This girl has killed several people that I know of, and turned Marvo’s baby brother into a clockwork toy with no key.
The last time I trusted her, she sent a demon after me.
That ought to be enough to settle it. But I can feel her breath, warm on my neck, as she whispers, ‘Frank, I don’t want to be me.’
I could say, me neither. I turn my face towards her, imagining my lips against her skin. But before they can get there, her fingers have slipped away and she’s fallen back into a chair and buried her face in her hands.
‘I made a mistake.’ She runs her hand across her cropped blonde hair – hard, like she’s trying to squeeze some sort of sense out of her own thoughts. ‘I made a lot of mistakes.’
Confession is good for the soul. Right now, though, what we need is a better plan. I’m at the table rooting through the instruments. There’s a sword; but when I pick it up by the hilt, the blade falls off.
‘I’ve never had a friend,’ says Kazia.
‘I’m not surprised, if you keep feeding them to demons.’ We’ve got knives; two sickles; brass braziers to throw; cord to tie people up with if it ever gets that far . . .
‘Anyone I ever trusted, they betrayed me.’ Kazia looks up at me with a sad smile. ‘I thought you would too.’
She jumps out of the chair and makes another grab for my hand. I’ve still got a knife and I try to pull away, but again my hand has a mind of its own. When I was at Saint Cyprian’s they used to go on about the weakness of the flesh. They should’ve warned me about its strength. I can’t stop my hand going willingly with hers. The tip of the knife touches her throat.
‘He’ll kill me anyway,’ she says.
I’m trying to think, who does she mean? Matthew? Vannutelli? Someone I haven’t even met . . .?
But she’s got both hands wrapped around mine. I’m shaking. The tip of the knife zigzags across her skin, leaving a thin red track. If I pushed, this would all be over . . .
‘Please.’ I manage to wrench my hand away. The knife rattles across the floor.
So I’m leaning against the table, panting for breath and wondering if other boys have this sort of fun with girls. She’s beside me, tying the sleeves of two robes together to make a sort of rope.
‘It won’t work,’ I point out.
‘Have you got a better idea?’
I guess I haven’t. I open the window and look out over the priory cloister. It’s a beautiful evening, if I could be bothered to stop and admire it. The sky is clear, the stars are sharp and bright. There’s a sloping roof just below the window, then a drop that looks further than I’d want to fall without somebody to land on.
I’m standing there, shivering despite my jerkin, when I feel the heat of Kazia’s body against my back.
‘There’s a gate.’ Her breath tickles my ear as she points over my shoulder, to the far corner of the cloister.
I’m sold.
I hunt through the pile of rusting crap that the monks left us, and I find two things that actually work. A flint and steel.
Sparks. Fire. At least everything’s dry and blazes away merrily. Smoke fills the room and billows out of the windows.
Hammering on the door. Yelling and screaming.
I’m out of the window, sliding down the sloping roof, coughing fit to bust. To my relief, my feet hit a low parapet. I lie flat on my stomach and grab Kazia round the waist as she slides down alongside me.
I tie one leg of a pair of linen trousers around a stone pinnacle and toss our escape route over the edge. It stops at least ten feet clear of the ground.
There’s risks either way. If she goes first, I’m not there to catch her. If she goes second, the rope is closer to giving way.
‘You first,’ I decide.
As she lowers herself, I can see the seams of the trousers starting to pull apart.
‘Hurry up!’
She lets go and drops.
My turn. The smoke is pouring out of the window and rolling down around me. Coughing desperately, I slide over the parapet. I’m halfway down when the trousers rip apart and I tumble the rest of the way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Swimming
‘WHERE ARE we going?’ Kazia pants. ‘Your lair?’
‘My lair?’ I manage not to giggle. ‘No. We’re not safe there.’
‘Then where is safe?’
‘I dunno. But everybody knows about my place, even if they can’t get past the cloaking spell. We’d just be trapped there—’
She smiles. ‘Would that be so bad, Frank?’
