by Paul Cornell
She told herself that the mere fact that their enemy remained in hiding, that they had tried to get rid of the stump that might indicate the most vague details about their nature, that they had closed off the literal loose end of Arthur, spoke of them still being somehow vulnerable. But that might not be the case for much longer.
Autumn got as close as she could, feeling the horror from the house more acutely as she did so. She could imagine it: looking in on a child’s room to find it surprisingly empty, searching the house, at first bemused, then worried, then very quickly terrified. The impossibility of it would have hit them sideways. The height of that bedroom window off the ground. Everyday people shouldn’t have things like this happen to them.
There was no way anyone was going to let her go inside to look more closely. And she was pretty certain there would be nothing more to find. Autumn turned and felt new determination as she headed for the Vicarage. Judith might be gone, but she and Lizzie were going to fight this thing. Autumn was going to go right now and get her.
Thank goodness Lizzie was back to her normal self.
* * *
Lizzie huddled in the kitchen with the lights off, listening to Autumn trying the doorbell for the fifth time. The ghost boy sat beside her, looking at her imploringly as always. “Why did I let you in?” she whispered. It would have been so much easier if she hadn’t. Then she would be completely comfortable in what she was doing now. She could be comfortable. She was often comfortable. Except sometimes in the evenings, when she had nothing left to do and sleep still would not come. “They’d like me to get rid of you, but I can’t. That look on your face keeps making me doubt.”
The boy carefully reached up and climbed onto her to awkwardly sit on her lap, as if seeking any possible comfort.
“It’s supposed to be Christmas,” whispered Lizzie. “But now Christmas will never come.” Christmas to her had always meant a little light, the light of the stable in the darkness of the winter. It was the hope that never died, but now it was going to. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight, as the carol said. In the dark streets shineth . . . and now that light would be extinguished. There was a reason why people got depressed at Christmas, because it was the one point in the year where this flawed, selfish civilisation, rotten with money, still allowed itself to face infinite forgiveness, infinite compassion; people compared their situation to the parade of home and hearth and tinsel that had been draped over that fact and instead of finding hope they despaired.
Infinite forgiveness, infinite compassion, all gone. A surrender to despair.
All she had to do was get up and open the front door, and let Autumn in, like one day, so long ago it felt, she’d been brave enough to let this boy in. Come on, Lizzie, said a different voice, a voice like a father, somewhere. Come on. It’s not too much for you. There’s no such thing as too much for you.
She pushed down on her feet and rose slowly, her back against the cupboards. The ghost boy looked excitedly up at her, hope on his face for the first time.
She took a step across the kitchen, everything they’d put in her brain screaming at her now to stop. Oh, they must be afraid of Autumn. What she and Autumn could do together. A sudden crippling headache turned into physical pain, racking her back and chest. What these things couldn’t do, she told herself, putting one foot in front of the other, was kill her. They needed her. So she would walk herself forward into death if they pushed it that far. She wouldn’t give up before they did. She’d walk right into death and away from all this and she would beat them like that if she couldn’t do it now like this.
The ghost boy stepped with her, looking up eagerly at her, holding her hand.
She made it into the hallway, and realised blood was now running freely from her nose. It was like hangover on hangover was being thrown into her head. Her vision was distorting with the pain. She stumbled at the door, and as her lungs started to contort in some sort of shock, she managed to use the last of her breath to rip out the security chain and heave the door open.
“Autumn!” she cried out.
But there was nobody there. The pain had been roaring in her ears so much, she hadn’t noticed when the doorbell ringing had stopped. She stood there for a moment, having given her all, staring into the darkness that had no light in it. Beside her, she was aware of the ghost boy making huge horrified sobs. The pain suddenly fell from her like the punchline to a sick joke.
She collapsed beside the ghost and held him as the rain started to fall on them both.
* * *
Autumn couldn’t bring herself to stay up late watching the lovely old movies they put on the telly at this time of year. She had none of that Christmas Eve tomorrow feeling which she’d never quite lost from childhood. She was sure she wouldn’t feel right again, not until she’d found some way to discover what had happened to Judith, some way to find the lost child.
She fell on her bed, exhausted, intending to get just a quick nap before going back to her research, and was surprised when she woke to light and the sounds of morning. She lay there, wishing some insight had come to her, in her . . . actually, it kind of had. What had Judith said about the ghost child, that a doppelgänger could be an attempt to stop the thing it was warning against from happening? Either that or it was trying to make it happen. And it kept saying “no hurting,” as if it didn’t want to be hurt. Well, if harm coming to the real boy was what it was warning against, it didn’t seem like its presence was a self-fulfilling prophecy, given that it was haunting Lizzie. . . . Unless it was Lizzie who had kidnapped the real . . . no, of course she hadn’t! Though Autumn wished she knew where her friend had got to last night, because perhaps there was something still just a bit wrong going on there. So if the ghost boy was trying to help his real self, then why haunt Lizzie? No idea. And it wasn’t as if the boy himself could tell her . . . unless . . .
