What the hell, Henry thought, she’s not going to believe me anyway. And there was some sort of poetic justice about telling her the truth. He tipped his head to one side and this time actually did smile. ‘As a matter of fact, we rescued a fairy. Little fellow with wings, name of Pyrgus.’ Then, before she could recover, he headed for the door.
As he closed it behind him, he heard her sudden explosive shriek. ‘You’re the fairy, Henry! You’re the bloody, bloody, bloody fairy!’
There was a few feet of tired lawn in front of Mr Fogarty’s house to match the few feet of tired lawn at the back. The grass looked grey, as if it were slightly blackened by soot. It seldom needed cutting – the soil was poor and badly drained – which suited Mr Fogarty fine since he didn’t like working at the front where anybody could see him. Henry once offered to cut it for him, but Mr Fogarty had the idea he was too young to handle a lawnmower. Weird thing was, the old boy owned an incredibly powerful lawnmower, far too big for the amount of grass he had. It was greased and oiled and wrapped in plastic towards the back of the shed.
Henry thumbed the front doorbell, then rattled the knocker. Sometimes it took Mr Fogarty as much as five minutes to answer his door, sometimes he wouldn’t answer it at all, so Henry had to go round the back and hammer on the kitchen window. But today his reaction was immediate.
‘Go away!’ called Mr Fogarty’s voice from inside. ‘Go on – push off!’
Henry bent down and pushed open the letterbox. ‘It’s me, Mr Fogarty,’ he said patiently. He straightened up and waited.
After a moment the door opened a crack. Fogarty’s rheumy old eye peered out. ‘That you, Henry?’
‘Yes, Mr Fogarty.’
Fogarty opened the door a little further and stuck his head out. He peered both ways along the street, then reached out to grab Henry and pull him inside. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he hissed as he slammed the door. Quite unexpectedly he gave one of his rare feral smiles. ‘Got somebody I want you to meet. Come on, come on.’
Henry followed him to the living room. Like much of the rest of the house, it was full of cardboard boxes and stacks of books. You had to step carefully to get from one end to the other. Mr Fogarty had taken to sticking brown paper over the lower windowpanes to stop his neighbours looking in, so the room was always gloomy. For a moment Henry didn’t realise there was anybody in it except for Fogarty and himself. Then there was a movement to his left and a red-haired boy about his own age pushed himself out of a tattered armchair. ‘Hello, Henry,’ he said.
‘Hello ...’ Henry said uncertainly. ‘Do I know you?’ The boy had cheerful, open features and a peculiar way of dressing Henry hadn’t seen before. His clothes were dark and loose, a bit like the military gear some kids liked, but the wrong cut and colour.
The boy stuck out his hand and grinned. ‘Pyrgus,’ he said. ‘I’m Pyrgus Malvae.’
Henry frowned, wondering who Pyrgus Malvae was. Then it hit him like a thunderbolt. ‘Pyrgus! It’s you! But ... but ...’ He looked round at Mr Fogarty who was grinning broadly as well. He looked back at Pyrgus. ‘No wings?’
Pyrgus shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
‘And you’re ... big!’
‘You noticed?’
Henry took the proffered hand and shook it. The skin felt surprisingly hard and rough. He glanced over his shoulder at Mr Fogarty. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Didn’t do anything,’ Fogarty said. ‘It just wore off.’
‘Sometime in the night,’ Pyrgus said. ‘I went to sleep that little thing with wings and woke up normal.’
‘Wow!’ said Henry. He couldn’t believe the solid boy before him was the same delicate little creature that had been sitting on his shoulder a couple of days before.
Fogarty’s eyes glinted. ‘Other thing is, you have to call him Highness. That’s Prince Pyrgus you’re shaking hands with.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Pyrgus said.
Henry grinned now. ‘You’re not a prince?’ Pyrgus didn’t look like a prince.
Pyrgus sucked air through his teeth uncomfortably. ‘Actually, I am. My father’s the Purple Emperor. But nobody calls me anything but Pyrgus.’
‘Lot of things happened since you skived off home,’ Fogarty said sourly. ‘Pyrgus says Faeries of the Night must be behind the UFO abductions.’
Henry blinked. ‘Wait a minute – how did we get to UFO abductions?’ And what are Faeries of the Night?
