The Narrows

by James Brogden

  He’d recovered his composure quickly after the surprise of seeing Penrose in his kitchen, and he now regarded them both coldly over the paper-strewn expanse of his desk.

  Walter’s study on the topmost floor was book-lined and dark. In its arcane clutter it reminded Andy of Gramma’s narrowboat, except that instead of bundles of drying herbs there tottered piles of atlases and ancient Ordnance Survey maps. What little wall-space remained was crammed with astrological charts, aerial photographs of the Nazca lines and Stonehenge, maps of the solar system, and even – Andy recognised with a jolt – a full-size diagram of the human body’s acupuncture meridians. On the shelves behind him clustered dusty photographs which looked to be at least half a century old. Pride of place was given, not to an image, but a framed verse of handwritten text:

  There all the barrel-hoops are knit

  There all the serpent-tails are bit

  There all the gyres converge in one

  There all the planets drop in the sun

  The last line in particular made his spine shiver. Somewhere a clock ticked away the dry silence like falling leaves.

  ‘You’ll recall that when you first arrived here I was concerned with your unskilled interference, that it would draw unwelcome attention.’

  ‘Something about being an ignorant suburbanite, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Quite. Well, I did some asking around, and it turns out I was right.’

  ‘Imagine your surprise,’ Rosey muttered with heavy sarcasm.

  Walter ignored him. ‘The man who hunts you is called Simon Barber, though I use the term ‘man’ quite loosely. I doubt by now that there’s much left of him which could be described as human. The tragedy of it is that he was originally a brilliant scientist – he even worked briefly for the Ministry of War – but he drifted into studies of occult interest which would never appear in any sane peer review journal. Leys. Geomancy. The forbidden dim mak points of human acupuncture. Everything. And it has corrupted him utterly. He has walked alone through the deepest skins of the world, and whatever secrets he has found there have twisted his soul into a splinter of the black hole at its heart. He has long since been pursuing his own insane goals – I have no idea what these now are, but rest assured I equally have no intention of interfering with them.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Andy interrupted, ‘You sound like you actually knew him.’

  ‘Does that surprise you? Who do you think I learned from? Yes, I once knew him very well. We collaborated together on a great work, but…’ a shadow of pain passed over Walter’s face ‘… we had something of a falling out over its methodology.’

  Andy was almost afraid to ask. ‘What was this ‘great work’ of yours?’

  In the silence which followed, he could feel the Pattern coalescing in the room, thicker than ever before. So thick, in fact, that he could now actually see it, linking the three of them in bright whorls of energy which hovered on the periphery of his vision.

  ‘You,’ Walter replied simply.

  10 Steven

  Rosey could barely contain his scorn. ‘Andy,’ he said, ‘let me tell you about the ‘great work’ that this scumbag was doing to you when I found you,’ and he went on to describe the horrors that he’d seen behind the door of 144 Tyler Road, almost two decades ago. What Andy heard was so outrageous that might have been tempted to disbelieve it, despite everything he’d seen and done so far, were it not for the whorls of energy surrounding Rosey which indicated that the old policeman believed it to be the truth. Both men, Andy saw, were linked with thick, dark ribbons of mutual enmity. ‘Andy,’ Penrose concluded, ‘the things this man has done to you… you can’t possibly believe anything he says.’

  Walter seemed unmoved by the accusations, but Andy saw guilt circling with a deep and abiding shame in his aura. ‘Do you recall any pain, Andrew?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t, you bastard; he was five!’

  ‘Are you physically scarred?’ Walter turned to Penrose. ‘Did the doctors who examined the boy find any sign of injury whatsoever?’

  ‘You used needles, man! Red hot needles! I felt them myself! You were burning him!’

