World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  "And you're basing this knowledge on, what?" Church said sharply. "Some old fairytale you read? There might be some truths in the folklore and legends and myths, but we can't take them as gospel. People add bits to spice them up. Take things out. Mis-tell them."

  "And what do you suggest we do?" Tom snapped.

  "Okay, we should calm down." Ruth raised her hands between them. "Same team and all that. I vote we sleep together tonight and take it in turns to keep watch. You're right, we need to check out what that Laura woman has to say and we've only got to get through the night."

  They agreed, but before they could return to their drinks, Ruth turned to Church and asked, "And what did you see?"

  "A black dog, but like no-"

  Tom froze with his glass halfway to his lips. "My God," he said in a thin voice.

  As Church related what had happened that afternoon in the cathedral cloisters, Tom's face grew darker. "Black Shuck," he said when Church had finished. "The Devil Dog. I hoped it would just be the Baobhan Sith-"

  "What is it?" Ruth said.

  "A demon, some claim. And the precursor of something far worse. It was here long before the first settlement was hacked out, trailing disaster in its wake. I remember once, in Scotland, lying awake one night listening to its awful howling above the raging of the worst storm of the year, and I knew some poor bastard was about to die horribly." Tom took a deep swig of his cider. "Before you encountered it, or just after, did you see something-like a shadow flitting across your vision, or a misty figure passing nearby?"

  Church nodded. "In the cathedral. It seemed to be watching."

  Tom took a breath and said, "Black Shuck marks the way for the Grey Walker. The Erl-King, the leader of the Wild Hunt."

  Church stared into his Guinness, recalling a snippet from the reading he had done for a strand of his degree. "The hunt that hounds lost souls to damnation."

  There was a commotion at the bar as a tall, thin man with swept-back silver hair and a hollow face was berated by a group of drinkers. He was smiling obsequiously, but one woman seemed on the verge of attacking him.

  Ruth raised her glass. "Here's to the end of the world."

  "Now there's a toast to which one can really drink." The silver-haired man had slid up behind her, clutching the dregs of a half-pint. His broad smile revealed a gap between his middle teeth, which were stained with nicotine. His black suit had the grey sheen of overuse, but it was offset with a red brocade waistcoat. His boots were dusty and worn; the smell of the road came off him, of muddy verges and damp hedges, a hint of sweat and the bloom of being caught in too many downpours. Despite the colour of his hair, he couldn't have been more than forty-five. Tom eyed him suspiciously; Church finished his drink.

  "Knock it all down and start again, I say. Deconstruction before reconstruction." He raised his glass heartily. "Cheers!" Ruth smiled in return, and the man gave her a wink.

  Church picked up his empty glass and offered the others a refill with a nod. As he turned towards the bar, the silver-haired man quickly drained his glass and held it out. "As you're going, old boy, do me a favour and fill this up. I'll get the next one in."

  A sarcastic comment at the stranger's audacity sprang to Church's lips, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Grudgingly, he snatched the glass as he passed.

  "Cider, please," the man said, slipping into Church's seat. "And thank you kindly." He turned to Ruth and took her hand. "Charmed to meet you, my dear. I have many names, though the one I like the most is Callow. I hope you don't mind me resting my old bones. It's been a long day's travelling. The romance of the open road is a fine thing, but no one talks about the exhaustion at the end of the day."

  "Where are you going?" Ruth asked politely.

  Callow laughed. "Oh, from here to there and back again. There's too much to see on this beautiful, beautiful island of ours to be resting in one place for too long. I've done all that, you see. Worn a strangling tie in an office prison, filed the papers, counted the paper clips, watched the clock mark the passing of my life. Slow death for a poor wage. But how much could they pay you to make it worth dying? One needs to hear oneself think. In the words of Longfellow, `Not in the clamour of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.' And if you can't find a reason for being in one place, or even for being, then you have to look elsewhere."

  "I know what you're saying." Ruth was entertained by his attitude. It was an act he had obviously perfected over time, a mix of music hall comedian and slightly fey theatre ham. If it managed to get him a few free drinks, who was she to judge?

