Edges of the World: An Anthology of Otherness

by Ward,Matthew

  Crowe shoots me a suspicious glance, but impatience gets the better of him. He wrenches down the handle and passes inside. I follow, as slowly as I dare.

  It's dark inside. Crowe tries the light switch twice, then gives up. "Should pay your electric bills, Mason." He chuckles at the feeble witticism and takes a torch from his pocket. The beam picks out the swirling silver sigils painted at waist height around the room; then it dances across the piles of paper, the ransacked drawers. "Looks like you've had a visitor."

  He doesn't know the half of it.

  Something shambles out of the darkness.

  Upright, its head would have brushed the ceiling. Even now, hunched over, it's a foot taller than Crowe. Its face, if it has one, lies lost beneath the folds of a moth-eaten hood. Two pairs of gangling, withered arms unfold from beneath the black robes. One hand holds a battered iron lantern. Sickly green light spills across the room, revealing new details: the leather satchel lying open beside the desk; the golden torcs and brooches strewn across the floor during my mad flight. The apparition stumbles closer, its unburdened hands clawing in my direction.

  This time last year, it came for Carrie. Two nights ago, it came for me through the office's open door. But for the warding sigils on the walls – ironically, a precaution in case something in the warehouse started... leaking – it'd have had me already. Instead, I slammed the door and showed it a clean pair of heels.

  I haven't been back since.

  "Get out of here!" Crowe shoves me towards the doorway, and rips his pistol from its shoulder holster. Broken pottery crunches under my feet. Then I'm out into the warehouse, scrabbling for the door handle.

  "Your debt is due." The apparition speaks with a voice like ripping cloth. "The Eyeless King calls you to his service."

  "Mason? What in God's name have you done?"

  By way of answer, I slam the door shut with Crowe on the other side. The hammering begins. I click the lock back into place.

  "Mason? Mason!"

  The door trembles beneath Crowe's frantic thumping, but it holds.

  I run for it.

  The first of the gunshots sounds as I reach open air. Others follow, each one rolling into the next until silence reigns. Breathless, I prop myself against the bonnet of the car. Just a few minutes ago, this seemed like the perfect solution. Lock Crowe in with the apparition, and let it put him out of my misery. As an added bonus, it might even leave me alone after. One soul's as good as another, right? Now, I'm not so sure.

  Maybe I do have a conscience, after all.

  I wrench open the car door, but stop short of climbing inside.

  Should I go back? I can't believe I'm even considering it. Crowe's been a thorn in my side for years. The commissions I've had to pass up – the opportunities. It's only fair he pays my debts. If I go back, and Crowe's already... gone... then what's the point? I'd have gone back for Carrie. But I loved her. I hate Crowe. There's all the difference in the world.

  Only... I wasn't responsible for what happened to Carrie. I can even convince myself I wasn't responsible for what happened up on Edgware Road. But Crowe? I brought him here. I led him into that room. And what's to say the apparition won't keep searching for me? I'll probably spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. And if Crowe survives, I'll sure as hell spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. It's not if he finds me, but when.

  Crap.

  The walk back to the office is the longest of my life, though I don't expect it takes more than a few seconds. The warehouse lights are out. I don't want to know why. That I can see anything at all's thanks to the hazy amber glow from the streetlights outside.

  It's enough to show me that the office door's still shut. I'm safe until it opens. And it'll have to open. Having made the decision, I can't walk away now. I have to know. It's my curse. I can't leave things alone.

  It's quiet. I can't hear anything but my ragged breaths, my thumping heart. I don't know what I expected. Screams? Pleas for help? Singing? Anything but silence.

  Maybe they've done for each other. More likely, they've put aside their differences and are awaiting my return. Together. Won't that be fun?

  The key turns. The door creaks open.

  "Crowe?"

  There's no sign of him. There's no sign of anything. It's as dark in the office as in the warehouse itself. My foot snags. The lantern clatters away. It's dark, the glass smashed and the iron framework buckled.

  The realisation gives me hope. If the lantern's broken, the apparition's as blind as I am. More. It needs the lantern to see, don't ask me how. Carrie was the occultist, not me.

