Light and dark . . .

  The plan flashed into my mind in an instant. Slowly and carefully, an inch at a time, I began to slide my hand into my pocket. I could see the whites of Diesel’s eyes, blurry in the darkness, and I kept my movements smooth and steady so that he wouldn’t catch them in his peripheral vision. My fingers brushed my sigl ring; I grasped the plastic between two fingers and drew it out. Once the ring was free, I waited for Diesel to check his mirrors, then slipped it on while he was turned away.

  We’d been passing down a long dark street, but now from up ahead I could see the two-by-two neon lights of a motorway. Red traffic lights glowed; we were coming up to a slip road. The van purred to a stop behind three other cars. Past the glow of brake lights, a grey-brown concrete overpass arced across the night sky. The muffled rush of traffic filtered through into the van.

  Diesel turned to stare at me.

  Indicator lights flashed from the car ahead, illuminating the inside of the van in a faint strobe: blink-blink, blink-blink. Beyond, I could hear the whoosh of traffic on the overpass, cars accelerating down the slope and away into the night. Diesel was still staring and I held dead still. Had he seen my sigl? I wanted to hide it, but I knew that if I tried the movement would catch his eye.

  The red traffic light glowed.

  Come on, turn yellow, I prayed silently. Yellow, yellow, yellow.

  The light stayed red. Diesel was still staring at me. Had he seen something?

  Yellow!

  The light turned yellow.

  The cars ahead began to pull out one by one. Diesel turned his eyes forward and began to drive.

  With a rumble, the minivan turned onto the slip road. The road followed a gentle curve, arcing to run parallel to the overpass and then to the merging point ahead. The cars that had been in front were pulling away as they sped up. Diesel pressed down on the accelerator; the growl of the engine rose in pitch, and the van shuddered as it gained speed.

  I thrust my hand in front of Diesel’s face and sent a burst of essentia through my sigl. Blue-white light erupted like a star.

  Everything happened very fast.

  Diesel screamed “FUCK!” and stomped on the brakes. The minivan’s tyres shrieked, the vehicle fishtailing; the seat belt bit into my chest with a jolt of pain. Diesel fought blindly for control, overcorrecting then pulling back the other way; the minivan lurched and jerked, two of its wheels leaving the ground, nearly rolling over on its side before slamming back down and coming to a screeching, smoking halt. Diesel jerked with the impact, then scrubbed at his eyes, trying to get his sight back. Only then did he turn towards me, his face alight with rage.

  But in the time he’d taken to do that, I’d unlocked my seat belt, opened the door, and dived out of the van.

  I came down on the tarmac on hands and knees and was off like a sprinter from the starting blocks. I heard Diesel yell something, but I didn’t stop to listen, and I was out of earshot in seconds. Cool air rushed past. There was a footpath running parallel to the slip road and curving away downhill, and I swerved onto it, settling into a fast run.

  That fight with Diesel had given me some idea of what he could do. He was superhumanly strong, and maybe superhumanly tough, but he wasn’t superhumanly fast. He was a bodybuilder, not a sprinter, and I was betting that I could run faster than he could.

  I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and saw that the minivan had disappeared behind the roadside bushes. There was no sign of Diesel. Up ahead, the overpass was descending to merge with the access road; the red taillights of cars zoomed past, disappearing into the distance. Beyond, on the far side of the motorway, I could see a floodlit orange-and-white Sainsbury’s sign, with a huge building peeking out from behind the trees.

  And at that point I heard the growl of an engine.

  My heart jumped and I looked back. On the other side of the bushes, the minivan was roaring along by the roadside. Through the tinted windows I could just make out a hulking shape hunched over the wheel.

  Oh, shit. Too late, I realised that I’d been running right alongside the road.

  Instinctively I sped up, but the minivan easily pulled ahead of me. Looking ahead, I saw that the bushes and the grass verge were thinning out: there was nothing separating the footpath from the motorway but a low kerb. The minivan’s brake lights glowed and it turned left, bumping up onto the footpath in front of me and stopping with a screech of brakes.

  I skidded to a halt, looking around. Before me was the van, to my right the motorway. The overpass and access road had merged and cars were zipping by across eight lanes of traffic. To my left was a high wooden fence. The minivan’s door swung open, and Diesel clambered out.

  I turned right and darted across the motorway.

  A horn blared, but I was watching the traffic; one car zoomed by ahead, another behind, and then I was at the barrier that divided the two halves of the motorway. It was only a couple of feet high, a flimsy thing of grey metal. I vaulted it, then heard pounding feet and turned.

  Diesel was right on the other side of the barrier. He reached for it and I feinted, making as if I’d hit him as soon as he tried to climb over. He checked, one hand on the metal.

  Cars were slowing down behind Diesel, drivers craning their necks to look at the immobile minivan. I saw one guy mouth something angrily. “Stop running,” Diesel shouted at me.

  “Make me,” I shouted back.

  A truck roared past, the whack of wind blasting my hair. “You make me chase you and you’ll regret it,” Diesel shouted over the noise.