Pyrgus said, ‘Mr Fogarty has been telling me about how your people are getting kidnapped by small beings with large eyes and thin limbs. Faeries of the Night use creatures like that – in my world we call them demons.’
Demons, Henry thought. Pyrgus was as big a nutter as Mr Fogarty. Carefully he said, ‘And Faeries of the Night are what?’
‘Bit hard to explain,’ Pyrgus said. ‘They’re sort of different from Faeries of the Light.’
Henry started to feel like he was drowning. ‘What are Faeries of the Light?’
‘My lot,’ Pyrgus told him cheerfully.
‘So you see why it’s important you’re here,’ Fogarty said to Henry.
‘No,’ Henry said.
‘So we can send Pyrgus back,’ Fogarty told him patiently. ‘We were going to help him for his own sake, of course, but now there’s another reason, isn’t there? He gets back to his own world, he can get his old man to close down the portals the demons use. Stop the whole abduction business.’
‘I see,’ Henry said. Portals. Fairies. UFO abductions. Demons. He glanced at the brown paper stuck to the windows. He supposed it wasn’t all that much more of a lunatic asylum than the one he’d just left. ‘It’s important I’m here so we can send Pyrgus back.’
‘Good,’ said Fogarty impatiently. ‘Now let me show you how we’re going to do that.’
As they followed Fogarty towards the kitchen, Henry whispered to Pyrgus, ‘There’s no such thing as flying saucers.’
Still frowning, Pyrgus said, ‘But Mr Fogarty told me six million Americans were abducted last year. Americans are people – right?’
‘Yes. Yes they are. But it didn’t happen. Mr Fogarty just thinks it happened.’
‘Why does he think that?’ Pyrgus asked, bewildered.
Because he’s barking mad, thought Henry.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Fogarty asked suspiciously. He hated people whispering.
‘Nothing, Mr Fogarty,’ Henry said.
There was an enormous blueprint on the kitchen table. It showed a piece of machinery like nothing Henry had ever seen before. Two symbols were marked ‘tesla coils’ and seemed to be electrical, something borne out by what looked like a drawing of a power pack. But there was conventional machinery as well, the sort of cogs, levers and wheels you might see in a Victorian flour mill. Strangest of all was a circuit diagram labelled ‘Hieronymous Machine’. A spiral antenna emerged from one end, emitting – or absorbing – a little lightning flash with ‘eloptic radiation’ written beside it in Mr Fogarty’s neat block capitals. Henry checked twice to be sure, but no part of the Hieronymous Machine was connected to the power pack. He looked up at Mr Fogarty. ‘What is it?’
‘That’s a design for the first completely artificial portal between the Analogue Worlds,’ Fogarty told him proudly.
Henry looked at Pyrgus, then back at the blueprint. Apart from the cogs and wheels, which he could follow well enough, none of it made any sense to him. ‘How does it work?’ he asked.
‘While you were podging at home,’ Fogarty said sourly, ‘Pyrgus and I were working on this. Pyrgus told me every detail he could remember about his portal and eventually I figured out the basic principle had to be the same as a Hieronymous Machine.’
‘What’s a Hieronymous Machine?’ Henry asked.
Fogarty gave him a withering glance. ‘Don’t they teach you anything at school? First one was patented by Galen Hieronymous in 1949. Little thing he lashed up to detect the metal content of alloys. Somebody sold you a gold br
ick, you could use the thing to tell if there really was any gold in it.’
‘Never heard of – what? Hieronymous, was it? never heard of it,’ Henry said a little sulkily.
‘That’s because it didn’t catch on,’ Fogarty told him. ‘Trouble was, about one in five people couldn’t get it to work.’
‘Too complicated?’ Henry asked.
Fogarty shook his head. ‘Naw, you switched it on, put a sample near the pick-up coil, then read off the results with your fingertips on a detection plate. Easy-peasy.’
‘So what was the problem?’
‘Nobody knew,’ Fogarty said. ‘But a character called Campbell found out. He set up experiments with people who could get the machine to work. One of them was a kid not much older than you. He switched on the machine, tuned it in and tested a whole heap of samples. Worked fine. Then Campbell noticed he’d forgotten to plug it in.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Henry said. He didn’t know a lot about electronic gadgets, but he knew enough to know they didn’t work without power. An idea struck him. ‘Maybe it was picking up static electricity or something.’
