Faerie Wars

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘Of course I have an objection to stealing – breaking and entering and stealing. Of course I do. I’m not going to do it.’

  Pyrgus said, ‘Look, Henry, would you at least be prepared to show me where your school is? I’ll go in and get the things we need.’

  Henry glared at him. ‘You can’t just go around stealing things!’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ Pyrgus said. ‘I don’t like it, but somebody tried to kill me and I think my father may be in trouble and there’s a factory drowning kittens in glue, and if it means stealing a few things to put a stop to all that, I’ll do it. Especially if Mr Fogarty can arrange to put them back.’

  Henry’s mouth opened and shut a few times, but nothing came out. Fogarty said, ‘Won’t work, Pyrgus.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re looking for.’

  Pyrgus frowned. ‘You can give me a list.’

  ‘Sure I can,’ Fogarty said. ‘But it won’t mean anything to you. Do you even know what a transistor looks like?’

  After a moment Pyrgus said, ‘You could draw it for me.’

  ‘I’m not that good at drawing. Besides, we need a lot of parts. I can give Henry a list. Henry goes to the school. Henry gets taught in the lab. Henry knows where everything is and what it looks like. It has to be Henry.’

  Pyrgus looked pleadingly at Henry. ‘Would you at least come along with me and point things out, Henry? I’ll do the actual stealing. And if we get caught, I’ll say I forced you to help.’

  Henry sighed. ‘All right – I’ll do it. I’ll get you what you need. Make out a list.’

  ‘That’s the ticket!’ Fogarty said enthusiastically.

  ‘You don’t have to come, Pyrgus,’ Henry said. ‘No sense in both of us getting caught.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Pyrgus told him firmly.

  Henry turned to Mr Fogarty. ‘When do you want me to do this?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Mr Fogarty said promptly. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday – there won’t be anybody about.’

  Tomorrow was still Sunday, but as Henry lay on his bed in a haze of frustration, he couldn’t see how he was going to do it. The plan had been to meet up with Mr Fogarty early in the morning to pick up Pyrgus and the list. Then he and Pyrgus were to head for the school, break in if the coast was clear, and bring the necessary components back to Fogarty like two characters out of Oliver Twist. The three of them would spend the rest of Sunday constructing Fogarty’s weird machine. The cover story was simple: Mr Fogarty wanted Henry to work an extra day.

  Except now the cover story wouldn’t work. Henry was forbidden to see Mr Fogarty.

  Worse still, there was a family picnic planned for tomorrow. His mum was having an affair. His dad was going out of his mind with worry. His sister was in love with a horse. So the thing to do was have a family picnic, pretend everything was normal, thank you very much. Henry closed his eyes. With the picnic thing, he couldn’t just sneak away to Mr Fogarty and hope his parents never found out. He was expected to fight flies off his food with the rest of them. He’d more than half decided the picnic was just a way of keeping an eye on him.

  But what to do about it?

  After a while, he got up and took off his trainers, then walked to the door of his room and listened. The house was quiet. He’d heard his parents go to their separate rooms more than an hour ago, so with a bit of luck they might be asleep. But even if not, they weren’t likely to come down again. He’d heard Aisling come home earlier – she was a door slammer – and assumed she’d be in bed by now as well.

  Henry opened the door. The landing was dark except for the glow of a little low-wattage light plugged into a wall socket so people could go to the bathroom in the night without falling downstairs. In his stockinged feet, he crept across the landing and looked over the balustrade. The lights were off downstairs too, but he could still see well enough thanks to the moonlight streaming through the curtains. He glanced around. There was a sliver of light under the door of the spare room. His father was probably reading, but once he went to bed, he never got up again before morning. The lights seemed to be out in his mother’s room and Aisling’s room. Henry tiptoed down the stairs.

  There was a phone in the living room and an extension in the kitchen. He picked the living room because it was that much further away from the stairs. He had two numbers for Mr Fogarty – his house phone and his mobile. You never rang the house phone during the day because Mr Fogarty refused to answer it, but Henry didn’t think he’d leave his mobile switched on late at night so he dialled the house phone anyway. On the fifth ring, he heard Fogarty’s rough voice.

