‘So you’re … a god?’ Sefton had been an atheist all his life, but he didn’t know any other way to say it.
‘There are no gods. But that’s what all the gods say.’ He looked again to the woman. ‘That’s better. More cryptic.’
‘If that’s what you stand for, why did you save me?’
‘Because, while I don’t know much about your case, I do know that things up there — ’ he pointed to the roof again — ‘might be about to get a lot more orderly. This is the way the British do things, you see: too much chaos, then too much order, swinging from one extreme to the other, always giving them something to complain about. They say they want a happy medium. They really don’t. If you lot manage to nick the Ripper, then things will continue to tick along, with chaos in the mixture. If you don’t, then…’
‘You’re talking about the extreme right taking power?’
‘The British always love to flirt with that nice Mr Hitler, but they’ve never quite decided to take him home. Yet.’ The Rat King stared his off-kilter stare at Sefton, and he got the feeling that his mind was being searched again. There was no sensation to it at all, and for some reason, what was terrifying and intrusive in dreams was fine here. ‘Yes, you’ve had similar suspicions. Someone is waiting in the wings to save you all. Someone likes chaos only up to a certain point, the point where they can march in and make it all better.’
‘Who?’
The Rat King shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You’re the policeman.’
‘What’s the Smiling Man’s part in all this?’
‘Ah, you’ve met the new boy?’
Sefton was startled at that word. ‘New?’
‘Most of us go back to before you lot could stand upright. He’s just a kid, relatively speaking. But he’s made himself very powerful, very quickly.’
‘I always sort of thought he was, you know, the Devil.’
The Rat King burst out into a staccato laugh that became a wheezing cough. ‘Oh, no, dear me, no — the delusions of a child.’ He threw an arm theatrically around Sefton’s shoulders. ‘Everyone you’ve met or heard about during this case has had good and bad sides to them, correct? That’s one thing that’s getting in the way of your search for meaning: that these days everything’s got a bit mixed up. Anything seems to be able to mean anything; all the signifiers have been thrown into a barrel and are being picked out at random and assigned to just about anything, and the choice of what means what, as always, seems to be down to those with money and power. You despair about making accurate judgements about anyone. Well, I’m here to tell you, boy, it was always thus. And that doubt of yours is the first sign of wisdom. I liked it when you pondered, on the dance floor, the loveliness of Barry Keel, not that I myself share that opinion. That doubt of yours must be why Brutus picked you.’
‘He “picked” me?’ Even though it had surprised him to hear it said, Sefton sort of knew it to be true
‘My point is that what you call the Smiling Man isn’t “a force for evil”. He’s a bloke who’s not real, like me, with his own aims and plans and maybe even a good side.’ The Rat King considered for a moment. ‘Maybe. I don’t know if the shape he’s made in lets him have one.’
‘The shape he’s made in?’
‘By you lot. Don’t look so startled. You people make all of us. And that’s all you’re going to get about him. I’ve already said more than I’m allowed. But the shape I’m made in allows me always to do more than I’m allowed.’ He sniggered at his own cleverness. ‘Oh dear, since you have walked this path and unfortunately found only me, I am obliged to offer help. What would you like for Christmas? No, wrong holiday.’ He started to look in the pile of rubbish, throwing aside items which ranged from things that looked rotten to things that looked like precious jewels. ‘This is the rubbish of London,’ he said. ‘It all descends to my level. Ah, here we are.’ He pulled out a water-stained police notebook, which Sefton saw was one of the ‘special’ notebooks Quill had set aside for the work of his team that a judge might find unbelievable.
Then he realized. It was Quill’s own notebook.
Sefton put down his tea, took the notebook, opened it, recognized Quill’s handwriting. He flipped to the most recent page. He looked to the Rat King again, amazed. ‘This is brilliant.’
‘Glad to be of service. You haven’t drunk your tea.’
Sefton felt a little abashed as he put the notebook inside his jacket pocket. ‘In everything I’ve read, if you go somewhere outside of the real world, you’re not supposed to eat or drink anything that’s given to you. Sorry.’
The Rat King laughed. ‘Clever fucker. I nearly had you obliged to serve me. See, you made a judgement call. You can do it. Even in this horrible new world you people have made. Bye then.’
Sefton looked in puzzlement between the Rat King and the woman, both of whom were now bowing to him as if this was the end of a play. ‘What-?’
The Rat King clicked his fingers and the lights above them suddenly went out.
TWENTY-THREE
Sefton woke up. He looked around. It was early evening. He was sitting on the pavement, just along from a bus shelter. People were walking past him without looking at him. He sniffed. He’d pissed himself. So much sweat as well. He realized he knew this place. This was exactly where he’d come back last time he’d taken a trip to the outer boroughs; he was near Cannon Street tube. Why this place? He had no idea.
He remembered what had happened and urgently looked inside his jacket. There was Quill’s notebook. Incredibly. He’d brought back evidence from outside the world. Somehow. He was exhausted, beyond fatigue, but he’d done it. He’d done it. He felt … too tired to come to any conclusions about how he felt, but there was a kind of level playing field in his head now. He had sorted something out inside himself. He reached for his phone, but his fingers were too numb to dial. He felt his throat and was sure he wouldn’t be able to say anything if he could.
A car pulled up beside him. The window slid down, and to his surprise, there was Superintendent Lofthouse. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘I put some newspaper on the seats.’ She sniffed. ‘Now I realize why.’
* * *
She drove him to Gipsy Hill. He drank strong sweet tea from a flask as Lofthouse let him know what had been happening with the others. He let the drink start to warm the terrible cold inside him. His legs kept cramping, and his stomach was tied in knots. Costain and Ross were waiting back at the Portakabin, Lofthouse said. She’d managed to call them and order them to come back in. She wouldn’t say how she’d known where to find Sefton. Whenever they stopped at the lights, she’d toy with that key on her charm bracelet. Sefton finally managed a whisper, because he was so angry at her keeping secrets from them. ‘Five is better than four,’ he whispered, his throat aching. ‘Told that. Meant to be team of five. Like the Continuing Projects Team were. Right now, there’s just three. You could at least make us four.’
She was silent for a long moment. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Not now. You’re just going to have to accept that. If, that is, you want me to keep helping you.’
* * *
When Sefton stumbled into the Portakabin, Ross came straight over. ‘Oh my God, Kev,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘We both are,’ said Costain. ‘We had to go; we thought we were onto something.’
Had they really? There was that look on Costain’s face that Sefton knew not to trust. He fell into a seat and Lofthouse asked the others to get him a blanket and a change of clothes and a cup of strong coffee. He wanted a shower, but didn’t feel able to walk over to the nick to get one. Slowly, as he was provided with those things, his voice came back to him and he spoke about where he’d been. Ross added the notes to the concepts column of the Ops Board. Did she seem even more distant than usual? He was so unequipped to tell right now. With his hands shaking, Sefton took out Quill’s notebook, was gratified by their astonished reactions. He read out the last page: ‘Met the suspect in a dream. No clue who. Fell into the figure. Back in time. Longbarrow. Fingerprints on the wall. Dead woman. Locked up. Angry. Dreaming.’