Edges of the World: An Anthology of Otherness

by Ward,Matthew

  Dagworth tried to move as the shadow swept towards him. His legs wouldn't respond. The sparking discs, the screams – they all seemed so very far away. As chill washed over him as the shadow approached. Now it was nearer, he glimpsed a man-like shape within the darkness, framed by a cloak, or perhaps by a pair of monstrous wings. The shadow's outermost tendrils twitched, reaching for him.

  "Don't just stand there, man!"

  Dagworth felt a dull pain in his arm as something hauled him sideways. His mind clearing, he found himself staring into the appalled face of Horatio Blackwood.

  "Good God, Dagworth. What have you done?"

  Dagworth tried to gather his thoughts, and failed. "The Devil. It's the very Devil."

  "A devil perhaps," said Blackwood, and dragged him towards the door.

  The shadow hadn't moved. It stood a pace or two before the gate, its manner like that of bloodhound sniffing the air. Trailsford risked a look from behind his cabinet, whimpered, and curled tight into a ball.

  One worthy succeeded in clawing open the storehouse door, and he fled into the night. Others followed but, in their haste, they achieved little more than to bar one another's exit. A red-coated fusilier, a sentry from the courtyard, shouldered his way through the panicked crowd. He lurched to a sudden stop as his eyes took in the glistening shadow.

  "What are you waiting for?" The Duke of Wellington hadn't moved an inch since the shadow's appearance, but now he rounded on the hapless fusilier. "Shoot, man! Shoot!"

  The soldier simply stood aghast, eyes wide with terror. With a growl, the Iron Duke tore the musket from the fusilier's hands, set the stock against his shoulder, and fired. There was a sharp crack and a hiss of smoke. Wellington staggered under the recoil, but the bullet flew true. It struck the shadow in its very centre, passed clean through and ricocheted away.

  It didn't even leave a mark.

  The shadow's eyes flared. Without a sound, it stalked past Trailsford, leaving the engineer unharmed, and bore down on Wellington. Dagworth wouldn't have minded that, had not Blackwood seen fit to drag him to the Iron Duke's side. The sight of it was too much for the sentry, who turned on his heel and fled.

  "A bold attempt, Sir Arthur," said Blackwood, "but I fear insufficient." Releasing Dagworth, he pulled the silver ring from his finger and dropped it at his feet. "My apologies."

  "Apologies? ...Ah!" Wellington gasped as Blackwood grabbed his wrist, and slit his palm with a pocket knife.

  Blackwood held the duke's hand steady, so that blood dripped across the discarded ring, then reached for Dagworth, who backed hurriedly away.

  "Should we not run?" Dagworth glanced at the door, still blocked by panicked worthies. No escape that way.

  "It's too late for that."

  Quick as whip, Blackwood grabbed Dagworth's hand and slit his palm also. Dagworth shrieked and tried to tear free. Blackwood held him tight until his blood had also spattered upon the ring.

  "What is the meaning of this, Blackwood?" snapped Wellington. He discarded the useless musket to cradle his injured hand.

  "Hush, Your Grace, this takes concentration."

  Seemingly oblivious of the oncoming shadow, Blackwood lowered his voice. "Nameless Lady of Eternal Winds and Endless Sea, I beseech your aid."

  The shadow was close now – an arm's length away, no more.

  "Let me go, I beg you. Let me go." Dagworth whimpered and tried to pull free.

  Blackwood's grip tightened, dragging him to his knees. "Nameless Lady of Eternal Winds and Endless Sea, I beseech your aid. Accept my offering of luminous metal and mortal essence. Nameless Lady of Eternal Winds..."

  The silver ring crumbled to black dust before Dagworth's dumbfounded gaze. The droplets of blood froze, and shattered. A cold wind picked up, tugging at Dagworth's clothes and hair. It swirled this way and that, pricking at his exposed skin like a thousand icy knives. He gasped, his panicked breath frosting before his eyes. He glanced up just in time to see the shadow disintegrate, torn apart by the squalling air currents. One moment it was there, eyes blazing malevolently, then it was scraps of fading darkness. A heartbeat later, it was nothing at all.

  The wind gusted stronger. The last of the worthies were blown out of the room. The doors slammed shut behind them. The archway gave one final shudder of sparks, then fell silent.

