Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  “Another sign of the duality that seems to be infusing everything in this new age of metaphor and symbolism.” The wind whipped Shavi’s long hair around his face as he scanned the area.

  Laura pressed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “At least we know which side we’ll be drinking in tonight.”

  Tom shook his head. “Look at the New Town-it hasn’t been affected yet. This seems to be the centre of change. If we want to learn anything, we have to come here.”

  Laura scowled at him. “You always know how to bring things down, you old git.”

  They ate dinner in the hotel’s elegant dining room at a table far from the few other residents. But despite the high quality of the food, they only picked at their meal; after Ruth’s disappearance, an air of hopelessness had started to congeal around them, growing stronger with each passing hour.

  It was Veitch who finally gave voice to the questions that troubled them all. “What’s the plan? Try to find Ruth or work out why we’re supposed to be here?”

  All eyes turned to Church, but he kept his gaze fixed on the remnants of his venison. “We can’t waste time looking for Ruth.” His words sounded harsher than he intended, but it was impossible to soften them. “We don’t know if she’s still alive. And if she is, we can’t even be sure she’s here in the city. A hunch about the direction of the city just isn’t enough.”

  “What are you saying? That we just forget about her?” Veitch’s face grew colder.

  “Of course I don’t want to forget about her, but we’ve only got a few short weeks to prevent the Fomorii bringing Balor back and that time will go quickly, believe me. Christ, we’ve got no idea how we’re going to start. The way I see it, it’s our responsibility. We’re the only people who might stand a chance of succeeding, and a slim one at that. If we get distracted, the whole of the world goes to hell. Could you live with that?”

  “You know what? Right now I don’t really care about that.” For a second Veitch looked like he was going to cry.

  “It’s heartless, but those are the kind of choices we’re being forced to make.” Church kept his face impassive because he knew if he allowed vent to even the slightest fraction of the emotion he was feeling, he wouldn’t be able to maintain the strength they expected of him. Ever since Ruth had disappeared he’d been tearing himself apart about what they should do, but on cold reflection he knew where his responsibilities lay, whatever that did to him, however much the others grew to hate him for it.

  “So that’s it? She’s gone? Just like that?” Veitch looked around the others for support. They said nothing, but the conflicting emotions struggled just behind their features. Veitch shook his head slowly. “Fuck it.”

  “Ryan-” Church began.

  “What is it? She means nothing-“

  “Of course she doesn’t mean nothing.” The steel in Church’s voice brought Veitch up sharp. “And I don’t believe this is the end of it. Whatever got to her isn’t going to leave us alone. And when he or it or whatever it is comes back we’re going to find out what happened to her before we gut the bastard.”

  The unrestrained venom took the others aback. Laura pushed the vegetables around her plate with her fork while Tom tapped out a beat with his spoon.

  Shavi leaned forward and broke the silence diplomatically. “Then what is our next step?”

  Tom answered. “The guidance offered to us specifically mentioned the Well of Fire. Historically it was the most abundant and powerful source of the earth energy. Some say it even provides a direct channel with the source of the energy, whatever or wherever that might be. But with the gradual break between land and people it has lain dormant for a long time.”

  Church nodded. “We’re supposed to be waking the sleeping king … arousing the wounded land … whichever metaphor you want. This fits the pattern. How do we get to it?”

  Tom shrugged. “The entrance lies somewhere on Arthur’s Seat, that big pile of rock at the bottom of the Royal Mile, in the middle of Holyrood Park-“

  “But the guidebook says the name has nothing to do with Arthur,” Church interjected. “Not like all the other places where the blue fire is strong. Historians think it’s just a corruption of Archer’s Seat.”

  “Which shows how much they know.” Tom removed his spectacles and polished them with the tablecloth.

  “Then we head up there.” Church glanced through the window at the late afternoon sun. “Tomorrow, now. And tonight-“

  “Tonight,” Tom continued, “we visit the Old Town.”

