Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  They picked up the A9 just north of Inverness and followed it south through the rugged, desolate landscape of the Cairngorms. Two technology crashes slowed them up and it soon became apparent they would be searching for somewhere to stay in Edinburgh by the time the curfew came around. The best option seemed to be to break their journey and set off for the city fresh and early the next day. So, hungry and bored with the road, they arrived in the small town of Callander at the foot of the Highlands in the late afternoon.

  The jumbled collection of stone buildings nestled so hard against the thickly wooded foothills that, with the mountains soaring up in the background all around, they felt instantly enveloped and protected; it was a pleasant sensation after all the wide open spaces. The town smelled of fish and chips and pine, but that too was oddly soothing. A lot more people were wandering around than they had seen for days, their faces free of the taint of fear. It gave hope that the major centres of population still hadn’t been too affected.

  It was a long time since they had experienced the comfort of a soft bed so they opted to spend the night in a hotel. The Excelsior lay at the end of the main street, a Gothic-styled pile of stone that resembled a fortress with its turrets on four corners and enormous windows looking out on all sides. The thick, wild forest swept down almost to the very back of it, but it still seemed a place that could be secure.

  While the others rested or abluted, Church and Veitch went down to the hotel bar. It was comfortingly cool and dark away from the bright afternoon sun and had the cosy feel of a place which had grown organically rather than been designed to fit the frenzied drive for increased profits. Veitch had a Stella, Church a Guinness, and they took their drinks to a table in a window bay where they could look out on to the sun-drenched main street.

  “It’s the little things I’m going to miss,” Veitch said introspectively.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like this.” He held up the pint so it glowed golden in a sunbeam. “If things carry on falling apart, we’re not going to keep getting things like this, are we? It won’t be important. All the bigshots will be making sure everyone just has enough food, trying to keep the riots to a minimum.”

  Church laughed quietly. “So that’s your motivation, is it? Fight for the pint?”

  “No,” Witch replied indignantly, missing the humour. “It’s just the little things that bring all this shit home. You look out there and you can almost believe everything’s the same as it always was. But it’s right on the brink of going belly-up. How long do you think it’s got?”

  Church shrugged. “Depends how soon the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann start flexing their muscles and really screwing things up. Maybe they’ll leave us alone enough to carry on with some kind of normality.” Even to himself, he didn’t sound very convincing.

  There was a long pause while they both sipped their beer and then Veitch said, “You know what those spooks said. About one of us being a snake in the grass. It isn’t me, you know.” He looked at Church uncomfortably. “Because with my past record, I know that’s what everyone’s going to be thinking.”

  “I don’t think that’s true, Ryan.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame them. Everything I’ve ever done points in that direction. I’m just saying. It’s not me.” His gaze shifted away as he asked, “Do you believe me? It’s important that you believe me. The others, I don’t-” He held back from whatever he was about to say.

  Church thought for a moment, then replied, “I believe you.”

  Veitch’s shoulders relaxed and he couldn’t restrain a small, relieved smile which crept around the lip of his glass. He finished the lager with a long draught. “All right, then. Who do you think it is?”

  “It’s hard to believe any of us could be some kind of traitor. I think I’m a pretty good judge of human nature and I don’t see anything that makes me even slightly suspicious.”

  “The old hippie sold us down the river once.”

  “But that wasn’t his doing. Anyway, that’s been sorted out. Once the parasite was removed from his head he was back to normal.”

  Veitch leaned back in his seat and rested one foot on a stool. “You reckon they were making it up then?”

  “Not making it up exactly. It seems to me that whenever any information comes over from some supernatural source, it’s never quite how you think it is. They’re saying one thing, you hear another. I think they do it on purpose, another power thing,” he added with weary exasperation.

  “Well, I’m going to be watching everyone very carefully.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want paranoia screwing things up from within. There’s enough of a threat outside.”

  An old man with a spine curved by the years and a face that was little more than skin on bone shuffled in and cast a curious glance in their direction before making his way to the bar. He was wearing a checked, flat cap and a long brown overcoat, despite the warmth of the day. Pint in hand, he headed towards a seat in a shadowy corner, then seemed to think twice and moved over to the table next to them.

  “Mind if I sit here?” His accent had the gentle, lilting quality of the Highlands, his voice steady, despite his appearance. Once he’d settled, he glanced at them with jovial slyness. “Out-of-towners?”

  “We’re travelling down to Edinburgh,” Church said noncommittally.

  “On holiday?”

  “Something like that.”

  The old man sipped his beer thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on in the world, would you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the papers all printing junk and the TV and the radio playing the same old rubbish from the Government, you can’t get any news worth hearing. It’s got to be something bad to shut down the TV. We always get lots of tourists travelling through here from the cities, but there’s been nary a soul over the last few days. So what have you seen?”

  Church wondered how he could begin to explain to the man what was happening; wondered if he should. Veitch interjected before he could reply, “All seems pretty normal to me, mate.”

  “Aye, that’s what everyone round here is saying. Oh, there was a bit of panic when those Government messages started repeating, but once the police went round calming everyone down and we all saw it wasn’t the end of the world, everyone carried on as normal.” He chuckled. “What are we going to do with us, eh?”

