Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1

by Angela Slatter

  He said nothing.

  I left them in the panic room and went back to the stairs. I examined the pieces of garbage as I descended: Mars wrappers, cigarette butts, old tissues, carpet fibres. Those last, the horrent twists of a most abhorrent shade of bright orange, scratched at a memory, one I couldn’t quite pull up. Down on the lower floor the house opened onto the pool area. Wards were scrawled over the frame, but because the door hadn’t been closed and locked, they hadn’t mattered. I stepped onto timber decking which still held a little of the sun’s warmth, though the breeze whistling by was chill. Plastic chairs and sun loungers dotted a wide terraced garden that surrounded the far end of the blue-tiled pool.

  The golem must have come over the perimeter wall or the front gate, across the lawns and then through here. A sizable pile of rubbish was caught in the green metal palings of the pool fence, so it must have entered there, leaving behind more debris than usual. I remembered the day David and I had gone bushwalking and how there’d been an awful lot of rubbish scattered on the car park asphalt, with twists of bright orange mixed in. I’d joked about mutant wombats, but now I wondered if something had been watching me even then.

  I sat on the end of one of the striped loungers and stared at the grass stretching into the distance.

  My phone bleeped with a text message.

  You never write, you never call.

  David. I smiled and typed a reply.

  ‘Are you gonna tell him?’

  ‘Ziggi, don’t creep up behind me like that!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all as he sat heavily beside me. ‘Are you gonna tell him about Baker’s boy?’

  ‘You said it yourself: it’s a pretty big leap from runaway to death-machine. And I’ve got no proof – besides, Bela’s suffering at the moment and I don’t think it’s the best time to share my cockamamie ideas with him.’

  ‘You’re maturing,’ he said approvingly, so I gave him the finger.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bela’s tone was weary, and Ziggi and I both jumped.

  ‘Do I have to put a bell on you two?’

  I swallowed a couple of times, trying to work out what to say. ‘What’s next here?’

  He stood by the pool, the highly polished tips of his Zegnas hanging over the edge. ‘What is there to do?’

  Bela was right: a quick vacuum and the house would be spotless. There were no bodies, no burials to arrange and no closure to be had. All he could do was lock the doors and send me off to do my best bloodhound impersonation. He asked, ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I . . . I’m going back where we first spotted the golem, see if I can find anything. And I need to talk to the sirens again.’ His expression told me that my ability to prioritise was questionable. ‘I’m juggling several things at once, Bela, and I’m trying to do my best. Just let me get on with it, hey?’

  He remained silent, but dipped his head. He didn’t ask about my meeting with Baker and I didn’t volunteer anything. He’d remember later, when he stopped aching.

  *

  I stretched in frustration and considered kicking the park bench in front of me, then thought better of it. Thanks to the healer, I was walking as if I’d never been injured; it would have been stupid to abuse that. ‘How’s this damned thing getting around the city?’

  Ziggi muttered something I didn’t quite catch.

  ‘Huh? Speak up, Zig.’

  ‘I said tunnels. Normals live their whole lives above; they know nothing about what’s beneath.’ He sounded fed-up; he sounded as though he thought I was Normal.

  ‘Tell me, oh wise one.’ My tone didn’t improve matters.

  ‘Tunnels. Sewers, storm-water drains. They run all over, built when the place was first settled. They go to the river. Some are big enough for a man to stand in; others are small and choked by years of mud and neglect. Tunnels. That’s how you travel this city without being seen.’

  The golem had come from a conduit near the river. I’d thought it had only been hiding there. ‘Is there some kind of Weyrd underground network?’

  He gave me a look, the same sort you might give a conspiracy theorist, the one that said Go home and take your medication.

  ‘Maybe we prefer the dark to the light, but we don’t prefer the damp and the dirty. Who lives in sewers apart from rats? Some days . . .’ He broke off, muttering, just to make sure I knew his opinion in no uncertain terms. As he wandered off towards The Lone Cartman, the only vendor in the vicinity, I called, ‘Long black, thanks for asking.’

