Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [60]
Ricky heaved a sigh of relief.
‘That’s right,’ said the young man. ‘I am a Buddhist monk. You can call me Young Master if you like.’
‘Young master-bater,’ said Wally Saddler and several of the other boys laughed, but the monk ignored the insult.
‘So, what are you doing here?’ said Wolf. ‘Delivering a Chinese take-away?’
‘Hey, can I have some hot and sour shrimp?’ wise-cracked Wally Saddler.
‘No, I’m teaching Comparative Anthropology,’ said the monk.
‘And who the hell do you think is going to attend a turkey of a course like that?’
‘You for one, Wolf Leemark,’ said the young man, smiling. ‘My course is compulsory and you’ll begin attending tomorrow.’ He nodded politely and walked off before the speechless Wolf could think of a response.
An electric bell began to ring, echoing down the school corridors, signalling the end of the lunch-hour. Miss Marcroft returned to her office.
Wolf Leemark shrugged and turned away. Along with the other kids he set off for his first afternoon class. While Ricky watched him go his mother came out of the principal’s office.
She was leading Eve by the hand and her face was glowing with happiness so Ricky knew right away that she’d been successful.
‘So when do I start?’
‘Tomorrow, smart-ass,’ she said as they walked out to their car. ‘What was all that noise in the hall earlier?’
‘Just getting to know my classmates,’ said Ricky.
Chapter 21
Usually Creed remained awake on planes, even on long flights, but just before his jet began its descent to Heathrow he slipped into a jangled, confused sleep. He woke with a start as the plane hit the runway, bouncing gently on its landing-gear and coasted slowly towards the international arrivals terminal. He’d been dreaming in a fragmented way about Amy and Justine and, oddly, his son Ricky.
Creed rummaged in the overhead locker while he waited for the slow-moving crowd of passengers to exit the plane.
He didn’t have any luggage except for his one carry-on bag and the small packet he’d left with the steward when he’d boarded the flight.
He collected the packet as he left the plane. A waterproof grey pouch which was surprisingly heavy for its size. It contained Creed’s hand-gun and his Agency permit under diplomatic seals. The steward said nothing as he handed it back but Creed could tell that he’d guessed what was inside.
With no luggage to collect Creed went straight to passport control where he was waved straight through as soon as the barcode reader identified him.
He thought that the small waterproofed parcel might create some problems in customs, and he’d foreseen a delay while the local authorities examined the weapon and scrutinized his documentation.
What he didn’t foresee was Mrs Woodcott.
‘Creed, darling!’
Creed turned around in the crowded customs area to see a strange-looking old woman closing in on him. But even before he recognized her face there was something about her that triggered memories for him.
And suddenly he was remembering the sights and smells of London. How odd that he’d flown across the world to this destination, this huge city, but only now did it become real to him.
London. Creed was flooded with memories of the place.
Memories of searching for Justine in this big, dark city. Of knowing he had to save her and save Ricky who was growing in her belly.
London’s warlord of crime for a decade had been Paulie Keaton. Justine had made the mistake of getting Paulie Keaton angry. Paulie was a man who savoured revenge and he’d planned to put Justine to work as a slave in one of his whorehouses. But first he was going to terminate the baby she carried.
Creed got to them in time. He saved them. Saved Justine and Ricky.
But the search had been a strange one. He remembered his feet echoing in the endless night of this great city as he followed his heart-beat and his instinct.
He remembered a Japanese girl wearing Justine’s jacket, reaching for a gun. Creed was too fast for her, getting to his own gun first and pressing it against her leg under the table. No one else