Edges of the World: An Anthology of Otherness

by Ward,Matthew

  The front door slams. Louisa's gone. Good. One less thing to worry about.

  The creature lurches towards me. Its knees flex backwards, like a deer's. "You hurt me."

  I meet its abyssal gaze, and close my hand tight around the crucifix. "Good."

  Every instinct I have screams at me to run, but I can't.

  I have to get closer.

  There's no warning when the creature pounces. None. One moment I'm on my feet. The next I'm my back, its weight crushing me into the carpet, its hands pinning mine above my head.

  The creature's stench ripples over me. For the first time, I panic. I'm thrashing in its grip, bucking and twisting with every ounce of strength left to me. I hear myself shouting. I'm not pleading, not threatening. They're just the sounds of cornered prey. None of it does any good. It's stronger than I am.

  I can't free my hands. The creature's jaw gapes like a serpent's. A tongue, black and forked, uncoils past broken teeth and leaves a trail of stinking drool across my cheek.

  There's a hollow thud. The creature rocks back as linseed-polished willow cracks into its forehead a second time. Releasing my wrists, it lashes out over my head. Louisa screams. Blood spatters across my face. Something heavy hits the floor.

  I don't care. My hand's free.

  Before the creature has chance to react, I thrust the crucifix into its gaping mouth and down its gullet. The result's everything I could have wished for.

  The weight on my chest vanishes. I scurry away on hands and heels, desperate to put distance between us. I needn't have worried. The creature staggers away with a keening wail, flesh charring from within as the silver takes effect. It thrashes madly, clawing uselessly at its throat. The scream fades. The creature falls; its blackened limbs unmoving, its eyes a dull, milky grey.

  Breathing hard, I stumble to my feet. Louisa's lying by the sitting room door, blood pooling from her shredded throat, the cricket bat still clutched in her hands. Behind her, the front door stands ajar. A young boy, no more than seven or eight years old, stares in from the street, face pale as fresh ash. He'll have nightmares about this for years.

  Him and me both.

  Walking on unsteady legs, I swing the door closed and reach for the phone. My hands are shaking so much it takes me three attempts to dial the right number.

  "Uncle John? It's me. I need your help with something."

  John

  I've always liked the Gunpowder Oak. Odd name for a coffee shop, but it's an odd coffee shop. Tucked away on a narrow side street, just far enough from the beaten paths of Whitechapel to discourage tourists and shoppers, its dark, panelled walls and leaded windows speak to an older time. A time before the rise of bright lights, plastic signs and sweet, milky brews. The Oak's a place for those London doesn't want to notice, or those who wish to escape the notice of their fellow Londoners. My contacts fall into one – or both – of those categories. Most days, so do I.

  She's late. I glance up at the door, as if that'll change anything. Night's creeping on, a cold river-fog sweeping in from the Thames to thicken the air and rouse old ghosts.

  The waitress wanders over and whisks away my empty cup. "Looks like you've been stood up. You want anything else?"

  There's sympathy in her smile. She's Isra's age, give or take. She even has a similar cast of appearance, though her eyes lack my partner's restlessness. Probably for the best. She'll live longer, especially if this afternoon's events were anything to go by.

  "Not just now."

  I return the smile. The waitress withdraws and busies herself behind the counter. There's no one else in the place. It's a quiet night. I don't expect it'll stay that way, not for me.

  The latch-bell rings. She's here, at last.

  I rise in greeting, and step into the welcoming embrace.

  I don't know her real name. These days, she calls herself Jess, but that's not the name granddad knew. Probably she's had others. She's no more my aunt than I'm Isra's uncle, but she's family, of a strange and distant sort. I don't know how old Jess is, not exactly. She looks to be in her twenties – young enough to be my daughter. But then, she always has. Only her hair changes. Long, short, curled, straight, blonde, black, red, blue... Today, it's ashen white, loosely braided at the base of her skull. But her eyes, they never change. They're always that same electric blue-green. They've led many a man to his doom.

  Jess rearranges the chiffon scarf across her pale shoulders, and sits opposite. "Eddie. It's been too long."

