The Fury

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  Daisy didn’t know for sure, but she understood that the three of them – her, Cal and Brick – had helped. They’d done something. She could still sense the person, or the two people – the twins, she realised with a sharp intake of breath. Only there was something different about them, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  They were coming here, though. That much was clear. Daisy frowned, trying to remember more, trying to see inside those transparent, clinking movies that played inside her mind. There was something there that frightened her, something that burned, but she couldn’t work out what it was.

  ‘What now?’ asked Brick. ‘We light some joss sticks and sing “Kumbaya”?’

  Daisy didn’t reply, she just stared at the fire inside her head, trying to work out what was wrong, and why she felt so scared.

  Rilke

  Farlen, 12.45 a.m.

  Rilke’s first thought was that she’d died.

  The thought that followed was that she couldn’t have died, because she was still thinking. Then came the realisation that she couldn’t have died because she was in pain.

  She opened her eyes, the lids sticky as if she’d been asleep for a week. The stars were moving, spiralling across the infinite black canvas of the sky. Her ears were humming. Her whole body seemed to be locked tight with a muted, throbbing ache. Smoke clawed its way into her nose. It filled her head too, draping heavy shadows over her thoughts, her memories.

  Why was she here?

  Schiller, her brain told her, and at once her paralysis snapped free. She sat up, a jet of milk-white vomit erupting from her mouth without warning. She held her stomach with one hand, wiping spit away with the other. Stars drifted down from the night, landing on her face and the field beside her, glowing fiercely. She held out her hand, letting one settle on it. The spark guttered then died. We knocked the stars from the sky, she thought. Our fingers touched and we knocked loose the stars.

  Only they weren’t stars. How could they be? They were ashes, like the flickering embers from a bonfire. They filled the air, dancing on their own heat. She looked through them, the world gradually coming into focus. Schiller was there, lying next to her. His face was a mosaic of bruises, blood running freely from his nose and his mouth. But he was alive. Seeing him like that brought everything back, and Rilke staggered to her feet, ready to defend herself from another attack.

  There was nobody there.

  Not only was there nobody there, she didn’t know exactly where ‘there’ was. They were in a field, a different field. This one had something growing in it – a carpet of fat leaves painted silver by the moon. There was a glow against the horizon, and it took her a minute to understand that she was looking at the party, the rave. The distant crowd danced in the weak glow as if nothing had happened. She looked back at her brother, her brain desperately trying to put the pieces together, trying to make some kind of sense of what had just happened.

  ‘Schill?’ she asked. ‘Are you okay?’

  He didn’t reply, didn’t show any sign that he’d heard her. Rilke crouched down beside him, pressing two fingers against his throat and feeling the pulse there, faint but steady. But he was cold, he was freezing. Touching him was like picking up a glass of ice water, and Rilke had to pull her hand away after a minute or so as the numbing chill crept into it.

  ‘Schiller,’ she said again, shaking the blood back down her arm. ‘Talk to me. Please.’

  He was in shock. He had to be. He’d taken a pretty bad beating, they both had. But how had they got from over there, getting the life stamped out of them by a bunch of stoned strangers, to right here? I fought them, her brain argued, picking strands of logic from the confusion. She looked down at her hands, stained pink like she’d been cutting up beetroot. I fought them, and we ran, and it was so terrifying that I’ve already blocked it out. That had to be it, didn’t it? She wished she had a watch, or a phone, so she could check the time.

  And so you can call an ambulance, right?

  No. She wasn’t going to do that. There was no precise reason why not, only that she knew it would be the wrong thing to do. There was an image in her head, a picture, a memory that she had no actual memory of – a paramedic in his green overalls, his face somehow a horse’s face as he threw himself at her, as he pushed her through a window.

  Somebody cried out from the direction of the party, a word she couldn’t make any sense of. She tapped her pocket, feeling for the torch but not finding it. It was probably better this way. If they saw the light then they might come after her again. They might be coming after her now, feet pounding through the darkness, fists clenched, that same depthless rage burning through their faces.

