‘Do you miss it?’
‘Every day.’
The crash made Billi jolt out of her skin.
Tea splattered over the table as she looked up to see Arthur, standing at the doorway. A heavy bergen bag lay dropped at his feet.
‘Who’s this?’ Fiery embers crackled in his gaze.
He’s been fighting. She shuddered to think what might be in the bag. She had to get Mike out.
But Mike was already up. He crossed the room and held out his hand. ‘Mike Harbinger.’
Arthur ignored it. He went to the sink and began washing his hands.
‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘We need to talk, Billi.’
Billi was mortified. She knew her dad would be like this.
‘Thanks for the tea,’ said Mike, smiling and apparently unconcerned by her dad’s rudeness. Billi jumped out of the chair.
‘I’ll show you out.’
She took him downstairs, and to the front door. She checked over her shoulder to make sure her dad was well out of earshot.
‘I’m sorry about that. My dad’s a bit funny with strange visitors.’ Mike raised an eyebrow as Billi realized what she’d said. ‘Not that you’re strange. At all.’ Oh God, what is wrong with me? Mild concussion from the fight. Had to be.
‘You’re a strange one yourself, Billi,’ said Mike. ‘Most girls would be pretty freaked out after a night like this. You sure you’re going to be OK?’
The rain was heavier now. Billi spotted a glistening drop roll down Mike’s neck, getting tangled in the thorn tattoos.
‘Yes, yes. You’d be surprised how rough some of these lawyers get around here.’ She shifted awkwardly at the door. ‘Well, thanks for everything. Y’know, for saving my life and everything.’
Oh, that was so totally cool. Stop speaking. Now.
Mike grinned. ‘Shame I never got to finish my tea.’ He looked up towards her kitchen window on the upper floor. ‘Why don’t we try that again, somewhere else, maybe?’
He’s asking me out. At least she thought that’s what he was doing. Unsurprisingly, boys usually never came anywhere near Billi, let alone asked her out. Her dad’s reputation made sure of that.
Not sure how to respond, she just nodded. Mike handed her his mobile so she could enter her number and she was instantly aware of the touch of his hand on hers, surprisingly warm despite the cold rain.
Billi’s fingers stumbled over the tiny keypad and she had to take a deep training breath to calm herself enough to get the stupid digits right. Mike inspected the screen before flicking his mobile shut.
‘Then I’ll see you soon, maybe?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ She only just managed to get the words out.
Mike waved before retreating into the darkness, his shape fading into the hazy gloom between the pools of orange under the street lights. Then he was gone.
Billi lingered, watching the sparkling raindrops catch the lamplight as they fell like gold over the cobblestones.
Back in the kitchen, her dad had emptied out his bergen. Newspaper covered the table and he was wiping down a savage-looking kukri with a cloth and some oil. A steaming mug lay beside it.
Billi could barely look at her dad as she came in. ‘He’s gone, thanks to you.’
‘People like that only complicate things.’
‘People like what?’
‘Like that. Boyfriends.’
Billi turned abruptly and faced the sink, hoping her dad couldn’t see the tell-tale redness of her face.
‘He’s only a friend.’
Arthur just looked at her. ‘Elaine told me what happened.’ He put down his knife. ‘Are you all right?’
Billi almost fainted with shock. Was her dad being ‘concerned’? Her tongue momentarily died on her. She nodded.
‘Good. I need you focused. There’s work to do,’ he said.
How stupid. Not concerned at all. He was just worried she wouldn’t be fighting fit.
‘Nothing ever matters to you except this bloody Order.’ Billi grabbed the side of the sink, digging her nails into the old wood, trying hard not to explode. ‘You don’t want me to have anything else, do you?’
Arthur’s face was impassive. He didn’t bat an eyelid.
Billi walked away towards her bedroom; she was so tired now.
‘I did not choose this life,’ she said. But before she could leave the room she heard his reply.
‘None of us ever do,’ he said.
