World's End

by Mark Chadbourn

  Before she could say any more, Callow gently brushed his free hand across the back of her arm. She couldn’t understand his action, until she saw a thin red line blossom where his fingers had passed. It seemed almost magical. She watched it in bemusement, trying to work out how he had done it. But the stinging shocked her alert and she caught hold of his wrist, forcing his hand up; a razor blade was surreptitiously lodged between his tightly held fingers. She had only a second to take it in when he suddenly let go of her hand and smashed his fist hard into her face. Laura saw stars, felt the explosion of pain, then pitched backwards across the seats in a daze. When she came around, Callow had the door open and was clambering in over her.

  She savagely kicked a foot towards his groin, but instead it slammed into his thigh. He winced, but the smile never left his lips. His eyes, no longer sparkling, were fixed on her face.

  Laura began to yell and struggle, but Callow made another pass with his hand, slashing the soft underside of her forearm, dangerously near to the exposed veins at her wrist. Before she could respond, he started sweeping his hand back and forth across her face. She threw her arms up to protect herself, feeling her flesh split and the wet warmth trickle down to her T-shirt. She yelled out, the agony of the moment multiplied by a sudden image of her mother showing her the bloodstained razor blade two years earlier. Not again, her mind roared.

  The seriousness of her predicament hit her like a train; no one was going to save her; Callow had forced her into a position where she couldn’t fight back; and just as she decided her only hope was to scream until someone came run ning, he hit her in the face again, grabbed her by the hair and bundled her over the back of the seats.

  In her daze, she was vaguely aware of him dropping down beside her like a giant spider, and then he had gripped the razor blade between knuckle and thumb and was cutting into her in a frenzy. The last thing Laura saw before she blacked out was so horrible she couldn’t tell if it was a hallucination brought on by the pain and the shock of her approaching death: his eyes seemed to be flooded with blood, as if every capillary in them had burst at once, and there was a subsequent movement under the skin around his orbits. As if something was crawling there.

  Church was the first to notice the rear doors of the van hanging raggedly open. There was nothing inherently sinister in the image-Laura might simply have opened them to get some air to the suffocating interior-but his intuition sent a flood of icewater through his system. And then he was running, leaving the others chatting obliviously behind him. Bloody footprints led away from the van. Anxiety spurred him on, driving all rational thought from his mind. When he reached the doors and glanced in, his stomach turned.

  The inside of the van looked like an abattoir. Blood was splattered up the walls and across the floor where Laura’s pale, unmoving form lay. Her T-shirt was in tatters, the taunting legend Jesus Saves looming out at him, now appearing as if someone had attempted to scribble it out.

  And the crate containing the talismans was gone.

  The journey back to Tenby passed in a high-speed blur of madly overtaken vehicles, blaring horns and heart-stoppingly dangerous turns. They screamed into Accident & Emergency at the hospital on Trafalgar Road and Church ran in with Laura in his arms, her blood soaking through his shirt, leaving sickening spatter marks behind them like the spoor of some giant beast; despite his first impression, she was still alive, but in shock. If they had tried to deny it until then, the moment they saw the faces of the team of young doctors and nurses, they were left in no doubt as to the seriousness of her condition. She was whisked off behind flapping curtains, leaving them alone in an empty waiting room.

  “But we’d won!” Veitch pleaded, his staring expression revealing the shock that played across all their minds. “It’s not fair.” It sounded pathetic and spoilt, but it was all he could think to say.

  Ruth chewed her thumb knuckle. “God, I hope she’s going to be okay.” Church watched the regret and guilt play out on her face.

  “But we’d won!” Veitch repeated, as if saying it enough times would make it come true.

  “They selected the right time to attack,” Shavi noted, “when our defences were down. Perfect, really.”

  “She was attacked with a knife or a razor-you saw the cuts. That doesn’t seem like the Fomorii,” Church said. “Maybe it’s just a random disaster-just some nut who crossed paths with us. The kind of thing that happens in life all the fucking time,” he added bitterly.

