Thicker Than Water

‘Well, how about that,’ I mused. ‘We’re up on a mountain top in South London, Gwillam, and you’re showing me all the kingdoms of the world. Now guess what I have to say to you?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Retro me, Satanas.’

‘I said—’

‘You’re serious. So am I. Get your hand out of my pants, you God-bothering bastard. I’m on your side for as long as this takes, but don’t think for a moment that I won’t beat the living shit out of you the next time I meet you without your muscle.’

He touched his bruised cheek. ‘Well,’ he said calmly, ‘I had to try. Keep your friends close . . .’

‘You think disciples are the same thing as friends?’ I demanded. ‘Try asking Jesus.’

The walkway ahead of us was eerily silent, but the rubble and broken glass that littered it made it clear that the silence was a relatively recent development. Dark, irregular splashes and streaks on the walkway’s cracked concrete showed black in the actinic glare of the police spotlights, but from closer up, I was willing to bet, would turn out to be the rust-brown of dried blood.

Facing us was Boateng Tower, and beyond that was Weston. Maybe fifty yards, across no man’s land and into the valley of death.

We’d had it easy up until now. Gwillam’s magic paper and the police escort it conjured up had got us up the stairs at Marston Tower and through the police barricade - passing along the way a very large number of tense young constables waiting for the riot squad to arrive and scared shitless that they were going to have to go back into the breach before that happened.

But now here we were, on the front line. Behind the smashed windows overhead, vague shadows moved: and between us and Boateng, rearing up to precarious heights as though someone was trying to rebuild the Tower of Babel out of smashed furniture, was the rioters’ barricade. Nobody was manning it that I could see: but a couple of hours’ attrition would have removed the thrill-seekers who were prepared to stick their heads up for a look around and take a rubber bullet or a tear-gas canister in the chops. The ones who were left on the far side of the barricade would be the ones who had a bit more going on upstairs, and therefore by definition they’d be more dangerous.

‘YÃont, aou can leave us,’ Gwillam told the uniformed sergeant who’d been our escort up to this point. ‘My people can handle it from here.’ His people included flat-faced Feld, scarred but cuddly Speight, the man in black whose name I couldn’t even remember, and a couple more exorcists from the Anathemata typing pool - a very young man and an elderly woman - who nobody had bothered to introduce me to.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Do you have anything we can use as cover when we go out there? Mobile shields, that kind of thing?’

The sergeant, who was in Kevlar and sweating like a horse, shook his head emphatically. ‘Not until the riot units get here,’ he said. ‘We’re expecting them inside of twenty minutes, but then they’ve got to deploy. And you’d have to talk to their chief about commandeering any of their gear. I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you.’

‘We’ll handle it,’ Gwillam repeated, gesturing towards the stairs to indicate that the sergeant’s presence was no longer required. He gave us a sour nod and withdrew.

‘Feld,’ Gwillam said. ‘And Speight.’

The big man appeared at his left shoulder, the scarred Father Christmas at his right. They both inclined their heads, awaiting orders.

‘I’m going to let you off the leash,’ Gwillam said. ‘I want you to clear us a path - ideally without killing anyone. This is a police operation, and we have to stay within their rules as far as possible.’

‘What about bones and soft tissue?’ Speight asked. Somehow the question sounded worse in his mild upper-crust voice than it would have done in Feld’s guttural growl.

‘All flesh is grass,’ Gwillam observed. ‘It withers, and its flower fades. Do what you need to do, my sons, and take my blessing with you.’

Very matter-of-factly, Feld and Speight stepped out of their shoes and took off their coats. Then they removed the rest of their clothes, stacking them neatly at the foot of the wall.

Father Gwillam bowed his own head as though in prayer, but the resemblance was only superficial. When Gwillam quotes from the Bible, his power flows through the words the same way mine does through music: he was performing an unbinding.

‘Hast thou not read that which was spoken by God? He stirreth up the sea with His power, and by His understanding breaketh up the storm. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor my ways your ways. The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life . . .’