Jack walked around to the driver’s side of the car and folded himself into the back seat. On the other side, Harry indicated Grace should sit in the middle, and Jack barely stopped himself from squirming closer to the car door as Grace slid in beside him. He wanted to make a bit more room for her, but was worried she might take the movement as one of revulsion.
Her silence, her introspectiveness, was beginning to intimidate him.
As soon as Harry had closed his door, Weyland pulled away.
“London,” he said.
The journey was accomplished in complete silence. By the time they drew close to the City—the inner square mile of ancient London—Jack was ready to scream. The sense of awkwardness had grown by the minute during the drive, and Jack wasn’t sure if it was due to Grace’s terrible reserve, or to the fact that what lay between Noah, Weyland and himself simply couldn’t stand close confinement in a car for longer than two or three minutes.
Eventually, when Weyland pulled over close to the Tower of London, Jack had to restrain himself from throwing open the door and exiting with indecent haste.
Noah leaned over the front seat. “Harry, will you and Jack join us for dinner? Weyland needs to hand over the keys to Jack’s car, and you might as well stay for a meal.”
Dinner? Jack couldn’t think of a worse way to spend the evening. All he wanted to do was get out of this car and get as far away from Grace and Weyland and Noah, and their memories, as fast as he could.
“We’d be delighted,” Harry said, his voice sounding so natural Jack’s mouth almost dropped open. Hadn’t he felt the tension?
“Besides,” Harry continued, “Jack said last night that he’d like to take a closer look at Grace’s wrists…Catling’s hex. Perhaps he can do that this evening.”
Noah looked over to Jack, who by now had his door ajar with one foot on the roadway. “Jack, that would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Jack managed a smile, and slid even further towards the world beyond the Daimler.
“You don’t have to,” Grace suddenly, extraordinarily, said, and Jack froze, staring at her.
She was looking him directly in the face, the first time she’d done so all day, and Jack could see that strong emotion roiled inside of her, although he couldn’t tell what it was.
He had a horrible thought that she knew full well how desperate he was to get away from both her and the car.
“You don’t have to,” she repeated.
Now every eye was on Jack, and Weyland had even swivelled around to mark Jack’s response.
“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” Grace said, and now both her words and the expression in her eyes (terror, that he would think her a burden), made Jack instantly ashamed of himself.
He halted partway out of the car, then slid back in. He reached out his left hand, grasping her right hand gently, then sliding his fingers under the cuffs of blouse and cardigan to encircle her wrist.
It felt like the wrist of a child; so thin, the bones so vulnerable.
“Anyone in this car,” he said, “can tell you I’ve never bloody well troubled myself with ‘nuisances’. Not for three thousand years and more. I’m not going to start now.” His face relaxed slightly, the skin about his dark eyes crinkling. “You are not a nuisance, Grace.”
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and Grace was left with her right hand a little extended, as if she could still feel Jack’s fingers about it.
“She must be tearing Noah and Weyland apart,” Jack said to Harry as they watched the Daimler disappear into the traffic.
“That’s extraordinarily perceptive of you,” Harry said, “particularly when you’re not normally given to that quality.”
“Is she always so difficult to reach?”
Harry nodded. “No one really knows her. The gods’ know we’ve all tried.” He paused. “I was her lover for a while, but even then—”
Jack’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t believe you,” he said. Then, before Harry could answer, Jack grabbed Harry by the shoulder and turned him slightly, using his other hand to pat down Harry’s back. “No. I don’t believe you. You’re not full of holes, and if you’d been Grace’s lover I am certain Stella would not have hesitated to fill your back with puncture wounds. Did she know?”
“Well, yes,” Harry said. “I imagine so. I’m sure I mentioned it to her.” Then he laughed at the expression on Jack’s face. “I doubt that there are too many other pretty young girls I could have taken as my occasional lover without Stella turning slightly murderous, but Grace is the exception. Stella is probably closer to Grace than anyone, including Noah and Weyland.”
“Stella doesn’t pity her,” Jack said.
“My,” Harry said softly, “you have acquired some perception. Now, Jack, let’s walk about this damn city and you tell me what it is that we face. Noah keeps telling me the Troy Game grows stronger and darker, but, the gods alone know, that’s not what I want to hear from you.”
They began to walk, slowly and silently, about the northern side of the Tower. Harry hung back a little, allowing Jack to take the lead. When they got to Great Tower Hill, on the immediate western wall of the Tower, Jack stopped and turned back to Harry. “I want to walk about the old route of London’s wall, up north, then west, then south to Blackfriars Bridge. Then across that to Southwark and east along the river back to Tower Bridge. Are you up to it?”
Harry nodded. “Is it enough?”
“Not particularly ‘enough’, but it will do. It’s a broad circular route through the oldest part of the city, and it will give me Catling’s strength.” Strange, he thought, that now he could only think of the Troy Game as Catling. “Good Lord, Harry. This place has changed.”
He looked down to his feet, and tapped one shoe against the tarmac. “There’s a subway down here.” He lifted his head, turning it westwards towards the city. “They riddle the city.”
“Aye. Since the late Victorian age the railroaders have been digging under the streets. Jack…are they…?”
“A part of Catling? Yes. Every tunnel, every walkway, every subway, every street and laneway add to her web.”
“You’ve been gone too long.”
Jack lifted his eyes up to Harry’s. “I couldn’t have stopped this, Harry. I don’t think anyone could.”
They began to walk, skirting the Tower once again and moving on to the ancient street known as the Minorities, which led up to Aldgate. Harry expected Jack to cross straight over and continue north-west, following the ancient line of the city walls, but at Aldgate Jack stopped and stared west towards the junction of Leadenhall and Fenchurch Streets. The City was quiet. Not only was it a Sunday, but most people would have sought the comfort of family on this day of all days, and there was little to obstruct Jack’s view. Suddenly he turned left.
“Jack?”
Jack held up a hand. Soon, Harry. Give me a moment. He strode down to the junction of the two streets, where stood an ancient water pump, and stopped there, a frown on his face, looking up and around at the buildings, then into the sky, and then downwards, a foot once again tapping at the tarmac.
“Jack?”
Jack gave a slight shake of his head. “There’s something here, Harry. I don’t know what. It feels…different. Sideways.”
“What feels ‘sideways’?”
“I don’t know…I don’t know. Last night I felt something at St Paul’s, but I thought it just imagination. But now, whatever it is, is just that little bit stronger than it was last night. More…alive.”
Harry stood, watching Jack. “Is it the Troy Game?”
Jack shrugged. He stared down Leadenhall Street, then walked along it, crossing over to the north side as soon as a lorry rumbled past them.
It was full of military personnel.
Harry hurried after him. “Jack…?”
“It’s the same thing,” Jack said, walking past a jeweller’s, then a tailor’s, then a bookshop, all closed for the day. “It’s down here as well. A…a…damn it…there is something different. Something odd. Something I don’t understand.” He stopped and gestured in frustration at his head. “Something that I just can’t grasp. Something…elusive. But something that makes my Kingman blood tingle.”
And then he was off again, striding—almost jogging—towards Cornhill, and then north past the Bank. Here he stopped yet once more, shook his head, and moved on.
For the next two hours Jack and Harry moved through central London. From the Bank up to London Wall, then west to Aldersgate, which ran south towards St Paul’s, all the time ducking in and out of narrow alleys, into blind courts, up service laneways. Every few minutes Jack would stop, look about, look up, think, frown, then move on. By the time they reached Aldersgate Harry was so tense his shoulders had bunched up towards his neck and his back was so tight walking had become painful.