'Even in the middle of all this you've got to seek out anything that might give you a laugh, make you feel as if you're alive,' he said one warm day on the edge of summer. 'Otherwise, what's the point?'
That night, Thackeray laid out a dinner for the three of them with a white cotton tablecloth on the floor, silver cutlery and crystal glasses for one of their very rare bottles of wine. As they sat around, with the candlelight flickering, he thought Caitlin looked more beautiful than ever and told Harvey so.
'You know, matey, I have to say this, but all this is a bit, you know… sick,' Harvey replied uneasily 'She's, like, disabled or something. Or, you know…' He tapped his temple.
'I'm not going to take advantage of her,' Thackeray replied. 'But I can still see the person she was, or is — maybe will be again. It's there in her face, just beneath the surface. A good person…'
'You think she's going to get better?'
Thackeray shrugged. 'I can't help myself.'
'I think you should get over her, mate, for your own good.'
Thackeray raised his glass to both of them and took a sip of the Zinfandel. 'Let me tell you something, Harvey. You're going to say I'm a complete wanker, but like I care what you think, right? Loving, and having someone who loves you, is addictive. Your whole being comes alive and suddenly it feels as if the life you had before was just floating in treacle. And the cliches, they're all true, like you're living some Woman's Weekly life. You can't eat, you can't sleep, you can't get her face out of your head, or the moments you spent together, and the things you did, and the words you said, and some stupid song that fixes it in melody and moment, constantly replaying, turning over, as if you were hoping you'd be able to step back into them and live them all again, just like the first time.'
Harvey smiled, but in a nice way, sipping his own wine with one self-mocking little finger extended.
'And all these other cliches,' Thackeray continued. 'Connections… gut instincts that transcend rational thought. Love at first sight, if you will. How stupid is that? You think to yourself, stay away from this person, they're bad for me, I'm settled, survival routines in place, my life would be a real mess if I threw in with them, and your subconscious, or your heart, says do it, this is right. The person in the back of your head just knows. And you can't help yourself. You're lost to it. That person — the real you in your deep, deep subconscious — he always knows what's right for you, at that particular time, what you need. And he or she recognises links that transcend physical space. You see a face, he sees a soul mate, something so deep it's rooted in both your genes. And when that connection happens, you know it's going to be high passion, that you're going to blaze like a star, and that you'll probably crash and burn soon after. And you don't care, you don't care.' He stared into the deep red depths of his wine with a faint, troubled smile.
'It's going to end in tears, Thackeray,' Harvey said softly.
'Yeah. 'Course it is.' They ate a long, varied meal, determined to enjoy themselves in spite of everything. Thackeray fed Caitlin the first mouthful of every dish so she could acquire the taste before continuing herself. After they had finished, Harvey strummed them romantic songs on his acoustic guitar, tongue in cheek at first, but by the end they were all lost in a haze of plangent emotions.
Finally they sat in silence, thoughtful, enjoying a faint alcohol mood. And that was when they heard a tremendous crash.
Thackeray and Harvey instantly scrambled to the front of the shop to peer out into the concourse. The strengthened-glass security doors had been smashed off their hinges by a flat-bed truck that had reversed into them at speed. There was movement all over the shadowy first floor of the mall. Eventually torches burst into light and the burly leather-clad forms of the plague wardens fell into relief.
Thackeray glanced at Harvey, who was shaking and looked as if he were going to be sick. 'We can't pull down the security shutters — it'll make too much noise,' Thackeray hissed. 'We'll have to hide in the back and hope it's just coincidence they're here and that they're not looking for us.'
Harvey was rigid and fixated on the swarming figures until Thackeray gave his shoulder a squeeze. Then they both slipped back to the living area.
'Oh, God, they know we're here!' Harvey whined, scrubbing a hand through his greasy hair. 'Someone must have seen us on the roof. I knew it was a mistake to go near the edge!'
'No point moaning about it now — it's done.' Thackeray took Caitlin's hand and pulled her to her feet.
'Aren't you scared?' Harvey asked.
'Yes,' Thackeray replied tersely.
'You know what Buckland will do to us if he gets us.'
