Thicker Than Water

They pulled back at last, leaving a few sprawled bodies - some in uniform, some civilians - behind them.

The second time was better coordinated, and they seemed to have larger numbers on their side too. Using the towers at the north end of the estate as staging points, they swept the upper walkways first, blasting away the barricades and the opposition with water cannons before venturing out themselves. The top-to-bottom sweep meant they weren’t exposed to attack from above, and they made good headÆoppway, moving on past me towards the southern towers which they hadn’t been able to crack the first time around.

But by then they themselves were visibly slowing as they felt the effects of the demon’s touch. One by one they started to take an interest in the broken glass on the walkways, jabbing shards of it experimentally into their own palms or seeking out rioters or former colleagues for impromptu knife fights.

With so many wounds in which to root itself, so much sliced and broken flesh, the demon’s power was increasing exponentially.

My own palms were itching almost unbearably, and the cutting kit that had been in Kenny’s wardrobe kept coming into the forefront of my mind. It would be a useful thing to have to hand, in case I felt the need to . . .

No! I whistled the first few bars of the tune over and over again to keep the demon’s insidious tendrils from anchoring in my mind. And I tried not to think about blood. The blood that beats in the tell-tale heart of every one of us.

The blood that’s thicker than water.

I couldn’t collect my thoughts: couldn’t get my mind through the minefield of sick despair to the point where I could start thinking of a way out of this. There didn’t have to be one. Maybe I’d really hit the wall this time, because I couldn’t complete the exorcism and we were way past the point where nailing up a few wards over people’s doorways was going to have any effect.

But it goes against the grain to give up just because you’re outnumbered, outgunned, painted into a corner and running a quarter of a tank past empty.

I forced my numbed, sluggish brain to connect one thought to another, and I came up with three ideas which - together - made a kind of sense.

Matty. Juliet. Gary Coldwood.

Coldwood first. I fished my cellphone out of my pocket, tried vainly to remember his number before I finally found it in the calls-received list.