  The Fury.

  ‘We need to go,’ she said, lifting one of her brother’s arms and looping it around her shoulders. She braced herself, pushing up with her legs, his body rag-doll loose against hers. ‘Schiller,’ she snapped, his name seeming to echo against the night. ‘Pull it together. We need to get out of here.’

  His head lolled against his chest, swinging from side to side like a nodding dog on a car’s parcel shelf. She looked over her shoulder to the party, trying to get her bearings in the dark. If she was where she thought she was then the road back into town was way off to her right. But that’s not where she was headed.

  ‘Fursville,’ she whispered, the word ridiculous, meaningless, and yet the only thing she could think of. She caught a glimpse of a roller coaster, the wood rotting, a deserted restaurant. This was where she was supposed to go. And somehow she knew how to get there, too, something inside her head pulling at her, leading her.

  You’re crazy, her head told her. Go to the hospital, get Schiller some help. He’ll die if you don’t.

  Only she wasn’t crazy. This was something else. The swarm of ashes had calmed, but they were still falling, darting like fireflies. She held out her free hand and caught another one, a fragment of charred pink leather that flickered and died in her palm. Another followed, this one a burning scrap of fluorescent orange – Like the man’s gloves, those fingerless gloves around Schiller’s throat, choking the life from him – which took flight again after a second or two, rising back into the night.

  Yes, this was definitely something else.

  She hoisted Schiller up and started walking. He didn’t give her any help but she hauled him after her step after step after step. The cold that was coming off him was unbelievable, like she was walking through the middle of a blizzard. This wasn’t something a doctor could sling a bandage on or temper with antibiotics. Schiller didn’t need a hospital, he needed whatever lay inside the place in her head, that abandoned theme park called Fursville.

  Right?

  She pushed the questions away, locking on to those instincts, to her absolute gut belief that what she was doing was okay. The sea wasn’t far from here, and the little boat yard that belonged to the neighbouring village. She could hotwire one of the old roll-ups or dinghies. She’d done it before. It was a clear night, no wind, they could be there – wherever there was – before dawn. All she had to do was follow that feeling in her head, that guide rope tugging gently on her thoughts.

  Shivering, her teeth chattering so hard she was worried the ravers might hear them, Rilke kicked her way through the ash and the dirt, heading for the sea, heading for Fursville, heading for answers.

  Brick

  Fursville, 5.59 a.m.

  Waking was easier this time, apart from the dull ache that sat in every muscle. Brick sat up, rubbing both hands through his hair and yawning so hard his jaw popped. Beads of light pearled through the cracks in the boards over the windows, hanging on the dust and revealing Daisy on the sofa, Cal lying on the floor beside her, both still fast asleep.

  What had happened last night? They’d sensed something, or someone. It had been Daisy’s idea to try and send them a message, a mental picture of Fursville. It had seemed like a good idea in the dead of night, but daylight had a habit of bringing reality with it, common
sense. Brick felt his cheeks burn at the thought of the three of them standing hand in hand in the middle of the restaurant beaming psychic baloney out across time and space.

  He made his way towards the door, careful not to nudge any of the chairs or tables. He increased his speed once he was out in the corridor, hurrying past the peeling menus and special-deal posters – Upgrade to a large haddock or cod for an extra 30p! – and down the steps into the foyer. The light here was brighter, making his eyes sting, and he was almost glad to be back in the service corridor that led towards the fire exit.

  Until he reached the basement steps.

  He stopped, his heart jackhammering in his throat. If Lisa was alive – Of course she’s alive, it’s only been a day and she’s got food and water and just don’t think about her injuries, Brick, don’t even think about them – then this was about as close to her as he could get without her going nuts again. Without her getting the Fury.

