there’s something in her hand, but she’s too close to the camera for them to identify what it is. She turns round to face the boys slinking toward her, and Loss whispers:
‘Here we go.’
18
I shoot Mr Hood-down through the right eye. His right, not mine. There’s no sound because I’m using a crossbow pistol. The bolt leaves the mechanism at a million miles an hour then buries itself in Hood-down’s brain. Or what passed as his brain.
Night-night, on the ground. Sleepy-time now.
I turn away while his friends are still trying to work out what the fuck is going on, and put the weapon back in my bag.
‘Danny? Hey Danny! What the fuck are you doing, man?’
Danny’s not doing a whole lot right now, except maybe twitching a bit. I take out the flare gun and shoot the other two in the face.
19
When the flare gun detonates its charge, the entire screen goes white, then black; the super-sensitive setting on the camera overloading.
‘What the hell was that?’ DS Stone asks. DI Loss doesn’t answer her, nor does he take his eyes off the screen. Swirls of green light, and black and white heat flowers are blooming all over the screen, then dying and fading in front of him. When the image returns, the two boys are on the floor, clawing at their faces, white hot blobs thrashing left and right on the screen as the super-heated metal filaments embedded in their skin sputter and die. The girl is walking away from the camera towards the three figures on the ground. Loss instinctively clenches his jaw, expecting to see some new slice of violence, but instead the girl steps over them as though they’re litter and walks to the club wall.
‘What the hell is she doing?’ breathes Stone. Loss shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the screen. The girl is shaking something in her right hand, the image blurring. She stops by the door to the club. The detectives watch her as she starts to graffiti the wall with spray paint. After the first two letters, Loss grabs the phone on his desk and dials the crime-processing division, requesting all information on a triple assault involving a flare gun in the past two weeks. He hangs up when he has the information he wants. On the screen in front of him the girl has finished writing on the wall. In letters three feet high she has sprayed:
TUESDAY
in Gothic bold print.
‘Bloody hell, sir.’ Stone is shaken by the brutality of the last few minutes. On screen, the girl walks back to the camera, looks directly through the lens, then reaches forward and turns it off. The screen goes blank, and both detectives stare at it, as if expecting something else to happen. Something to make it make sense. And then Loss taps some buttons and makes it start all over again in a pop-up window in the top right-hand corner of the monitor. The rest of the screen is taken up as he utilizes the information given to him on the phone.
‘Candy’s. It’s a pop-up drug club, last in residence,’ he says, his fingers working the keyboard, ‘just off London Bridge. St. Clements Court. Incident reported at 12.45 this morning; one dead, two blinded, probably permanently. No witnesses.’
He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to scrape his brain into top gear. Any gear.
‘I want you find any CCTV that shows the entrance to this alley. Interview the FOS officers, find out if anybody saw this girl, saw
anything
, and fingerprint the fire escape, just in case.’
He stops the scene on his laptop and swipes his fingers over the touchpad, re-winding a few seconds. The girl in front of him pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and throws it away. He rewinds again, pausing it just as she is pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. He can’t tell in the weird green light, but he’s pretty sure she’s smiling.
‘And find that fag …’
20
It was all over the news. Again.
The youths, all of whom are known by the police to be associated with the Sparrow Estate drug gangs, were found mutilated in the
‘Here we go.’
18
I shoot Mr Hood-down through the right eye. His right, not mine. There’s no sound because I’m using a crossbow pistol. The bolt leaves the mechanism at a million miles an hour then buries itself in Hood-down’s brain. Or what passed as his brain.
Night-night, on the ground. Sleepy-time now.
I turn away while his friends are still trying to work out what the fuck is going on, and put the weapon back in my bag.
‘Danny? Hey Danny! What the fuck are you doing, man?’
Danny’s not doing a whole lot right now, except maybe twitching a bit. I take out the flare gun and shoot the other two in the face.
19
When the flare gun detonates its charge, the entire screen goes white, then black; the super-sensitive setting on the camera overloading.
‘What the hell was that?’ DS Stone asks. DI Loss doesn’t answer her, nor does he take his eyes off the screen. Swirls of green light, and black and white heat flowers are blooming all over the screen, then dying and fading in front of him. When the image returns, the two boys are on the floor, clawing at their faces, white hot blobs thrashing left and right on the screen as the super-heated metal filaments embedded in their skin sputter and die. The girl is walking away from the camera towards the three figures on the ground. Loss instinctively clenches his jaw, expecting to see some new slice of violence, but instead the girl steps over them as though they’re litter and walks to the club wall.
‘What the hell is she doing?’ breathes Stone. Loss shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the screen. The girl is shaking something in her right hand, the image blurring. She stops by the door to the club. The detectives watch her as she starts to graffiti the wall with spray paint. After the first two letters, Loss grabs the phone on his desk and dials the crime-processing division, requesting all information on a triple assault involving a flare gun in the past two weeks. He hangs up when he has the information he wants. On the screen in front of him the girl has finished writing on the wall. In letters three feet high she has sprayed:
TUESDAY
in Gothic bold print.
‘Bloody hell, sir.’ Stone is shaken by the brutality of the last few minutes. On screen, the girl walks back to the camera, looks directly through the lens, then reaches forward and turns it off. The screen goes blank, and both detectives stare at it, as if expecting something else to happen. Something to make it make sense. And then Loss taps some buttons and makes it start all over again in a pop-up window in the top right-hand corner of the monitor. The rest of the screen is taken up as he utilizes the information given to him on the phone.
‘Candy’s. It’s a pop-up drug club, last in residence,’ he says, his fingers working the keyboard, ‘just off London Bridge. St. Clements Court. Incident reported at 12.45 this morning; one dead, two blinded, probably permanently. No witnesses.’
He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to scrape his brain into top gear. Any gear.
‘I want you find any CCTV that shows the entrance to this alley. Interview the FOS officers, find out if anybody saw this girl, saw
anything
, and fingerprint the fire escape, just in case.’
He stops the scene on his laptop and swipes his fingers over the touchpad, re-winding a few seconds. The girl in front of him pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and throws it away. He rewinds again, pausing it just as she is pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. He can’t tell in the weird green light, but he’s pretty sure she’s smiling.
‘And find that fag …’
20
It was all over the news. Again.
The youths, all of whom are known by the police to be associated with the Sparrow Estate drug gangs, were found mutilated in the
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