8
A few days passed and still nothing from Mike. Her dad had won – again. He bullied everyone and now he’d scared Mike off and, with him, a chance Billi might have had of a life outside the Order. She should accept it, like the others.
But she couldn’t. She kicked off the duvet. This was not the life she wanted.
She leaned over to her bedside table and flicked open her mobile for the millionth time, hoping some text or message might have come while she’d been asleep. Nothing. Damn it! She shouldn’t be surprised: who in their right mind would want to go out with a girl who had a psycho for a father?
She slid out of her pyjamas and into her tracksuit. It was six, the birds outside hadn’t even woken yet and here she was, too angry to sleep. There was only one solution.
The catacombs ran everywhere under the Temple district. Secret warrens, tunnels and chambers had been excavated by the Templars of old, and all record of them had conveniently vanished over time so only the knights themselves were aware of their existence. There was even a secret access to the underground Fleet River, unbeknown to all above. Few realized how the ancient bones of the city slept under the steel and glass towers of modern London. Billi entered the underground armoury and switched the lights on. The harsh white fluorescent tubes glowed along the walls, illuminating the ancient bricks, the low vaulted ceiling, the cold flagstone floor and the weapons. It had once been the Templar ossuary. Even now the bones of the ancient knights rested in crudely carved alcoves along the walls. After all this time Billi still felt the slight tremor of dread as she entered the gloomy chamber under the gaze of those old bones. In a hundred years would her own sightless skull sit there, watching some new squire training, perhaps with the very same weapons? She shivered, and it wasn’t because of the cold.
The smell was a dusty mix of seeping damp, oil and polish. How many thousands of hours had she spent down here? Last August she’d hardly seen the sun. She’d returned to school in September as white as a ghost. All that time she’d worked with whetstone and cloth on weapons maintenance. All those nicks and cuts, and bruises and black eyes, all those strange looks in class – all those excuses.
Oh, I tripped.
I ran into the door.
Fell down the stairs.
The vase dropped on my head.
The dog/cat/goat bit/scratched/kicked me.
She walked along the row of swords, all neatly stacked on wooden racks. There were Scottish claymores, German bastard swords, French rapiers, Indian patas – deadly steel from around the world. She needed to master all of them. Arthur had taught her there was no glamour in weapons: they were tools, no more, no less. Even the katanas, the very souls of the samurai, lay beside the crude and battered bronze khopesh blades. Billi snatched up a bokken, a wooden Japanese practice sword. Templars didn’t train with modern kendo equipment, with armour and hollow bamboo sticks. Percy thought nothing trained reflexes better than the risk of serious injury. The heavy cedar stave of the bokken was lethal. She turned the weapon slowly, loosening her wrists, getting the blood pumping, building up speed as she started with jabs, cuts, parries and slices against imaginary opponents. She twisted, turned, dived, darted back, forward, her feet sliding and leaping across the cold stone. Fire burned in her veins as she slashed off arms, heads, cut open arteries and burst hearts apart. The bokken reacted before she thought, as though alive in itself. The dance was pure instinct, completely formless. Billi lost track of time as she moved across the empty floor, mesmerized by the unending motion of the wo
oden blade. She could lose herself in it and was ready to dive in when she felt a breeze, a wrong breeze, and stopped.
She turned towards the steps and saw a shadow descend. Her dad stopped at the edge of the practice area, dressed in a black T-shirt and wearing a pair of faded grey tracksuit bottoms.
Why wouldn’t he leave her alone, just for a minute?
‘Don’t stop,’ he said.
‘I’ve just finished. It’s all yours.’ She couldn’t bear to be stuck in the same room as him.
Arthur chose a bokken from the rack. His wrists clicked as he repeated the same warming-up exercises as Billi.
‘Percival says you’ve come a long way this year.’ He stopped in the centre of the armoury. ‘Show me.’
Fight her dad?
Of course he’d taken some of her lessons, when Percy had been out on business. They’d even had mock duels, but for some reason this… this felt different.
Arthur stood, legs apart, slightly bent, slightly springy, in the low guard: hilt waist high, sword tip point upwards towards the target’s throat.