  He cleared his throat, then he called out her name. The word was a sigh, deafening to Brick but too soft to carry. He looked right and left, trying not to think about what might have happened if she’d got out, if she was loose inside the building. He imagined her hands reaching from the shadows, those broken fingernails scraping down his face.

  Something moved behind the oil-black darkness at the bottom of the steps, a shuffling thump.

  ‘Brick?’ Her faint voice almost knocked him to his knees. His eyes burned again, tears flowing before he even knew he was crying – Thank God, thank God she’s alive, she’s okay – and he put his hand against the wall, hoping that somehow his touch might travel down into the basement, warm against her cheek. ‘Please let me out,’ it sounded like she was speaking through a mouthful of toffee, but she seemed stronger than she had yesterday. ‘Brick? It’s not too late.’

  ‘It’s okay, Lisa,’ he called back. ‘There are more of us now, we’ll think of something together, okay?’

  ‘Please Brick, just let me out and we can talk about this, I’m not . . . I’m not angry at you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know you’re not. I know you don’t understand. I don’t either, but . . .’

  But what? But he’d find a way to fix it? Because you’re a scientist, yeah? Because you’re really clever, because you can work all this out then put that genius head of yours into gear and make everything better? Right. He slapped his hand against his forehead, knocking the voice away.

  ‘I will,’ he answered it. ‘I will fix you, Lisa. I . . .’

  I love you, the words were there, but his mouth didn’t know how to shape them.

  ‘I’ll make it so things are like they were,’ he went on, those three unspoken words burning a hole in his throat. ‘I swear I will. Just hang on, remember to drink, I’m right here, I won’t leave you.’

  There was another thump, a crash this time, and at first Brick thought Lisa was throwing herself at the door again. He took a step back, trying to get out of her radar, or whatever it was that set off the Fury. It was only when he heard it again – a pounding, like fists on wood – that he realised it wasn’t coming from the basement.

  It was coming from outside.

  It’s the police, they’ve come for you.

  He moved down the corridor towards the fire exit and crept under the chains, his whole body on alert, ready to bolt at the first sign of a flashing blue light. He was fast, he could outrun them. Can you outrun the dogs, too? The helicopters? But there were no sirens, no loudspeakered demands, no thunder of chopper blades. There was just that same rattling thump.

  Brick swallowed, realising that his head was filled with the same muted numbness as the previous night – that weird inverted silence. With that realisation the fear sloughed away. Whoever was out there, it wasn’t the police. He started across the overgrown path, walking past the crazy golf and the one-eyed giant squirrel, heading for the seaward side of the park. By the time he’d reached the storage sheds that ran along the back of the pavilion he could hear a voice too. The sound of the sea disguised the words but he was pretty sure it was a girl.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out. Maybe he should go back, wake the others. He could get the gun, too, just in case. But despite his nagging worries he didn’t feel in any danger. He walked alongside the nine-foot tall fence, boarded with the park’s old ride signs and advertising hoardings. The one with the ‘Hook-a-duck’ picture on was rattling hard, and when he stopped beside it the girl’s voice was clear.

  ‘Is anyone there? Let us in.’

  Us? Brick thought, wondering again about the gun.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. The pounding stopped, leaving the park eerily quiet. For some reason it was colder here too, like he was standing next to an open fridge. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We need help,’ the girl said. He could hear her shivering. ‘My brother is hurt.’

  The girl, whoever she was, hadn’t gone rabid. She wasn’t snarling at him through the fence. That had to be a good thing.

  ‘There’s a way in,’ he said. ‘Go left. About fifty metres or so down there’s a break in the fence. I’ll meet you there.’

  He set off without waiting for a reply, jogging until he reached the engineering workshops. He ducked down the alley between them, moving the NDYFLOSS AN board and squeezing past the wire. The sun was just lifting up over the horizon, already dazzling, and he capped a hand to his forehead, peering through the shadow to see two people walking down the beach. The girl was a little younger than him, dark-haired and pretty, her face so pale it was blue. A mosaic of bruises and blood coloured her face and neck. She was almost carrying a boy, his arm around her shoulder, and as they got closer he saw that they had the same face.

