‘Preston, you said you come from?’
‘Aye.’ He smiled quizzically. ‘And you: Birmingham, right?’
I shook my head. ‘Coventry.’
‘Nearly right.’
I gave him a look – and grinned.
‘Well we’re all in the same shit-hole now.’ He glanced around him; past the parked minibus and its straggling group of customers, to the sombre façades that hemmed us in. The two huge stations loomed above and beyond them, to the west. King’s Cross, with its vaulted canopies; and St Pancras, towering and gothic. St Pancras Cathedral, I always wanted to call it: a real pile.
The sun hadn’t made it any warmer; hunks of dirtied, frozen snow still lingered in the gutters. I hunched my shoulders up inside my coat as the wind changed again – and almost felt guilty for the gesture when he did the same, with only his threadbare bomber jacket to keep it out.
‘Mind you don’t get cold now,’ he murmured, without irony. He sounded quite concerned.
‘Don’t worry …’ I assured him; and wondered how Nick would take it, if he knew.
Which he didn’t, of course. After we’d argued to a standstill the other night, the subject had been left lying. But I think he reckoned he’d had the better of it – and made me see sense at last.
So I’d volunteered to go on this afternoon’s run partly for the private satisfaction of doing what I saw fit. Partly. But there was a particular reason why I’d opted to go with the King’s Cross group, as well. A reason to do with the dream.
It was one of the few real details I remembered: something seen smudgily through the downpour as I’d breasted the rise. St Pancras Cathedral, off to the west; like a gloomy castle rotting under the rain.
The thought of using the landmark, and actually seeking out the waste ground, had appalled me when it first occurred; and grown increasingly fascinating thereafter. My reasoning mind had tried to shake itself free: warned of tempting fate – of tempting Razoxane. But all to no avail. My dream had picked up on something secret, I knew that much: something she wanted no one else to see.
So perhaps if I saw … and even partly understood … it might give me some kind of leverage against her. Something I could use, if push came to shove. Which, knowing her, it would.
I realised the others had started packing up; the ragged gathering around us was beginning to disperse. The bloke from Preston downed the last of his soup.
‘Listen … you ain’t got a fag, have you?’
‘Sorry – gave up a while back.’ Regretting it sometimes, too.
‘Very wise, flower. Wish I had the will.’ He gave me a worn-looking smile. ‘Thanks for the soup.’
I nodded, and watched him wander aimlessly off. A couple of older men – much further down the road to dereliction – passed behind him, snarling at each other. Jim Stanley’s touch on my shoulder made me jump.
‘All aboard again, Rachel.’
I turned my head. ‘No. ‘It’s okay: I’ll stop off round here. I’ve … got to check some train times.’
‘We’ll drop you, then. King’s Cross … ?’
‘No, no … Really. Five minutes’ walk is all it is.’
He looked doubtful. ‘You sure, now? It’s not the sort of area you want to hang around in. Not on your own.’
He was right of course: I didn’t want to. Not one bit. But the impulse had its hooks in now, and I knew there’d be no denying it. Just a brisk little wander was all it would be: looking over towards St Pancras, trying to line it up with my memories. Never straying too far from the busier main roads.
Work on the rail link was well underway now; open-cast construction sites spreading out behind the stations like mismanaged bed-sores. Old buildings – slums and storehouses – were being cleared away, and new foundations laid. So I knew pretty much what I was looking for. I just had to find my particular field of mud.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’
I smiled, but said it firmly, and Jim knew me well enough to leave it at that.
‘Okay then.’ He hesitated just a moment longer: a pleasant-looking bloke, with his thoughtful eyes and greying ginger beard. Then raised his hand, palm outwards. ‘We’ll see you, then, Rachel. Good to have you along.’
I nodded, and watched him get in behind the wheel. Others waved from inside; I waved back. And then the minibus was off, and heading back down towards Pentonville Road, its exhaust pipe smoking in the cold.
The empty street seemed very quiet when it had gone. Most of the dossers had already withdrawn: fading back into the shadows like a phantom army. I was on my own now.
Digging my hands deeper into my pockets, I glanced uneasily around; then started walking. The rattle and clank of an incoming train drew my attention, but it was lost to sight behind buildings. I mentally followed it south to the brooding towers of St Pancras. Was this the angle I’d dreamed it from? I paused.
Perhaps.
Moving back onto York Way, I turned north, towards the main excavations. Even this main road was relatively quiet – just sporadic Sunday traffic swishing by. The building sites themselves were silent and deserted. Coming to the first, I peered curiously in between rusting railings – but mounds of churned earth blocked most of the view. There were old sleepers and chunks of masonry mixed in with the spoil. A little further on I had a tiptoe glimpse of derelict goods sheds, and nettle fields hedged with brambles.
None of which left me any the wiser. I paused again, not sure what I should do next. Something was nagging at the back of my head. I couldn’t quite place it; but plain common sense suggested I head west into Camden as soon as I could. This was hardly the most salubrious of districts, especially for a woman on her own. It wasn’t just the prospect of kerb-crawlers or aggressive addicts that was nibbling at my nerves, though. And a moment later, I twigged what my subconscious mind had already noticed.
The trickle of traffic had stopped completely. No cars at all had passed for several minutes.
Frowning, I peered both ways: the road was empty for as far as I could see. Almost as if it had been blocked somewhere.
The thought of the area being sealed up with me inside it was hardly likely, but it finally lost me my nerve. Quickly I retraced my steps to where the road branched westward, and turned along it. Goodsway, said the signs on sooty brick. The walls were high and grimy on both sides; but a set of gates on the right gave a view of the canal.
Still no traffic passing.
A building on the far bank caught hold of my attention. It looked like a ruined warehouse; the roof was missing, the windows glassless. Scaffolding braced the crumbled upper levels, and snagged at the sky. The place had a sinister, lowering air. At four or five storeys, it seemed as imposing as a fortress.
Something squeezed my heart like an iron hand.
It was nothing I could justify with eyes and ears; just a horrid sensation of being watched from those lofty ramparts. As if Razoxane herself had made her roost there.
Spooked, I looked away and pushed onward – round the corner and downhill: putting the wall back between us. I passed the old gas works, its girders standing out against the sky like the ribcages of giants. And then a car appeared, cruising steadily up towards me … followed by another. I felt an irrational upsurge of relief.
St Pancras Cathedral hove slowly into view.
There was more clearance work going