The Road to Bedlam

by Mike Shevdon

  I consulted the codex and returned to the Way. This jump felt easier, as if I was guided in. When I reached the node a similar stone faced me, even taller than the last. It stood surrounded by gravestones in the middle of a churchyard, the pillars each side of the medieval church dwarfed by the monolith, which must have been there long before Christianity reached Britain. Once again, ancient sites had been adopted and adapted, each generation incorporating the old into the new.

  I had one more jump to make, so I steeled myself and focused my intention on the Way, letting it swell under my feet and sweep me onward. I forced myself to focus on my destination, resolutely ignoring the echoes of sounds, like lost voices, that permeated the no-place of the Way. My feet found firm ground and I arrived.

  The Way-point was on high ground, as they sometimes are. It sat back from the town in a hollow below the hilltop. There was no sign of a structure or habitation, but then some of them had no human significance. Through the scraggy brush I could see the road leading down through the terraced houses and below that, the streets curving around like giant steps, down to the harbour. It looked tight, enclosed by the hills, everything leading down to the harbour in the centre. Across from me on the opposite hilltop was a large building, its clean new bricks catching the dawn light in a ruddy reflection. The tinted glass and curved terrace design echoed the town, but in a way that emphasised the difference between old and new. I wondered who would have built such a dominating building so high above the town. I was surprised they had got planning consent for such an obvious eyesore.

  It didn't look the sort of place where you would need a sword, so I unhooked the blade from my belt and stowed it in the long pocket on the side of the holdall, presumably meant for just that purpose. I hoisted my bag up on to my shoulder and set off down the muddy bank towards the road. Picking my way between gorse bushes and sheep droppings I found my way down to the hard paving. The roads at the back were unkempt, grass growing through the tarmac. Ramshackle sheds had been chiselled into the hillside, their backs bolstered against the hill while their fronts were propped up on old bricks and stepped with wooden planks. There were abandoned petrol mowers and ruptured plastic sacks spilling grass cuttings on to the verge.

  Further down, terraced houses bracketed the road, each rectangular door in a rectangular frame with squared windows reflecting the new day, the symmetry only spoiled by the nest of satellite dishes hastily screwed to the wall, trailing cables and hanging wires. An electric milk float, something I'd not seen in years, trundled down the road between the badly parked cars. Two lads distributed white bottles to doorsteps and returned with empties.

  Once off the side streets, all roads led to the harbour. Morning traffic bunched at the traffic lights, horns beeping at a moment's delay. Tempers were short, and patience thin. I walked slowly, taking in the details. I noted the granite stone facing the buildings, the tiny church sat perched on its own shelf of rock, the youth centre with its graffiti and abuse.

  I had already passed two lamp posts when I noticed the posters. I stopped and stared at the photocopied image taped to the metal, a thin plastic sheet stretched over to keep the rain off. The image of a girl's smiling face stared back at me. She looked happy, celebrating perhaps. The word MISSING was in bold lettering across the top, the question in large letters underneath – HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? I stared at it. Is that what I should be doing? Should I be pasting pictures of Alex on lamp posts, hoping against hope that she would be spotted somewhere?

  I carried on down the hill, passing more images. Then I stopped and walked back up the hill. Examining the poster again, I carefully peeled away the tape and drew it out from behind the plastic. Then I took it down to the next lamp post and compared the images. They were different girls. One was named Gillian Mayhew, the other Debbie Vaughan. The photographs stared back at me. The posters shared the same format, the same typeface, the same words, but the girls were different.

  They wouldn't be from the same family since they had different names, though that wasn't always the case in these days of divorce and separation, but these were very different girls. Gillian Mayhew had dark hair, slightly frizzy, and Mediterranean looks. She could be Italian, whereas Debbie Vaughan was blonde with a round face and full lips. The girls looked different but the posters looked the same. I carefully removed the second poster too. Tate and Garvin had both said that this mission was right up my street. Is this what they meant? Two young women missing from the same town at the same time was tragic for the families concerned, but it wouldn't justify the Warders becoming involved, surely? I tucked the posters into my bag and carried on walking. Gillian and Debbie alternately stared back at me from each successive lamp post all the way down the hill. Someone had been busy.

  The main street was still opening up when I arrived. Window cleaners worked their way along the rows of shops while shutters were raised and awnings wound out. I walked all the way along and then discovered another street ran in parallel, so I completed the circuit and walked back along that. There were the usual chainstores mixed in with local traders; a butcher and a baker but no candlestick maker. There was a fishmonger advertising frozen fish, which seemed a bit pointed in a town with a fishing harbour two minutes' walk from where it stood.