  ‘You maybe want to help?’ she snapped.

  Brick grunted, trotting towards them. He was about a dozen yards away when the cold hit him, like he was running into a winter storm. Goosebumps broke out over his arms and he could see his own breath, ghost-like in front of him. He stopped, wrapping his arms around himself.

  ‘What the . . .’ Then he saw the dusting of ice that covered the boy’s face, crystals hanging from his lips and his eyelashes. His skin was grey, and although his eyes were open they had been frosted over.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said the girl. Brick started forward again, slower this time. His whole body was shuddering, the cold actually burning him. He manoeuvred himself around the side of the boy, ducking under his free arm and taking his weight. It felt as though he’d just buried himself in a snowdrift. The girl eased herself out, standing away and rubbing flecks of ice from the side of her face. ‘We need to get him inside,’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Brick asked through his clacking teeth. The girl fixed him with a look as cold as her brother.

  ‘That’s exactly what you need to tell me. Because I want an explanation, and I want it now.’

  Daisy

  Fursville, 6.14 a.m.

  Daisy couldn’t work out how the boy could be so cold and yet still be alive. Brick had carried him into the restaurant a few minutes ago, waking her. He’d shushed her off the sofa she’d spent the night on and laid the boy there, running off to find something to put over him.

  ‘It’s going to be okay, Schiller,’ said the girl who had walked in with him. She knelt beside the boy. She was wearing just a short skirt and a top. No wonder she looked so frozen. Her face was very pretty, other than the bruises, but there was something in it that made Daisy feel uneasy. It was probably just because she was a stranger.

  ‘I’ve found a couple more,’ said Cal, walking over with a handful of candles. He placed them on the coffee table beside the sofa, lighting them from one that was already burning and using the wax to stick them to the wood. The flames seemed reluctant and Daisy didn’t blame them – the air was so cold that even fire had to feel it. It would be easier to take the boards off the windows and let the sun in, but Brick had told them they couldn’t do it in case people noticed and came snooping.

  ‘Who are you people?�
� the girl asked.

  ‘You were attacked, right?’ Cal said. ‘By complete strangers.’

  The girl stared at Cal and even though half a dozen candles burned, her eyes stayed dark. Daisy felt some of those strange, translucent ice cube images clinking in her brain. She tried to get a better look at them but they bobbled just out of reach.

  ‘Right?’ Cal said when she didn’t reply.

  ‘And you saw our message online?’ added Brick as he staggered back into the room, peering over a mountain of linen. He dumped it all at the head of the sofa and the girl began to sort through it, shaking out each tablecloth before layering them over the boy, tucking them under his motionless body. His cold had turned the damp inside the sofa to a sheen of ice which glittered like diamonds. Daisy blew out puffs of cotton wool breath, watching them dissolve into the air for the few minutes it took for the girl to finish.

  ‘Schill, can you hear me?’ she said, getting to her feet and blowing on her blue fingers. The boy didn’t respond, his glazed, frozen eyes staring at the ceiling. He was wrapped up tight, like a mummy. She put her hand to his forehead, then turned and glared at Brick as if this was somehow his fault. ‘Message?’ she said after a moment.

  Brick looked at Cal, then at Daisy, and when nobody else spoke he finally turned back to the girl.

  ‘We left a message, online, saying for people to come to Hemmingway if they’d been attacked.’ He floundered, running his hands through his hair. ‘You didn’t get it?’

  More clinking ice cubes in her head. Daisy saw a field, and the heavens falling – burning flecks of stars. The boy was there, the girl too. And she could sense herself in the picture, her voice weird, like she was listening to it on a badly tuned radio.

  ‘You heard us,’ she said. ‘Last night, we told you to come here and you did.’