The Faeman Quest

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘You’ll have to cover my expenses,’ Brimstone said.

  ‘What expenses?’ Chalkhill demanded. ‘All you have to do is sit there, sniff and concentrate. I’m already paying for the cocktails.’

  Brimstone treated him to a knowing smile. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Jasper. The cloud dancer made me sensitive and the sensitivity gives me a mental picture of the thing we’re looking for. But I may not recognise the place. I mean, I could tell you she’s standing under an oak tree looking at a sheep, but I wouldn’t necessarily know where the tree was growing or who owned the animal.’

  ‘Is she standing under an oak tree looking at a sheep?’

  ‘No, that was just an example.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she might be yet?’

  It was time, Brimstone thought, to dangle the bait. ‘I do have a picture – not an oak tree or a sheep – but I’m not at all sure where it might be.’ Which was a truthful lie. He wasn’t quite sure where Mella was now, whether she was alive or dead, but he was convinced he knew where she’d just been. From his experience of the Analogue World, the scene he saw was never American, but it might be British. It had occurred to him that Mella’s father – Consort Majesty King Henry – was a human, brought up in the Analogue World. What more natural for a girl of Mella’s age than to want to visit her father’s old home? Zero in on that and chances were you found the girl.

  ‘Where do you think it might be?’ Chalkhill demanded.

  ‘Buthner,’ Brimstone said promptly. He hesitated, then added, ‘Or Haleklind.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. The place I’m sensing is very distinctive: an escarpment with an enormous natural stone pillar that’s been carved into the representation of a smiling dragon with emerald eyes. I’m surprised it’s not known as a tourist attraction, but it’s bound to be known in its own country.’ He set his cocktail to one side and went on enthusiastically, ‘I thought what I would do is take a trip to Buthner and make some enquiries. Then, if the place I’m sensing isn’t there, I can visit Haleklind and do the same.’ He nodded soberly. ‘That’s why I’ll need expenses.’

  Chalkhill said, ‘I don’t have time to send you traipsing around two different countries.’

  ‘Has to be done, I’m afraid,’ Brimstone told him piously. ‘What alternative do we have?’ He waited.

  Chalkhill swallowed the bait. ‘You could describe what you’re sensing and I can check one country while you check the other. That would halve the time.’

  ‘So it would,’ Brimstone said. He looked at Chalkhill with admiration, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

  Seventeen

  There were two fire engines at the scene as well as an ambulance and three more police cars. More than a dozen uniformed men were climbing over the rubble. Four of them had police dogs on leads. Henry walked across to where an ambulance driver was talking to a burly man who had plainclothes copper written all over him.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but has anyone been injured?’

  He addressed the question to the ambulance man, but the burly copper butted in at once. ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you live along this bit of road?’

  ‘No, I –’

  ‘In that case, sir, you shouldn’t be here. Can’t have gawpers holding up the rescue operation.’

  There was a time when Henry would have backed off apologetically: he’d been terrified of authority for most of his life. But that time was gone. He was King Consort of the Realm now and if he could hold his own with Blue, he could hold his own with anybody. He turned to look the big man directly in the eye.

  ‘I was brought up in this house,’ he said firmly. ‘My mother still lives here. That hardly makes me a gawper.’

  The man’s tone and demeanour changed at once. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Should have realised they wouldn’t have let you through, if you didn’t belong. I’m –’

  Henry cut him off. ‘You said “rescue operation”. Does that mean there were people in the house?’

  The ambulance man said, ‘We don’t know, truthfully. We’re treating it as if there were – all we can do, really. We haven’t found any survivors, but the good news is we haven’t found any bodies either.’

  ‘How long have you been searching?’

  ‘Couple of hours.’

  ‘That’s a very short time,’ Henry said.

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ the ambulance man said. ‘The sniffer dogs should have picked up something by now if there was anything to pick up.’ He nodded towards the rubble. ‘Just look at them: bored stiff, the four of them.’

