by A. Sparrow
As for me, who knows how I looked. I avoided mirrors as much as I could. But I was ashamed to feel so refreshed, and guilty for not feeling as distraught over Sturgie’s death. He had been much closer to Karla, the only friend she had outside the church in the real world when she still lived with her dad. To me, he wasn’t much more than a passing acquaintance though I had heard so much about him from Jessica and Helen. How he had basically grown up on the goat farm with Renfrew, spending every summer vacation with his uncle from the time he was seven.
I also felt bad for not having the same level of emotional investment in the search for Isobel. But I had confidence in a more positive explanation for her disappearance than the worst case scenarios that haunted Karla. Isobel was a capable girl. In some ways she was even more robust and resilient than Karla. Given what she was up against, maybe she was simply savvy enough to be lying low. She was aware of the forces about this world who wanted to do her harm.
When we checked out of the hotel, I paid the bill with that bottomless black credit card. We planned to hop yet another train that morning to follow Sturgie’s remains back down to Wales, which were apparently traveling by lorry. His dad was already in Inverness making the arrangements.
Karla perked up a bit as we walked to the station. I was glad to hear her singing under her breath and she rewarded my little quips and jibes with a few smiles. Those right there—those smiles—they were little slices of heaven to me. For such moments … in such moments … I lived.
Once we got onboard and found our seats, Karla zonked out with her head slumped over in my lap, snoring most of the way to Manchester. I kept as still as I could to not wake her up. A full bladder and pins and needles in my leg were well worth the price of having her get some rest.
She woke from her nap in time to have some tea before we changed trains in Manchester. Nasty place, that Manchester, or at least the parts I could see from the train. Its music scene was legendary, nothing I saw from the window made me want to spend any time there.
When we exited onto the platform, I made my usual scan of the station. It was mid-day and the place was crowded. I saw nothing unusual but a watchful man wearing glasses stood by the entry into the ticketing area, rocking back and forth on his feet.
I was prepared to ignore him. He seemed innocuous enough. Far from the model of the lone watchers I had erected in my head. This guy looked like he could be a tax accountant. His sandy brown hair was neat, flat and conventional. He wore a white shirt, buttoned up all the way, under a pastel blue cardigan. His watch was one of those Casios with the built in calculator.
His eyes went straight to mine as we approached. Nobody does eye contact like that in the UK, not with strangers.
“Mr. Moody? A word with you, please? I will only need a minute.”
I stopped in my tracks. Karla curled her hands into fists and went into a fighting stance. A knot of people clogged the exit from the platform. There was nowhere to run but back out to the tracks.
“How do you know me?”
“My name is Edward Price. I’m with the Friends of Penult. Can we head to that refreshment stand for a little chat? I’ll buy you both a smoothie.”
“No thank you,” Karla blurted.
“Please. I won’t delay you. This will only take a minute.”
I put my hand on Karla’s shoulder. “Let’s go see what he wants.”
We followed him over to a sticky café table and pulled up some plastic chairs.
“Are you sure I can’t interest you both in a smoothie?”
“Positive,” said Karla.
“Well, I know you have a train to catch. But I just wanted to re-iterate some instructions my colleague Miss Davolo may have passed onto you.”
“Belinda?”
“Yes. I believe she met with you in Rome.”
Karla squinted at the man, “You are … angels?”
The man blushed. “Oh no. Nothing of the sort. Not yet, anyhow. I am with the Friends of Penult. We are a group blessed … some would say cursed ... by visions of the afterlife and sometimes even visitations … from beyond the grave. We help those who have passed keep order among the living. Keep the lines between our worlds from getting too blurry. Last chance for a smoothie. How about it? Some iced tea perhaps? The minted mango is quite lovely.”
“No thank you,” Karla said again, before I could get out a word.
“Well, anyhow. I just wanted to re-emphasize to you the importance of refraining from all with these rogue agents of what they call Frelsi in what is sometimes called … the Liminality. I believe you might possess a certain black credit card, do you not?”
“But … Belinda said we could use it.”
“She also asked you have absolutely no contact with the Frelsians. But apparently, you met with gentleman named Mr. Wendell Frank in the Dolomites, and more recently a Ms. Sophie Cryer in London.”
“Listen. They came to us. If it was up to me I would have nothing at all to do with them.”
“I understand. But the fact remains that you had several meetings with agents of Frelsi since speaking with Ms. Davolo. Now, I’m not saying you did anything wrong. But I would like to rectify a small error on our part. I suspect that Belinda should not have let you keep that card. That seems to be their primary means of tracking you, and not just through your purchases.”
“The thing is … I’m getting kind of low on cash.”
“No worries.” He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and slapped it on the table.
“Inside, you will find a replacement. But unlike theirs, this one is untraceable, either by electronic or … spiritual … means.”
I peeked inside the envelope. It indeed contained another credit card, or at least something shaped like one. It bore a set of fourteen embossed numbers on an off-white sliver that could have carved from ivory or bone.
“Spiritual?”
