“Thanks,” said Richard. Anaesthesia will take him, he thought. She’s expendable.
The Lord Rat-speaker fumbled on the bench, and presented Richard with a black vinyl zip-up sports bag. It was extremely familiar. “It’s all there. Everything. Take a look.” Richard opened the bag. All his possessions were in there, including, on top of some neatly folded jeans, his wallet. He zipped the bag up, threw it over his shoulder, and walked away from the man, without a thank-you or a backward glance.
Richard walked out of the station and down some gray stone steps. All was silent. All was empty. Dead autumn leaves blew across an open court, a flurry of yellow and ochre and brown, a sudden burst of muted color in the dim light. Richard crossed the court and walked down some steps into an underpass. There was a fluttering in the half-dark, and, warily, he turned. There were about a dozen of them, in the corridor behind him, and they slipped toward him almost silently, just a rustle of dark velvet, and, here and there, the clink of silver jewelery. The rustle of the leaves had been so much louder than these pale women. They watched him with hungry eyes.
He was scared, then. He had the knife, true, but he could no more fight with it than he could jump across the Thames. He hoped that, if they attacked, he might be able to scare them away with it. He could smell honeysuckle, and lily of the valley, and musk.
Lamia edged her way to the front of the Velvets, and stepped forward. Richard raised the knife, nervously, remembering the chilly passion of her embrace, how pleasant it was and how cold. She smiled at him, and inclined her head, sweetly. Then she kissed her fingertips, and blew the kiss toward Richard.
He shivered. Something fluttered in the darkness of the underpass; and when he looked again, there was nothing but shadows.
Through the underpass, and Richard walked up some steps, and found himself at the top of a small grassy hill. It was dawn, and he could just make out details of the countryside around him: almost leafless oak, and ash, and beech trees, readily identifiable by the shapes of their trunks. A wide, clean river meandered gently through the green countryside. As he looked around, he realized that he was on an island of some kind—two smaller rivers ran into the larger one, cutting him off on his little hill, from the mainland. He knew then, without knowing how, but with total certainty, that he was still in London, but London as it had been perhaps three thousand years ago, or more, before ever the first stone of the first human habitation was laid upon a stone.
He unzipped his bag and put the knife away in it, beside his wallet. Then he zipped it up again. The sky was starting to lighten, but the light was odd. It was younger, somehow, than the sunlight he was familiar with—purer, perhaps. An orange-red sun rose in the east, where Docklands would one day be, and Richard watched the dawn breaking over forests and marshes that he kept thinking of as Greenwich and Kent and the sea.
“Hello,” said Door. He had not seen her approach. She was wearing different clothes beneath her battered brown leather jacket: they were still layered and ripped and patched, though, in taffeta and lace and silk and brocade. Her short red hair shone in the dawn like burnished copper.
“Hello,” said Richard. She stood beside him and twined her small fingers into his right hand, the hand that was holding the sports bag. “Where are we?” he asked.
“On the awesome and terrible island of Westminster,” she told him. It sounded as if she were quoting from somewhere, but he did not believe he had ever heard that phrase before. They began to walk together over the long grass, wet and white with melting frost. Their footprints left a dark green trail in the grass behind them, showing where they had come from.
“Look,” said Door. “With the angel gone, there’s a lot of sorting out to do in London Below. And there’s only me to do it. My father wanted to unite London Below . . . I suppose I ought to try to finish what he started.” They were walking north, away from the Thames, hand in hand. White seagulls wheeled and called in the sky above them. “Richard, you heard what Islington said to us about keeping my sister alive, just in case. I may not be the only one of my family left. And you’ve saved my life. More than once.” She paused, and then, all in a rush, blurted, “You’ve been a really good friend to me, Richard. And I’ve sort of got to like having you around. Please don’t go.”
He squeezed her hand in his, gently. “Well,” he said, “I’ve sort of got to like having you around, too. But I don’t belong in this world. In my London . . . well, the most dangerous thing you ever have to watch out for is a taxi in a bit of a hurry. I like you, too. I like you an awful lot. But I have to go home.”
She looked up at him with her odd-colored eyes, green and blue and flame. “Then we won’t ever see each other again,” she said.
“I suppose we won’t.”
“Thanks for everything you did,” she said, seriously. Then she threw her arms around him, and she squeezed him tightly enough that the bruises on his ribs hurt, and he hugged her back, just as tightly, making all of his bruises complain violently, and he simply didn’t care.
“Well,” he said, eventually. “It was very nice knowing you.” She was blinking hard. He wondered if she were going to tell him again that she had something in her eye. Instead she said, “Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Have you got the key?”
He put down his bag and rummaged in his back pocket with his good hand. He took out the key and handed it to her. She held it out in front of her, as if it were being inserted in an imaginary door. “Okay,” she said. “Just walk. Don’t look back.”
He began walking down a small hill, away from the blue waters of the Thames. A gray gull swooped past. At the bottom of the hill, he looked back. She stood at the top of the hill, silhouetted by the rising sun. Her cheeks were glistening. The orange sunlight gleamed on the key. Door turned it, with one decisive motion.
The world went dark, and a low roar filled Richard’s head, like the maddened growling of a thousand enraged beasts.
TWENTY
The world went dark, and a low roar filled Richard’s head, like the maddened growling of a thousand enraged beasts. He blinked at the darkness, held tight to his bag. He wondered if he had been foolish, putting the knife away. Some people brushed past him in the dark. Richard started away from them. There were steps in front of him; Richard began to ascend, and, as he did so, the world began to resolve, to take shape and to re-form.