London Eye: 1 (Toxic City)(71)

He was dangerous, but for now she felt safe around him.

For now.

Rosemary had told them which way to go. No one really knew where Reaper could be found, but there were rumours. North, across the river, into the heart of the city, and look out for the rooks. One of the boys that runs with Reaper communes with them. Last I heard, they were seen above St. James's Park.

As they crossed Vauxhall Bridge, Jack remembered a dozen movies that had used this place as a setting. He'd often heard his father describing London as a giant film set, and now here he was, in a depressing movie about a sad future. Two years ago, who could have believed that London would ever look like this?

The Houses of Parliament, once home to the British Government, was a ruin. One half of it looked as though it had suffered sustained bombing, and there was little recognisable left. The other half had burned, and though most of its walls were still standing, they were swathed in a thick green climbing plant erupting with violet flowers. The once-smart lawns outside, where Jack had watched countless politicians being interviewed for TV and Net-News, was a plain of waist-high grass and graceful bamboo.

The Big Ben tower was still there, but the clock faces had been blown out, and Jack could see straight through its upper section. The bell itself seemed to have gone. Perhaps they would find it, if they looked long enough, fallen and covered in moss. But that would gain them nothing. Time flicked at him with its cruel whip, though as yet Jack was unsure why he felt such urgency.

Perhaps it was those dying Irregulars in the underground hospital.

They paused on the bridge for a while, catching their breath, taking a drink and looking down the River Thames. It flowed through a wild place now. Clumps of detritus—plants, branches, broken things—drifted down from upriver, gently bobbing towards the sea. A couple of the old river cruisers were still there, one of them wedged beneath one of the gentle arches of Grosvenor Bridge, the other still moored at river's edge not far from where they stood. From this distance it looked strangely peaceful and serene, so much so that it seemed out of place. A picture postcard image of hell.

“I'm glad you two got together,” Jack said. They had not talked much since leaving the Underground again, though the silence was never uncomfortable.

“Me too,” Sparky said grinning at Jenna.

“I don't know what came over me,” she said. “I thought I'd been shot in the gut, not the head.”

They all laughed softly, and watched an eagle drift majestically along the river's course and pass beneath the bridge.

“Wow,” Jack whispered. “Wonder where the hell that came from.”

“You know, Jack,” Jenna said, “Lucy-Anne will…we'll find her and…”

He shook his head. “Knowing she's alive is good.”

“You believe Nomad?”

“Don't you?”

“Without a doubt.” Jenna still seemed awkward, and Jack wasn't sure he wanted to verbalise his thoughts. But really, this was no time for any sort of self-deception.

“Me and Lucy-Anne…I think we were finished before we even started. Thrown together by our backgrounds and histories, not because we fancied each other.”

“Good friends,” Sparky said. “Maybe that's what you two are.”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded. “What you two did last night…Well, we haven't done that for ages.”

Jenna blushed and elbowed Sparky in the ribs.

“I said nothing!” he protested. But she was smiling, and Jack laughed.

“Let's get on,” he said.

“Rooks,” Sparky muttered. “Always spooked the crap out of me.”

“Scarier than chickens?” Jenna quipped.

“Okay, okay, another point to Jenna.”

They crossed the bridge and passed through Parliament Square, keeping their ears and eyes open.

Walking progressively northward, Jack wondered whether Lucy-Anne had already come this way. He thought of their time together and tried to come to terms with what it had all meant. They'd gone through the usual boyfriend and girlfriend moments; kissing and cuddling in front of a movie, drinking cider when Emily was in bed, progressing on to awkward fumblings and gasped moments of shared pleasure. But the physical side had always felt somehow false and forced, and it was the times when he talked Lucy-Anne through her fury, doubt, and despair that seemed most important to Jack now. Doomsday had left her with nothing and no-one, and more than anything, he had been there to help her through that. And it had been a natural process. He did not feel even a tiny bit used, and he was certain that Lucy-Anne had welcomed every moment of their unusual relationship. She was a beautiful girl, but his fondest memories of her were when she smiled an honest and happy smile, rather than when she lay half-naked on his sofa.