The axe hung limply in Curly’s hand. The pair of them, arguing—well, they were no longer the Three Stooges, obviously. They were Laurel and Hardy. Stan and Ollie. In another fine mess again.
And here was a funny thing. Sometimes a blow to the head can clear away the cobwebs.
This wasn’t true, but for a moment Hassan pretended it was, and wondered what he’d do if it were. He would stand up, he decided. So that’s what he did.
There. That was better.
Wobbly on his legs, he became aware of the enormous space everywhere. Space hemmed in by trees, but without walls, and with a sky overhead. He could see it now. Branches were growing into focus. Somewhere, there’d be a sun. Hassan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun.
He started walking.
The ground was spongy and unfamiliar. Partly this was due to his condition, but mostly it was because he was in a wood. But still, Hassan could walk, he could shuffle; he could almost break into a run. The trick was to look down. To watch where he placed his feet. This sudden view of the ground gave him the illusion that he was moving much faster than he really was.
If he looked back, he would see Curly and Larry breaking off their argument; come lolloping after him, Curly with axe in hand. So he remained focused on the ground instead, on how much space he was covering. He had no idea where he was going. Whether he was moving deeper into the forest, or would break into open land any moment … Which didn’t seem probable. Everything was too thick, too woody, to surrender itself so swiftly. But those were things Hassan had no control over, while he did, at last, control his own movements. So thinking, he tripped; thrust his hands out before hitting the ground, and couldn’t prevent a cry escaping him as a sharp pain seared outwards from his wrists. Which mattered much less than the noise he’d made.
So now he did look round. He’d travelled much less further than he’d thought; maybe half what he’d hoped. Curly and Larry were about the distance away that Hassan could have thrown a kitchen chair. Both were staring at him.
Hassan could have sworn he heard the grin break out on Curly’s face.
The footsteps passed Webb’s office in a rush, and River released the breath he’d been holding, along with his grip on Spider’s collar. Spider collapsed on to the carpet, incapable of further conversation.
River waited, but there was no more noise. It occurred to him that if it had been the achievers, he’d not have heard a sound: there was more to them than dressing the part. And with that thought an idea occurred, which he wasted two minutes implementing before turning to his search.
The files and folders took up seven shelves, stretching the length of the far wall. There could easily be a hundred on each, and River had maybe three minutes to find the one he wanted, always supposing it was there rather than, say, locked in a desk drawer. So he tried the drawers first, most of which contained junk, and only one of which was locked. River retrieved the key from Spider’s pocket, but the locked drawer hid only bank statements and a passport in Spider’s name. Dropping the key, River headed for the shelves. A snapshot memory from last year told him he’d submitted his interim exercise report in a black plastic folder, but at least a third of the spines were that same glossy colour, the rest being orange, yellow, green. He pulled a black one at random, to find it labelled in the top right corner: Ennis. Assuming this was a surname, he checked the Cs; found a Cartwright who wasn’t him; then looked under R, but found no Rivers. Tried A for Assessment, and found a bunch of them, all black, but none of them his.
He took a step back and assessed the wall as a whole. ‘Spider Spider Spider,’ he murmured. ‘London rules …’ Webb had said it himself: those were the rules he played by. So if Webb had burned River at King’s Cross, on Taverner’s instructions, he’d have kept evidence of it, to make sure he didn’t end up in the line of fire himself. Given Taverner’s expertise at throwing former allies to the Dogs, this was wise.
‘Spider Spider Spider …’
London rules he’d said, but he’d also said something else. As River groped in his memory the door opened, and into the office slipped one of the achievers, a real one, his drawn pistol aimed directly at River’s head.
It wasn’t a grin. Curly turned when he heard the yelp, and snarled when he saw the kid was on the move. He barked at Larry—a cross between a threat and a prediction—and took off.
Behind him, he knew, Larry would be rooted to the spot. Glad to be left behind; hoping he could vanish.
I’m not doing this. I’m out of here.
No balls. With soldiers like him, the war was lost. Hell, it wasn’t even fought. It was all hot air and history.
But Curly was at war. If Larry didn’t know which side he was on, that was his lookout. The thing about an axe was, it didn’t need reloading.
The Paki was showing his heels again. He ran like a girl, elbows tucked into his sides. Curly, though, was flying. Days of tension, of built-up excitement, and here was the moment at last.
We’re gunna cut your head off.
Call it a declaration of war.
Then his right foot landed on something slippery and wet, and for half a beat he might have lost his balance and sprawled on his back, while the axe went flying freely through the air—but it didn’t happen, he didn’t fall; his body was finely in synch with the natural world, and his left foot firmly in place on solid ground; his hip twisting just enough that his centre of balance held, and now he was moving even faster, and the distance between himself and his prey was disappearing by the second.
He wished the Paki had been looking back to see that. Get some idea of what he was dealing with.
We’re gunna cut your head off and show it.
But he was still making tracks, running like a girl. Scared as a mouse. Frightened as a rat.
Curly slowed his pace. This was too good. This was too good to hurry. This was what they meant by thrill of the chase.
We’re gunna cut your head off and show it on the web.
Nick Duffy covered his phone with a hand and said, ‘They’ve got him.’
‘Where?’
‘Webb’s office.’
Taverner glanced at Lamb, who shrugged. ‘If my guys were any good, they’d be your guys.’
‘Why Webb?’ she asked. Then: ‘Never mind.’ To Duffy, she said, ‘Tell them to take whoever it is downstairs. And tell Webb to get up here.’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Thank you. Give me a minute, would you?’
Duffy left, talking into his phone.
Taverner said, ‘Whatever just happened, that was your last chance. Hope you enjoyed your morning, Jackson, because it’s the last you’ll see for a week. And by the time you’re back upstairs, you’ll have signed a confession, and anything else I tell you to.’
Lamb, sitting facing her, nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be about to say something important, but all he could manage was, ‘Mind, your lad Spider doesn’t half like a colourful tie.’
Behind her, the door opened.
‘Of course, my lad River can’t do a knot to save his life.’
The minutes spent swapping shirts with the unconscious Spider hadn’t been wasted after all. River Cartwright, wearing Webb’s jacket and tie, closed the door behind him, a black folder tucked under his arm.
Hassan couldn’t look back. Could barely look forward. Had to look at the ground, scan it for roots and stones and unsuspected dips; for anything that might grab his ankle and bring him to a sudden end. For dangers at head-height, he trusted his luck.