Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Thanks,” he said, and half-emptied the glass without drawing breath. Rosie sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him. She had no idea what to say or do. The person she’d pined for with such desire and adoration for all these years—this wasn’t him, and yet it was. She couldn’t imagine anything less appropriate than making a pass at him now.

  “You must have been having a dreadful time,” she said gently.

  “It’s all so stupid,” Jon muttered. “The guy that died—he said he knew me. I don’t remember, he wasn’t from college. Maybe he came to see the band, that’s all. But my father went mad, blaming me . . .”

  “I’m sorry. That’s horrible.”

  “I couldn’t stand it at home any longer.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  He hesitated, shaking and pushing his hair back only for it to fall forward again. “Yes, I need to ask you a favor, a really big favor.”

  “Of course.” Rosie felt overwhelmed that he was even here. His sorry state provoked a wave of protective love. “Anything.”

  “You heard about Sam?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard for you and your family.”

  “He’s in jail on remand, and they sent him to Yorkshire because the local prisons were full. The thing is, I’m supposed to be visiting him tomorrow, and . . .” Jon shivered. “He refuses to see my father or Sapphire, so there’s only me. Luc and me, we thought it was ecologically friendly not to own cars or learn to drive, but now it’s just a bloody nuisance.”

  “Do you want me to take you?” Rosie offered with ready warmth.

  She was already planning every detail. She’d drive Jon to the prison, wait for him, console him when he came out again. They would have time alone in the car together, perhaps a stop for supper on the way back . . .

  “I can’t face it,” Jon was saying, oblivious of her thoughts. “I just can’t do it, Rosie. I couldn’t bear to see him locked up in there. I wondered . . . would you go instead? For me?”

  “Instead? Can I do that? I thought you needed a visiting order, or something.”

  “No, it’s all right. On remand, anyone can see him until he gets sentenced . . . if he does . . . Please. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I just can’t.”

  She was startled and dismayed. He looked so wretched that she couldn’t refuse. “So you,” she struggled, “you don’t want to come with me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking crushed with misery. “I would if I could, but I can’t face it.”

  “It’s all right,” she heard herself saying. “Don’t worry. If you feel like that, of course I’ll go.” He rewarded her with a smile of such relief and gratitude that her heart swelled. She was a pushover. Anything for him.

  The closer Rosie drew to the prison, the bleaker the landscape grew, as if some dark lord of fantasy had scoured the land. It was on the north edge of the Yorkshire Moors, a good four hours’ drive. Her small car steamed bravely on. A sharp headwind slowed her speed and she felt isolated, exposed and tiny, with the peat and heather of the landscape sweeping to the horizon in every direction. But she was doing this for Jon, proving the depth of her love even if he never loved her back.

  He’d spent the night in the room next to hers and she’d barely slept, conscious of him so close to her but untouchable. This morning he’d emerged looking exhausted, refusing breakfast, only smiling wanly at her as she left. He looked absolutely broken down with guilt. At least she’d persuaded him to take a shower.

  On the outskirts of a small town, signs appeared for the prison. She followed the route through the charming old town center into an estate of seventies houses. Then came runs of electrified fencing topped with barbed wire, rows of floodlights. And looming through the storm-light, the walls of the prison itself. She’d visualized a grey edifice on the moors, all gothic towers and tiny barred windows. Instead she was confronted by a vast modern expanse of sandy-colored bricks. The sweep of the wall took her breath away, stretching upwards and onwards forever, blank, institutional and deadly serious.

  Rosie quailed. She could hardly blame Jon for not wanting to come. If not for him she would have turned the car around and fled. Instead she drove to the barrier, showed her ID and was waved through.

  She parked in the visitors’ area and began to walk slowly towards studded iron doors. She felt cold, dizzy with dread. The fortress sucked her in, one gate, one security check after another, and with each step she was more aware of the weight of brick and metal around her.

