London Eye Part 14

"Please!"

She was holding the front door handle, ready to open it and go out into this dangerous new world once again. She looked exhausted.

"What if you're caught?" he asked. "What if you're killed?"

"I can't explain everything right now, Jack, and if I tell you some of it, you'll want it all."

"They're alive," he said, a statement more than a question.

"Yes. Your mother's a healer, similar to me." She smiled. "I know her well. She lives in a makeshift hospital deep in an old Tube station. Susan's a good woman, Jack, and she talks about you and Emily so much that...I almost feel as if I've known you forever."

He closed his eyes and tried to recall a memory of his mother from before Doomsday. But he could not. He could only imagine her thin and pale, wasted and in despair, that tatty photograph in his back pocket come to life.

"And Reaper?" he said, looking at Rosemary again. "My father?"

"Your father," she nodded. "Jack-"

"Please, just tell me the basics." He kept his voice down because he did not want Emily hearing any painful truths, not yet. Not so soon after seeing people killed. And not from anyone but him.

"The Superiors are Irregulars who have utterly embraced their powers." Rosemary sighed. "They shun everyone else, spurn humanity, and see themselves as the future. They set themselves apart. As you've seen, they can be brutal, and they're driven. There are those who say they have plans-escape, domination, control-but that their powers haven't yet developed enough to implement them." She looked down at her feet.

"And?"

"And Reaper is their leader."

Leader? He blinked, trying to imagine his father-softly spoken, tall, and loving-resembling Puppeteer in manner or intent. "What can he do?"

"He kills people with his voice."

"He's killed people? What does-"

"I told you there's no time right now! Jenna needs help, and soon. Let me go, Jack. Please."

He lowered his head. Without another word, and without a backward glance, Rosemary left. Jack wondered what she felt most: guilt, or relief.

Back in the living room, Emily and Sparky glanced up when he entered, and perhaps they read something else in his grave expression.

"Is Jenna going to die?" Emily asked.

"No!" Sparky said, and he had truly returned, Jack's angry, wonderful friend. "No, she isn't! Not on my b.l.o.o.d.y watch." He sat next to Jenna on the sofa and took her hand. "You die, you'll have me to answer to." Only death would make him let go.

Jack shook his head. "Rosemary's going to do her best," he said. And though there was so much more to tell, he did not have the energy to do so right then.

"I'm hungry," Emily said, and Jack realised that he was as well. However ridiculous that it may have seemed after what they had been through, and what they had seen, hunger gnawed at his stomach. He looked at Jenna's constant pained movements, her blood, her pale face, and he left the room to find the kitchen.

Jack felt dizzy. He leaned against the worktop and pressed his hands to the surface, casting prints in dust. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and tried to see past what had happened. But all he could see was red. It's much worse than we ever thought it could be, he thought. So much worse.

"Is it a war?" Emily said quietly. She'd crept in behind him, and Jack turned and hugged her to him, resting his chin on top of her head.

"I think so," he said. "And I'm not sure anymore that we've done the right thing. Jenna might be..." He gasped, unable to say the word. "And Lucy-Anne's gone, none of us know where, none of us have any idea what's happened to her, who's got her, where she is..." He cursed, and this time it was Emily's turn to hold him. "I just can't believe it's all gone so bad like this!" he growled, and every word hammered the guilt deeper.

"It's not your fault," Emily said. "It's their fault." Them, they, their, he and his friends had used those words so much to signify the devious government and military that perpetuated the myth of a dead, toxic London, and Jack had never been sure that Emily knew exactly who or what they were. Now he was sure, and he felt ashamed at ever doubting her.

"I don't want any more people to die," he said.

"Mum and Dad?" Emily asked quietly.

"They're alive, Emily."

She pulled back and looked him in the eye, picking up on his hesitation. "Rosemary told you?"

"Yeah. Mum's a healer, like her."

"And Dad?" she asked, his beautiful little sister, wide-eyed and confused.

"Alive, but she doesn't know him." He couldn't tell her yet. There was so much he didn't even know himself.

"Then that's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Ems, it's good."

"Don't call me Ems, Tobes."

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Emily hugged him again, and they stood together in the kitchen of a dead stranger's house.

