by Ward,Matthew
"Who knows? Perhaps the sound means something to it."
"Like instructions?"
"Maybe Tube trains inadvertently talk in the language of dead sorcerers." Dragaud shrugged. "Might explain the surliness of the commuters – they're all under a spell. We've been heading west. How close is the next station?"
"Shit, I don't know. Can't be far."
Holman took point as they rounded the next bend, wary that if the golem was lying in wait, she'd have a better chance of getting out of its way than the injured Dragaud. From the occasional, involuntary hisses, it was obvious the other woman was in pain. Holman knew better than to make an issue of it. Dragaud had made her intentions clear. The best thing she could do for her colleague was to help bring the hunt to a swift, successful conclusion.
At the next bend, the darkness abated. A few yards ahead, a thin yellowish glow seeped up through a pair of slitted steel ventilation grilles, each as wide as the tunnel floor. The golem stood motionless between the two. As Holman crept closer, a tannoy announcer's indecipherable nasal twang drifted up through the vents.
"We're right above a station," Holman murmured. "If we're doing this, we need to do it before a passing Central Line train rattles out a quick burst of 'Kill the Humans'."
Dragaud nodded. "Get its attention. I'll hit it from behind."
Holman took a deep breath and ran to the edge of the first grille. Determined not to give herself chance for second thoughts, she sighted along her pistol, and put two bullets in the back of the golem's head.
It lurched to face her, dark flecks flickering in the storm of light beneath its helm. Holman paused, half-expecting to lock up as she had before. But she didn't. Not this time. Sure, she was scared, but it wasn't the sheer paralysing terror of their first encounter. She could have laughed with the joy of it.
Instead, she pumped another two shots into the golem's face.
The creature took three lumbering steps, and swung out in a great, haymaking arc. Holman dived beneath the lumpen fist, felt the wind of its passage in her hair. She hit the far grille with a clang, rolled onto the solid concrete floor beyond and rose up on her knees. Two more shots, and the golem bore down on her once more.
Crunch.
The golem staggered – actually staggered – as Dragaud brought the pipe down on its back. Grey dust scattered across the grille as the clay shattered, revealing more of the seething light beneath. The golem paused, as if uncertain which of its attackers to confront.
Crunch.
Dragaud hit the golem again, this time high on its right shoulder. Lines crazed out from the point of impact, and shards of clay cracked and fell away. Dragaud struck again and the entire arm sheared off. It struck the grille and shattered, fragments of clay falling like rain onto the tracks below.
The golem turned, faster than it had before, writhing red afterimages dancing in its wake. Dragaud ducked away, but too slow. The back of the golem's hand caught her across the face, spinning her away. She struck the wall with a meaty thud, and fell, face-first onto the grille. The pipe, torn free from her grip, clanged down beside her. A clay foot pressed down on Dragaud's spine, pinning her in place.
Holman started towards them, wanting to help Dragaud but not daring to risk a shot. If she could reach the pipe...
The golem plucked the pipe from the floor. It regarded the metal tube thoughtfully for a moment. Then it crumpled the steel and hurled it away. Holman threw herself aside. The remains of the pipe whizzed past her head and clanged off the tunnel wall. Dragaud screamed as the golem shifted position, bringing more of its weight to bear...
Beneath Holman's feet, the sound of the tannoy gave way to the rumble of a train, louder and sharper than before. The golem froze at the sound. Holman raised her gun. "Lucille! Grab the grille!"
"What?"
"Grab the bloody grille!" Holding her pistol steady, Holman squeezed off two shots at the vent cover's padlock. The first missed, the ricochet whining off somewhere behind her. The second flew true.
With a creak of metal, the grille fell away. Dragaud and the golem dropped through the floor and out of sight. A split second later, red light flared up through the hole. The deafening compound crack of shattering pottery followed hard on its heels. Screams followed. Lots of screams.
Throwing her pistol aside, Holman ran to the edge. One of the grille's hinges had snapped away, leaving it twisting precariously above the slowing train. Dragaud hung to the metal for dear life, knees tucked up to her chest to stop her feet brushing against the train. Holman saw broken pottery all along the rapidly-clearing platform.