  “Who specifically took the talismans?” Tom seemed more upset than Church would have expected. His eyes had been filled with tears from the moment they had discovered her; sometimes he could barely talk; at other times he shook with the ague which increasingly seemed to be afflicting him.

  “All that bleedin’ struggle. For nothing!” Veitch buried his head in his hands.

  “This is probably not the best time to discuss it,” Tom began, “but we need to get on the trail of the talismans. There’s much more at stake here than-“

  “No!” Church stared at him angrily, but all he could see was Marianne. “Nothing is bigger than people! Individuals. People you love. They deserve your time and attention and passion. Not a world that couldn’t care less if it went to hell in a handcart!”

  Tom made as if to argue, then looked away.

  “I don’t care about anything else right now. I just want to see my friend pull through. If you haven’t got friends, if you haven’t got people you love, you’ve got nothing.”

  Veitch stared at Church as if he was seeing him in a new light, then nodded thoughtfully.

  Just then Tom put his head in his hands and started to sob silently. The others stared at him in surprise. Ruth slid up next to him and put a comforting arm around his shoulders, but he seemed inconsolable.

  Veitch’s shoulders were weighted with desolation. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

  They were allowed to see her at noon. Against the crisp white sheets of the bed she looked uncommonly frail, like a sickly child; they barely recognised her. Her dyed blonde hair was matted and unkempt, her skin like frost, her body somehow thinner and more angular than they remembered. Pads had been taped to the left side of her face. A couple of tubes snaked into her; she was dead to the world.

  “We sedated her,” the doctor explained. “It was for the best, after the shock.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” Church asked.

  The doctor didn’t look too sure of his answer. “Physically, I suppose. We gave her some blood, stitched the deepest wounds, bound the others. But …”-he shrugged-“you know, a razor attack. It’s sick, disgusting. When I see the mess it leaves, I can’t understand how anybody could be so twisted as to carry it out.” He paused, swallowed. “And her face … she’s going to have some bad scarring on that left side. You saw her back, her arms. She looks like a jigsaw. The psychological scars will be the hardest to heal. I noticed the old scar tissue …” He looked from one face to the other, hoping for an explanation.

  “She’s suffered before,” Church said simply.

  The doctor nodded as if that was answer enough. “That makes it worse. She’s been bitten twice, as it were.”

  “When can we take her with us?” Tom asked tentatively. He succeeded in ignoring the others’ annoyed stares.

  “Oh, well, a few days. She needs lots of rest, nothing too strenuous. I can put you in touch with the counselling service.”

  They thanked him for what he had done, but said nothing further until he had left the room. Then Church turned on Tom. “Christ, if she were dead you’d have us dumping her at the side of the road!” When Tom didn’t seem too shocked by this allegation, Church became even more angry.

  “You may not be so outraged when you see the way things will be in a few short months.” He seemed to be struggling with the conversation, dragging up each word individually, but some of his old frostiness had returned. “If you do not pursue the talismans now, you’ll be making the decision to give up the
world, civilisation, everything. Is that what you are prepared to do?”

  Church looked away, angry that Tom was making him face up to it, when all he wanted to think about was Laura.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Tom continued. “You heard the doctor. But we can’t afford to leave it another day. The trail could be lost by then.”

  The room was filled by a long, hanging silence and then Veitch said, “I’d really like to find who did this to her.”

  “You heard the doctor. She’s in no state to be moved,” Church protested. “What happens if she gets an infection in the wounds? Tears one of them open? We could be putting her life at risk.”

  “A decision needs to be taken now,” Tom said insistently.

  Church saw all eyes were on him. “Why are you looking at me?” he raged. They looked away uncomfortably, but the answer to his question was obvious; no one else was going to speak out.

