Jackdaw (6 page)

His voice was cut off as something seized him by the throat and an invisible blow landed in his stomach. He doubled over, winded, but he’d got the words out and Jonah, after one frozen fraction of a second, turned and sprinted. Behind Ben, Janossi bellowed a curse and pounded by, and Saint erupted from the trees, through the air, moving astonishingly fast. Jonah was already out of sight, and Ben flopped back down onto the bench, breathing hard, shaking.

After a few moments, he became aware of someone standing over him, and looked up, although not very far, to see Stephen Day.

“I suppose that was my fault.” Day spoke in the calm, almost chatty tone he’d used to Janossi earlier, and it made the hairs rise on Ben’s neck. “I quite underestimated your determination to ruin your life for the sake of the most worthless individual of my acquaintance. I told you, more than once, that giving him up was the right thing to do. Was I insufficiently convincing?”

“No.” Ben stood. He towered over Day, but he didn’t delude himself that gave him any chance at all. He thought he could feel a tension in the air around him: perhaps just his imagination, but he was quite sure that the invisible bonds would close round him again if he tried to run.

He had no right to run. He’d aided the escape of a wanted man. Committed a crime. He looked down at Day and went on. “No, you were right. He should be arrested.”

“But you decided he wouldn’t be.”

“Yes.”

Day stuck his hands in the pockets of an expensive topcoat, incongruously worn over a shabby and battered jacket. “Fine. Your decision, Spenser, although this leaves you facing the music on his behalf for the second time, and by God, you will face it now. Lost him, have we?” He didn’t look round as Janossi panted up.

“Saint’s after him,” Janossi offered. “They’re both in the air.”

“Over Regent’s Park.” Day massaged the bridge of his nose. “Good. Marvellous. Do you think she’s likely to catch him?”

“Pastern had a good start.” Janossi cast an unkind look at Ben.

“My responsibility,” Day said. “Right, well. Saint will return in due course, with or without that flying nuisance. I suggest we bring Mr. Spenser back to the cells and decide what to do with him there.”

Ben did not want to go back to the red-brick building, to the strange people who worked there, or to another cell. “What’s your authority?” he demanded. “You police magicians. I’m not a magician. Have you any right to detain me?”

“Good question.” Day considered it, with a thoughtful air. “My authority… Well, for one, you’re a practitioner’s accomplice and I’m holding you as such. For another, by the terms of our agreement with the Met, I can hold unskilled criminals till they can be handed over. And for a third, if you argue with me now, I’ll drag you by the neck till your bones snap. Does that clarify things?”

Chapter Six

Ben spent a long time back in the little cell—and it was a cell, now, the door firmly locked, a chamber pot in the corner. He banged on the door a few times, at first experimentally, then trying to shake a rising fear that these odd, angry people might have forgotten his existence. Nobody came.

Some hours after he was put in there, the door was unlocked by Waterford, the pudgy youth with the broken nose. Ben felt the invisible force clamp around him as his gaoler entered, much harder than when Day had detained him. Waterford carried in a plate of stew and a jug of water, which he put on the table. He looked at Ben, said, “Bloody poof,” and deliberately let a long string of saliva drool into the jug.

It wasn’t the first time—the only question in the cells after Jonah’s first escape had been whether he saw them spit or not. That didn’t make it any easier to bear.

He drank the water anyway, because he was thirsty.

There was no bed. There was a blanket in the corner and, when it became apparent that he would not be moved that night, Ben arranged it over himself and settled to rest in the chair.

He spent a restive, uncomfortable night, thinking of Jonah, wondering if he’d made his escape. Jonah deserved arrest, he was well aware of that. Ben had, without doubt, been wrong to interfere with justice, and he had brought this latest disaster on himself. But Jonah had done things for Ben’s sake too, and he harboured the knowledge of that in his heart like the last ember of a dying fire.

He tried not to think of what would happen to him in the morning. There was, he supposed, a chance that they might just let him go. He had a feeling his luck wasn’t running that way.

He dozed fitfully and was wide awake, chill and bleary-eyed, by the time distant clocks struck five. Someone, thankfully not Waterford, brought him coffee and porridge, and he forced it down, then set himself to waiting.

At last the door opened once more, and Day slipped in, followed by the lumbering Mrs. Gold. She looked, if possible, even more pregnant than before. Ben stood to give her the chair, which she took with a nod of thanks.

“Spenser,” Day said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really. And your man Waterford spits in prisoners’ drinks. Just so you know.”

Mrs. Gold made a face of unutterable weariness. “For heaven’s sake. Steph, would you mind?”

“Of course. Excuse me.” Day left the room. Ben waited for several minutes, not entirely sure what for. Mrs. Gold didn’t speak, sitting with her eyes closed, seeming to enjoy the rest. Ben wondered if she was asleep, if there was any chance he could slip out.

“Don’t try it,” Mrs. Gold said, without opening her eyes.

Day came back in with a jug of water and a cup. “Here.” He poured Ben a drink. “I’ve had a quick word with Waterford. Sorry about that, Spenser.”

“He’s going to have to get used to it,” Mrs. Gold remarked.

