Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  She walked on a little way, until she could hear the footsteps start up again before stopping a second time. Once again, they stopped when she did.

  More than a coincidence then? Maybe and that was grim.

  OK. One last try. She walked on, the footsteps walked on.

  Hmm, an echo? Possibly. She tried tap-dancing a yard or two but the accompanying footsteps continued their measured, one, two.

  Or maybe not.

  As she reached the end of the road and turned the corner she ran fast along the next street. It was a long row of three-storey terraced houses with small, walled gardens in front, many of which were bounded by privet hedges.

  Hoorah! Somewhere to hide, thought the irresponsible, frivolous part of Ruth which treated existence as a glorified spy movie.

  Running as fast as she could but at the same time trying to make no sound so her shadowy pursuer, if there was one, wouldn’t realise what she was doing, she decided to try to reach one of the hedged-in gardens and hide there, before the person making the footsteps got as far as turning the corner.

  Not the first one. That’s exactly where he’ll look, she thought as she made to duck through the nearest entrance. She ran on to the third enclosed garden and nipped in through the open gate. It was a completely mad thing to do, she knew. Behind the hedge was a pair of bins.

  That was a stroke of luck.

  She ran over and found that, a little way behind them, there was a hole in the foliage that allowed her to creep right inside the hedge.

  Even better.

  She crept in, pulled one of the bins towards her to help hide the gap at the bottom of the privet and waited.

  A few moments and there it was.

  Footsteps. Running.

  They stopped. She could hear somebody in the road, the other side of the hedge, walking backwards and forwards as if looking for something. Please no. He, it had to be a he, didn’t appear to be out of breath even though he’d just sprinted up the street – he was obviously marathon-runner fit – only bigger, a lot bigger than a long-distance runner. As she watched the dark shape moving to and fro she shuddered and the hedge rustled a little. He stopped, stood absolutely still and ... yes ... sniffed the air.

  Lord no! That was too creepy. He was after her and he was also, clearly, a member of the serial killers’ guild. Normal people don’t use scent to track others, come to think of it, normal people don’t tend to track others, anyway. Good plan to hide behind the bins, then. He moved out of sight but she could feel he was still there and then, yes, she knew it. He’d come into the garden. He stole silently over to the dustbins and lifted the lids, he even peered between them, but in the dark didn’t notice the gap in the hedge. Luckily the glaring, telltale patch of damp concrete that would show the second bin to be recently moved was obscured by shadows.

  He paused, as if in thought, before taking something from his pocket and rubbing it on the front of his coat. He was wearing a long, dark trench coat, probably black or blue, open, with brass buttons which glinted as they caught the light. Underneath he wore a jacket made from a similar material but it had a stand-up collar, like a military uniform and was fastened with a single button in the middle – she could see a contrasting white V shape it made against the stock or cravat – too many ruffles for a shirt – which he was wearing with it. His belt had a holster hanging on it, complete with gun, she assumed, and it was one of those military-style belts with a strap that goes diagonally across the chest with ... yes. He was wearing a sword. His trousers had a stripe of different-coloured material down the outsides and with them he wore knee-high boots in a matte black material; suede? A dress uniform? A disguise for a sci-fi convention? He didn’t have a hat, but was wearing a pair of dark glasses – please dark glasses and not night-vision glasses – and in a cruel and unpleasant way, he was extremely good looking. He was also wearing gloves, with rings on the outside. Except for that bit, his get-up was as if she’d dreamed up Mr Darcy’s dark alter ego or Evil Adam Ant and he’d come alive.

  Nice touch, My Brain, throwing the handsome thing in there. Had somebody spiked her drink?

  No. These events were real.

  He crouched down pointed the object at the hedge and, ah yes. It was a torch. Ruth did the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. Hoping he wouldn’t train the beam down and see the gap she had squeezed through or the soggy black circle showing where she’d moved one of the bins, she took her glasses off and closed her eyes. Slowly, as quietly as she could, she moved the hand clutching her spectacles behind her back. He must be looking for a reflection. If she kept the specs out of sight and her eyes closed he wouldn’t find it.

  Every part of her screamed “RUUUUUUN.” But her only chance, she knew, was to wait where she was.

  “Come to me. I know you are there,” he whispered as he shone the torch back and forth across the hedge. His voice had a hypnotic quality and without thinking she almost did as she was told. But she managed to keep still and sat, frozen, trying to subdue her breathing, not to mention her trembling. The darkness behind her eyelids changed colour as the beam of his torch played over her face. It was taking all her self-control not to look.

  Please let the hedge be thick enough to hide her.

  The beam of the torch stopped moving and he laughed quietly. A laugh conspicuously lacking in mirth or human warmth. A laugh so utterly evil Ruth felt a shiver run down her spine.

  “Now I have you,” he said and the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. His voice this time was soft, malevolent and very, very scary. She suppressed another involuntary shudder.

  A sudden flurry, and with a loud scream a cat leapt from the bushes beside her and ran past him into the street. He breathed out with a hiss, straightened up to his full and considerable height and turned the torch off. While she willed him to go, he stood there and tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of his hand.