  “So what do you think’s happening?” Church asked.

  “Aye, well,” the old man rubbed his chin, “that’s the question. Like I say, at the moment it doesn’t seem too bad. Oh, there’s a few things you can’t seem to get in the shops, but there’s talk they might be rationing petrol-“

  “Oh?” Church glanced at Veitch, both aware of the problems that might arise if their ability to travel was hampered.

  “Aye. So they say. Could be shortages. And the phone’s off more than it’s on. It’s awful hard trying to find out what’s happening in the next village, never mind in the cities.” He looked at Church and Veitch with a tight smile. “Reminds me of the war.”

  Church glanced out into the main street at a boy cycling by lazily. “I bet you get a lot of your income round here from tourism. What’s going to happen if that dries up?”

  “People will find a way to get by.” The old man took out a pipe that looked as ancient as he appeared and began to feed it with tobacco from a leather pouch. “They always do, don’t they? The Blitz spirit. People find a way.”

  They all gathered in the bar at 6 p.m. to eat. The food was plain but filling and it was even more comforting to feed on something they hadn’t prepared themselves on a Calor Gaz stove. The atmosphere in the place seemed so secure and easy-going after their nights on the road that even Laura’s usual complaining seemed half-hearted.

  After they ordered drinks, they assessed their situation and considered their plans for the future. Ruth and Shavi were bank-rolling them as the others had all run
out of funds, but the two of them still had enough savings to keep them going. They discussed the possibility of fuel rationing and agreed to top up the tank first thing and, if possible, get some large diesel containers they could keep in the back. None of them discussed their prospects for success, nor did they mention Balor by name, although his presence hung oppressively on the edge of the conversation.

  Apart from a few minor points, it was the severed finger that concerned them the most. During the day its obscure symbolism had set unpleasant reso nances deep in their minds, triggering images which they couldn’t recognise; the lack of obvious meaning made them feel hunted and insecure.

  “The Fomorii wouldn’t have resorted to such a subtle tactic,” Tom noted. “They would have been upon us in an instant. But they don’t care about us any longer. We’re no longer a threat. In their eyes, we have failed in our primary mission.”

  “Losers,” Veitch said with obvious irritation. “At least if they’re not watching us we can come up on their blind side.”

  Church was heartened to see the fatalism which had infected them ever since they came together was slowly dissipating; now there seemed no doubt that they could do something, however little that might be. Against the allpowerful forces lined against them, that was a great victory in itself.

  “It has the hallmark of someone working alone,” Shavi noted. “In this new world, perhaps we inadvertently antagonised something. Trespassed on land it presumed was its own.”

  “But who did the finger belong to?” Ruth asked.

  “Some poor bastard,” Church muttered.

  “Let us hope it was a warning not to go back there,” Shavi said, “and that it has not decided to pursue us for recompense.”

  The hotel was holding its weekly ceilidh that night and by 7:30 p.m. the regulars began to drift in to the large lounge next to the bar. The band had already started to set up; it was the fiddle player’s intense warm-up which had attracted Church and the others. They wandered in with their drinks and were welcomed with surprising warmth. The old man Church and Veitch had met in the bar earlier was there and gave them a wink as they took a beer from the barrels lined up on a table at one end of the room.

  At 8 p.m. the dancing began. The moment the fiddle player launched into his reel the lounge turned into a maelstrom of whirling men and women of all ages, skirts flying, heels flicking, grins firmly set on faces. A girl of around seventeen grabbed Shavi’s arm and dragged him into the throng. He took to the dance with gusto.

  Veitch backed off in case anyone pulled him in. “Bleedin’ Scottish dancing. Not my scene, mate,” he muttered.

  The drink was flowing as fast as the music, with every glass of beer followed by a chaser of malt. In that atmosphere of wild abandon and life celebration it was impossible not to become involved, and soon Church and the others had lost all thought of the stresses and tensions that assailed them.

  As the night drew on, they made new friends and drifted from conversation to conversation. Shavi seemed particularly popular with the young women and Ruth with the men; she surprised herself by revelling in the attention she was getting, a liberating experience after the oppression of the previous few weeks.

  Sweating after a vigorous dance, she adjourned to the bar area where she found Laura lounging against the wall, sipping on a glass of neat vodka.

  “Keeping all the boys happy,” Laura said coolly.

  Over the weeks, Ruth had learned to ignore Laura’s baiting, but with the drink rushing round her system, she found herself bristling. “I can understand how you’d be jealous of someone who’s popular.”

  “Jealous? Look in the mirror, Frosty.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ruth did, and that irritated her even more. “If you think I’m bothered about you and Church-“

  “It’s pretty obvious you’ve been trying to wrestle him to the ground since you met him. But he’s got about as much in common with you as he has with Shavi. Face it, the best woman won.” Laura smiled tightly, but her eyes were cold and hard.

  Ruth could feel her anger growing, which made her even more angry. She hated to lose control, but somehow Laura knew how to punch all the right buttons. “Do I hear desperation in your voice? Now you’ve got him, you’re afraid of losing him, aren’t you?”