  Another step. Something metallic crunches underfoot. The darkness is taking shape. I can see the desk, the toppled chair. The cupboard that doubles as a drinks cabinet...

  The whisper of movement comes from behind me.

  I turn just in time to see the robed figure descend. I shriek and scurry aside. I know I can't escape it now – it's between me and the door – but I have to try. I scramble towards the desk, wishing I'd had the foresight to put a gun in here. Or to have bought a gun, even.

  The apparition falls past me. It strikes the floor and shatters like glass. There's a musty smell as withered flesh dissipates into stinking vapour. Only the pile of moth-eaten robes remains.

  A new shape forms in the darkness, filling the space the apparition so lately occupied. He's bloodied, bruised, and his ill-treated black suit is torn in a dozen places. One hand grips the spent automatic. The other... It takes me a moment to realise the twist of metal used to be my anglepoise desk lamp.

  A year ago, that apparition ripped through every abjuration Carrie knew and two cartridges of double-ought buckshot. She couldn't even slow it. Crowe just killed one with a lamp.

  A lamp.

  I'm still thinking of what to say when Crowe limps to stand between me and the door. "Been a few years since I've seen one of those." For all the concern in his tone, he could be discussing the weather. "Thought we'd shut that particular door for good. So did the boss."

  "Listen, I can explain..."

  Crowe's eyes flash. He drops the lamp's remains atop the empty robes. "Oh, you're going to. But not to me."

  I wince. I don't have to ask who he means. "You don't have to do this. I'll leave London. You'll never see me again."

  "Oh, we're well past that now, Mason." He points at the apparition's remains. "They'll keep coming 'til they get you. You need help. Our help. And you're going to earn it, believe you me."

  I believe him. I can all but hear the coffin lid slamming shut, with me inside. Blackwood or the Eyeless King. From what I've heard, there's not much to choose between them. I make one last appeal, this time to Crowe's self-interest. "What about you? She'll go ballistic when she learns what you've been up to."

  Crowe laughs. All told, it's the least pleasant sound I've heard all day. "Who do you think sent me here in the first place?"

  Jess

  It's the early hours. Dawn’s a-way’s off, and London is as quiet as it ever gets. Even Tower Bridge lies cloaked in serenity, the lap of river on stone only occasionally interrupted by the growl of a minicab or a lorry’s rumble. Gathering my skirts, I swing my legs over the steel parapet and perch on the top. Far below, the tidal waters of Grandfather Thames ebb and flow. They're almost black in the starlight. The sight reminds me of another river. One I've gone too long without seeing.

  What the hell am I doing here? I should have gone with Eddie. With John. He hates it when I call him ‘Eddie’. He thinks it’s a joke, that I'm teasing him about his resemblance to ‘my’ Eddie. It's partly that. Truth is, I don't like to think of him as John. Thirty years back, he and I painted the town red. Every corner; Mayfair to Whitechapel.

  He was glorious in those days. So vibrant. So devil-may-care. Some thought I led him astray, but in truth John showed me a way to live. I forgot the burdens of my years, and had fun. Maybe a little too much, if I'm honest. Too much to drink. Too many fights. I don't
think there's a police station in Central London one or other of us didn't see the inside of. I want ‘my’ John to be the one from the smoky nightclubs and glittering parties, the one who could keep up with me in the early hours. I never want to lose those memories. I know it's not fair – selfish, even – but the world is often selfish, and seldom fair. Why should I be any different?

  I should have gone with him, Crowe's threats be damned. John's a capable man, but he's still mortal. Still vulnerable to the things lurking in the ancient reaches. Especially now. Something's coming. Something a thousand times worse than the gnawbones little Isra encountered up in Edgware. I can feel its anticipation, the yearning to be free. I always do.

  Like calls to like.

  I pluck the golden brooch from my pocket, and turn it over in my hands. I can feel the magic pricking at my fingertips. It's a door, and something wants over the threshold – wants a flesh and blood host to serve its pleasures. It'll not find one here. My soul, such as it is, is long since bartered away. I didn't even do the bartering. Doesn't seem fair.

