Border Princes Page 25

  No. None of those things.

  Then why did she feel quite so hollow? It felt for all the world like a sudden, plunging dip in blood sugar. She had a sort of craving, a yearning to get some unknown, unidentifiable substance back into her system. The simple lack of it was making her suffer withdrawal.

  She was forty-five minutes out of Manchester Piccadilly. She decided to get a cookie or some chocolate from the buffet, maybe a tea as well.

  She got up. She felt light-headed and empty-sick. The train was too hot, the two chattering women in the twin-sets too loud, and the girl on the clam-shell too obnoxious.

  The small boy, travelling with his mum, looked up from his toys at Gwen as she edged by.

  ‘All right?’ she fake-smiled at him.

  She certainly wasn’t.

  Why was that man looking at him? That oh-so-familiar man?

  I’m just being paranoid, James thought. He’s just got one of those faces, and I’m in one of those moods.

  He started heading to the Please Pay Here.

  There was the man again. No, it was a different man. This one was dark haired, not blond, and was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt instead of a suit. But he also looked uncannily familiar.

  It’s just going to be one of those days, James told himself. Just face it.

  The stab behind his eyes was back. Sounds all around him seemed boxier than ever. He looked down into his basket, to check he was done. It was full of stuff. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d put most of it in his basket. Tippex? A globe artichoke? Cat treats? Really?

  He looked up in slight panic, wondering if anyone in the Saturday crowd could tell he was having a quiet breakdown in the middle of the shop. He saw the dark-haired man in the black jeans.

  The man made eye contact with him.

  James turned and headed for the exit. He was walking quite fast, on the very edge of actually trotting.

  ‘Excuse me? Sir?’ a shop assistant called out.

  He realised the basket of unpaid-for goods was still swinging off his arm. He threw it aside and started to run in earnest. There was some commotion behind him at the disturbance. His basket landed on the floor, and spilled out his sea bass and his packet of geranium seeds and his block of marzipan and his hair-clips and his conference pears and all the other things he had collected.

  ‘So, what are we saying?’ asked Toshiko.

  ‘James is not James,’ said Jack. ‘James is in danger. We’re in danger. Something’s happened to the real James. This James is an impostor. This is the real James, but something seriously crazy is happening to him. This has something to do with the alarm. This has nothing to do with the alarm.’ He looked at the other three. ‘Take your pick. Any or all of the above.’

  ‘I checked James out,’ Owen insisted. ‘Full work-up. There was nothing—’

  ‘Nothing we can see,’ Jack corrected.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Owen replied, conceding.

  ‘What do we do about it?’ Toshiko asked.

  Nobody spoke for a moment.

  ‘Whatever we can,’ said Jack. ‘Whatever we damn well can. And let’s hope part of that whatever is helping our friend out.’

  ‘Do we know where he is?’ asked Owen.

  ‘I could try his phone,’ offered Ianto.

  ‘Don’t,’ Jack said. ‘Try Gwen instead.’

  A cookie hadn’t helped. She was feeling worse. The wretched sense of loss gnawed at her. She felt like bursting into tears.

  But over what? It was hard to reconcile anything in her recent memory with these pangs that seemed to register on a scale with grief or bereavement. In fact, the more she tried, the more she realised her recent memory seemed downright patchy. What had she done yesterday? The day before? The robot thing in the allotments, in Cathays. Yeah. That had been pretty full-on. Maybe this was what post-traumatic shock felt like.

  If she was actually ill, that would help to explain the way she felt. It would explain the emotional fragility, the sense of loss, the emptiness.

  There was a void inside her, a big dark hole. Its presence gave her an appetite, a searing need to fill it up. She was hungry and thirsty, she was craving, but no amount of food or drink would do.

  The train was just beginning its roll into Manchester Piccadilly. She knew why she’d made the trip – to visit this bloke – but it all seemed so pointless now she was arriving. She couldn’t reason out why she’d ever thought this trip worthwhile. She had no intention of doing anything except getting off this train and on the first one back to Cardiff. Screw this Brady guy. Sorry, but screw him.