We’re out of the priory and along the riverbank, at the foot of the high wall sealing off the Hole, zigzagging through a stinking sea of rubbish and rubble. My ankle hurts where I twisted it, but I’m mainly amazed I didn’t break my neck falling out of the priory. Looking round, I see the lights of a barge drifting towards us in midstream—
‘We can get to London!’ I point. ‘See the ladder at the back? We can climb up and hide—’
‘And then what?’
‘If we don’t do it now, we’ll never do it.’ I wade out into the water and it’s bloody freezing.
‘Don’t be stupid, Frank!’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Why not? There’s nothing here.’
‘If we get to your lair—’
‘Don’t call it a lair. It’s a studio.’
‘Studio, then. But if we get there—’
‘We’ll be trapped.’
She’s not budging, is she? The barge is abreast us, maybe ten or fifteen yards out. I figure that if I go for it, she’ll have to follow me. I throw myself at the water.
Did I ever mention that I can’t swim? But how difficult can it be? I mean, fish can do it, and how bright are they?
Brighter than me, apparently. I tumble down into the cold water. The current grabs me and turns me over. My jerkin wraps itself round my head. There’s a roaring sound in my ears.
I should be feeling spiritually cleansed, because running water purifies as effectively as exorcised water. But I’m too busy drowning to appreciate that fact. I’m flapping and kicking, trying to get myself the right way up. I’m stirring up all sorts of crap, then swallowing it. My eardrums are bursting. I’m spinning helplessly. Which way’s up, anyway?
I break the surface, spouting like a whale. I can’t see Kazia anywhere, and before I’ve managed to get any air I’m under again, my lungs empty of anything useful, fighting the stupid instinct to breathe water.
I can’t keep my mouth shut – could I ever? The water’s pouring in, choking me—
I’m panicking, but I keep thrashing away. My hand grasps something and I find myself on the surface, miraculously clutching the ladder at the back of the barge. I get the other hand to the ladder and drag myself half out of the water. I look around . . .
No sign of Kazia.
Oh Christ! I’m looking around desperately, scanning the black water for any sign of her. I throw myself back into the river and realise, as I flail around beneath the surface, that of course I’m an idiot.
By the time I crawl ashore, I’m half drowned. I feel I’ve made progress with this swimming lark, but I’m a hundred yards downstream and shivering uncontrollably. I don’t even bother going back to look for Kazia. Pretty damned obvious, isn’t it? Once she realised that I wasn’t going to take her back to my studio, she left me to make a fool of myself and she’s heading there on her own.
It’s amazing how cold you can get when you put your mind to it. I’m soaked to the skin. My stomach has tied itself in knots and my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I’m trying to run, but I’m shaking so badly that I keep falling over. My hands are raw. My knees are screaming at me to stop.
And I don’t get it. Sure, Kazia can ditch me and head for the termite nest. Maybe she can talk her way through the gate; or maybe she knows the way in over the back wall . . . But once she’s inside, the cloaking spell ki
cks in. There’s no way she can actually get inside my studio.
It’s a two-mile run: round the outside of the Hole, over the wall, across the Cherwell Bridge and along the London road past the old non-conformist burial ground. Then another half-mile uphill to the termite nest. I’m nearly dead by the time I stagger round the last corner—
Right into the reception committee. There’s six of them kneeling in the road outside the gate. Heavy overcoats. Scarves wrapped around their faces. ASB emblems on their sleeves.
I see a couple of sticks lying on the cobblestones beside them. And a long, heavy log; I guess, to batter down the gate. But none of them stay on the ground for long—
Because there’s a seventh arsehole, clutching a metal cross on a pole, one hand raised to heaven. Silas spots me and leaps to his feet. He has a message from God:
‘Get him!’
I’ve got a new plan: run like hell and get over the back wall before they see where I’ve gone. But I’m barely round the first corner, scampering through the pool of light cast by a street lamp, looking over my shoulder to see whether I’ve got enough of a head start to make it . . . when I hear the sound of hooves.
