The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘But you can stop it, can’t you, monsieur, because we’re the good guys and—’

  The tall one slapped his hand over Rochat’s mouth, pressed the killing knife deeper.

  ‘Quiet, you blathering fool.’

  ‘Mmmmm! Mmmn!’

  Katherine pulled at Komarovsky’s grip.

  ‘Jesus, Harper, don’t let them kill Marc!’

  Komarovsky laughed.

  ‘Yes, let’s play another round of Who Dies First? Perhaps, this time, the warrior will not make such a mess of it.’

  Harper stared into Komarovsky’s dark glasses.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re the one men call Azazel, but whoever the fuck you are, I want you to listen to me. You kill her, you kill the lad, you’ll have no one to hide behind. I’ll slaughter the lot of you in your forms before their bodies hit the ground.’

  Komarovsky made a mocking nod of the head.

  ‘Such a heroic performance. But you only need look to the sky to know your performance is, shall we say, lacking.’

  Harper’s eyes shot to the sky. He saw the shadows of the devourers beating against a liquid sky. What the fuck is he up to?

  Harper shrugged.

  ‘I see a time wake, I see you trapped inside with your pals. And I see the time wake fading, with the cavalry just beyond waiting to charge in and capture your sorry arse. I mean, you do realize you’ve walked into a fucking trap, right?’

  ‘How satisfying to know the free will of men has given you a sense of humour.’

  Harper wiped the bloody blade on the sleeve of his jumper.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it, slick.’

  Komarovsky was silent a moment. Then he began to squeeze Katherine’s neck with a clawlike grip.

  ‘Surrender the lantern or this cathedral and all Lausanne will disappear in a flash of fire.’

  Harper looked to the sky again. The shadows slamming harder against the liquid sky, ripples and eddies forming into cracks. Christ, they smell mass death. Harper looked at Komarovsky.

  ‘Have you completely fried your brains on dead black? We’re locked in a time wake. A blast like that won’t just destroy the cathedral and Lausanne, it’ll set off a chain reaction that’ll ignite every molecule of oxygen in the atmosphere. You’ll kill seven billion people in the blink of an eye. You’re talking lights out for the whole bloody world.’

  ‘Then we shall weep in the void and feed on the uncomforted souls of men till another world comes along.’

  Harper felt an ice-cold chill run through his being.

  ‘You’re on a suicide mission.’

  ‘More like the denouement of our little play, with a dramatic flourish.’

  ‘No way the rest of your kind know you’re doing this.’

  ‘No?’

  The pieces fell into place in Harper’s brain.

  ‘You’ve gone bloody rogue. That’s why you staged that slaughterhouse on the internet knowing we’d cracked your comms. You wanted our side to track the rest of the Two Hundred Club, you wanted us to know the identities of the half-breeds hiding in the world of men. This is a fucking coup and we’re helping you pull it off.’

  ‘I will have the fire from the well and rule paradise as the creator, or the creation will be no more.’

  Harper chuckled.

  ‘I take it back. It’s fucking brilliant, all of it. But somehow I don’t think you and your half-breed goons ruling the world is what the real creator had in mind.’

  ‘I have crossed aeons of time searching for the fire of creation and, now, I claim it as the creator of the new paradise.’

  ‘You call this fucking mess of a world you created paradise? You even looked at a newspaper lately? This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.’

  ‘The creator is dead, long live the creator.’

  Harper flipped the killing knife and caught it by the handle.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s nothing left of the creator but the intersecting lines of causality moving through time. Doesn’t matter. All I know is those lines were never meant to be bent by the cruddy likes of you.’

  Harper backed up towards the turret.

  ‘So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll head to the upper bells. See what I can do to fuck up the denouement of your little play with my own dramatic flourish.’

  Komarovsky squeezed harder at Katherine’s neck.

  ‘Then you would choose to save the many, at the cost of these two innocent souls?’

  Harper looked at Miss Taylor, then the lad. He shrugged.

  ‘My job is to save what’s left of paradise. Besides, orders. No interference with the time and manner of their deaths.’

  The tall one tore his knife through Rochat’s overcoat, ripping it open. He set the blade at his throat.

