"I don't want to spend my life being faceless," Jazz said. And there it was: the stark truth. Harry might be able to find himself most at peace down here, and maybe some of the others had grown, or would grow, into such a way of life. But yesterday, topside with Terence, walking the streets and feeling the sun on her wanted face, Jazz had realized that she was destined for greater things. It was ironic that her mother's attempts to keep her hidden away had perhaps contributed to Jazz's burgeoning desire to do so much more. Hattie was first back to the Palace. She brought a hand-bag with her, expertly chosen to match the hat she had worn out that morning.
"You're back!" Hattie said, her pleasure at seeing Jazz untainted by suspicion. "I love your hair!"
"Hi, Hattie," Jazz said, genuinely pleased to see the girl. "Like your new handbag."
The girl smiled wickedly. "Wait'll you see." She up-ended the bag, spilling purse, mobile phone, and electronic organizer, as well as a slew of expensive makeup and a beau-tiful silk head scarf. "Silly cow left it on the back of her chair while she sat in Covent Garden drinking a ten-quid coffee with her snobby mate."
"It's nice," Jazz said. "Hattie?"
The girl raised her eyebrows, hearing something strange in Jazz's tone. "Jazz?"
"I need your help. Just for today —hopefully for the last time—I need to not be me."
Hattie grinned, delighted. "You've come to the right place," she said. "I'm an expert at being someone else. Come on." She led Jazz out of the main chamber and into the bed-room the two girls shared. "I missed you last night. Kind of scary sleeping in here by myself. Sit yourself down and let me fetch my box of delights."
Hattie went to a built-in metal cabinet in the corner of the room, and beneath the clothes hanging there was a big basket that everyone knew was Hattie's private property. There was a strong moral code among the United Kingdom, and no one would have ever considered invading another member's privacy.
Jazz felt honored.
"Now, then," Hattie said. "Young or old?"
"What?"
The girl laughed. "Come on, Jazz. You're a beauty, and I'm sure you know you can play on that if you want. Or you can be an innocent teen. Up to you. Depends on the score."
"Big score," Jazz said. "The mayor's house."
Hattie's face went slack. "Fucking hell." It was the first time Jazz ever heard her swear.
"So, I think old," Jazz said. "But nothing too constrict-ing. I may need to move fast."
Hattie recovered from her shock quickly, put on her usual cheerful smile, and started pulling things from her stash.
By early afternoon, everyone was back. They sat around the main room of the Palace, the United Kingdom familiar and relaxed with one another, Terence the outsider, and Jazz feeling apart from everyone.
Harry did most of the talking. From what he said and the way things were going, Jazz didn't feel the need to ask what he had sensed while walking past the mayor's home.
As ever when planning a big score, Harry invited ques-tions at the end of his pitch. There were none.
A seriousness had descended over the group, one tinged with the still-raw death of Cadge and this prospect of getting back directly at the mayor, in however small a way. No one asked who Terence was or what he was doing there, though many of them eyed him suspiciously. Jazz was pleased to see a hint of discomfort in his forced smile.
After his address, when the kids were scurrying around the Palace in preparation, Harry and Stevie disappeared into a side room. Jazz glanced at Terence, who merely raised an eyebrow, then she followed.
She found them huddled to-gether in Harry's bedroom. They both looked at her, not surprised to see her but not very welcoming either.
"Jazz girl," Harry said. "Like your hat."
"You taking that gun?" she asked Stevie. He looked at her and blinked slowly but did not reply.
"That's his business and his alone," Harry said.
"No," she said. "It's my business if we're breaking into the same house together. We all know the mayor's thugs might be armed."
"It's my gun," Stevie said. "Not Harry's. My choice."
"And it's my choice whether I'm a part of this or not," Jazz said.
She stared at Harry and Stevie, who both stared back. She left the implied threat hanging in the air.
Neither of them bit. I should walk away, she thought. There's very little holding me here now other than revenge. And though they say it's sweet, more often than not it'll come out sour.
"Shit," she whispered. Neither Harry nor Stevie changed their expression. She turned and walked away, sud-denly feeling part of something over which she no longer had any control.
