Dark Vision

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘No, Fintan,’ I said, bracing myself, fingers trembling around the keys. The spirit was strong, but the flesh was pathetically weak. ‘No.’

  ‘Why? You owe me an explanation!’ he said, his tone so whiny, so petulant, I half expected him to stamp his feet against the dock wall, or cry with frustration, like a little kid getting told off for something he hadn’t done.

  ‘I owe you nothing, Fintan, but I will tell you this much – I cannot choose you, or play any part in your ambitions. I am Lily McCain. I am Maura Delaney. I know little of your world. But the spirit of Mabe is in me, and while it is, I cannot help you. For Mabe and for this world, I refuse your request, and will offer no succour to the Fintna Faidh as long as I live in this mortal realm.’

  I didn’t know where that little speech came from, or the formulaic language. But it flowed from somewhere deep inside, and it felt right. To me, at least. Even as I spoke the words, I felt my body almost shimmering with energy, like I’d just treated it to the world’s most vitamin-packed fruit smoothie. I’d done the right thing, and something inside me was celebrating.

  Fintan, however, was not. The smell of rotten apples intensified, gathered so strongly I could almost see it hovering around him like an aura, like colourless smoke. I heard a sharp, distinct pop and looked down. He’d snapped one of Larry’s fingers in two, and it was slanted at a tragic angle. Another pop. The next finger went, bent out of all human recognition. Fintan felt nothing. I wondered if, somewhere inside him, Larry was screaming.

  His teeth started grinding together, so loud it made me feel sick, harsh and relentless, building up in its intensity until it was all I could hear. The seconds ticked by like hours, passing to the sound of decaying dentistry and rain pelting into the river. I should make a run for it, I knew. Try to scarper while I still could. But that sudden shimmer of energy had burst through me and fled, and now, somehow, my legs were immobile. I felt paralysed, and couldn’t so much as move my big toe.

  Fintan was staring at me, hard, and I knew he was the reason I couldn’t move. That somehow, without so much as lifting a broken finger, he had paralysed me. I tried again: nothing. I felt panic rising in my throat, a choking combination of fear and nausea. He was going to hurt me, and I couldn’t even run, couldn’t even try to protect myself. I told myself to calm down, that the anticipation of the pain was probably worse than the pain itself – but I knew it wasn’t true.

  He gazed at me, through those moon-orbed glasses, and smiled. Then his mouth puckered, and he started to whistle – ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’. He watched as I struggled against his control, thrashing around inside, cold sweat beading my forehead at the pointless effort. No matter what I told my body to do, it remained still and frozen in the dank night air; the only sign of me existing at all was the steamy puffs of panicked breath panting from my mouth.

  Fintan watched, and he whistled. This, I was sure, was not what Otis had in mind.

  ‘So be it, Lily McCain. The choice is made, and Mabe has spoken. Who am I to defy the Goddess?’ he said quietly.

  And with that, he put both hands behind my lower back, and shoved, as hard as he could. I felt my bottom sliding away from the ledge, away from the safety of the wall, my boots banging against the slimy brickwork. I slid down through the railing, banging my back on jagged shards of stone. Fintan laughed, a small, neat laugh, and suddenly I was free of the paralysis that had been holding me still.

  As I felt life flow back into my arms, I reached up desperately, trying to grab hold of the wrought-iron railing even as I slid down, off the edge of the river wall. I managed to get a tenuous grip, fingers wrapped round the slick iron up to my knuckles and no further. I clung on, clutching the rain-slicked metal, my body dangling over the black water.

  I panted, wriggled, tried to gain some purchase on the slippery river wall with my boots, trying to support my bodyweight with anything but just my fingers. My tired, battered fingers, ice-cold, nails broken, circulation gone, almost out of strength.

  ‘I let you go, Lily,’ he said, standing above me and looking down. The moon was behind him, casting him in dark shadow. ‘As you’re so keen on free will, I thought I’d let you enjoy one last choice. Now: will you join me?’

