The Man with the Golden Torc sh-1

by Simon R. Green

  My bed fit me like a glove, and sleep had never felt so good.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Happy Daze

  I was dreaming. A great voice spoke in my mind, saying: I can help you, if only you’ll let me. There’s no end to the things we might achieve together, you and I. I am the answer to all your questions, and all your problems. Just stop fighting me.

  I wanted to believe the voice. I really did. But I’ve never been able to trust anyone apart from me. The family saw to that.

  I woke up with a knife at my throat. Molly was sitting astride my chest and not in a good way. She was leaning right over me, the edge of her silver dagger pressing just hard enough into my throat to cut the skin. It stung, more irritating than painful, but I could feel a slow trickle of blood coursing down the side of my neck. I decided to lie very still. Molly’s face hung right above mine, red with rage, but her eyes were cold as ice. Her hand was very steady, for the moment, the razor-sharp edge resting just above my Adam’s apple. And I’d been having such a good dream too. I gave Molly my very best polite smile.

  "Good morning, Molly. Sleep well?"

  "You drugged me, you bastard! Did you think I wouldn’t notice? And you slept in the same bed as me after all that nonsense about blankets on the floor!"

  "Yes," I said carefully. "I slept in the same bed as you. Emphasis on the word slept. You needed a good night’s sleep, and so did I, so I just…helped things along a little."

  Molly’s scowl deepened, becoming actually dangerous. "You drugged me. Do you really expect me to ever trust you again after this? You could have done anything to me while I was asleep!"

  "Yes," I said. "I could have. But I didn’t. Still, you shouldn’t take it personally. I was very tired. I’m sure I’ll do better next time."

  "There won’t be a next time, you treacherous little toad," said Molly. But there might have been just a hint of a smile tucked away in one corner of her mouth. She took her knife away from my throat and climbed off my chest. I raised one hand to my throat, and then winced as my fingertips came away wet with blood. Molly sniffed loudly as she got up off the bed. "Don’t be such a big baby. You’ve cut yourself worse shaving. I don’t suppose there’s a shower anywhere on this boat, is there? I feel really funky after sleeping in my clothes."

  "No shower," I agreed. "But you can boil some hot water on the gas cooker, for a wash."

  I started to roll out of bed, and then stopped abruptly, crying out despite myself as a stab of pain filled my shoulder and left arm. It hurt like hell as I forced myself to sit up, cradling my left arm to my chest. I tried flexing it slowly and yelped again as a vicious pain flashed all the way from my shoulder to my fingertips. Just bending the elbow felt like someone had stuck a screwdriver into the joint and twisted it. Even moving my fingers hurt. I looked across at Molly, but she shook her head immediately.

  "Nothing to do with me. Let’s have a look at your shoulder."

  I couldn’t get my shirt off on my own. It hurt too much. Molly had to help me, unbuttoning and then pushing the shirt back, not hurting me more than she had to. I turned my head carefully to inspect my left shoulder. All around the scar tissue left by the healed arrow wound, my skin was swollen and inflamed. Molly leaned in for a closer look, and then pressed the skin here and there with surprisingly gentle fingers. I hissed at the pain, and she nodded slowly.

  "Were you injured yesterday, fighting at the holding pens?"

  "No," I said. "I was in my armour. I can’t be hurt while I’m in my armour."

  "The elf lord’s arrow got through," said Molly, studying the scar tissue thoughtfully.

  "Yes, but that was…extremely unusual. And I already used a med blob to heal the wound."

  "Doesn’t seem to have made too good a job of it," said Molly. She stood back and traced a series of complex symbols on the air, glowing trails following her fingertips to leave behind alien characters hanging shimmering between us. Molly studied them silently for a while, and then looked back at me as the symbols faded away. I didn’t like the expression on her face.

  "Good of you to take an interest," I said, trying to keep it light. "But if you’re about to suggest surgery with that knife of yours, I think I’ll pass."

