Of the two people in the room, one was very old, one quite young. The elder lounged in a padded chair by a fire, wearing a mild smile that never waned. He’d been playing cat’s cradle, relentlessly patient, moving in and out of shapes with the concentration of a master craftsman. His long blue robe was frayed around the hem, and he wore fluffy slippers over a pair of outrageously coloured socks.
Sam, as he entered, was fixed with old demon’s unchanging smile, and the same ancient eyes that never showed emotion. This demon’s voice never rose in anger. This demon had never desired the bloodlust of slaughter or killed his own wife for disobedience. This was the necessary demon, who filled the unsung post that the silent thinkers of the world – the children who never wanted to play the violent games in the playground or who invariably handed in their homework on time – always fill: civil servant. Court Vizier. Old Beelzebub. The power behind the throne.
No one knew he embodied such a power, but Sam knew. And Beelzebub knew. They could read the knowledge in each other, through each measured nod, and in each level word that revealed nothing save what it left unsaid.
The younger demon was in every way Beelzebub’s opposite. He didn’t even look up as Sam entered, but continued pacing round a map laid out on a table. Sam saw little wooden blocks with flags in them, and sighed inwardly. A child was playing with his toys again.
This younger demon wore long blue and white robes with trailing sleeves and lavish embroidery that, for all that they made him look regal, also gave the impression of a boy playing with his mother’s wardrobe. Nevertheless, this was the same Prince who had intimidated many a baron into submission and had won his crown by slaying his brothers in duel after duel. He radiated energy as always, brow crinkled in a frown and fingers drumming up and down his sword.
And yes, he was a good Prince, thought Sam. The kind of Prince who knew when to bribe, or when to call in the services of his all-too-eager soldiers to drag a confession screaming out of some innocent’s lips, which he could wield against a guilty man who’d become too big for his boots. A ruthless Prince. Therefore a good one, for all he wasn’t a good man. The distinction had to be drawn somewhere between the two, and Sam had drawn it long ago. He admired the Prince. He disliked the man. He suspected that the feeling was mutual. One day, he thought sourly, you’re going to decide that I’m not necessary. And you’re going to be so high on your own glory that you think you can succeed where countless others have failed. Poison me in the night, send assassins. Maybe even challenge me to a duel. But you don ‘t know how to kill me. You don’t even know there’s any special way I must be put to rest. You think mere iron will do the job.
‘Ah,’ said Prince Asmodeus. ‘You’re back. Had a nice time on Earth?’
‘Mildly interesting.’
Beelzebub was watching, silent as always. ‘Tell me,’ demanded Asmodeus, ‘do you think I ought to send a demand to Belial, ordering him to withdraw his forces from the Clawed Pass, or should I go for a surprise attack?’
Sam wandered to the table and looked down at the map. ‘If you send a demand to Belial,’ he replied evenly, ‘he’ll refuse it as an act of stubbornness.’
‘A surprise attack, then?’
‘I doubt if it’ll be a surprise. Belial has been looking for the right opportunity to invade for years. I don’t advise giving it to him.’
‘Hum.’ Asmodeus strode round to the other side of the map. ‘The Clawed Pass protects one of the best slave routes. The desert beyond is relatively undefended after his damned fort – the slave raiders would have a wonderful time if they can only get there.’
‘I won’t help you take slaves.’
‘No, you probably won’t,’ he said sourly. ‘You don’t seem to do anything, do you? You’re never here.’
That’s because I’ve given up on you, my boy. ‘Would you rather I was here? Ruling as once I ruled? Wearing another crown?’
Asmodeus glanced to Beelzebub for help against this attack on his status. But the old demon had frozen over even more than usual and was staring into the flames. Though the Prince struggled to find a suitable answer, none came. Angry, with embarrassment making him more so, he strode towards the door, mumbling something about ‘state business’ as he went. As childish a tantrum as Sam had ever seen.
‘Don’t provoke Belial to more war,’ warned Sam, but Asmodeus had already closed the door.
Sighing, Sam sank on to the fireside chair facing Beelzebub, folding his legs up so that his chin rested on his knees and he was no larger than a child. ‘Why did we crown him?’
‘Because demons acknowledge physical strength only. Because they want for Prince a man ruthless enough to kill his own brothers, and because we too want a man ruthless enough.’ He was giving the answer Sam had heard many times before.
The old demon added, ‘You’re spending longer and longer on Earth. Are you finally giving up on us?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m sorry anyway.’
‘No. I am the sorry one.’
They sat in silence a while longer.
‘Bubble, there may be bigger trouble coming than we thought,’ said Sam finally. Bubble was the name he always used, partly to infuriate his companion, partly out of fondness, partly because he’d worn so many names himself he’d got into the habit of applying different ones to others.
‘Bigger than Asmodeus waging another futile war on Belial?’
‘Much. My family is at war again.’ Sam described the circumstances of Freya’s death.