As she entered the main room once again, catching "Terence's eye and deciding whether to say anything to him about Stevie's gun, she sensed something closing in. A scream in the distance at first, heard more in her mind than through her ears, and a sudden heartbreaking sadness swept over her. She uttered a wretched sigh and fell to her knees. Leela and Gob both turned to look at her, both about to ask what was wrong.
Jazz and Terence stared at each other, a moment of star-tling understanding passing between them.
This is about so much more than revenge, Jazz thought then. It's about saving worlds other than this.
And then Terence offered her a tired smile before closing his eyes.
"Everyone sing a song," Jazz said, and as a few groans of dismay rose up, the Hour of Screams rushed in.
It sounded like a train coming from the distance, but the noise of its wheels on the track were screams of pain, and the sound of its metal parts clanking together made desolate words out of nothing.
Jazz's song came to her without thinking, and it was her mother who sang it.
Wish me luck, as you wave me good-bye.
Cheerio, here I go, on my way.
Her mum had always joked that she'd like it sung at her fu-neral. Jazz cried, an outpouring of grief that racked her body and caught in her throat every breath she took, because here and now was when she laid her mother to rest. There would be no funeral. However the Blackwood Club had disposed of her body, it was long gone to rot and dust. Here, during this Hour of Screams, was when Jazz sang her mother's soul down into peace.
So she sang.
The air felt heavy, and every breath hurt. It was strange to bear witness to such violence upon the senses, and yet the solid walls and ceiling around them gave no sign, the floor did not shake, and the only dust in the air was kicked up by the United Kingdom falling to their knees in the old shelter.
At last it faded away, and Jazz felt something flit by be-side her and stroke her cheek as it passed.
Sweet dreams, her mother would say, touching her daughter's cheek when she thought Jazz was asleep. But Jazz would always lie there awaiting this loving touch.
"Sweet dreams, Mum," Jazz said.
The Palace fell silent, and Jazz closed her eyes.
By the time they were in position, it was almost five in the afternoon. Terence and Harry had agreed that this would be the best time to strike. The stream of visitors to the mayor's home would peter off around then, and those on guard would start to relax. The streets in this exclusive neighbor-hood were quite busy as well, mumbling with Bentleys and Mercedes, Porsches and BMWs, as those who lived here started arriving home from work. Less-flashy cars flitted here and there too —other people leaving the area now that their job as hired help was over for another day. Nannies and gardeners, cooks and cleaners, common cars dodged the elite as class began to find its own level once again.
Stevie had nicked a Vauxhall Astra. It was quite new, so not shabby enough to be noticeable, but a basic model, so nowhere near flashy enough for anyone to pay them any undue attention. It was as nondescript as the three people in-side could wish for, and for the last ten minutes they had sat at the side of the road without attracting one single glance.
Jazz sat in the front next to Stevie, while Terence lounged comfortably in the back. There didn't seem to be an ounce of anxiety about him. He even closed his eyes for a time, breathing smoothly and evenly, though Jazz knew that he was not asleep.
This is the culmination of years of hunting, she thought. She turned and glanced over her shoulder at Terence, and in his calm face she could see the evidence of strain; muscles twitched, and his eyes were not quite closed.
"Almost time," Stevie said. He had not looked at her since they'd pulled up a street away from the mayor's house. He had not even commented on her new look —a beret from Hattie, hair a mass of curls, frameless sunglasses. He tapped one finger on the steering wheel and whistled something under his breath, and it felt like they had never even met.
"I wasn't born down there," she said.
"Doesn't matter," Stevie said casually, and she was not quite sure what he meant.
"Stevie, I don't think I —"
"Doesn't matter," he said again, looking at her for the first time. His expression was like ice. "Time to go." Before Jazz or Terence could say anything, Stevie had opened his door and climbed out.
Jazz did the same and heard Terence following suit. It would look strange if the three of them did not get out to-gether.
All thought of discussions flitted away. They were on the job now, it had begun, and Jazz knew she had to concentrate fully to make sure she didn't screw this up. So much hinged on this.