  "You’re no use to me as a cripple," she said. "Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do for you. The original wound has healed, but it seems the elf’s arrow left something behind after you pulled it out. It’s not poison, as such. I could cope with that. But there’s something in your body that shouldn’t be there. I can’t tell what it is, but it’s spreading."

  I nodded slowly. "The arrow came from another dimension," I said. "That’s the only way it could pierce my armour. I’ve seen the substance once before, in the Armourer’s lab. He called it strange matter."

  "Good name for it," said Molly. "My magic can detect it but not affect it. All I can tell you for sure is that your body doesn’t have any defences against it. It’s bad now, and it’s only going to get worse."

  "Say it," I said. "Just say it."

  "I’m sorry, Eddie. This strange matter is eating you alive, inch by inch, and I don’t have the first idea on how to stop it."

  "How long?" I said numbly.

  "Three, four days tops."

  "And after that?"

  "There isn’t anything after that. I’m sorry, Eddie."

  I sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. Not feeling much, not yet. "I thought I’d have more time," I said finally. "To do all the things I need to do. But I suppose…it’s just another deadline. And I can do deadlines. Help me get my shirt back on."

  It took both of us to get my left arm back into the shirtsleeve, and I made some more noises, even through gritted teeth. I sat quietly as she did up the buttons. I was breathing hard, and I could feel cold sweat drying on my face. But all the time I was thinking, hard. Three days, four tops. The only people who might be able to help me were the doctors back at the Hall. And maybe the Armourer. Uncle Jack. All I knew about strange matter was what he’d told me. That it came from somewhere else, that it had certain useful properties that no one understood, and that it didn’t follow any of our rules. But even if I were to go back to the Hall, give myself up, the odds were Grandmother would have given orders for me to be killed on sight.

  More than ever, I needed answers. Information. Options. And the only people who might have those…were the other rogues.

  Molly buttoned up my collar and wiped the sweat from my face with her handkerchief. I nodded my thanks. I wasn’t used to needing help. I wasn’t used to hurting. The only way to seriously damage a Drood was to catch him out of his armour, and we’re all very hard to surprise. I hadn’t been really hurt since I was a teenager. Pain and weakness were new things to me, and I hated them. Molly saw some of this in my face and smiled briefly.

  "Welcome to the world the rest of us live in. What do you want to do now, Eddie?"

  I stood up carefully. My left arm hung down at my side, quiet as long as I didn’t try to use it. I needed to be up and moving, doing…something. "Who’s the best rogue to talk to? Who’s most likely to know something about me and my family?"

  "That would be Oddly John," Molly said immediately. "I’ve never been able to get much out of him, but I’m pretty sure he knows important things."

  "Is he far from here?"

  "Two train journeys."

  "Forget that. Call up another spatial portal."

  "I’m not altogether sure that’s wise," Molly said carefully. "They’re really only for use in emergencies. They take a lot out of me."

  "Could anyone track us through the portal, once we’re gone?"

  "No. But any number of people would detect a magic like that operating and come here to check it out."

  "Let them," I said. "It doesn’t matter. I doubt I’ll be coming back here again. We can’t afford to travel openly in London anymore. By now both my family and Manifest Destiny will have filled the city with agents looking for us. Tell me about this…Oddly John."


  "He lives out in Flitwick," Molly said, not quite avoiding my eyes.

  "Nice little commuter town some way outside London proper."

  "There’s something you’re not telling me."

  "There’s lots I’m not telling you. But this…you really need to see this for yourself, Eddie."

  "All right," I said. "Let’s go."

  The portal dropped us off just outside a small town and on top of a grassy hill overlooking an old Georgian manor house set in its own spacious grounds. Birds were singing cheerfully under a bright blue sky, and the early morning air was crisp and clear. All very picture postcard, except for the high stone wall surrounding the manor grounds topped with iron spikes and rolls of barbed wire. The only entrance was through a massive iron gate heavy enough to stop a tank in its tracks. Looking beyond the high walls, I could just make out people walking back and forth in the grounds. All very peaceful. But even from a distance, the manor house had a dour and forbidding look, and there was something…wrong, about the people in the grounds. Something about the way they moved, slowly and aimlessly, not interacting with each other. I looked at Molly.