Up ahead, four men on horseback are trotting down the street towards me. Moonlight gleams on bronze helmets.
Knights of Saint Cyprian. Real ones, this time.
Why tonight, of all nights?
Can’t go back.
Across the street to my right, just the flat, high wall of the monastery chapel.
On my left, a line of terraced houses. For a moment I consider throwing myself in through a window and begging for sanctuary. But the terrace ends a few houses ahead, at a dark alleyway. I keep running.
A couple of seconds later, I collapse against the side wall of the end house, gasping and thanking my lucky stars. The hoof beats haven’t accelerated, so the Knights didn’t spot me. I stick my nose round the corner of the house.
One way, the ASB are just standing there, scratching their heads.
The other way, the Knights rein in their horses.
OK, so this is interesting. The ASB hate the Society and anyone who works for it, while the Knights are always up for a bit of head-splitting . . .
I’m just trying to work out how I can make it all kick off, when something gets me by the collar and yanks me round.
‘Fronk!’ A face looms out of the darkness. ‘Quel plaisir inexprimable de vous revoir.’
Oh hell. Dinny. Grinning like a tiger in a pet shop. His hook rips through my jerkin. He sticks his face into mine and I nearly throw up as the stink of alcohol hits me.
‘Jesus, Dinny!’
‘They let me go.’
‘The jacks? That’s great.’
OK, so he’s been celebrating his release the traditional way. He’s swaying on his feet. ‘But you are rest—’ He shakes his head. ‘Respon—’ He’s never too clear at the best of times. Tonight he’s all over the place. ‘Your fault!’ he spits.
‘My fault?’
‘That they arrest me.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘The money.’ He’s tearing at my wet clothes with his hooks. ‘Where is it?’
‘I told you, Dinny, don’t you remember? I’ll get it for you.’
This isn’t fair. He had enough cash on him to get totally arseholed. Why’s he on my case?
He drags me towards the open street. ‘We go in your place. You have books, no? I can sell—’
‘Jesus, Dinny. This really isn’t a good time.’
‘That what you always say!’ He gets me round the throat by one hook and you know what? It bloody hurts. The other hook is dangerously close to my eye. I’m just appreciating how incredibly sharp and pointy it is when Dinny hisses, ‘I kill you!’
I get a stabbing pain in my throat. For a second I really think I’m done for. Then I hear the sound of breaking glass and the pain stops as Dinny collapses in a heap. I look round and see Charlie clutching the neck of a broken bottle.
‘Bloody hell, Charlie! I mean, is everybody here?’
‘Haven’t seen your mum.’
‘So far.’ I look around nervously. ‘So what’s your excuse?’
‘Just wanted to warn you that Dinny was coming after you.’
‘You could’ve been quicker.’
‘Yeah, but I thought he had a point. You can’t go messing people around like that.’
Dinny hasn’t moved.
‘Jesus, Charlie, you haven’t killed him, have you?’
I can hear shouting from the street. I risk peering round the corner of the house. To my left, the Knights have pulled up abreast of each other.
To my right, the ASB mob are standing in a group with Silas at the front, holding his cross aloft.
‘Nekkers!’ the guy behind him yells.
That’s a bit unfair. The Knights are failed sorcerers, same as a lot of the ASB.
One of the Knights draws his sword. Another hauls out his scryer.
‘Now what?’ Charlie whispers.
‘Let’s them and them fight.’ I pick up a couple of stones and bung one towards the Knights. A horse rears up.
While the Knights are still blinking, I lob the second stone at the ASB and drag Charlie off down the alley. I hear screaming and yelling behind me and for a nasty moment I’m afraid they’ve spotted us.
But when I turn and look back, from the other end of the alley, I see one of the Knights tumbling to the ground as Silas’s cross bangs off his helmet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Scrying
CHARLIE DROPS DOWN beside me, inside the back wall. He was in here a couple of times after I worked the cloaking spell, so he’s immune.