  A female officer searched her, sweeping her over with a wand then patting her clothes as she explained the rules. Rosie looked around at the tired, sad faces of other visitors and realized what a sheltered life she’d led. This was all so mundane and yet hostile, soul-stealing.

  “That way,” said the officer. At that moment, Rosie was seized by a hallucination. The woman’s face changed; the skin turning to scales, eyes bright green and lidless. Shock struck her dumb. “First time, love?” the woman said. “Don’t look so worried.” As she spoke, she turned human again, with a pleasant, weathered face, curly brown hair.

  “Yes,” Rosie managed to say.

  “Husband, is he?” Her voice was reassuring, full of seen-it-all worldliness. “Boyfriend?”

  “No! Just a—a neighbor, really. He’s got no one else.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you.” The guard’s face gave another human-to-demon flicker. “All clear on the regs? Good. Follow the others and give your name to the officer on the door.”

  “Thank you.” The featureless corridor trembled around Rosie. She could taste the tension in the air. She heard the voices of other visitors farther ahead; but as she turned a corner, the corridor was empty. It looked all wrong.

  The light turned dim and she felt the floor shaking as if from the rumble of underground machinery. This isn’t the surface world, Rosie thought as she walked on, and I’ve never seen the Dusklands like this . . . She glimpsed narrow tunnel mouths glowing with red fire. Lights strung along the walls emitted an ominous hum. The stench was of stale urine, sweat and disinfectant, laced with cabbage.

  She entered a smoky grey cavernous space with an officer waiting just inside. With his reptilian face and bright green eyes, he didn’t even try to look human. She held her nerve as he summoned her in. “Table four, love.”

  She took a step, and the visiting room shook itself square, with white walls, barred windows, red plastic-topped tables.

  Another few steps and the room warped again. The transitions were making her dizzy. Now the room resembled a dusty medieval cathedral filled with small round tables. Each table had two chairs like gothic thrones, most occupied by translucent human ghosts. The hubbub of voices echoed off the high vault of the ceiling. Looking up, she caught an impression of convoluted arches far above, with bats or tiny demons fluttering in the sooty shadows.

  Rosie’s mouth was ash-dry. These illusions felt so real and solid. Prisoners, visitors . . . they looked far away, as if seen through gauze.

  She found her table and sat down. The gothic seat and table were bleached and cracked like driftwood. Around the walls were alcoves occupied by gargoyles wrapped in dark leather wings . . . not statues, but living guards.

  It’s all right, she scolded herself. I’m Aetherial. Weird things happen.

  Then she saw Sam threading his way towards her through the crowd. Slender, light on his feet, wearing a green prison tabard over grey T-shirt and jeans. His hair had been cropped close to his skull, which emphasized the sculpture of his face. He was all cheekbones and bright, dazzling blue-green eyes. The eyes were beacons against the monochrome of the walls.

  Seeing her, he stopped in his tracks. He stared, gave a silent laugh of amazement. Rosie stood up and waited for him to reach her. “Rosie? What on earth are you doing here? Where’s Jon?”

  He stood gaping at her. His obvious astonishment and pleasure embarrassed her. He smiled, his teeth as white and feral as ever. “Who cares where he
is?” he added. “I can’t believe it.”

  She had absolutely no idea what to say. Her throat was burning. Sam went on staring. “It’s amazing to see you.” He glanced quickly around, and down at himself. “Not that I ever wanted you to see me like this.” An officer took a warning step towards them. “Oh—sit down.”

  The gargoyle folded into its alcove again as Sam and Rosie took seats on opposite sides of the table. She couldn’t find her tongue, wished herself anywhere but in this nightmare place. “They don’t like you standing up,” Sam explained. “No touching, kissing, hugging or passing items, either.”

  “Well, none of that’s going to happen,” she said.

  “No, of course not.” He folded his arms and gazed at her. His eyes were lasers. “You must have had a hell of a journey. They’ll bring tea round; fifty pence a cup, though, sorry about that.”

  “No problem. I can raise a pound.”

  “I dreamed about seeing you. Never thought it would be in this situation.”

