Callow laughed, although he didn’t get the joke, but when he looked around the table he saw there was obviously some truth in what Church was saying. “What do you mean, old boy?”
“It’s the end of the world, right. That’s why we’re all sitting here drinking. For tomorrow we may die.”
“Don’t mind him,” Ruth said, who was nowhere near as inebriated as Church. “He talks rubbish when he’s drunk.”
“No, no, please tell me. I love a good tale,” Callow said. “I once met a man in a pub in Greenock who swore the fairies were real. He claimed he’d seen them one Midsummer’s Eve.”
Tom finished his drink. “It’s late. We better be on our way.” He added pointedly, “We’ve got an early start in the morning.”
“Oh? A little sightseeing?”
“We’re meeting a woman who’s going to tell us about it,” Church said. Tom helped him to his feet a little too roughly.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you a while. It’s a nice night,” Callow said. He sidled up next to Church. “So tell me all about it, old boy.”
The evening was surprisingly mild. As they walked, Church poured out everything he knew, not caring if Callow believed him or not, while Ruth chipped in wry comments every now and then. Tom trailed behind, cautiously watching the shadows off the main road.
“Why, it seems to me that this could be a time of great opportunity for people like us,” Callow said in a tone which suggested he didn’t entirely believe them, but was going along with the joke anyway. “Forward thinkers and dazzling iconoclasts who have shaken off the shackles of a society which only wants to keep us locked away! We are free to adapt while the sheep mutate into lemmings and rush towards the cliff! Magic-now there is a great leveller. Power on tap for all! Raising the lowly up to the level of the great and good!” He paused thoughtfully. “If one doesn’t get eaten first, of course.”
Church and Ruth both laughed at this, the first time they had found humour in anything for too long, and, coupled with the act of unburdening, it provided a greater release than they could have imagined.
“Where are you staying?” Ruth asked Callow. Unselfconsciously, she slipped her arm through Church’s and leaned against him.
“Here and there,” the stranger replied. “A different night, a different billet. But enough of that. Look at the sky! Look at the stars! What a world we live in, eh? We are all in the gutter, but not enough of us look at the stars, to paraphrase Wilde. And where are you staying, my dear?” Ruth told him and he smiled broadly. “A fine establishment. I could tell you appreciated quality and I am rarely wrong when it comes to character. Let’s be off, then!”
“Be off where?” Church asked.
“Surely you’re not going to abandon me now?” the stranger asked with a hurt expression. “On such a fine night, and with it being so early and all. We still have stories to tell, experiences to share! The end of the world is nigh! We must make the most of what we have left. There must be a bar in your hotel that serves libations after hours to guests?”
“No-” Church began to protest.
“Go on,” Ruth laughed. “Let him get another drink. We don’t have to stay up.”
Callow took her hand and kissed it. “You are a lifesaver, my dear, and I am eternally in your debt!”
In the bar, Ruth set Callow up with a pint of cider and a whisky. He wrung her hand, praised her to the roof and tried to entreat all three of them to stay with him drinking.
Finally retreating to a table in the corner, he called out jovially, “Remember the words of T. S. Eliot, fellow travellers: `We shall not cease from exploration, And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.’ Philosophy does not come easily at this time of the night and that, unfortunately, is the best I can do.”
They left him there, attacking his drinks with a gusto that suggested not a drop had passed his lips all night.
“I shouldn’t have got drunk,” Church groaned. He was slumped in a chair in a corner. “Bloody stupid!”
“We did it to forget. Don’t criticise yourself for being human.” Ruth sprawled on the bed against the plumped-up pillows, her eyes closed, while Tom leaned against the wall near the window, occasionally peeking out behind the curtains. “You know, I’m not a wilting flower. I don’t have to have the bed just because I’m a woman,” she continued. They had chosen Church’s room to spend the night; it was slightly bigger and it had a better view of the street.