  "John." I offer the correction with a polite smile. I've always preferred my middle name. Gives me a bit of distance from my illustrious granddad. I've lost count of how many times I've reminded Jess. Perhaps she disapproves. Maybe it's mischief. Possibly she simply... forgets. Much as I hate to admit it, there's plenty of resemblance.

  Her lip twitches. Mischief, then. On this occasion, at least. "John. So what can I do for you?"

  I glance over my shoulder. The waitress is still at the counter. Too distant to overhear. I slip the plastic envelope from my pocket and slide it across the table. "What can you tell me about this?"

  Jess opens the envelope and tips the brooch into the palm of her hand. I haven't dared let it touch my skin, not after what Isra told me, but Jess is made of sterner stuff. She stares at it for a long moment, fingertips tracing the concentric circles of ridged letters, and the noble profile. Her eyes narrow.

  "Where did you find it?"

  "Off the Edgware Road. Someone peddled it as a curative. A woman was possessed. People died. Isra was almost amongst them."

  She winces. "Find them." It's not a request. There's steel beneath her tone. Her eyes don't move from the brooch.

  "I will. But I'm more worried about where it came from. If someone's found another cache..." I don't finish the thought. I know I don't have to.

  Jess nods. There's a tightness around her eyes that wasn't there before. "Your peddler knows just enough to be dangerous. This was a healing charm, but the magics are ancient. The alignment of worlds has shifted."

  "I don't understand."

  "Think of it as one end of a tunnel. The other end has moved – or the tunnel itself has been reshaped. Either way, the world the brooch drew from is gone. There's something else there now." She slips the brooch back into the envelope, and drops it into her pocket. "I'll see this is destroyed. Do you know where it came from?"

  "I have a few ideas. You saw the lettering was Latin?"

  She raises an eyebrow. "Some of us didn't have a public school education."

  "Well, it is. I did a little digging. The likeness? It's the Emperor Nero. A week ago they unearthed a Roman tomb off Chancery Lane."

  "I hadn't heard."

  I shrug. "They're keeping it quiet. One of the Crossrail drilling machines half-demolished the place, and you know how well that goes down with academics."

  "How did you find out?"

  "Professor Terrance owes me a favour. And he's angry the British Museum's being shut out of the dig."

  "Ah." Jess's expression tightens in anticipation of conflict. "And you're planning to take a look around, aren't you? Who's your client?"

  I could lie, but I don't. She'd know. "There isn't one. Call it civic duty."

  "Stay away, John. Please?"

  She leans forward across the table, eyes boring into mine. Her voice is soft, insistent. She wants to do more than ask. God knows she could bend me around her little finger if she wanted. The possibility lurks behind every conversation we ever have. On this occasion, I don't like the look in her eye – the timbre in her voice. She's thinking about crossing that line, even knowing it'll spell the end of our friendship. She's scared for me. Why? What is it she knows that she's not saying?

  I take her hands in mine, and meet the blue-green stare dead on. It's a gesture of trust. "I can't. If I don't follow this up, Isra will. Coldharbour are debriefing her at the moment, but as soon as they set her loose..." I shrug. "I can't let her do that."

  A little of the tensio
n fades from Jess's expression. It's replaced by a sad smile. "She's too much like Kathleen."

  Jess was the last person to see Kathleen alive. I've never had the courage to enquire what passed between them in those final moments. One day, I'll ask. But now isn't the time.

  "I wouldn't have it any other way, even if it does make life... complicated." I squeeze Jess's fingers. "Come with me. I could use a little company, and you can stop me doing something foolish."

  She pulls free, shaking her head. "I can't. After King William Street, Crowe made it clear what'd happen if he ever caught me in the Underground ever again. I walk everywhere now."

  "Crowe's all talk. He's a big softy." I don't even convince myself. I'm wary of Crowe, but to learn he worries Jess that much...? The thought that she might be afraid of any man...? "We'll be in and out before he knows we were ever there."

  "I can't." She narrows her eyes. "Crowe's already told you to stay away, hasn't he?"

  Is this how Isra feels when I see through her evasions? Maybe. At least I've the decency to piece together the clues she leaves in her wake. With Jess, it's more than that. It's like she sees into my soul. It's not a feeling you get used to.

