Jordan Chris Paul – 16

Richard leaned against a wall and listened to their footsteps, echoing away, and to the rush of the water running past on its way to the pumping stations of East London, and the sewage works. “Shit,” he said. And then, to his surprise, for the first time since his father died, alone in the dark, Richard Mayhew began to cry.    The Underground station was quite empty, and quite dark. Varney walked through it, keeping close to walls, darting nervous looks behind him, and in front of him, and from side to side. He had picked the station at random, had headed for it over the rooftops and through the shadows, making certain that he was not being followed. He was not heading back to his lair in the Camden Town deep tunnels. Too risky. There were other places where Varney had cached weapons and food. He would go to ground for a little while, until this all blew over.
    He stopped beside a ticket machine and listened, in the darkness: absolute silence. Reassured that he was alone, he allowed himself to relax. He stopped at the top of the spiral staircase and drew a deep breath.

    An oily voice from beside him said conversationally, “Varney’s the finest bravo and guard in the Underside. Everyone knows that. Mister Varney told us so himself.” A voice from the other side of him responded, dully, “It’s not nice to lie, Mister Croup.”
    In the pitch darkness, Mr. Croup expanded on his theme. “It isn’t, Mister Vandemar. I have to say, I regard it as a personal betrayal, and I was deeply wounded by it. And disappointed. When you don’t have any redeeming features, you don’t take particularly kindly to disappointment, do you, Mister Vandemar?”
    “Not kindly at all, Mister Croup.”