  ‘Show Mr Penrose where you were burned. Show him the scars, Andrew.’ Andy couldn’t, because there were none. ‘You had chickenpox where you were three, did you know that? I’m sure you have the marks from that somewhere.’ Andy’s hand went involuntarily to his neck, where a triangle of three white dimples nestled under his collar bone – they’d been there for as long as he could remember. ‘Can either of you explain to me how I could have maimed a child so appallingly and yet have left no mark even so small as a chickenpox scar?

  ‘They were acupuncture needles, and the heat you felt was coming from the boy, not into him. But of course a great clumping blue-uniformed oaf such as yourself would not have appreciated the distinction, much less stopped to consider the damage caused by just ripping them out thoughtlessly.

  ‘When you barged in, I was in the middle of trying to reverse what Barber had already done. Do you have any conception of the complexity of the human bio-electric field or the system of chakras and meridians which regulates it? Of course you don’t. Try to imagine a system so beautifully intricate and subtle that the art of its manipulation has taken three thousand years to evolve, as against the paltry two hundred or so of fumbling and butchery that in the West is called ‘medicine’. Are you aware on any dim level of how much damage can be caused by simply tearing out great handfuls of needles which have taken hours or even days to place carefully so as not to injure the child? You might as well pull the plug on a nuclear reactor. Frankly, Andrew, I’m amazed that you didn’t die right then and there. Even so, your ch’i had almost certainly been knocked so catastrophically out of alignment that you should have been rendered blind, or hopelessly autistic, or dead of cancer before puberty.

  ‘The miracle is not that you were rescued, but that your brave rescuer here didn’t kill you with his heavy-handedness. And yet here you are.’

  ‘No thanks to you, apparently,’ Andy retorted, but it lacked conviction.

  ‘No? Who do you think called the police in the first place?’ His question hung in the air like the aftermath of a lightning strike. ‘My one mistake was in underestimating the speed of their response and not being able to bring you back down safely from your heightened energistic state before they kicked down the door.’

  ‘This is a pack of lies,’ spat Rosey. ‘I was there in court; I read the witness statements. There was a call from a concerned neighbour who heard a child’s cries. Andy, this is all bollocks. Don’t listen to him.’

  Walter’s eyes never left Andy’s. ‘So much about that trial was completely different from what you or anybody else saw. There was no witness. There was no crying child. You trusted me – you’d known me all your short life. I helped deliver you, for goodness’ sake. Those sharply-dressed young men of the prosecution were no more barristers than I am the Duke of Cornwall. Barber had been out of the game for years, but he still had enough friends in high places to make sure that I was put away for a very long time.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you are,’ Rosey snapped. ‘You’re an insane, paranoid-schizophrenic nut-job is what you are. Andy, this man has a documented history of drug abuse and mental illness…’

  ‘Which no doctor was ever found to…’

  ‘… a record as long as your arm…’

  ‘…fabricated, all fabricated…’

  ‘Enough!’ Andy yelled, and watched in amazement as twin spikes of energy lanced out of him and into their auras, setting them to spin dizzily. Walter and Penrose rocked back as if slapped. Silence crept back into the room. He felt it filling the rest of the house, knew that the rest of the Narrowfolk were listening – not to every single word, just waiting to see if the thundercloud would blow past or open over their heads.

 
‘I told you before that I don’t care,’ he said, ‘and I meant it. Genuinely, I don’t give a toss about what happened sixteen years ago. You,’ he stabbed a finger at Walter, ‘fucked with me, of that I have no doubt. Dress it up any way you like in truths and half-truths, but you dragged me into something unspeakable, and trying to ease your conscience about it now doesn’t make any difference.

  ‘You…’ he turned on Rosey, ‘just couldn’t leave well enough alone. You had to drag all of this up again. It never occurs to people like you that some of us are truly happier not knowing all the crappy stuff that happened to us in the past. So now I know, and thanks, but at the same time, there goes my childhood, you know?

  ‘Reasons, whys and wherefores, who’s to blame and all of that –’ he made a dismissive, cutting gesture ‘– not important. You can fight it out between yourselves when I’m gone. Whatever it is I can do, whatever I am, I’ll figure that out on my own, thanks very much. All I want to know right now is where am I from? Who am I from?’