He added, ‘I believe she was conducting investigations into the four keys.’
If Bubble’s face ever showed anything, it showed surprise then. ‘The four keys?’ he echoed. ‘The Pandora keys? They’re lost.’
‘That’s what I’ve been told too. But Freya is dead. There is war in Heaven.’
There followed another silence, longer and more pained, in which their minds ran to certain obvious conclusions. Images of war and destruction played before their eyes, full of beings gloating at the future to be wrought.
Sam found himself yawning from exhaustion at his thoughts. Bubble asked, ‘Are you staying here?’
‘No. The humans have got it into their heads that I may be part of Freya’s death. And there are people I must find – urgently.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I need information on the keys. Clues as to where they’re hidden, what it means if their powers are unleashed, everything. And do what you always do. Keep Asmodeus out of trouble. Forestall the inevitable war as long as possible.’
Beelzebub looked worried, a flicker across his otherwise serene face. But even a flicker was so unusual that Sam was immediately alarmed.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh – anxieties. I’m growing old, you know. Perhaps it’s only me, but Asmodeus is becoming harder to control.’
‘Do you control him?’
The demon gave a knowing smile, sharing in the secret that only they knew. So obvious was this secret, so blatant and so simple, that no one else had seen it. Sam had often said that the best place to hide was in the open.
‘Of course not. I… influence his decisions.’
‘And it’s becoming harder?’
‘Yes. Half of my influence stems from you, and you’re not here.’
Sam felt a start of guilt at this simple statement. ‘I will try. All I need is a little time to deal with whatever Freya wanted me to do.’
‘At least,’ said Beelzebub with a smile, ‘doing what she wanted was never a problem for you.’
But you, old demon? thought Sam as he trudged the last few steps up to his flat. In twenty-four hours he’d been to Devon, Tibet and Hell. Returning to London had a sense of homecoming, and it was with relief that he unlocked the door. Have you got time? Sometimes I forget how soon you people die.
But he didn’t forget now. As he lay down to sleep he remembered things he’d rather not. He’d been arrogant in misusing the years, when he was younger. He�
�d let everything move at a snail’s pace, forgetting that by the time one flower bloomed, the other would have withered.
He didn’t forget. Remembering Annette and others, he thought, Mortal child, why did you have to grow so old?
It had been one of those memorable cool spring evenings before the war in Heaven had finally spilled over to Earth. He’d been trying to have a cigarette, smoking being an almost universal trend in bustling Paris, but found himself unable to. Whenever he tried to inhale, his body’s natural defences had kicked in, and the blood had thundered in his head as regenerative powers worked themselves up to action. So he’d given up trying to smoke, and was now leaning on a balcony watching the occasional car drive down the street, passing from pool to pool of light.
Behind him, a bright, crowded room and the uproarious laughter of his French hostess as another tasteless joke was delivered. The humour had been getting noisier all evening, the smoke thicker, the drink flowing faster. People are nervous, Sam thought. They can feel the danger lurking in the future. Nineteen thirty-eight, the year that appeasement gains peace, and a German army wins its first little, disguised battle. But a battle nonetheless, albeit fought with papers and threats – and the memory of another war, still fresh in our minds. You’re all nervous. You can feel what’s going to happen, and you’re declaring that you don’t believe a word of it, because that’s what you want to be true.
He took a gulp from the glass in his hand. No – however hard he tried, he found it difficult to get drunk. Time, Time, Time! he swore. Why can’t my body not work for once? He’d already downed half a bottle of whisky. Yet there was no sign of its effects, but for the smell on his breath and the occasional turning of his stomach as his body broke down a thousand little toxins that might have half killed a human.
Someone staggered out next to him on to the balcony. A young woman, twentyish, giggling violently. She gasped down several gulps of air, clinging to the railing; then her head tipped forward as though it were a dead weight. Indeed, but for a small groan it seemed she might have died standing there.
‘Shit,’ she declared finally.
‘Why?’ he asked in French.
Rolling her head around a few times and hugging herself against the cold in her thin dress, she declared in a slurred voice, ‘I’m drunk.’
‘You are.’
‘Shit.’
‘It’s not such a bad thing,’ said Sam, wishing he could share her mindless condition, hangover and all.
She seemed only now to become aware of herself, and smiled prettily, as if just noticing his existence. ‘Who are you, then?’
‘Luc.’
‘And what do you do?’ she asked, almost crooning the words. She staggered, and he caught her automatically. Leaning against the railing, she began again to giggle.
‘I’m the Devil in disguise,’ he assured her. ‘Are you okay?’
She laughed. ‘My name’s Annette. What’s yours?’
‘I said. Luc.’
But Annette just went on laughing.
Why did you have to be mortal? he thought wearily, rolling over on one side, struggling to find sleep, that like the effects of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes, seemed denied to him. And since you are mortal, why can’t you simply die and leave me to my memories? Why do you always have to be there?