'Maybe he'll just be happy with our supplies to add to his vast warehouse of looted consumer goods.'
'Right. After he's hung us out to dry.' Harvey hugged his arms around himself; tears of fear sprang to the corners of his eyes.
Thackeray gave him a rough shove and followed it up with a smile. 'Come on — into the hiding places. And good luck.'
Harvey forced a smile. 'You're a bastard, Thackeray, but we've had some good times.'
He made to go towards a packing crate, but Thackeray caught his arm and said, 'No, the good one. And take her with you.'
Harvey searched his friend's face for a moment and could see no point in arguing. Reluctantly, he went to a wall panel like any other and slipped a penknife into the join to prise it open. Behind was a dusty, claustrophobic space in the dry wall. Briefly, Thackeray hugged Caitlin to him, smelling her hair, wishing things were different. Then he hurriedly pressed her into the hidey-hole first, motioned her to remain silent with a finger to his lips, then let Harvey slip in after her before replacing the wall panel.
The sound of the plague wardens violently searching the concourse drew rapidly closer. Thackeray threw himself behind a packing crate and burrowed under a pile of filthy, mildewed rags. They fell in just such a way that he had a very limited view into the room.
The plague wardens entered seconds later, whooping the minute they saw the remnants of the meal. 'Here it is! Bastards have been having a party!' someone exclaimed.
'Search the place — they're here somewhere,' a gruff, authoritative voice ordered.
Thackeray remained tense, his breath a lead weight in his throat. He watched as the tablecloth was ripped up, the crystal smashed, the sleeping quarters torn and stamped. He knew they'd get him sooner or later; Harvey had known it, too, but one being caught might allow the other to escape, and they both accepted Thackeray was the least likely to fold under pressure. At least until the torture started.
Seconds later they approached the crate. Thackeray steeled himself. The rags were torn off and the room filled with jeers and abuse. Threatening hands yanked him to his feet before a fist smashed forcefully into his face. Blood splattered from a burst lip and he saw stars for a second.
'Where are the others?' The authoritative voice came from the plague warden who had shot the woman in the face on the night he had met Caitlin.
'Fuck off.'
Someone hit him again and this time he did black out for a while. When he came to, he was supported between two thugs and the leader hovered inches from his face. 'I'll ask you again,' the leader said. 'And this time we'll cut off your ear if you get smart.'
'All right,' Thackeray said with mock-weakness. 'They got out… across the roof and down the back. We had an escape route planned. I was supposed to lock up the base, but there wasn't time…'
He let his head droop. The leader grabbed him by the hair and yanked it back up. 'How many?'
'Two others.' The leader nodded, satisfied. Thackeray knew he would have seen the places set on the tablecloth.
'So, you thought you'd disobey all Mr Buckland's rules, hoarding your own stuff while the community starves. You selfish bastard.'
Thackeray wanted to laugh at the idea of Buckland being a provider for the poor and oppressed, but he managed to control himself by feigning almost losing consciousness again.
'Sorry,' he said to her without really talking to her. 'I'm pathetic.' With an effort, he composed himself. 'Look, they're not going to be back here, so you wait… I need to find another place for us to hide out. Somewhere safe.' He chewed a knuckle, looked queasy, then gave her as much of a reassuring smile as he could muster before pressing her down to sit next to the wall. He lit a candle. 'Don't be frightened,' he whispered. 'I'll be back for you.'
And then he was out of the door and running, his footsteps echoing like gunshots in the dark vault of the concourse. Caitlin sat and watched the shadows flicker on the far wall. Deep in the bleak chambers of her head, something stirred. 'Where am I?' Her voice shrieked above the howling wind, her throat raw from her anguished screams. The fierce gale buffeted her back and forth, whipping snow into her face like hot pins so she couldn't see where she'd been or where she was going. Even wrapping her arms tightly around her couldn't stop the terrible cold from penetrating deep into the core of her being.
There was only the whiteness of frozen nothing all around as she staggered across the Ice-Field. No warmth, no hope. It would be better if she simply lay down to die, let the snow cover her over, let the permafrost build up, crush her down, make her a part of the ice itself.
