Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,22

much of this shit in this country. We’re all treated like second-class citizens. We —”

Without even thinking about it, I lifted up my hand and slapped him hard in the face. And I do mean hard. Smack! He stopped midflow, frozen in total shock. Then he put his hand up to his cheek.

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“I need you to listen. We’ve got to get out of here. Please, please, get me out of here, Spider. Come on.” I grabbed his other hand and pulled until, finally, he started to move. I broke into a run, kind of dragging him along, and then, at last, he was running, too. Getting into it, he let go of my hand and sprinted ahead of me, long legs striding out, arms pumping. Half a minute later, he stopped to wait for me, and then we jogged together, along the Embankment and over Hungerford Bridge. We slowed to a walk midway across the bridge, then stopped and looked back where we’d come from. Everything was just as it had been, no problems.

“What’s going on, Jem? What was that all about?”

“Nothing. You were just upsetting people, that’s all. The next thing someone would’ve called the police.” It could have been true, couldn’t it? But even as I said it, I knew it sounded lame, and it didn’t fool Spider.

“Nah, that’s not it. Look at you, there’s something wrong. You look like a ghost, man. Even whiter than normal. What’s wrong with you?”

Standing there, looking over the Thames and the city just getting on with a normal day, I suddenly felt that I’d made a fool of myself. The words running through my head didn’t sound real, even to me — numbers, death dates, disaster. It sounded ridiculous, a stupid fantasy. And perhaps that was all it was, some twisted game my mind was playing on me.

“It’s nothing, Spider. I had a bad feeling there, a panic attack. I’m OK now — well, not OK, but better.” I tried to turn the conversation back to him. “I’m sorry I hit you.” I put my hand up to his face and held it there for a couple of seconds. “Is it sore?”

He smiled ruefully. “Still stinging a bit. I’d never have thought you could batter me like that.” He snorted and shook his head. “Bloody Mike Tyson’d have trouble with you.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, still smiling. And that’s where we were, leaning on the bridge, looking along the river, when we heard the bang and saw the London Eye blown to bits in front of us.

CHAPTER NINE

You’ll have seen it on TV a hundred times, so you know what we saw that day: a sudden explosion, debris flying everywhere, a plume of smoke going up, one Ferris wheel pod completely destroyed, others damaged and distorted in the blast. All around us people had stopped in their tracks and turned to face the Eye. We could hear screaming carrying across the water.

Spider and I said the same thing, “Oh, my God!” and it was echoed from every mouth along the bridge — maybe a prayer from some people, just the words you say when you’re in shock for most of us. We stood watching for a minute or two, as the dust settled and the sirens started wailing. I felt numb. I’d started to doubt the numbers, hoping they weren’t real, that it was all some silly game in my head. Now I knew it was no game. The numbers were real — I was the girl who knew people’s futures, and I always would be. I shivered.

“Let’s get out of here, Spider,” I said. “Let’s go home.” Whatever was waiting for me at Karen’s, it had to be better than watching London clean up its dead. I turned to continue across the bridge, but Spider didn’t follow. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Still leaning on the bridge, he looked ’round at me, frowning. There was confusion there, but also accusation. I knew what was coming next. I couldn’t avoid it. Still holding my eyes, he spat out the words.

“You knew. You knew about that.” We were perhaps fifteen feet apart. His words were loud enough to reach me and several other people nearby. A couple of them quickly turned their heads to look at us.

“Shut up, Spider,” I hissed.

He shook his head. “No, I won’t shut up. You knew about this. What the fuck’s going on, Jem?” He stood