  "He may have made one or two suggestions, yes. But I'm not part of his staff. John Templeton's still a free agent." I offer what I hope's a confident grin. "Come with me? For old times' sake?"

  "I can't. I'm sorry." The chair screeches across the floorboards as she rises. She won't meet my gaze. "Be careful. Please."

  She's gone before I can reply, the latch-bell ringing madly above the door.

  *******

  It's midnight when I enter Chancery Lane. In half an hour, this part of the network will shut down for the night, but there are still enough passengers that I won't draw unwanted attention.

  Chancery Lane's one of the smaller stations, and one of the least notorious. Couple of hundred yards to the west, and you cross into the Triangle – the patch of Underground bordered by Holborn, Leicester Square and Tottenham Court Road. More trouble there than anywhere else on the network, and if Coldharbour know why, they're not telling. God help us all when Crossrail finally goes active. Hundreds of trains rattling through the Triangle every day, all of them at deep level. It doesn't bear thinking about.

  Despite its size, Chancery Lane does have a few secrets, and I've memorised them all. I might not be terribly popular with Coldharbour at present, but Hal Blackwood and I were thick as thieves back in the day. Main one's the deep level shelter buried beneath the station. Built in World War 2, it's officially home to a telephone exchange these days. Unofficially, it's something else – something Crowe and his lads will surely never let the Crossrail boys into. There's also a series of lift shafts and tunnels away to the west of the platforms – the legacy of the old ticket hall. That's where I start looking.

  I wait until the train's pulled off before going to work on the door at the platform's western end. I don't have Isra's knack for locks and bolts, but I've an impressive collection of keys. It takes only a few seconds to find the right one. The steel door creaks open just as the next dribble of passengers spreads across the platform, and I'm gone before anyone thinks to question me.

  Beyond, the bright lights and polished white tiles of the platform give way to dull yellow and rough concrete. It already feels like I've stepped beyond the bounds of civilisation, and I know it'll only get worse. A short stairway takes me through a second door, and onto the old elevator landing, resplendent in cream tiles.

  The air's warm and musty. Only the faintest tang of burnt electrics wafts in from the running tunnels. It's filthy in here, a thick layer of dust on every surface, but there's a bygone majesty too. The lifts are gone, but much of the wood panelling remains – as do 1930s-era posters advertising the attractions of London Zoo. The portable lamps are more recent, as are the red and white signs cautioning hardhats and high-vis jackets from this point on.

  Flicking on my torch, I peer into the nearest lift shaft. It's full of scaffolding, forming a squared-off spiral that slopes down into the roots of the station. I make a careful descent. It'd be embarrassing to break a leg now. Sure, they'd find me in the morning, but Isra'd never let me hear the end of it, and Crowe... The scaffolding shudders. I slow my pace even further.

  The sounds wash over me. The creak of the scaffold. The steady drip... drip... drip of water. The rumble of the trains running far above. The echoes. They're everything I hate about the Underground, and everything I love. Take away the people, the clamour and the crush of bodies, and you're left with something otherworldly. The mundane become magical. It's another world down here – literally, as well as figuratively.

  I reach the bottom of the scaffold. There's another steel door, this one set in mismatched, crumbling brickwork. I've a key for this one, too, and I'm soon in the brick corridor beyond. There's a cross-tunnel not far ahead. My torch picks out smooth concrete. It's of a different era to everything I've seen so far. Modern work. This is the tunnel I want. It's not large enough to carry a train – if the ceiling were any lower, I'd have to stoop. Must be for maintenance or ventilation.

  The dripping sound grows louder as I step into the new tunnel. There's something else too – a wet, heaving noise, like gentle waves brushing up against a concrete dock. A flick of the torch confirms that the tunnel's dry – or nearly so. I tell myself I'm hearing something moving through the pipes set against the curved ceiling.

  I know it isn't.

  There's a new smell in the stale air. It's bitter. Brackish. If regret had an odour, it'd be this.

