Bag of Weasels. Chapter 27.

This piece of town gave its age away by its twisty-turny street lines, and although their reason was long-forgotten I could smell the old below, and Flea employed the twisty-turns to keep us weaving through and in.
Every space was fenced and watched. Every street had received a Shadowy visit: they were clean on both sides, set to order so our presence stood out and drew stares. Especially Flea with that ugly head of his; he was surely not made for this world. It was one thing we shared.
And for a time we were the only ones; no other lost since coming North, I guessed they'd been gathered up or gone to the South, and either way it seemed we were the last endangered two. But coming in further, where the streets had often been riddled with wandering, the not wanted and the dazed, we found only the remainders, shells put back on street corners to freeze. They were dribblers, slumped inside their bodies. Some we knew, some we didn't, all were dead.
Shadows passed close to us and when they did Flea would drag me into doorways or just stop us dead: "Act like you're shell-shocked, he'd whisper, and we'd mong against the wall til he guessed it was safe to move off again. That's how we moved through the centre unnoticed, playing dead lions til we came to the West.
But once there, I swear, everyone we passed looked at me, direct or from the side. They stared at me, down on me, frowned and wished me away.
We were plague.
Their chatter spattered out and clogged the air, blubbing into the roar to confuse and disorientate me. I tried to tune out, but they pushed into me like we weren't really there. Yet they couldn't pretend: they could see us coming, smell us, and no matter which way we turned we were shoving against the tide; always a suit or a smart grey skirt under a well-lined jacket, pushing us back. I was sick getting sicker, my head coming off, Flea was snapping at their heels, we were a street scene that demanded attention.
"Jermyn Street, Flea said to me, "We'll get some peace.
Fucked if I knew how, though. I was now panting in a panic, twirling round in the crowds, my thoughts cut short by their blabbering. Surely they could see us now, see us for what we were. Surely they'd be on their way, my time was up and Flea would leave me as the Shadows fell.
"In here, he yanked me off the street, through railings and into sanctuary.
"St. James Church. Get your breath, he said, "I always hit the churches. Chance to rest up and get a grip. I'd been in them before and they'd creeped me out, but now I was grateful for the sanctuary.
It seemed Flea's idea of having a breather was to scour the aisles for what he could find. I sat at the back and tried to relax. At least it was quiet and empty in here. There were just two other people, a couple up in the front pews, heads bowed, muttering into the cool emptiness, oblivious to our presence.
The doors behind me banged open and I jumped up ready to run, but it was only Flea, he must have slipped out again for a moment. He slid next to me in the back pew, showed me a fresh collection of cigarette butts.
"Better than a bus shelter out there.
But Flea wasn't for settling, and soon he was shooing me through the church doors and back onto the Shadow infested streets.
My head was cooler from being in the church and we threaded through the walk-in-line, keeping a dog-eye for vehicles and hidey-holes, listening posts and turncoat agents. Nothing was above suspicion, nothing was above the power of Authority. All could be enlisted.
Flea brought us unscathed into the Posh West.