The Queen of sinister da-2

by Marc Chadbourn

  Another pang. She hadn't made it back, had she? She'd even missed the funeral — too busy having fun, tripping in a field, listening to music with some boy or other; she couldn't even remember which one. How many times had she been so thoughtless and uncaring?

  Mary nodded sadly, turned to the stairs; the door was ajar, the interior dark as it always had been, even on a summer's day. She climbed slowly, remembering every creak, the steps she had to avoid when she sneaked down while her parents slept. We try to be good children, but never hard enough; are they always disappointed with us?

  Sunlight streamed through the front bedroom window, illuminating the floating dust like tiny flakes of silver, something so mundane yet so wonderful. Her grandfather sat in the sun by the window, looking out at the quiet street. He turned and smiled at her, just like her mother had done, with no disappointment, no subtle accusations, and Mary felt the emotions inside her cut like a razor. His white hair was aglow in the sun, his eyes keen and bright at the sight of his favourite granddaughter. The only time he'd ever cried in public was when she'd been born. His skin had blue blemishes here and there, coal dust impacted too deep in the pores to be removed, the legacy of a pit collapse that had also taken two fingers. He looked too alive to have only a week left.

  'Hello, Grandad.' She couldn't think of what else to say, was afraid of saying anything for fear of crying.

  'Hello, Mary.' He beckoned for her to come closer.

  She sat on the end of the bed. 'You look so much like him.'

  'I am your grandfather… and I'm not.' He smiled enigmatically. 'You've never been happy since Grandma went. I always felt you were just waiting to die to be with her again.' She caught herself. 'I'm sorry, all this… it's confusing me.'

  'Don't worry. It's understandable, lass. But there's a reason for it, like there's a reason for everything.'

  'I'm here for help, and guidance.'

  'I know. And I'll do everything I can. These are difficult times for everybody.' He looked back out of the window. A car drove lazily up to the roundabout at the top of the road.

  'The angels… the Elysium… they said the Goddess had to be called back.'

  'She has to be called back, for the sake of everything.'

  'Is that my job? Is that the price I have to pay for your help?'

  'No. There is no price for my help.'

  'I thought there was always a price to pay?' Mary said curiously.

  'Not here. There is never a price here.' His lazy smile reminded her of even sunnier days as a child, when things had been uncomplicated and she'd even probably liked herself. Next to him she felt even more wanting, whether it was her grandfather who'd struggled hard all his life for the sake of others or the true form that lay behind his face.

  'You make me feel at ease,' she said.

  'That's the idea. Your kind are so trapped in your own bodies, Mary. No idea of what things are really like beyond your five senses. No idea of what powers lie within you. You construct everything you see with the power of your will, and the strongest can change it all by wishing, lass. Just by wishing. You don't know any of the true rules. The rules you do have are just there to keep you safe, like the bars on that cot I made for you when your mother was in hospital. But you're all so important, and one day, maybe sooner than you think, you're going to break out and see what the universe is really like. And then you'll be in for a fine old time.'

  'Sounds like… magic.'

  'Aye. Magic. That's just what it is. And it can't come soon enough in my book. Things were going right for a while, and then the wrong sort took over. The ones who only thought about money and power, who'd do anything for it without thinking about the bigger picture and where they fitted into it. The ones who made a mess of the planet… drilling and burning and poisoning, all for money. All for bloody money. They're the ones who drove the Goddess away.'

  Mary heard her mother turn on the radio downstairs, then begin to hum away to some golden oldie by Johnny Ray. 'But will she come back again? Can she?'

  He examined the stump of one of his missing fingers thoughtfully before pulling a white paper bag of barley sugars from his pocket. He offered her one, and when she unwrapped the cellophane and slipped it into her mouth, she experienced a rush of overwhelming sensation that made stars flash behind her eyes.

  'What is this?' she gasped.

  'Just a taste of what's out there — if you get up off your bums.' He unwrapped one of the barley sugars himself and sucked on it thoughtfully. 'Can she come back? That's where it's up to you lot to make a change… a big change. In the end, I think it'll probably come down to her daughters. They've been getting back on their feet for a few years now, getting back to their old place, shoulder to shoulder with the blokes.' He leaned forward and gave Mary's knee a squeeze. 'See, lass, you can make a difference.'