  "All right," I said. "Spill it. What kind of a place have you brought me to?"

  "This is Happy Acres," Molly said calmly. "A high-security installation for the criminally insane. The locals call it Happy Daze."

  "And our rogue is in there? What is he, crazy?"

  "Yes, and no," said Molly. "You’ll have to see for yourself. Oddly John’s position here is…complicated."

  We started down the hillside, slipping and sliding on grass still wet from the dawn, heading towards the home for the criminally insane. All at once, the heavy iron gate didn’t look nearly heavy enough. I studied the manor house dubiously until the rising stone walls shut it off from view. I’d never been to a madhouse before. I wasn’t sure what to expect. When Droods go seriously crazy, we kill them. We have to. The armour makes them far too dangerous. Like Arnold Drood, the Bloody Man. I can’t believe that bastard was able to fool us for so long. Molly and I reached the bottom of the hill, and I trailed after Molly as she headed for the entrance. I wasn’t holding back. It was just that Molly knew the way.

  "So," I said. "Criminally insane. Are we talking…ax murderers and the like?"

  "Oh, at least," Molly said cheerfully. "But not to worry; I’m sure everyone will make you feel perfectly at home."

  We stopped outside the iron gate, which seemed even bigger close up. It looked like it had been cast in one piece, with bars so thick you couldn’t get a hand around them. Its design was stark and purely functional. It was there to keep the inmates in, nothing more. Molly hit the buzzer recessed into the thick stone pillar beside the gate, and after a lengthy pause a heavyset man in hospital whites came over to glare suspiciously through the gate at us. The leather belt around his thick waist held a radio, pepper spray, and a long heavy truncheon.

  "Hello, George," Molly said easily. "Remember me? I’m here to see my uncle John again. John Stapleton."

  "You know the routine, Molly," said George in a surprisingly soft and pleasant voice. "You have to show me a signed and dated pass from the hospital administration."

  "Oh, sure," said Molly. She held an empty hand up before him, and he leaned forward for a closer look, his lips moving slowly as he read the details on a nonexistent pass. He finally nodded, and Molly quickly lowered her hand. George worked an electronic lock on the other side of the gate, and there was the sound of heavy metal bolts disengaging. The gate swung smoothly open on concealed hydraulics, and Molly led the way into the house grounds. The gate swung shut behind us, locking us in with the inmates.

  "Shall I call up to the house for an escort to take you the rest of the way?" said George, his hands resting on his belt next to the pepper spray and the truncheon.

  "No, that’s all right, George," said Molly. "I know the way."

  I must have looked a bit disconcerted, because George smiled reassuringly at me. "First visit? Don’t worry. None of the patients will bother you. Just stick to the path, and you’ll be fine."

  We set off up the wide gravel path. "What was that bit with the empty hand?" I said quietly.

  "Basic illusion spell," Molly said briskly. "Lets people see what they expect to see."

  "Uncle John," I said with some emphasis. "And you knew the guard’s name. Are you a regular visitor here, by any chance?"

  "Spot on, Sherlock. I found out who Oddly John really was by accident, and I’ve been keeping it to myself ever since. I was hoping I could use him to dig up some useful dirt on your family. Some secret piece of insider knowledge I could use as a weapon."

  "And?"

  She looked at me briefly, her expression unreadable. "Wait till you meet him. You’ll understand then."

  Wide green lawns stretched away on either side of the path, cropped and cultivated to within an inch of their lives. Patients in dressing gowns, with wild hair and empty eyes, wandered listlessly back and forth, taking the air. A handful of bored-looking guards in hospital whites were enjoying a cigarette break by the ornamental fountain. Some of the patients muttered to themselves. Some just made noises. None of them looked like an ax murderer. And none of them even glanced at Molly and me, caught up in their own private worlds.