  Walter heaved a great sigh, as if a burden had just been lifted from his shoulders, and began rummaging through the crammed shelves of old maps. ‘You were born in a small village called Holly End, a few miles south of Birmingham, on the edge of the Cotswolds. It used to be very pretty, once upon a time. It had a church and post-office, and a little cottage hospital where you were born. Your mother was a local girl called Anna Pickett. You are her only child. The name she gave you was Steven. Ah, here we are.’

  While Walter carefully unfolded an ancient and yellowing map across his desk, Rosey turned to Andy, his aura swirling and agitated. ‘Andy,’ he pleaded ‘you have got to understand that this is all lies. Listen to what he’s saying. Babies aren’t born in cottage hospitals in this day and age; he’s living in a dream world. When he told all of this to the arresting officers, don’t you think that was the first place they went to? They tried, at least, but they couldn’t find it. Andy, there is no such place.’

  But all he could think was Steven. My name was Steven.

  ‘You’d be amazed how many places there are dotted around the country which don’t exist, Mr Penrose,’ replied Walter. ‘I think you’ll find that you’re in one of them right now.’

  To that, Rosey had no reply.

  ‘All the same,’ the older man continued, ‘best if you believe him. I know what you’re thinking, but you can never return to Holly End, Andrew. If it were possible, I would have done so many years ago.’

  Andy roused himself. ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘For one thing, it has been taken out of existence, just like Moon Grove.’

  ‘I found my way back in here, didn’t I? I can find that place, too.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But even if you could, it would be the single most dangerous place in the entire world you could go. It is the place where Barber and I began our work, the place from which I fled with you when I learned the monstrous truth of his ambitions. He removed it from the skin of the world himself, and it is still the centre of his power. Make no mistake: he knows who you are by now, and he is not hunting you out of some silly old man’s nostalgia, like the two of us. He will take you apart screaming and dissect your living soul out of nothing but simple curiosity, just to see what makes you tick.’

  Andy sat back and sighed darkly. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said with bitter irony. ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without a few dodgy relatives, would it?’

  ***

  Bex found Andy in the kit room, stuffing a rucksack with clothes and other items from the storage bins of leftover supplies. She hefted her own bag higher on one shoulder and said brightly ‘So! Where are we going?’

  Andy kept cramming. ‘We are going nowhere,’ he replied bluntly, without looking around. ‘I am making like a bread van and getting out of this place before I get somebody killed.’

  ‘You mean “hauling buns”.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  She watched him silently for a moment while he packed. He could feel her behind him in much the same way as a blind man can feel the sun on his back.

  ‘I would just like, for once,’ he said suddenly, spinning around to glare at her, ‘for there to be somebody in this world who I don’t have to argue with, or have to justify myself to, or fight to get anything from, you know?’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ she replied. ‘I know that one alright.’

  ‘You can’t come with me,’ he insisted.

  ‘You’ll note that I’m not arguing about it.’ She looked at what he had unthinkingly stuffed in his bag. ‘You’ve just packed a pair of board shorts,’ she observed. ‘Long trip, is it? Just as long as you understand that you’re not going anywhere stupidly dangerous, like this Holly End place.’

  He stared at her in surprise. ‘Were you eavesdropping?’

  ‘It’s sweet how you think anybody has any secrets here,’ she answered innocently. ‘But you’ve got it arse-backwards, as usual. You’re the one who’s coming with me. Lead skavags to my front door, will you? Not if I can bloody help it. I’m making sure we’re well shot of you.’

  ‘Neither of you is going anywhere.’

  Walter stood behind them, wearing his walking boots.

  ‘Andy,’ he continued, ‘it wouldn’t make any difference – he’ll come here looking for you regardless. In any case you’re not responsible for these people or what happens to them. That’s my call. Barber and I were close once; I’m going to find him and try to put a stop to this madness.’

