And then she went on, as the light beyond the windows brightened, to recount what happened directly after that.
10
The Firestarter
When her grandfather came to find Taryn she was asleep, draped over the arm of a chair in a corridor of Monmouth Hospital. He shook her awake. ‘On your feet. You’re too big now for me to carry.’
She got up, rubbing her eyes.
‘They want to keep Beatrice for tonight. Grandma is settled next to her in a comfy chair. You can continue your sleep in the car.’ He offered her a blanket.
She hesitated. Bea had been wrapped in it on the drive to Monmouth. ‘Is it crusty?’
‘Taryn!’ he scolded.
Taryn took the blanket.
Once she was in the back seat of the Land Rover her grandfather stayed by the open door, his hand on the back of her neck. ‘I expect you’re worried about Mr Battle? He’s in the hospital too. He came in a couple of hours ago with a skull fracture. You remember that he fell hard when you girls pulled the rug out from under him?’
‘But he got up again after that. And ran off,’ Taryn added. ‘Is it a bad skull fracture?’
‘I think skull fractures are always bad. He’s in surgery.’
‘We didn’t mean to hurt him.’
He patted her. ‘I know.’ He got in, started the engine and raised his voice over its clamour. ‘We’ll not see him up at the house again till he gets the help he needs.’
Taryn relaxed. She could go to sleep in her bed, and stay asleep until she was ready to wake up and think over what had happened. ‘Did you call Mummy and Daddy?’
‘Yes, and your mother talked to Bea.’
‘They don’t need to come home.’ Taryn still wanted to stay the whole holidays at Princes Gate.
Her grandfather met her eyes in his mirror, smiled and drove out of the hospital car park.
The lower floor of Princes Gate stank of fire, the nasty sweetness of lilies and a perfume that reminded Taryn of the smell on the back of the neck of Grandma’s ginger cat when he’d been sleeping in the thyme patch and come running in to escape a sudden summer shower—a scent of herbs and ozone and clean animal.
Grandad sent Taryn to bed and came in a few minutes later with a hot water bottle that he tucked under the covers next to her feet. He said, ‘I’ll be awake, cleaning up.’ He left her door open a crack so he could hear if she called.
Grandad was awake. She was safe.
But the fire had been so fast. Flakes of paper flew up like moths, as if the collectors’ boxes had broken open and their long-stilled occupants had burst forth, bent on vengeance. Flames wrapped Bea, and shrivelled her clothes. The map rolled up as if trying to contain the fire, and did for a moment, its tube full of it. The burning things kept their shapes as they burned. Battle bashed his head, then got up, not a person, but a puppet. He kept his shape, but something irrevocable had happened to him.
It’s difficult to get warm on a chilly night when you go to bed too late. Despite her hot water bottle, Taryn couldn’t sleep. If her sister had been there, she’d have crawled into bed with her. Bea would ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ And only stay awake for half of Taryn’s answer if it took any longer than twenty seconds.
Taryn was reading her book when Grandfather appeared at the door. He was wearing an anorak.
Taryn sat up. ‘Is it morning?’
‘It’s milking time, dear.’
The estate had no cows, but Grandfather by habit offered little lessons on country living to his city granddaughters. Milking time was 4am.
‘Put on your coat and boots. I need your help.’
Taryn put on her wet-weather gear over her pyjamas. She followed her grandfather downstairs, out the kitchen door and into the yard between the scullery wall and wash house. There was a lantern on the cobbles, surrounded by a globe of vaporous yellow light.
The mist was on the move. The arms of the outbuildings provided enough of a barrier so it mostly just passed over their roofs, dragging its fleecy belly.
Beside the lamp was a package. A rectangular object wrapped in canvas and cords. The wrapping looked like an old tent. Taryn ran through her memories of the house’s things, measuring those memories against the package. She considered Grandma’s sewing machine and Grandfather’s old walnut wood valve radio that made the kitchen sound as mellow as the polished copper jelly moulds made it look. The radio and sewing machine were the only right-sized objects that came to mind.