  Laura thought about this for a moment. “We’re right for each other.”

  “What you mean is, he’s right for you. You’ve finally found someone strong enough to carry the weight of all your emotional baggage.” Ruth caught herself before she said anything more hurtful.

  “What do you know about emotions? You’re an ice queen.” Laura tried to maintain her cool, but she knocked back her vodka in one go.

  “That shows how much you know.”

  “All I’m saying is, stay away from him. I saw you talking to him the other night, trying to wheedle your way into his affections-“

  “I wouldn’t dream-” Ruth caught herself as her defiance suddenly surfaced. In the background the music was raging and she had to raise her voice. “And what would you do if I did?”

  Laura turned and stared at her for a long moment with eyes impossible to read and then walked away through the crowd.

  Veitch and Shavi had got into a drinking competition, knocking down shots while they were egged on by a cheering crowd. But all paused as Tom stepped onto the small, makeshift stage and whispered something to the fiddle player. A second later the musician handed over his instrument which Tom shouldered before beginning to tap out a rhythm with his right foot. And then he started to play, a low, mournful sound that made everyone in the room stop what they were doing and stare. The tune was mediaeval in construction, the melody filled with the ache of loneliness, of love never-to-be-found, of yearning and failed desire; Church felt a cold knot develop in his chest, but Tom’s face was impassive, his eyes icy. And then, as if he had suddenly awoken to the fact that he had dampened the mood, Tom began to pick up the beat, slowly at first, but then quicker and quicker, until he had developed the melody into a rampant jig. A couple down the front began to clap, and the sound ripped back through the crowd until everyone was joining in, physically driving the mood back up. Within a couple of minutes, everyone was dancing again and Tom seemed to be having the time of his life.

  As Church sipped on his glass of malt, his head woozy from drink, feeling uncommonly happy for the first time in days, he felt a strange sensation prickling along his spine, as if someone was watching him. In the days since he had first encountered the unknown under Albert Bridge he had learned to be attentive to his instincts. He turned quickly. There was no one behind him, but the door to the corridor which ran down to the hotel entrance was open. For a second or two, he weighed his options, then crept over to the doorway and peered out. The corridor was empty.

  He had just about convinced himself it was nothing but his imagination at work when the door out on to the street swung open slightly, as if it had been buffeted by a breeze; as it did, he thought he heard a faint, melodic voice calling his name.

  His heart picked up a beat, but after all he had been through, he still didn’t feel wary. There was something … a feeling, perhaps … which seemed to be floating in the air from the direction of the door and it was overwhelmingly comforting. His first reaction was that he was being summoned by the spirit of Marianne, as he had been twice before, but it felt different this time. He finished his whisky, left his glass on an ornamental table in the corridor and walked towards the door.

  The main street was completely still, although it wasn’t late in the evening. The streetlights were bright, but not so much that they obscured the glittering array of stars in the clear sky. The night itself was balmy with the promise of summer just around the corner. He looked up and down the deserted street until he saw something which caught his eye.

  Across the road was the park that rolled down to the river. During the day it had been filled with the whoops of chi
ldren racing around the adventure playground and the jeers of teenagers hanging out next to the log cabin where the refreshments were served, but at that time it was deserted and unnervingly quiet. He crossed the road and leant on the wall, searching the paths that wound among the waving, fluffy-tipped pampas grass. Something moved. His rational mind told him it would be ridiculous to venture down into those wide open spaces, but his instincts didn’t register anything that worried him. He steeled himself, then opened the gate.

  Away from the streetlights, he was uncomfortably aware of the wild presence of nature looming away in the dark, but the splashing of the river prevented the silence becoming too oppressive. Whatever had brought him down there seemed to be leading him. Every now and then he would catch sight of a movement ahead, steering him down the paths until he was following the course of the river back towards the heart of the town. Eventually he came up to a brick bridge with an old churchyard next to it. It was an odd, triangular shape, the jumbled mass of markers mildewed, with some so timeworn they resembled the ancient standing stones of Gairloch. The grass among them was thick and along the walls age-old trees were so gnarled and wind-blasted they looked like menacing figures daring him to enter. It was so eerily atmospheric in the quiet that he almost did turn back, but after another movement on the far side, he took a deep breath and swung open the green, iron gate that hung ajar.

  Cautiously, he moved among the white and grey stones muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” under his breath, but the truth was, he still didn’t feel any sense of threat. And then he reached the far side and the shape that had been luring him was no longer insubstantial.

  Before him stood the woman he had encountered in the Watchtower floating between the worlds, the one who had visited him on the edge of dreams as a child, and freed him from the Fomorii cells, claiming to be his patron. She was one of the Tuatha De Danann, infused with the beauty which permeated that race. It was almost as if her skin was glowing with a faint golden light. Her eyes, too, were flecked with gold, and her hair tumbled lustrously about her shoulders. She was wearing the same dress of dark green he remembered from before; its material was indeterminate, but it clung to her form in a way that was powerfully appealing.