‘Don’t go there, Dad. Remember the story you were telling. The three billy goats gruff.’
‘Yes. They went trip-trap-trip-trap over the bridge.’
‘Tell it to me now, Wormy. I’m still a younger. I could be your boy. I still want to hear the stories.’
‘There was a troll,’ said Wormwood, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away and long ago. ‘There was a troll who lived under a bridge and there were three goats. They lived on a hillside and they’d eaten all their grass. On the other side of the river was another hill, full of rich, sweet grass … ’ Wormwood sobbed.
‘Don’t stop, Dad. I like to hear the old stories.’
‘Are you really my boy?’
‘Yes. Right now. Here in the dark. I’m your boy. Go back there, Wormy, back to when all was quiet and still. The world was fine. You told stories to your boys at night. And it was goodnight, boys, goodnight, John-Boy, goodnight, moon.’
‘OK. Yes … Yes. Well, the smallest of the goats, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He went trip-trap-trotting across the bridge to get to the fresh green grass on the other side and the troll came out, the ugly old troll, and he said, “Who dares cross my bridge?” And the little goat he said, “Don’t eat me, my brother’s bigger than me, there’s more meat on him. You eat him and let me go … ” I can’t go on.’
‘My granddad used to tell me that story. He loved the old stories. Cinderella, Rumpelstiltskin, Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Do you remember them, old troll?’
‘I remember them all, son. I remember there used to be a time before, when it wasn’t all darkness and disease. When I could sit like this with my boys by their beds at night and tell them stories. How did I end up here?’
‘Beats me with a stick, Wormy. But here you are. And here I am. Now you’ve got a choice, Green Man, you can tell me some bedtime stories or you can eat me. You can be a dad or you can be a troll. The choice is yours.’
‘I don’t know what I am. I thought I knew. I can’t think straight because of them up there; they’re all shouting at me, trying to get my attention. There’s another memory, you see? Of the big green.’
‘Tell me about the big green.’
‘I remember a forest, a jungle with trees as tall as skyscrapers. And I was very small, just a germ really. I lived there for a million years, I think. Until I escaped, jumping like a flea from bug to beast. Except I don’t think that was me. How could it be? How could I be two people? One inside the other like those dolls. How could I have lived in the jungle with the bees and the fleas and the bats, and also have been that man who read stories to his boys at night? That’s why I asked you the riddle, son. Who am I? I need to know.’
‘You’re the man who read those stories.’
‘What is my name?’
‘You’re wasting questions, Wormy. You only have so many; why are you asking me when you already know the answer?’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Now it’s my turn.’
‘No, wait … ’
‘My question is this. How long you been down here, troll?’
‘Long enough to count my days with coffee spoons.’
‘Oh, Spoony, you are breaking my feeble heart. Tell me this. Do you have a heart?’
‘I’m a man, that much I know.’
‘Prezackly. Pre-flaming-zackly. You are a man with a beating heart and bellowing lungs and a long, giggling stomach.’
‘Giggling?’
‘Giggling, gurgling. Same difference.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You keep wasting your questions, daddio.’
‘No, that wasn’t –’
‘Yes, it was. Now here comes my next poser – wouldn’t you like to get out of here? What can you do down here under your bridge? Shut away forever, waiting for them to toss you some salad?’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
‘OK, troll. We’re getting somewhere. Now you get another question.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘Let me tell you how the story goes, Dad. The troll comes up from under his bridge and the little billy goat turns round and says to him, “Mister troll, what kind of a life is it living under a bridge? Waiting for your lunch to come trip-trip-trapping along? Just as I’ve seen fresh green grass on the other hill, why don’t you come up here and see that the world is bigger than what’s under your cold stone bridge?”’
‘Can you really set me free?’
‘That’s why I’m here, greenback. This was always meant to be. You and me. I’ve come to save you, Mister Green. To take you back into the world.’
‘Will I see my boys again?’
‘I can’t promise you the moon on a stick. Can’t even promise you a stick. You can fly away home, but your house is on fire and your children are gone. There’s been a lot of water flowing under your troll’s bridge. Time is a river, flowing on, and you can’t stop it. Granddad told me that. When he got so old his poor dry bones gave up the ghost. Buried him in a box we did. Never cried so much.’
‘I’m scared, though, son. I fear the daylight.’
‘Not you, Wormy, the thing inside you, the sickness, the doll living in the doll. The thing that came from the big green and got inside you is driving you, Wormy. It’s a celebrity in a reasonably priced car going too fast round the track on Top Gear, slipping and sliding and skidding. It ain’t you, babe. It’s the sickness fears the daylight, fears the sun and the air and all the good things. You’re not your sickness. You said it yourself. You’re the other one, not Wormwood, not the Green Man; you’re the father of those boys.’
‘I’m Mark Wormold.’
‘Yes. You are. And I have answered your riddle. You don’t get to eat me now.’
‘How can you get me out of here, though? You’re just a kid.’