  I looked down at the water, bleak and glassy and waiting. Then up at Fintan, with his fake face and borrowed body and mouth twisted into fury. I’d been wrong before. This was the last decision I’d ever make. It had better be a good one.

  ‘No,’ I murmured, exhaling the word on a desperate outbreath, too exhausted to say anything more. The effort of even that was too much. As I spoke, my left hand slipped from the railing. I flailed around, trying to find the energy to throw it back up, but I was empty. I was now clinging on with one hand only, and the strength was sapping from my fingers.

  He leaned down, the hem of the great coat sloshing into a puddle. He stared at me, nose wrinkled slightly, as though both fascinated and repelled by what he saw. Then he edged forward and started to prise my fingers off the railing, one by one. He did it deliberately, slowly, and I saw at least one of them pop backwards so far it had to be broken. I didn’t even feel the pain; I was concentrating so hard on clinging on with my last four fingers. Three fingers. Two. One.

  I tried to heave myself upwards one last time, trying to get a grip on the railing, his legs, his hands, anything, but he moved too quickly, watching and smiling as gravity finally took me.

  I screamed as I tumbled down, down into the darkness, arms and legs windmilling as I grasped thin air, looking for something to break my fall. My yells were drowned out by the foghorn, and swallowed into the night. I cartwheeled, then plummeted, choking for breath as I fell. I threw out a prayer – a prayer to God, the God I’d been raised to pray to. Please, please, don’t let me die. Not here. Not like this.

  I spiralled down, in a flapping turmoil of hair and coat, to the water. Cold air whooshed past my face, dragging the breath out of me. I slammed into the icy glass of the Mersey with a slap that cut through skin.

  Black. Cold. Blood.

  It was over.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Extra cold or normal?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I replied.

  ‘Your Guinness – how do you want it?’

  ‘Um … extra cold, I suppose.’

  The man nodded, and walked away. To the bar. The bar in heaven, I had to presume, working on the theory that I was dead. My last memory had been of that harsh slap of still river meeting flesh, crippling pain, and of seeing my own blood swirl above me as I sank, curlicues of rust in dark water. I remember looking up, seeing the moon shimmering and shaking above me through the ripples of the Mersey closing over my face. Then nothing. Until now. Until heaven.

  I glanced around. Heaven looked strangely familiar. It looked a heck of a lot like the Cavern Club, in fact. A place where I had indeed consumed rather a lot of extra-cold Guinness over the years. This must be my happy place.

  I was dry, warm, and sitting on a deckchair. A proper old-fashioned, wooden-framed deckchair with red-and-white striped canvas. The kind I was always scared of getting trapped in. A quick look at my hands told me the nails were still broken, blood encrusted in the cuticles, and that the finger that Fintan had popped out hadn’t magically popped back in. It looked a lot worse than it felt, because it felt absolutely fine.

  I craned my neck to look around, not wanting to risk trying to stand up out of the deckchair, which was a recipe for a falling-over disaster. There were a few wooden chairs, no tables. No DJ-pumped music, no stags and hens, no students, no musos with guitars over their backs … No tourists, either. It was the Cavern that I knew – but at the same time it wasn’t. The brickwork was there, the arches and nooks and crannies, as well as a great big sign that said ‘cavern’ in capital letters, which was quite a strong clue. But it was darker, and dingier, and grimier. The floors shone with moisture, and the floor really needed a good clean. There was a pungent smell: sweat, disinfectant, and somethi
ng that belonged in a toilet.

  The place was packed, completely rammed full of hipsters, like a Sixties convention come to life. They were scenes I’d only ever seen before in black-and-white photos, but in reality it was even more vivid: the faint smell of sweat and cigarettes, the women with their bouffant hairdos and A-line skirts and little cardigans, men with sharp cuts and sharp suits. A sense of overwhelming excitement, the kind I’d felt before: hundreds of people crammed into a small space to see a great band. The common bond of loving something; of being a part of something. Of a ‘scene’ unfolding around you.