  Mary shivered. It was almost as if he had seen into her, peeled back all her fears about her weaknesses and her many, many failures. One wasted life; was it too late to put it right? The lump in her throat was hard. 'That's what I'm trying to do.'

  'I know.'

  'But I wonder if I should have just stayed at home. I don't know if I'm up to it.'

  'No one really does. And the few that think they do are usually wrong.'

  'I've got a friend, Caitlin Shepherd. She's a good girl, bit of a misery-goat, worrying about everything instead of enjoying life like all good folk should…' She smiled tightly. 'But I suppose we've all got our flaws. Anyway, I want to help her.'

  Her grandfather nodded knowingly, waited for her to continue, but Mary sensed he already knew much of what she had to say.

  'She's gone in search of a cure for a plague that's come down hard on our world. Only it's not just a plague — it's something magical. I don't know for sure, but I think she's being tricked… I think, maybe, the whole point of it was to get her to cross over to the Otherworld, where she's going to be killed. And I had this vision that she's important. I mean, she's always been important to me, but I think she's important to the world, too — maybe even important in bringing the Goddess back.'

  'She's a Sister of Dragons,' her grandfather interjected, and now he looked a little less like her grandfather, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed.

  'That's right, dragons! That's what my vision said. And dragons are symbolic of the Earth Spirit, earth energy

  'Which is the same energy that flows through humans, too — the spirit that flows through everything.'

  'Dragons, snakes, serpents, it's all symbolic. When you think about it like that, the Bible reads very differently — the Garden of Eden, St Michael killing the dragon, St Brendan driving the snakes out of Ireland… and Caitlin is connected to this big, big thing…' The notions came thick and fast, surprising her with their intensity. 'I've got to bring her back. I'll do anything for her. It doesn't matter about me — I'm not important.'

  The words ended on an interrogative note and she eyed her grandfather hopefully, but he shook his head slowly. 'I give no guidance here. This is one of those times when your choices are important.'

  Mary rubbed a hand through her wiry, grey hair. 'I don't know! How can I know? I'm just going on my gut instinct… and I want to bring her back.'

  'Are you sure?' Blue light flickered behind his eyes.

  Mary steeled herself. 'Yes. I want to bring her back. Can you do that?'

  'Yes. It is done.'

  Mary sat back, relieved, and then stood up to go. The radio downstairs was playing 'Alone Again Or' by Love. Her song; how coincidental, although she knew it wasn't a coincidence at all. She leaned forward and kissed her grandfather on the forehead, unbelievably sad that she was leaving him and would never see him again, that she was leaving the family home where she'd been happy for so long; perhaps the last time she had been truly happy. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

  But as she pulled back, she caught a change in the cast of his face, and saw concern there, and in that moment she knew she had made the
wrong decision. 'No,' she whispered. 'I take it back.'

  But she was already moving back through the house, the walls elastic, the light distended, and in her ears were his words: 'We stand or fall by our choices, Mary. That's the important thing.' The trees were even more dense in that part of the forest: oaks that even six men linking hands couldn't encircle; hawthorn, thick and lethally spiky; yew, sprawling and twisted like sour old men. Caitlin pressed between the trunks, picking her way over the mass of root material that obscured most of the forest floor. It was so dark it could well have been night.

  'Jack?' It was more of a whisper than a call, but it rustled out through the still air beneath the branches. She didn't sense the growing army of the Lament-Brood anywhere near at hand, but other threats lurked in the shadowy depths of the Forest of the Night and she didn't want to draw attention to herself.

  There was no longer any sign of movement, but it was possible that Jack, if it had been him, had already slipped by her in the confusion of tree and branch. She stopped, listened; the crunch of a foot on dry twigs echoed, but the mass of trees distorted the sound and made it impossible to pinpoint the location.

  As she pressed by one tree, she thought she heard a barely audible voice issuing from deep within the wood; to her ears it struck a warning note, but she dismissed it as her overworked imagination responding to her anxiety.

  The trees were like a maze and Caitlin began to worry that she wouldn't be able to find her way back to the path and Carlton. Perhaps it would be better to wait there. If the others had heard Triathus, they would all be trying to find the path anyway.