  ‘Then time to slaughter the fool.’

  ‘Hey, dickface.’

  The tall one looked at Harper.

  ‘Something you want to say, killer, before I slice open the fool’s throat?’

  ‘I’d be careful. He watches a lot of Cartoon Network, Tom and Jerry.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom’s a big stupid cat, Jerry’s a clever little mouse who always gets away. Right, mate?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur!’

  Rochat bit hard into the tall one’s hand and ripped away a chunk of flesh. The tall one dropped the killing knife and Rochat rolled free. Harper ran up the turret, Rochat dived into the carpentry. The tall one caught Rochat’s ankle, pulled and dropped him on the balcony stones, trying to stomp him underfoot. Rochat rolled left and right, dodging the kicks.

  ‘What’s the matter, you big dumb shadow, can’t catch a little mouse? Ha, ha on you.’

  He scrambled into the carpentry again, jumping around timbers and crawling over the scattered ice under Marie-Madeleine’s bronze skirt. The tall one flew between the timbers, landed on top of Rochat and pounded him down to the wood-plank floor. He grabbed Rochat by his shredded overcoat, lifted him overhead.

  ‘Know what happens to the little mouse when it’s caught by the big bad shadow? It gets squashed.’

  He slammed Rochat into the great bronze bell.

  The bell rang with a dull sickening sound. Rochat’s eyes rolled back in his head, he tumbled to the wood-plank floor like a wounded animal.

  Katherine pulled at the hands at her throat and screamed:

  ‘No! Marc!’

  The tall one kicked Rochat in the guts and sent him skidding, his black mop of a head hanging out between the timbers. Katherine saw Rochat touch the timbers with his fingers, press his head against a cross-beam. The tall one smashed his boot into Rochat’s face. A gush of blood spilled on to the flagstones of the balcony.

  ‘Uhhh …’

  ‘Jesus, Marc!’

  Harper leaned around a pillar and recced the upper belfry.

  Two half-breeds in the carpentry above the bells pouring fire potions down the timbers. Under the bells, the small goateed half-breed dumping the sticky liquid over the wood platform running through the centre of the belfry. Harper squeezed the grip of his killing knife, crept to the stone arch at the end of the walkway.

  ‘Hello, squirt.’

  The small one dropped the bucket, jumped to the south balcony, snapped an iron bar from the railings as if it was a twig. He slipped away through the arches. The half-breeds in the carpentry pulled their knives and flew down for Harper. He ducked under a low-hanging bell as they hit the walkway. He saw dead black pumping through their eyes as they closed in.

  ‘I know, you bring me forever death.’

  Flashes of steel came at him.

  Harper threw up his arms, the blades caught his forearms.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Harper kicked the closest half-breed in the stomach, pivoted and smashed the butt of his knife into the half-breed’s face. The half-breed flew back, smashed its head on an iron bolt jutting from a timber and fell dazed to the walkway. Harper charged at the other half-breed, dropped low and sliced the te
ndons at the back of its knees. The half-breed squealed and fell, still slashing at Harper’s chest. Harper swung at the half-breed’s face and sliced open its mouth. The half-breed squealed again and rammed its knife into Harper’s thigh.

  ‘Argh!’

  The half-breed rolled, raised its blade above Harper’s neck. Harper jerked right as the blade ripped by his head and bored into the wood planks. He kicked up with his knees and shifted the half-breed’s weight. He rammed his own knife into the half-breed’s chest and twisted hard. A death cry tore through the tower but the half-breed lunged still, digging its thumbs into Harper’s throat.

  ‘To the darkness!’

  Harper flipped his knife, the tip of the blade touching the soft flesh under the half-breed’s chin.

  ‘After you.’

  Harper rammed the blade deep and sliced it to the side. Harper heard the crack as steel severed spine from brain. The half-breed froze stiff. Harper shoved the dead thing to the side. He scanned the belfry. The squirt with the goatee nowhere in sight, maybe down by the lower bells. Harper got to his feet and limped towards the dazed half-breed. He swung back his killing knife to slice open the goon’s throat.

  ‘You next.’

