Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [115]
Justine wasn’t listening. She was staring at a group of figures standing silently on the far side of the road. There were three of them, all women judging by their height. They were dressed in strange costumes and looked unearthly in the glow of the streetlamp. It took a moment for Creed to recognize the clothes they were wearing. Nuns. Roman Catholic nuns.
‘What the hell are they doing here?’
Justine didn’t take her eyes off the nuns.
‘Is this a Buñuel movie?’ said Creed, but she didn’t reply. Now two of the nuns had turned away to enter a small building, one of the surviving original Edwardian houses, directly across the road from the statue. The third nun remained standing, looking at Justine, as if she was unnerved by the girl’s stare. Justine suddenly shook her head and turned away. She looked at Creed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ Justine shook her head again. ‘They just looked so weird.’ The third nun had followed her friends into the house now and the street was empty except for a lone taxi clattering past.
‘They sure did. What are they doing around here?’
‘That’s a convent.’ Justine pointed to the house across the road. She still seemed shaken.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. There were a number of religious orders established here after the riots. They’re supposed to help heal the community.’
‘Well, they haven’t had much impact on the presence of drug dealers. Are you okay?’
Justine nodded. ‘It’s just weird coming back here. All the memories.’
‘You don’t look too good.’
Justine shrugged. ‘I’m a bit tired and hungry. Hungry mostly.’
‘Come on,’ said Creed. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
They drove east then south, coming onto the Euston Road near Marylebone. Justine helped navigate them down Tottenham Court Road and across Oxford Street. The traffic on Charing Cross Road was a nightmare but Creed had spent half his life driving in New York. He got down to the Mall in ten minutes and found a restricted parking place outside the Institute of Contemporary Arts.
‘You can’t park here.’
‘This is a police Porsche. No one’s going to clamp it.’
‘Well, where are we going?’
Creed smiled at her. ‘This may be my first time in London but I’m not a total hick. I’ve heard of a restaurant around here.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Justine got out of the car after Creed. ‘You have to be kidding.’
‘You’ve guessed the place I’m talking about, then?’
‘You’re not thinking of going to Dewer’s, are you?’
‘Bingo,’ said Creed. He unlocked the trunk of the Porsche.
‘But we can’t.’
‘How come? You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ He bent down and looked inside the trunk, the red emergency light giving his face a satanic cast.
‘But they won’t let us in.’
‘Why not?’
‘The King eats there.’
‘Well I’m sure he won’t object to sharing the restaurant with us.’ Creed reached into the trunk and shifted a long object in a padded carrying case. It was an automatic riot gun. Just one of the gifts from the old Texan and IDEA. Underneath the gun there was a zippered canvas carryall.
‘But it costs a fortune.’
Creed unzipped the canvas bag. ‘We’ve got a fortune.’ He stood back and let Justine look into the bag. Inside were blocks of EC currency, virgin stacks of banknotes still sealed with treasury wire.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘It’s in case I need to finance a big drug deal.’ Creed took one of the fat blocks of banknotes out and twisted the wire off it. He pocketed the money. ‘But I don’t see why we can’t buy dinner with some of it.’
Justine rubbed the frayed thigh of her jeans. ‘I’m not dressed to go into a place like that.’
Creed took a second block of money out of the bag. ‘Fine,’ he said, locking the trunk. ‘We’ll just have to go shopping first.’
* * *
On their way back from the shops they returned to the car so Justine could dump a designer bag containing her old clothes. The use of cash in some of London’s elite clothes stores had raised a few eyebrows but no one actually objected. ‘They probably think it’s drug money,’ said Creed. ‘Ironically enough.’
They walked up the steps to