Bag of Weasels. Chapter 26

The windows rattled in their frames and clouds slid over the moon. I nearly turned back; it was oppressive. I ran up and down the length of the street, wary of dark corners and the darker things that lurked a pounce away behind them and in old brick doorways. Zig-zagging away from the walls I padded along the top of the camber, ducking and diving til the moon sunk and the grey dawn seeped in.
It didn't bode well: over the river meant back to the bridge, and it was only streets away, but I had got nowhere; I would not last once the day was on me.

There on the corner was Flea, like we'd arranged to meet. My heart sank.
"Going North? Like this was a casual meeting, two pals strolling out.
"Yes.
"I'll walk some way with you. He had me to himself, but he seemed less vicious. Perhaps he'd had it knocked out of him, perhaps he felt he owed me. He was looking at me different now though, sort of interested, nosy.
"What's your plan? he asked. I looked at my feet because I never lied well, but since I'd never been one for making plans, he left it there when I said "none..
Flea smiled like he knew it all, but only said "let's go then, and we cracked on.
Like I've said, Flea's a sharp one and it turned out that he served me well. Now that I'd fled the circle, Shadows resumed their places at my back, darker, larger, more threatening than ever and Flea had to move us quick through the uncharted South, jumping and flitting to shake off Watchers, so we'd be gone before notes could be made.
"There's something new out here, some dirty trick, he said as we worked through abandoned construction, "and I'll wager it goes by the name of 'better.
"Better for who? I asked, keeping my head down as we walked.
"Better safe than sorry, better the devil you know. That sort of better. Better to have them packed off and put straight than have them dancing round fires in the middle of the city. Call something sick and bring out the medicine, that's the old line. A new way, a cure for all. Better for all concerned. But no-one's asking you and me.
"You know the score Sunny, even though you're a soppy cunt. You have to mind your own and keep your head down. Let the city do its business. Then you won't get bothered.
Although I hated him I got his track.
"You done right back there, fucking off and leaving 'em, Sunny. It won't end well.
Flea led on, under mile-high cranes, round man-high mud wheels, and back onto streets past lost flowers and hanging posts. We reached the road to the bridge. It was wide and light, our passing was on display, and a quick peek underneath revealed steaming hordes walking the river bank.
"This way ain't happening, but I've got a route. Flea veered off and scampered away. He spun round and walked backwards to check me, holding out his arms with his hands in his pockets so his coat opened out like bat wings, spread out from his nasty little head.
"Come on.
I had no choice.
Flea led me round to huge reddish arches with soot black insides, high as houses, faced by a blank wall as high again. In the gap between, he ran up and down like a dog at a fence looking for entry.
"This is no good, he said and he pulled me on and we followed the arches round to a broken brick bunker, old and useless, stuck in the corner next to the big wall.
Flea was on it like he'd flown up there. I must have blinked.
"Can you climb?
"Don't know.
"You'd better start learning.
For the first time since leaving the circle, I wished Ralph was there.
Flea pulled me over the last lip of bricks and I sprawled out on loose stones and looked down our vista.
We were on railtracks way up high with nowhere to duck off to. I pondered our chances of getting splattered.
"Safest way across the river, if we're quick. So make sure you are.
"But what if¦
"Just get up and move yourself Sunny, you slow cunt.
But we hadn't gone far when Flea stopped. Now I didn't want to hang around for a train to roll me out, but he wasn't moving. He sniffed hard like he'd come up for air, and flapped his coat as he blew back out.
"Know where we are now? He was smiling again; it was still a sorry sigh, his teeth were sharp and tribal. But he was picking up on something.
I picked it up too then, a dizzy screaming numb-cold shooting up from some dread site below, through the arches and tracks and into me and Flea.
"We're above the Clink, he told me triumphantly. He flapped again and lifted his head back to face the rain.
"That's a bit of me, that is.
He came back full to his body, shook like a wet dog and moved on, and I was glad to step out of that patch of dread cold energy and scamper across the last stretch. The drizzle turned thick and London was blurring on both sides into the sky and river, but we had crossed. No trains had come, and Flea was already looking for his way down, but our luck gave out: a shout came out of the gaping black hangar to our side where the rails disappeared. We stopped and looked up like rumbled rats. "Oi! once again, it was railwaymen, bright yellow blobs emerging from the black; Flea flung a railrock and it went into them like a stick in a wasp nest: out they poured.
"They'll batter us good, said Flea, laughing, "If they get us. Fuck that , I thought, the battering's nothing. Capture itself was my fear.
But Flea worked up and down the low wall and found the spot he was looking for. They were so close I could see their old faces bright red and panting as we scrambled down brickwork and flopped down and running on the bright and wide other side; it was no place to hover.