  “You will not evade me forever, Chosen One. I will find you,” he told the darkness quietly.

  She watched from her hiding place as he turned on his heel and strode out into the street. She stayed where she was long after his footsteps receded into the night and waited another half an hour before daring to creep out of the hedge.

  “No further chances to be taken, tonight, Ms Ruth Cochrane,” she said to herself and headed straight back to the Edgware Road and the night bus, which was arriving as she reached the stop. Wow! Had that taken a whole hour? She consulted her watch. Yes.

  So. Had somebody spiked her drink?

  No, but oh how she wished they had.

  Chapter 38

  The old man’s visit had left The Pan somewhat at a loss. He would have to be cautious about raising a delicate matter like a robbery at the Bank of Grongolia with Big Merv – pick a suitable place and time when he was in a benevolent enough mood not to get angry at the idea, but not such good spirits that he’d agree to it. He had hardly slept. Instead he had spent most of the night pacing backwards and forwards across his room trying to think of a way to broach the subject of taking on a suicide mission with Ning Dang Po’s premier gangland boss.

  What if Big Merv was mad enough to agree? There was the Interceptor to contend with now. It was faster and slicker than the MK II and The Pan would have to use his brain, as well as his driving ability to redress the balance. He didn’t trust his brain, and given the choice would have preferred to stick with his driving ability. He was a better driver than his pursuer – he was a better driver than most people – but even though it had every state-of-the-art upgrade available the MK II was outclassed, and he feared that sooner or later, he was going to be outwitted.

  He would have liked to believe the whole escapade with the old man had been a dream. He could have convinced himself were it not for the thimble, or more to the point, the girl in the thimble.

  The Pan had never been one to do things by halves, but he realised that even by his standards his regard for her was somewhat full-on. He was smitten with a cap
ital S and it had happened very quickly. If he had dared he would have leaned through the portal – the way he had when he had collected the brandy glasses from the bar at the Parrot for the old man – and spoken to her. Several times he had thought about trying to climb through it completely. However, he realised that the sight of a seedy young man appearing out of thin air to the accompaniment of sounds associated with ancient plumbing would scare her off for life. Especially taking into account the fact that he knew nothing of her civilisation and try as he might, he was unable to imagine anywhere in this New World unless she was present. Even if he did think of a way to materialise in front of her without her noticing, he would have to wait until he was well versed enough in the manners and customs of her world to blend in, otherwise, he was afraid that, in his ignorance, he would make some unmentionable social gaffe and blow any chances of romance clean out of the water. He didn’t know where, or even when, she lived and his only link with her surroundings was her. The thimble worked on imagination and without her there, he didn’t know what to imagine. All he could do was wait and hope that by watching her go about the mundane tasks of her day, he would learn enough about her world to join her in a more discreet manner. From what little he had seen thus far, wherever it was she lived, there were no Grongles and no Resistance. He became obsessed with finding out about her surroundings. If he could only discover enough about how life worked on her planet maybe, one day, he could step through the thimble to reach her, leave his troubles behind forever, and start afresh.

  Then again, maybe not. Even if she was anything more than a figment of his imagination – the old man had said she was real but The Pan didn’t entirely trust him – he was nowhere near expert enough on the workings of her world to leave his own, not until he could materialise somewhere alone. In the meantime he was supposed to persuade Big Merv and his fellow Mervinettes to sign a suicide pact with the old man and agree to take on the most ludicrously insane bank heist ever. His quest for information about the girl’s world had gained a new urgency.

  The Pan had always considered himself to be a man of action. When something bad happened he could be very decisive, and run away at once. Only this time the number of places left to run to was dwindling. He felt trapped. His world was contracting. No matter where he fled, he would soon meet with the Resistance, the old man, Big Merv or the Grongles. His only option was to pick the least grim of four unattractive choices: to work for the old man. When he finally lay down to rest, he couldn’t stop his mind racing.

  A new day eventually dawned. The Mervinettes would be meeting for a debrief of the previous day’s robbery and to plan the next one. Presumably, if the old man knew what Big Merv had said to him about thinking and driving, he would also have known about today’s debrief. It was only beginning to get light but The Pan had given up hope of sleeping and stood in front of the bathroom mirror scrutinising his complexion.

  “You look terrible.”

  The word ‘bags’ didn’t do justice to the dark rings under his eyes, they went right round, panda style; suitcases perhaps, or full container ships. He was paler, too and already regretting the way he’d spent the night. The Virtual Parents stepped in.

  “Nothing is so important it should get in the way of a good night’s sleep,” he said in the voice of his Virtual Mother.

  “Your Mother’s right,” he chipped in, doing the voice of Virtual Father. “If you must live by the few wits you have then you should at least rest them properly.”

  “Yeh, yeh. I know,” he told them wearily, and plastered his face with shaving soap. He had been a bad son, always in trouble at school, never revising for his exams and always late with his course work. It wasn’t much good beating himself up about it – he could hardly do anything to repair the damage now, but he blushed at the thought of the shame he’d brought on his family. He watched his face darken in the mirror. His blushes were very odd, these days and he seemed to go more blue than red. He wondered if he was anaemic and should see a doctor. Perhaps his heart was as weak as he’d been pretending it to be.