  We’d reached the tired and cranky part of a long day about half an hour ago and sniping was unavoidable. The spot by the river where Bela and I had first seen the creature was a bust; I’d also found that even the surly waitress from the conclave, the one who worked at the café, had made herself scarce. I had a sneaking suspicion all the sirens were laying low – not that I blamed them for that. Ziggi and I had wandered back to the park at the base of the cliffs.

  I squinted at the water; in the afternoon sun the glare flashed silver. Across from Kangaroo Point were the Gardens, a mix of huge ancient trees, thick shrubs and buildings belonging to Queensland University of Technology, some old and ugly, some new and uglier. I could see tunnels there, too, lurking under the boardwalk like toothless mouths.

  Ziggi’s mood had lifted when he returned, which I put down to the caffeine. He handed me a large takeaway cup and we stood for a while, drinking and staring at nothing in particular.

  ‘Ziggi?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘You think Bela will be okay?’

  ‘He’s hard to know.’

  ‘Not what I asked.’

  ‘Look, the thing is, he’s old. He and Adriana were friends a long time. You’re a blink of the eye to him. No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘Bela’s kind, they age slowly, but they do age, and sometimes they go a bit strange. You gotta consider how they feed, too, on human energy and emotions – those things change as the world does, and leave nothing familiar for them to hold onto. If you’ve got touchstones, at least you have a sense that something remains the same . . . it’s easier to hold it together. He knew Adriana from before, before coming here.’

  The meaningful tilt of his head stumped me until I realised what he meant. It hadn’t ever occurred to me that Adriana might have known Bela rather better than I had. Once upon a time the idea might have turned me green and a little psychotic, but now even thinking back to the way his real name rolled off her tongue, the way she’d sometimes touched his cheek and laughed up into his face, I just felt sorry for him. ‘Oh. Sometimes I forget he doesn’t tell me everything.’

  Some days I think I will disappear up my own fundamental orifice.

  ‘Secrecy’s natural to him – you don’t survive without keeping things close. It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘It would have been nice to leave the relationship feeling like I knew him better than when I went in.’ I held up a finger and said proudly, ‘But I’m not angry, see? This is me, not being angry and bitter.’

  ‘I can see that. The person you know in bed isn’t all of the person.’

  ‘I knew more than his bed-side,’ I protested, but my words sounded empty, even to me.

  ‘Maybe some of him, sure, but if you’d known more you’d have realised it was never gonna work, you and him.’

  I hesitated. ‘You didn’t think to tell me that at the time?’

  ‘Would you have listened?’ He continued when I gave him a shamefaced look, ‘He was never gonna be the Bela in your head, never going to be who you thought he was.’

  ‘Ziggi—’

  ‘I watched. I ached for you, V; you’re like my little girl, but you were always gonna get hurt.’ He sighed.

  I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s all good now, Ziggi.’ And it was. I thought about what an open book David was and felt a rush of relief. So many things in my life had to be kept hidden; so many things shrank from the ligh
t of day. It made me uncomfortable, though, to consider what else Bela might not be telling me. ‘So, my friend, tunnels.’

  ‘Tunnels.’

  The battery on my mobile was dangerously low. I wasn’t going to risk using the torch app. ‘Got a flashlight or two?’

  ‘In the cab.’ We waited a little while longer until he said, ‘Let’s get moving, do this while there’s still some sun. Never know what darkness might bring.’

  I had a fair idea, but I kept it to myself.

  *

  Liquid refuse trickled sluggishly past my boots and I prayed they were watertight; I wasn’t dressed for urban spelunking and for a moment I deeply regretted not going home to change. The bricks were slippery underfoot, kind of green and nasty, and I had to step gingerly. The weak torchlight was about as useful as a firefly’s bum and I wished Ziggi would hurry up with the fresh batteries. In hindsight, of course we should have tested them while we were still near the cab.