‘Campbell tested for that,’ Fogarty told him. ‘Wasn’t static. Run a phase test and you’d find there was no electricity in there at all. Looked like an electronic machine, worked like an electronic machine – valve blows, they used valves in those days, and it stopped but it wasn’t an electronic machine. Had to work some other way. Only thing that made sense. They finally figured what made it work was faith.’
After a second, Henry said, ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’
Fogarty, who had no sense of humour, looked at him soberly. ‘Henry,’ he said, ‘everybody knows electronic machines work – we’re used to them, see. They always work. So make something that looks like an electronic machine – but make it properly with all the parts in place – and it works anyway. Something happens between your mind and the machine. Except for one clown in five who doesn’t have the faith.’
Henry glanced at Pyrgus. ‘Is this making sense to you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pyrgus seriously. ‘Wizards use that principle in my world all the time.’
Fogarty said, ‘Doesn’t matter if it makes sense – the theory’s sound. This thing will work. All we have to do is build it.’
Henry looked at the blueprint again. ‘Where are you going to get the parts?’
‘I’ve got a lot of bits and pieces here,’ Fogarty said, ‘and I know where I can buy the tesla coils. But there are one or two components for the Hieronymous circuits that could be a bit tricky if we want them in a hurry. Which we do.’
‘So where do we get them?’ Henry asked innocently.
Fogarty said, ‘You’ll have to steal them from your school.’
Fifteen
Henry walked into another heap of trouble when he got home. Aisling, who didn’t believe their mum and dad would split up and didn’t believe anything was ever going to interfere with her perfect world, had suddenly decided to believe that Henry thought he’d rescued a fairy. Or maybe she was just stirring it.
‘We’re worried about this fairy business,’ his father said abruptly after supper.
Henry looked at his parents. ‘What fairy business?’
‘With Mr Fogarty,’ his mother said sternly.
Aisling had told them! The little cow had told them! He hadn’t thought she’d take him seriously, not the way he’d put it. She probably didn’t believe it for a minute, but she’d told them anyway. ‘Not much to say,’ Henry shrugged.
‘Well I don’t suppose there is,’ his father said. He smiled. ‘I mean, I can’t see a sensible boy like you suddenly starting to believe in fairies.’ The smile faded. ‘But I’ve made enquiries and I know a few things about your Mr Fogarty now. Frankly, he leaves a lot to be desired. He believes in fairies, doesn’t he? And invasions of little green men? And a secret Jewish plot to run the world?’
‘He never said Jewish – ’ Henry tried to put in.
But his father wasn’t really listening. ‘There’s a word for that,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if you know it, Henry. Paranoia. It’s a sort of madness.’
Henry knew the word paranoia all right. He even knew Mr Fogarty had it big time. It was one of the most interesting things about him. But that didn’t make Mr Fogarty some sort of, like, Hannibal Lecter who’d cut you up and eat you. He sounded off a lot about stuff and he was a tough old fart, but Henry liked him. ‘Dad, I –’
‘The thing is, old man,’ his father said soberly, ‘just because Mr Fogarty believes in flying saucers doesn’t mean you have to. And just because he’s anti-Semitic –’
‘Dad, he’s not anti-Semitic’ He just didn’t like the Swiss very much, as far as Henry could tell. The Swiss weren’t Jews, were they? Henry thought most of them were Protestants.
‘– doesn’t mean you should hate Jews. And just because he believes in fairies doesn’t mean you should waste your time chasing after moonbeams.’
‘Dad, I said that about the fairy to annoy Aisling.’
‘I thought it was something like that,’ his mother said. ‘All the same, that’s hardly the point, is it? Mr Fogarty can’t possibly be considered a suitable ...’ She hesitated. ‘... friend for you, can he, Henry?’
‘Mum, I just clean up the house for him,’ Henry said, trying to retrieve the situation.
‘Your sister seems to think it may be more than that,’ his mother said.
‘Mum, Aisling doesn’t know anything about Mr Fogarty. And even if she did, she’s not exactly –’
‘But you have to admit she has a point,’ his mother cut across him.
‘A point about what?’ Henry asked.
