Playing With Fire. Derek Landy

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       dark shape flitted high above the streets of London, moving from rooftop to rooftop, spinning and twisting and cavorting in the air. He wore no shoes and his footsteps were light, his tread no more than a whisper, snatched away by the night breeze. He sang to himself as he moved, and giggled, a high-pitched giggle. He was dressed in black, with a battered top hat that stayed perched on his misshapen head no matter what acrobatic feat he performed. His suit was torn, old and musty, and his long-fingered hands were tipped with long, hardened nails.

      He landed on one leg on the edge of a rooftop and stayed there, his lanky body curled. He looked down on to Charing Cross Road, at the people passing below him, at the cars zipping by. His cracked lips pursed, his small eyes moving, he browsed the selection on offer, making a choice.

      “Jack.”

      He turned quickly to see the young woman walking towards him. Her long coat was closed and the breeze played with her tousled blonde hair, teasing it across her face. And such a pretty face. Jack hadn’t seen as pretty a face in many a year. His lips parted, showed small yellow teeth, and he gave her his best smile.

      “Tanith,” he said in a voice that was high and strained, in an accent that was a cross between East London and … something else, something unknowable. “You’re lookin’ ravishin’.”

      “And you’re looking revolting.”

      “You are too kind, I’m sure. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

      Tanith Low shook her head. “It’s not your neck of the woods any longer, Jack. Things have changed. You shouldn’t have come back.”

      “Where was I gonna go? Old Folks’ Home? Retirement Village? I’m a creature of the night, love. I’m Springheeled Jack, ain’t I? I belong out here.”

      “You belong in a cell.”

      He laughed. “Me? In captivity? For what possible crime?”

      “You mean, apart from murder?”

      He turned his head so he was looking at her out of the corner of one eye. “That still illegal then?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      She opened her coat, revealing the sword against her leg. “You’re under arrest.”

      He laughed, did a flip in the air, landed on his right foot and grinned at her. “Now this is new. You were always pokin’ your nose where it wasn’t wanted, always dealin’ out what you thought was justice, but you never arrested anyone. You a proper copper now, that it? You one of the constabulary?”

      “Give up, Jack.”

      “Bloody hell, you are. Consider me impressed.”

      He dipped his head, looked at her with those small eyes of his. “What was it you used to say, before things got all rough and tumble? ‘Come and have a go—”

      “If you think you’re hard enough.”

      He grinned. “Do you?”

      She withdrew her sword from its scabbard. It caught a beam of moonlight and held it, and she looked back at him without expression. “I’ll let you decide that.”

      And Springheeled Jack sprang.

      He flipped over her and she turned, ducking the swipe of hard nails, moving again as he landed, narrowly avoiding the return swipe and twisting to face him as he came at her.

      He batted the sword to one side and his right foot went to her thigh, his toenails digging in, and he clambered up, kneeling on her shoulder. She grabbed his wrist to avoid the nails. She stumbled, unable to support his weight, but he jumped before she hit the rooftop, landed gracefully as she rolled to a crouch and then he dived at her again.

      They went tumbling. He heard the sword clatter from her grip, and felt her foot on his belly as she kicked. He did a flip and landed, but her fist was right there, smacked him square in the face. He took a few steps back, bright lights dancing before his eyes. She kicked his knee, and he howled in pain, then there was a grip on his wrist and a sudden wrenching. He pushed her away, his vision clearing.

      “You should be leavin’ me alone!” he spat. “I’m unique, me! They don’t even have a name for what I am! СКАЧАТЬ