  Carefully, she retraced her steps. When she did finally get a view of the path, it was much further away than she had anticipated. She could just make out Carlton, tiny and alone and in desperate need of her. She resisted the urge to call out to reassure him.

  A movement sounded in the trees nearby. Her senses tingled. Perhaps it wasn't Jack at all. Just like the Gehennis, something could have tried to lure her off the safety of the path. Carefully, she unslung her bow. Another twig cracking. Near or far? Was it stalking her? Waiting for a chance to attack when her defences were lowered? She dropped low, moved cautiously at first, then speeded up, dodging lithely amongst the trees, heading for the path. And then she had the strangest buzzing sensation in the tips of her fingers, before it moved up her forearms with a feeling of deep warmth. She felt oddly out of sorts, as if she'd spun round on the spot too many times. A bolt of light shot across her vision.

  She fought the disorientation and tried to focus on any signs of whoever was nearby. Carlton appeared in a space between two trees. He looked frightened. She had to get to to him, to protect him.

  Another bolt of light arced across her vision, and she felt as if she were unravelling, the cords that bound her together peeling back from fingertips to toes. An uncomfortable feeling of detachment descended on her. She felt as if she was watching the surroundings through a bubble of glass.

  The other, near or far, near or far? She looked, looked, and saw, but not near at all. The shape flitted through the trees near the path with lethal purpose. It wasn't after her at all.

  Desperation and horror burst in her mind. Carlton was turning; he'd heard a noise.

  Caitlin threw herself forward with wild urgency, struggling with her bow, trying to notch an arrow. But her reactions were too slow, and she was all over the place, as though drunk. She felt herself slipping away and the figure, indistinct but quick and dangerous, was almost on Carlton now. The boy was looking up into a face, smiling.

  And Caitlin thought, 'If this wasn't happening to me, I would be there by now, protecting him, doing my job, saving Liam.'

  She leaped over a fallen tree, almost fell, tried to aim the arrow, but her hands looked as if they were made of water and felt as if they were made of light. And she fell, rose up, and looked at the world as if though the bottom of a bottle. She couldn't see the figure, but she could see Carlton, see him smiling, his expression changing. And she thought, 'No, he's the important one. Everything depends on him. He can't-' And she saw the flash of the blade, and the blood, and Carlton falling, reaching out to her. And she thought, 'I could have saved him. I should have saved him. Just like Liam…' The figure jumped over the boy's twitching body and was away, and she couldn't tell if it was man or woman, young or old, but she knew the truth in her gut, and she couldn't understand why. 'I could have saved him.' Her last chance for salvation was gone. And then there was only the world rushing away, and her screams, and the terrible, terrible night falling in all around.

  Chapter Eleven

  Birmingham

  'Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw", that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does.'

  Donna Tartt

  Eight lanes of dirty Tarmac stretched out before her, now camouflaged by tufts of yellow grass bursting through cracks, and nettles and thistles and wind-blown rubbish. Caitlin stood against the central reservation, watching the road sweep down between high walls, other roads crossing overhead so that it felt as if she was looking into a tunnel. And beyond were the towers and office blocks against a slate-grey sky slowly turning towards night.

  Not so long ago, the Aston Expressway would have thundered with traffic making its way to and from the M6, and the air would have been filled with the cacophony of the city, engines, voices, music, one never-ending drone. Now there was nothing but bird-song and the wind against the concrete. A fox roamed across the lanes, searching for prey. Rabbits quickly ran back to their burrows beneath Spaghetti Junction. Birmingham had been reborn into the new age.

  Caitlin would have recognised the city, but Caitlin was shivering in the heart of the Ice-Field, thrown free of her shelter and the others, alone, dispirited, barely surviving. Caitlin's body knew very little at all. She chose a direction at random and trudged blankly down the Expressway into the heart of the city. Darkness clung tightly to the high buildings that lined New Street, but further ahead on the pedestrian precinct a bonfire blazed. The light drew Caitlin like a moth, the thick, acrid smoke obscuring the sickening stink that hung heavily in the air.

  On her journey through Colmore Circus she hadn't seen a soul, but now men flitted from shadowed doorways, scarves tied across their faces. They were young, carried knives openly, communicating with high-pitched calls and guttural growls resembling nothing more than the rats that she had seen swarming along the gutters of the business district in sickening numbers.