*
Electricity crackled around the room, sending incandescent sparks fizzing from the metal fittings. Thunder boomed off the walls and there was ozone in the air. In one corner stood the black knight in the boar mask, his hands on the broadsword balanced on its tip between his astride legs.
'Caitlin Shepherd!' His voice sounded like bees swarming from a hive.
Caitlin stirred; light flickered in the lanterns of her eyes. In the Ice-Field, the snowstorm shifted briefly, and the hard rocks of the shelter emerged in grey from the white.
'Caitlin Shepherd!' the knight said again, in his detached, alien voice.
Caitlin blinked; the white gave way to the shifting shadows of the room. More electricity flashed around her so that it felt as if they were in some glass jar cut off from the real world.
'Are you my guardian angel?' she whispered, dazed. 'Or just some other devil sent to lead me on to damnation?'
'None of this is real — I told you that,' the knight said sonorously. His voice was clearer than it had been the last time. 'We make our own reality. It is fluid. The truth lies behind what your senses tell you. If enough people believe the world is a certain way, that is the way it shall be. But some people have the power to change all reality. The world does not have to be this way, Caitlin. It is in the process of being rebuilt. Humanity is moving on, moving up. The seasons are changing.'
Gradually, her consciousness pieced together where she was and what had been happening. She remembered Thackeray and Harvey and the plague wardens; and she recalled Carlton and his brutal and unnecessary death, and the pain hit her so hard she cried out, 'Who killed him?' 'Paths have been chosen. Events are no longer in your hands,' the knight replied. 'Only blood can turn things around — blood and vengeance.' He paused while the lightning flashed across the room in coruscating streaks, and when he spoke again his words were barely audible above the thunder. 'The time has come to let her out, Caitlin.' Caitlin staggered from the restless ocean of the Ice-Field into the small rocky shelter. Briony eyed her hatefully, while Brigid rocked backwards and forwards, cackling to herself nervously and glancing to the shadows at the back.
'We thought you were never coming back,' Amy said dismally.
Caitlin walked past them without a glance. Could she do it?
'Don't be stupid, bitch,' Briony said with a mixture of fury and fear.
Caitlin stood before the figure half-cloaked in the shadows and said uneasily, 'Come forward. I need you.'
Brigid's laughter became an anguished howl and Amy began to sob uncontrollably. The figure stepped forward, slowly at first but then with pride, and the shadows sloughed off her like silk.
Caitlin thought she would be struck blind with pure terror. Though her eyes saw the form, her mind couldn't latch on to the slippery alien essence of the creature that emerged, and every aspect of Caitlin's being rebelled at what she perceived. At first it appeared as though she were seeing crows flying madly, and then fluttering black rags from which a ghastly white face stared horribly.
Finally a beautiful and terrible woman stood before her, with lustrous black hair like a storm, flashing green eyes and ruby-red lips. She wore a black velvet gown that appeared to run like oil, with a belt of blood-red, and she carried two wicked silver knives with sinuous blades. Carrion birds flew all around her, and at times appeared to be part of her. 'You have released me!' Though the woman barely moved her lips the words thundered so loud Caitlin had to clutch her ears.
'What are you?' Caitlin asked weakly.
'I am the beginning and the end,' the woman replied. 'Fertility and destruction. Love and war. I am the messenger of death. I am the true power of all women.'
'The Morrigan!' Brigid cried, beating her chest and tearing at her hair. 'War goddess of my Celtic people, treat your daughter well! Oh, fearsome Badhbh Chatha, Raven of Battle.'
Caitlin recalled the eerie hooded crow she had seen the night she first encountered the Lament-Brood, and then again, barely recognised, on her chest as she lay on the edge of madness at Liam and Grant's graves. Somehow, Caitlin knew, this terrifying being had seen some connection inside her, had entered her and bonded with her very soul. All she had needed was Caitlin's word to come out into the open. But Caitlin was afraid of what would now happen; that the cure would be much, much worse than the disease.
'Weep for those who stand before us!' the Morrigan said, her eyes blazing. 'There will be no more suffering, Sister of Dragons. We stand as one!'
