Sparky frowned at him.
“No special powers,” Jack said. “Just a feeling. Come on, let's find Jenna.”
They ran up from the end of the Mall towards the square, crossing streets once crammed nose to tail with vehicles. Now it was jammed with a motionless traffic jam that might never move again. Many cars had their doors closed and windows obscured by a pale green growth inside, and Jack had no wish to see what might be hidden.
The square was home to thousands of pigeons, and the birds took flight in sweeping waves as Jack and Sparky ran across. That was a good sign as far as Jack was concerned; it meant that no one else was around to startle the birds aloft. Unless they're like that boy Lucy-Anne's gone off with, he thought. Sadness stabbed at the loss of his old girlfriend.
They skirted around one of the huge plinths bearing a proud, gigantic lion, and Jack looked up past it at Admiral Nelson on top of his column. Nelson's view of London must be a sad one.
“There,” Sparky said, pointing. Jack followed his friend, trying not to see the mass of clothing and other things that filled one of the fountains. People had used to come here on New Year's Eve to drink and celebrate and dance one year into the next, filled with hope for what the future might bring.
They met Jenna in front of the National Gallery, crouched down behind a pile of split black plastic bags spilling mouldy clothes. Sparky and Jenna touched hands briefly—they had progressed from good friends to lovers only recently, and their vitality was evident—and she looked at Jack with wide eyes.
“I've made contact,” she said. “They're bringing him to a meeting point now, and he'll check us over. But…”
“But what?” Jack prompted.
“They say he's dying.”
“Well, if he can't help us we're lost,” Sparky said. He glanced back at Jack, as if expecting him to dispute his statement.
But Jack couldn't. Miller and the Choppers were searching for them now—Miller knew that Jack had been touched by the mysterious Nomad, and his greatest desire now to was get hold of Jack and examine him. Dissect him, perhaps. See what was going on inside.
And what was? Jack wasn't sure.
“Guys, I'm feeling pretty lost anyway,” Jack said. “You both know something's happening with me, but I don't really know what. Different things…and not all the time. I can't…” He looked around, waved across the square. “I can't topple Nelson's Column with my mind, or see around corners. Or change this pile of clothes into stone. Or…” He shrugged, voice breaking, throat filling. He spoke quieter. “Maybe I'll be able to do all those things tomorrow. But today, the only thing stopping me going mad with this is you two. My mates.”
Jenna smiled at him, eyes glittering.
“Pussy,” Sparky said.
Jack laughed softly. “Yeah. So come on. Let's see if this old guy can help.”
From the moment he saw the old man, Jack knew that he was dying from something unknown. It was the same malady killing the Irregulars in the underground hospital where he'd found his mother. An incredible man—Jack hoped he could still use his gift—he was suffering from the mysterious illness affecting more and more of London's survivors.
He was mad, first of all. Sitting in an old shopping trolley in the shattered entrance to a once-posh store, scrunched up like a skinny rag doll, the man seemed to be snatching at unseen flies bothering him. He stared, motionless, and then a hand would lash out, fist closing on nothing.
“What's he doing?” Sparky asked.
“Don't know,” Jenna said. “Same when I found him. I thought he was eating flies, but I don't think there's anything there.”