Fleeter glanced back at Jack, mildly surprised. She aimed her torch directly back at his face, and he turned away, dazzled.
“He's there to make sure no one gets in who shouldn't,” she said.
“Or out,” a voice said from the dark gap in the wall. A chuckle followed, and Jack tried not to show his fear.
“Cheery bastard,” Sparky said. “Maybe the smell's coming from him.”
“Sparky!” Jenna said.
But Fleeter only laughed. “Come on. Almost there.”
They went through another tunnel and emerged into what seemed to be a natural cavern. Dead, dried roots hung from the ceiling, and a swathe of spiderwebs hazed the ceiling from view. Jack shivered. He'd never liked spiders, and he wondered what they ate down here.
“Oh, gross,” Jenna said, and Jack saw where she was pointing. Several rat corpses hung directly above them, spun in silk yet still clearly visible.
“Reaper?” Fleeter asked.
“Yes,” a deep voice said, and Jack recognised his father instantly. He had seen him kill with that voice; one word could shatter bones and boil blood. And try though he did, Jack could find nothing in it that reminded him of the man he had once loved. “Yes, thank you, Fleeter.”
“I did say sorry,” she said, voice rising slightly.
A sigh from somewhere in the cavern. Then silence.
“Shall I…” she asked.
“Yes,” Reaper said. “Send them in.”
She aimed her torch into the cavern's corner and looked at Jack, Sparky and Jenna. She nodded ahead. “Go on. Through.”
Jack went first. As he passed through the crack in the wall he thought about what he was going to say to his father, and what Reaper might say back. He was nervous, but also excited. He'd seen something of the father he had once loved left in Reaper, he was sure of it, and now was the time to—
But in the place beyond the cavern, shock froze Jack motionless.
Reaper was standing just beyond the opening that had been melted through concrete and brick sometime in the past, and beyond him was a room from the past. Jack had seen places like this in old war movies his mother used to enjoy, peopled by thin-moustached soldiers and pretty uniformed women. They'd all spoken very properly. The men had smoked and looked worried, and the women had taken calls on old-fashioned phones and pushed small flags around a large table.
This room must have once been one of those old war rooms. High-ceilinged, one long wall had a platform halfway up, and a man Jack recognised stood there, leaning casually on a rickety-looking handrail. His name was Puppeteer, and he had almost killed Jack's little sister.
Past Reaper, the huge table in the centre of the room was taken with a map of London. Sheets of paper were taped together to form one continuous map, and at its edges were areas of splashed red paint. The red formed a boundary, and Jack assumed this represented the Exclusion Zone, that collar of firebombed and flattened suburbs now separating London from the rest of the world.
“I thought I told you to run,” Reaper said.
“You did,” Jack said. “And we did, just before you murdered Miller.”
Reaper raised an eyebrow. It was a startlingly familiar expression, one that used to denote humour when his father was normal. But now it was something else. It spoke of superiority.
“Who said I murdered him?”
Jack let it go. It might have been a word game and he was too tired, and too afraid for his family, to indulge.
“What's this?” Jack asked. On the London map were perhaps two dozen small blue flags, reminiscent of the Choppers’ uniform colour. There were other flags, too—red, yellow, white. What they were meant to represent was more obscure.