  A new form coalesced where the shadow had stood. It was a woman, or at least looked like a woman. Dagworth was in no way prepared to trust to appearance. Her long, blue-grey hair danced upon the winds, as did the tattered sleeves and skirts of her diaphanous, white dress. Her face, which would have otherwise been beautiful, wore an angry scowl – one that Dagworth was pleased to see directed against Blackwood, rather than himself. Her eyes were black orbs, as inky as the shadow had been. The more Dagworth stared at the woman, the more he found his eyes slipping away from her. With a start, he realised it was not solely the dress that was translucent, but the woman also.

  "Horatio Blackwood." The woman's voice was hollow and sharp, a wind clawing its way through a mountain pass. "You and I are no longer friends. And yet you dare summon me?"

  Blackwood smiled, unrepentant. "That's why I used the blood of others. I knew you wouldn't come for mine."

  "What is all this, Blackwood?" snapped Wellington. "Who in God's name are you, woman?" He spoke as if addressing a guest who'd seen fit to attend a ball uninvited. The supernatural aspect of the matter seemed entirely to have passed him by.

  "I have no name, save to those who worship me."The woman's scowl vanished, replaced by a wry smile. "Would you like to worship me? I did just save your life."

  Wellington glared back, unabashed. "This is Britain, not India. We have one God, and find him quite sufficient."

  The woman shrugged, the idea apparently forgotten, and drifted over to the archway. "Such a clever arrangement. Who made it?"

  "These two gentlemen," said Blackwood. He gestured at the still-cowering Trailsford and, much to Dagworth's horror, at him.

  The woman regarded Dagworth with a gaze that was somehow expressionless and threatening at the same time. His heart leapt into his mouth. "No. No no no no no. I'm merely an arranger of introductions, a facilitator. Someone who helps others fulfil their mutual needs. I talk, I do not do."

  "I see." The woman's coal-black stare lingered a moment longer, and then swept mercifully away. The winds carried her to Trailsford's side, and she helped the dumbfounded engineer to his feet. "So this wondrous work is the labour of your hand?"

  "Yes ma'am." Trailsford peered nervously up at her through broken spectacles, a man caught between fight and flight.

  "It's inspired." The woman ran her hand across the control cabinet, an admiring smile playing across her lips. "To have come so far with such primitive toys. You understand that what you've done is impossible?"

  "Don't believe in the impossible, ma'am. It only stays such 'til someone does it."

  The woman's smile broadened. "That's true. That's so very true. But you're not ready for this. None of you are. You're only lucky that one of my brother's servants found your gate before he did." She sighed. "My dear sister's forever telling me this world is more trouble than it's worth. Perhaps she's right." So saying, she leaned forward and kissed the engineer's forehead. "I'm sorry."

  She withdrew. For a heartbeat, Trailsford didn't move. Then he fell slowly sideways, rigid as a plank of wood. He struck the floor, and shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Bile flooded Dagworth's mouth, hot, thick and bitter. He clapped his hands over his lips and choked it back, desperate to do nothing that would draw the woman's attention.

  The Iron Duke, apparently, had no such concern. "He did you no harm!"

  She shook her head. "That's true. But he would have been the death of you all, given time."

  Blue fire sprang up around her feet and raced hungrily across the floorboards. In moments, the arch was ablaze, the flames drawn higher and higher by the winds, their tongues flickering orange at their peak. Dagwo
rth stared, wondering how metal could burn. Then his eyes fell upon the broken remains of man who'd been his partner this past year, and it no longer seemed important.

  The woman blinked, as if surprised to see them still standing there. She gestured. The winds gusted, and the doors crashed open. "You should leave. Oh, and Horatio? If you call upon me again, there will be consequences you shall not greatly enjoy."

  Dagworth's last glimpse of the woman was of her standing in the centre of the flames, hands outstretched. Then he felt strong hands under his arms, hauling him from the room, and the woman was lost to sight.

  The next minutes passed in a blur of smoke and clamour – the thunder of running feet, the strident ringing of bells. Dagworth swam, semiconscious, on a sea of misery. Trailsford dead. Gardiner dead. The archway destroyed. Earlier that day, the future had been one of untold wealth. Now he'd be lucky not to end inside Newgate Prison.