  I’ve felt it more and more in recent years: the empty pit where my heart should be. There's never been any escaping it. I'm a child of the Black River, and those currents were tainted long before I sprung from the glimmerless headwaters.

  My father's influence lives on though me. Sometimes, he's a voice in the edge of hearing. Sometimes he’s as elusive as a dream. But he’s always with me. I am, after all, his daughter as much as I'm my mother’s. Maybe more, these days. That should worry me. It should terrify me. I spent so long trying to escape his shadow. Now I almost welcome it.

  Anything to make things different. Interesting.

  I lean forward, rocking my feet back and forth. My shoes slip free of my heels. I curl and uncurl my toes, rocking the shoes back and forth. I played this game as a girl. I'd sit on the wooden bridge just outside the village, feet over the water, daring myself to tip the shoes past the point of no return. Sometimes I did, and walked home with wet feet. That river was barely more than a stream, and it was easy enough to fish my shoes back out. It's a vivid recollection, surprisingly so. The golden yellows of the cornfield. The warmth of the sun. The clammy skirts plastered to my legs. The childhood memory's so strong, but I barely recall the details of my conversation with John.

  When you're a child, the good moments are gone before you’ve a chance to enjoy them, but the bad ones stretch on for eternity. As you get older, it evens out. Every moment becomes fleeting, ever more insignificant when set alongside the life already lived. Now imagine how it is for me. I've lived longer than most ever will, with no loss of faculty to blur the passage of time. Conversations flicker by. It's an effort to even acknowledge them, let alone contribute. Why worry about something so quickly ended? Why worry about a life, here or there? It'll all be the same in fifty years. How much can any of it truly matter, in the grand scheme?

  And I am an agent of the grand scheme. Or at least I was meant to be. Somewhere along the line, I lost my way.

  I should have gone with him.

  I'm seized by the sudden urge to fling the brooch into the river. My promise holds me back. I said I'd dispose of it safely, and I suppose I will. That means not casting it into the fickle waters of Grandfather Thames. The moment passes, and I tuck the brooch back inside my coat. That’s the advantage of immortality. It teaches you that nothing lasts forever. Not temptation. Not even indecision.

  There are times when I feel like I should do something outrageous. Walk into a nightclub and set all the men at each others’ throats with the promise of a dance, or a kiss. I could stalk into a banker’s boardroom, force the reapportionment of profits to worthy causes. Somehow, I've never done either. I think I'm afraid. Not of the consequences – consequences don't really exist for me. No, I'm afraid of waking up the next morning, having struck one more possibility off the list of ‘things to do’. The list's always growing shorter, and there's no lack of days to fill.

  I think Kathleen saw this side of me before I recognised it in myself. That's why she refused my offer. I was angry with her for weeks after, but I understand now. Even in her hundredth year, the possibilities of life drove her on, not the certainties. She was never more alive than in those days of failing health, determined to squeeze every last drop of joy from every last moment. This life wouldn't have been for her, but at least I wouldn't have been alone. Oh, I've sisters spread throughout Europe, but family’s not the same as friendship.

  I wish I could have saved Eddie, but my gift doesn't work like that. The Black River has no sons, only daughters. The men in my life wither and pass beyond, leaving me behind. I wonder if they resent me for that. I wish I didn't resent them. Eddie's gone, and John will follow. Is that why I didn't go with him tonight? Does part of me want him to pass sooner than later, so I'm no longer anticipating the pain that'll come with his death?

  I hope he's fine.

  I'm sure he is.

  I should have gone with him.

  I'm a terrible friend.

  I'm so lost in thought, I barely hear the purr of the police car as it pulls up behind me.

  "Miss? I need you to get down from there."

  There's a note of concern in the voice. I snatch a glance. The policeman's not quite John's age, but he's well on the way. Possibly he has a daughter whose years match my appearance. Is he picturing her on the parapet, feet dangling out over the abyss?

  "I'm not going to jump. You can leave me be."

  "I still need you to get down."