  I stared defiantly.

  Traffic rushed past all around us. Diesel looked around, seeming to realise just where we were. “Come on,” he told me. “You don’t want to get hit by a car.”

  “I’ve seen what you and your boss are like,” I told him. “I’m taking my chances with the cars.”

  The false concern slid off Diesel’s face. He set a foot onto the barrier.

  I turned and fled across the other half of the motorway. More horns sounded; I came up short, let a car whizz ahead of me, then reached the far side and started running towards the Sainsbury’s.

  Snatching a glance back, I saw Diesel was still following. He was having more trouble crossing the road than I’d had.

  Okay, let’s see how badly this guy wants to catch me.

  I ran back out into the motorway, crossing four lanes of traffic to get back to the dividing barrier. This time I made a big container lorry brake; its horn blared, and the driver shouted something that didn’t sound friendly. I jogged along the strip of grass, checking back over my shoulder. Diesel was starting to look really pissed off, but he followed me again, lumbering through the rushing traffic.

  As soon as he’d made it to the barrier, I ran back across to the side he’d just come from.

  I heard Diesel yell something that sounded like “Oh, come on!” He tried to follow me again, but this time I’d timed my dash to be just before a clump of traffic.

  There was the screech of brakes and a hollow thud. I glanced back to see Diesel bent over the bonnet of a car; he didn’t look injured, but it had slowed him down. The Sainsbury’s sign was right up ahead; beyond was a half-full car park and a huge supermarket, white lights and product aisles glowing from behind floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I ran into the car park. The Sainsbury’s was still open, and people were going in and out with trolleys and shopping bags. I entered through the sliding doors, slowing to a walk. Dozens of aisles stretched away to the left and right; I went up the nearest one, then crouched down at the first intersection, peering around the corner towards the entrance.

  Diesel appeared in the doorway ten seconds later. He looked pissed off, but that car obviously hadn’t hurt him much. He glared around at the checkout counters, then strode forward, heading for the aisle to my left.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I rose and walked quickly back down the aisle. The shelves were high enough that you couldn’t see over them. I walked past the checkout gates, through the sliding doors, and out into the night.

  The car park was quiet. On the motorway, I could see a traffic jam and a few people staring in our direction. I turned right, jogging along the side of the car park and past a building site, then into a big retail park. Other shops loomed up in the night, and with each turning that I passed I felt a tiny bit of tension go out of me. Finally I saw a bus stop. A bus was just coming around the corner, and I recognised the route for one that would take me home.

  I walked to the bus stop and stood behind two other people. The bus pulled up; I got on, touched my wallet to the reader, then found an empty seat. The doors hissed closed, the bus pulled away, and I hunched down, staring out of the window, ready to duck out of sight. I stayed like that, ready and alert, as the bus pulled out of the retail park and out onto a main road. Only when the lights of the last shops had disappeared behind me did I finally relax.

  CHAPTER 4

  The bus headed south towards the river, beginning the long loop that would take it around Gallions Reach and then northwest towards Plaistow. The city lights rolled by, yellow embers in the darkness.

  Now that I was safe, I was finally realising just how scared I’d been. That had been terrifying. What would have happened if I hadn’t had my sigl in my pocket? Or if Ignas hadn’t noticed what was going on? I’d probably still be in that van . . . or wherever they’d been planning to take me.

  A cold and even more frightening thought occurred to me. Was this what had happened to my dad?

  Looked at that way, the whole thing all made a horrible kind of sense. My dad had disappeared without a trace, and if I hadn’t managed to get away from Diesel, I would have too. Lucella hadn’t recognised my dad’s name, but I couldn’t believe that this was all just a coincidence.

  The second thing I was realising was that I’d been far too passive and trusting. The more I thought about what I’d done this evening, the more I noticed just how many stupid mistakes I’d made. I shouldn’t have let Lucella in, I shouldn’t have shown her my sigl, and I definitely shouldn’t have sat around like an idiot waiting for her to come back. And then once the goon squad had shown up, I should have yelled for help instead of trying to deal with it myself. I’d been lucky to get away at all.

  Well, done was done. All I could do was make sure to be a lot less naive next time.

  The final thing I was realising was that my head really hurt. I had bruises on my chest and shoulder, but my head was the worst, a throbbing pain pulsing outwards from the left side. It was bad enough that if I let myself focus on it, I actually wanted to throw up.

  I wanted to check on Hobbes, but I couldn’t go home: that was the first place Lucella and Scar would look. I needed somewhere to hide.

  * * *

  —

  Whitechapel was filled with noise and chatter, the air carrying the smell of discarded fruits and vegetables from the day’s market. I found the building I was looking for and rang the bell.

  Colin appeared at the door a minute later. He was wearing a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and his hair was mussed. He seemed about to complain about how late it was, but as he got a look at me, his eyebrows went up. “Jesus, dude. What happened to you?”

  “I need a place to crash,” I told him. “Please?”