  The burly policeman was pulling a notebook from his pocket. ‘Since you’re here, sir, you might help us by confirming a few details. Neighbours say the householder was a Mrs Atherton. You wouldn’t happen to know her first name?’

  ‘Of course I know her first name,’ Henry said crossly. ‘She’s my mother. It’s Martha.’

  ‘And I gather she lived here with another woman?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘And that would be Aisling Atherton, would it?’ the copper asked, consulting his notebook.

  Henry glanced at him in surprise. So Aisling was still living at home, the lazy little cow. She must be nearly thirty now. Why couldn’t she lead her own life? ‘Aisling’s my sister,’ he said. ‘Did the neighbours say she was living here?’

  ‘Yes. Can you confirm it?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve been away rather a long time.’

  The policeman seemed to accept it. ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Henry. Henry Atherton.’

  ‘But you haven’t been living here for a while?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘No. Not for years.’

  ‘So it would just have been Mrs Atherton and your sister? Or is there a Mr Atherton?’

  ‘Divorced,’ Henry told him.

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘No, years ago.’

  ‘Any reason for him to blow up the house?’

  Henry froze. ‘What?’

  The burly man closed his notebook with a snap. ‘Mr Atherton, I’m Detective Inspector John Tyneside. I’m in charge of this investigation. Officially, we’re checking out the possibility of a gas main explosion. Unofficially, the first thing we thought of when the reports started to come in was a terrorist attack. I –’

  ‘A terrorist attack?’ Henry echoed. ‘Out here?’

  D. I. Tyneside nodded. ‘I know: we dropped that theory once we found that it was a domestic residence. But I’ll tell you this, Mr Atherton. That house didn’t come down because of a gas main. Just look at it. That was one hell of an explosion. It’s a miracle the houses beside it are still standing. Some funny characteristics as well: didn’t so much blow up outwards as inwards. We’re talking high explosive here, Mr Atherton, and not your usual Semtex either: something new, something we haven’t seen before. Your mother isn’t mixed up in organised crime, is she?’

  Wouldn’t put it past her, Henry thought sourly. Aloud, he said, ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Anybody want her dead? Sorry to ask. Your father wouldn’t be an industrial chemist, by any chance?’

  ‘Just a businessman,’ Henry said. ‘Management executive.’ On second thought he added, ‘Food processing. Nothing to do with explosives.’

  ‘Doesn’t hold a grudge against your mother, then? Because of the divorce?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘He’s remarried and moved on.’

  ‘How does she get on with your sister?’

  ‘My mother? Like a house on fi—’ He realised what he’d been about to say and amended it hurriedly. ‘Very well indeed.’ A thought struck him. ‘Actually there’s someone else living here – Anaïs Ward.’

  Tyneside opened his notebook again. ‘Neighbours didn’t mention that one. Who is she – a lodger?’

  ‘Lover,’ Henry muttered. Despite himself he felt
a flush rise in his face.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She’s my mother’s lover,’ he said firmly. ‘I think she’s still living here. As I said, I haven’t been for a while.’

  ‘We’ll check it out,’ Tyneside said, not at all perturbed. He looked directly at Henry. ‘Now you, sir.’

  ‘Me? What about me?’

  ‘You say you haven’t lived here for some years and now you’re saying you haven’t visited much either. Where have you been living?’

  Fairyland, Henry thought. ‘New Zealand,’ Henry said.

  Tyneside clicked a ballpoint. ‘I’ll need an address, sir.’

  Oh God, Henry thought. But without hesitation he said, ‘Twenty-two, Palm Grove Close, West Wellington Road, Auckland. New Zealand, of course.’ It was completely bogus, but by the time they made the call to check it, he and Blue would be long gone.

  ‘That’s palm like the tree, not Pam like the woman’s name?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Henry nodded. He could see Blue approaching out of the corner of his eye and decided he needed to get away before she arrived to stick her oar in. It was hard enough keeping a story straight if you were the only one telling lies. Besides, he’d learned as much as he was going to from this policeman and the ambulance driver.