Fine, if that’s what he wants. Billi came forward, moving into high guard, the standard position against her dad’s own stance and primed for the principle blows to his unprotected head. Speed and control. The essence of the mock duel was to strike fast and pull the blow at the last possible second. Maybe she could pull it a moment too late? The image of her dad with a big purple bruise on his forehead brought a smile to her lips. She slowed her breathing down with long, deep breaths, subduing her rapidly beating heart and took control of the adrenalin bubbling in her body. They were a metre apart.
‘Do you hate me, Billi?’
The question was so unexpected that she faltered and in that second her dad attacked without hesitation. He feinted with a jab, drawing Billi’s sword down, and then he slammed his blade hard across hers: the Fire and Stones Cut. The impact jarred her arms and Billi loosened her grip to let the energy dissipate. But Arthur sensed the weakening grip. His tip darted up and with a twist of his wrist Billi’s bokken leapt from her hands. She watched it spin in the air, then clatter to the ground.
‘Well?’ Arthur asked.
‘Well what?’
‘I asked you a question. A simple one.’
Simple. Was he mad? Billi stared at her father, straight into those bright, fierce blue eyes, and wondered again if he really was her dad. The similarities began and ended with the black hair. They said she was more like her mother. Not as beautiful – she had her dad’s genes to thank for that. He’d never been handsome, and over the years the broken nose and the criss-cross of scars had only made him uglier.
And easy to hate.
‘Why should I hate you?’ She walked away from him when she said it, just in case he could read her face. Billi picked up her sword. When she turned round he was waiting, low guard again.
‘For ruining your life.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘I’m a Templar – that’s all the life I need,’ she intoned.
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’
‘What if I do hate you?’
Now it was Arthur’s turn to hesitate. Billi smirked, let him deal with that. But the smile withered. Did she? Did she really hate him or had she just come to hate this life? She shook her head and took the high guard again.
‘Why do we have to be part of this?’ she asked.
‘We’re Templars. We have a duty.’ He focused his attention along the sword.
‘To protect the masses from the Unholy.’ She tightened her grip round the hilt; she wasn’t going to fall for the same trick twice. ‘But we’re not doing such a great job, are we? How d’you expect us to win this fight when there’re only nine of us?’
‘The Order began with only nine.’
Billi swept down and Arthur drew his blade up and parried, barely, but enough. Billi jabbed, then let the battle guide her, no thought or strategy, no plan, just the subtle shifting of moves, positions, attacks and parries. He was stronger; she was faster. Attacks came deadly and close, but in the gaps between seconds Billi moved and would knock a blow aside or launch one of her own. They crossed the armoury floor, back and forth, back and forth, neither giving the other a moment’s respite. Billi drew in close, hilts jammed together. Her dad smiled.
And headbutted her.
Sparks filled her vision and she couldn’t keep upright. The ground pitched suddenly and Billi tottered backwards.
Her dad caught her.
‘You bastard,’ she whispered, shaking her head clear. She checked her nose. If it was broken… no, not even bleeding. But her eyes were watering heavily. ‘Bastard.’
If she hadn’t hated him then, she hated him now. He couldn’t even fight fair! He lowered her to the ground, then squatted down beside her.
‘You hate this life, don’t you?’
‘Yes! Of course I do!’
Arthur nodded. He gazed at the bokken in his hand. ‘Good. It’s right that you should.’
Billi shook her head again. She wasn’t hearing right. ‘What?’
‘You’re right, Billi. There are so few of us, but we keep the darkness at bay. Why? Because we’re ruthless. We bring nightmares to the monsters.’ He leaned closer so he could whisper it. ‘Fear is a powerful weapon.’
Billi froze. She’d never felt so cold in her life. Her heart must have turned to ice. Arthur stood up. He didn’t look at her.