‘Can you take the lamp, please,’ Grandfather said. He stooped, wrapped his arms around the bundle, and lifted it. It looked heavy, which didn’t eliminate either radio or sewing machine.
Taryn picked up the lamp. Grandad sent her off ahead of him. ‘We’re going to the lake.’
A former Baron Northover had dammed a brook to make an ornamental lake. The lake had an island in its centre, only accessible by boat. That same Baron Northover built a folly on the island—a circular building of white marble columns, with red marble pediments and a green marble cupola. Though it could usually only be appreciated as a spectacle from the far shore, the Folly was finished in every detail, even its interior, which had flagstone floors and benches facing one another as if prepared for a gathering of Roman senators. The lake was surrounded on every side by reeds, except for the shore facing the house, where there was a landing stage, or the unstable remains of one.
Taryn and her grandfather emerged from between the outbuildings and the mist engulfed them. The lamp turned more yellow, and lost brightness. Taryn looked back. She saw her own footprints dark in the gravel, as if she were treading moisture out of the air and into the ground. Grandfather was a man-shaped blur, a figure with no volume.
After a minute a garden wall loomed in front of Taryn. She followed it away from the house until she reached an archway, beyond which was the main arterial path through the formal rose beds. The mist was full of the smell of their blooms, mixed with its own cool mineral scent. In the middle of the garden the walls disappeared. The only shapes were rose bushes, their foliage thin shadow, their blooms stubborn wine stains on linen washed many times.
Taryn stopped walking. Her grandfather caught up and halted abruptly. And what he carried made a sound: a sliding noise and a hollow tonk as if something large and hard were shifting in a wooden container.
Grandma’s sewing machine was clipped to its case. The radio was all of a piece. It couldn’t be either.
‘What is in there?’ Taryn asked. Her question was followed by a blankness. The mist flowed through her head and even her own curiosity was lost to her sight.
‘Come on Taryn, you know this path well,’ Grandfather scolded. He thought she’d got herself turned around. He was being very gruff with her, as if he didn’t want her there with him at all, and had only asked for her because he needed someone to carry the lamp.
Taryn walked on. The far wall of the rose garden appeared, one moment a hint of shadow, the next brick and mortar, and the rough cordage of a climbing rose. Taryn kept its wall in view. The southeast tower loomed and passed. Beyond that was the high base of the terrace. Taryn turned downhill, where the lake was, six hundred metres away. It was invisible, its waterfowl silenced in the pall of mist.
Grandfather’s anorak was silvered by droplets. He looked as if he were about to turn into glass.
They left the bulk of the house behind. It was like pushing off from land with no far shore in sight.
By the time they reached the firm mud beach and landing stage the mist was too thick for them to see even a shading of the sedges along the shore. Though they could hear wavelets in the reeds on either side of where they stood.
Grandad set the package on the ground. He asked Taryn to pass him the lamp. ‘The boat is in the reeds. Let’s hope I won’t have to bail.’
‘We put the cover back,’ Taryn said. She and Bea had been for a chilly row on the day they arrived at Princes Gate. They had restored the oars, and covered the boat, and slid it back into the
reeds, as the rules of the house dictated.
Grandfather lifted the lantern and walked away. His shape blurred and faded. Then the great lustrous pearl of light he moved inside lost its margins. A moment later all that Taryn could see was a glowing patch on the otherwise blank whiteness, as if the source of light had melted.
Taryn looked at the package. She pushed it with her toe. It was heavy and didn’t budge.
Grandfather was pulling the mooring rope free of the reeds. The boat moved, its hull rasping on the roots of the sedges.
Taryn crouched and picked at the cord binding the package. It was tight, the knots hard and comprehensive.
Taryn’s hands were small. She tried slipping one under the canvas. A metal eyelet scratched her, but she ignored the pain and pushed. Her fingertips found a wood surface, its texture smooth but wavering and very dry.
