Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(43)

‘Bastard!’ There was a shout behind me and a rattling crash.

I turned and saw nothing until Lesley pointed to the glass double doors of Urban Outfitters. A man was being slammed violently against the inside of the doors. He was jerked out of sight and then smashed against the doors again – hard enough to pop one of the hinges and make a gap large enough for the man to escape. He looked like a tourist or foreign student, well dressed in the European style – dirty blond hair cut the respectable side of too long, a blue Swissair complimentary knapsack still hooked over one shoulder. He shook his head as if bewildered, and flinched back as his attacker smacked open the doors and strode towards him.

This was a short, plump man with thinning brown hair and round, wire-framed glasses. He was wearing a white shirt with a manager’s tag clipped to the pocket. He was sweating and his shining face was red with rage.

‘I’ve fucking had it,’ he screamed. ‘I try to be polite, but no, you’ve got to fucking treat me like I’m some fucking slave.’

‘Oi,’ shouted Lesley, ‘police.’ She advanced on them, warrant card in her left hand, her right hand resting on the handle of her extendable baton. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘He attacked me,’ said the young man. Definitely an accent. German, I thought.

The enraged shop manager hesitated and turned to look at Lesley, his eyes blinking behind his specs. ‘He was talking on the phone,’ said the manager. The violence seemed to have drained out of him. ‘While he was at the till. It’s not even like he got a call – he dialled it himself while he was paying. I’m expected to have a mutually beneficial and courteous interaction with him, and the fucker ignores me and makes a phone call.’

Lesley stepped between the two men and gently edged the manager backwards. ‘Why we don’t go inside,’ she said, ‘and you can tell me all about it.’ It really was a delight to watch her work.

‘I mean, why?’ said the manager. ‘What was so important it couldn’t wait?’

Beverley smacked me in the arm. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Over there.’

I turned just in time to see Dr Framline charge up the street brandishing a stick half as tall as he was. Behind him came his date from the gastropub, yelling his name in confusion. I ran as fast as I could, passing the woman quickly, but there was no way I could get to Dr Framline before he reached his target.

The courier didn’t even put an arm up to defend himself when Dr Framline clubbed him hard on the shoulder with the stick. I saw the man’s right arm jerk brokenly and his hand lose its grip on the bike, which began to topple sideways.

‘The more you take,’ yelled the doctor, raising the stick again, ‘the better it is for you.’

I hit him low, getting my shoulder into the sweet spot just above his hips so that he went sideways and down and broke my fall instead of the other way round. I heard the bike hit the street and then the stick skittering across the pavement. I tried to pin Dr Framline but he seemed amazingly strong, and jammed an elbow into my chest hard enough to leave me gasping for breath. I made a grab for his legs and got a knee in the face that made me swear.

‘Police,’ I shouted. ‘Stop fighting.’ Amazingly, he did. ‘Thank you,’ I said; it seemed only polite. I tried to get up but somebody fetched me such a blow that I was face down on the pavement again before it even registered I’d been hit. In a street fight, no matter how hurt you are the pavement is not your friend, so I rolled over and tried to get back up again. As I did I saw the cycle courier grab the outsized stick off the ground and swing at Dr Framline. The doctor flinched out of the way but the stick caught him on the upper part of his arm. He slipped over and went down, gasping in pain.

A wave of emotion washed over me: elation, excitement and an undertone of violence, like that of the home crowd at a football match when their team gets a chance at the goal.

I saw the dissimulo as it happened that time: the courier’s chin seemed to bulge, I heard the distinct cracking of bone and teeth as it jutted forward into a sharp point. The lips twisted into a snarl as the nose stretched until it was almost as long. It wasn’t a real face, it was a caricature man-in-the-moon face that no human could have in real life. The mouth opened and I could see inside to the red ruin of his jaw.

‘That’s the way to do it!’ he shrieked and lifted his stick.

Lesley’s baton hit him in the back of the head. He staggered, Lesley hit him again and with a gurgling sigh he fell forward in front of me. I crawled over and rolled him on his back but it was too late. His face slumped like wet papier maché. I saw the skin tearing around the nose and chin and then a great dripping flap peeled open and lolled over his forehead. I tried to make myself do something, but nothing in my first-aid training had prepared me for someone’s face flopping open like a starfish.

I slid my palm under the flap of skin, flinching at the warm wetness, and tried to fold it back over the face. I had some vague idea that I should at least try and stop the bleeding.

‘Let me go,’ yelled Dr Framline. I looked over and saw that Lesley already had him in handcuffs. ‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘I can help him.’ Lesley hesitated.

‘Lesley,’ I said, and she started uncuffing the doctor.

Too late. The courier went suddenly rigid, his back arched and a tide of blood welled up from his neck and forced itself out through the rips in his skin and the gaps between my fingers.