Five more minutes, she decided, and then she would go back to her dank little council house and get a couple of hours of sleep. If the drug would allow her. She was going to have to score soon. She watched the old Mayfield Station idly as the seconds ticked past.
The man wearing the blue suit came back out. Sarah watched him curiously. He was very thin, and his head was too big for his body. The misty rain and the darkness made it difficult to make out details, but he moved in a disturbing glide, his pale face floating through the night. Sarah followed him with cautious, narrowed eyes. She could feel a threat emanating from this man. She had learned to pick up the vibes of the people she came across, and something was telling her that this man was to be avoided at all costs.
Glancing down at her watch, she saw that it was time to call it a night anyway. Sarah looked back up. The slimy man had gone. She looked both ways anxiously, but he was not there. The hackles at the back of her neck were rising again, as if she were being watched. She looked over towards the station – she could go there and be safe amongst the pedestrians. She mentally shook herself. She was being silly. The man had been on the other side of the road and hadn’t even seen her.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Sarah turned and began to walk back along Fairfield Street and out of the city. As she went under the bridge, she heard a scuff of feet behind her, and her heart leapt into her throat as she realised she had made a terrible mistake. She whirled around in time to see the man in the cheap blue suit coming towards her. His eyes bulged from his expressionless face as he bore down on her. Pale eyes. Dead eyes.
A clammy hand clamped over her mouth. An acrid film covered his skin and she could taste it. She began to struggle, and the grip became stronger. She felt another arm wrap around her waist and lift her off her feet. Whoever he was, he was far stronger than he looked – too strong for her. She was pulled quickly across Fairfield Street and over to the Mayfield Station. They passed through a door that had been smashed from its rotten frame, and then they were engulfed in thick, mouldering darkness.
Friday
Waking up on an operating table was not a pleasant experience. Sam came around with the metallic tang of his own blood in his nose. A tube had been crammed down the back of his throat and he began to choke. Somebody was doing something to his neck, and the thought of sharp teeth descending on him made him panic. He sat up.
The nurse regulating his breathing screamed. The doctor attempting to sew up the gash in his throat jumped and thrust the needle deep into Sam’s collarbone. The sudden pain galvanised Sam, and he lashed out in fury. The flesh of his arm ripped as the tube that attached him to a life-saving drip tore out. His wild swing caught the anaesthetist – who had run in to help restrain him – and sent him tumbling head over heels into a far wall.
Another nurse ran up with a hypodermic needle and thrust it into Sam’s leg. The last thing he saw before his vision wavered and dropped away was the plunger being depressed. As he passed out, he could hear somebody shouting.
When he next woke up, he was lying in a hospital bed. Enough light filtered in through the thin blinds for Sam to make out that he was in a ward with three more beds. The other beds were occupied, and he could hear various machines clicking, whirring, and beeping over the occasional snore or groan. He became aware of a tube in his throat again and he pulled it out, gagging as he did. There were tubes in his arms. He left them where they were. Struggling, he sat up and felt at his throat. It was bound up in thick bandages. They felt constricting, and the flesh beneath them itched furiously. He felt weak and thirsty.
Somebody had left a small metal box with buttons on it next to his hand. One of them had a small picture of a bell on it, and he pressed it a couple of times. While he waited, he rubbed at the bandages in an attempt to scratch his neck. It didn’t work. He shifted around a bit as he tried to make himself comfortable in the crisp sheets and the sterile-smelling pillows.
Just as he was getting the pillows right, a nurse walked into the room. She came over to him with a tired smile on her face. ‘Well, if it isn’t our John Doe, back from the dead.’ Sam tried to speak, but found that his throat wasn’t working. The nurse looked at him sympathetically. Then she held out a notepad and a pencil. ‘Your throat was badly damaged. I’ll let the doctor speak with you about that. For now, why don’t you write down your name.’
Sam wrote – where’s my wallet.