They looked around for some food, but there was nothing here to eat. If Rosemary and some of her friends used this as a safe house, they certainly didn't keep it stocked. They did find some bottled water, however, and they all swigged down most of a bottle each. Sparky gently lifted Jenna's head, while Emily poured some into her mouth, but it dribbled out when she winced in pain, soaking her neck and the sofa beneath her.

"We can't let this happen," Sparky said. "It's not fair."

"Rosemary will do her best," Jack said.

"We need to do our best, too. We've lost Lucy-Anne, Jack. We just let her go, get lost, and we left her back there."

"We didn't have a choice." He could see that Sparky understood, but Jack felt impotent and helpless. "You do know that, don't you? We could have-"

"She could be dead, Jack."

"We could have all been killed in there, and no one would ever know."

"Yeah," Sparky sighed. "No one's ever going to know about Stephen. How he died, where. Why. Even Mum and Dad won't give a s.h.i.t, if I ever get out and manage to tell them. They won't believe me, or they won't care. He died much longer ago for them than for me."

"He knew you were a good brother, mate."

"You think so?"

"Definitely." Jack sat in an armchair across from the sofa, looking at their dying friend.

"She won't be long," Emily said.

"She can't be." Sparky was still holding Jenna's hand.

They waited for three hours, and every minute was a lifetime. Jack and Emily used some of the bottled water to wash as best they could, but Sparky refused to leave Jenna's side. She woke up a few times, but she would sweat and moan and cry out, and they were all glad when the pain took her into unconsciousness again. It was better for her, and easier for them.

Jack was desperate to change his jeans. They were soaked with blood-Gordon's, Lucy-Anne's, and his own-and though mostly dried, he could still smell it. He rooted around upstairs and found a pair of jeans, dusty but whole, that were only one size too large for him. And it was while he was changing that he suddenly remembered the photograph.

It was soaked. Stained. Beyond repair. He wiped it, licking his fingers and smearing the blood across its surface, dabbing it on old bedding, but his mother's image was marked forever. He hoped it was not an omen.

He slid the photo into the rump pocket of his new jeans and went back downstairs.

They talked about Lucy-Anne. Jack was struck with guilt for leaving her behind, but they all agreed that they'd had no real choice. Events had carried them along. They discussed what could have happened to her, and perhaps with Jenna as she was they found it necessary to be honest with each other, and themselves. Maybe she was caught, Sparky said. She might be dead, Emily whispered. Jack nodded at them both, remembering the sounds of chaos and conflict echoing from the hotel even as they fled. And what he had heard the Chopper, Miller, saying to his soldiers gave him little hope.

When they heard the front door opening and the sounds of people entering, carefully and cautiously, Jack leapt for the living room door, ready to slam it in the intruders' faces.

"It's me," Rosemary said, and Jack slumped with relief.

She entered the room with a short fat man, his face resembling a nervous rat's. His skin was slick with sweat, and he stared around at them as though they were exhibits, not people. His gazed rested on Jenna, and without a word he sat on the sofa beside her and gently lifted her hands from her wound.

"This is Ruben," Rosemary said. He lifted one hand in acknowledgement, never taking his eyes from Jenna's stomach.

"Can you help her?" Sparky asked.

"Yes. You'll need to give me some room, though."

"Do you need anything?" Emily asked. "Water, something to wash your hands?"

"No," he said. He rolled up his sleeves and entwined his fingers, and Jack saw for the first time how large and fat his hands were, with fingers like swollen sausages. After cracking his knuckles he glanced at Rosemary, then the others.

"Keep away," Rosemary said. "You can watch, but don't interrupt him while he's operating. It's dangerous."

"Operating?" Sparky stood from the sofa, relinquishing his hold on Jenna's hand with some reluctance. "He doesn't have any knives, or anything."

Ruben smiled, held up his hands and waggled his fingers. Then he went to work.

Jack could not help watching, fascinated as well as disgusted. Emily stood beside him filming the whole thing, and once again he marvelled at her toughness.

Ruben's obesity and fat fingers belied his grace and deftness of touch. He felt around the wound first, using a soft yellow cloth from his pocket to wipe away the blood so that he could see the hole more clearly. His fingers trailed across the skin, barely touching, and Jack saw Jenna's stomach twitch as though tickled. Then he pressed slightly harder, flexing the skin and pushing down around the wound. Rosemary had not told any of them exactly what Ruben's gift was, and Jack was unsure of what to expect.

Ruben pushed his fingers into Jenna's stomach.