  “I don’t know,” she said thinly. “It suits you.”

  “Cheers. I should have expected that.” He spread his hands, still grinning. “Abuse me all you like, I enjoy it.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rosie wanted to be fair and helpful, but she was struggling. She didn’t trust Sam on any level. She didn’t know him. His rapt attention made her uneasy, needling through her defenses. One minute of conversation and they were falling into the usual pattern of sarcasm; but perhaps it was better than pretending. “Am I your first visitor?”

  “Dad came once. It was horrible. I told him not to bother again. I can’t believe you’re here. So, how come? I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I care about your brother,” she said. “Jon asked me. He said he couldn’t face it, so I’m here instead as a favor to him.”

  “Right.” The light went out of Sam’s eyes and he looked away from her. “At least we cleared that one up. The one member of my family I could face seeing, and he can’t get off his backside to make the effort. But you’d crawl across Death Valley and stick your head in a tar pit—as long as it’s for him. Figures.”

  “He was scared,” Rosie said sharply. “He lost his nerve.”

  “He knew you’d do anything for him. He knew I’d be pleased to see you. He’s really a monumental creep and archmanipulator; I’m bloody impressed.”

  “He was distraught! If you’d seen him—” Rosie sighed through her teeth. “Great, so I’ve driven two hundred miles to listen to this for an hour?”

  Another prisoner leaned between them, so sudden and quiet that she nearly jumped out of her skin. He placed two teas on the table. The reek of sweat from his armpit as he leaned over nearly knocked her out. Behind him, reality and illusion morphed in and out, mundane to cobwebbed gothic.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, giving him money and holding her breath until he moved away. Sam grinned at her.

  “You’ve never been here before, have you?”

  “Prison?” she said. The tea, served in Styrofoam cups, was scalding and full of sugar. “No. My family manages to stay on the right side of the law.”

  “Not prison,” he said, the grin darkening. “Dumannios.”

  She put the cup down, spilling it. “We’re in Dumannios?”

  “The lower layer of the Dusklands, gone bad. The home of nightmares, living gargoyles, pseudo-demons and burning cathedrals. Molten lava and hellfire. Great, isn’t it?”

  Rosie looked around at the dripping fortress walls, the ashen guards. It wasn’t exactly fear she felt but intense, cosmic unease. She thought of stormy skies and boiling black clouds, the moors stretching forever outside, miles of electric fencing sizzling in sulfurous rain. The dead eyes of the staff, their skin sucked dry by the heat of volcanic vents. The whole prison edifice trembling over a lake of fire.

  “Oh, fuck,” she whispered.

  “Although, if you’ve been in Stonegate, you can’t be that surprised.”

  “I suppose not, but I’ve never been trapped inside it like this.”

  “Hey, don’t panic.” Sam reached across the table and touched her hand; Rosie snatched it away. “They say it’s a perception thing. Stuff that’s always there but we don’t see it. I’m sure you can drive out, same as you arrived. It’s only the inmates who are stuck here.”

  “How?” she said. “The others look human. And how can humans build a prison in Dumannios?”

  “Oh, it was built in the real world. I reckon the other inmates and visitors are looking at plain walls and fluorescent strips and cheap plastic tables. I catch glimpses. It’s only Aetherials who are stuck with the deeper dimensions and the H. P. Lovecraft nasties.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is it just you? Us, I mean?”

  “There are a couple of other Vaethyr in here,” he said softly. “And yes, we all get the slimy dungeons and interesting visits from the night staff who no one else sees.”

  “All the time?”

  “No, but the unpredictability factor makes it that bit more exciting.”

  “Why is it happening?”

  “I have no bleeding idea, love.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrow. “Some sort of shadowy Spiral Court justice, I think. The Ancients don’t like us stirring it on Earth, so we get a double punishment. Things go on in the inner realms that we don’t have the faintest clue about. Jon had every right to be scared.”

  “I don’t think he knew it would be this bad.”

  “Maybe not. Gates are locked, it messes up our instincts.”