  Cold and wet seeped through Dagworth's clothes, bringing him to his senses. He was lying in a puddle. With a shudder of revulsion, he lurched upright, batting uselessly at the arms of his ruined jacket. Above him, the flank of the White Tower loomed against the night sky. Away to his right, the roof of the Grand Storehouse was ablaze, not with blue fire, but with orange. The courtyard filled with running men, the red coats of fusiliers and yeomen warders a sharp contrast to the dark uniforms of the fire-fighters. Wellington was in amongst them, brandishing a cane and shouting orders.

  "They'll not save it now." Blackwood stood watching the flames. He didn't seem particularly upset at the loss of the building or its contents.

  Dagworth shook his head dejectedly. "This is a nightmare. A nightmare, I tell you."

  Blackwood snorted. "It's nothing of the sort, believe me."

  "Then what in God's name did I just see?" Dagworth shouted, his voice so raw it hurt.

  "It's very simple. You're incredibly fortunate to be alive, Mister Dagworth. That much, you owe to me."

  "Yes. Yes, of course," said Dagworth hurriedly. "If there's anything I can do..."

  "Actually, I think I might be able to offer you something. A respite, shall we say, in this hour of need, in exchange for your services."

  Dagworth's spirits rose at the aroma of a bargain. "There would be rewards of a... fungible nature, perhaps?"

  "We work for the defence and betterment of the Empire, not private wealth." Blackwood shrugged. "However, if you're not interested, I'll leave you be. I'm sure Sir Arthur will have some pointed questions to ask you before the night is out."

  And would for some time to come. Dagworth knew blackmail when he heard it. He forced a smile. "As it happens, my life has been a search for a noble calling."

  "Oh, happy day," said Blackwood, his face carefully immobile. "Welcome to Coldharbour, Mister Dagworth."

  Weeping Marya

  Carann Bridge, Cornwall

  "I'm not happy about this, guv." DC Marsh shifted in the passenger seat, trying and failing to get comfortable. Too much coffee and too little sleep had left him exhausted and edgy all at the same time.

  DI Penhallow grunted unsympathetically and drummed the tips of her fingers along the steering wheel. "No one's asking you to be happy about it, Tom. You think I'm happy about it? The Super says we have to let him go, so we let him go. Doesn't mean we have to like it."

  The rain lashed down against the windscreen with redoubled fury, blurring the lights above the police station's front door. It had started a little before lunchtime, lashing down with the bleak, unforgiving certainty that what Carann Bridge town centre needed – really needed – was a lake where its main street used to be.

  "Yeah, but to act as his bloody taxi as well? Let him call a cab, or better yet walk back through this lot. Don't know what the Super was thinking. Taplow's hardly going to spill 'cos we showed him a moment of kindness, is he?"

  The drumming increased in tempo. "Wasn't the Super's idea, as it happens."

  "Whose was it then? Yours?"

  Penhallow arched her eyebrows. An innocent smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  Marsh stared at her in disbelief. "Bloody hell. It was you, wasn't it? What are you playing at?"

  "Why should I be playing at anything?"

  "Because you always are, guv."

  Marsh had transferred from Exeter three months ago. Long enough for the worst of the 'city boy' jokes to wear off, but not nearly long enough to get a proper handle on Rose Penhallow. She was a legend, with a clear up rate the envy of every copper from Land's End to Dawlish. She knew every family, every vicar, every druggie and every two-bit fence for twenty miles up and down the coast. Penhallow joked that she was as much a part of the community as the battered bus that brought school kids in from the surrounding villages, and it was true. She'd lived in the area for every one of her fifty-three years, and spent thirty of them on the force. But she was an odd one, all the same.

  Penhallow ran a hand through her short, greying hair and massaged her scalp. "Whatever you say, city boy." The jokes had worn off. The name? Apparently that'd take a little longer. "Looks like they're bringing him out."

  Marsh peered through the windscreen. A pair of uniformed constables hurried through the deluge, Danny Taplow between them. He didn't look like much, not at first. Black hair, average height, scrawny build; rumpled clothes that could have come from any one of a dozen trendy high street stores. It was only when you looked in his eyes that you realised something was wrong with him. Whatever else the rest of Danny Taplow's face did, his eyes always smiled – like the world was a joke only he understood. "I'll do it."