  The man walked back over, the sardine-tin crowd parting to let him through. He placed the Guinness in my hand, and gracefully lowered himself into the deckchair next to mine. Nobody looked in our direction, or pushed or shoved to get past, or even seemed to notice us at all. It was like we simply didn’t exist, which was odd as we were sitting smack bang in the middle of a very small room. In stripy wooden deckchairs.

  He was average in every way: height, build – all normal. Brown hair, blue eyes, a pleasant face. An appreciative smile at the first sip of Guinness.

  ‘They don’t really have Guinness here, especially not the extra-cold,’ he said. ‘That’s a long way off. But I prefer it, so that’s what we’ve got. How are you feeling? Ready for the show?’

  ‘I’m feeling … a bit confused. Who are you? And where am I? And what show?’

  He rolled his eyes, as though he was dealing with an awkward teenager, and made a suitable ‘tsk tsk’ sound between swigs.

  ‘I think you know exactly where you are, Lily. Assuming you can read, anyway. As for the show – who do you think? I wouldn’t bring you right here, right now, to see just anybody, would I?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea what you’d do, as we’ve never met before. The last thing I remember is—’

  ‘Unpleasant, I know. But you called me, and I came. Fintan, as ever, wasn’t playing by the rules. I sent him off with a flea in his ear … well, a crow in his ear, actually, but that’s another story. Now, settle back; the crowd’s about to go nuts.’

  I stared at him, with his neat hair and neat clothes and neat lines, talking gobbledegook. I called him? What on earth was he raving on about? I hadn’t called anybody all day, which I really should have done – Carmel would be going insane by now. But it’s difficult to work your mobile when you’re clinging on to a railing, hanging over the Mersey, and facing certain death. Even the most dextrous of texters would struggle with that.

  It was all very confusing, so I took the sensible option – drank some Guinness, and sat back to watch the show. I had no idea what was going on, but on the plus side, I wasn’t in the river inhaling glugs of filthy water; I was dry, nobody was trying to kill me – yet – and I wasn’t in any pain. In comparison to the last few days, that was a majorly good result. Heaven indeed.

  The crowd started to thrum with energy so raw you could almost see it. In fact, I realised, I could see it – floating above their heads in little puffs of red and orange, like speech bubbles made of fire. It was as though someone had thrown a rainbow of paint down from the ceiling, and it stayed, hovering, inches from all that hairspray and Brylcreem, swirling with cigarette smoke.

  The lights dimmed, and on they came. Four young men, all dressed in impossibly cool suits. White shirts, black ties, black waistcoats. Hair not quite moptop, so earlier days. The fans went wild, shoving themselves even closer to the tiny stage, which was overshadowed by the brickwork arch of the cellar. Some of the girls sat down at the front; others were perched in the side arches, looking on with wonder.

  The Beatles. At a guess, ’62 or ’63. John and Paul at the front, John laughing and joshing with the audience. George behind them. Ringo on drums – so definitely after August ’62, when he replaced Pete Best as the drummer. God, where does all this crap come from? Did I really need to know all this? No wonder I was easily befuddled: my brain is full of rubble.

  The band started playing. A cover of ‘Some Other Guy’. The fans going berserk. Then … ‘Love Me Do’. They recorded it in ’62, and like most people, I’ve heard it a million times. But nothing compared to this – to seeing them, young and raw and full of arrogant potential, strutting as much as the crowded stage would allow them to, buzzing from the adrenaline rush. I felt a small ‘wow’ slip from my lips as I watched. This was history, folks – live from the celestial deckchair. Who knew that heaven came in stereo? It certainly beat the Otherworld for the fun factor.

  A few more songs, screaming from the crowd, energy poofing and floating and circling right up to the flaking brickwork of the cellar ceiling. The trademark group bow at the end. All of them leaning down, greeting the front row, Cheshire cat grins topping off the suits before they slinked off to the dressing rooms, leaving the room abuzz. Wow again. I sat back, took another drink. Said wow a couple of dozen more times.

  ‘See that girl over there? The one with the red lipstick?’ the man said, interrupting my quiet rapture. He was gesturing to a pretty young thing who was still holding the sides of her face with her hands, tears running in rivulets of mascara over her cheeks. I nodded.