As the train eased to a halt, Holman reached down and hauled Dragaud back into the ventilation tunnel. As one, they leaned wearily back against the tunnel wall.
"I guess you learn something every day," breathed Dragaud.
"And what's that?"
"A train doesn't count as an arrow."
Holman waited for the screams to fade, and raised her radio. "Coldharbour HQ, Holman. We're going to need a cleanup crew, an ambulance and a news blackout at..." She glanced at Dragaud.
"Tottenham Court Road."
"...Tottenham Court Road. Over and out." Holman thumbed the radio off, and slid down the wall until she sat on the concrete, legs splayed out in front of her.
After a moment, Dragaud did the same. "Crowe will be livid. Terrance also."
"Screw 'em. We got the job done." Holman tried to hold an impassive expression, but it dissolved into a fit of laughter.
Dragaud snorted with weary amusement, and leaned her head against the wall. "Nice working with you, intello."
"It was definitely an experience," said Holman. "Let's do it again sometime."
Convergence
Isra
It's not the first time I've woken in the dark with no recollection of how I got there, but I already know this is going to be one of the bad ones.
The stench is overwhelming. Like a lump of meat left in the sun for a week, mixed with the rancid stench of an overflowing toilet. At least the crumpled ball of fabric in my mouth tastes faintly of detergent, suggesting it was clean when it went in. So I’ve that going for me. Things are bad enough without a mouthful of someone else’s sneezes.
I shift in the chair. The motion awakens a throbbing pain in the back of my head. The chain around my wrists goes taut against wooden spindles. No hope of reaching my pocket. Not that it'd help much if I could. My coat’s too light. They’ve taken my automatic – whoever ‘they’ are. If they’ve had the sense to do that, then the phone’ll be gone as well. No gun. No way to call for help. That by itself doesn't worry me. I won't have told John where I was going, I never do. But he'll work it out. He always does. It's irritating, most of the time. Sooner or later, he'll be here. Problem is, I've a feeling I won't be alive to greet him.
Well done, Isra. You’ve really landed yourself in it this time.
On the edge of my hearing, I hear my father winding up for a lecture. No small feat, as he’s been dead for years. My great-grandmother chimes in from whatever corner of Jannah serves sour-mash bourbon.
Don't you listen to him, honey. I escaped worse than this. So will you.
Thank you, mamani.
It’s no surprise they’re arguing. Father hated grandmother’s tales. He worried they’d lead me astray. Fathers always worry after their daughters, mine more than most since we came to London. And he was right: I loved grandmother’s stories. I wish she were really here, not just an imaginary voice in my head. But then, she is here, after a fashion. Grandmother taught me everything she knew. I may not be her, but I’m the next best thing. Time to starting acting like it.
Who did this?
The thought lurks on the edge of memory. I can feel the sense of it, but the shape eludes me, like a word caught on the tip of my tongue. Frustration wells up. With an effort, I choke it back. Doesn’t matter. I’ll come back to that.
Where am I?
It’s dark, but the gloom takes shape as my
eyes adjust. What light there is comes from somewhere above and behind me. It’s not much, just the sliver that creeps around the edge of a curtain or beneath a door. No, definitely a door. The air’s cool and damp, and the rumble of traffic is somewhere above me. A cellar, then. One not far from a busy street. The realisation chimes with the elusive memory. Somewhere off Edgware Road. Yes, that rings a bell. Question is, am I still there?
Let’s find out.
I twist my wrists around as far as they’ll go. It feels like an elbow’s about to pop loose, but it lets me trace my fingers along a length of chain. It’s rough with rust. It’s been used outside more than in. But a chain means there’s a hasp, or a padlock. I can work with those. Thank God it’s not cable ties.
A moment later, I’ve a tenuous grip on the padlock. It’s nothing special. It doesn’t even have a key, just combination tumblers. I stifle a laugh. Three tumblers. That’s what, a thousand possibilities? Five minutes to sift them all. Less. I’ve been locked up like a bicycle, or a lawnmower shed. Whoever put me here’s an amateur, or desperate. Probably both. The former’s good news. The latter’s not so cheery. Desperation’s dangerous.