  I walked out to the harbour front. The walls fell sheer to oily water smelling of rotting seaweed and diesel. The harbour was full. The boats looked well used, the seawater peeling the paint and rusting the steel. Men stood around talking. No one was interested in taking the boats out fishing, though. There wasn't even anyone mending nets. Maybe it was a holiday?

  I scanned the frontage around the harbour. A couple of ramshackle hotels offered the possibility of a bed for the night, the signs advertising rooms available. Like the boats, the paint was peeling and the windows were smeared. It didn't make for an inviting prospect and I wondered who stayed there. Not a spot for tourists.

  Among the bait shops and estate agents was the Harbour Café, tables placed out in the sun to attract passing business. I crossed the road and wandered past. It was clean enough and the smell of frying bacon set my mouth watering. I went in and approached the counter. A middle-aged woman with pink streaks in her hair looked up. She acknowledged my presence with a stream of words I didn't recognise and couldn't decipher. The accent was thick.

  "Sorry?"

  She looked me up and down then spoke slowly and precisely for the terminally stupid. "Sit down, luv, and I'll come over and take your order."

  "Thanks."

  The other two patrons sat together, old men with jackets buttoned against the morning chill even though it was warm inside the café. I found a table next to the window where I could watch the comings and goings along the harbour. It was a good position. Garvin would have approved.

  "Tea, luv, or coffee?" Appearing beside me, she spoke more naturally but moderated her accent for the obvious visitor.

  "I'd like coffee, please, and a bacon sandwich."

  "It'll be five minutes."

  She left me watching the traffic. I took the posters out of my bag and laid them on the table in front of me, wondering whether they were the reason I was here. The girls smiled in the photos. I wondered whether they were still smiling.

  "Bunkers, aren't they?" The woman had returned with a large mug of steaming black coffee and a glass sugar dispenser.

  "Why are they bonkers?"

  "Not bonkers, bunkers. They've bunked off, hamp't they?"

  "Have they?"

  "Not the only ones, either." She folded her arms, confirming her deduction.

  "What do you mean?"

  She went back to the counter and returned with a newspaper, which she laid on the table in front of me.

  The headline was plain – FIFTH GIRL MISSING. A photo of a young woman was under the headline and four others were below it, two of which I recognised.

  "Five?"

  "All bunked off if you ask me. There's nothing for 'em here, is there?"

  "No?"<
br />
  "Not if you don't want to spend your days in yon call centre. More like one of them sweatshops if you ask me."

  "That would be the new building on the hill, I take it."

  "Monstrosity, it is. They work for nowt up there, not that it's any better down here. I'll go and get your sandwich." She bustled away.

  It was a local paper. The missing girls were the lead story, bracketed by a planning dispute about a road diversion and threatened job losses at the call centre. A sweatshop they might be but they were clearly a major local employer.

  The story about the girls was rich in speculation and short on facts. It implied that there was something untoward happening without actually saying what it was. One family was quoted as saying that their daughter had disappeared suddenly and unexpectedly. Another said that their eldest daughter had been doing well at college and asked why she would leave all her friends. The article called the disappearances spooky, but neglected to say why. The local police were noted as being aware of the situation but unwilling to investigate further.

  My bacon sandwich turned up. The woman nodded towards the paper. "It's a lot of flannel, that. Don't believe a word." She paused as if she expected me to make some comment.

  I thanked her for the sandwich. She turned and left me to eat it.

  Leafing through the paper, I ate my breakfast, then read it through a second time while I sipped the scalding coffee. There were no other stories about the girls, but in the middle there was space for local advertising and promotions. There were two ads there that repeated the information from the posters I had taken down. The same two girls stared back at me.

  On the events page there was an announcement from St Andrew's Church saying that a vigil was being held for the missing girls. People were invited to show their support for the families by attending the service and lighting candles. There was a contact number for the vicar, Gregory Makepeace. I copied the number down on to a napkin.

  When the lady came to clear the plate, I handed back the paper. "I'm going to be in town for a few days, is there anywhere you could recommend for a place to stay?"

  "Salesman, are ya? There's nobody buying round here, I can tell you that fer free."

  "I'm not selling anything. Is there anywhere?"

  She looked me over again, whether to discern my occupation or to discover if I was a suitable guest, I didn't know.

  "You could ask at the Dolphin Guest House at the harbour end of Dorvey Street. Tell Martha that Geraldine at the café sent you. She'll sort you out."

  I thanked her and paid, wondering what sorting me out meant.

  It was too early to go knocking on doors and seeking rooms, so I walked back up the hill to the church, perched on its shelf of rock. Its stone was weathered and pitted and streaked with gull droppings but the sign said St Andrew's, so this was the place where the vigil would be. There was no graveyard as such, the ground being far too hard for graves, but there were memorial plaques and stone vases clustered into the walled enclosure. I was grateful to whoever had chained the iron gates back against the wall. I could no longer tolerate the touch of iron. Something in my fey nature reacted badly with it. I had been burned before and had the gates been barred I would probably have turned away.