  Tom stepped in front of him and rested a hand on his shoulder; there was an honest paternalism in his face. “It’s your call,” he said softly.

  Church had the sudden, terrible feeling that he would be damned whatever he decided.

  Veitch managed to find a wheelchair and they lifted Laura into it after a heated discussion about the status of the drips and whether they should remove them; one appeared to be a rehydrating solution, while the other was a painkiller with some kind of electronically timed dose. In the end, they decided to wheel both of the drips out behind her, still attached. A blanket was hastily thrown over her legs to try to hide the fact she obviously wasn’t in any condition to be moved. If they were stopped, they would never be allowed to take her out, and would probably pay a heavy price for trying to kidnap a patient, so they hurried through the corridors, desperately following a roundabout route that took them away from the busiest areas. The alarm was raised only at the last minute by a furious nurse, when they were forced to pass through reception to where they had abandoned the van.

  They made a makeshift bed of sleeping bags on the floor of the van for Laura and tried to secure the drip trolleys with clothes, but every time Shavi went round a corner they fell over with a clatter.

  After the euphoria of the morning, the mood in the van was dismal. Suddenly it seemed like everything was turning sour and whatever they did would not be able to make it right. Church sat on the floor next to Laura, watching her face for any sign of awakening, or of her condition deteriorating. He hated himself for the decision he had had to make, and for the fact that he had no choice. And he wanted to yell at them all that he wasn’t up to the job of being leader and making enormous choices that people’s lives depended on; he had been so unperceptive that he had allowed his own girlfriend to die, hadn’t even realised she had been murdered. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better for all of them if he simply walked away and left them to it.

  The Wayfinder pointed them north-east out of Tenby. Shavi kept just within the speed limit in any area where it was likely there might be traffic police and floored the accelerator at all other times. Although the lantern suggested a route which took them across country, after their experience in Builth Wells they agreed it would be best to avoid the open Welsh countryside and instead keep to the main roads. They picked up the busy A40 just outside Carmarthen and followed it all the way to Ross-on-Wye, then cut across to the motorway. There the Wayfinder resumed its northwards pointing.

  “Whoever has the talismans is travelling fast,” Shavi noted. “And they obviously have a definite direction in mind.”

  “Here, why don’t you do that thing you do? You know, with the mushrooms and the trance and everything? We could find out where they’re going and try and head them off at the pass,” Veitch suggested.

  Shavi fixed his gaze on the road ahead, his face suddenly emotionless. “No,” he replied simply.

  The sky grew an angry red, then shifted through various shades of purple as they trundled north through the West Midlands conurbation, the flat countryside of Staffordshire and Cheshire and then over the Manchester Ship Canal, where the traffic seemed as busy as if nothing were wrong. By the time they had passed Lancaster and the proliferation of signs for the Lakes, darkness had fallen.

  In the back, Church, Ruth and Tom sat quietly around Laura’s unmoving form while Veitch and Shavi found security in a rambling discourse on the mundane, punctuated by long, introspective silences.

  “I’ve never seen this much of the country,” Veitch mused. “Barely been out of London before. The odd trip to Southend to see me nan. Never north of Watford.”

  “Beautiful, is it not?” Shavi noted thoughtfully. “Every part of it. And not just the parts you expect to be beautiful, like the downs and the heaths. Cooling towers seen in the right light are golden. Once I was on a train coming out of Derby and we passed through a terrible industrial wasteland that they were in the process of turning into some civic site. There were heaps of dirt and weeds and huge pools of polluted water. And then, just for one moment, the quality of the light reflected the grey clouds off the pools and the whole landscape turned silver. It was so wonderful it took my breath away. We have lost sight of that wonder in the every day.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But have you ever been to Becton?” Veitch thought for a moment, then looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t look like a queen.”

  Shavi returned his gaze, a faint smile on his lips. “I do not like labels.”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you? A shirtlifter?”

  “I prefer to consider myself polymorphously perverse.”