“We will see your transactions of course, just like any other card. But this one will make you much less visible to the Frelsians. Please. The card you currently hold … the black one … may I have it?”
I held up the white card. “Will this work in ATMs?”
“Of course. It’s just like the other card, only this one has no eyes and ears, I assure you. We have no need to monitor your every breath. We just want to keep dibs on your location. An ordinary card serves just fine.”
“What do you mean, eyes and ears?”
“Please now, can I have the black card?”
The black card was tucked away in a ‘secret’ inner compartment. I unzipped it, and pulled it out.
He took the card from me, pulled an old brass cigarette lighter from his pocket and with a flick of his thumb, set it aflame.
“What are you doing!” I went to slap out the flames, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t touch it! Let it burn!”
The card splintered and folded itself into a spider that scurried into a half-empty glass of water, extinguishing the flames. The man upended the glass over the spider. It scratched at the glass, struggling to escape.
“You see? It’s an avatar, one belonging to the Frelsian head agent, no doubt. I guarantee that the card we have given you is just a card. The Powers-that-be frown on fragmentation of the soul.”
“What are you? You work for the Seraphim?” said Karla.
“The Seraphim are mere servants … just like me.”
“Who do you … serve?”
“Well, proximally we have the Lords of Penult, but even they serve at the pleasure of the Powers-that-be. And as for the Powers? I suppose they are subjects of the Supreme Being, though who that might be and what form he or she might take is beyond my pay grade to speculate. And frankly, it matters not. I have my role.”
“Are you talking about God?”
“Perhaps.”
“What is your religion?” said Karla.
The man sighed. “I have none. Nothing nameable at least. We Friends have gone beyond the idea of faith. There w
ill always be mysteries in the universe, but some things are clear, like the existence of the after realms.”
He took the glass, inverted it and smashed it down on the bug. It shattered, and each fragment crumbled into a smear of oily soot that the man wiped away with a napkin.
“Belinda should have known better. There was a time one of their credit cards was just that—a credit card. But Mr. Frank is craftier these days.” He gathered his portfolio. “Yes, well, you have a train to catch don’t you? This completes my task. Just as a reminder. You’ve done very well so far. We are all quite pleased, but please, continue to stay out of the after realms. And … don’t talk to strangers.”
“But … what if we have no choice?” said Karla. “What if the roots, they come for us?”
The man tilted his head and peered over his bifocals.
“Frankly, if the Liminality comes to claim you, there is nothing to be done. Such are the vicissitudes of life. Stay below ground. Let the Reapers claim you … or not … as fate would have it. But the surface is no place for an unfinished soul. It is not your place. The surface belongs to Penult. Understood?”
Karla and I just stared back at him blankly.
“Well then. That is all I have to say for now. Have a good day … and a good life … if I don’t see you again.” He slid his chair back, rose and strode briskly away through the crowd, without as much as a second glance at us.
“From now on we pay cash for everything,” said Karla.
“We don’t have much left.”
“We just need to stay at cheaper hotels.”
“Karla. Even then … there’s not enough. Not if we want to eat, too.”
She set her chin. Her eyes flitted back and forth.
“Just this once. Go ahead. Use that ATM. But this is the last time. This man already knows we are here. But after this, we become invisible. Understand? Cash only.”
Chapter 10: Brynmawr
Problem was, the daily withdrawal limit on my new ivory card was only five hundred pounds. That was more than the average credit card allowed, but it was still a leash. Even if we booked ordinary hotels and ate on the cheap, we would have to withdraw some cash every few days, more often if we traveled. These Penult folks knew how to keep tabs on us, even without avatars.
“Destroy it now,” said Karla.
“What if we need it … like in an emergency or something?”
“What if it is watching us, listening, just like the other one?”
“He said it wasn’t.”
“And you believe him?”
“How about we hang onto it … just a little longer?”
Karla was not pleased. “Then put it away. Keep it zipped. Understood? After the funeral, once we decide where we go next, you burn it. Understood? Any fool can figure out we are going to Brynmawr this weekend.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
What can I say? I was the addicted to the cash flow. Understandable, I guess, once you’ve been homeless for a while like I was after mom died. I just wasn’t quite ready to start worrying about money again. I suppose I could always get a job like normal people.
“Do you think they’ll let us stay with them on the farm? Maybe we should call ahead?”
“Are you kidding?” Karla’s eyebrows collided in the center of her brow. “Renfrew thinks of you like you are his own son. Of course, he will be happy to have us.”
I had thought a lot about those guys while I was in prison, more nights than not. Thoughts of my life on their farm often provided the calm, soothing kernel of the daydream I used to help me fall asleep. It worked like a charm, driving worries and fears like so many harried foxes into the corners of my brain where they could do no harm.
We took a train five hours south to Ebbw Vale Parkway. It was still overcast as we headed out of the station into the car park, which was fine with me. I liked clouds when they weren’t spitting rain.
“Why don’t we take a cab?” I said.
“No taxi. We walk. Remember? From now on, we must save money.”