But Kazia isn’t. The corridor leading to my studio smells of vomit. In the moonlight, seeping in through the door behind me, I can see a dark shape sprawled on the floor. Amazed and impressed that she got this far, I step towards her and crash into Andrew.
‘Watch where you’re going, Brother!’ he whines.
I shove him out of the way and hear a satisfying thud as the back of his head hits the wall. I get Kazia under the armpits and haul her to her feet. She’s heavier than Marvo and it’s a bit of a struggle.
‘I don’t get it.’ Charlie’s staring at her. ‘How did she get in?’
I’ve got one free hand. I point it at Andrew.
‘That’s not fair,’ Andrew protests, rubbing his head.
‘She got inside the monastery the other day. The cloaking spell kicked in and knocked her over . . .’
I look into Kazia’s eyes and actually see the blinds come down.
‘Yeah, you spotted it at once, and you realised that that if Andrew was awake enough to help me carry you outside, he must be immune to the spell.’ I remember her staring intently at him as the penny dropped.
I turn back to Andrew. ‘She just turned up at the front gate and smiled at you, right? And you walked her through it.’
He stares down at my feet. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘No reason why you should. Anyway, who cares? She’s just leaving.’
‘Brother.’ Andrew plants himself in front of me, one hand raised like a jack directing traffic. ‘I can save her from sin.’
‘Another time, eh?’
‘Frank, you can’t.’ That’s Charlie. ‘You said it yourself: she’s a sorcerer—’
Andrew squeals and shrinks back against the wall.
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘But she’s a girl!’ He hauls the cross out from under his habit and clasps it to his lips.
‘The ASB and the Knights are both out there,’ Charlie says. ‘Do you really want her dead?’
I guess not. I kick the outside door shut behind us. After a moment of pitch darkness, my studio door opens. I wrap both arms round Kazia and drag her inside, where the whisper of moonlight through the window is enough to get her across the studio without falling over anything. I drop her on the mattress and straighten up.
My ankle
still hurts and I think I’ve dislocated my spine. I get some lamps lit. Kazia just lies there, sprawled backwards like all my fantasies come true – if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s thrown up on the sheet. At least the dog’s happy.
She opens her eyes and gazes up at me. ‘Where are we?’
Like she doesn’t know . . .
Opinions vary on what I should do next.
‘Let me see what’s going on outside,’ says Charlie. ‘If the coast’s clear, you pack up and you get her out of here—’
‘What if she doesn’t want to go?’ I whisper back.
Kazia is wandering around the studio, pulling out drawers and turning over cutlery. She catches my eye and opens her arms to indicate the entire studio. ‘This is wonderful,’ she says.
She’s looking pretty damned wonderful herself. She frowns and runs a fingertip across the skin of her forehead, where I fixed the dent she made when she fell over. That was a bit of a treat for me.
‘Once you get her outside,’ says Charlie, ‘you ditch her. Get to London. You can hide there—’
‘What about the Hole?’
‘No.’ He hesitates. ‘The Hole isn’t safe any more.’
I’m about to ask him what that means, when he nudges me. ‘She’s up to something . . .’
I look round and see that she’s found the tin on the shelf.
‘Think I don’t know that?’ I whisper.
I know she wants to be here. I realise she wants something. Maybe if I let her get it, things will start to make sense.
But there are limits. That tin I dug up – she’s opened it and pulled out a crumpled banknote. The fat, ugly mug of the Lord Protector scowls back at her.
She holds the note up to the lamp. I can see the colours: yellow, blue . . . and black along one edge where it’s been in a fire.
I snatch it away from her. ‘My escape fund.’
I put it to my nose and still get the faint whiff of smoke. It’s all that’s left of the wad of cash my dad got for selling me to the Society of Sorcerers. I never knew exactly how much, but it was a lot. One corner has been torn away, where I snatched the note out of my dad’s fingers after I set him on fire. The rest of the money went up in flames with him.
Pariah Page 19