  "Ah, a kindred spirit. And have you broken the shackles of mundanity for the life of quicksilver heels?"

  "We're just touring around," Tom interjected coldly before Ruth could answer.

  Callow reached across the table. "Pleased to meet you." He nodded towards the badges on Tom's holdall at the edge of the table. "A veteran of the road too, I see. Ah, the Isle of Wight Festival. I remember it well. Hendrix played guitar like an angel. And Glastonbury, so many weeks there in the summer. The mud! You must remember the mud! Terrible. But fun. If you know what I mean. The Stonehenge Free Festivals too! Ah, how I miss them. The Battle of the Beanfield. I was there, I was there. Took a truncheon from a stormtrooper in blue. Saved some poor young girl from getting her head stove in." He shook his head sadly. "Ah me, the end of the world. And not a day too soon."

  Church placed the others' drinks before them, then pointedly held Callow's cider up high for him to vacate his seat. Callow stood up to take it, then sat down quickly and snatched a thirsty sip. "And cheers to all of you!"

  "That's my seat," Church snapped.

  "There's one over there, old boy." Callow waved his hand dismissively to a stool next to Tom. "Don't interrupt us now. We're reminiscing about the good old days."

  Ruth couldn't help a giggle at the irritation on Church's face. It deflated the moment, making it churlish for him to have stood his ground. With obvious annoyance, he took up his new position.

  Callow didn't leave a gap in the conversation long enough for the others to throw him out, and soon his constant spiel mingling with the effects of the alcohol had almost lulled them into a hypnotic acceptance. As their guards dropped, they loosened up and the conversation became fourway. There was no doubting that Callow was entertaining, with a knowledge of every subject, it seemed, and a colourful use of language that was bizarrely at odds with his lifestyle, although, if they had been sober, they would have admitted to themselves he was accepted more because he was a distraction from the worries that lay heavily upon them.

  When Callow finally felt comfortable enough to go to the toilet, Church said, "How did we get lumbered with that freak?"

  "Oh, he's harmless," Ruth said, "and entertaining, which is a relief after listening to you and Tom go at each other with knives."

  "I'd be happier if he stood his round," Church said. "He's freeloading his way to getting well and truly pissed."

  Ruth punched him on the shoulder a little harder than she intended. "Don't be so miserable. You can afford it-spread a little happiness."

  As the night progressed, the pub became more and more crowded, the air filling with smoke, shouts and laughter. Ruth surprised them all with a tale of her engagement to a political activist whom her father had admired and whom she had jilted on her wedding day after a panic attack that had almost resulted in a call for an ambulance. Church related the story of his brief, aborted career as a guitarist in a band which ended at his debut gig in a pub backroom when he vomited on stage through a mixture of nerves and too much drink. And Tom, loosened by several pints of cider, had several outlandish tales of his wanderings, most of them involving drug abuse: to Goa, and a frantic escape from the local police; to California, and a trip over the border to Mexico in search of the fabled hallucinogenic cactus; how he had raised the alarm about the brown acid at Woodstock; and his brief time as a "spiritual adviso
r" to The Grateful Dead which seemed to involve little more than handing out vast quantities of drugs.

  As drinking-up time rolled around, Church leaned across the table to Tom and said drunkenly, "So when will we get the Wild Hunt knocking at our door?"

  Tom waved him away with a dismissive snort, but Callow's eyes sparkled and his brow furrowed curiously. "The Wild Hunt?"

  "Don't you know?" Church slurred. "Every fairytale you ever heard is true! Bloody goblins and bogles and beasties are real-they've just been hiding away! And now they've come back!"

  Callow laughed, although he didn't get the joke, but when he looked around the table he saw there was obviously some truth in what Church was saying. "What do you mean, old boy?"

  "It's the end of the world, right. That's why we're all sitting here drinking. For tomorrow we may die."

  "Don't mind him," Ruth said, who was nowhere near as inebriated as Church. "He talks rubbish when he's drunk."

