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.It was filled with dead leaves and slime, and it flexed and dipped alarmingly beneath her weight.Looking back, she saw Stevie stretched headfirst down the roof.He still held his gun, and his lips were pressed together, veins standing out on his forehead as he struggled to keep hold of her.Jazz carefully knelt, then sat on the roof, leaning back so that her center of gravity was lower.Stevie let go of her leg and gasped in relief.“Thanks,” Jazz said.“Jump,” Stevie said.“We have seconds.”She glanced at Stevie and the gun in his hand and wanted to say, Don’t make things any worse, but she realized they were as bad as they could get.If these men caught them, they’d be dead.Jazz eyed the limb of the oak tree, balanced on her feet with her arms outstretched for balance, then leaped.The branch punched her in the chest and she held on, legs swinging, hands scrabbling for purchase.“Swing left!” Stevie called, and behind his voice were others, quieter and less panicked, more in control.Jazz swung her legs to the left and kicked a branch.One trainer caught and she heaved her other leg up, swung both arms over the branch before her, and then lay across it, looking back to Stevie.“Come on!” she said, but he had already turned to look up the slope of the roof.A shape appeared above the ridge and he shot at it, aiming again even as Jazz saw that it was a diversion.“Look out!” she shouted.Farther along the ridge a man rose up—Philip, a loose slate in each hand.He flung them.The first bounced from the roof and shattered, shards flying over Stevie’s head.The second caught him square in the face.He dropped the gun.It slid from the roof, caught in the gutter for a second, then spun down to the ground below.Jazz watched.There was solid paving down there, a patio, and it was at least twenty-five feet down.“Stevie!” she shrieked.He turned to her slowly, but he could not see.The slate had caught him across the bridge of the nose and just beneath his eyes, and the wound it had made was horrendous.“Jump!” Jazz said, but it came out more like a sob.Philip and another man were sliding down the roof toward him, taking their time because they knew they had him.Philip grinned madly.They could see the blood, and the shiver that went through Stevie was all too apparent.Perhaps it was a final act of defiance.Maybe Stevie was already unconscious.Jazz would never know.But she would never forget the sight of him falling forward from the edge of the roof and striking the ground headfirst.Nor would she forget the sound his body made as it hit concrete, or the disappointed expressions on the men’s faces as they realized Stevie had denied them their revenge.Jazz had no fear now; she was numb.There was little thought about where the best handholds were.She reached the trunk of the tree and climbed down, finding another heavy limb that led out toward the street.She walked along this one, ducking below other branches, holding on to whatever she found above her, until she could see the tall boundary wall below her.She lowered herself down, jumped from the wall, and landed on the pavement, rolling to the left.Hands grasped her shoulders.“Come with me!” Terence said softly.He helped her stand and guided her across the road, and she followed in mute acceptance.She knew that if there was any chance of escape, it would be with him.He cursed as they ran, muttering to himself and hauling Jazz as though she were a bit of baggage.Terence ripped off her hat and glasses and buried them in a bin, ruffled her hair, tried to wipe her tears away.Unable to stop herself, she cast one last glance at the mayor’s house.Mortimer Keating stood on the street corner, beside the open rear door of a black BMW.He seemed calm, as though the events that had just unfolded—the sound of gunshots and the appearance of Jazz from the branches of that tree—had been no surprise at all.Uncle Mort held something to his ear, a radio or a phone.From that distance she and Terence could easily have outrun him, but he didn’t make any move to pursue them.Instead, he simply waved at Jazz and smiled, as though he had a secret.“What the hell is that about?” she said.Terence looked back as Uncle Mort slipped into the backseat of the BMW.The car pulled away.“What’s what about?” Terence said.Jazz didn’t reply.Her mind whirled.As she hurried along the street, she stole glances down alleys and into parked cars, even looked up at the windows of houses.The back of her neck burned with the feeling of being observed.Her mother had raised her to be paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the idea that this was more than her upbringing.Why hadn’t Mort chased her? Only two possibilities presented themselves to her: either he did not want to, or he did not need to.Either way she felt confused and uneasy, even in the midst of her horror and grief about what Stevie had done and how he had paid for it.Jazz and Terence were walking along a tree-lined street now, the houses not as opulent as in the mayor’s district but still large and imposing.At the wail of a siren, they slipped into an alley to await the passage of a speeding police car.“Did you see it?” he asked, as they set out walking again.“Yes,” Jazz said.Her voice sounded empty and flat.“Shot him in the head.”“The battery!” Terence said.“Did you see the battery?”Jazz frowned, thinking for a moment that perhaps Terence had lost it.But she could see the knowledge of what had happened in his face.He knew.He was not stupid.“The battery?”“When you saw the mayor, before Stevie killed him, did you see the battery?” They’d stopped on the street and Terence held both of her shoulders, ready to shake.If they’d wanted to attract more attention to themselves, she supposed they could have stripped and started screwing on the pavement.“Stevie’s dead,” Jazz whispered.“He fell.I watched him fall, and—”“Fuck it!” Terence shouted.He looked around then, shook his head, and ran a hand over his ruffled hair, as if flattening it down would smooth over the fuckup this had become.“Come on.”As they started walking again, Jazz said, “Did you hear me? Stevie’s dead.”“His fault,” he said.“What?”“And Harry’s.Harry’s more than his, I suppose.That old bastard steered him.”They turned right into a narrow lane that led to the rear of the houses, passed several parked cars—Audis, BMWs, sporty soft-tops—then Terence vaulted a fence and held out his hands for Jazz to follow.She hesitated, looking around.The presence of the BMWs troubled her.In her mind she could still see Mort’s smile and that casual wave.“Where are we going?” she asked.“Tube,” he said.“I have a flat in Colliers Wood; we can hole up there for a while [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]