‘You didn’t have one on you when you came in. That’s why we don’t know who you are. The police took your fingerprints, but you’ve obviously been a good boy because they didn’t get a result.’ Sam vaguely remembered Dead Eyes going through his pockets. What a bastard, he thought to himself. Sam wrote his name and date of birth on the pad, and the nurse read it.
‘Sam. I’ve always thought that was a lovely name. My granddad was a Sam,’ she said fondly.
Sam gestured for the pad and when he got it back, he wrote – does my wife know I’m here?
‘We didn’t know who to contact, honey,’ said the nurse gently. ‘Put down her details, and we’ll get in touch with her straight away.’ Sam complied, writing down Tabby’s name and both the home number and her mobile. At the end, he scrawled – what happened to me?
‘From what I can gather, the police think you were attacked. You poor thing. Would you like a drink? We’ll have to put the tube back in if you do – I don’t think you’ll be able to swallow.’
Yes.
The nurse went and got a drink of water in a plastic beaker. She reached for the tube, but Sam waved her away. She handed him the beaker with the expression of a schoolteacher who was about to let a pupil make a mistake, confident that this was the best way for them to learn. When Sam swallowed the water without help, she arched an eyebrow questioningly.
‘Well, that’s good Sam. That’s very good. The doctor didn’t think you’d be swallowing on your own for a week at least. I’ll go and phone your wife.’ Sam watched her go, clutching the pad and pencil as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat in a violent sea.
Birdsong woke Mark. Opening his eyes, he stared blankly at the ceiling above his bed. As usual, he gained consciousness immediately. There was no half-awake, half-asleep bleariness, nor did he feel any need to roll over and doze for a few extra minutes. There was no confusion from the last dream of the night because he didn’t dream. Mark knew exactly where he was and who he was.
Sitting up, he rubbed some grit from the corner of his eye. His room was dark and gloomy, and smelled of stale breath and night sweat. ‘Windows,’ he said out loud. His voice was clear and strong against the twittering and chattering of the birds outside.
The darkness faded like miraculous dawn as the current died in the electrochromic glass of the huge windows that covered one entire wall of the bedroom. The glass went from solid black to clear crystal in a few short seconds, and bright sunlight flooded the room. Mark did not blink nor shield his eyes. He felt his pupils constrict. He stared out at the skeletal winter treetops beyond the window.
Stretching, he looked around, his gaze checking the room out of habit. Everything was in place. The huge king-sized bed he was resting on dominated the centre of the room, its headboard pushed up against the middle of one long wall. Its white duvet and sheets were unruffled, except for where he had pushed the cover back to sit up. The pillows were in place, and only the one on which he had laid his head was indented. He did not move around when he slept.
The dark wooden floors were clear and shone with polish. The room was painted a pristine white and it was massive, though the furniture was minimal. It gave the place an impersonal, almost forlorn feel. Opposite the bed, a vast plasma screen television hung on the wall. Beneath it, a stainless-steel stand held various electronic items – the latest multimedia station, a stereo, and all the other modern essentials. Mark used the television for the news. The rest of the gadgets he rarely touched.
Another white wall stretched out opposite the windows. An antique wooden war
drobe and a chest of drawers, both the same shade as the wood floor, were backed up against it. To their right, a big double door, which also matched the floor, was closed. Beside the bed there was a small table with a lamp on it. On the other side of the bed another smaller door was also closed.
There were no pictures, neither personal nor professional, nor were there any ornaments nor other personal effects.
‘Television,’ Mark said. The big plasma screen shimmered to life. The BBC News channel was on. The story was about the Middle East, and Mark stopped listening. Instead, he read the ticker tape of headlines at the bottom of the screen. There was nothing about his work last night. The body of the woman had consumed itself, and the evidence of his evening’s hunting had vanished in a matter of minutes. He knew the creature would not be missed. Not by anything human, anyway.
‘Off,’ he barked. The television went dead. ‘Phone: Sergei,’ he said. Hidden speakers clicked on and he heard a dial tone flicker to life. There was a discordant series of beeps as a number was dialled and then a ringing noise.