  "No, no, please tell me. I love a good tale," Callow said. "I once met a man in a pub in Greenock who swore the fairies were real. He claimed he'd seen them one Midsummer's Eve."

  Tom finished his drink. "It's late. We better be on our way." He added pointedly, "We've got an early start in the morning."

  "Oh? A little sightseeing?"

  "We're meeting a woman who's going to tell us about it," Church said. Tom helped him to his feet a little too roughly.

  "If you don't mind, I'll walk with you a while. It's a nice night," Callow said. He sidled up next to Church. "So tell me all about it, old boy."

  The evening was surprisingly mild. As they walked, Church poured out everything he knew, not caring if Callow believed him or not, while Ruth chipped in wry comments every now and then. Tom trailed behind, cautiously watching the shadows off the main road.

  "Why, it seems to me that this could be a time of great opportunity for people like us," Callow said in a tone which suggested he didn't entirely believe them, but was going along with the joke anyway. "Forward thinkers and dazzling iconoclasts who have shaken off the shackles of a society which only wants to keep us locked away! We are free to adapt while the sheep mutate into lemmings and rush towards the cliff! Magic-now there is a great leveller. Power on tap for all! Raising the lowly up to the level of the great and good!" He paused thoughtfully. "If one doesn't get eaten first, of course."

  Church and Ruth both laughed at this, the first time they had found humour in anything for too long, and, coupled with the act of unburdening, it provided a greater release than they could have imagined.

  "Where are you staying?" Ruth asked Callow. Unselfconsciously, she slipped her arm through Church's and leaned against him.

  "Here and there," the stranger replied. "A different night, a different billet. But enough of that. Look at the sky! Look at the stars! What a world we live in, eh? We are all in the gutter, but not enough of us look at the stars, to paraphrase Wilde. And where are you staying, my dear?" Ruth told him and he smiled broadly. "A fine establishment. I could tell you appreciated quality and I am rarely wrong when it comes to character. Let's be off, then!"

  "Be off where?" Church asked.

  "Surely you're not going to abandon me now?" the stranger asked with a hurt expression. "On such a fine night, and with it being so early and all. We still have stories to tell, experiences to share! The end of the world is nigh! We must make the most of what we have left. There must be a bar in your hotel that serves libations after hours to guests?"

  "No-" Church began to protest.

  "Go on," Ruth laughed. "Let him get another drink. We don't have to stay up."

  Callow took her hand and kissed it. "You are a lifesaver, my dear, and I am eternally in your debt!"

  In the bar, Ruth set Callow up with a pint of cider and a whisky. He wrung her hand, praised her to the roof and tried to entreat all three of them to stay with him drinking.

  Finally retreating to a table in the corner, he called out jovially, "Remember the words of T. S. Eliot, fellow travellers: `We shall not cease from exploration, And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.' Philosophy does not come easily at this time of the night and that, unfortunately, is the best I can do."

  They left him there, attacking his drinks with a gusto that suggested not a drop had passed his lips all night.

  "I shouldn't have got drunk," Church groaned. He was slumped in a chair in a corner. "Bloody stupid!"

  "We did it to forget. Don't criticise yourself for being human." Ruth sprawled on the bed against the plumped-up pillows, her eyes closed, while Tom leaned against the wall near the window, occasionally peeking out behind the curtains. "You know, I'm not a wilting flower. I don't have to have the bed just because I'm a woman," she continued. They had chosen Church's room to spend the night; it was slightly bigger and it had a better view of the street.

  "Indulge us." Tom nodded towards Church. "I wouldn't want him to have the bed if I have to sleep on the floor, and I'm sure he would feel the same about me. You're the compromise candidate."

  "In that case, you won't catch me arguing." Ruth's laugh faded quickly. "Do you think we're going to be safe?"

  "We can hope." Tom glanced outside again. "No sign of anything yet."

  "Do you think they'll keep sending bigger and bigger things after us until they get us?"

  "The Wild Hunt is coming," he replied darkly. "There is nothing after that."