  As Molly and I drew closer to the big house, I realised that all the windows were barred, with heavy metal shutters ready to be swung into place. Swivelling exterior cameras watched us approach. The main door looked very solid and very shut. Molly leaned over the electronic combination lock set into the post by the door and pecked out four numbers.

  "You’d think they’d change the number once in a while," she said fussily. "Or at least come up with a decent combination. I mean, it’s been 4321 for as long as I’ve been coming here. Just so the staff won’t have any trouble remembering it in an emergency. Anybody could guess it! Or at least, anyone with the normal number of marbles. I’d write a stern letter to the hospital governors, but you never know. I might need to break in here some day. Or break out."

  The door swung open, revealing a pleasant open lobby. Nice carpeting, comfortable furnishings, plaques and commendations on the walls. The only off note was that the receptionist sat in her own little cubicle behind heavy reinforced glass. She was a middle-aged, matronly figure in the ubiquitous hospital whites, with an easy, welcoming smile. Molly smiled and nodded familiarly back, and the receptionist pushed a guestbook through a narrow slit in the glass for us to sign. After only a moment’s pause, I wrote Mr. & Mrs. Jones.

  "Oh, that’s nice," the receptionist said cheerfully. "Makes a change from all the Smiths we get coming here. Most people don’t care to use their real names, when they come visiting relations. Just in case someone finds out there’s a cannibal in the family. Though of course we’re always very careful about things like that. Good to see you back again, Molly. Most people don’t like to come to a place like this. We get all the bad ones here: the child killers, the serial rapists, the animal mutilators…All the patients no one else wants, or can’t cope with. We had the Dorset Ripper in here just the other week. No trouble at all; sweet as you like."

  "We’re here to see my uncle John," said Molly, cutting off a monologue that threatened to run and run. "John Stapleton?"

  "Of course you are, dear. Oddly John, we call him. He’s never a problem, bless him. Don’t know what he did to get sent to a place like this, before my time, but it must have been pretty bad, because there’s never any talk of transferring him to a less secure establishment, for all his good behaviour. Remember: always watch your back here, dears. Many of the patients in this place are the last faces a lot of people ever saw. Now, you make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll call for an attendant to escort you up to the top floor."

  Molly stretched out in a comfortable chair, but I didn’t feel like sitting. This was not a comfortable place, for all the trimmings. I looked through an open door into an adjoining parlour, where patients were just sitting around in dres
sing gowns. It wasn’t what I’d expected. No thrashing figures in straitjackets, no muscular guards hovering, ready to beat the crap out of anyone who misbehaved. Instead, just a collection of very ordinary-looking people, sitting in chairs, flicking through papers and magazines, or watching morning television shows. The only attendant nurse was sitting at the back, doing the Times crossword puzzle. Molly moved in beside me, and I jumped a little despite myself.

  "It’s all done with kindness, these days," she said quietly. "The chemical cosh. They’re all doped to the eyeballs, so they won’t cause any trouble or talk back. It’s a lot cheaper than restraints. Though you’ll notice there are surveillance cameras everywhere, just in case. The real hard cases are kept out of sight, so as not to upset the visitors."

  "That’s right," said our escort, appearing suddenly beside us. Another muscular man in hospital whites, this time with a shaved head and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He kept one hand on his belt, right next to the truncheon. He didn’t offer to shake hands. "Hi; I’m Tommy. Ask me about anything. I’ve been here, like, forever. It’s good money, with lots of vacation time, and the work’s not exactly demanding most of the time. Hardly any excitement, these days. The wonders of modern science; better living through chemistry." He looked though the door into the parlour and sniggered openly. "Look at them. You could set fire to their slippers, and they wouldn’t notice. Like your missus said, we keep the real animals downstairs, in the Bear Pit." He sniggered again, looking sideways at Molly. "We had to put your uncle John down there a few times, when he first came here. He didn’t give us any more trouble after that."

  "How is he?" said Molly. "Is my uncle having one of his good days?"