  But Tyneside was looking at him curiously. ‘Didn’t get on all that well with your mother yourself, did you sir?’

  Henry flushed again. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Tyneside shrugged. ‘Moved out years ago, haven’t visited much. Not exactly the loving son, are you?’

  ‘I write,’ Henry protested. Which he did, albeit rarely. The letters were composed in the Faerie Realm (not always by Henry himself) then transferred by apport to a university professor in Wellington, who happened to be a Spiritualist and believed himself under orders from the Other Side to forward them to Henry’s mother.

  ‘You don’t happen to work in the explosives industry, do you sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Henry said firmly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse –’

  ‘What do you work at, sir?’

  I’m King of the Fairies, Henry thought. What could he say? If he hesitated, the District Inspector would know at once he was lying. But the fact was, he’d never had a real job, not a real Analogue World job. He hadn’t even been to university: he’d married Blue straight out of high school and immediately taken up State duties in the Realm. And beside that, he hadn’t even known what he wanted to do.

  ‘I’m a teacher,’ he heard his mouth say. His mother had always wanted him to be a teacher. That would please her. If she was still alive.

  The thought brought him up short. He really did need to get away from this man. Essentially Henry hadn’t learned much except that there was no confirmed bad news, while Tyneside had already winkled out enough false information to hang him twice over. He might easily suggest Henry take a little walk down to the station for further inquiries if Henry wasn’t very, very careful, and Henry didn’t have time to take little walks anywhere. His daughter was missing, and now his old home was blown up, his mother, sister and Anaïs were all missing, any one or all of them might be dead, God forbid, while Henry was faffing round getting nowhere as usual.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my wife is very upset about all this, as you might imagine, and I’ve left her alone too long. We’ll be staying at the Dorchester if you’ve any news – or if you need me any further.’ God knew why he’d picked the Dorchester, except it was a posh London hotel that made him sound impressive and respectable (until Mr Tyneside calls and finds you’re not on the list of guests, a small voice whispered in his head). Then, before things could get any worse, he turned and walked away.

  He headed Blue off by taking her arm. ‘They haven’t found bodies,’ he said with quiet urgency, ‘which is a good thing.’ His natural pessimism seeped through a little and he added, ‘Of course, they might find something yet, but there’s sniffer dogs, and I think if they were going to –’

  ‘Mella’s not here,’ Blue interrupted him. ‘There’s nobody here, nobody dead.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I used a follower.’

  Henry looked at her in shock. ‘You used a what?’

  Followers were demons that followed people in the Faerie Realm, where they’d been illegal for centuries. Then he remembered they weren’t illegal any more, one of the many reforms that came in after Blue became Queen of Hael. But legal or not, they were still considered terribly disreputable.

  Blue must have caught something of the thought in his look, for she said fiercely, ‘What do you expect me to do? She’s our daughter!’

  ‘No, no,’ Henry said. ‘You did the right thing.’ He hesitated. ‘Did it bring you any other information?’

  ‘She was here,’ Blue said, ‘just as we suspected. She was here, but she’s not now and there are no bodies in the rubble.’

  ‘So where has she gone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t the follower tell you?’

  ‘It lost her in the explosion – I’ve sent it hunting for her again, but we’re not sure if she’s here or back in the Faerie Realm. It’s just possible she may have gone home.’

  It sounded like wishful thinking, but it was cheering all the same. ‘What makes you think that?’ Henry asked hopefully.

  ‘Look at what’s happened,’ Blue whispered. ‘What does that remind you of?’

  Henry blinked. ‘A bomb blast?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Bombs blow things outwards. Look at your mother’s house now. I know there’s rubble blocking the road, but look where most of it is.’

  Henry looked. Most of it was where the house had stood, a huge pile of broken bricks and mortar.

  ‘What does that remind you of?’ Blue repeated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Henry said helplessly.