  The porch was open, but when I tried the door to the church, I found it locked. I scanned the notice board inside the porch. There were times for services, a rota for flowers, a crayoned advert for Sunday School. Nothing useful. I turned to leave and found the path blocked by a man in a dark coat outlined against the bright sunlight behind him. He looked imposing and yet I hadn't heard him approach.

  "Help you?" The accent was local. There was no threat in the tone and as I squinted into the sunlight I could see the collar he wore was round and white against the black of his shirt.

  "Good morning. I was just looking for details of the vigil service."

  "Step out for a moment, and I'll open up the church for you. Everyone's welcome in God's house, though we try and make sure that people don't take advantage of that welcome."

  "Sorry?"

  "Don't like locking it up, but things get broken or stolen."

  "Oh. I see. I'm not here to steal the hymn books." I stepped out of the porch so that he could enter.

  "Can see that. Clergy?"

  I looked down at my grey jacket and black silk turtleneck, then smiled up at him. "This? No, but I suppose it is a kind of uniform."

  He unlocked the door and turned back to me. It was his turn to squint into the light. He offered his hand.

  "Greg Makepeace. It's my parish."

  "Neal Dawson."

  He extended his hand and I took it. As we clasped I felt a sudden jolt. I snatched back my hand at the shock. He looked momentarily surprised and then apologised.

  "Static." He shrugged it off. "I pick it up wherever I go. Sorry about that."

  "No problem." I rubbed the heel of my hand.

  What I had felt wasn't static. It was power.

  SIX

  Blackbird was woken by a persistent tapping at the door. She groaned as she pulled the duvet to one side so that she could roll sideways and push herself slowly upright. "All right. Just wait, I'm coming as fast as I can."

  There was no sign that Niall had been back. What time had he been called out? Sometime after three, she thought.

  She slipped into the cotton robe from the night before. The tapping resumed.

  "Just wait, will you? I won't come any quicker because you keep on."

  She turned the handle on the door and peeped through.

  "I need to speak with you." Garvin stood in the corridor.

  "You'd better come in then." Blackbird stepped back, allowing the door to open so that Garvin could enter, then looked out into the hallway. Usually where you found Garvin, Tate wasn't far behind. There was no sign of him in the hallway but that didn't mean he wasn't close by.

  "Where's Niall?" she asked as she closed the door. There was no point in preamble.

  "I've sent him on an assignment."

  "I thought you didn't trust him for real work."

  "He went active last night. He'll be a few days, I expect."

  Blackbird went to pull a chair out to sit and then decided against it. She didn't want Garvin looming over her. She wasn't intimidated by his tactics, she just didn't like them. Instead she turned it so she could use it for support. The backache was constant now.

  "Where have you sent him?"

  Garvin ignored her question. "In the meantime, the High Court is convened and I need you to stay out of the way. Your meals will be brought to you and if you want anything you need only ask the stewards. Take some rest, you look like you need it."

  "Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special."

  "You're not my girl."

  "Nor ever likely to be. Do you have a girl, Garvin?" She raised one eyebrow in enquiry.

  Garvin didn't speak and his expression didn't change.

  "I didn't think so. Telling Niall that his daughter was better off in an institution wasn't very kind, was it?"

  "It may be true."

  "Even you do not believe that. He will go after her, you know that. It's the kind of man he is."

  "He needs to stay away from her, at least for now. We have other problems."

  "Such as?"

  Garvin was silent again.

  She sighed. "You may as well tell me. I will find out regardless."

  "With the Court in session the staff will be rushed off their feet. Try not to make too much of a pain of yourself. Once the session has finished we can look into finding you somewhere permanent to live."

  "What are you not telling me, Garvin? That's unusually evasive, even for you."

  "I'll have Fionh come up and place a warding on the doors and windows. You should be safe enough in here."

  "Safe from what?" She waited for an answer. "Or would you rather I go and find out for myself?"

  "The Seventh Court are here. They're in session tonigh
t. Raffmir is here with Altair along with another wraithkin, Deefnir. They're in negotiations with the other courts."

  Blackbird stood up straight, no longer leaning on the chair. "You weren't going to tell me that, were you?"

  "I'm telling you now. Stay out of the way and there'll be no trouble. Altair's vouching for their conduct."

  "Oh, well, that's all right then. If the Lord of the Untainted says they will behave themselves then that must be true, mustn't it? What did he actually say?"

  "He assured me he'll take full responsibility for them while they were here."