“Indulge us.” Tom nodded towards Church. “I wouldn’t want him to have the bed if I have to sleep on the floor, and I’m sure he would feel the same about me. You’re the compromise candidate.”
“In that case, you won’t catch me arguing.” Ruth’s laugh faded quickly. “Do you think we’re going to be safe?”
“We can hope.” Tom glanced outside again. “No sign of anything yet.”
“Do you think they’ll keep sending bigger and bigger things after us until they get us?”
“The Wild Hunt is coming,” he replied darkly. “There is nothing after that.”
“Yeah, but we’ll be safe tonight,” Church mumbled. He crawled on to the mat at the side of the bed, threw his coat over him and was asleep within seconds.
When he awoke in the deep still of the night, Church at first wondered if Marianne had come to him again. His head was thick with the alcohol, but he soon realised he had been disturbed by a strange grating noise, faint yet insistent. It seemed to be coming from the window. And it sounded like fingernails on glass.
“What’s that?” he hissed to himself.
“Be still.” Church started at Tom’s strained whisper; Church hadn’t noticed Tom was awake, but he was sitting up, staring at the drawn curtains. “The Baobhan Sith are here.”
“But we’re on the first floor.”
Suddenly Church was filled with an overwhelming desire to see what was on the other side of the thick drapes; the fingernails scraped gently, chinking on the glass, calling to whoever was inside. He began to crawl towards the window. He could just peek through the gap, get some final proof that he’d left one world behind and entered another one which had no rules he could grasp. And what would he see? he wondered. What would he feel finally looking into the face of the unknown? He reached out to peel the curtains aside.
Tom’s arm crashed on to his shoulder and thrust him to the floor, his nails biting almost to the bone. Tom’s breath was hot in his ear. “Don’t,” he hissed, “if you want to live a second longer.”
There was a pause in the scratching, as if whatever was outside had heard them. Tom and Church froze, their breath hard in their chests. Church halfexpected the glass suddenly to burst inward, but then the scratching resumed and they both exhaled slowly and painfully. Tom gripped Church’s upper arm relentlessly and dragged him back to the other side of the bed.
“They only know we’re somewhere in the vicinity, but they can’t pinpoint us, or they would have had us in our sleep,” Tom whispered. “The scratching is to draw the occupant of the room. If you had pulled back the curtains, you wouldn’t have seen anything, but they would have seen you.”
“Sorry,” Church said, “I don’t know what came over me.”
A noise in the corridor outside made them both catch their breath again. Tom’s face was pale in the dark, his cold eyes fearful. “I think they’re coming in,” he said.
Before Church could speak, he had leapt across the room and was kneeling next to the bed where Ruth was still sleeping soundly. He roused her gently, then clasped a hand across her mouth before she could speak; her eyes grew wide and frightened, but Tom silenced her with a finger to his lips.
He summoned Church to his side, then said, “Hide under the sheets with Ruth. I’ll get into the wardrobe. When they come into the room, don’t make a sound. Don’t move a muscle.”
“But they’ll see us under the covers,” Church protested.
“If they don’t see you
move or hear you they won’t investigate further. They have little intellect. They simply respond,” Tom said. “Trust me. Now, quickly.”
He held up the sheets so Church could wriggle down next to Ruth, then pulled them over their heads. It was hot and stifling, emphasising the swirl of alcohol in Church’s head and the steadily increasing rumble of his heart; for the first time in his life, he had a sudden twist of claustrophobia. The wardrobe door clicked and then there was silence. In the dark he couldn’t see Ruth’s face, but he could feel the bloom of her breath. Her fingers found his hand and gave it a confident squeeze.
They didn’t have to wait long. A dim clunk echoed hollowly; the tumblers of the lock turning although Church had sealed it on the inside. The faint creak of the hinges as the door swung open. A soft tread on the carpet, deceptively light as if it was a child, moving to the foot of the bed.