  “What’s that bollocks?”

  “It means I take my pleasure from wherever and whatever I please. We have a limited time to indulge ourselves. Why limit yourself to just one sex?”

  Veitch snorted, stared out the passenger window.

  Shavi stifled a laugh at his Victorian values. “What is wrong?”

  “Makes me sick what you people do.”

  “Do not think about it, then. I will not force you.”

  “You better not try it on with me.”

  “You are not my type.”

  Veitch snapped round indignantly. “Why not?”

  “You are just not.”

  Witch turned back to the passenger window, muttering under his breath.

  At that moment, Laura stirred in the back. Church leaned forward anxiously and for a moment the tense silence in the van was unbearable. Gradually, her eyes flickered open, burst with momentary panic as they tried to establish her situation, then calmed when they saw Church leaning over her.

  “Shit, this hurts,” she said in a fragile voice.

  “Take it easy,” Church whispered, “you’ve been through a lot.”

  His heart ached when he saw the terrible memories suddenly play out across her features. Her hand jerked up to the pads that covered her left side. “My face,” she said desolately. Her eyes filled with tears that brimmed over on to her cheeks. She clamped her lids shut so they wouldn’t see her weakness.

  Church took her hand, thinking she would shake it off, but she held on tightly. “We’re here with you,” he said gently.

  “God, nobody’s going to want to look at me.” Her voice was filled with such awful pain that he felt queasy. In her despair he could see through all her defences and the honesty was almost too much to bear, like someone had opened a door on to a searchlight from a pitch black room.

  “Don’t be silly. You’re with friends here.”

  She snorted a bitter laugh. “Friends? You all hate me.” Church could hear the irrational, overly despairing ring of the drugs in her words.

  “We’d stand by you through thick and thin.” Church looked round in surprise as Ruth leaned in next to him.

  “Hey. Miss Frosty,” Laura said weakly. “Do I smell the stink of pity?”

  “No. That’s Tom.”

  Laura lifted her head as much as she could then let it drop once she had seen his indignant expression. She let out a wheezy laugh. “Old git. Nice to see you. Bet y
ou thought there was someone actually going to die before you.”

  “You need to get some rest,” Tom replied acidly. “A week or two, maybe. We could turn up the drip-“

  “How do you feel?” Church asked. When he looked into her face he felt something flash between them; a brief light in her eyes, the faintest hint of a smile; it sang through the air and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

  He could see she felt it too; she smiled at him, then it slipped away uncomfortably, as if she couldn’t understand the emotions sweeping through her. “Like I’ve been on the bacon slicer,” she said.

  “They did quite a number on you. Do you know who it was?”

  Her brow furrowed as she struggled to remember. “Some tramp. He said you knew him.” A long pause as the name surfaced. “Callow.”

  “Callow?” Church and Ruth said in simultaneous surprise.

  “He’s just a scrounging no-mark!” Church looked at Ruth for some explanation. “He was in Salisbury. What’s he doing here?”

  “He knew where we were,” Laura said. “There’s no way he could have found us by accident.”

  “Shit! What the hell’s going on?” Church felt an impotent rage sweep through him. “When we find the bastard, I’ll kill him.”

  “There was something else …” Laura’s voice almost broke from the strain. “I remember … His eyes turned red, like they were filling with blood. And there was something moving under his skin. He wasn’t human …”

  Her voice trailed away and the van filled with silence until Veitch called back, “We’ve got to pull in at the next services for some petrol.”

  They swung into the sweeping drive of Tebay Services, past clustering trees that seemed too dense and frightening, but the cafeteria was a welcoming oasis of light blazing in the night. Enormous picture windows looked out over the bleak high country of the northern Lakes, the stark interior lamps casting illumination over a cold duck pond and wind-blasted scrub. Church noticed the breathtaking view and thought briefly how pleasant it must have been in summers past; now it seemed too close to the dangerous, deserted countryside.