The Society of Blood

by Mark Morris

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Didn’t you see her at the funeral? How sick and weak she was? She’s getting worse. If she doesn’t get proper treatment soon…’

  She let the sentence hang, but it was obvious what she meant. If she didn’t get proper treatment soon we’d lose her.

  ‘I’ll have to get the heart operational then, won’t I?’ I said, aware that I was speaking as though the task was achievable through application alone; as though the heart was nothing but an old jalopy I was doing up for a trip to the coast.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to?’

  ‘I have to. I’ve got no choice. I’ve already lost Hawkins. There’s no way I’m going to lose Hope as well.’

  TWENTY

  SICK GIRL

  Sitting at Hope’s bedside I said, ‘Do you remember when I told you about science, Hope? About what it was?’

  Lying in bed, her eyes almost cartoonishly big in her hollow-cheeked face, she wrinkled her nose. Clover was right – her health had deteriorated. I hated myself for having taken my eye off the ball after Hawkins’ death, for not having noticed that Hope had become increasingly listless and feverish. She had no energy to play with her toys, and no appetite, and though she bore it well she was clearly in pain. The flesh around the stump where the metal arm had been grafted on to her body was now looking not only red and inflamed, but alarmingly discoloured. The wound itself was crusted with a dried seepage that was part blood, part pus, and that had to be carefully cleaned several times a day. The seepage had a bad smell, which made me fear that gangrene might be setting in. I desperately hoped that we weren’t already too late.

  Hope’s voice was weak and slightly husky. ‘Yes. Science is when men find out things.’

  I smiled and gently pushed aside several strands of her damp fringe, which were stuck to her forehead.

  ‘That’s more or less right. Though it’s not just men, it’s women too. Science is all about discovery, about the advancement of human knowledge. For instance, inventing new machines to make it easier for us to do things – that’s science. And inventing new medicines, and new ways of making us better if we’re poorly – that’s science too.’

  She shifted in bed, trying to get comfortable, and I caught another whiff of the rotten odour emanating from her wound.

  Quietly I said, ‘For instance, if we could find a place where there were lots of men and lady doctors who had done so much science they could make your arm better, would you like to go there?’

  Her eyes sparkled with eagerness or fever. ‘Yes please.’

  I felt a pang of disquiet, but tried not to let it show on my face. The reason I had given this little girl, who I had rescued from Tallarian’s laboratory, the name Hope was because she had been the most positive thing to come out of that awful experience. The last thing I wanted, therefore, was to build her hopes up only to dash them again. But the truth was, I had no idea whether the heart would do my bidding or whether it would simply ignore me. If, however, I could get it to take us back to the twenty-first century, I wanted Hope to be as ready as she could be for the brave new world she would suddenly find herself thrown into.

  ‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘I knew you’d be brave. So even if the place was very different to what you’re used to, even if it was full of really bright lights and lots of strange and sometimes scary-looking machines that made funny noises, do you think that would be all right?’

  Uncertainly she nodded. ‘Of course. If the machines made me better.’

  I held her hand. It was like a warm, damp rag full of fragile twigs.

  ‘They will make you better, I promise.’

  Trying to ignore the yammering voice telling me I had no right to make such a promise, I continued, ‘Now, is there anything you want to ask me about this place before we go there? Anything you’d like to know?’

  Her voice was tiny. ‘Will you and Clover be there with me? I’m not sure I’d like to go on my own.’

  I squeezed her hand as hard as I dared.

  ‘Of course we will. We’ll be there whenever you need us.’

  Clover and I had briefly discussed whether to explain the concept of time travel to Hope, and had almost immediately discarded the idea. It would be hard enough for the girl to get her head round the dazzling and terrifying new environment she would suddenly find herself in, without having to take on board the fact that she’d travelled over a century forward in time as well.

  Before coming to us, Hope had had no concept of numbers whatsoever, and bright, curious and quick though she was to latch on, it had taken her a good while to grasp the concept of time – of how seconds led to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. She’d been unable to understand how each month had a name, and how each day within that month had a name and a number that was unique to itself, and that, once it was over, would never reoccur.