“Oh,” she said aloud. “Oh. How do you power up a ghost?”
* * *
Autumn ran into her laboratory, still in her dressing gown, and started grabbing ingredients. This, your basic passing on of power to something or someone, wasn’t difficult, this was the basics. This was what Lizzie would call a blessing. She would need, again, either the judo or the appeal to a higher power or the sacrifice, but, oh, this was going to be the tough bit, that little ghost was really lacking the ability to convey much of a message. He’d need a lot of support added to him, her own rather academic internal icons weren’t going to do it on their own, and this time she didn’t have the power of good old-fashioned blood to give the whole thing a bit of oomph.
She really needed a sacrifice. What could she put into this working that was important enough to her, that she would acutely feel the loss of?
Her phone rang. She saw who it was, and was surprised to the point of astonishment, but relieved to these days be able to answer calmly. Of course, if he were calling because he realised she’d stolen his blood, then she was just going to end the call. “Luke. Hi.”
“Hi.” He sounded like he was being really careful. Of course he was.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the other night—”
“I don’t actually remember much after you arrived.” Yes, thought Autumn, that would be the effect of those sleeping herbs. “I must confess, I did wonder if I dreamt all that. Am I right in thinking you . . . brought a vicar?”
“I brought my friend Lizzie.”
“What did we talk about? I remember you were trying to . . . explain?”
“You were kind enough to listen.”
“I remember you making sense. You sound like you’re doing okay again now.”
He meant with her mental health, Autumn realised. This guy thought she was ill, but was actually willing to engage with that. “I am. Sorry again.”
“I’m taking part in the search through the woods today. You know, the police are getting a lot of local people together to look for . . . well, nobody’s saying what they’re looking for, but we
all know—”
“You haven’t gone home?” He’d told her about getting back to his friends on their drunken night together, which now seemed like it had been centuries ago.
“No, I’ve been putting it off . . . because of you. Because I really liked that evening and I can deal with the . . . health issues, and . . . what I’m going to be doing today, it makes you think about what’s important, doesn’t it? Especially on Christmas Eve. So I was wondering if . . . maybe you’d like to meet up for a coffee, after, or after I get back in the New Year, and—?”
Autumn had closed her eyes. She so wanted this. She so wanted this to be the ending of her Christmas rom com. But he didn’t actually know what he was signing up for. Maybe the loneliness, the burden that Judith had borne, unspoken, was the sacrifice you made to protect something you cared about. Like this was going to be her sacrifice now. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re brilliant, but I can’t see you anymore.” She clicked off the phone and made the gesture of adding the sacrifice to the working, and as she started to brew the potion she added to it her tears.
* * *
After she was finished, Autumn stumbled to the door of the shop and swung it open, letting the clear air of a crisp winter morning in and the heat of the brewing process out. She stood there on the threshold, wiping her face on her sleeve. She could hear the church bells ringing for what must be . . . she checked her watch . . . Lizzie’s first service of the day would already be over, so that must be the wedding. She felt dizzy from having put so much of her own energy into the working. Stupid girl. What had she hoped to achieve, anyway?
She realised, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, that a small figure was standing on the pavement across the road. The ghost boy was looking at her like she was his last, desperate hope. “It’s okay,” she called, quickly. “It’s all going to be all right!” He stepped slowly across the road, ignoring the car that passed through him and caused Autumn to yell, and finally stopped in front of her. “Come in,” she said. “Please.”
* * *
Autumn didn’t have much experience with children, and this being a ghost child, she didn’t feel able to offer him a biscuit. She closed the shop door behind him and squatted down to his level. “What’s your name?”
“Sort of . . . Jamie.”
He was definitely able to communicate more easily. Probably better than the real child. “Do you know where Jamie . . . the real Jamie . . . is right now?”
“I’m in a big white car.”
Autumn’s mind raced. That was a useful detail, but she needed a lot more if she were going to somehow find a way to tell this to Shaun. “Can you see where you are?” The boy nodded. “What’s around you?”
“People in the car. People in suits. Flowers on suits.”
Flowers on suits? Like clowns?
“Men with flowers on suits. Big white dress.”
Autumn stood up. That sounded like . . . and a line of connections suddenly raced through her mind. The couple. The family. No hurting! Why had this boy haunted Lizzie? Lizzie had wanted to hurt her hands, stop herself doing “the thing” which had looked like . . . stabbing. “The wedding,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, dear God, it’s the wedding!”
* * *
Lizzie stood at the door of the church, welcoming all the shapes and shadows that burst and fluttered past her without a word. They would be unseen to the everyday people of Lychford, she was sure. What would happen if she didn’t welcome them into the church? Well, that was why she needed to welcome them. The doubts of the night were behind her. Thankfully, as she’d been getting ready, the ghost boy had vanished, too. Hopefully the real thing was being calmed about the matter of his fate. No, no, she wouldn’t listen to the part of her that was screaming. She had to dab at her nose every now and then to stop the blood, but that was only to be expected. The groom was already inside the church, of course, even bigger than before and standing at a strange angle, standing with his family, filling the place and changing the space, and preventing all the things this church would normally be. He’d shaken hands with her, and his hand had been so cold.