  ‘Mr Fogarty – ’ Henry said quietly, then realised he was listening to an answerphone.

  ‘... in South America,’ said the answerphone message. ‘Don’t leave a message because I won’t be back this year.’ There was a click and Henry was listening to empty space.

  He hung up, then dialled Mr Fogarty’s mobile, praying he hadn’t switched it off. There was a pause, then a ringing tone. Henry waited nervously. If Fogarty didn’t answer, the call would be re-routed to his answering service, but he wouldn’t check that before tomorrow, which would be too late.

  ‘This better be good,’ Fogarty’s voice growled. ‘I’m in bed.’

  Henry glanced over his shoulder. There were still no sounds in the house. ‘It’s me, Mr Fogarty,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry to get you out of bed, but –’

  ‘Who the hell is that? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘It’s Henry,’ Henry said, raising his voice only a fraction, but trying to enunciate very clearly.

  ‘Well, which is it – CIA or FBI? Don’t you know what time it is over here?’

  ‘It’s Henry,’ Henry said again in something closer to his conversational voice.

  ‘Henry? That you, Henry?’ Fogarty asked. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘My mum and dad won’t let me work for you any more. That means I –’

  ‘I can’t hear you, Henry. You’re whispering. Can’t stand people who whisper. Most of them are sly.’

  Hell with it, Henry thought. ‘My mum and dad won’t let me work for you any more, Mr Fogarty,’ he said loudly enough to be sure Fogarty would hear him.

  ‘Been expecting that,’ Fogarty grunted.

  Henry wondered why, but only said, ‘You know the job tomorrow? The one Pyrgus and I have to do together?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fogarty said quickly.

  ‘I thought if we went early – very early in the morning, yes? If we did that, I might get back here before anybody wakes up. So they wouldn’t know. You and Pyrgus will have to work on the machine without me.’

  ‘Yes, that’s OK.’

  ‘Thing is,’ Henry said, ‘I’d need to be back here by eight. Get to you and then on to the sc – to where we’ll be working, I’d need to leave here half four or so; before five anyway. To be on the safe side.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Buses don’t run that early.’ He couldn’t see how it was going to happen, but at least he was showing willing.

  To his surprise, Mr Fogarty said, ‘Get to the top of your road by quarter to five. You’ll be picked up.’

  ‘Picked up?’ Henry echoed.

  ‘In a car,’ Fogarty said.

  ‘You don’t have a car,’ Henry said.

  ‘I’m not picking you up,’ said Fogarty.

  Sixteen

  It was already light when Henry left the house, but a little misty and quite chill. He reached the top of the road with five minutes to spare, but even so there was an old blue Ford parked with two wheels on the verge. The windows had been tinted black so he couldn’t see in, but one of them was wound down as he approached.

  ‘You Henry Alison?’

  ‘Atherton,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yes. Right.’ The man behind the wheel was much the same age as Mr Fogarty, but far smaller and birdlike. He either dyed his hair or was wearing a wig because it was a stark Asiatic black that didn’t match the network of fine wrink
les on his face. He was dressed in a crumpled grey suit. ‘Alan sent me,’ he said.

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘Alan Fogarty. Your name’s Henry, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Henry confirmed.

  ‘Bernie,’ said the man by way of introduction. ‘Hop in.’

  The car smelled of dust and mice droppings. Bernie drove it well below the speed limit and checked his rear-view mirror constantly. ‘Thing about Fords,’ he said, ‘is reliability. Reliability and parts. Never did trust your foreign cars. They’re like foreign women good looking but anything goes wrong you could wait a month or more for parts. Now, your good old British Ford, made in Dagenham, that’s different. Your good old British Ford, you can get parts anywhere, Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s. And you don’t need to go to some fancy garage to get the job done. Trained chimp could fix a Ford, probably on the side of the road. Alan always used Fords in the old days. Swore by them, he did. Wouldn’t have anything else. You wouldn’t even have to ask old Alan. You always knew he’d say Ford. Habit stuck with me. Always drove a Ford even after we retired. Now, this one guzzles, have to admit that. Any petrol station, she just heaves in of her own accord. Practically an antique, but she goes. Any weather, day or night. Just keeps going. Can’t ask better than that, can you? Now, your average continental car ...’