Martha Atherton sniffed. ‘Middle-aged man ... young impressionable boy. You’re not a child, Henry.’
‘First off, Mr Fogarty isn’t middle aged. He’s old. Really old, like seventy-five or eighty or something. He’s not interested in sex any more.’
‘Who mentioned sex?’ his mother asked. ‘I didn’t mention sex.’
It was one of her tricks, but Henry wasn’t going to let her get away with it. ‘It’s what you meant, isn’t it, Mum? You’re worried in case Mr Fogarty and I are ... are – ’ He couldn’t even say it.
‘You have to admit it’s a possibility. You have to –’
This time it was Henry who cut in. ‘It’s not a possibility, Mum. I’m not interested in old men – I’m interested in girls!’
Henry’s mother said coldly to her son, ‘Did you know your precious Mr Fogarty has a police record?’
Up in his room, long after the hassle, Henry stared at his sculpture of the flying pig and wondered what had gone wrong with his life. He turned the handle and the pig took off smoothly, flapping cardboard wings. He felt as if he’d made it in some other lifetime. Some other lifetime when he was just a kid. He didn’t feel like a kid any more. At that exact moment, he felt older than Mr Fogarty who he’d been forbidden to see ever again.
A police record? His mother refused to say anything more, not even where she’d heard it, but his dad looked sheepish so Henry suspected this little titbit of information was part of the few enquiries he’d made. Not that Henry believed it for a minute. His dad could get things wrong just as easily as his mum. There was no way Mr Fogarty could have a police record. He was nearly eighty, for God’s sake, maybe more than eighty. What sort of police record could anybody have when they were over eighty? Swatting somebody with their pension book?
His parents wouldn’t listen. Neither of them. Not even when Henry tried the old ploy of playing them off against each other. Where it came to Fogarty, they stood shoulder to shoulder, all differences forgotten. Henry was not to see him again.
He lay down on the bed, not bothering to take off his trainers, and ran a replay of the last conversation he’d had with Mr Fogarty.
‘So where do we get them?’ Henry said, asking about the components of the Hieronymous Machine.
And Fogarty told him, ‘Yo
u’ll have to steal them from your school.’
Henry blinked and said something really dim. ‘It’s closed for the summer holidays.’
‘Make it easier to nick them, won’t it?’ Fogarty sniffed.
‘I’m not going to steal stuff from my school!’ Henry protested. ‘No way!’
‘Well, I can’t do it,’ Fogarty said. ‘Can hardly walk to the end of the road, let alone climb a wall. You’ll have to do it, Henry. Pyrgus will help you. Won’t you, Pyrgus?’
‘Yes,’ said Pyrgus promptly.
‘Are you mad?’ Henry asked them. ‘What happens if I get caught?’
Fogarty gave him a withering look. ‘Know how many larcenies ever get solved in this district? Ten per cent. Ten per cent. One in ten – know what I’m saying? Even then, half of them walk for lack of evidence or some legal crap. And it’s only the stupid ones get caught in the first place. Little bit of planning, little bit of common sense and you’ll be through that place like a dose of salts. It’s an empty school! Not like I’m asking you to nick the Crown Jewels.’
‘I’m not doing it,’ Henry said.
‘You want Pyrgus to get back, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry angrily. ‘I want Pyrgus to get back. But I don’t want to steal things from my school. Or anywhere else.’
‘Tell you what,’ Fogarty said, ‘we’ll put them back afterwards. So it won’t be stealing – just borrowing. Short-term-loan sort of thing, if you’re going to be prissy.’
Henry bristled at the prissy crack, but forced himself not to respond. ‘What do you mean, we’ll put them back? Pyrgus will be gone and you can’t walk to the end of the road. You mean I’ll put them back. So I’m supposed to break into the school twice. I’m not doing it.’
‘Suppose I got somebody else to put them back, would you do it then?’
‘Who?’ asked Henry. ‘Who would you get to put them back?’
‘I got contacts,’ Fogarty said.
‘Then get your contacts to steal them!’ Henry told him crossly.
‘No time,’ Fogarty said. ‘Pyrgus has things of his own to do.’ He sniffed. ‘Anyway, I see you don’t have any objection to taking the things just so long as you don’t have to do it.’
Faerie Wars Page 14