Church held his breath; Ruth’s stopped too. Her fingers around his hand were rigid. Together they listened. It seemed the intruder was watching the heap of covers on the bed for any movement, listening for a barely audible rustle. Suddenly every nerve on Church’s body came alive. A tic was developing in his calf, a spasm in his forearm; he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. Somehow Ruth seemed to sense his discomfort for her fingernails started to bite into the soft flesh at the base of his thumb, drawing his attention to the pain.
After what seemed like a lifetime, they heard movement again. The quiet tread progressed around the bed to the head and with his blood ringing in his ears, Church waited for the sheets to be snatched back. Instead, the tread continued to the wardrobe door, where it waited again, then to the window and finally back to the door. Even when they’d heard the click of the door closing, they remained in hiding for five more minutes, not daring to move.
Finally they heard the wardrobe door open tentatively and Tom stepped out. “Gone,” he whispered.
Church threw back the covers and sucked in a breath of cool air. Ruth rolled over and gave him a hug in relief and he was surprised at how comforting it felt; he responded, and she nestled her head into the crook of his neck briefly before getting up.
“Will they be back?” she said.
“I doubt it. They’ll continue to search the area until dawn, but we should be out of here before sunset tomorrow.” Tom stretched and cracked his knuckles.
Despite Tom’s earlier warning, Church couldn’t resist peeking behind the curtains. All along the street shadows flitted in and out of doorways or shimmered in the streetlights like ghosts. It wasn’t as if they were insubstantial; Church had the feeling they simply didn’t want to be seen. And high over the rooftops there were others, floating like leaves caught in the wind. It was an alien infestation that made him shudder and he returned to the others dreading what the forthcoming days would bring.
They slept fitfully, but awoke with a sense of purpose driven as much by what was at their backs as what lay ahead. They made the most of a heavy breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs and tea, not knowing when the next meal would be, and then went to check out. Church carried out the formalities and got the credit card slip for Ruth to sign, while Ruth and Tom watched the street outside, but when he came back over to them there was anger in his face.
“What’s wrong?” Ruth asked.
He waved the bill at them. “That sneaky bastard from the pub stiffed us! It looks like he was drinking till sun-up, plus food from the kitchen, and he signed it all on to our bill! I knew he was a conman the moment I laid eyes on him!”
“He was quite sweet in his own way.” Ruth laughed. “He stopped us wallowing in our misery so we owe him something for that.”
“Fifty quid! That’s Harley Street rates!” He screwed up the bill angrily. “If I see him again I’m going to take this out of his hide.”
At first there was a shock of colour glimpsed through the throng; white-blonde hair, short at the sides, spiky on top, expensively cut to look like a mess. Then there were the sunglasses, round, hi-tech and, again, expensive, on a morning when the sun was as pallid as a watercolour; the clothes, shabby, long overcoat, jeans and engineer boots, designed to look hard and uncompromising; the portable computer tucked under her arm; and finally the air of confidence that seemed, at least to Ruth, to border on arrogance. They knew it was Laura DuSantiago long before she spoke. She looked as out of place in the crowd of shoppers and business people as if she had beamed down from another planet.
“You brought the posse,” she said to Church after they’d exchanged introductions.
“They’re both trustworthy. Within reason.”
“They better be. I don’t want my insanity made public. I have enough trouble getting a loan as it is. So, you fancy something hot, wet and sweet?” The sunglasses prevented Church reading her eyes to tell how he should take the innuendo so he simply nodded. “Yeah, I bet you do. Face it, tiger, you just hit the jackpot.”
She led them down a side street off the main drag to a cafe called Mr. C’s Brasserie that was quiet enough to talk and not too empty to be overheard. They took a seat in the window and once the espressos and cappuccinos had arrived, Laura plugged her computer into a mobile phone and logged on to the net. The forteana newsgroup was so jammed with postings it seemed to take forever to load.