  It had been two days since Hawkins’ funeral, two days since Clover and I had had our fireside chat. Since then I’d been locked away with the heart; I’d been, for want of a better word, communing with it. Not sure how else to go about it, I’d sat with the heart cupped in my palms and tried to impose my will on it, to let it know what I wanted, what I needed it to do.

  Had it responded? I’m not sure. If it had it hadn’t done so overtly. It hadn’t burst into life, or changed shape, or communicated with me telepathically. On the other hand I’d been so intent on trying to communicate my desires that on a few occasions – and more often as time had gone on – I’d found myself slipping into a meditative, even trance-like state.

  And on those occasions I’d dreamed.

  I say ‘dreamed’, though in truth the experiences had felt more like visions. Maybe some of them had just been wish-fulfilment fantasies. It could even be that they’d all come from my subconscious, and not from the heart at all – but it had been encouraging, even so. If nothing else, it had at least felt like progress.

  In some of the dreams (or visions) I’d found myself back in the desert. The heart, the one I’d forged – or dreamed I’d forged – with my hands from the vital stuff of the earth, from life and energy and something so primal, so unknowable, that the only word I can think of for it is ‘magic’, was a black speck on the white sand, an object so tiny that it seemed destined to sink back under the ground from where it had come, to be overlooked, ignored, even less than forgotten, having never been owned and treasured and lost and remembered in the first place.

  In these dreams, or visions, I’d observed the heart, but I’d also been the heart. I was its spirit, linked to it eternally. I was aware of the centuries passing, of the world turning. I was aware of life evolving, adapting, of simple organisms becoming more complex and diverse with each generation. I was aware of life spreading from the sea on to the land, expanding to populate the planet. I was aware of the rise and fall of the reptiles, of cataclysmic climatic change, of continual death and rebirth.

  And throughout it all I was aware of the heart, of how impervious and constant and infinitely patient it was, as it waited to be discovered.

  Then finally, inevitably, it was discovered, and I was aware of it passing from hand to hand, of time slipping across it like a breath, like a soft breeze, impregnating it but never eroding or destroying it. Indeed, it was time that strengthened the heart, that stirred up the stuff it was made from and bonded with it. And I was aware that time was not set, not linear, not constant, that it was not a single fixed point across which events shifted constantly and evenly.

  No, time was mutable, ever-changing; it was a world unto itself. A world in which the heart and its dependents could travel at will.

  Oddly, I emerged from these dreams, or visions, both reassured and terrified. Reassured because they gave the heart a context of sorts, a history, something solid to cling to. But terrified because they suggested the heart was the most ancient, incredible, dangerous artefact ever created; even more, that it was a dis
passionate and primal force, which attracted acolytes as a planet’s orbit might attract minute particles of space dust.

  But was any of this stuff actually true? I had no way of knowing. It could be that the heart was giving me an insight into its nature, as it had given a similar insight to million of guardians, or acolytes, that had gone before me. Or it could be that the whole thing was a load of flannel dredged up by my subconscious as a way of trying to come to terms with all the crazy, impossible things I’d seen and heard these past few months.

  Whatever the answer, it didn’t change the fact that the most important aspect, as far as I was concerned, was how the heart affected me – and could affect me – here and now.

  Hope was still holding my hand, and now she squeezed it with all her strength, which admittedly wasn’t much.

  ‘I’ll never be scared of anything ever again if you and Clover are with me. Not even the Sandman. When can we go to the place?’

  I smiled to hide the nervousness, even the dread, I was feeling.

  ‘There’s no time like the present. Wait here and I’ll get Clover.’

  As I slipped my hand from hers and rose from the bed with a squeak of springs, I felt as if I was leaving my stomach behind. Would this work? And if it did work, how would it affect me? Using the heart had never failed to fuck me up physically; in fact, the effect had been accumulative. How many more times could I link myself to the heart before it killed me? Before it sucked so much out of me that my brain ruptured or my heart gave out?