  ‘But he’ll kill you!’ protested Bex.

  ‘With any luck, they’ll kill each other,’ Andy replied bitterly.

  Walter grunted. ‘It’s been a long time coming, if so.’ He reached into his shirt and drew out a fine chain, from which a spoked-wheel medallion spun in eye-watering concentric orbits. He unclasped and offered it to Andy, who recognised it vaguely from somewhere. ‘Take it,’ said Walter. ‘You liked it once upon a time.’

  Andy shook his head tightly. ‘That wasn’t me. I want nothing from you. Do you understand? Nothing. Haven’t you done enough already?’

  Bex fetched him a slap behind the ear. ‘Don’t be such a child,’ she scolded. ‘Can’t you recognise when a man is trying to make amends? Here,’ she took the medallion, ‘I’ll look after it.’

  ‘Stay here,’ ordered the older man as he headed for the front door. ‘If I’m not back by morning, get everybody out of here. Get them anywhere else you can. Don’t wait for the Fane to stop on its own. And for God’s sake, try not to do anything else stupid.’

  ***

  The Carling that collapsed over the threshold into the sanctuary of Moon Grove was a stripped, skeletal thing dressed in rags and clutching in its mind just a few glittering shards of murderous intent.

  It was night. He lay on his back in the thin margin of long grass at the very edge of the Fane and stared up at the sky with his eroded face. He could see neither moon nor stars. For some reason this struck him as immensely funny, and he began to laugh, but it soon degenerated into weak spasms of coughing, so he stopped.

  ‘Made it in, boss,’ he croaked, and was shocked at the sound of his own ruined voice. Not doing that again in a hurry, either.

  While he was resting, he watched a bright doorway open briefly and a lone figure stride across the empty ground to disappear into the barrier. Rats leaving the sinking ship already, he thought. No matter. There would still be plenty of them left when his master arrived.

  Carling began to crawl with agonising slowness around the perimeter of Moon Grove, searching for a way to let himself in.

  11 Collapse

  Barber wasn’t particularly surprised to find Walter at the door to his office; with events surrounding the Sumner boy converging at an ever-increasing rate, it was almost inevitable. Nevertheless, there was something about the way the man had made it up six floors p
ast all manner of security that irked him. He was going to have to have words with the concierge.

  ‘Well now. Father Walter Lyttleton.’ He rose from his desk and moved around to greet him, hand outstretched for shaking as if they were nothing more than old business partners. Walter looked like he hadn’t eaten or shaved in days. He refused the hand, and Barber put it away with a shrug as if to say Oh well, you can’t say I didn’t try. ‘You look old, dear boy. Older than you should. Old and weak. How long has it been for you?’

  For Walter, words wouldn’t come at first. There was so much to be said and no possible way to say it all, his throat was choked. ‘Almost sixteen years,’ he managed thickly.

  ‘Sixteen? Good grief, man. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, they haven’t been kind to you. And you living here all this time, right under my nose like a cockroach. That’s quite some achievement; well done.’ Barber resumed his seat. In the darkness of his office, the only illumination came from the Christmas lights strung across New Street outside. They bathed his face in shifting tones of glacial blue and white.

  Walter could only plough on, and say what he had come here to say. ‘You are aware that Steven is with us too, I take it.’

  ‘“Here all the barrel-hoops are knit.” Isn’t that right? Yes, I am aware. All the gyres are converging in one, Walter. Everything is converging. Something has woken up in the boy, despite your sabotage. He is growing in power; I can feel it. It was always going to happen, but now there’s nothing either of us can do to control him, is there?’

  ‘I’m not here for old arguments, Simon.’

  ‘Well your tone has certainly mellowed with the years. No self-righteous holier-than-thou lectures about the sanctity of this that and the other. What are you here for, then? Could it be that you have come to ask me for something? Please don’t say that it’s forgiveness.’