It takes another set of painful contortions, but I get both hands on the padlock. I close my eyes. Not that there’s much in the gloom to distract me, but the ritual’s important. It helps me focus.
In the end, it doesn’t take even a minute to crack the padlock. As soon as I concentrate, I feel the tumblers and pins as if they’re extensions of my fingers. Setting the right combination’s no more difficult than forming a fist. That part, I owe to my father. He hated I’d inherited his gift. Maybe he feels differently now, if he's watching.
The padlock springs open. The chain hisses to the floor. I snatch the handkerchief from my mouth and stagger to my feet.
Something skitters away from my foot. Groping in the darkness, I pick it up. It's my phone. Or at least, it was. Now it's a shattered lump of plastic. No calling for help.
I'm no longer blocking the light. New shapes form in the gloom. The stairs behind me, the gleam of light shining beneath the cellar door. A second door, half-hidden amongst shelves laden with paint pots, cardboard boxes and other domestic bric-a-brac. The shoe. No, the trainer. It's not empty. A splintered spur projects from the trainer's collar, the bone not quite picked clean of flesh.
The ruined phone clatters from my hand. My stomach lurches. In a way, I'm glad. Some sights, you shouldn't get used to. Memories flood back. The disappearances, always between Edgware Road station in east, and Paddington in the west. The commission from the distraught widower. Two tedious days of door-to-door enquiries in Edgware. The welcoming smile at the last. The young woman with black hair, and a fervent nod. The offer of information and a cup of tea. The sharp crack of pain in the back of my head.
John told me to leave this one alone – that he'd pass it on to his contacts in Coldharbour. That's another lecture I've earned.
Eyes still on the trainer, I back towards the stairs. My heel catches the chair. It crashes backwards onto the tiles, the sound echoing around the cellar.
"Who's there? Louisa?"
The voice comes from the other room. It's an old woman's voice, frail and uncertain. Or at least, in part. Something else buzzes beneath – an insectoid drone that has no place in this world.
The door creaks open. Cold fingers dance up and down my spine. I want to look away, but I can't. Part of me wants to see, to confirm my suspicions. The other part's not thinking at all. It wants to curl up and scream for help.
"Louisa?"
The smell of putrefaction grows thicker as the shape shuffles closer. Lank, grey hair frames a timeworn face. A pale nightdress stained by muddy red smears. Gold glints at the wrinkled neck. It was a woman, once. It isn't any more. There's something else driving the aged flesh. The eyes give it away. Even in the darkness, they're black as pitch. Like the voice, they don't belong in this world.
"Have you come to keep me company? I get so lonely."
Too late, I back away. Fingers close around my wrist. They're cold. Cold as ice. The nails are long and black. The flesh is pale, and almost scaly in texture.
I rip my hand free. The creature's not expecting resistance. It's too used to unconscious prey. I'm halfway up the stairs before it catches me again. Ragged fingernails rake my lower leg. Gasping in pain, I fall face first onto the steps.
A triumphant, gurgling laugh echoes up behind me. An icy hand closes around my ankle. I twist madly in the creature's grip. The heel of my boot slams into its face. Flesh cracks like ice under the impact, greenish-yellow light shining through the gaps. The laughter fades. I've hurt it. Thank God. I lash out a second time. The pressure around my ankle vanishes. It's all I need.
There's a lock on the cellar door, but it responds to my touch every bit as readily as the padlock. A heartbeat later, I'm standing in a hallway that hasn't seen a lick of paint in forty years. The lock clicks back into place in the same moment the door shudders. A stream of guttural curses sounds from the other side. All trace of the woman's voice has gone, subsumed by the creature's gurgling drone.
I back away from the door, one hand braced against the wall. The creature begins hammering at the door. Its curses devolve into incoherent snarls. I'm shaking uncontrollably. If I'd woken a minute or two later... If I'd not been able to spring the padlock... It doesn't bear thinking about.
I close my eyes, and shut out the sound of the creature's pounding. There's a phone by the front door. That's what I need. I'll call John, he'll call Coldharbour. This is their mess. They're welcome to it.