  Anxious as I was, I tried to console myself with the thought that if the ‘evidence’ was to be believed, and if the me that would later buy this house, rescue Hawkins, meet Frank Martin and pay off Candice’s debts was actually me and not a visitor from the multiverse, then I’d still be around to use the heart in the future, and not just once or twice but lots of times. So did that mean I’d eventually get used to the heart’s power? That it only made you sick until you’d acclimatised to it? Might it even mean that maybe, like a drug, you started to crave the buzz of it after a while?

  As well as being worried for myself, I was also worried about whether Hope, in her weakened state, would be able to survive the trip. Again, though, I consoled myself with the apparent evidence I’d received so far that it only seemed to be the person directly linked to the heart, the ‘driver’ if you like, that was affected by its power. The last time the heart had brought me here, when I’d been clinging to the shape-shifter in the form of DI Jensen as the two of us had smashed out of the police station window, I’d lost consciousness, but hadn’t suffered the same ill-effects I’d suffered on previous occasions. I could only guess this was because in this instance the shape-shifter had been the ‘driver’, whereas I’d just been along for the ride. As to why the heart had obeyed the shape-shifter and not me – and then later, presumably, the Dark Man – when, by killing McCallum, I’d apparently taken on the role of its new guardian, I had no idea. But that wasn’t a question that concerned me right now.

  I opened the door and stepped out into the darkened corridor, to find Clover sitting on the floor a few feet away, her back against the wall, her apprehensive face glowing with yellow light from the wall-lamp above her.

  ‘We all set?’

  I gave a brief nod.

  She rose to her feet and puffed out a quick, hard breath, as though bracing herself for the ordeal to come. She was wearing jeans and a blue short-sleeved top beneath a black, hooded jacket – after all this time it was weird to see her in modern clothes again.

  She reached out and clasped my hand. ‘Okay, let’s do this thing. Let’s make like Marty McFly and head back to the future.’

  There was stuff we were leaving behind, loose ends left dangling – my various business concerns; the Sherwoods – and at first that had bothered me. With Hawkins dead, who would look after things while I was away? Who would keep the Sherwoods out of the clutches of the Wolves? How would I build my relationship with them?

  But then I realised that with the heart I needn’t worry about such things. Because once I learned how to use it, and to control or even allay the side effects, I would have mastery over time. Time wouldn’t carry on without me. My life wouldn’t unravel while I was gone. Because I wouldn’t be gone. As long as I made a note of the date I could travel back here whenever I liked, simply pick up where I had left off.

  Forcing my facial muscles into a smile, I led the way back into Hope’s room. I saw Clover flinch at the smell, then she became brisk, business-like.

  ‘Right then. Where do you want us?’

  I sat on the bed beside Hope, who was looking at me with dulled, unquestioning eyes, and clasped her limp left hand in my right one.

  ‘I want you to hold on to my hand as tightly as you can, Hope, okay?’ I said – though I had no intention of relinquishing my grip on her if I could help it. ‘Hold tight, and whatever happens, don’t let go.’

  I half expected her to ask why, but even in the minute or so I’d been out of the room she seemed to have become too sleepy or feverish to care. She gave a woozy nod and I felt the pressure of her hand increase a tiny bit in mine, which at least showed she understood what I’d told her.

  As I drew the heart from my pocket I told Clover to sit on the bed to my left and hold on to my arm. She did so, pressing herself tightly against me and wrapping both of her arms around my upper arm, as if we were about to take a ride on a roller coaster.

  ‘Now what?’ she said.

  ‘Now I need you to be quiet so I can concentrate.’

  Nervousness made my response more brusque than I’d intended, but she didn’t take offence. She nodded and closed her eyes and pressed her face into my shoulder.