  ‘You know the old portable portals Mr Fogarty used to make – the early ones, before he’d quite got the hang of it?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You remember what happened when you used them inside a building?’

  It came flooding back to Henry now. It hadn’t always happened – in fact it hadn’t often happened – but there’d been at least two cases he could think of when the portal had caused a building to collapse. Both times there’d been injuries, but at least the people had been rescued alive. When the portal closed, it created a super-vacuum that caused the building to implode. Blue was right. The remains of his mother’s home looked more like it had imploded than exploded.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he breathed.

  Blue said, ‘That man you were talking to – he’s waving at you. I think he may want to talk to you again.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Henry said urgently. They were approaching the police barrier and at least he’d had the sense to tell the taxi to wait. As they hurried through, he had that weird feeling of somebody staring at the back of his neck, but when he glanced around, he could see nobody.

  Eighteen

  Chalkhill wrapped the shadow cloak a little tighter and peered out from behind the dustbin. What was Brimstone doing in Seething Lane of all places? The old boy had once had lodgings down here, but they were long gone. And they’d both owned a business here – the Chalkhill and Brimstone Miracle Glue Factory – but that was long gone as well, demolished by the interfering young busybody Pyrgus Malvae in the days when he was heir to the throne. Was Brimstone heading for the old factory site? It seemed unlikely. The demolished buildings had been replaced by a school, but the contractors neglected to defuse the cobblestone minefield attached to the original plant, so neither the school nor its pupils lasted very long. After that, the city authorities turned it into a carriage park for a while, but the high rate of vandalism meant it was seldom used. Prickleweed eventually invaded from the nearby Wildmoor Broads, so that the old site was a complete no-go area now.

  One thing was certain: Brimstone hadn’t come here to make the trip to Buthner a
s they’d agreed, any more than Chalkhill was looking for transport to Haleklind. Chalkhill knew the smell of bullshine when he heard it and he’d never bought Brimstone’s story about the pillar carved into a dragon with emerald eyes. But that wasn’t to say he didn’t believe Brimstone knew where Mella was. The old fart knew all right: he just wasn’t telling. Chalkhill could only presume he meant to grab the girl for himself, try to hold her for ransom or trade her as a slave. Complete madness, of course, but then – ha, ha – Brimstone was mad, wasn’t he? If he hadn’t been sent potty by the cloud dancer, he wouldn’t have been able to locate Mella in the first place. All the same, his madness meant that if you followed Brimstone when he tried to carry out his loony scheme, you found Mella. And once Chalkhill found Mella, all he needed to do was quietly dispatch Brimstone, who was no further use and too old anyway, then deliver the girl to Hairstreak for slaughter. Mission accomplished double-quick time, fat payment received and on to the next job. Hey-ho the holly!

  But what was Brimstone doing in Seething Lane? Was Mella hiding somewhere in this dungheap?

  Brimstone stopped outside the barber’s shop, glanced behind him suspiciously, failed to see Chalkhill in his shadow cloak, then scuttled across the street and up three stone steps into a dingy little shop opposite. Chalkhill waited for a moment, then crept closer. There was a faded sign hanging outside the shop:

  Chalkhill unfolded his shadow cloak and marched imperiously into the barber’s shop. The chair, as he remembered, faced the window and gave him an uninterrupted view of the tattoo parlour. ‘Short back and sides,’ he snapped as he sat down.

  ‘Not cutting hair any longer,’ said the barber, a short, plump, balding man by the name of … Chalkhill searched his memory and found it … Nathalis. Filthy little sod, Faerie of the Night, of course – they all were round here – full of stupid jokes, but he’d been in the Lane for years.

  ‘What do you mean you’re not cutting hair any longer?’ Chalkhill demanded. ‘Your sign says Open.’

  ‘I’m cutting it shorter!’ Nathalis exploded into gales of laughter which faded only slowly under Chalkhill’s glare. ‘Ah, that’s a good one. Gets them every time. But seriously, nice to see you again, Mr Chalkhill.’