My eyes snap open at the incoherent scream. I throw myself aside, and the cricket bat cracks into the wall. Louisa reels away, the makeshift weapon still clutched in both hands as she readies another strike. The smear of blood on the willow makes sense of my aching head and spotty memory.
"I won't let you hurt her!"
Louisa's eyes are wild. God knows what lies she's told herself these past weeks. Probably she's halfway mad. More.
She swings again, the second stroke every bit as reckless as the first. This time I'm ready for it. I step beyond the arc of the swing, lunging back as the bat whistles past. My balled fist thumps just below her breastbone. She collapses, gasping for breath, her weapon abandoned.
The pounding on the cellar door grows louder. I keep my eyes on Louisa, but the fight's gone out of her. She just sits there, hunched beside the sitting room door, fists buried in her eye sockets.
With a twitch of my foot, I slide the cricket bat beyond her reach. "Your grandmother was ill, wasn't she?"
A nod.
"The doctors told you there wasn't anything they could do, didn't they? But someone offered to help you?" I'm guessing now, but the pieces of the puzzle are clicking into place.
Louisa glances up with red-rimmed eyes. "Mister Mason."
Mason. It's not the first I've heard the name.
"What did he sell you, Louisa?"
"A golden brooch. He said it was magic. He put it on a chain, and said if my grandmother wore it, she'd be cured."
I grimace. This is all sounding horribly familiar. I want to hate the woman for her stupidity. But I can't. She wasn't to know. If Mason had come to me when my great-grandmother lay dying, I might have taken the same chance. The hardest part of loving someone's letting them go.
"Your grandmother's dead. That thing in the cellar? It's not her. It's used you to feed it, to keep it safe."
Tears roll down Louisa's cheeks. There's no hiding the gleam in her eyes. She knows what she's done.
The cellar door splinters. The creature's voice, once more that of Louisa's grandmother, drifts across the hallway. "Louisa? Open the door."
Louisa rises to her feet, eyes flicking uncertainly between me and the cellar door. I still don't understand why the creature kept her alive, much less allowed her to lock it away. I move to block her path. "Don't."
She meets my gaze, and swallows. After a moment's hesitation, she n
ods.
A sibilant hiss echoes up from the cellar. When the voice comes again, it's even more plaintive than before. "Please, Louisa. I need your help..."
Louisa shudders, and staggers back a step. All pretence lost, the creature screams through a distended, gaping maw. The air fills with the sound of tortured timber as it rips at the door. It'll be free in moments.
I grab Louisa's arm. "Where's my pistol?" She tries to pull free, but I'm in no mood to be denied. Not now. "Where is it?"
She flinches. "The pond. I threw it in the pond."
Of course she did. I risk a glance at the cellar door. Pale white fingers reach through a splintered panel. They scrabble for the handle.
I turn back. The front door's only a few paces away. We can run. I doubt it'll follow. Not in daylight. But that cuts both ways. It'll lose us, but I'll lose it as well. Once the creature gets into the sewers or the labyrinth of the London Underground, it could be months before anyone tracks it down. It'll kill dozens. Maybe hundreds. It has to be stopped here. But how?
Louisa makes another attempt to pull free. It's no more successful than the earlier one. The neck of her blouse falls open. A silver crucifix glints at her throat.
Answers click into place. I know why Louisa's still alive. More importantly, I know how I'm going to stop the creature. Shifting my grip, I tug the crucifix free.
"Hey!"
I shove a card into Louisa's hand, and shove her towards the front door. "There's a pub on the corner – The Green Man. If I'm not there in five minutes, call the number on that card. Templeton & Kessler. Ask for John Templeton. He'll help you."
She stares at me blankly, then backpedals away as the cellar door slams back on its hinges.
The creature's even more hideous in the light than it was in the darkness. It's not even pretending to be human any more. I see the details I missed in the dark. The chipped, broken teeth. The greenish-yellow light pulsing beneath its pallid, scaly skin. The way its bones shudder and crack with each step. It's not yet done shaping the body to its needs. I've no idea what it'll look like then. I can live without that knowledge.