‘I am The Kid. I’m King Rat, the burrower. Listen, good father, we are underground and underground is my domain, my stamping ground. I’ll find a way. I know these old places, these tunnels and dungeons full of wine and dust and spiders. I can get us out of here. But you’ve got to make some stone-hard promises.’
‘What?’
‘First, I am not your lunch.’
‘You do smell good, though. You smell like life and that’s what I need.’
‘Not you, Mark Wormold, that’s the sickness talking. You are one and it’s another. You are a father; it is Wormwood, the fallen star, growing back there in the big green. Wormwood wants me. You got to fight him, tell him who’s the daddy. Don’t let your sickness be the boss of you.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t want to eat me. There’s bigger billy goats than me. Let them be your lunch. It’s them who’ve kept you down here under the bridge. Not me. I wouldn’t even make a meal. I’m less than a bite, so put your teeth away. Is that a deal, old troll?’
‘If you can get me out of here, then we are friends for life, little billy goat gruff.’
‘I’ll take you home, troll. Trust me.’
46
Sam had never known a feeling like this before. He was all churned up inside. Oh, he’d been angry before, and sad and confused and frightened and bored, all those things, of course he had, and often, as now, he’d felt them all at the same time. The difference now was that even though he felt all that, even though he was deep in the blackest of moods, he was being treated like a king.
A bloody god!
And for the first time in his life he realized that maybe it wasn’t such a great life being a king. He hated being a celebrity. It would be much better to be just ordinary.
Basically, being God sucked.
Matt had forced him to wear some ridiculous home-made green robes, he’d put a garland of dead leaves on his head and had plonked him on a throne under the dome at St Paul’s, where he’d been made to sit for God knows how long.
Ha! God didn’t know, did he? God was bored out of his mind. Sitting there
with an aching bum listening to the horrible racket of the musicians, breathing in the smelly smoke, while Matt read endless passages from his book of truth …
‘ … These are they who have come out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them green in the blood of the Lamb. They are before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his Temple; and he who sits on the throne will spread his tent over them. Never again will they hunger. Never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd. He will lead them to springs of living water. And he will wipe away every tear from their eyes … ’
Oh yeah? Sam thought miserably. And just how am I supposed to do all that?
Matt had promised that once the Goat was sacrificed the Lamb would see the light and understand who he really was.
That wasn’t happening yet, was it?
Which meant one of two things.
It either meant that The Kid was somehow still alive – which gave Sam a tiny warm glow of hope in his guts – or it meant that he wasn’t the Lamb. That this was all bollocks.
He knew one thing for sure, though. Whatever happened, Matt would have some handy excuse. He’d make up some story or change an old one, find some dumb quote to explain it all. So long as he had all that food in the warehouse, his ‘Tree of Life’ as he called it, he would literally have these kids eating out of his hand. Look at them all, sitting there, heads bowed, soaking up all this drivel …
‘ … Each one had a harp and they were holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints. And they sang a new song: “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb … ”’
Sam had picked up The Kid’s leather jacket from the floor of the warehouse and slipped it on over his hoodie. The Kid would need it. Sam was holding on hard to the belief that he was still alive. The Kid was a clever little sod. Because of the way he spoke and the odd way his brain worked people made the mistake of thinking he was a fool. He wasn’t. Oh, Sam thought there was probably something wrong with his friend, but he was tough and clever and he had the skills he needed to survive in this twisted new world. If anyone could work out a way to survive in the Abyss it was The Kid.
But just what was down there? Who or what was Wormwood? How did the sacrifice thing actually work? That’s what Sam had to find out, because when he did find it out, he was going to start plotting. He was going to rescue The Kid, and he was going to kill Matt, and he was going to make everything all right.
Yeah. Somehow he was going to fix everything.
He smiled despite himself.
Finally he was thinking like a god …
47
‘Does it hurt?’ The red-haired girl touched her fingers gently to Ed’s scar.
‘No. Not really. Sometimes, I guess. If it’s really hot or really cold or I’m tired. You know. It sort of aches. Hurt like hell at the time. A grown-up on the turn got me with a blade.’
‘I hope you killed him.’
Ed hesitated, remembering that awful day a year ago when he’d lost his two best friends.
‘I didn’t,’ he said flatly, then shrugged, trying to make light of something that still lay heavy on him. An incident he still had nightmares about. Always would. ‘He’s probably dead now, though, like most of them.’
Greg, the butcher. He’d promised them all he was immune to the disease. He wasn’t. It had just taken him a little longer to get it. And when he did …
‘I bet you had all the girls chasing after you before.’
Ed blushed. The girl, Nicola, was sitting just a little too close to him. She had a mane of thick red hair and green eyes, and smelt of perfume and soap.
The prime minister.
‘I don’t know,’ he said lamely. ‘They don’t chase after me now. Mostly run screaming.’
‘I like it.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘It gives you character. I never was one for pretty boys. I don’t like things to be too perfect.’