  ‘Go and say hello to her. Touch her hand. Or maybe lend her a tissue – she really needs to sort out that eye makeup …’

  ‘No!’ I replied, starting so suddenly I spilled my Guinness. I felt a cold blob land on my chest, spreading through the fabric of my long-sleeved T-shirt. ‘I … I don’t do things like that.’

  ‘I know you don’t, Lily. And I know why. But now is the time to trust me – don’t block her out, just go and see what she’s feeling right now. You don’t need to see her future if you don’t want to. You can control that; you know you can. Anyway, don’t argue – do as you’re told.’

  I looked at him, ready to tell him where to stick his instructions. One pint of Guinness and I am most definitely not anybody’s. Who was this mystery man to be bossing me around anyway? First Coleen, then Gabriel. I must come with an invisible sticker on my forehead that says: ‘No will of own – all donations gratefully received.’

  He smiled, and raised his eyebrows. A shimmer seemed to radiate from his body, like a sudden heat haze over a desert road, waves of distorted light surrounding his shoulders. His eyes shone, vivid and brilliant and glaring, chipped diamonds swirling together. He suddenly looked anything but average, and I realised that whoever I was sitting next to in that deckchair didn’t usually look like a common or garden mid-twenties male. Nobody I ever met was actually what they seemed – you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I sniffed; there was no rotten apple smell, no cloying sense of death. Not Fintan again, in some other body, looking to kill me a second time. Just this bright, gleaming form, and eyes I found it impossible to look away from.

  ‘You called me,’ he said again, simply, the movement of his lips making the iridescent air around him whirl. I shook my head in confusion, and he paused, as though waiting for the penny to drop. Suddenly, it did. It dropped with the weight of a cartoon anvil right on top of my head.

  Fintan had broken my fingers. I’d lost my grip. I was falling. Plunging downwards to the ice-cold surface of the water. And … I called him. Asked him to save me. Please, please, don’t let me die, I’d thought. Not here. Not like this. I’d called him.

  ‘God …’ I muttered, not sure if it was a way of naming him, or simply an exclamation of wonder.

  ‘Yep. Although your High King friend would call me the Overlord. I have many names, in many languages. You may have called me one thing; they may call me another. Names don’t matter – and they’re mainly cried out in times of desperation. This isn’t one of those times, Lily. Look around you. Feel that energy. See it. This is a time of celebration and excitement, the joy of being human. Now close your mouth – I can see your tonsils – and go and talk to that girl.’

  Still reeling, I stood up, without getting trapped in the canvas, which in itself was proof that God was indeed there, and working his miracles. I took on
e last glance at him, still shimmering, still shining, and walked away. For once I really was going to do as I was told. I could ask questions later.

  I headed towards the girl he’d pointed out, and tapped her on the shoulder, tentatively. She whirled round, the sweet chemical smell of her perfume and hair lacquer floating in a cloud as she did. She smiled at me, so happy she was sobbing.

  ‘Weren’t they brilliant? I can’t believe it! Everyone’s saying it’s their last time here …’

  I nodded. They were, indeed, brilliant. Couldn’t argue with that, especially when you knew what their future back catalogue would sound like.

  I smiled back, and wondered what she was seeing as she grinned up at me – surely not a bedraggled girl from the future, wearing mud-spattered jeans and battered Doc Martens, red hair lying in thick chunks around her shoulders. I was so not rocking the Sixties look, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all. She was high on life, and I was just another part of it.

  I took a deep breath, inhaled more of her perfume, and reached out, taking hold of her hand. I tried to do what Fionnula had taught me, and control what I was seeing. I wanted to feel her emotions as they were right now, because they looked like fun. Not thirty years in the future, when her only son was killed in the Gulf War, or whatever. That might, I admitted to myself, have reflected a slightly negative attitude.

  She gripped my fingers, and pulled me against her in a tight hug. Yes, she was that happy. The hugging complete strangers kind of happy that I’d witnessed before, but strangely enough had never been tempted by.