The Mentor. Steve Jackson
Читать онлайн книгу.
only person inhabiting this strange universe.
Half a dozen firemen were working on the cave-in, using their hands to remove the rubble piece by piece. They worked in silence to conserve energy; they worked methodically in case they came across a survivor trapped in a debris cave; they worked carefully, the possibility of another collapse hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. A halogen lamp had been set up, its beam bouncing off the blockage. Muddy water from a burst main sluiced around Aston’s feet. He followed the lead of the nearest firefighter, the two of them working side by side. They made a pile of rubble behind them, the larger chunks they carried together. Within no time Aston was drenched in sweat. It trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, blinding him. Every five minutes or so one of the firefighters would shout for everyone to stop. Another would use an infra-red scanner to probe the debris and everyone would hold their breath, praying for a miracle.
The sight of the doll’s leg poking out from the rubble broke Aston’s heart; somehow it brought home the full horror of what had happened here. The people who’d died today had been innocents, none more so than the children. Sweating and groaning, he’d hefted a large slab out the way, and there it was, a glimpse of dirty pink cotton. Aston dropped to his knees, his lungs suddenly packed with ice despite the heavy heat down here. He knew what he was seeing, but the rational part of his brain wouldn’t let him admit the truth. Do that and he’d have to get out, start running and keep going until he reached the surface. It wasn’t that he was weak, it was just that sometimes you needed a little denial to keep you functioning. Aston concentrated on his breathing, forcing the hot, filthy air into his chest, melting the ice – in, out, in, out – then he went to work. With the utmost care he excavated the doll, working in silence, totally absorbed by the task. He had no awareness of anything going on around him. The sounds of the firefighters working, their harsh breathing and tense shouted whispers, the coldness of the water, the sharp stab of the halogens, none of this registered. Down on his hands and knees he dug into the rubble, dirt and grime grinding into his baby-soft skin; his hands were conditioned to the smoothness of plastic, telephones and computer keyboards, not the grim reality of manual labour. The sharp grit got onto his skin, into his skin, under his skin, abrasive right down to the bone. He looked at his hands, and barely recognised them. They were pruned from the water and the damp dirt, black as a miner’s. There was red mixed in there, too. Blood. He couldn’t feel any pain, couldn’t see any cuts; his hands were numb, the injuries belonging to someone else. Aston began digging again, carefully, reverentially. Through the dirt and sweat he saw the pink Babygro with Mummy’s Little Princess on the front. Saw the mangled bloody face. He lifted the doll out, knowing that once upon a time she had been alive – breathing, laughing and loving – but unable to admit this to himself. Not yet. Not ever. So, even though the limbs felt like they were made from jelly rather than plastic, he told himself again it was just a doll, and although he knew differently he kept telling himself it was a doll, only a doll, because that was the one thing keeping him sane right now, the one thing keeping him from falling apart. But denial could only carry you so far, and Aston could feel reality creeping in. He tried to push it back, but it was too late. Fingers moving as though they had a mind of their own, he reached out and fussed her hair, stroked her cheek. Flesh instead of plastic. No point lying to himself anymore. The full horror crashed in on him all at once and he was powerless to stop the flood. He was a lone figure holding his hands up to pacify the raging torrent; there one moment, and then washed away and destroyed the next.
Aston cradled the baby in his arms, the tiny broken face resting gently against his chest, and moved deeper into the tunnel, away from the harsh halogen glare. Still holding her tight to his chest, he slid down a wall. Then the tears came and he wept. He knew that from this moment on nothing would ever be the same.
There were seven missed calls on the Batphone when Aston got back above ground. He steeled himself then hit redial.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mac demanded. ‘Why haven’t you called?’
Aston explained that he’d been a couple of hundred feet underground and it was difficult to get a signal. He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but that’s how Mac took it. When Mac calmed down, Aston attempted to fill him in. He didn’t get far.
‘Shut up and listen. You think I’ve just been hanging around with my dick in my hand waiting for you to call? Is that it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Too bloody right. If I spent my life waiting for you, I’d never get anywhere. While you’ve been off gallivanting I’ve been working my arse off trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.’
Gallivanting, Aston stopped himself from saying.
‘If you’ve got anything you think might be useful,’ Mac added in a voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘bung it in a report.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if it’s not too much trouble I’d like that on my desk first thing in the morning. And it’d better fucking well be there.’ With that the line went dead.
‘Cunt,’ Aston whispered at the mobile.
Miraculously the bike was where he’d left it; any other day it would have been nicked in two seconds. He cycled back to Vauxhall Cross through near-deserted streets, the wind pushing past him a welcome relief after the suffocating tunnels. It was almost midnight and still humid; the night was a thunderstorm waiting to happen.
He banged away at the keyboard for almost an hour, taking no notice of what he was typing. His hands were sore, fingers weary. The injuries were superficial – minor scratches and cuts, an abrasion on his left palm – certainly nothing requiring hospital treatment. Some antiseptic and an Elastoplast … job done. All he could think about was the dead baby. He typed faster … if he could somehow get his brain to work quicker then maybe he could outrun those nightmarish images. Fine in theory, but all that happened was he made more typos. He didn’t bother reading the report through when he finished. If it read like it was written in Chinese he didn’t give a shit. He e-mailed the report to Mac’s secure account and headed for home.
His mother had warned him he’d end up in the poor house, and for once she’d been right. The poor house in question was a three-storey red brick building in Pimlico that had been constructed in the late 1800s by a philanthropic mill owner. It had lain derelict until 1995, when it had been restored and converted into ‘studios and apartments’ … estate agent doublespeak for ‘bed-sits and rabbit hutches’. Aston had bought a one-bedroom hutch on the first floor, which the estate agent had assured him was money well spent. The area was up and coming, he was investing in the future, in ten years’ time the apartment would be worth double. Whatever. All he knew was that a large chunk of his paycheque disappeared each month just to keep his toes from slipping off the first rung of the property ladder.
It was pushing two by the time Aston got home. He was physically and mentally exhausted. Laura was crashed out on the black leather sofa, as innocent as an angel. She was wearing grey jogging bottoms and a tiny tight red T-shirt with BABE written in spangly pink letters on the front. She was snoring lightly, even though she swore blind she never snored. Aston had considered recording her so he could present her with irrefutable evidence of her crime, but she’d find some way to wriggle out of it. When it came to arguing she was as slippery as a Southern lawyer.
The fallout from her evening lay across the laminated floor. Aston knew the danger signs. Used tissues were scattered like so many crushed lilies; a box of Milk Tray was within reaching distance; she’d demolished half a tub of Häagen-Dazs. An empty DVD case sat open on the floor in front of a hi-tech stack containing all the latest gizmos. Mission Control was his one indulgence. He always had to have the latest toys. It was a boy thing. He picked up the DVD case. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Not good. She only watched that when she was on a serious downer. The TV was on and tuned in to BBC News 24, the sound a low mumble.
Aston perched on the edge of the sofa, carefully so