‘Mr. Jones,’ a sharp, European voice answered from the speakers. ‘How can I help you this morning, Sir?’
‘How is she?’ Mark demanded without preamble.
‘She is fine, Sir. She got home and went to bed. We kept surveillance on her. She is perfectly safe.’
‘Twenty-four seven,’ Mark said. ‘I want her protected twenty-four seven.’
‘Yes Sir, there is a team with her constantly.’
‘And they remain hidden.’
‘She is blissfully unaware of our presence or your interest, Sir.’
‘Good. You remember the date?’
‘Yes Sir. Next Monday.’
‘I will speak with you tomorrow morning. If anything changes in the meantime, you are to contact me immediately.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘Goodbye, Sergei.’ Hearing the coded phrase, the computer system that ran his home waited for a second in case there was any reply and then hung up. Mark walked naked to the door beside his bed and moved through into an immaculate en-suite bathroom, where he went through his morning ablutions. When he was finished, he took a thick white robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door and shrugged it on. Then he went back through his bedroom and out onto a wide landing.
Walking purposefully, he made his way past several rooms along the mezzanine level until he reached another set of double doors. Opening them, he stepped into another large space. This room had not been painted nor papered, and the original brickwork was exposed. Another series of huge windows dominated one wall, flooding the room with bright light. There was nothing of the previous night’s storms in the clear blue winter sky, which spread azure and perfect towards a distant horizon.
‘Windows,’ Mark said. Two of the huge windows swung open automatically, and a gust of cold air washed into the room. Mark hung his robe on a hook near the door and enjoyed the goosebumps that rose across his chest, shoulders, and arms. One side of the room contained a spartan gymnasium – a running machine, some free weights, and a punchbag that hung from a thick beam in the ceiling. The rest of the room was empty, with the same hardwood flooring as the bedroom.
The only other objects in the room were two swords, both resting on granite plinths in opposite corners of the room. The weapons were in their sheaths. They were each four feet long: three in the blade and one in the hilt. Though hidden by their sheaths, it was clear the blades were slightly curved.
The sword closest to the window had a deep red sheath and a white ivory handle. The other sword, which had been placed as far from the window as possible, was jet black. Its hilt was wrapped in black cloth to provide a firm grip.
After a series of warm-up exercises and stretches, Mark went over to the sword with the red sheath and drew it. He examined the blade, which was plain, unsharpened steel, for any flaws. Satisfied, he went through a series of complicated practice moves.
For an hour, the blade flickered and spun in Mark’s expert hands. To an untrained eye, it might have looked like a dance, so swift and perfect were the kata. Sweat soon glistened on his naked body.
Re-sheathing the sword, Mark walked back across the floor and put it back on its plinth. Then he worked the bag for twenty minutes before jogging ten kilometres on the running machine. He warmed down with some free weights.
Mark put his robe back on and walked to the kitchen, a sparkling affair in black granite and stainless steel. He ate mechanically. Like sleep, Mark didn’t really need to eat, but it could cause discomfort if he didn’t for any length of time. He ate a bowl of cereal and then went back upstairs for a second shower.
As he towelled himself off in the bedroom, Mark said, ‘Phone: Jason.’
‘Mr. Jones?’
‘Jason.’
‘I assume last night’s … endeavour … was a success.’
‘Yes.’
‘The cyanide worked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s good to know. I’ll make a note …’ Jason’s voice trailed off, and Mark thought he could hear the vague scratching of a pen.
‘What about the other target?’ Mark asked impatiently.
‘The portfolio is almost complete. The pattern didn’t change yesterday. I’ll pick up surveillance this morning. From what I’ve seen, the extermination will not be a problem.’
‘One more day. If nothing changes, I’ll begin preparations tomorrow.’
‘No problem. I still can’t believe you injected yourself with that stuff. Even you can’t predict how your system will react to something like that. It was dangerous.’
‘There was no danger. Goodbye, Jason.’ The phone went dead. ‘Phone: office,’ Mark said. He pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms as the phone rang. When it was answered, he began the business of the day.
