Chapter 39. To Mend a Broken Heart
The building work at Battersea Power Station had been abandoned without warning. ‘SITE UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT’ billboards had been hurriedly put up years ago, with a small logo stamped across their tops, ‘OUBLIER AND CO’. The army of cranes, bulldozers and diggers lay silenced, their only visitors an occasional seagull and deepening bouts of rust. It was late and London was asleep. As always, the River Thames flowed quietly by, disturbed only by the odd houseboat and the occasional taxi making a final drop off before heading home.
It started as it usually did. Deep in the bowels of the old power station, the air began to move. Behind a half-cracked mirror, water pipes trembled, inexplicably flowing backwards, inexplicably flowing at all. If anything could have lived down there, which it couldn’t, it would have run. Only the building’s four vast chimneys could see how the shadows turned and twisted, before revealing a mud-splattered, silver-haired nun.
Sister Clementine was tired, tired of running, tired of always being afraid. Ever since she’d agreed to carry the message, they’d had her scent. No matter how well she’d hidden, no matter what tricks she’d used, they’d always found her. Her chest was tight and her legs ached from the chase. She had to think fast; any minute now and they’d be on her. She couldn’t outrun them, especially not the little one. By the time she made it to the fence, they’d have her, and if they had her, there was no hope of keeping quiet. No one ever kept quiet.
Looking out towards the river, she saw a sliver of hope. If she could make the crane in time, she might get high enough to go unnoticed. She climbed the ladder quickly and quietly, her robes perfect cover under the pitch-black sky.
But Sister Clementine did not go unnoticed. Finally at the crane’s arm she slowed enough to hear them. The same two men that had tracked her since the beginning, one short and barrel-chested, the other impossibly tall. They were studying their new surroundings carefully. The shorter man sniffed at the air’s unique aroma, while the tall man’s pin-sharp eyes scanned the horizon. Their kind might usually have been nervous, afraid even of being on land owned by Oublier and Co. But not these men. It was not their job to fear, but to be feared. They were the things that went bump in the night.
In no time they had zeroed in on their target. They moved fast, the tall one climbing with all the skill of a spider while the other charged with the excitable brute strength of a predator nearing its prey.
Sister Clementine moved further down the crane arm as her assailants reached the top.
“Gimme the co-ordinates, Clementine. Jus’ two sets o’ numbers and you go free,” said the tall man, in a thick American accent.
Clementine’s foot slipped, finding only air instead of metal. There was nowhere else to run. The tall American pulled a revolver from his hip, aiming it squarely at the woman’s head.
“Don’t kill her, just wound her; she’s worth nothing if she can’t talk,” snarled the barrel, edging down the crane’s arm towards her.
The nun looked down at the void of black, before closing her eyes for one last prayer.
“He wants the child, Clementine,” said the American.
But the nun’s mind was already made up.
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love …”
Where there is darkness, joy …”
“WHERE IS SHE?” barked the barrel, almost upon her now.
Sister Clementine opened her eyes and smiled.
“Go to hell.”
She stretched out her arms like wings and pushed hard on the crane beneath her, launching herself into the air. There was no hard crunch of concrete below, only a splash as she landed in the River Thames’s waters. The tall American waited, peering into the darkness, before firing a single perfect round.
“Did you get her?” asked the barrel.
“Have I eva missed?”
“Hinks?” said Mr Wilkinson.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done. A plus. Johnston?”
“Sir.”
“Not a bad B, Johnston. Widdlewort?”
“It’s Waddlesworth, sir.”
“Yes, yes of course it is. C again, Widdlewort.”
The subject didn’t matter. Ned Waddlesworth always got a C. Not a C plus or minus, nothing with any particular character, just your average, everyday C. He was an unremarkable-looking boy too, with light brownish sort of eyes, and hair that was neither long nor short, styled nor loose, brown nor blonde. His hair was, quite simply, there. Ned wasn’t tall or short, chunky or particularly thin. At school Ned wasn’t in the clever classes, nor did he slouch at the back. Ned, like his hair, was just: there.
Teachers barely noticed him arrive at his new schools, or leave again a few months later. He never got to try out for any of the teams and, until recently, was never around long enough to make any friends. Unnoticeable Ned slipped through the cracks, again and again and again.
His father, Terry Waddlesworth, had once been an engineer. He’d retired from that profession before Ned was born and now sold specialist screws for a company called Fidgit and Sons. “Best in the business”, according to Terry. The job had them move around the country often, sometimes with little or no warning, and was, as far as Ned was concerned, the reason for all his woes. But that wasn’t the only issue Ned had with his father. Terry Waddlesworth had a profound dislike for anything risky or “dangerous”, which meant he rarely left the house unless going to work. He was interested in only three things: amateur mechanics, watching quiz shows on the telly, and Ned’s safety. It did not make for an environment that let growing boys …‘grow’.
They lived at Number 222 Oak Tree Lane, in Grittlesby, a suburb south of London, famed for its lack of traffic, quiet streets and generally being entirely unremarkable. It was the longest they’d stayed in any one place though, and Ned was just happy to have finally managed to make some friends, Archie Hinks and George Johnston from across the road. Despite his father’s best efforts Ned was growing roots.
“So, last day of term,” said Archie as they all headed home from school.
“Yup,” agreed Ned