  At first Henry tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but quickly realised it wasn’t necessary. He sat back and let his eyes close as Bernie’s words flowed over him like smoke. He felt nervous, but not nearly as nervous as he’d thought he would. Maybe it was something to do with the early-morning light and empty roads. Nothing seemed quite real.

  ‘There you go,’ Bernie said as the car pulled in discreetly outside Mr Fogarty’s house. He sat staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, as Henry climbed out.

  This time Mr Fogarty answered the door at once. He was dressed in a blue serge suit that had seen better days, but still somehow had the feel of Sunday best. Henry found himself wondering if he was planning to go to church. Pyrgus was standing behind him, a look of keen anticipation on his face.

  ‘You need a pee or anything?’ Fogarty asked.

  ‘No,’ Henry said.

  ‘OK, boys, off you go. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. Get straight back here afterwards. And good luck.’

  ‘How are we getting to the school?’ Henry asked.

  Fogarty looked at him in surprise. ‘Bernie’s driving you. That’s what he does.’

  Henry glanced at Pyrgus, then back at Mr Fogarty. ‘He, ah ... I mean, he doesn’t know what we’re, you know ... I mean, how are we going to explain the stuff ... the stuff we bring back afterwards?’

  ‘Of course he knows,’ Fogarty said impatiently. ‘What’s the point of having a driver if he doesn’t know the score?’

  ‘But... but...’ Henry protested. He looked at Pyrgus for support and got none. ‘Won’t he ... like ... you know, disapprove – ?’

  Fogarty actually cracked a smile. ‘What you talking about, Henry? Bernie?’ The smile disappeared. ‘Bernie and me worked together.’

  ‘Yes, but that was engineering!’ Henry said. ‘This is something different.’

  Fogarty looked at him in bewilderment.‘I wasn’t an engineer,’ he said.

  Henry just stared back at him. Mr Fogarty could make anything. It was about the first thing Henry’d learned about him. Mechanical stuff, electrical stuff even as an old man he had magic hands. Henry had always assumed he’d been an engineer of some sort when he was younger. ‘What were you?’ he asked.

  ‘Bank robber,’ Fogarty told him without a second’s hesitation.

  ‘Bank ... robber?’ Henry echoed.

  ‘Armed robber,’ Fogarty said. ‘Thought you knew.’

  ‘No,’ Henry said wonderingly. ‘No ...’

  ‘Did time in fifty-eight, but apart from that it was a good life. Decent money and didn’t do much harm to anybody.’

  ‘Armed robbery?’ Henry stuttered. ‘Didn’t do much harm – ?’

  ‘This was banks, Henry,’ Fogarty told him. ‘Put your savings in a bank and I nick them tomorrow, you still get your money back. Walk in day after and draw out every penny. So who’s hurt?’

  ‘The bank,’ Henry said.

  ‘Banks have more money than they know what to do with. Never missed the few quid I took from them. And I never hurt anybody,’ Fogarty said soberly. He hesitated, then added, ‘Except that guard, and he deserved it, cocky scrat. But he didn’t die or anything. Couple of weeks in hospital and he was back on the job boasting to his mates.’ He gave a little half-smile. ‘Those were good days, Henry. Bernie was my driver. When he wasn’t inside.’

  ‘You mean Bernie drove your getaway car?’ It was unbelievable.

  ‘Great wheelman,’ Fogarty said. ‘You know what makes a great wheelman, Henry?’

  ‘No,’ Henry said. Although in the circumstances he thought he’d better find out.

  ‘Anonymity,’ Fogarty told him. ‘Somebody doesn’t draw attention to himself. Bernie gets himself an old, nondescript car – Ford usually, because of the reliability – never exceeds the speed limit, always signals when he’s turning right, never gives the finger to another driver, quiet spoken, soul of tact. Coppers wouldn’t pull him over in a fit. Mind you, he could put on a turn of speed when he had to. Used to have us bouncing like Streets of San Francisco sometimes. Used to jibe him about it afterwards, me and the boys.’

  ‘What boys?’ Henry asked quickly.