  She’d put her MP3 back in, but it kept playing her random tracks she didn’t know; annoying indie pop that she didn’t like at all. It sounded like Rhys’s stuff. Had he put them on there?

  It made her really want to call him. She wanted to talk to Rhys more than just about anything she could think of. It was a gut feeling, as if talking to him would provide a fix that would soothe her cravings. Something, some dull feeling of restraint, stopped her from hitting his number on her phone list.

  The music went on: more stuff she didn’t like or know. She pulled out her earphones, and stuffed the MP3 into her bag. Outside, grey platforms crawled past. She could see the mighty span of the station roof. The train rocked to a halt. There was a rifle salute of opening doors.

  People were getting up, gathering their things.

  She breathed hard, trying not to cry. She got up. She left her rubbish, her coffee cups, her food wrappers, her paper. She had some magazines too. One was folded back on a glossy article about what Jolene Blalock had been up to since Enterprise wound up. She’d saved that for Rhys, she remembered. She rolled the magazine up and put it in her bag. She dumped the rest.

  She got up, and joined the queue filing down the aisle. The women in twinsets were still chattering. The young woman who thought a lot of herself was loudly telling her clam-shell she was just getting off the train.

  The small boy and his mum were just in front of her. She stepped back to let them into the queue. The mum smiled a thank you. The boy toddled along, clutching his Spongebob Squarepants toy.

  Gwen got off the train and walked out of the bustling disembarkation tide to the quiet side of the platform. She stood, breathing hard, hurting. The air was cold and tangy with fumes. Whistles and voices and door-bangs and the patter of footsteps barely filled the echoing vault. A Tannoy announcement rang out into space.

  Unable to stop herself, she started to cry. Tears streamed down her face. She shuddered with each sob. The sense of loss was as overwhelming as it was incomprehensible.

  Her phone rang. It rang for a while before she was able to answer it.

  ‘Gwen?’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Gwen, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I... Yeah.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Manchester Piccadilly,’ she replied.

  ‘OK. Why?’

  ‘I... It’s complicated.’

  ‘Gwen,’ Jack’s voice said. ‘This is important. I need to talk to you about James.’

  She swallowed. She sniffed. She thought about that.

  She said, ‘Who?’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He left the food hall and ran along the upper landing of the shopping centre. It was busy. Hard sunlight shone down through the atrium’s glass roof onto hundreds of jostling people.

  His mind was busy too. His heart was pounding. He—

  He slowed down. He was being stupid.

  James came to a halt, and slowly turned around, scanning the crowd. No one gave him so much as a passing look. Too many minds were focused on their Saturday shop, too many attentions were wrapped up in conversations with partners or friends or whining kids.

  Sounds, too many sounds, all boxy and hollow. It was like being underwater in a busy public baths, and hearing the swell of voices in the air transmitted by the water alone.

  His palms were tacky with sweat. He looked at his hands, holdin
g them out in front of him. For one, quick, stomach-swooping moment, they weren’t his hands at all. They belonged to someone else.

  Big Wooof. Big, big Wooof. Alienated and scared by parts of his own body, James reeled. Owen had been wrong. Some insane kind of transmutation was happening to him, right there, in broad daylight, in front of hundreds of people. Or Owen had been right, and he was simply going mad.

  Someone was looking at him. James felt it, like a sixth sense, a hot tingle. He looked up, searching the crowd as it poured around him.

  He saw the man, the lean blond man in the black suit. The man was standing twenty feet away, the crowd flowing around him too. The man was staring right at James.

  James knew he’d met him before somewhere. Where, where, where?

  Why is he looking at me?

  James turned his head a few degrees to the right, very slowly. Ten yards to the blond man’s left, another figure was making a silent, still island in the stream of bodies. The dark-haired man in the black jeans.

  He was staring at James too.