The bright patch in the mist gradually turned yellow, then the brightness flowed back into a circle, and became a lantern.
Taryn wrenched her hand free and scrambled to her feet. She hid her hand behind her back and rubbed her fingers together. They were covered in silky dust.
Grandfather waded through the shallows, pulling the boat after him. He passed Taryn its slimed rope. He moved the lantern to the bow, picked up the package and placed it on the back seat. ‘I will need that lamp, Taryn. You should go back to the house. It’s a straight line up from here.’
‘But isn’t the front door locked?’
Grandfather looked taken aback. He clearly didn’t want to row her out to the island with him.
‘Do you not want me to see where you hide it?’ Taryn nodded at the package.
‘I don’t know how long this will take.’
‘You don’t have any tools with you.’
‘I was out on the island before you girls arrived, grubbing blackberry. My tools are still in the Folly.’
‘Oh.’ Taryn was crestfallen. Her grandfather was more reluctant for her to see where he hid the package than he was to leave her. She pushed a little more. ‘Can I wait for you on the beach of the island? Does it matter if I see where you put it, Grandad? I won’t tell. Is it your Torah?’
Grandfather didn’t respond. He put his hands on either side of her face. They gazed at each other. Taryn tried again with a general knowledge question. Her grandfather always had a hard time resisting those. ‘What is a Torah?’
‘The Torah is the holy book of the Hebrew faith. I wouldn’t leave my Torah on a damp lake isle.’
‘But it is something from the library.’
Grandfather said, impatient, ‘I give in. Scramble aboard.’
Taryn stepped over the package and stowed oars and took the lantern’s place. She put it between her feet. Its hot glass funnel warmed the sides of her wellingtons.
Grandfather wrestled the rowlocks into their holes and ran out the oars. He pushed off the lake bottom, and the boat drifted into deeper water.
Partway across, when he wasn’t looking, Taryn checked her fingertips. They were black with charcoal.
Taryn was left to wait. The mist magnified all sounds, though robbing them of any discernible direction. If her grandfather had only been digging, she wouldn’t have guessed where his hole was. But she could hear the grinding noise of flagstones prised up and dragged one over the other.
The mist whitened as the sun came up. It didn’t melt away but warmed and thickened.
Taryn heard a splash. A bird had startled out of its nest in the sedges, and was airborne long enough to make a noise as it came down. Taryn watched for ripples. The mist pulsed, and pushed at her. The more she strained to see, the faster the bubbles of light in the centre of her field of vision formed, and swelled, and broke.
From behind her came a scraping bump as a flagstone dropped back into its rightful place.
‘Grandad!’ Taryn shouted.
‘I’ll be along in a minute.’
A little later the mist blushed and grew golden, and once again the light poured out of it and back into the lamp.
Taryn and her grandfather got back in the boat and he rowed them to the landing stage. She held the lamp for him while he fastened the mooring rope around one of its rotting posts. Then he took it from her and they retraced their steps. Taryn was reassured when she saw him produce his keys to unlock the front door. No one could have gotten inside without breaking a window. And there were no windows broken. The house was damp, but no more breezy than usual.
Grandad boiled a jug for tea, and a fresh hot water bottle. He gave Taryn breakfast and sent her back to bed.
She climbed the stairs, clutching the bottle under her jumper. She thought she might read for a while. There was Jane Eyre. Jane was being questioned by Mr Brocklehurst. Taryn thought Jane’s answers were very good, and even better because Mr Brocklehurst didn’t like them.
11
Nil by Mouth
Jacob had a question, the first of many. ‘Do you think your grandfather’s package is still in the grounds of Agile Media? That would explain Khalef and Tahan’s visit.’
‘Those men were possessed, but their demons couldn’t have known what happened after the fire, because Battle was unconscious in Monmouth Hospital and never saw the package.’
‘You’re positive Battle was possessed?’
‘Yes,’ Taryn said. ‘Now that I know what that looks like.’
‘I’ll check the Folly,’ said Shift. ‘After my operation.’