  “Are you here until the trial?”

  “Apparently. I was refused bail. I’ve had issues with the police before, and this time someone died. Also, they seemed to think I might skip off abroad again.”

  “Any idea how it will go?”

  “I’m looking at five years for manslaughter,” Sam said bluntly. “Probably get out in three. You were hoping I’d say life, weren’t you? Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Of course I wasn’t.” Cold, delayed shock sank through her. “It’s not fair, is it? You were defending your family.”

  “D’you know, if we were in America, it would have been okay for me to shoot him? But not here. Apparently I used unreasonable force. Dragging the guy back into the house when he was trying to escape; never a good idea. Helping him along with a bit of strangulation while he was bleeding to death; not advisable. Plus, I have a record.”

  Rosie sat back in her chair, looking at him. Sam had a beautiful, cruel face, like his father. His eyes were jewels, glittering and glacial. He’d never seemed to give a damn about anything, even himself; and for that she couldn’t warm to him. Even now he was sitting there trying to make himself look as wicked as possible, purely to shock her.

  She didn’t realize she had any kind of expression on her face until he said, “You really hate me, don’t you? It must be killing you to sit here trying to be social.”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “I don’t know why you bothered. Jon won’t be a tiny bit grateful.”

  “I’m not doing it for gratitude,” she snapped.

  “Just in it for the martyrdom, then?” He sat back with a groan as if giving up. Then impulsively he leaned forward again. “Rosie, maybe I’m a masochist, but I think the world of you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and you’ve got no idea. You think it’s any fun for me to sit here being loathed by you? I’m in love with you.”

  “You’re what?” She gaped at him, completely thrown. “You have to be kidding.”

  “No, I’m not.” He leaned closer, his expression luminous with sincerity; but he was such an actor, she didn’t believe him for a split second. “I mean it.”

  “You don’t love me—you don’t know me! I haven’t even seen you for four years! I didn’t come here to play stupid games.”

  “I’m not.” He drew back. “I wish I could have done things differently so you weren’t sitting there despising me. I’d rather have hostile Rosie than no Rosie at a
ll—but this isn’t you. It’s not the real you.”

  “Tough. It’s all you’re getting. You don’t love me, you’re just nuts from being in this place.”

  “That must be it,” he said flatly, making her more annoyed.

  “ ‘Unreasonable force,’ that’s the story of your life! You wonder why I don’t like you? D’you want a list?” She swept her hair aside to expose her neck. “I’ve still got the scar from the first time we met.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “You stole from me, beat up my brother, threatened me, lied to me—”

  “When did I lie?”

  “You told me Jon was gay! God knows what you’ve told him about me!”

  “Come on, teasing—”

  “No. A decent person knows the difference. You’ve bullied and beaten people and you set the Pit Bull on me.”

  “The who?”

  “That little tattooed biker you used to go out with.”

  His forehead creased. He looked part guilty, part amused. “You mean Sue? You called her the Pit Bull? That’s priceless.”

  “Oh yes, it was bloody priceless being set on by her and her mates!”

  “Rosie,” said Sam. “Two things. Try to smile and look happy while you’re hissing at me so the warders don’t intervene. Second, I did not set Sue on you. She knew it was you I really wanted and she was jealous. I had no idea she was planning to hurt you. I was horrified, but you never gave me a chance to make amends. I told her what I thought and I dumped her, end of story. By the way, you do know you terrified the crap out of her, don’t you?”

  “Good! You keep such great company, too.”

  Sam waved a hand. “Look around; you’ve got me where you’ve always wanted me. I’m doing my penance now. Give me a break.”

  She gasped, “Do you even care that you actually killed someone?”

  “Can I tell you what happened?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, face serious, eyes shining.

  “About the murder?”

  “I didn’t murder anyone!” he exclaimed. “Manslaughter!” People at the neighboring tables fell silent and looked. “What?” said Sam, turning to them. “Our conversation more interesting than yours, is it? Fine, pull up a chair!”