  "Thanks."

  Marsh opened the door and stepped outside, suppressing a shiver at the sharp change in temperature. He glanced at the constables. They looked no happier than he felt.

  Only Taplow seemed cheerful. "Taxi service, is it? Least you can bloody do if you ask me."

  "No one did ask you." Marsh opened the car's rear passenger door. "Go on, get in."

  Taplow threw a cocky salute at the constables and chuckled. "Thanks fellas, but it looks like I've got another date."

  Marsh slammed the door behind him, and climbed back inside. Penhallow revved the engine into life, and the car roared off into the rain-sodden night.

  *******

  Penhallow drove in silence, hunched over the wheel like it was her only support. The rain-lashed streets passed away to left and right, miserable greys and whites broken by the dull amber of Carann Bridge's ancient streetlights.

  Taplow kept up a stream of nonsensical chatter wittering about everything from the weather, to what was on telly, to the blowout the other lads had prepared to celebrate his release. Marsh bit his tongue, refusing to rise to the blatant provocation. Telling Taplow to shut his mouth would only encourage him to keep yammering away, so Marsh blocked out the nasal voice, tried to lose it amidst the purr of the engine and the scrape-thump of the windscreen wipers. But nothing could keep the sense of failure at bay.

  That morning, Marsh had been confident of a result. But that was nearly twelve hours ago. Twelve hours in which the case against Danny Taplow had fallen apart like a rotten tree. Not because he was innocent, Marsh was certain of that. The alibi stank to high heaven. Of course his mates vouched for him. They weren't local boys. The twelve of them had driven down from Bristol, taken over the holiday cottages up by Bannow Farm, and worn out their welcome by partying into the small hours.

  Uniform had been up there several times since their arrival, and that was before Annie Brecken had gone missing. When the teenager's body was found tangled in weeds near the boathouse on Lynn Bannow, and when Marsh had found Annie's earring in the glove box of Taplow's customised VW Golf… Well, it didn't take much of a copper to make the connection, did it?

  But physical evidence was inconclusive, and there were no witnesses. Marsh and the rest of Carann Bridge CID had rounded up Taplow's mates, working in coffee-fuelled shifts to hammer at the cracks in their story like the rain hammered at the windscreen now. It hadn't
worked. Taplow had been in custody a hair short of thirty six hours, and there was nothing to disprove his story: that he'd found the jewellery while taking a drunken piss in the lake.

  Marsh didn't believe him. No one believed him. But faced with the choice of placing a charge that wouldn't stick, and cutting Taplow loose in the hope that he'd drop himself in it, Superintendent Morris had chosen the latter. For the immediate future, Taplow would be lucky to take a piss, in a lake or otherwise, without drawing a copper's notice. None of which changed the fact Marsh would have to break the news to Annie's family the next morning.

  The timeworn granite of Tarr Cross swished past in a spray of surface water. The sight of it dragged Marsh back to the present. What was Penhallow playing at?

  "...laughin' their bloody guts out, they were..." Taplow broke off and peered out the window. "'Ere. This ain't the way back to the cottage. We're goin' the wrong way."

  "Just a short cut," said Penhallow. "Not long now."

  With some effort, Marsh kept a frown off his face. He knew the roads around Carann Bridge pretty well by now. This road led up to the moor, and eventually to Trekerris, Tintagel and the Celtic Sea. Bannow Farm lay in the opposite direction.

  It seemed that Taplow didn't know that, for he sank back in his seat. "Awright then."

  For a mercy, he lapsed into silence, but the respite brought Marsh little solace. There was no point asking Penhallow what was going on. She'd not answer with Taplow in the car. Probably wouldn't have answered even if he weren't there, come to that. She liked her surprises too much.

  With the lights of Carann Bridge far behind, Penhallow swung off the road and onto a narrow, gorse-edged track. At last, the rain abated. The clouds parted, and moonlight gleamed down. At once, the landscape changed; the murky, rain-sodden nightmare replaced by something crisp and clear, almost like something from a fairytale. Marsh still didn't understand how Cornwall did that – mean and oppressive one moment, beautiful and welcoming in the next.

  "This ain't a shortcut. Where are you taking me?" Taplow sounded more confused than angry.