Taryn said, ‘It’s centuries between fires, if we count only the ones we know: the Ravy Library in Persia, the Library of the Serapeum in Alexandria, Raglan Castle, Ashburnham House, the British Museum and Grandad’s library. Hell is only back on the trail now because my book connects those fires and mentions the Firestarter.’
Jacob dropped his chin onto his chest and considered the Folly, the island, the lake, the gate. He glanced up and asked Shift if his gate was the one the demons were using.
Munin made a small indignant whiffling noise.
Shift said, ‘No. With the glove Neve and I can dilate and swivel a gate until it’s near enough to another that we can call that one too and they can meet.’ With the index fingers of both hands he drew two circles in the air, bringing his fingers together at the circumference of each. ‘The gates meet and hand us on from gate to gate.’
Jacob thought he had the beginnings of a notion about how these gates might work.
‘With the glove’s help, sidhe can get about quickly,’ Shift said. ‘If there’s a task that requires speed, which is rare. They’re not a people who hurry. The demons are arriving through Hell’s Gate, which is the one used for the Tithe. It did seem to me the demons were getting about with inexplicable speed, but of course there are many of them, setting off in all directions once they enter the Sidh. There are smaller gates called cut-throughs that simply go from one world to another and stay in the places they were first put. Three cut-throughs lie within seventy miles of Hell’s Gate. One would put the demons on Orkney, another at Blakey Topping in North Yorkshire, the last beside the Higher Drift Menhirs in Cornwall.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose Neve could stop the trespassers by shutting down every cut-through proximate to Hell’s Gate. I could give her the glove and ask her to do that. But with the Tithe so close my people need full freedom of movement. Besides, if we block the incursions we’ll never discover what Hell is up to.’
Munin mused aloud. ‘Jason Battle’s passenger was asking about the box. He set fire to the library, which would suggest he wanted to destroy it.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Jacob said. ‘The thing has been thoroughly lost for centuries. Isn’t lost just as good as destroyed?’
Taryn said, ‘This is like one of those arcane thrillers my sister loved. I’ve kept reading them. When those books choose the thing at the heart of their plot—the forbidden book, the hidden cabal—they often go for something grand but puffed up. In The Da Vinci Code it’s the holy blood of a descendant of Christ and Mary Magdalene, which has to be
a pretty watered-down holiness.’
‘The blood in The Da Vinci Code isn’t magical though, is it?’ Jacob said. ‘The point is that the bloodline is a secret that can undermine the Catholic Church. A scandal about the virginity of Christ. It’s not supposed to be magic; it’s supposed to be a problem. The book is about an ancient conspiracy of silence. The holy blood doesn’t have to do anything. It’s just the spooky idea of something people have taken trouble to hide for thousands of years.’
Shift said, ‘A pact with the world that isn’t part of the accepted historical record, but a steady referent, like a faraway star. The boat moves and the star stays still. Time passes, generations rise and fall, but even with the changes something stays the same—truth, and the conspiracy that keeps the truth hidden.’
Taryn said, ‘People love the idea that there are things which matter which last and last, and outlast banks, businesses and governments. Of course we wish the world was like that.’
‘The world might be like that,’ Shift said.
‘Don’t you know?’ Jacob said. ‘You of all people?’
Shift blinked. ‘Who am I of all people? Do you suppose I have holy blood?’
‘I’ve given up supposing,’ Jacob said. ‘However, I will interrupt the book-group discussion with some practicalities.’ He held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. ‘One. I’m pretty sure my colleague Hemms is on her way here. Hemms knows you put your former husband on to finding a surgeon, Taryn. She’s also very keen to hear what you have to say to the description we now have of the man stalking you.’
Munin turned her head this way and that, eyeing Taryn.
Taryn said, to Shift and the raven, ‘Jacob was the detective constable who came to question me seven years ago when Timothy Webber, the man who murdered my sister, was himself murdered after his release from prison. It’s an unsolved crime.’
The Absolute Book Page 13