“It’s getting worse,” she said. “All over the country, an epidemic of bozoness. Claims of alien abductions, hauntings, UFOs, sightings of the Loch Ness Monster, even fairies, for God’s sake. Now don’t get me wrong, not so long ago I wouldn’t have acknowledged these geeks if they’d painted themselves red and were doing naked handstands in Cross Keys Shopping Centre. Anybody who believed in the supernatural was dead between the ears. But we’re talking smoke and fire here, if you know what I mean.”
“You said something happened to you.” Church had to restrain himself not to ask her about Marianne.
“I’m getting to that. Slowly. Because I don’t want to talk about it, but I do.” Her confidence seemed to waver for a moment. “Listen to me. I sound like I’ve got Alzheimer’s.”
“If it makes you feel better, we’ve seen things too-” Ruth began.
“Does one crazy make another seem better? Look, I’m doing this because somebody has to, because there’s something important going down, but all I see is dull sheep going about their lives either blind to it or pretending things are just how they were. And I’m doing it for me. To make sense of my experience before it eats its way out of my head.” She sipped her espresso, watching Church over the top of her sunglasses with eyes that were cold and unreadable. “So, you ready to get screwed in the head?”
He met her eyes without flinching. “Tell us what you know.”
“It happened back here in Salisbury, the city that made me into the woman I am today. I was staying with friends for the weekend and we went out to a party on the Saturday night. Talk about dull. I thought I’d gone into the Incontinence Home for the Elderly. But I made sure I enjoyed myself, even if they didn’t know how to, and the next morning I needed to chill out so I took a walk. Ended up on this industrial estate. Right in the middle there’s a depot for something or other-cogs or shit, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s pretty rundown, grass pushing up through the tarmac, the odd broken window, you know what I mean. I was standing outside looking at it thinking it would be a good place to hold a party when I heard … I mean, I thought I heard … it could have been the wind … I heard my name. Now I don’t want you thinking I’m the kind of person who always follows imaginary voices, but I thought I ought to check it out. I’ve seen enough slasher flicks to be on my guard in that kind of situation, but, you know, it bothered me. I had to see.”
She looked from one face to the other as if searching for validation, but not wanting them to think she needed it.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Church said. “We’ve been through the same thing-trying to deal with something your head tells you can’t be true, but your heart tells you is.”
“Sorry? Do you t
hink I’m interested? Quiet, bud, this is my story.” Her attitude was antagonistic, but there was something, a flicker of a facial muscle, perhaps, that told Church his words had given her some comfort. “So, I went through the wire and had a look around. It was deserted, Sunday morning, but I still thought there might be some social inadequate with a uniform and a dog so I moved out of the open sharpish. Then I heard it again. Laura. Definitely, Laura. It seemed to be coming from this route between two buildings where lots of yellow oil drums had been stacked. By that time even I was thinking I was crazy-there could have been any psycho down there-but it was like I was being pulled in by something. I picked my way through the drums, and then … Can I get another coffee?”
Church could tell she’d done it for effect. Even though her face remained impassive, she seemed pleased at the grumble she’d elicited from Tom; Church could see Ruth wasn’t wholly warming to her either, but there was something in her obviously faux obnoxiousness that he quite liked. Tom ordered her another espresso which she took without thanks, and then she continued.
“I walked past the last heap of oil drums and it was like the air opened up in front of me.” She fumbled for the right words. “Like the depot and everything around was some kind of stage scenery and somebody had peeled it back to show what really lay behind. I tried to back off, until I realised it was coming towards me quicker than I could move. And then it swallowed me up.”
Ruth looked at her incredulously. “It was alive?”
“No, it was like some Star Trek effect-with no Scotty to pull me out at the last minute. There was this weird, spangly shit like I was having beads of oil sprayed on me, and then it was like I was tripping. I’m not going to start to describe the sensations-I don’t want to sound like some burnt out acid case.” She nodded to Tom. “No offence, space cadet. And then I saw things, heard things-“
“What kind of things?” Church interjected.
“Images. Sounds. It was a trip. And a half.”
World's End Page 13
