Part 32 (2/2)
”Sod off.”
This was a child with a story as intricate and emotive as Richard Broomhall's; but no one could solve every problem in the world, and dragging the kid to the police would do nothing to achieve what he was here for. After a moment, the kid started to slide off through the crowd.
”No. Stop,” said Josh.
The kid froze.
”Take this.” Josh thrust the candyfloss at him. ”Take it.”
A shaking hand closed on the stick.
”Now sod off, and think how different things might have been.” sod off, and think how different things might have been.”
The kid went.
s.h.i.+t. Suzanne would've handled that better.
Maybe it was because he worked best with a single focus, a clear mission objective that ”I saw you manhandling that boy.”
”What?”
A tubby man, his convex belly straining his polo s.h.i.+rt, pointed a short finger and said: ”You're a bully and a bad parent, and I've half a mind to report you to”
Josh's hand whipped out, thumb hooked, the web of skin striking the idiot's throat.
”Chh” The guy rocked in place, panicked and frozen.
f.u.c.k it.
Josh walked away, knowing the idiot could not follow, would not be able to speak for a time. Swallowing food was going to be a b.i.t.c.h as well. Call it the c.u.mberland diet.
He didn't deserve that.
The voice inside his head was Maria's.
On the periphery of the crowd, freerunners were tumbling in a loose, lighthearted fas.h.i.+on. None of the compet.i.tors were up on the compet.i.tion stand: some kind of break between events. They all looked to be in their teens. Josh wondered if he could match them, then realised he had no chance.
Good discipline.
It looked impromptu, and free format was obviously the name of the game, but they all had techniques in common and knew how to perform them. Josh might not be trained in what they did, but he understood how the body moved, and these guys simply flowed.
”Very nice,” he said, as one of them jumped from the riverside railing, performed a vertical spinning crescent kick at least that was how Josh thought of the move and dropped to the ground, into a shoulder roll, and came up with a hands-free cartwheel to land in a crouch.
”Cheers, man,” said the freerunner.
One of the others, a white guy with dreadlocks tied in a topknot, nodded.
”I hear you guys are doing a night run,” said Josh.
”Yeah, we're part of that, all right.”
”It's a bit crowded here.””Not after dark,” said Dreadlocks, ”but we're not starting from here. Down at South Bank, outside the old theatre, then down the underpa.s.s ramps and up around the station.”
”You're going to freerun through Waterloo?”
”Through it, under it, and over the top,” said one of the others. ”Gonna be good.”
”I'll be watching,” said Josh. ”Take it easy.”
”You, too.”
He wandered away, heading east alongside the river, staring at the crowd and food vendors. Across the darkening waters, the stately turbines were slowly rotating, their vanes' leading edges rippling with electrophosph.o.r.escent red, glowing like blood on a blade.
Suzanne. I wish I'd invited you.
But she might be with a client now, and if she were free and came, his attention would be on her. He was here was to find Richard Broomhall, and everything else was secondary.
Reaching the South Bank complex, he stopped. There was a jumble of grey concrete blocks and ramps, the old theatre building with its balcony patio where the clientele were drinking wine spritzers, while down below some twenty young men and women were wandering among the people and the architecture, doing pretty much the same as Josh: taking in every aspect of the geometry, internalising a model of the surroundings in three-dimensional detail.
It felt strange to be among kindred spirits. But their goal was different from his, because they were mapping vectors of movement across a 3-D urban setting for the sheer flowing fun of it; while he was planning to s.n.a.t.c.h a kid Richard, or else Opal, if only she appeared.
The incident with the idiot had made him realise that if Richard or Opal called for help, there would be dozens of athletic helpers all around. While he might be able to beat them in a straight run on barren land, in this cluttered city world, with a struggling kid in hand, he would have no chance of getting away.
Suzanne, if she were here, would find some way of explaining to the gekrunners that it was for Richard's benefit; but for Josh there was too much risk. And there was something else, because of the promise he had made to Viv, the woman at the shelter who had helped him he would not drag Richard back to his father against his will. And that meant no police.
He circ.u.mnavigated the boxy building several times, then moved along the nightrunners' probable route, towards the Imax Ruin in Cardboard City, and up to the Victorian-looking sculpture of Waterloo station's entrance: stone flags and banners, memorials to former railway workers who fell during wartime, defending the country against an implacable enemy.
Had there been a single conflict since then that made as much moral sense?
Forget it. Look and concentrate.
In the station he drank coffee and ate a yoghurtcoated flapjack, used the facilities, then left via the pedestrian skyway over the EuroLev terminal if Suzanne were here, they could be in Paris within the hour and descended to ground level. He followed the streets and underpa.s.ses back to South Bank, made a final looping circuit of the theatre complex, and found a place to sit near the riverside railings.
Waiting was one of his best skills.
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