“Quite.” Day propped himself against the wall behind her. “We have an agreement with the Met, Spenser. We, practitioners, conduct ourselves discreetly, we govern ourselves to prevent magical crime affecting the rest of the population, and we ensure wrongdoers are punished. The Met were already furious at the dead officers and Pastern getting away scot-free. So it did not help when he and you windwalked out of a police raid on a molly house. And it
really
did not help that, yesterday, Pastern led Saint on an aerial chase all the way down Great Portland Street, over Oxford Street to Regent Street, and right through the Liberty Bazaar. That was not what they had in mind by discretion.”

“In fairness, it’s just as much Saint’s fault as Pastern’s,” Mrs. Gold observed. “I told you she’s grossly overindulged.”

“You may argue with her fiancé about that,” Day said. “I shouldn’t dare. And if we’re talking of fairness, Pastern made a damned good stab at destroying her life last winter. She’s got a grudge against him, and I don’t blame her for it. Though I do blame her for windwalking through Liberty’s, yes,” he added, as Mrs. Gold twisted round to give him a look. “In any case, the pair of them caused utter havoc, leaving us with an extremely angry police commissioner and a Council scrabbling for solutions, so…”

“So we’re handing you over,” Mrs. Gold told Ben.

“To whom?”

“The Met,” Day said. “Who intend to prosecute you as Pastern’s accomplice in the murders of four police officers.”

“But that’s nonsense,” Ben said. “I was in gaol. I knew nothing of it.”

“You’ve helped him escape justice twice. You’re conducting a criminal liaison with him. If the Met can’t get him, they’re going to have you instead. You’re a poor second, but you’ll do.”

“How is that fair?”

“I don’t think fairness is the concern here,” Mrs. Gold remarked dryly.

“I doubt the widows and orphans of the painter’s victims think it’s fair either,” added Day. “You chose your side yesterday, now you can take the consequences. I have several practitioners in uncomfortable situations with the law right now, and a lot of trouble on the streets because of the lack of police co-operation. If handing you over is going to buy us back that co-operation, it’s what we’ll do.” He shrugged. “I did tell you Pastern was a catastrophe. You should have listened.”

“But…” Ben needed to think, but he felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He’d expected it to be bad, but a vengeful prosecution, as a policeman implicated in the murders of his fellows, a bent copper…

He’d thought the time he’d already served had been bad. He’d be lucky to survive this.

“This is justice, is it?” he managed.

“Your sort,” Day said. “As you pointed out to me, you’re not in my jurisdiction. I did try to help you.”

“Leave it, Steph.” Mrs. Gold stood, with some effort. “Let’s get him ready. I’ll send someone in with cuffs.”

She waddled out. Ben sat, heavily, head in hands. He wondered if demanding a lawyer would do any good. As if he could afford one.

“You know this isn’t right.”

“I do, yes.” Day sounded close to sympathetic. “But if we can’t give them Pastern, they’ll make do with you, and that’s all. Were I you, I’d stop sacrificing myself for him.” His eyes caught Ben’s, oddly intent. “Really, Spenser. Don’t sacrifice yourself for him again.”

As if he’d have the chance. Ben had no idea what sort of term he might expect, but a vengeful judge who chose to name him accessory to murder could send him down for more years than he’d survive.

Waterford came in a few minutes later. He was white-faced and sweaty, and Ben wondered what Day’s “quick word” had entailed. He cast Ben a look of intense dislike as he handed Day a rope.

“We can’t afford handcuffs?” Day enquired.

“There’s none in the cupboard, sir,” Waterford muttered. “Anyway, he’s not a practitioner.”

“Oh, well, then. Stand with hands in front please, Spenser. I will make you,” he added, not unkindly, when Ben didn’t rise at once. “I’d rather not.”

Ben stood, breathing deeply, and allowed Day to rope his wrists, which the man did with surprising deftness. Day walked with him to the main entrance, where three police constables waited. None of them made eye contact with him, their glazed expressions expressing their disdain.

“The prisoner Spenser,” Day said. “You’re taking him to Cannon Street, yes?”

“That’s right, sir. Are you intending to come, sir?” There was a definite note of hostility in the constable’s question.

“No, he’s not a practitioner. I’m sure you can manage. Off you go.” Day turned without a farewell and went back inside, as big hands closed on Ben’s arms.

“Right, Margery.” A harsh voice, breath hot and close on Ben’s ear. “Get your arse in the carriage. There’s a few people down the nick want a
word
with you.”

It was a short drive to Cannon Street. Ben stared at the floor, not wanting to antagonise his guards by meeting their eyes or to give them an excuse to call him aggressive. He’d learned that much. He felt nauseous anticipation of what was coming.

Hell, hell, hell. Why had he called out? It could be Jonah here now, not him. Jonah, who’d left him before…

But in the end, it hardly mattered what Jonah had felt, how many lies there had been. Jonah had betrayed him, and Ben had betrayed him right back, but they had loved each other once, and Ben would take this punishment now in memory of that, because there was nothing else left for him to do.

That didn’t make the prospect of what was coming any easier to bear.