‘Well, you got that right. My face certainly isn’t too perfect.’
Nicola laughed. They were sitting alone on an uncomfortable narrow sofa in a small private office in the Houses of Parliament. Ed had been amazed to see the inside of the place. The view of the outside was so famous you didn’t really notice it any more and he’d seen the inside of the House of Commons on the news often enough. He’d never really given much thought to how the rest of the place might look, though.
Well, it was like a palace. In fact, as Nicola had pointed out proudly as she’d led him through the buildings to this room, it was a palace. The Palace of Westminster was its proper name. The kids who lived here, and there seemed to be a lot of them, only used a tiny part of it. Ed might live in a castle, but it was pretty basic at the Tower. This place was full of grand chambers and Hollywood staircases, corridors lined with paintings, statues, gold everywhere you looked, tapestries, wood panelling, stained glass in all the windows.
He had to admit it was pretty impressive.
Nicola and the other kids here had been wary of Ed’s crew when Ryan the hunter brought them in. Like all kids these days they were suspicious of outsiders, but Ed had explained what they wanted and Nicola relaxed. She’d told them to hand all their weapons in and had then taken Ed to her office for a private chat.
Her office? What kids had offices?
Well, this one did. Nicola was about Ed’s age, but she seemed much older, more mature. She was very pretty and reminded Ed of girls he’d known when he was at school. Rowhurst had been single sex, strictly boys only, but he’d mixed with girls from other private schools, like Walthamstow Hall in Sevenoaks. They were mostly strong and confident and seemed to know who they were and what they wanted from life.
Just like he had been back then. Not any more. He’d lost all his certainty. Saw the world in murky shades of grey now, not the clear black and white he’d grown up with. Nicola hadn’t had the confidence kicked out of her yet. He could still picture her starring in the school play or leading their hockey team out on to the pitch.
It was strange being alone with her, here in this tidy office. It was like he’d been taken out of the dirty, chaotic world he’d got used to and somehow transported back to simpler times.
‘I’m sorry this is all a bit stiff and fussy,’ Nicola was saying. ‘But you know what it’s like, we can’t trust anyone, and … well, to tell you the truth, you’re not the first kids to tip up here from the Tower of London.’
Ed leant forward. ‘D’you mean DogNut and his crew?’
‘Yep. They came through here about, I don’t know, three, four weeks ago. It’s so easy to lose track of time. We were scared they might be spies or something, checking us out, with an idea to taking over our patch, taking what we’ve got here.’
Ed laughed.
‘DogNut wasn’t interested in any of that,’ he said. ‘He was happy at the Tower. Jordan Hordern, the guy in charge, doesn’t even know this place exists. We’ve got a bloody great castle, the safest place in London, why would we want to move in here? No, DogNut was just looking for some friends.’
‘I know, I know.’ Nicola ran her fingers through her hair, untangling a knot. ‘But still people are suspicious. You can’t blame them.’
‘No.’
‘And you turning up like this, it just adds to the rumours, the paranoia. Coming here with the same story – looking for someone.’
‘Well, we are looking for someone. Don’t you believe me then?’
Nicola touched his scar again. ‘I believe you, scary face.’
Ed tried to ignore her. ‘So what happened to DogNut?’
‘He tracked his friends down to the Natural History Museum. Definitely went over there; don’t know what happened to him after that, though. We don’t have much to do with those kids.’
‘So he found Brooke?’
‘Is that the girl he was looking for?�
��
‘Yes.’
‘Then yes, he would have found her. As far as I know, she’s still there.’
‘I can’t believe it. After a year.’ Ed was curious to see what he felt about this. Brooke was a little like Nicola. A strong girl, not afraid to say what she thought. She’d come on to him and then backed off when his face was mutilated. He had a brief flare-up of emotion, remembering all this. And then nothing. He packed it all away. Too complicated to think about any of this now.
‘She’s one of the lucky ones, I guess,’ said Nicola. ‘A survivor.’
‘Yeah. And DogNut too!’ Ed slapped his leg, happy for his friend. ‘I thought he’d given himself a crazy mission. Thought Brooke would be miles away or dead or, I don’t know. Jesus, they must have made him so welcome he never wanted to come back to the Tower. The sly hound.’
Nicola put a hand on his knee.
‘So you’re looking for two small boys and a girl who were trying to get to Buckingham Palace?’
‘That’s where we reckon they were headed.’
‘Funny thing is, Ed.’ Nicola gave him a knowing smile. ‘I think you know the guy in charge there as well.’
‘Do I?’
‘Boy called David.’
‘David?’
‘DogNut certainly seemed to know him. From back in the day.’
Nicola occasionally tried to use slang and it didn’t sit right, like she was trying too hard. It was wasted on Ed. He’d never been exactly street.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember any David.’
‘Serious boy,’ said Nicola. ‘Acts a lot older than he is.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Ed was amazed. ‘Did he have a lot of kids with him who used to wear red blazers?’
The Sacrifice Page 25