  * * *

  —

  Colin lives in a big building used for student accommodation, with sets of three flats that each share a kitchen and bathroom. The room had a messy, lived-in feel, full of dirty clothes and empty bottles. I sat in the room’s one chair, leaning against the desk to prop myself up.

  “Here you go,” Natalie said, handing me some tablets. “Ibuprofen.” Natalie is Colin’s current girlfriend, tall and heavily built with a plain, friendly face. I’d always thought of her as the tough-girl type, but since I’d come in she’d been showing an unexpected motherly streak.

  “And some lemon tea,” Colin said, putting a steaming mug down on the desk. “Drink that and I’ll get you another one, all right?”

  “Thanks,” I said tiredly. “Sorry for ruining your evening.”

  Natalie laughed. “Don’t worry, the movie was crap anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?” Colin said in outrage. “It’s Jackie Chan! It’s a classic!”

  I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the argument wash over me. Now that I’d sat down, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back up.

  “Anyway,” Natalie said eventually, and I opened my eyes to see that she had her coat slung over her arm. “I’ll leave you to take care of him.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Colin said. “Sorry about kicking you out like this, I know it’s pretty lame.”

  “It’s all right.” Natalie gave me a wave. “Take care, Stephen, okay?”

  Colin escorted Natalie out. I heard the sound of the door closing, and Colin reappeared. “All right,” Colin said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Slowly and haltingly, I gave Colin an edited account of my evening. I didn’t mention sigls or drucraft, which meant the story had some pretty big holes, but judging by the expression on Colin’s face, just the bits I was telling him sounded unbelievable enough already.

  “. . . and then I changed buses at Stratford and came here,” I finished.

  “Wow,” Colin said. “You realise what this means, right?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve officially beaten Felix for the worst date.”

  I gave Colin a look.

  “Seriously, his thing with that girl from Singapore used to be first place, but you’ve definitely topped it. But okay, let me see if I’ve got this right. You invite some rich girl up to your room who tells you she knows your mum, then she calls in two heavies who beat you up and shove you in a minivan. You crash the minivan, play chicken with the driver on the A13, then give him the slip and catch a bus here. Right?”

  “You believe me?”

  “Well, if it was anyone else, I’d say it was a load of bollocks,” Colin said. “But given that it’s you, I can actually believe an evening with a girl would end up that badly.”

  “Thanks,” I said tiredly. “I think.”

  Colin thought for a second. “You think this girl really knows your mum?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I took a swallow from the mug; the tea burned my mouth but made my head feel better. Hopefully the painkillers would kick in soon. “Maybe.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “Not at first.”

  “Then why’d you let her into your room?”

  “Because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “What we were talking about last night in the pub,” I said reluctantly.

  Colin looked confused.

  “You know . . . it’s that kind of situation, and a girl’s asking you to let her in . . .”

  Colin stared for a second. “Wait, seriously?”

  “I didn’t know what to do, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” Colin said. “I want you to stop and think for a second. You were taking relationship advice from Gabriel.”

  “I get it.”

  “You were taking relationship advice from—”

  “Can you stop treating this like it’s a joke?” I snapped.

  Colin paused, the grin disappearing from his face as he took in how I was looking. “Ah, shit. You really are in bad shape, aren’t you?”

  I stared down at the mug, my thoughts going back to what had happened in my room. The weird thing was, Lucella hadn’t come across as hostile at the start. Yeah, she’d been kind of insulting, but it had felt more like a recruitment pitch. It was only after I’d shown her my sigl that she’d changed.

  We talked a little longer, but exhaustion was catching up with me and the conversation kept tailing off. At last Colin announced that I should get some rest, and laid out a spare blanket and an old sleeping bag. The floor underneath was hard, but I was too tired to care.

  * * *

  —

  I slept late. By the time I woke, sunlight was streaming through the blinds and Colin was gone.

  I sat up with a wince; my neck had stiffened overnight, and the hard floor hadn’t done my back any good, either. Colin had left a scribbled note on the desk telling me he’d gone to lectures and to take what I needed from the fridge. It’s good to have friends.

  I sent a text to work calling in sick. I hated to do it—not only did it mean I wasn’t earning for the day, I was running the risk of getting fired. Job agencies are complete bastards and it takes hardly anything to make them kick you out. But I knew that if those guys could find where I lived, they could just as easily find where I worked.

  I headed for the bathroom, pulling off my shirt, and took a look in the mirror. My left ear had turned a purplish red and I had a line of finger-shaped bruises on my shoulder, but my headache was mostly gone and I didn’t think any of the bruises were serious. A hot shower eased my stiffness and left me feeling much better. Once I was done, I dressed in my dirty clothes and headed out, letting the door lock behind me.

  * * *

  —

  Two buses took me from Whitechapel back to Plaistow.

  I got off one stop before Foxden Road, approached cautiously on foot, then studied my road from a distance. No black minivan. Just to be on the safe side, I circled around to the other end and took a second look. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I walked up, glancing over my shoulder the whole time, and unlocked the door.