  Something coming fast at his back. Harper spun around and saw the small one charging with the iron rod like a spear. Harper ducked right but the jagged point caught his left shoulder.

  ‘Shit!’

  The squirt rammed harder, the iron rod digging deep. He heaved and lifted Harper off his feet. A paralysing shot of pain screamed through Harper’s body.

  ‘Christ!’

  The small goon heaved and lifted and skewered Harper on the rod till the ragged point shot out of Harper’s back. He charged ahead and rammed the bloodied tip of the rod into a cross timber.

  Harper was pinned like a half-dead butterfly.

  ‘No!’

  He tried to touch the tips of his shoes to the walkway to relieve the ripping fire in his shoulder.

  ‘Bloody Christ!’

  He saw the small one move to the dazed half-breed, point to the high timbers, telling him to hurry. Then coming to stand before him. Pulling at his goatee and tipping his head from side to side as if admiring his killing work. Then spitting in Harper’s face, mocking him. Harper couldn’t hear the words. He heard nothing but the screaming pain in his brain.

  Komarovsky dragged Katherine to Rochat.

  ‘Make him tell you where they hid the lantern or I’ll slash open his throat and you will drink his blood.’

  ‘No, don’t, please.’

  Komarovsky opened his coat, showed the long-bladed knife in his belt.

  ‘I will not ask you twice.’

  He tossed her to Rochat. She crawled near him, brushed the hair from his bloodied face.

  ‘Marc, I don’t understand what’s happening, what is it they want?’

  ‘A secret fire, in my lantern, we found it under the well. They can’t take it, they can’t take you.’

  ‘Marc, forget about me.’

  Rochat raised his eyes to see her, his head still against the cross-beam.

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Marc …’

  ‘You have a soul and that makes you precious as the bells. That’s what the detectiveman said.’

  ‘Please, I’m not worth it.’ She saw his eyes lose focus, she grabbed his arm. ‘Marc! Marc!’

  ‘I imagined you can hear them, like in beforetimes.’

  ‘What?’

  The tall one jumped on the edge of the carpentry and shoved Katherine to the balcony railings.

  ‘Time’s up, my turn.’

  ‘No, don’t hurt him!’ She watched the tall one brace his hands on Marie-Madeleine and kick hard into Rochat’s sides. ‘Stop it!’

  Rochat dragged himself slowly under the bell, drawing the tall one around, never taking his eyes off the tall one’s hands as they inched along the edge of Marie-Madeleine’s bronze skirt. Closer, closer. Rochat held steady, absorbing the kicks, keeping the tall one in place. He pressed his head to a timber, looked at Katherine. She saw a fragile light flash in his eyes and she heard a great creaking groan.

  ‘Yes, Marc, I hear them! I can hear the timbers!’

  Rochat rolled on his back and looked up at Marie-Madeleine.

  ‘Merci, madame.’

  The giant iron hammer outside the great bell crushed down on the tall one’s hand. His ear-splitting squeal was swallowed in Marie-Madeleine’s thunderous voice.

  GONG! GONG! GONG!

  The great bell pulsed through the carpentry. Harper felt the timbers vibrate, the iron rod running through his form shivered with pain.

  GONG!

  He grabbed the rod, tried to pull it free.

  GONG!

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  GONG!

  The thunderous sound and vibrations faded away.

  Harper shook his head to clear his eyes.

  The small one pouring the last of the fire potions on the wood planks under the bells. The other half-breed spreading the liquid over the giant wood yokes and leather harnesses above.

  ‘No, you can’t do this.’

  The small one looked at Harper and smiled. He kicked over the bucket, jumped up to look into Harper’s face.

  ‘Watch me.’

  He grabbed hold of the iron rod, gave it a powerful shove. Another slash of pain screamed through Harper’s brain.

  ‘JesusfuckingChrist!’

  ‘That’s it, killer, howl with all your might because this time, no one rises from the dead.’

  ‘He’s going to destroy the creation, all of it.’

  ‘What of it? Bring on the darkness, I say.’

  The small one jumped down from the bucket, signalled to the half-breed in the timbers to finish and hurried to the turret steps. Harper shouted after him:

  ‘No, not like this!’