Friday mornings were not the traditional time for hangovers. Cam, on the other hand, was much the worse for wear most mornings. It was a funny thing, but despite his inhuman resistance to poisons, Cam always suffered from alcoholic excess.
When he was in a philosophical mood, he pondered over whether it was psychosomatic – that he believed he deserved to suffer so much, his body just said to hell with it and started driving metaphorical nails through his temples. Since he had finished off the best part of a bottle of tequila before retiring last night, Cam’s hangover was pretty bad. He groaned and wrenched a gummy eye open. Grímnir was standing over him. He had a hand on Cam’s shoulder and Cam realised that he was shaking him.
‘Get away from me,’ he croaked in the True Tongue. ‘I told you I’m not into that shit.’
‘It is light outside. You promised me you would be up at first light to help me find the Maiden of Earth and Water.’
‘I promised you that? When?’
‘About an hour ago, when you finished that bottle of sour mead.’
‘Sour mead? You mean tequila?’ Cam realised what Grímnir had just said. ‘An hour ago? Sweet Jesus, you bearded loon. I’m dying here!’ he spat in English.
‘Speak in the True Tongue,’ Grímnir demanded.
‘Blow me,’ Cam replied. Then he turned and buried his face in an evil-smelling pillow. Strong hands closed around his torso, and he was wrenched physically from his bed. Grímnir held him under the armpits and began to shake him like a rag doll.
‘Oh fuck,’ Cam gasped queasily.
‘Speak in the True Tongue!’ Grímnir shouted. His bellow rang around Cam’s skull, threatening to split it open. Cam brought both hands around in desperation and slapped them around Grímnir’s ears. The big man grunted and then grinned. ‘Yes, little one, that was a bit more like how one from the Courts should behave – strongly! I almost felt the blow.’
‘Put me down,’ Cam gasped.
‘I will not, until you agree to fulfil your end of the bargain and take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’
‘Okay, okay … just put me down.’
Grímnir dropped him and Cam ran for the b
athroom. He made it just in time. Dropping to his knees, he threw up violently into the toilet bowl.
Grímnir followed him in. ‘Why are you ill? Alcohol does not affect any Elf I ever met.’
‘Well no wonder the fairy folk are all so fucking cheerful then,’ Cam said bitterly. ‘I don’t know why it gets me like this, it just does. You were lucky I didn’t throw up in your beard, you cock-rocket. I’m going to take a …’ he looked for the word in the True Tongue and couldn’t find it. Cam shrugged. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said in English.
Grímnir looked at him dangerously. ‘You said you would take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’
‘I will,’ he said, switching back to the True Tongue. ‘But first I have to bathe, and we’ve got to go and get you some clothes from somewhere.’ In English, he added, ‘And then I’m going to get a drink.’
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Tabby said as soon as she walked in the room. Sam felt a smile spread across his face when he saw his wife. She came straight over to his bed, leant down, and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she took a step backwards and surveyed him with concern.
Sam wrote on his notepad – Hi, Tabby.
‘Oh, Sam … your poor neck.’ She reached out a tentative hand and brushed the bandages.
Sam wrote – It’s okay. It looks a lot worse than it is. Have you spoken with a doctor?
Tabby read the note. ‘No, I came straight here. When they called me …’ she choked up for a second. ‘You had me so worried.’
Sam looked at his wife and felt a swell of affection deep in his chest. She was a petite woman, only pushing five-feet-four in heels, which she rarely wore. Though short, she had a perfect figure, and long black hair that fell to the small of her back. Tabby spent hours caring for her hair, and it was so glossy and sleek, it almost glowed in the morning sun that shone through the open curtains. Her eyes were a deep blue that dazzled from the pale white skin of her face. She had a wide mouth, with full lips that were wont to spread up into an infectious grin. She was not smiling now, though – her forehead was furrowed in a concerned frown, and her lips were pursed and tight.
Immortals' Requiem Page 6