  The warm evening was filled with the oddly comforting aromas of the modern age: heated traffic fumes, food cooking in restaurants downwind, burnt iron and hot grease rising from the train tracks that cut through the city. Girls in skimpy summer clothes and young men in T-shirts and jeans lounged in the late sunlight outside the Royal Scottish Academy on the Mound. There was an air of spring optimism that made it almost impossible to believe that anything had changed.

  But as the companions wound their way up Ramsay Lane into the Old Town, the shadows grew longer and an unseasonal chill hung in the air despite the heat of the day. The area centred on the Royal Mile was the oldest part of the city. In the Middle Ages it had been hemmed in by city walls, forcing the housing to be built higher and higher; they were crammed too close together, blocking out the sky, so that a claustrophobic anxiety seemed to gather among them. Tom, who had obviously been in the city before, led them down Lawnmarket to one of the numerous, shadowy closes that lined the Royal Mile. At the end was an eighteenth-century courtyard and the jolly judge pub. They decided it was as good a place as any to discuss their plans.

  It was small and cellar-like, with a low, beamed ceiling painted with flowers and fruit. A fire glowed nicely in the grate and the comfortable atmosphere was complemented by the hubbub of conversation coming from numerous drinkers gathered at the tables or leaning on the bar.

  As they bought their drinks, Veitch said, “It doesn’t seem right sitting here getting pissed.”

  “We could be roaming the streets like some moron tourists.” Laura took a gulp of her vodka as if she hadn’t drunk for weeks.

  “She’s right,” Tom said as he led them over to the only free table. “Inns are still the centres of community, even as they were in my day. Sooner or later all information passes through them. We simply have to keep our ears and eyes open.”

  “That’s good,” Church said, recalling all the pubs he’d passed through with Ruth, “because I don’t feel much like drinking.”

  He changed his mind quickly. There was a desperation to all their drinking, as if they wanted to forget, or pretend the blight that was infecting reality was not really happening. The rounds came quickly, their mood lifted as they settled into the homely ambience of the pub. And once again Tom was proven right. They overheard snippets of conversation which added to their knowledge of the situation in the city, and Laura and Shavi engaged in brief chats with people they met on their way to the bar or the toilet.

  As they had found elsewhere, after the announcement of martial law there had been an initial flurry of panic, but when no hard evidence of anything presented itself, people slipped back into old routines, cynically blaming the Government for some kind of cover-up or coming up with numerous wild hypotheses in the manner of old-fashioned campfire storytellers. It quickly became apparent to everyone that martial law wasn’t enforced anyway; the police and armed forces appeared to have more important things on their minds, so everyone quietly ignored it. That resilience gave Church some encouragement, but he wondered how they would fare once the true situation become known.

  Certainly everyone seemed to accept that some kind of change had come over the Old Town, although this was a topic few were prepared to discuss. When Church raised the matter, conversations were quickly changed or eyes averted. All that could be discerned was that the ancient part of the city had somehow become more dangerous and that after the pub closed the drinkers would “hurry home to wife
y.” But Church could tell from their faces that some of them had seen or experienced things which they couldn’t bring themselves to discuss with their fellows.

  Sometime after 10:30 p.m. another technology failure took out all the lights, but the drinkers dealt with it as they did any of the other minor changes which had come into their lives. A loud cheer went up, a few shouted comments about raiding the pumps while the landlord couldn’t see, and then lots of laughter. The blazing fire provided enough light while the bar staff scrambled round for candles which they quickly stuffed into empty wine bottles and placed on every table and the bar.

  “Nice ambience.”

  Church started at the voice which came from the previously empty seat beside him. A large-boned man carrying a little too much weight inside an expensive, but tie-less, suit was smiling knowingly, a pint of bitter half-raised to his mouth. His hair was collar-length and he had a badly trimmed beard, but the heaviness of his jowls took away any of the rakishness he was attempting. Church placed him in his early to mid-thirties and from the perfectly formed English vowels of his public school accent it was obvious he wasn’t a local.