  James froze. He had every intention of running, but his legs wouldn’t move and his body refused to turn. It was as if they had some hold on him, some hypnotic hold, just like that bloody replacement window con man hadn’t. This was how Jack and Gwen and all the poor suckers he touched must have felt: charmed and immobile.

  This was what it was like to be a prey item locked in a predator’s gaze.

  The blond man turned his head and looked through the crowd at the dark-haired man. The dark-haired man turned his head and looked back. Simultaneously, they started to walk towards James. They took strong, purposeful strides. They moved closer together until they were coming on, side by side, in step.

  Two figures. Side by side.

  Two shadows beside a phone box, in the middle of the night.

  James remembered. The memory returned in a hot, dizzying hit, as if he’d been whacked between the eyes with a mallet. He bolted.

  Oh, now people noticed him. They cried out and complained loudly as he shoved his way past them. Who did he think he was? Where did he think he was going? Couldn’t he show some bloody manners?

  His spinning mind supplied answers as he ran. To the first two questions, he had no idea. To the third, no he bloody couldn’t.

  He looked back. The men were coming after him. He slammed through the crowd to the head of a descending escalator, and pushed his way down it. A woman bellowed as he kicked over the shopping bags she’d set on the step beside her. A man cursed him as he elbowed past. A young guy riding beside his girlfriend tumbled down two steps and clung to the handrail as James barged him to one side.

  He leapt off the escalator onto the middle level of the atrium. Above him, the two men were weaving down after him, single-file, switching back and forth to avoid people. They had to wait while the bellowing woman gathered up her spilled purchases with the help of other shoppers. Forced to a halt, the two men kept their eyes on James as they slid down the moving steps.

  James started running immediately he was off the escalator. He crashed into an elderly man and knocked him flat. He stumbled as the elderly man fell, but didn’t stop. More people began to shout at him. He ran on.

  The two men reached the bottom of the escalator, and started to sprint after him.

  James crossed the landing space, looking left and right. He needed another down escalator to reach street level. He turned, and collided head-on with a young husband and wife. They had two kids with them, and the youngest tripped as he tangled with James’s legs. Bumping down hard, the kid started to cry immediately.

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ the wife yelled.

  ‘Look where you’re going, shithead,’ the husband roared. He was thick-set and hefty, a bloke used to responding with his fists. He swung an angry punch at James.

  Instinctively, James raised a hand, just a warding hand.

  The thuggish husband grunted and sailed backwards through the air. He actually left the ground. He flew ten yards and struck a retail barrow set up in the middle of the landing to sell Russian dolls and autographed photos of footballers. The barrow went over beneath him in a huge and noisy clatter. A general commotion began.

  James ran to the escalator. People were getting out of his way.

  The lower escalator was a long sweep. As soon as he got onto it, James found his progress blocked by shoppers. Some of them tried to shrink and cower away from him. Some of them cried out in alarm.

  Penned in, James looked back up the sliding steps. The two men appeared at the top of the escalator and began to rush down after him, dodging around a few solo riders, who flinched from them. The two men were gaining.

  James gripped the moving rail. He looked over at the drop, at the faces looking up to see what the fuss was about. The dark-haired man was four steps behind him, reaching out a hand.

  James vaulted the moving rail and dropped.

  Dozens of people screamed.

  Jack put down the cordless slowly. He paused for a moment.

  ‘Jack?’ asked Toshiko, rising from her seat. ‘Jack, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Was that Gwen?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Jack?’

  Jack turned to face them. ‘You know,’ he began quietly, ‘you know how this all seemed terribly, you know, wonky?’

  Owen nodded. Toshiko just stared.

  ‘Well, you won’t believe what Gwen just said to me,’ said Jack.

  He was flying, arms out, falling. Someone was screaming in a really piercing way.

  He landed. He landed with legs coiled like springs to cushion the impact. He didn’t even fall or stumble. As soon as he was down, he sprang forwards and started running again.

