jolt through my arm and teeth.
He stumbles. Drops to hands and knees. I go in for the kick, but before I can connect with his ribs, he pushes up and grabs my foot. I hop on the other, kick back hard. My kick connects with shoulder, but he scuttles back and gets up with a sneer. Then he leans low and comes forward with slow sweeps of his arms, just out of reach of the knife.
I see how much bigger he is, as he bounces from foot to foot with a leer. His hair is black with dirt and oil, and his rattish face is grained with it. I flex my fingers against the knife handle, try to imagine the feel of it meeting another person’s body. It can’t be too much different from rabbit or squirrel, is what I think.
Between Ratface and me Abel lies still on the grey concrete. To my right, Clare and the other runner. Clare tight on his back, knees gripping his waist. Her forearm across his neck, and he’s pulling at it, trying to throw her off. She can’t hold him for long. If we want to get Abel clear, I need to get the tall runner down.
I move forward, holding the knife in a hammer-grip still, testing it against the air. The runner backs off, but his face is mocking. He’s watching my eyes, not the knife. He doesn’t think I’ve got the stones to use it.
As if to show he’s right, I hunch my shoulders. I let the tension go out of my neck and I drop my knife arm. I spit into the dust in front of my feet. Then I feint to my left. As he lunges forward to grab me, I twist down under his arms and behind, close enough to get my arm over his shoulder and my knife blade up under his neck. It speaks cold and hard against his jawline and he goes very still.
‘OK, OK, OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’
‘Tell your friend to let Clare go.’
The other runner is throwing himself against the wall to loosen Clare, who’s clamped to his back. I tighten my grip on the knife and Ratface calls. Clare’s runner turns, sees me with the knife and straightens, releasing his grip on Clare’s arm.
Clare slumps off, falls to her knees. She scrambles over to Abel. The runner who held her stands straight and still. He looks from me to the knife to the eyes of his leader. There’s a long gash down his face from Clare’s fingernails. None of us move, apart from Clare, who is feeling Abel’s ribs and face, listening to his breath.
My heart is beating in my ears and I feel sick. I shift my grip and adjust the pressure against the runner’s jaw. My other elbow is tight against his ribs, letting him know what will happen if he tries to twist me off. I don’t remember when I have been so close to another person. He smells of the sweet rot of clothes that have dried damp.
I throw a sharp whistle through my teeth. ‘You!’ I jerk my head at the one who still stands there bleeding. ‘Get down onto the tracks.’
Clare’s runner walks to the edge of the platform, executes a neat jump and lands on the rusted rails. Mice scatter.
What I am holding is a puzzle. How will we get away without them coming after us? Even if Abel can walk, we’ll be slow. The thought of putting one of them out of action doesn’t appeal. I take a breath, but before I can give my next order, there’s a shift in the sound on the platform.
From the edge of the tunnel where the dark bleeds out into the early light, a figure comes at a light jog. Hands lifting and skating along the air in his coming, and I swear I hear him humming underbreath too. Lucien.
He vaults up to the platform and stops a way from Clare. On the tracks at a few beats’ distance behind is Brennan. The runner I’m holding goes rigid for a second as he sees Lucien. Down on the tracks, the other runner has turned too. Then he looks back and I see Ratface shake his head once, lento. I clip his ear with the knife handle.
The next thing I hear is Lucien’s low chuckle.
‘Two, Simon?’ he asks, though I have no doubt he can hear them in mind’s ear clearer than I can see them in the half-light.
‘Yes.
He stumbles. Drops to hands and knees. I go in for the kick, but before I can connect with his ribs, he pushes up and grabs my foot. I hop on the other, kick back hard. My kick connects with shoulder, but he scuttles back and gets up with a sneer. Then he leans low and comes forward with slow sweeps of his arms, just out of reach of the knife.
I see how much bigger he is, as he bounces from foot to foot with a leer. His hair is black with dirt and oil, and his rattish face is grained with it. I flex my fingers against the knife handle, try to imagine the feel of it meeting another person’s body. It can’t be too much different from rabbit or squirrel, is what I think.
Between Ratface and me Abel lies still on the grey concrete. To my right, Clare and the other runner. Clare tight on his back, knees gripping his waist. Her forearm across his neck, and he’s pulling at it, trying to throw her off. She can’t hold him for long. If we want to get Abel clear, I need to get the tall runner down.
I move forward, holding the knife in a hammer-grip still, testing it against the air. The runner backs off, but his face is mocking. He’s watching my eyes, not the knife. He doesn’t think I’ve got the stones to use it.
As if to show he’s right, I hunch my shoulders. I let the tension go out of my neck and I drop my knife arm. I spit into the dust in front of my feet. Then I feint to my left. As he lunges forward to grab me, I twist down under his arms and behind, close enough to get my arm over his shoulder and my knife blade up under his neck. It speaks cold and hard against his jawline and he goes very still.
‘OK, OK, OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’
‘Tell your friend to let Clare go.’
The other runner is throwing himself against the wall to loosen Clare, who’s clamped to his back. I tighten my grip on the knife and Ratface calls. Clare’s runner turns, sees me with the knife and straightens, releasing his grip on Clare’s arm.
Clare slumps off, falls to her knees. She scrambles over to Abel. The runner who held her stands straight and still. He looks from me to the knife to the eyes of his leader. There’s a long gash down his face from Clare’s fingernails. None of us move, apart from Clare, who is feeling Abel’s ribs and face, listening to his breath.
My heart is beating in my ears and I feel sick. I shift my grip and adjust the pressure against the runner’s jaw. My other elbow is tight against his ribs, letting him know what will happen if he tries to twist me off. I don’t remember when I have been so close to another person. He smells of the sweet rot of clothes that have dried damp.
I throw a sharp whistle through my teeth. ‘You!’ I jerk my head at the one who still stands there bleeding. ‘Get down onto the tracks.’
Clare’s runner walks to the edge of the platform, executes a neat jump and lands on the rusted rails. Mice scatter.
What I am holding is a puzzle. How will we get away without them coming after us? Even if Abel can walk, we’ll be slow. The thought of putting one of them out of action doesn’t appeal. I take a breath, but before I can give my next order, there’s a shift in the sound on the platform.
From the edge of the tunnel where the dark bleeds out into the early light, a figure comes at a light jog. Hands lifting and skating along the air in his coming, and I swear I hear him humming underbreath too. Lucien.
He vaults up to the platform and stops a way from Clare. On the tracks at a few beats’ distance behind is Brennan. The runner I’m holding goes rigid for a second as he sees Lucien. Down on the tracks, the other runner has turned too. Then he looks back and I see Ratface shake his head once, lento. I clip his ear with the knife handle.
The next thing I hear is Lucien’s low chuckle.
‘Two, Simon?’ he asks, though I have no doubt he can hear them in mind’s ear clearer than I can see them in the half-light.
‘Yes.
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