Jack gasped and stepped forward, but Rosemary reached out and grabbed his arm, shaking her head. She mouthed the word No, and held on until Jack nodded and stepped away again.

Initially it looked as though Ruben's fingers were pressed into the wound, following the route of the bullet through Jenna's guts and towards her spine. But then Jack realised that the big man's fingers had punctured the skin around the wound, though no fresh blood flowed, and Jenna seemed to be in no more discomfort than before. The bullet hole pouted and seeped a fresh flow of blood and clear fluid, and the purplish curve of her intestine once again showed at the rip.

Ruben was concentrating so hard that sweat speckled his balding head, soaked the back of his shirt and dripped from his nose and chin. When it mixed with Jenna's blood he seemed unconcerned, and Jack started to worry about infection, the germs on his hands, and- He's stuck his b.l.o.o.d.y hands into her gut!

He glanced across at Sparky and saw that the boy was astounded.

Ruben lifted himself up slightly, hunching over Jenna before pushing deeper. Both of his hands were in her stomach now, her light skin stretched tight against Ruben's darker skin, and Jack could barely see the join. The man's hands worked inside her, tendons flexed on his wrists, and the muscles in his forearms performed their own complex, delicate dance as he probed deeper, and wider.

Jenna groaned, still unconscious, and tried to press her hands back against her wound.

"Hold her hands, please," Ruben said. Sparky and Emily went to the sofa and did as he asked, stroking Jenna's skin and unable to look away. Emily still bore the camera in her other hand, training it on Ruben, the wound, Jenna's face, and then turning slightly to record Jack's reaction as well.

"There it is," the man said, his voice barely a whisper. "Now then..." He leaned closer, more sweat dripping from his face, and Jack saw that his eyes were closed. He was operating by touch alone.

Jenna groaned and said something, too distorted by pain for Jack to make sense of.

"It's okay, girl," Ruben said softly. "Almost done, almost out, and then the lady Rosemary will do her work."

"Have you got it yet?" Sparky said, and Rosemary threw a stern look his way.

Ruben surprised them all with sudden movement, tugging his hands from Jenna's stomach, flinging them up above his head and speckling the ceiling with rosettes of blood. Something bounced from the wall and fell behind the sofa. The fat man tried to stand but he seemed weak, and instead he slipped from the sofa and sat on the floor, breathing heavily. "It's out," he said.

Jack rushed to Jenna, kneeling beside Sparky and Emily and looking at her wounded stomach. The tear from the bullet was still obvious and horrific, but there were no other wounds to show where Ruben's hands had entered.

Ruben was looking at his hands, gently dabbing the smears of blood that speckled them like liver spots. There was nowhere near as much as there should have been.

"Where's the bullet?" Sparky asked. He crawled around the end of the sofa and looked behind it, stretching his arm into the gap between sofa and wall. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," he muttered, standing with the prize in his hand. The bullet was half the size of his thumb, squashed and distorted by the impact on Jenna's flesh.

"Move aside, please," Rosemary said. She nudged past Jack, waited while Ruben crawled across the floor, and knelt beside Jenna.

The girl screamed, hands pressing down onto her wound once more.

Rosemary put her hands on Jenna's stomach, grew very still, and her face went blank.

"That was incredible!" Sparky said. He'd hardly left Jenna's side since Rosemary had healed the wound, and now he sat at one end of the sofa with the girl's head in his lap. She seemed to be asleep now rather than unconscious, and she had already stopped moaning from the pain. "She was dying in front of us, and now..." He shook his head.

"It's just what we can do," Rosemary said, but she was smiling.

"It's a miracle! No b.l.o.o.d.y wonder the Choppers are hunting you all."

"Yes, well, I'd rather not be hunted," Ruben said.

"They told us you were all monsters," Emily whispered. "They showed pictures on the telly and the Internet. Pictures of...monsters."

Ruben smiled and motioned for Emily to go to him. She sat beside him on the other, smaller sofa in the room.

"Do I look like a monster to you?" he asked.

"Of course not. You look like my friend Olivia's dad."

Jack laughed, and Ruben honoured him with a smile as well.

"And is Olivia's father a monster?"

"No," Emily said. "Though he's a bit gruff sometimes. And he smells of smoke." She frowned. "I've always known they were lying, because Jack made sure I did. But they still tell everyone else that anyone left alive in London is a mutant. Dangerous."