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