  She stood staring into the bonfire, the heat bringing a bloom to her face, hypnotised by the flickering flames as they consumed the ripped-out fittings of a clothes shop. A young girl barely more than nine, also with a scarf across her face, hurried up and warmed her hands briefly before flashing a murderous glance at Caitlin and disappearing back into the dark.

  'Hey.'

  Caitlin didn't hear the voice, though it was directed at her.

  'Hey!' More urgent this time. A man in his late-twenties with short black hair and eyes that were just as dark emerged from an alley, glancing up and down the street nervously. A red silk scarf was tied across his mouth. 'You. You shouldn't be here.'

  'Thackeray, you twat! Leave her alone. They'll be here in a minute.' The other voice came from further down the alley.

  Thackeray paused, unsure, then cursed under his breath and hurried up to Caitlin. He gripped her arm and she looked at him blankly. 'What's wrong with you? Don't you know-' The blank look in her eyes brought him up sharp. He waved one hand in front of her face, then snapped his fingers twice.

  'Thackeray!" ''She's fucked in the head.'

  'Well, leave her, then! Christ, at a time like this you're trying to pick up women.'

  Thackeray looked deep into Caitlin's face, searching the beauty of her big eyes, taking in the shape of her lips and her cheek bones and her nose, but it was something much deeper and more indefinable that stirred him. He pulled on her arm. 'Come on.'


  Caitlin stared back, blinked once, twice, lazily, saw nothing.

  From the piazza at the end of New Street near the town hall came the dim sound of motorbikes, roaring like mythic beasts. Thackeray cursed again. 'Come on!' He dragged Caitlin sharply towards the alley and after a few feet she began to walk of her own volition.

  Just as they stepped out of sight, ten bikes rolled up to the perimeter of orange light cast by the bonfire. The riders wore leathers sprayed with a white cross dissecting a red circle and they carried an array of weaponry: shotguns, handguns, souped-up air rifles, even a crossbow. They moved slowly, searching all around like predatory animals. Occasionally they'd shine a torch into a doorway, but as they neared the bonfire they came to a halt before what had once been a shop and was now clearly some kind of squat. Dirty curtains were draped over the picture windows to provide some privacy, but they were thin enough to reveal the flickering of candles within.

  The lead rider got off his bike and marched up to the door. He had long greasy hair and a thick beard, while his huge belly, the result of too much daytime drinking, was barely contained by the fading 'Altamont Heaven' T-shirt.

  He hammered on the door with a meaty fist. 'Plague warden. Open up.' The candles inside were blown out, but no one came to answer. 'If you don't open the door,' he roared, 'we'll just burn the place down. You know we will.' Rapid scuttling echoed from inside. The door was flung open by a frail-looking man in his late fifties with a bushy moustache and florid wind-licked cheeks. 'What's wrong?' he asked in a shaky local accent. 'We had information one of your family had the black spots,' the plague warden said. The man blanched. 'No. Not here.' 'Get 'em out, then.' 'What?' 'Get 'em out here!' the warden shouted. The man quaked. The warden checked a small, dirty notebook. 'Five of you. You, the missus, her sister, mum, daughter.' The man started to stutter, but was silenced as the warden waved a shotgun near his face. Broken- shouldered, the man went back inside and emerged a few seconds later with three others. 'Where's the old lady?' the warden bellowed. 'Are you fucking around with me?' 'No, no!' The man held up his hands to try to fend off the shotgun, which cracked him on the jaw. 'Get her!' After a moment, the man led out his mother, a lady in her seventies with wild white hair. She bore the black marks of the plague on her skin. 'You idiot,' the warden said. 'You know the rules. First sign — very first fucking sign — you hand 'em over so we can deal with 'em.' 'We were just going to look after her at home,' the man said weakly. 'She's me mam…' The warden raised his gun and shot the old lady in the face. Blood and bone sprayed over the man, who was frozen in shock. 'Now look,' the warden said. 'You're contaminated.' He nodded to his men, and before the family could flee they were all taken out in a volley of shots. One of the riders at the back came forward; he was wearing big biker gloves and a contamination mask.