She linked arms with Terence. She felt his brief resist-ance, but then he looked at her and smiled.
Jazz smiled back. "Shall we walk?" she asked.
Terence nodded. "Let's."
Stevie led the way along the street to the small road that connected with the adjacent road. The houses here were all grand and expensive, some of them almost hidden from sight behind high hedges or past wooded driveways. Brass nameplates beside gateways were often accompanied by speaker grilles and buttons, the gates electronically locked, cameras hidden away in trees or atop thin poles so that the owners could see who had come to pay a visit.
"My mum would have loved this place," Jazz said, speaking without thinking.
"I have somewhere not too far away," Terence said. Jazz looked at him, surprised.
"Oh, nowhere near as grand as any of this. A modest five-bed. But it has its own grounds, and a wall, and there's a secret tunnel to the house next door."
"You have a house with a secret tunnel," Stevie said, barely trying to mask his sarcasm.
"Well... no longer that secret, of course," Terence said. He smiled smugly, and Stevie turned away and carried on walking.
Jazz laughed softly. But she was not foolish enough to believe that the antagonism between these two had anything to do with her.
"Here," Stevie said a few minutes later. "Follow me."
They approached the mayor's residence. It was a huge house, quite modern in London brick but built in an at-tempt to give it the gravitas of age. The architect had mostly succeeded, but even from the street they could see the shiny reflections and sharp edges of technology. There were cam-eras fixed on the house itself and also to several poles placed strategically around its grounds. Its six-foot-high boundary wall was topped with a wicked-looking metallic structure, too short to be a fence but spiked and sharp enough to deter any but the most determined invaders. It also had an entry system at its gate, though Jazz tried not to stare too hard. As they passed by the wrought-iron gates, she saw movement from the corner of her eye, and she risked one glance.
There were two black cars parked in front of the house. Several people milled about the stepped entrance, though they were too far away to make out properly. They all wore dark suits.
"Might be them, might not," Terence said cheerily. He was smiling, and Jazz copied the act.
"Whoever it is, let's hope they leave soon," Stevie said. He was already past the gate and striding along beside the wall.
"They will," Terence said. "Your friend Harry will see to that."
Harry's idea of a distraction was as simple as it was auda-cious. Underground, the mayor's men were shielded from the world, their action witnessed only by rats and the human rats they believed the United Kingdom to be. But up here...
"When does he start?" Jazz asked. She and Terence passed before the gates, and she risked one final glance as they did so. People were already climbing into the cars to leave. Election time, she thought.
They could be anyone sucking up to the mayor's ass.
Stevie stopped so sharply that Jazz and Terence almost walked into him. The long-haired boy turned around and grinned, and Jazz saw just how dangerous he could be. His eyes were dark but glinting with the excitement to come. Keep your cool, she wanted to say. But she was afraid how he would react.
Stevie looked past them and the grin grew wider. "Right about now."
Jazz turned around just in time to see Harry and the rest of the United Kingdom emerging from a side street a couple of hundred yards away. Harry led the way, and behind him the kids carried furled banners and flags, along with bags of eggs, flour, and rotten fruit.
"Let's go," Terence said. "We've got three minutes at best."
Jazz, Terence, and Stevie hurried away from the main entrance, and if anyone saw them they were simply three people trying to get away from potential trouble.
"Bromwell out!" Harry's voice called, and Jazz smiled at the venom there. "Bromwell out!" The kids took up the call as well. They reached the front gates, unfurling the banners and waving them, lobbing eggs over and through the iron railings, throwing torn bags of flour and overripe fruit to ex-plode across the drive.
"Here," Stevie said. He'd reached the corner of the mayor's property and turned without sparing a single glance back the way they'd come. Jazz paused, forcing Terence to wait as well, and watched Harry and her friends.
The police would have been called already. They'd be here in minutes, though not as quickly as for a midday dis-turbance. Rush hour would slow them down. Harry and the others shouted their slogans, threw their soft missiles, and not one of them glanced along the street at Jazz and Terence. True professionals.