  "Yeah, but we'll be safe tonight," Church mumbled. He crawled on to the mat at the side of the bed, threw his coat over him and was asleep within seconds.

  When he awoke in the deep still of the night, Church at first wondered if Marianne had come to him again. His head was thick with the alcohol, but he soon realised he had been disturbed by a strange grating noise, faint yet insistent. It seemed to be coming from the window. And it sounded like fingernails on glass.

  "What's that?" he hissed to himself.

  "Be still." Church started at Tom's strained whisper; Church hadn't noticed Tom was awake, but he was sitting up, staring at the drawn curtains. "The Baobhan Sith are here."

  "But we're on the first floor."

  Suddenly Church was filled with an overwhelming desire to see what was on the other side of the thick drapes; the fingernails scraped gently, chinking on the glass, calling to whoever was inside. He began to crawl towards the window. He could just peek through the gap, get some final proof that he'd left one world behind and entered another one which had no rules he could grasp. And what would he see? he wondered. What would he feel finally looking into the face of the unknown? He reached out to peel the curtains aside.

  Tom's arm crashed on to his shoulder and thrust him to the floor, his nails biting almost to the bone. Tom's breath was hot in his ear. "Don't," he hissed, "if you want to live a second longer."

  There was a pause in the scratching, as if whatever was outside had heard them. Tom and Church froze, their breath hard in their chests. Church halfexpected the glass suddenly to burst inward, but then the scratching resumed and they both exhaled slowly and painfully. Tom gripped Church's upper arm relentlessly and dragged him back to the other side of the bed.

  "They only know we're somewhere in the vicinity, but they can't pinpoint us, or they would have had us in our sleep," Tom whispered. "The scratching is to draw the occupant of the room. If you had pulled back the curtains, you wouldn't have seen anything, but they would have seen you."

  "Sorry," Church said, "I don't know what came over me."

  A noise in the corridor outside made them both catch their breath again. Tom's face was pale in the dark, his cold eyes fearful. "I think they're coming in," he said.

  Before Church could speak, he had leapt across the room and was kneeling next to the bed where Ruth was still sleeping soundly. He roused her gently, then clasped a hand across her mouth before she could speak; her eyes grew wide and frightened, but Tom silenced her with a finger to his lips.

  He summoned
Church to his side, then said, "Hide under the sheets with Ruth. I'll get into the wardrobe. When they come into the room, don't make a sound. Don't move a muscle."

  "But they'll see us under the covers," Church protested.

  "If they don't see you move or hear you they won't investigate further. They have little intellect. They simply respond," Tom said. "Trust me. Now, quickly."

  He held up the sheets so Church could wriggle down next to Ruth, then pulled them over their heads. It was hot and stifling, emphasising the swirl of alcohol in Church's head and the steadily increasing rumble of his heart; for the first time in his life, he had a sudden twist of claustrophobia. The wardrobe door clicked and then there was silence. In the dark he couldn't see Ruth's face, but he could feel the bloom of her breath. Her fingers found his hand and gave it a confident squeeze.

  They didn't have to wait long. A dim clunk echoed hollowly; the tumblers of the lock turning although Church had sealed it on the inside. The faint creak of the hinges as the door swung open. A soft tread on the carpet, deceptively light as if it was a child, moving to the foot of the bed.

  Church held his breath; Ruth's stopped too. Her fingers around his hand were rigid. Together they listened. It seemed the intruder was watching the heap of covers on the bed for any movement, listening for a barely audible rustle. Suddenly every nerve on Church's body came alive. A tic was developing in his calf, a spasm in his forearm; he didn't know how much longer he could hold it. Somehow Ruth seemed to sense his discomfort for her fingernails started to bite into the soft flesh at the base of his thumb, drawing his attention to the pain.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, they heard movement again. The quiet tread progressed around the bed to the head and with his blood ringing in his ears, Church waited for the sheets to be snatched back. Instead, the tread continued to the wardrobe door, where it waited again, then to the window and finally back to the door. Even when they'd heard the click of the door closing, they remained in hiding for five more minutes, not daring to move.