  The beam of my torch touches on a huddled shape. Hard hat, hi-vis jacket, radio. A security guard, and stone dead. I kneel beside him. He's still warm, but it's fading fast. As to the cause, I have suspicions, but no certainties. His face is contorted in a terrified rictus, lips drawn back over his teeth. So far as I can see there's not a mark on him.

  A mournful howl echoes down the tunnel. I freeze.

  I hate being right.

  The sump wraith emerges from all around me, its glistening, formless body oozing effortlessly through the tunnel walls. No one's told it that concrete's not porous. Then again, its 'flesh' isn't really liquid – that's just how my mind interprets the sight.

  Before I have chance to move, the creature enfolds me. It doesn't touch me. Not yet. It forms a slimy cocoon, trapping me and its previous victim within its body. There's still concrete under my feet. Everywhere else I look, there's a wall of oozing, distended greeny-grey. The smell of regret's overwhelming.

  Every station has a sump wraith. They're not so much living creatures as the crystallised residue of repressed emotion. It dribbles into the running pit, the individual puddles of anger, hate, fear and sadness running together until there's enough raw sense of self to form a consciousness. The more repressed emotion, the bigger and more aggressive the sump wraith. It's been years since I've seen one so large, and so fast. Then again, the Central Line shifts a load of passengers back and forth each day, so I'm not surprised.

  Terrified, yes. Surprised, no.

  There's a second howl. The walls contract.

  To my knowledge, there are two ways to deal with a sump wraith. Coldharbour favours the direct approach of silver bullets. Like most divine or spectral creatures, sump wraiths can't abide silver. I don't much like guns – or killing things – so I go with Option Two.

  Trying not to think about the clammy, slimy flesh contracting towards my face, I reach into my pocket and pull out a chocolate caramel.

  "I brought you something."

  The sump wraith shudders. I can almost hear it thinking. I shift my grip, holding the sweet between finger and thumb.

  "Go on, it's for you."

  The wall of the cocoon shimmers, extending a glistening pseudopod. It snatches the caramel, and swallows it whole. It's working. At least, I think it is. I can't quite put Jess's worried expression out of my mind.

  I hold out a second caramel. It vanishes as quickly as the first. I
t's time to attempt a trade.

  "If you let me go, you can have another."

  There's a long pause. It's a trick Hal taught me. Sump wraiths aren't predatory by nature – the human condition feeds them everything they need to survive – but they're easily ruled by the emotions that give them shape. Anger. Fear. Hatred. Loss. It's hard to feel any of those things while chewing on a caramel. Try it sometime. Even so, I'd never try this with the wraith lurking beneath King's Cross. I've never seen it, but it's reputedly the size of a house. There's a lot of dejected football fans head home from King's Cross.

  I'm wondering whether or not to repeat my offer when the cocoon parts, revealing the tunnel. I've never been so glad to see concrete. The sump wraith withdraws, and hauls itself up into a hunched, melted shape – like a man-shaped candle, left too long in the sun.

  As promised, I offer a third caramel. There's no shortage. I like to plan ahead.

  This time, the limb that snatches the sweet away is a rough approximation of a human arm. My arm, in fact. The creature's mimicking my form – albeit without much success. I'm not sure whether to be flattered or worried.

  I glance down at the dead security guard. "I suppose you did this?"

  There's no answer, not that I expected one. At their best, sump wraiths have the wits of a particularly stupid dog.

  I wonder why this one's come so close to the surface. There's no shortage of hiding places beneath this part of London – even if you won't find most of them on any maps. I hope it has the sense to descend before morning and Coldharbour come looking for it. There'll be no ignoring the corpse at my feet. Not that much will change. Killing the sump wraith's pointless – another one'll form soon enough.

  I toss the creature another sweet and make my way along the tunnel. The sump wraith follows at a distance, hopeful of more treats if it stays close by.

  A dozen paces down, there's a gaping hole in the tunnel wall. It's covered by plastic sheeting, bolted to the wall, top and bottom. I shine the torch through the plastic. The space beyond is a mess. There was a tomb here once, but not anymore. Near as I can tell, the Crossrail drill's chewed through the back half of the space, and a little more than a quarter of what remains is covered in rubble. The stone casket itself is mangled and split, the bones strewn across the floor.