‘You need to be ruthless. Nothing must stop you from fulfilling your duty. One day you’ll have to make a terrible choice and pity will fill your heart and you’ll hesitate. You’ll think there has to be a better way.’ He sighed. ‘But sometimes there isn’t. You’ll be up close, you’ll feel a person’s warm breath on your face, see the glow of life in their eyes and know you have to end it. Like you did during the Ordeal.’ He pulled Billi up. ‘You hate what we do. You’re right to. Who would want this life? Sometimes we must do terrible things, make huge sacrifices. But we must. Because the alternative is so much worse.’ He cupped her face and leaned forward, Billi tensed and thought he was going to kiss her forehead, like he used to, a long time ago.
Or maybe headbutt her again.
Instead Arthur dropped his hands and turned away. ‘Tidy up. When you’re finished I’ve got a job for you.’
9
Kay was waiting for her after school. She made her way through the crowds spilling out of the school gates and slung her backpack over her shoulder. He sat up on the high wall.
‘What’s going on?’ Billi asked.
‘Read this,’ said Kay as he passed Billi a sheet of paper. It was an email from the head of the children’s ward of some hospital. She scanned it. Four kids had died in the last two days. Their hearts had simply stopped. The autopsies had brought up nothing. Each child had only been in for minor operations, tonsillectomies, grommets and one, Rupresh Patel, just for an in-growing toenail. But it didn’t seem much to go on.
‘Dad thinks it’s something supernatural?’
‘That’s for us to find out.’
The main building of China Wharf Hospital, a tall six-storey Victorian structure, reeked of decay. There was a damp odour clinging to the walls, green mould coated the drainpipes and the wooden window frames were rotten and cracked. The hospital never saw direct sunlight. It was forever cringing in the shadows cast by the titanic towers of nearby Canary Wharf. A couple of sallow-faced patients sat in wheelchairs, numbly staring up at the glass-faced bastions of wealth. Beside them a trio of weary nurses having their cigarette break, clustered together under the entrance canopy.
‘Let’s go to work,’ Billi said, and entered through the hospital gates.
They pushed their way through the outpatients reception area. Every seat was filled, and almost every patch of floor space too. There were lots of kids, some in buggies, others being cradled by their parents, while a seriously harassed-looking registrar was trying to make his way through the dense mass to pri
oritize the worst. It looked like something out of a Third World news story. Billi ploughed through the crowd towards the lifts. Kay hadn’t moved. He stood in the middle, eyes narrowed.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
Kay frowned. ‘Do you hear something?’
Billi concentrated. ‘A bunch of screaming kids. Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Can’t tell. Maybe nothing.’
‘Fine. Let’s get a move on.’
Kay had checked the building plans on the web; the children’s ward was on the top floor. They slipped into the lift with a party of visitors. Kay pulled out a box of Quality Streets, wrapped in a bow. In case anyone stopped them, they’d pretend they were visiting a friend.
They made their way up floor by floor. Through a pair of large wooden doors they entered a grim series of rooms. Someone, a long time ago, had tried to decorate the walls with scenes of cartoon characters, colourful rainbows and portraits of cheerful patients. But over time, and through lack of care, patches of damp now discoloured the ceiling tiles. The smiling portraits had sickly, cancerous skin as the paint had aged, flaked and yellowed. There were four wards on either side, then the special care unit containing a regiment of occupied incubators with the maternity unit beyond.
‘You check down there -’ Kay pointed at the west-end ward – ‘and I’ll look here. Give me a shout if you see anything strange.’
Billi had expected there to be some life, some ambient noise of natural childish laughter and excitement. But there was none. A single ward nurse sat at the viewing station, almost hidden behind the high battlement of the desk. In the staff room beyond Billi could hear Eastenders crackling through the speakers of an old telly, and there were two other nurses within, lying almost comatose on their armchairs, each staring dumb-eyed at the flickering screen.
Billi moved down the corridor, fighting down the feeling of cold unease.
From their beds the children seemed listless, while others watched her with icy distrust.
What was she looking for? There were beds, there were sick kids. What else did she expect? It was a hospital. Another one of her dad’s paranoid fantasies. She couldn’t see Kay – where had he gone? She wanted to wrap this up and go home.
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