The Severed Streets

NINETEEN

Sarah Quill was waiting. She’d woken up that morning to find that Quill hadn’t come home. This was unusual, but hardly unique. She’d called his phone, expecting to find him having a bacon sandwich at some crime scene or in that Portakabin, which he’d described to her so many times that she could almost see it. She’d left a message on his voicemail, that surprised-sounding identification of himself, with a little hesitation which said, ‘Is this thing on?’ She’d asked him to call and got Jessica to say good morning to Daddy as she got her ready for nursery.

Then she’d gone to work, where there were new computers, and Geoff was showing everyone three choices of new Enfield Leader logos. There’d been a series of phone interviews about the promises made by central government concerning wheelie-bin collections. So many parts of London were burning now that they might as well announce which ones weren’t on fire. At lunch, eating a sandwich at her desk, Sarah called Quill once more, heard the start of the voicemail again, didn’t leave a message. She called the home phone and was relieved to find an answerphone message there but then frowned to hear that it was from the undercover Quill often talked about, Costain. He was asking her to call him back. He sounded worried.

Her fingers fumbling, she called the number he gave, and, with a feeling like a stone in her stomach, asked what had happened. He said he couldn’t tell her much, but it felt more as if he didn’t want to, as if he was sparing her from something. Quill hadn’t checked in. They regarded him as missing. They were pulling in resources from everywhere to try and find him. They’d call as soon as anyone knew anything.

After she ended the call, she immediately wanted to call him back and demand to know what he hadn’t been telling her. But she didn’t.

At 3 p.m. she collected Jessica from nursery and said nothing about Daddy. She hoped that this would just be a day without him that Jessica wouldn’t even notice.

At 7 p.m., when it was time for bed, Jessica asked where Daddy was. ‘He’s at work, sweetheart; they sometimes have very long days. He might be here when you wake up.’ Jessica had nodded and, five minutes later, repeated it to Sarah: that Daddy might be here when she woke up.

When Jessica had gone to bed and had had her story, and was asleep, Sarah called Gipsy Hill again and asked to be put through to the Portakabin. She got Lisa Ross, whom for some reason Sarah had always imagined to be very glamorous. She sounded nervous to hear from her.

Bloody hell. Bloody hell, this was getting worse. She started to ask all the questions and felt as if she had picked at a loose thread and now everything was unravelling.

‘We know where he was when he made his last phone call. There’s no indication that he’s come to any harm.’

‘I know about what you lot do. Was he doing something like that?’

‘Mrs Quill-’

‘Don’t you … don’t you tell me it’s an operational matter. You’re the one that … you were willing to … please, would you just tell me everything?!’

She did, in that halting, washed-out, carefully blank voice of hers. She did her best to make what Quill’s phone messages had said sound positive. She emphasized that nothing had been found at the scene of the last phone call, outside Finchley Road tube station. There was CCTV footage of Quill dashing off, as if certain of where he was going, but the view of the camera didn’t stretch far enough to see what he was heading for. There were no further witnesses so far. Sarah knew what they were thinking might be found. ‘We’re doing everything we can. We’ve been on this since that moment. Mrs Quill…’ Then her voice changed, and Sarah got an inkling of why Quill told her he had such faith in this woman. ‘Sarah. This is all we’re doing now. We’re going to find him. I swear to you, I’ll call you as soon as there’s news. Okay?’

Sarah gave Lisa all her numbers and said goodbye too quickly and ended the call. Quill would turn up having finally come out from his hiding place, smelling of shit. She would be so happy to see him. She could see his face.

Was this what it was like when it wasn’t a false alarm? Was this what it was like when the worst possible thing finally happened?

She could feel the first tug of something that felt impossibly big. If she didn’t think about this yet, she could hold it off. It might go away as things turned out to be okay. Oh, she hated him for doing this to her; she was so angry at him …

That stone in her stomach again. She felt hungry, but she knew she’d just look at what she might make to eat and not want it, and it would feel bad to start making it. She felt desperately sleepy too, stupidly so, but she didn’t want to sleep in case the phone rang.

She went to the door of Jessica’s room, intending to go in and take comfort in looking at her, but then she stopped. She didn’t want to bring the stone in her into Jessica’s presence. She didn’t want it to multiply.

She went to bed. She actually went to bed and fell straight to sleep, as if this was a normal day.

The sound of the phone on the bedside table woke her up. She told Quill to please answer that. When he didn’t, she remembered.

She grabbed the phone and nearly switched it off in her scramble to answer it.

Her name, spoken by this professional, caring, careful voice of a stranger, as a question, was the most terrifying thing she had ever heard.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AGO

‘Thanks for that,’ said Quill, as Gaiman brought the car to a halt. They had stopped in a side street somewhere near Edgware Road.

‘Please, don’t thank me,’ said Gaiman, turning to look at him. He had the oddest expression on his face: a deliberate solemnity.

‘Well, you saved me, didn’t you?’ said Quill. He went to open the car door. But it was locked. ‘You planning to let me out so we can go and get a drink? Or are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

The author had refused to answer questions as he’d driven the car at high speed, presumably thinking the Ripper might be after them. He’d only been distracted by sending a text message when they’d stopped at traffic lights. Gaiman just kept looking at him, his mouth a straight line of tension. Then it suddenly dawned on Quill what might be going on here. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You’re helping him.’

* * *

The glowing figure burst through the car door.

Gaiman made himself watch. Quill screamed as he tried to move, to fight, but the razor flew back and forth supernaturally fast, slashing into the man’s torso. Quill kept screaming. Gaiman desperately wanted him to die quickly, but that was such a terrible, selfish thought. The slashes reached Quill’s neck and the sounds suddenly stopped.

The Ripper flew from the car. Silver splattered on the window. The remains of Quill’s body fell in a heap across the seats.

Gaiman took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he switched on the engine once more, checked the rear-view mirror and drove off.