towards the sounds of the present.
“Soon,” he said again, but this time it was a promise he made only to himself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BANJO CROUCHED AT the top of the stairs, trying to peer all the way down to the bottom floor. He saw a pale shape flicker through the murk, and then he heard the main doors slam shut. He stood up straight, turned around, and looked at the girl who called herself Hailey.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s gone. He wasn’t here to hurt you… none of them are. They’re here for something else. It has nothing to do with you. You’re safe now, as long as you stay close to me. The Underthing can’t touch you. He’s afraid of me, you see.” She smiled and to Banjo it was like the sun coming up in that other place, the one he had only ever glimpsed. Behind her, he could see the outlines of trees; they shimmered like a mirage, but he knew that they were real. They had always been real. Soon he would be able to touch them. Before long, he would enter that old grove of oak trees and sit at the heart of the magic that nested here, within this tower. He would find himself in a place that was both ancient and ageless, a land where the dreams of men became living things, and where myth was reality.
“It won’t be long, now.” Hailey smiled; her face shone golden, like the wavering shapes of the trees over her shoulder. “He’s coming out. We’re luring him, like a fish with a baited line. Not long now until the Underthing shows himself and we can be rid of his pollution. He’s already making mistakes, showing his cards.”
Banjo stood and approached her, drawn by the sight of her unfolding wings. He reached out, but he did not touch them, not yet. He wasn’t allowed. All he could do was watch, and yearn, and wait.
Hailey rose a few inches off the floor and hovered there, her beautiful, multi-hued hummingbird wings glowing in the dusty air.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEY WERE WAITING for Simon when he went outside.
He locked the gates, checked that they were secure, and turned around. The three boys were standing there, at the edge of the Roundpath, watching him in silence. He recognised one of them from earlier at the Arcade — the big lad with the trippy Scooby Doo baseball cap.
“Can I help you?” The words made him sound more confident than he felt. He clenched his fists, holding on to the bulky set of keys — a good weapon in a pinch, he recalled from somewhere — and waited for a response.
“Who the fuck are you, like?” The biggest of the three — Scooby — stepped forward, spat on the ground after he spoke. Like the others, he was wearing jeans, trainers, and a hooded top. The sweatshirts were all the same style; the one the leader wore — if that’s what he was — was red, and the other two were blue and green.
“Well?” repeated Scooby, his arms loose, ready for combat.
Shit, thought Simon. I’m out of my depth.
“I own this place. Why, what business is it of yours?”
“Ooooh!” Green Hoody began to laugh. “What a fucking prick.”
Scooby smiled, rolled his shoulders like a boxer. “I’ll ask you one more time, and then I’ll fuck you over. Who are you? I saw you talking to my lass in the café.” He pronounced the word ‘cafee’.
“Listen son,” said Simon, stepping away from the fence. “I’m nobody you want to be messing with — okay? I was just talking to the girl, that’s all. I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. In fact, she was the one who spoke to me.” He stood his ground, shaking. He hoped that the boys couldn’t tell, but he felt his entire body flooding with adrenalin.
“Funny cunt, in’t he?” Blue Hoody had found his voice. It wasn’t worth the effort: weak, high-pitched, as if his balls were yet to drop. Green Hoody just stood there, his face a blank mask, not even capable of a proper expression.
“You trying to say that my lass was chatting you up?” Scooby turned to his cohorts, opening his hands in a questioning gesture. “Is that what he’s saying, lads? Eh? That my lass wanted his cock?”
Simon said nothing.
“Aye,” said Blue Hoody, nodding. “Aye, that’s what he said. I heard him.”
“For fuck’s sake…” Simon had run out of things to say. Debate was not an option. These kids wanted blood, and nothing else would satisfy them. Years ago, when he was a teenager, he would have been able to handle this situation — in fact, it probably wouldn’t have happened. Back then, he was an insider, this was his patch. But now he was a stranger, an outsider, and considered fair game by the local beasts.
“Give us your wallet.” Scooby had stopped smiling. He held his hands at waist level and flexed his fingers. He must have been, what, fifteen years old? “Now.” He bared his teeth. His cheeks were pockmarked, and his front teeth yellow, probably tobacco stained.
“Listen, lads–”
“No, you listen.” The boys each took a single step forward, like one entity composed of three parts. “Do what I said, and empty your pockets. If you do, we might not hurt you.”
Jesus Christ, was this really happening, in broad daylight?
Suddenly Simon was no longer afraid, he was angry. This was good; he could use it. He let the rage flood through him, filling him up from the inside, like a tap being turned on somewhere in his gut. “Fuck off, son.”
He’d barely finished his sentence when the boys struck.
Scooby moved forward and threw a punch, which landed sweetly on the side of Simon’s face. He reeled backwards, his own hands coming up, and he was pushed further back by the advancing boys. He lashed out, feeling his fist connect with bone, and started screaming abuse as he tried to pummel his attackers.
His energetic defence did not last. He went down after a few seconds, taking more blows to the face, and a hard one to the stomach. His breath came in thick, jagged bursts; his kidneys ached; he felt his head go down. Then, before he even had a chance to attempt any more punches, he felt the solid connection of a foot to his temple.
He stayed down, unable to fight gravity. The ground grabbed him, held him, and refused to let him go, while darkness inched in from the corners of his vision.
He was aware of the boys — Scooby, Blue Hoody, Green Hoody — going through his pockets, and then they dragged off his suit jacket. There was laughter, yelling, and the sounds diminished as they ran away, leaving him there on the ground.
The only reason he did not black out was because he vomited, bringing up his bland breakfast in the dirt.
After several minutes he stopped heaving. There was nothing left in his stomach to come up, and his throat felt raw. He struggled to his knees and inspected himself for damage. A few bruises on his face, a sore side, no blood. As far as beatings went, this one was mild. They were amateurs. He’d suffered worse when he was mugged by one man in London, four years ago as he stumbled drunk through the streets behind King’s Cross.