  I feel a stirring of mischief. Anything to distract from the boredom. The boredom, and the lingering sense of guilt. "Why don't you come join me?"

  "I don't think so."

  I tighten my grip on the parapet – the fall won't come close to killing me, but it'd be embarrassing – and turn, giving him the full benefit of a winning smile. "I insist. Join me. It'll be fun."

  "Now listen..." The policeman's eyes meet mine. In that moment, he's lost in my glamour. Part of him knows it. They do, sometimes. I can see the confusion on his face as he approaches. Moments later, he's beside me on the parapet, staring westward across the reflections of city lights.

  His radio crackles. He reaches for it.

  I scowl. "Turn that off. It's annoying."

  There's a soft click. The radio falls silent, and my reluctant companion's hand drops to his side. I look him up and down. He'll certainly have some explaining to do if one of his colleagues happens by. That's not the worst of his troubles. He's shaking. Not much, but enough.

  "Are you scared of heights?"

  "Yes."

  It's a simple answer, and an honest one. He can't lie now he's seen my eyes. He can't do anything I don't want him to. It's one of my gifts. Part of me feels demeaned for using it this way. It's not meant to humiliate. It's a tool for punishment, for revenge. This man deserves neither. He's been in my grip for seconds, and already I need a hot bath to soak away the grime accumulating on my soul. Yes, part of me hates what I'm putting him through, but another part of me cheers, and yearns to do more. I can't shake the feeling that I'm so directionless precisely because I don't embrace who I am, or what I can be. The potential my father instilled in me, held back – cheated – by my mother's empathy.

  I peer up at the nearest tower, just a shadow in the moonlight. He'll climb it, if I ask – acrophobia and all – hand over hand until he loses his grip, or until his strength fades and gravity takes over. A word from me, and he'd jump into the river. The temptation's overwhelming. After all, it'll all be the same in fifty years. In fifty years, he'll be a fleeting memory even to his family. I'll probably be here. Here, or somewhere like it.

  I lean closer, my lips inches from the policeman's ear. "Stand on the parapet."

  That's the problem with the gift. The more I use it, the more I want to use it. I want to see how far I can push myself – to see how far I dare push myself. It's like the game with the shoes. Where is the point of no return? I know there's a line. If I cro
ss it, I'll not be 'me' anymore. But the object of the exercise isn't to cross the line, it's to stand just this side of it and peer over the edge. That's where the thrill comes from.

  My reluctant companion rises awkwardly, his feet unsteady on the parapet. There's no breeze, but he's swaying all the same. If the parapet was at all slippery, he'd have gone over already.

  It occurs to me that we're not so different, he and I. I'm told acrophobia isn't just a fear of heights, that sufferers feel a compulsion to throw themselves off the precipice. That's the real fear, and that's how I feel right now. If he jumps – if I order him to jump – I'm my father's daughter. If I don't, then I'm still myself. Or almost. Just by courting the possibility, I've changed. Perhaps I should just embrace it, get it over with. Become my father's daughter once and for all. Walk away from all this.

  Walk away from John.

  "Please. Don't make me do this."

  The policeman's eyes are clamped shut. His voice shakes. I'm impressed he's realised what's going on. Most don't. It takes a strong will to see through the glamour. Given time, he may even be able to resist.

  I swing my feet. My shoes teeter back and forth on my toes. "What's your name?"

  "Andy. Andy Ralston."

  "Can you swim, Constable Ralston?"

  His reply's cut off by a burst of tinny music. A mournful burst of fiddles and acoustic guitars. My phone. John bought it for me a couple of years back. Said he was tired of tracking me down the hard way. He picked the ringtone too – said it fitted me. I should have changed it. The music fades, then crashes back at full volume. Whoever it is doesn't want to be ignored. John, probably.

  I sigh, and look up at Ralston. "Just bear with me a moment." He doesn't say anything. I haven't told him he can. I fish the phone from my pocket and set it to my ear. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Jess." It's not John. It's a woman's voice. The emphasis on my name's to remind me she knows who I really am.

  "Hello, Mary." I scowl out across the river. "I don't remember giving you this number."