The cab stopped. One of the constables stuck his head out of the window and pulled it back in with a scowl. “Some sort of disturbance outside the station. Nothing serious, it looks like. Let’s go.”

They stepped out of the carriage, police before and after Ben so that they could ensure he had no opportunity to bolt. He took a deep breath of the grimy air while he could, and looked around. Cannon Street was busy, with cabs rattling up and down, crowds of fast-striding office workers, flower girls and hawkers crying their wares. He could see the disturbance in front of the steps to the station door. A spilled barrow of herring, twinkling silver in damp heaps on the cobbles, a barrow of apples abandoned on the street, and a couple of enraged costers bellowing elaborate insults in each other’s faces, watched by a large and appreciative crowd, as a policeman attempted to calm them.

“Right, let’s get this one in,” remarked one of Ben’s guards, then gave a cry of fury as a fish flew out of the crowd and smacked his broad chest. There was a shriek of juvenile laughter from the crowd. “Hoi! Don’t you—” More fish flew. “Oi! You pack that in!” Another policeman gave a bellow of anger, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole younger section of the crowd decided that a fish fight was needed. Sprats flew. The fishmonger gave a yell of protest and lunged at a child.

A pebble flew down, its trajectory just missing Ben’s head, and rattled on the pavement at his feet. He looked up, instinctively, as another stone dropped. What damned fool…? Ben tilted his head back, and saw, silhouetted against the sky, the dark crouching shape of a man, hunched like a great black bird on the roof of the police station.

Jonah leaned forward, over the guttering, at an angle that made Ben’s stomach seize. He beckoned, and made a sort of tiptoeing motion with his hands, which Ben realised was meant to be the action of walking up stairs. He stared, confused, then understood what Jonah meant.

There was a constable on each side of him, but their grips were slack as they watched the chaos in front of the station. If he told them Jonah, the true accessory to murder, was on the roof…

They wouldn’t catch him. Jonah would get away, and Ben would show he was on the right side, retrieve a small part of his reputation. Jonah would see him do it, though, hear him, and he’d run and never look back.

And that would be best for them both. Jonah was the catastrophe Day had called him. He should do it. Anything else was madness.

Ben stared up. Jonah gestured, quick and urgent.

Day had told him not to sacrifice himself for Jonah again. Day, who had looked so much as though he wanted to help. In fact, Day had
warned
him…

“Oh no,” Ben said under his breath, and charged up. He had no idea how to do this but he lifted a leg as though ascending an imaginary staircase, and felt the spongy support form under his foot, and then he was climbing frantically, great long steps, terrified of falling or a hand closing round his ankle, with furious cries erupting below. He scrabbled, desperate and terrified, up through the air to the rooftop where Jonah crouched, white-knuckled. Jonah grabbed for him, and Ben flung himself to the tiles, and jerked out, “Trap!”

Jonah yanked Ben to his feet and cursed as a shot spanged off the lead guttering. “Buggery! Come on.” Ben jerked his bound hands, and Jonah whipped out a knife that severed the rope in a single slice. He grabbed Ben’s hand, and they were scramble-running up the roof, over the ridge—

A small form flew at Jonah with a banshee screech.

He let go of Ben’s hand and leapt, hurtling upwards, just avoiding the attack. Jenny Saint tumbled past, rolling and turning like a circus acrobat, and sprang upwards as Jonah crashed down on her from the air, feet first. They collided hard, Saint sending Jonah head over heels even as he landed on her, the impact knocking the breath out of both.

Ben, bereft of Jonah’s hand and the magical pressure that kept him steady, scrabbled desperately for balance and fell sideways, getting a hand around the roof ridge. The tile he gripped shifted and gave, and he grabbed for another, sick with terror. That held, and he hauled himself up for a more secure grip on the chimneystack, watching the windwalkers as they both staggered back to their feet.

Saint was ready for action first. She lashed out with a spinning kick that looked more like ballet than fighting, but it caught Jonah in the chest with vicious force as he rose. He stumbled and fell again. She gave a triumphant yell, leaping at him, and Ben, still hanging on to the chimney, wrenched off the loose tile with his other hand and hurled it at her.

It caught her square on the side of the head. Ben felt a fraction of a second’s intense satisfaction before he realised with abrupt horror that he’d assaulted a young woman and an officer of the law. She stumbled sideways, staggering, clutching her head, tripped on the gutter, and fell off the roof with a shriek.

“Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.” Jonah was back by Ben, grabbing his hand. “We’re going to die. Run.” He tugged him along to the edge of the roof. “You first, straight over, hurry.”

Ben leapt out, took three long strides and heard a volley of shots. He stopped, the instinct operating well before his brain, and the air went from beneath his foot. Jonah screamed something, and there was a hard shove under his flailing foot, but Ben wasn’t running now, he was falling, and unlike Jonah he couldn’t turn in midair.

Something crashed between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward into the brick wall that faced him, just as another shot went right by him. There was a buffeting sensation under his feet, keeping him up as he scrabbled for a grip on the brick, then a thump above him as Jonah hit the roof and hung down, arm outstretched, hand perhaps three feet from Ben’s head.