  Harper felt numbness seep through his form, the phantom of a dead man named Jay Michael Harper struggling to stay alive for the second time in his life … No, please, not like this … but the weary weight of eternity crushed down hard.

  Tired.

  Two and a half million years of tired.

  His voice whispering to a forgotten will:

  ‘Not like this, please.’

  Then other voices, singing voices, racing through the belfry.

  Harper lifted his eyes.

  The bells, the seven bells of Lausanne.

  Rocking from side to side, clappers banging against bronze skirts.

  Seven brilliant voices swelling into a deafening drone.

  Then powerful vibrations rushing through the timbers, straight into Harper’s back. His weight begin to push down on the iron rod.

  ‘Yes! Come on, ladies! Do it!’

  Flesh sliding on iron.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  He slid free and collapsed on the walkway.

  ‘Aw, Christ!’

  The bells roared louder, the iron rod loosened from its hold and clanged next to him. Harper grabbed it with his good arm, jammed it into the planks, pulled himself to his feet. He wavered in the dizzying sound of the bells.

  ‘Move, boyo, keep moving.’

  He focused on the north balcony, stumbled ahead. Dodging the faster-than-light iron clapper of the low-hanging bell. Something heavy smashed into his back, threw him down to the walkway. He rolled over, saw the half-breed dodging the swinging clapper, killing knife in his hand coming down like a pendulum swinging to the rhythm of the bells, closer and closer to Harper’s throat.

  ‘Here comes the chopper, to chop off your head!’

  ‘And you forget to duck, fucker.’

  Harper rammed his knee into the half-breed’s groin. The evil thing winced and jumped as the iron clapper of the bell swung down like a sledgehammer and smashed open its skull. Harper rolled over, grabbed the iron rod, tried to pull himself to his feet. He fell, tried again. All life slipping from his form, all light fading from his eyes.

  Christ,
not like this …

  She felt powerful hands haul her to her knees, then a jagged blade across her throat. She looked up into the blackest eyes over a goatee.

  ‘You, no! Harper!’

  ‘Don’t bother calling, the killer’s busy being dead.’

  Komarovsky swooped down on Rochat.

  ‘Do you hear? The warrior angel is no more. You are alone in the cathedral. He has abandoned you, as your mother abandoned you.’

  ‘Non, there was an accident when I was born. Maman died and sent me to live with Papa and Grandmaman where I could be safe from the bad shadows.’

  Komarovsky gently stroked Rochat’s black mop of hair, as if calming a suffering child.

  ‘For too long you have been forced to bear an unjust cross for the sake of man. Come unto me and I will lift this burden from your crooked legs. I will make you whole and wise. Honoured by men, adored by women, loved by all. Imagine such wonderful things as these.’

  Komarovsky opened his hand before Rochat’s eyes. And Rochat, enchanted by the imagined and wonderful things, watched the hand move till its fingers pointed to Katherine in the grip of the small one, a deadly blade set at her throat. Rochat felt a rush of frantic emotion. Hearing his heart pounding with the bells, seeing the woman who once pressed a kiss against a window.

  ‘She’s like the bells.’

  ‘And you love her as you love these singing bells. I will give her to you and she will bring you pleasure all your days. Together, you will rule Lausanne in my name, as king and queen. All this I will give to you, if you give me the lantern.’

  Rochat saw tears well in Katherine’s eyes. Watched her lips move, read her words through the roar of the bells, ‘Please, Marc, let them kill me.’ He looked at Komarovsky, saw himself in the lenses of the dark glasses. The crooked and battered shape of Marc Rochat, le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne …

  ‘Non! You hurt her in beforetimes because you’re a bad shadow, that’s what you are. And you want to hurt the cathedral and the bells and steal my lantern because we found a secret fire. I won’t let you, I won’t let you!’

  Komarovsky grabbed Rochat by the arms, yanked him from the ground.

  ‘You are alone, fool, you are abandoned.’

  ‘Non. There’s Otto the Brave Knight and the skeletons and the lost angels and teasing shadows. They’re alive in the cathedral because I can imagine them! And I can imagine the detectiveman too, you bad shadow. Because you didn’t kill him and he can kill you because that’s what detectivemen do!’