  A pathway opened in the crowd in front of him, Terrified, horrified faces recoiled out of his way.

  More screams rang out in his wake. He didn’t need to look back to know that the blond man and the dark-haired man had followed his example and thrown themselves off the escalator.

  They would be coming. Fast now, fast, and making no sound.

  He could see the entrance of the shopping centre ahead. Oblivious crowds washed in and out, only just beginning to ripple as they realised something was up. The entrance itself was two pairs of automatic glass doors framed by side panels of floor-length glass.

  There were too many people, too many people in his path. Some were too slow getting out of his way; others were too scared or confused. One young guy simply ducked down and James sailed over him.

  There was no time to stop, no time to even slow down. The main doorways were too thick with people.

  James raised his hands in front of his face in a protective cross. He accelerated. He came through one of the side panels in a splash of shattering glass. Shattering strengthened glass. Fragments flew in all directions, and the main weight of the glass panel collapsed like a sheet of dislodged ice, cascading across the pavement in a glittering, crashing torrent.

  Yet more screams and hysterics. Shoppers fled in panic. James didn’t stop. The road ahead was two strides away, heavy with crawling traffic.

  He didn’t break stride. He took off. Bang! off the roof of a minicab. Bang! off the bonnet of a Mini. Three powerful skips took him across to the far side of the road.

  Behind him, Mr Dine exited the shopping centre through the hole in the glass panel James had made.

  Mr Lowe came out a second later through the main doors, slamming pedestrians aside like a charging bull. People tumbled out of his way, some struck so hard they would require medical attention. One girl actually cartwheeled on her way to colliding with a heavy rubbish bin.

  Though Mr Dine had exited the shopping centre first, Mr Lowe’s ruthless drive put him in the lead. He flew out across the traffic, crunching in the roof of an Audi and then vaulting over the high back of a minibus. His gymnastics, his sheer grace, would have scored him maximum points at any Olympics. No one really saw it because he had become just a blur by then.

  He landed on the far
pavement, his impact cracking the expensive zigzag paving stones.

  Mr Dine landed beside him. There was a terrible commotion of voices and shouting and car horns all around them. They each scanned the crowd. They looked at one another.

  There was no sign of James.

  Mr Dine looked at the scrum of injured people outside the Mall entrance.

  ‘That was unnecessary,’ he said.

  ‘It was appropriate. Only the Principal matters,’ Mr Lowe replied.

  Thirty yards east of them, the passengers of a bendy-bus erupted in alarm. A man was clinging to the outside of the moving vehicle, looking in at them through the window. The driver began to slow the bus as he heard the ripple of panic behind him.

  James gazed in at the alarmed passengers. So much agitation, so much fear. As the bus slowed, he let go of the hand- and toe-holds he had dug in its metal skin.

  He landed on his feet and used the bus’s momentum to propel his onward flight.

  They were behind him still, both of them. He could taste it.

  He crossed the road again, weaving through the moving traffic, and ran down an underpass. He slowed. He was barely panting.

  He took out his mobile.

  ‘How could she not know?’ Owen demanded.

  Jack shrugged. ‘How could she not? How?’

  ‘Just take it easy,’ Jack suggested.

  ‘I will not. I bloody well will not!’

  ‘Then go and sit over there where I can’t hear you,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’m having trouble understanding this too,’ said Toshiko.

  ‘Join the club,’ Jack snapped.

  ‘Something hot,’ Ianto called. They crossed to the station he was monitoring.

  ‘Show me,’ Jack said.

  ‘Some kind of incident at the Capitol Mall,’ Ianto said. ‘Reports of property damage, injuries. Some kind of foot pursuit. Some guys apparently leapt off a moving escalator.’

  Jack studied the screen. ‘Not much to go on. Could just be—’

  His phone rang.

  ‘This is Jack.’

  ‘Jack, it’s James.’

  Jack hesitated before answering. He pointed to Ianto and then at his phone. Ianto nodded and started to tap at the keyboard.