  The light in the room was dim. The house was silent. Beyond it, faintly, I could hear the static-like ebb and flow of wind through the upper branches of the leafless trees in the garden. The sound was not distracting but soothing; it helped my concentration rather than disturbing it. It made me think of a mother’s blood coursing through her body, of nutrients rushing through her system, feeding the baby in the womb. But who was the baby? Me or the heart? Or were the two of us entwined, indistinguishable from one another?

  I held the heart loosely in my palm and stared at it. I stared until my eyes became unfocused, until the black object seemed to lose solidity, to become a mass of darkness, its edges blurring into shadow, its surface swirling like oil. As my concentration deepened, turned inward, I became aware of my breathing, slow and steady, and of the weighty, sonorous thump of my pulse in my arm, my hand, my eyes. As I continued to stare at the obsidian heart, it seemed not only to pulse in time with my own heart, but to become warm in my hand.

  I communicated my thoughts to it, told it what I wanted, what I needed. I ordered it to obey me; I begged it to obey me; I pleaded with it to help me. My surroundings darkened. I narrowed my eyes to close out everything but the heart. I hunched forward, aware of nothing but the pulsing mass of darkness in my hand. The heart seemed to be drawing shadows to it as a flue draws smoke. I hunched over until I was bent almost double, losing myself in the darkness. If Hope and Clover were still beside me, still connected to me, I wasn’t aware of them. I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead against the heart.

  Please, I thought. I might even have whispered it. Please. Please.

  There was no sense of displacement. No sense of the world shimmering or shifting around me. The first indication that things had changed was when I heard Clover gasp. I was still hunched forward, my eyes tightly shut. When I eased them open, they became flooded with red – the effect of sunlight shining through my eyelids, illuminating the blood vessels. The next thing I knew, my mobile phone, which I’d retrieved from beneath a pile of underwear in my chest of drawers, where it had been lying inert for the past three months, came alive in my inside jacket pocket, vibrating like crazy as messages started to come through.

  ‘We’re back,’ Clover breathed, her grip on my arm tightening. Her voice became louder, m
ore excitable. ‘Oh my God, we’re back! You’ve done it, Alex!’

  I could hear traffic now, coming from outside. Slowly I felt my senses returning, my body settling back into itself. I tried to fully open my eyes, but the light was too harsh. I squinted, trying to acclimatise.

  ‘Back?’ I said, and felt a spasm of alarm. ‘What about Hope? Is she—?’

  ‘She’s here too! We’re all here!’ Clover laughed. ‘I think you’ve cracked it, Alex! How are you feeling?’

  How was I feeling? I was feeling… okay. No, better than okay. I felt euphoric. Triumphant.

  My phone stopped vibrating. I opened my eyes, saw Clover’s face shimmering in the sudden daylight.

  I grinned at her. ‘I feel—’ I said – and that’s when it hit me.

  A colossal, crushing force of sickness and pain. It smashed down on me like a wave, engulfing me completely.

  Somewhere within it I was vaguely aware of falling, of Clover screaming my name.

  Then the world convulsed, as if the ground had given way, and I was swallowed by blackness.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE VISITOR

  I came to suddenly, as if I’d been switched back on. The period between the crushing pain that had caused me to pass out and the moment when I’d snapped back awake was nothing, a void; it was like I’d been cut from reality for a while, then pasted back in. Even so, I woke gripped by a sense of urgency, and with a name on my lips, as if my subconscious had been beavering away behind the scenes while I’d been gone.

  ‘Kate.’

  My voice was clogged and muddy, as if dredged from my throat by metal hooks. The pain made me grimace, made my body shift slightly as my muscles tensed. This in turn gave me a sense of where I was – lying on a firm mattress, my head supported by pillows – and also made me realise it wasn’t just my throat that hurt; it was all of me.

  I winced and groaned as multiple aches awakened in my body. I felt as if I’d been through an almighty workout; there wasn’t a bit of me that wasn’t affected. My throbbing head felt like a boulder I couldn’t raise. My chest ached as if I’d been punched repeatedly in the sternum and ribs.