Clown Town полностью

Another corner, and he took it, realising too late that this was taking him back towards the main drag. He looked behind, and tripped over something—two somethings—his feet—and banged his pretty face on the pavement. He lay panting, expecting hands upon him any moment—to be hauled upright and strung from a streetlight—but none came. There were lights spinning overhead, and when he blinked they spun the other way, and he recognised them as his own Roddylights. He was Roddyspinning, bright bursts of Roddycolour lighting up the sky, as if Roddyworks were being set off. A car went past as he hauled himself upright, and it slowed, or else his perception altered as it reached him, but it kept moving. So did he. This time, back the way he’d come. There were people, but on the other side of the road, and they didn’t appear to care who Roddy was. He put a hand to his head, and it came away wet. Where was he? There were parked cars, and between two of them was enough of a gap that he could lower himself to a crouch and Roddy himself invisible. Just for a while. Just until he was breathing normally, and the hummingbird could fly.

From his pocket he pulled out his phone. Rang the first contact he thought of.

“It’s me, it’s Roddy,” he said. “Help me.”

Then he closed his eyes.

Judd said, “You’re not about to shoot me.”

“I get that a lot,” said Lamb. “People telling me what I’m not about to do. But then, if the people around me knew what they were talking about, they’d have been assigned to a different department. See what I’m saying?”

“I came here in good faith, expecting a reasoned, adult discussion. Now you’re waving a gun about. This is insane.”

“I’d have thought you were used to it by now. Guns being waved about, I mean. Or has last night slipped your mind? It hasn’t mine. On account of one of my joes being shot, and another being stabbed.”

“That had nothing to do with me!”

“Well, we’re going to have to agree you’re wrong about that. By the way, sit down? If I do use this, I’d sooner you were stationary.” He waggled the gun. “I’m not the world’s greatest marksman. I could go for a warning shot and end up having your eye out. I’d look a right tit then, wouldn’t I?”

Judd stared, but Lamb’s expression gave nothing away. The gun might have been cake, come to that. Taverner might be behind the curtain, about to jump out and sing “Happy Birthday.”

He sank onto the sofa again.

Lamb said, “Entertain me. You funded Taverner’s jolly last year, didn’t you? When she went off-book and had a Moscow hood whacked for committing murder on home soil.”

“I couldn’t comment on that.”

“Wasn’t looking for a comment so much as a straightforward yes or no.”

“No.”

“Yeah, wrong answer. We both know you did. And it was Chinese money you slipped her, though she didn’t know that at the time.”

“Money doesn’t actually have a—”

“And you’ve been holding that over her head ever since, like the sword of Dominic Cummings.”

“I think you mean Damocles.”

“Any two-faced creep with the ethics of a syphilitic stoat will do.” The gun swapped hands. With his right, Lamb caressed the cigarette behind his ear. “So, she’s spent the last year being backed into a corner, with you passing on, what’ll we call them, suggestions? Nah, instructions. With you passing on instructions from your Beijing paymasters as to which direction she should be steering the Park. Which, long story short, is why she tried to have you cancelled last night. In fact, if she hadn’t relied on a Dad’s Army dropout with a spark plug where his brain used to be, you wouldn’t be here now. Any thoughts?”

“Well, you’re a little unfair on Damocles.”

“Probably. I never had the classical education you’ve based your public persona on.”

“I think I can safely say it would have been wasted on you.” Judd leaned back and spread his arms out. It would be an overstatement to say he was starting to relax, but he didn’t feel the fear he’d felt last night, when it had been Charles Stamoran waving a gun around. This was different—Lamb was a tricky bastard, but one who’d been around long enough that Judd knew he could deal with him. Because if Lamb wasn’t in the market for deals, he’d not have survived as long as he had. “Thoughts, though. Yes. I have a few. But before we get to those, I have to ask. Are you recording this?”

“Recording it?”

“Hoping for a confession.”

“I look like a priest? I need a word with my tailor.”

“If I thought for one moment you actually had one, I’d want a word with him myself. I’ve never made a citizen’s arrest. So.” Judd crossed his legs. “Not a confession, then. I didn’t really think so.” He smiled: It looked quite genuine. “No, I know what you’re after.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” said Lamb. “Tell me what I’m after.”

“Same thing anyone in your position is.”

“One of those chairs you can lean back in till it’s nearly horizontal?”

“Recognition.”