I didn’t argue, though, in retrospect maybe I should have. It didn’t look that far on the map. Down one valley, into Brynmawr town, and then up another to the farm. But it took us a good hour to walk to town and another half hour or so to reach the lower gate of Cwm Gyrdd farm.
Across the main road, a bunch of goats with Cwm Gyrdd ear tags stood munching alfalfa in someone else’s pasture.
“Damned fences must be broken again,” I said.
“Look,” said Karla, pointing at the entrance to the farm. The bottom gate was torn off its hinges, as if a large truck had plowed through in haste.
Her eyes sought an explanation, but I could only shrug. Without a word, we took off running up the driveway. As we rounded the mound of slag that stood between us and the first outbuildings, we stopped in our tracks all flushed and gasping.
There were no outbuildings any longer, just heaps of ash and charred timbers. Apart from one small storage shed that Renfrew had used to keep odd bits of hardware and lumber, every structure on the farm had burned to the ground. Karla squeezed my arm and buried her face in my chest.
The fire was recent. The embers no longer smoldered, but the ashes were still warm. Two guys with rakes combed through the debris while a supervisor watched from the cab of a lorry bearing the logo of the South Wales Fire and Rescue Service.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
“Friends of Mr. Boyle, are you?” said the man in the lorry, cocking an eyebrow.
“Is he … is everybody okay?”
“Nobody’s died … yet. But Mr. Boyle and one of the ladies hospitalized for smoke inhalation.”
“Who? Miss Helen?”
“No. It was the younger gal. Jessica, I believe. They’re still in the hospital, if you care like to visit.”
“Jesus Christ. How did it happen?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. You two wouldn’t know of anyone who might have bear a grudge against Mr. Boyle?”
“Heck no,” I said. “I mean. He can be a crotchety old dude. But he makes friends with everybody. People seem to like him.”
The detective lowered his voice. “To be frank, we’re a little bit stumped right now about all this. This doesn’t look like arson. We’ve found no trace of accelerants. Everything’s in order with the electrical. It’s not a kitchen accident. And it can’t be lightning. We’ve had no thunder, just a gentle rain. So what else is left? Spontaneous combustion?”
We stood there, Karla in my arms and stared at him, while he eyed us like we were a pair of prime suspects returning to the scene of the crime.
“So how long have you two been in town?” said the man, who I assumed was an arson investigator.
“We just arrived this afternoon by train … from Inverness. We came down for the funeral.”
“Ah, of course. My condolences. Mates of Sturgie are you … were you?”
“Yeah. Well, Karla especially. I just … I used to work on the farm.”
“Work? Wait a minute. You wouldn’t happen to be that American lad who was deported, are you?”
A stab of dread lanced through my heart.
“Me. Nah. I’m … I’m … uh … Canadian.”
“What’s your name?”
“David,” I said, but I couldn’t remember what my new last name was supposed to be.
I turned and walked away briskly before he could ask me any more questions. Karla caught up with me and we made our in silence way down the dirt track and through the ruined gate. A goat ran up to us and bleated, as if it were pleading for some human to turn things back the way they were.
***
At the hospital we learned that Jessica had already been released and was staying with friends in town. We found Helen sitting up with Renfrew. The old man had tubes stuck up his nostrils and taped to his beard.
“Can you believe these people? They wanted to shave off all my whiskers.” Ren’s voice was hoarse and weak.
; “Good thing we talked them out of it,” said Helen. “They would have ruined a good pair of scissors.”
“Oh, come Helen. It’s not that bad.”
“You guys are gonna rebuild the farm, right?” I said.
“With what?” said Helen. She glowered at Ren. “I tried to warn him at the time, but Ren bought junk insurance. The bare minimum. Maybe we could rebuild an outbuilding or two. But the main house, the cottage and the cheese house. They’re all gone for good.”
My stomach sank at the thought of the farm being gone forever. I wondered how much money I could extract from that new ivory card if I withdrew the max every day.
“Ach, it was time I bloody retired anyhow,” said Ren. “It’s not like Sturgie was ever going to take over the place.” Ren’s eyes lost their focus. “Even if … even if he had lived. The boy didn’t want nothing to do with the place.”
“That’s not entirely true, Ren,” said Helen. “He was warming up to the idea of late. He even switched his major … to business.”
“Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. What’s done is done and that’s that.”
“With a little help from us, Jess could easily run the farm,” said Helen. “Maybe she’s not family, but—”
“There is … no farm!” said Ren, his words punctuated by fits of coughing. “My business is gone. I no longer have a nephew. And that’s that. We all just have to move on. That is all there is to say about the matter.” Helen handed him a glass of water and he sipped from a straw until his eruptions calmed.
“It’s a damned shame,” said Ren, his voice as raspy as a rip saw. “The boy should have never left for the north. He should have—”
“…never made friends with me,” said Karla. “I am to blame. I am the one who involved him in this wickedness.”
“No, Karla,” said Helen. “Don’t be silly. This has nothing to do with you. How could it? These things happen. It was an accident.”
“Was it really?” said Karla.
“What are you saying?” I whispered.