The happy couple had been so clever. The wedding had been so well arranged. Jamie would be brought in right at the last moment, she’d been told. Any people who thought for some reason to look in on the wedding would be discouraged by the presence of the ushers, and Derek of the hidden face, who was stalking the edges of the church, waiting for victims as a best man should. Hopefully he’d be back in place when it came time to hand over the rings. The organist, who was now playing clashing, impossible chords, had been brought in from elsewhere. The bell ringers—who were now causing the bells to leap in frenzy on their ropes—had been, too. None of her usual folk who might have seen what was happening were here. Everything had been thought of.
Ah. Here came the bride. Everyone else had gotten inside in time. Emma was getting out of a white limo at the bottom of the path and was progressing through the lych-gate, her white dress and train somehow . . . hissing as they made contact with the ground, and there was just the smallest trace of smoke rising into the air as the dress ignited the last few dead leaves with her passing. Behind her walked her maids of honour, now visible as many-faceted things, their eyes reflecting glory. In her hands, the bride carried, because she was impossibly strong, the struggling small figure of Jamie Dunning, who’d been dressed in a little suit of his own, with a buttonhole, even. The light in the eyes of the maids, Lizzie knew, would stop those who’d idly gathered to watch the bride go in from seeing the little captive, from seeing that anything was amiss.
Lizzie, her teeth grinding, bowed her head as the bride approached, and was delighted to hear her laughter and feel the warmth of her breath on her face. “Is he waiting?” she asked.
“He is waiting,” whispered Lizzie.
“Is the knife washed and prepared?”
Lizzie tried to make herself look down at Jamie, who’d started screaming, but she couldn’t. “The knife is washed and prepared.”
“And are you prepared to use it?”
Lizzie managed, just, to stop herself from replying, but her head, held in a vicelike grip of muscle control, was forced to nod.
* * *
Autumn had gotten dressed quickly and had gathered what little she could think of that might be useful for protection, with the ghost boy watching, desperately urging her on. Should she call Shaun? No, she should go to find him. He’d always known and accepted a little of what his mother had done. Maybe Autumn stood a chance of convincing him. If she couldn’t, then she was going to have to do this alone. Well, apart from the boy, and what could he contribute? As she locked the shop behind her and stepped out into the street, he followed her. “No hurting?” he asked plaintively.
“I hope not,” said Autumn. “But—” No, she didn’t want to say aloud that she had no idea what she could do to stop this.
* * *
Lizzie stood in front of the pulpit, the bride and groom kneeling in front of her, looking out at a bizarre congregation that filled the pews like a shifting sea of light. Sea was right, she thought; she could feel it beating against the barriers, eager to soon get in. When it did, they would all be lost among it. That, she told herself sternly, was a good thing. Jamie was being held by three . . . she had no idea what they were. He hadn’t stopped screaming. Derek and the father of the bride stood nearby, the latter flickering in anticipation. The two statues were in place, at odd positions inside the church, their shadows fixing everything where it had to be. Lizzie began reading the words that had been handed to her, the three poems that would prepare the shape of the changes brought by the sacrifice. It would all be over soon.
* * *
Autumn tried at the local police station, which had a small queue of volunteers at the door and a calm police officer at the desk, dealing with the public end of the operation. Shaun, she was told by those in the queue, would be out in the woods somewhere, with the search. Autumn considered for a mome
nt how long she had, and what help any everyday person might be, even if he brought the whole Gloucestershire constabulary with him. Then she decided. It was going to have to be just her and the boy.
She marched across the marketplace, past the Christmas tree with the brass band playing, and up the road that led to the church, as excited families with children went past her, heading out for last-minute shopping at shops that were lit up and decorated. The boy walked with her, looking nervous but urging her on. Whatever the consequences of what was going on in that church were meant to be, would this lot be aware of them either way?
She looked up at the tower of St. Martin’s as she approached and saw that the neon star now shone. . . . Her extra senses saw it was shining black, somehow, a glittering darkness that was pulsing, increasing, pushing against the sky. The shadows that flashed from it onto the churchyard made the frost hiss.
She walked up the path, aware that she was probably going to her death. Only the anger at what this lot had done to Judith, the knowledge that Lizzie was inside the building, let her keep going. Just a few days ago, her biggest worry had been that she was working her way through a list of rom-com clichés, but now . . . She increased her speed as she headed for the big wooden doors, ignoring what her senses were telling her about the sheer weight of a terrifying presence inside, and slammed them open to rush into the church. “Stop the wedding!” she yelled.
As everything in this . . . horrifyingly alien mass of things slowly turned to look at her, Autumn realised she might not have entirely escaped those rom-com clichés after all. But she had no time to think about that. There was Lizzie, and there was the real Jamie Dunning, both standing by the font, and Lizzie . . . had her arm raised and a knife in her hand, and she was holding Jamie with the other hand and he was screaming!