  ‘Ran a gang,’ said Mr Fogarty. He caught Henry’s expression and added, ‘’Course I’ve been retired for years. So’s Bernie, come to that, though he’s younger than me. But he’s still the best man for this sort of job. Wouldn’t trust you and Pyrgus to anybody else.’

  It was creepy driving round town so early on a Sunday. Every shop was shut, every street was empty. Bernie’s monologue, which had now moved on from cars to the way Americans ruined tea, made it all seem even more unreal.

  Pyrgus looked a little edgy, as if he had a headache, but that may have been because he’d never ridden in a car before. (‘Where are the horses?’ he asked as he climbed in.) Henry was feeling zombie calm. The news of Mr Fogarty’s former career had produced a sort of overload in his brain so that he sank back into a torpor bordering on peaceful.

  They reached Henry’s school a little later than they’d planned, but not much. The school itself was set back from the road behind a high wall. The main gates were shut.

  ‘Drive round the corner,’ Henry instructed. ‘There’s a pull-in where you can park.’

  Bernie, who hadn’t monologued for at least three minutes, did as he was told. When the car was parked, Henry said in a take-charge voice, ‘We’ll go over the back wall. It’s quite low and there’s trees – the kids do it all the time. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get into the school.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Bernie said. ‘I’ll wait. Got Alan’s list?’

  Henry patted his pocket. ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t all that long and the components were mercifully small, so he and Pyrgus should be able to carry them without much difficulty. Now the moment had arrived, it was as if somebody had thrown a switch in his stomach and the butterflies had gone. He hoped they’d stay away, at least until the job was done. Pyrgus looked relaxed as well, but then Henry suspected he was more used to this sort of thing. He seemed to have led a very exciting life in his own world.

  ‘Don’t rush,’ Bernie advised. ‘Rush things and you make mistakes. Good luck.’ He turned and stared through the windscreen, his hands on the wheel, exactly as he’d done outside Mr Fogarty’s house. But this time Henry noticed he left the engine running.

  Henry and Pyrgus went over the wall easily. A solitary car drove past as they were dropping down the far side, but Henry was fairly sure the driver couldn’t have seen them. They were now among the trees that verged the cricket pitch. Beyond it were two tennis courts and beyond those the back of the school itself, a ram
bling grey Victorian building with a jumble of roofs and chimneys that hadn’t been used since central heating was installed sometime in the 1960s.

  ‘Come on,’ Henry said.

  The physics lab was housed in an incongruous, low-slung, single-storey, wooden annexe to the west of the main buildings. It had been built in 1999, funded by a massive cash donation from a past pupil who’d made good in sausages. It was a self-contained unit, separate from the rest of the buildings, with its own entrance and a bank of windows set little more than shoulder height. For the first time it occurred to Henry that, from a burglar’s viewpoint, it was a bit of a gift.

  But not a complete gift. The stupidly optimistic bit of him had half hoped a window might have been left open, or even a door, but everything was locked tighter than a drum.

  ‘These are strange windows,’ Pyrgus said, standing on tiptoe. ‘I understand the windows in Mr Fogarty’s house – they go up and down like the windows in my world. But – ’ He stopped suddenly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Henry asked.

  Pyrgus shook his head. ‘Just a stupid pain behind my eyes – it’s nothing. Anyway, these windows seem to open outwards and they have large metal fastenings.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be burglar-proof,’ Henry said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Pyrgus said. He looked around until he found a brick half hidden in the grass behind them and used it to smash a hole in the nearest windowpane.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Henry exclaimed.

  ‘Just did,’ Pyrgus told him.

  ‘But somebody may have heard!’

  ‘We need to move fast then,’ Pyrgus said. He put his hand through the hole and, despite his unfamiliarity with the fittings, had the window open in a moment. A moment more and the two of them were standing in an empty classroom.

  Somehow Henry’d had the idea burglary would be very difficult – it was such a big deal in the movies and the bad guys were usually caught in the act. But this one proved a doddle. He found every component on Mr Fogarty’s list and even discovered two Harrods bags in a desk drawer to carry them. They were outside and heading back towards Bernie’s car faster than he could ever have imagined possible.