He woke to the thud of mail falling on the mat. The sun was already putting his threadbare curtains to shame, and a quick glance at the clock shamed him too. Was it already so late?
Sam managed to wash and dress in a little over ten minutes. He took his mail into the kitchen, reading it over a bowl of cereal and not caring that he might splash it with milk or coffee.
It was after he’d opened three items – a bill, an ad declaring that his house was perfect for a certain housing agency to represent, should he ever require their services, and another bill – that he came across a letter sealed in a brown envelope and addressed in Adam’s hand to Luc – no, that was crossed out – Sam Linnfer. He wondered what Adam could have found out so swiftly.
There was a single note inside, on which a hurried hand had scrawled, ‘The old hammer’s found you. The valkyries took every address I know. Get out. Adam.’ It had been delivered by hand.
He stared at it for a long while, reading and re-reading as though he couldn’t quite believe it. Then he sprang into action, leaping round the flat in a flurry, digging out passports, keys, clothes, maps – everything he could fit into one small rucksack. He couldn’t afford to be burdened.
As he hurried to and fro he struggled to remember how many addresses Adam knew. Three, maybe four? All but one in England. What else did Adam know? Contacts, emergency meeting-places, alternative names. Assume Sam and Luc are known. How far does Thor’s influence stretch – will he have eyes in passport control too? Or am I the only one who’s bothered to set up proper networks? Will he just send the valkyries after me, or is that too blunt even for Thor’s little mind?
How many addresses could they have checked so far? Quite a few, he decided. Shouldering his luggage, he slammed the door behind him and galloped down the stairs. ‘Mrs Dinken! If anyone asks to go into my flat for whatever reason, please don’t let them. Oh – and have you got a pen?’ it occurred to him to ask, going through his pockets as she stood in the hall before him, her head bobbing up and down in agreement to words not being said. She waddled back into a room, emerging an eternity later with pen and paper. Sam scrawled a hasty note, bounded back upstairs and stuck it to his door.
‘I’m sorry, but Mr Sam Linnfer is currently away on business in Oxford. Please contact his assistant for a telephone number.’ He had no assistant, but that wasn’t the point.
In the street, every car held staring eyes and the sky felt full of ravens. He tried to use what he knew about finding pursuers. Check cars, look for interesting features that help you remember them. Look for faces in the cars. Look for pedestrians who spend too much time staring into the same shop windows as you. Remember what other contacts Adam had access to, what others he knew of.
Sam walked briskly down the road, ignoring bus stops and passing endless shops offering half-price sales. This place, unlike Holcombe, had lost all personality. Teenagers pressed their noses against the window at Gap, and businessmen drank over-priced coffees, thinking of them instead as ‘expresso grande’ or ‘special mocca’. The main street was one large chain store, divided by a river of cars and trucks aggressively seeking the end of their road. The man in the small red convertible had his stereo up full blast in an attempt to drown out the classical music of the family in the large green Volvo: one wife with flowery silk scarf, one father with tie, two tidily dressed children with sulky expressions who’d grow up to be lawyers, maybe High Court judges.
Thor thinks I killed Freya. Or maybe he doesn’t; maybe he’s just using it as an excuse to get even on past hatreds. Why? I never did anything to him.
There’s no evidence against me, either. They can’t prove anything.
The inevitable rejoinder piped up. Thor doesn’t want to prove anything. He just wants to beat a confession out of anything that moves, and I’ve been moving for too long already.
He’d reached his first destination. A side street thronging with market stalls, erected in all their plastic and metal glory in front of fish and chip shops, DIY stores and florists selling authentic plastic blooms, one pound each. This litter-filled byway of noise and colour had personality, albeit of the watch-your-wallet variety. Twisted towards the shady side of the law, by dubious boxes of watches and videos in unorthodox covers that had somehow been released at the same time as the film itself.
Here Sam brought a cheap green anorak and a baseball cap, reasoning that these were what he’d be least expected to wear. He did have some taste – enough at least not to dress as a trainspotter. Hi, I’m the Prince of Darkness, is that really a Castles Class, 1923? Wow, let me write down the serial number. Pushing his way back to the main road, he got on the first bus that came along. H
e had a definite destination in mind, but planned on taking a long time to get there.
The bus was bound for King’s Cross down the Caledonian Road, with its dismal blocks of flats, run-down terraces, pet shops, municipal pool, and prison. Yet here too was life, of a sort. A few blocks to the east were green squares and private gardens and luxurious restored houses in which bankers, accountants and politicians neighboured one another in competitive bourgeois elegance. None of them said they lived near the Caledonian Road; they were from Islington. Their children had neat hair and played with clean new toys. The streets where they lived were tightly parked with sensible cars for the school run. And this not half a mile from the seedy streets round Pentonville Gaol. It was as if God, in all his wisdom, had drawn a social boundary down the middle of a road over which the local pub glowered at the new wine bar and which none but the foolhardy crossed.
Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series Page 7