Dark Days

CHAPTER 19

Though days were mild and all of the bad weather other places famously harassed the UK for had gone off for the impending summer, mornings were still chilly.

Jack wrapped his arms around himself inside his thin overshirt and cotton jacket with the Gate key in the pocket, sucking on his fag to keep warm as he stood in the line of other stooped, smoking, shivering men.

This was the third mission he’d tried since the sun came up, a neat little outfit that looked more like your grandmother’s council flat than a homeless shelter. A hand-lettered sign in the window proclaimed Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.

Jack tried not to roll his eyes. Believing in a higher power, in his experience, just got you steamrollered. The sign might as well have encouraged the bunch around him to Believe in the Dark Knight Batman and thou shalt receive large sacks of cheap whiskey and fags.

There was no higher power. There were the beings older and hungrier than you, and there was avoiding being stepped on when they got a hair up their bum cracks. The Romans had it right, when they stepped foot on the isle—appease the old gods when you could, run when you couldn’t, and drink plenty of wine always.

“Spare one a those?” The voice was thick, Scottish, and Jack turned to see a tall, skinny television aerial of a man staring down at him from under a black watch cap.

“Sure, mate,” he said. His pack was empty after that, but he could always conjure more. He swept the street again with his gaze, but only a few buses and cars passed at the nearby intersection. No sinister vans, creeping to and fro looking for willing additions to Legion’s army.

“Cheers.” The Scot lit up with a pack of matches, brown fingers curling around the cigarette carefully, as if it were delicate and alive.

“Line always this long?” Jack asked. There were at least thirty men gathered on the pavement. “I thought this place didn’t open until lunch.”

“Aye, but if you turn up early sometimes the bakery up the road comes around with yesterday’s stale buns,” said the Scot. “And there’s always a chance somebody’ll hire you a day’s pay to clean the garden or paint a fence.”

Jack sized up the Scot. Chatty, older than him by about twenty years, skinny but enormous, wearing a military coat that probably hailed from the 1980s. “You a lifer, then?” he said. Some just liked sleeping rough. It got in your blood, and four walls never quite felt the same.

The Scot gave him a thin smile, a smile that told Jack he’d just confirmed something. “I thought you might not be one of us.”

“I was,” Jack said. “Long time ago.”

The Scot nodded, sticking the fag between his lips and extending one of his plate-sized hands. “Barry.”

“Jack.”

No prickle when they shook. Barry was as ordinary as they came.

“You a reporter?” Barry asked. “Or a blogger?”

Jack snorted. “Do I look like I blog?”

Barry shrugged. “Never can tell. I read ’em all myself. Library’s on the Internet, I go in there when it rains and do the BBC breaking news, Huffington Post, that sort of thing. Keep myself informed. Check in with my old unit occasionally.”

Jack cocked his head. “Falklands? Had some mates who had brothers and whatnot involved in that.”

“You can’t have been very old,” Barry said. “But yes, I was there. Came back, suddenly didn’t have much of a taste for my semi-detached and a thank-you from Her Majesty.”

“She’s not very popular in the patch where I grew up, either,” Jack said. He swung a glance out at the street again. A white bus, of the sort used to cart seniors to and fro from activities, was parked near the corner, but not moving.

“Listen,” Jack said. “You know anything about a van, been coming around picking folks up, promising them a place to live and meals and whatnot?”

Like he’d triggered a trap, Barry’s genial expression shut off, and a dark anger filled his eyes.

“I think you best move along, boy,” he said.

“Look,” Jack held up his hands. “I’m not press and I’m not police. I just really, really need to speak to whoever’s filling those vans.”

Barry regarded him for a long moment, and Jack felt his heart throb. If he couldn’t find Legion’s gatekeepers, then he was back to square one, just a face and a bullshit name.

“That’s them,” he said, jerking his thumb at the bus as it started to move, curb-crawling toward the line of homeless people. “But you don’t want to go with them,” he said. “Blokes get on, and they never come back.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t believe it’s because they have a great new life at a compound in the country?” Jack said.

The bus pulled to a stop. It was brand new, shiny, driven by a shaven-headed bloke in a leather coat very much like the one Jack had relunctantly left at home. He’d needed to blend in, and he felt naked without it.

“I’ve seen enough God-botherers to know when someone’s just bending your ear and when they’re a cult,” Barry said. “And mark my words, Jack, these blokes are the sort who’ll have you in trainers and matching outfits before a fortnight’s out.”

“Oi.” The shaven-headed drone glared at Barry, taking a thin black police baton like the one Pete carried from his pocket. “Shut your face or I’ll give you something to cry about, Nancy.”

Barry ignored him, still staring at Jack. “Good luck, son,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”

The bald drone went down the line, picking out Jack and a pudgy kid still wearing the vestiges of his life before he’d hit the street—brand-name windcheater, good sneakers, prescription glasses that weren’t third-hand, scratched, or broken. The kid sucked nervously on a lip piercing, and Jack leaned over to him. “You should probably stay out of this.”

“Fuck off,” the kid snarled. “You take your share, gramps, and leave some for the rest of us. I’m not going to piss off just because some towheaded rent boy doesn’t like it.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Fine, you ruddy little ASBO. Suit yourself.” If Margaret ever reached the stage where she talked like that, he was going to lose his mind.

“You two,” the drone said. “You interested in taking a trip to a place with a bed and some food? In exchange, all you have to do is listen to a speech from the leader of the commune, Mr. Larry Lovecraft.” The drone had said the line so many times it sounded like a draggy tape recording.

“You have no idea how interested I am,” Jack said. He climbed in the bus after the kid, who practically bowled him over to be the first one up the steps.

Just a normal kid, even if he was an arse. A few scraps of latent talent, nothing he’d ever notice unless he got smacked on the forehead with a hex. Walking right into Legion’s maw just because living on the streets was much rougher than it seemed on telly, and he wanted an out that didn’t involve crawling back to his home life.

The coach lurched, and Jack felt sick. Legion was like a bird of prey, high on his wire, picking off the vulnerable. Thinning the herd before the real culling started.

Closing his eyes and steadying his breath, Jack told himself to stay calm. He felt the piece of the Gate in his pocket, resting against his hip. In a perfect world, he’d get close and snatch Legion, and the both of them would be back in the Pit before the lunch hour.

Oh, didn’t he tell you? You’re mortal. That’s an express ride with no return ticket.

Jack leaned his forehead against the glass, hoping the cool vibration of the coach would still the memory of his latest vision. Demons lied, and Legion was clearly a champion at it.

Or Belial could be jerking his chain even harder than he’d thought, still lying to him. Either situtation was possible.

As the coach picked up speed and entered the M25, Jack decided he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, he was going to find Legion and do his bit to put things back where they belonged.

Or he was headed into the country to die trying.