  The mouth of the tunnel was tall enough for me to stand straight. We’d walked until we’d spotted one of the drains – though not the one where I’d seen the two young lovers taken up. Behind me was a mud bank with my bootprints embedded in it and a little beyond that lapped the river. The tide was coming in, deceptively slowly. The circle of sky at my back was a late-afternoon dark blue. Kids played in the park above me, their shrieking laughter dulled, as were the shouted warnings from parents who were cooking sausages on gas hotplates, trying to enjoy themselves while simultaneously checking on the children. Life went on as usual.

  Down here were things that had been around for too long, and the scent of rot was overwhelming the BBQ aromas. Further in, other unidentifiables splashed and plopped. Liquefied household debris whooshed from holes high in the walls and with it came another rush of stench. There was a limit on my breath-holding abilities, and breathing through my mouth seemed like a terrible idea. I looked over my shoulder, hoping to see Ziggi, but met only the sight of the Gardens’ boardwalk in the distance. People moved along it, small coloured Lego figures.

  I faced the darkness again. Just go a little way, I thought. It’s better than doing nothing.

  One foot moved, then the other; filth squelched under my soles. My dress suddenly felt uncomfortable, its hem constricting, and my right boot too tight, as if the dagger had somehow swelled. To distract myself I aimed the dull torch beam at the brickwork around me. It was superbly made, cut from something that might have been Brisbane Tuff: some blocks were buttery-hued, others a delicate pink and all of them fitted closely, the mortar still bonded and firm, belying its age. They don’t make drains like they used to. It wasn’t as if I wanted to set up home there, but I admired the workmanship.

  Somewhere ahead of me there was a noise: too big to be a rat or other small sewer-dwelling critter, and if the air had been bad before, it suddenly got much worse. There was a shifting in the gloom, almost a swarming.

  ‘Uh, hello?’

  Whatever it was didn’t come any closer, but instead began to move away. I took a few steps backwards, wanting to bolt towards the last of the light and sun, but my determination not to turn my back on what was waiting in the deeper dark won out.

  I kept retreating, a fragile moment of hope that it would let me be swelled in my chest . . . then the thing sped forward, shadows whirling, bits of wet mess and plant matter, newspapers, tin cans, plastic bottles, all orbiting around limbs that were roughly human-shaped, though with no discernable features.

  Then it was on me, surrounding me: I was in it and I was cold and the air in my lungs stopped and froze and the atmosphere around me moved slow as molasses. I fought, throwing punches that seemed to connect, because I heard a grunt and what might have been a curse. The attack lessened, and for a few seconds I could breathe.

  I took those precious beats to fumble at the top of my right boot, to find the knife and pull. The Boatman’s dagger came free, heating up in my hand, and I lashed out. The creature made a sound between a bleat and a roar and dropped me like a hot potato.

  I managed to land on my feet and stumbled backwards, trying to stay upright. A hand behind me grabbed at my shoulder and I began to turn, yelling, then lost my balance and fell. My face hit the water, then continued down until it smacked against the stone beneath. There was a sudden burst of stars and I sank into a black sea.

  *

  ‘You are a danger to yourself.’

  ‘Did you see it?’ I sat up very slowly. My head hurt. I was damp and smelled really, really bad. When I coughed, something stagnant erupted. But more than anything, I was really, really cold.

  ‘You’ve gotta stop doing that wandering-off-on-your-own thing. I can’t keep taking you to hospitals or someone is gonna report me. Keep scaring an old guy like me and I’m gonna have a heart attack.’ Ziggi’s hand on the small of my back was the only thing keeping me upright.

  I coughed again, and a mix of liquid vile flecked with orange came out. Why was there always carrot? It came up again and again until there was nothing left, just the thin yellowy nastiness your stomach releases when there’s nothing else to expel: the digestive equivalent of a white flag.

  We were on a patch of grass and hidden from the general thoroughfare by trees. The land dropped away to the left and met the river, which was making soothing sounds. My head was pounding, my throat was raw and I was fervently wishing to be elsewhere. On the ground beside me was the knife, gleaming.

  ‘I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.’

  ‘It was closer to fifteen,’ I protested. ‘Did you see it? And have you got any gum? Mints? Toothpaste? Anything?’