The Morrigan opened her arms and Caitlin was sucked into the infinite darkness of flapping wings. Harvey slipped quietly through the concourse, desperately afraid. He was sure they could hole up in one of the warren-like office buildings on Colmore Row, but it would only be a temporary measure. After that, he had no idea. He wasn't a thinker like Thackeray and he really couldn't see himself surviving on his own, especially now he had the added responsibility of the girl. But he couldn't abandon her. How could he?
He slipped into their former home, expecting to see Caitlin still sitting where he had left her. Instead she stood in the centre of the room. He could see instantly that there was something different about her. She stood erect, her body taut, ready for action, and for the first time there was fire in her eyes and intensity in her face.
'Oh, you're up,' he ventured. 'I'm going to take you to-'
'You're going to take me to Thackeray.'
He jumped back in shock at the sound of her voice. 'You… you're all right now?'
Caitlin fingered the ornate carvings on her bow, looking past Harvey into the darkened concourse. 'We're going to get Thackeray back.'
Harvey held up his hands. 'OK, I'm glad you're feeling better, and Thackeray was right that you were paying attention while you were… you know… doolally. Sorry. But you don't know what you're asking. We can't-'
Caitlin stepped forward quickly and gripped his shoulders with fingers that felt like iron. 'We're going to get him out-'
'He's probably already dead!'
'-and you're going to show me the way.' She spun him round and shoved him towards the exit, lost to the thunder of blood in her head.
Chapter Twelve
&
nbsp; Different Paths
'I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king.'
Elizabeth I
After what seemed like hours, Crowther emerged from the trees on to a shimmering path. Relief flooded through him. In the timeless Forest of the Night, he had begun to think he might be wandering in the green world for ever, lulled into a dream state by its peculiar haunting qualities. He had even lost consciousness for a while, he was sure, and was worried that he might have put on the mask. Was it controlling him so easily now?
Many things moved through the trees just out of sight, but they didn't scare him, and he had come to accept that he was no longer afraid of death; more and more it felt like a way out. There had been no sign of the Gehennis, but at one point curiously he had heard horses and baying hounds, a hunt pursuing its prey. However, on occasion he had glimpsed the drifting purple light that signified the Lament-Brood and that did frighten him: to become part of that zombie army, to think and feel inside, perhaps, but to be controlled by another intelligence was his greatest nightmare.
Resting on his staff to catch his breath, he was surprised to feel his weariness easing the longer he stood on the path. As he scraped his fingers along its surface, they tingled and an easy feeling of wellbeing rose through him. The Blue Fire really was the fuel that drove everything, just as everyone had been taught at the college in Glastonbury. Might he actually have found peace if he'd stayed there and devoted himself to studying? The search for knowledge had always been the thing that had made him feel complete in the old days. Without finding an answer, he set off along the path. It wasn't long before he spotted a small dark figure sitting cross-legged. It was Mahalia, unmoving, head bowed so that her black hair covered her face like a hood. She didn't even stir when he came within three feet of her. 'You got out, then,' he said. 'Looks like it.' She didn't look up at him. 'Have you seen any of the others?' She began to shake her head, then caught herself. 'What is it?' This time she did look up and Crowther was shocked by the devastation he saw in her face. 'Carlton's dead,' she said bluntly. 'Dead? The boy?' 'I… I saw the body.' She motioned further along the path. Every fibre of her being was directed towards suppressing her emotions. 'His throat's been cut. He's lying across the path…' Crowther tried to make sense of what he was hearing. 'Across the path? That can't be. The dangerous things that live in this forest shouldn't be able to touch us on here.' 'Well, he is dead,' she said sharply. 'No mistaking that.' 'Show me,' Crowther said with irritated disbelief. Realisation of what he was asking came a second later and tenderness crept into his voice. 'I am sorry. That was very… thoughtless of me. I know how close you two were.' He rested one comforting hand on her head, but she felt as rigid as stone beneath his fingers and he withdrew it quickly. 'I'll check.' He hurried along the path and found the boy's body round a bend, as she had described. The cut had been made skilfully. This was no attack by wild beast or some haunted forest thing.
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