  “No. Don’t be an idiot. You’re just stressed.”

  He dabbled the end of the razor in the water. Behind its beard of shaving cream, his reflection stared back at him expectantly. He liked talking to himself. It made his thought processes seem more real and definite.

  “You’re going to have to sort this out. You can’t drive the Mervinettes to Grongolia and back; you’ll die,” he said, jabbing the razor authoritatively at his mirror image.

  “I know,” it said, “but how?” He raised his eyebrows, watching as the reflection mirrored his movements.

  “Good question ...” With a sigh he started to shave one side of his face. It did look a strange colour. Perhaps a visit to the doctor wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “No. You can’t afford it,” he muttered continuing to shave as he spoke. He wasn’t concentrating and cut himself. He swore, and bleeding copiously all the while, he reached for a tissue which he dipped in the water and stuck over the cut. The flow of blood soon slowed and he reached down for the razor. In the dim light the smears of blood on his fingertips appeared darker than usual.

  “Hmm,” he said, holding his hands closer to the neon tube above the mirror. Yes, the blood was darker, much darker than it should be. He looked up at his reflection again and leaned forward, giving his face the type of close inspection usually reserved for checking spots. The blood on the tissue was wrong. It wasn’t red at all, but a dark purple, as if somebody had added blue ink to it. He looked down at his hands again. They were purple, too.

  “Smecking Arnold,” he whispered, clutching at the basin for support, “I’m cracking up.” No, he wasn’t cracking up; it was stress, that was all, a warning. He would be able to tell Big Merv about the old man in a couple of hours and then everything would be alright. He turned the light out and carried on shaving. The bathroom only had one tiny window which was fitted with frosted glass. In the Stygian gloom he couldn’t see what he was doing and cut himself again. At least he couldn’t see what colour the blood was this time.

  Chapter 39

  In the cold light of morning, Ruth felt able to view her stalking experience with detachment. The scary stranger had called her ‘Chosen One’ and she was adamant that in order to be ‘Chosen’ the ‘One’ in question would know. So; chances of it happening again? Not high.

  However, her view of the experience, itself, didn’t improve. It was the sniffing thing. Was that human? Not strictly. It was amazing how the ideas behind the vintage horror movies she watched had come into their own after her experience. Ruth marvelled at the way the flimsiest of plots and cheapest of special effects could return to haunt an imaginative person with the right kind of giant, sniffing, evil-voiced-bloke-shaped catalyst (with a static-powered torch.) Half-heartedly, she had reported her experience to the police. The weary-looking sergeant obviously believed she was barking mad because she didn’t write a single thing down throughout the whole interview. Ruth had to concede that if she’d heard the events described by somebody else she’d have thought so, too.

  Later that evening, she went over her story again with her flatmate.

  “Let me get this straight,” Lucy was a great deal more sympathetic than the police sergeant. “You were followed home by a bloke.”

  “Yes,” said Ruth, “only not home, I noticed him and hid.”

  “Good plan. Could happen to anyone.”

  “Exactly! That’s not what I’m worried about, the bit I’m worried about is—”

  “That he tried to find you?”

  “Well, surprisingly, no, not really. He was trying to find someone but he didn’t seem to know who and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t actually me.”

  “So you’re not expecting him to pop up again?”

  “No. Not if I think about it practically—or at least I might see him again but I doubt he’ll be looking for me. No, I was scared because of—”

  “The sniffing thing.”
/>   “Yes and although I’m sure it was a mistake, the way he called me ‘Chosen One’ was so horrible and I can’t help thinking—”

  “Ruth, he called the person he thought was hiding in that hedge ‘Chosen One’. We both agree that doesn’t necessarily mean you.”

  The relief. Like hitting a wall but in a good way. Thank you, thank you, Lucy.

  “That’s exactly what I thought—” she began.

  “—but you’re still worried?” Lucy had a habit of finishing others’ sentences. It annoyed a lot of people, but since she usually guessed what Ruth was about to say correctly, Ruth didn’t mind.

  “A little.”

  Less so, now – the mere fact that her sensible flatmate’s take on the ‘Chosen’ question was the same as her own made it easier to dismiss. That and her fervent desire for it not to be true. She clutched at another straw. “I thought it might be Nigel playing a prank.” Nigel, Lucy’s vile, odious and obscenely rich boyfriend; Nigel who’d made a pass at Ruth and gone out of his way to be unpleasant to her and cause trouble from the very minute she turned him down; Nigel, the love of Lucy’s life, the bane of hers.

  “I know he can be a bit of a twit but I can’t believe Nigel would do anything that stupid,” said Lucy.

  “No. Me neither,” said Ruth.

  A half truth. In her view Nigel was easily mean enough to rig an experience like the previous evening’s but in this particular instance, she didn’t believe he had. She had no idea who the man with the torch might have been but she knew he was far too convincingly menacing for it to be an act. Her pursuer might behave in other ways when he was mixing in society but Ruth reckoned what she’d seen was evil. She shuddered. A level of evil Nigel could never hope to aspire to, no matter how hard he tried.