Weaveworld

XIII

A PROPOSAL

1

obart had seen the blaze of the Amadou too, though he was still two and a half miles from the spot. The night had brought disaster upon disaster. Richardson, still jittery after events at Headquarters, had twice driven the car into the back of stationary vehicles, and their route, which had taken them all over the Wirral, had been a series of cul-de-sacs.

But at last, here it was: a sign that their quarry was close.

‘What was that?’ said Richardson. ‘Looked like something exploding.’

‘God knows,’ said Hobart. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past these people. Especially the woman.’

‘Should we call in some back-up, sir? We don’t know their numbers.’

‘Even if we could –’ Hobart said, switching off the white noise which had swallowed Downey hours ago, ‘– I want to keep this quiet until we know what’s what. Kill the headlights.’

The driver did so, and they drove on in the murk that preceded daybreak. Hobart thought he could see figures moving in the mist beyond the grey foliage that lined the road. There was no time to investigate however; he would have to trust his instinct that the woman was somewhere up ahead.

Suddenly there was somebody in the road ahead of them. Cursing, Richardson threw the wheel over, but the figure seemed to leap up and over the car.

The vehicle mounted the pavement, and ran a few yards before Richardson brought it under control again.

‘Shit. Did you see that?’

Hobart had, and felt the same aching unease he’d felt back at Headquarters. These people were holding weapons that worked on a man’s sense of what was real, and he loved reality more than his balls.

‘Did you see?’ said Richardson. ‘The fucker just flew.’

‘No.’ Hobart said firmly. ‘There was no flying. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t trust your eyes. Trust me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if anything else gets in your way, run it down.’