  He handed me a bottle of water so I could rinse and spit, then a crumpled packet of PK gum. I noticed he was staying upwind and not getting too close. ‘Yeah, I saw it. Or bits of it. It hesitated when you fell and I thought it was gonna come after me.’

  ‘Didn’t though, huh?’

  ‘Nope. You still think it’s Donovan Baker?’

  ‘I’ve got no reason to think it wasn’t. Why didn’t it take us? Me?’

  ‘Maybe you taste bad. Or maybe it had something to do with that?’ Ziggi pointed towards the Boatman’s blade.

  ‘It certainly didn’t seem to like it.’ I regarded the dagger with new fondness, then realised that it was shining with dark blood, tinged green. ‘Did the golem say anything?’

  ‘Nothing recognisable, just the screamy bit when you stabbed it.’ He pulled up handfuls of grass like a kid in a sulk. ‘Surely it couldn’t still be hungry. It ate eight people last night.’

  ‘Apparently eight isn’t enough. Man, I need a shower. Take me home, please.’ I rubbed at the abrasions on my cheek where I’d scraped against the brickwork; they’d complement the bruise on my forehead nicely.

  ‘You’re not getting in my cab like that.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  We negotiated. I found a toilet block with a functioning – albeit cold – shower, but I was so chilled that the water felt warm. I stood under it for a while, though I wasn’t sure if the smell went away or just morphed into something marginally less offensive. Afterwards, examining my reflection in the polished metal mirror, I considered how to best explain my latest stunning facial addition to David.

  Wrapped in nothing but a scratchy grey blanket, I shivered and coughed in the back of the taxi, ignoring Ziggi’s ostentatious sniffing; he’d already made it quite clear I was stinking up his pride and joy. My clothes had been stuffed in a number of plastic bags and banished to the boot. Intensive cleaning would be required, and even then I wasn’t convinced anything could be salvaged, not even my poor coat.

  By the time David knocked on my door a couple of hours later, I’d showered again – three times – washed my hair until it squeaked, and loofahed myself so enthusiastically that I showed signs of remaining bright pink permanently. Ointment had been liberally smeared on the new scratches, but I couldn’t truthfully say I was an attractive proposition.

  David lifted a hand to my cheek, bu
t didn’t touch the wounds. ‘Walking into walls again?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Bricks. Bricks are not my friend.’

  ‘Do we need to have a talk? Only I feel like you’re keeping something from me.’

  ‘I guess there’s no time like the unavoidable time.’ I sighed.

  ‘You’re not a superhero, are you?’ he asked as I led him into the lounge room. At that point, the idea of a life spent wearing my undies on the outside was sounding distinctly enticing. He eyed the bottle of red I’d opened earlier and watched as I poured more than the recommended daily dose into very large glasses. I took a sip for courage, then began the tale of a wine made from tears, just to ease into things.

  *

  All things considered, he took it remarkably well. He clearly didn’t believe me, but he took it well. He also didn’t break up with me, which was a major plus. There was something heart-warming about the fact he didn’t run away screaming, but rather stayed and worked on trying to convince me that I was nuts.

  ‘Did you hit your head when you fell?’

  ‘See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you about myself.’

  ‘Well, it is kind of hard to swallow.’ He was genuinely apologetic. ‘See, if you were a superhero, you could just show me your superpower as proof. But this stuff? I’m kind of waiting for a camera crew to appear and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.’

  I pulled up the right leg of my second-best pair of jeans and showed him the pink scars, those little cuts made by Louise barely perceptible now. ‘You’ve seen this, yes? Can you think of any native Australian animal that might have done this? Do not say dropbears.’

  ‘I’ll grant that’s a pretty impressive injury. Escaped tiger?’

  ‘It’s called a ’serker. Something from the nasty side, something that doesn’t normally come through on its own, ’cause it’s not that smart – it has to be summoned. It likes its hamburgers human and super-fresh.’ I shivered. ‘I went looking for it, although at the time I didn’t know that’s what I was looking for, otherwise I’d have thought twice about taking the job.’

  ‘Why did you take the job?’