  “Pleasant enough,” Church replied noncommittally.

  “And how are you finding this new world you’re in? A little destabilising, I would think.” He smiled slyly.

  Church eyed him suspiciously. There was an awareness about the stranger that instantly set him apart. “Who are you?”

  “A cop,” Veitch said threateningly.

  “Good Lord, no,” he replied, bemused. “How insulting.”

  Church inspected the cut of his suit, the arrogance in his posture. “Security services.”

  The stranger made an odd, vaguely affirmative expression, one eyebrow half-raised. “Once, not so long ago. Decided to head out on my own. Not much point having a career structure in this day and age.” He took a long draught of his bitter and smacked his lips.

  “What are you doing here?” Church wondered if it had anything to do with the encounter with the police in Callander; he was ready to leave immediately if the situation called for it, and he tried to convey this surreptitiously to the others, but all their attention was on the spy.

  “Why, to see all of you, dear boy.” He chuckled at their uncomfortable expressions. “That would be a little bit of a lie, actually. Stumbled across you by accident in town earlier. Thought I’d drop in on you … see how you’re getting on.” The chuckles subsided into a smile that made them even more uneasy.

  Shavi leaned across the table curiously. “And the security services know who we are?”

  “Well, of course. They know everything that’s worth knowing. That’s their job, isn’t it?” He looked around at their faces, still smiling in a manner that might have seemed jovial until it was examined closely; it was a social pretence. “You really don’t know what’s happening, do you?”

  “We have a good idea,” Church replied.

  “No, you don’t. You just think you do.” He took another sip of beer, playing with them. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Let me cast my mind back, remember all those reports and discussions. So much said and written, it’s hard to believe it’s only been going on for three months, give or take. Right, I have it. The M4, back in March. Terrible pile-up, cars and lorries and buses all mangled. A conflagration that blocked the entire motorway, caused traffic chaos for days. You remember it, don’t you?”

  Church gave nothing away.

  “And what caused all that carnage?”

  Church’s eyes flickered towards the others; no one spoke.

  The spy chuckled again. “I understand your reticence. Really. It’s not the kind of thing one talks about, is it? Well, let me answer the question for you. You believe the disaster was caused by some kind of flying creature out of a fairy book, blasting gouts of flame from its mouth.”

  “And you’re saying it wasn’t?” Church made an attempt to pierce that jovial mask, but all he could see beneath it was more lies and deceit.

  “Perception is such a funny thing,” the spy mused. Their uneasiness had started to turn to irritation at his undisguised patronising manner. “We have all these faculties which paint a picture of the world for our mind.” He made a fey, airy gesture. “Something we can make sense of. But can any of them really be trusted, that’s the question? If there is one fact known by all security agencies around the globe, it is that there are no absolutes. Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, all can be manipulated to present a view of the world as real as the real one.”

  “What are you saying?” Church bristled. “That we didn’t see what we thought we saw?”

  “Come on, old chap! It was a creature from a fairy book!” The spy aped disbelief. “It all depends how you see things. Fire streamed down from the sky and blew up a chunk of motorway and some poor commuters. Well, of course, it could be some kind of mythical beastie. But, really, come on now, we are all intelligent people here, are we not? What would you say is the most rational explanation? The flames of a dragon’s breath? Or a missile fired from a plane or a helicopter?”

  His words struck them all sharply, prising open the doubt and dislocation they had felt in the early days. “We saw-“

  The spy silenced Church with a furious shake of his head. “No, no, no, that’s not good enough. Can’t be trusted. After you witnessed the murder under Albert Bridge, you and the young lady went to see a therapist, did you not? And he attempted to recover the hidden memory of the incident-“

  “How do you know about that?” Church’s angry indignation masked a growing concern; how long had he been spied upon?

  “He told you about screen memories,” the spy continued. “False memories created by the mind to hide a truth which is unbearable. Or false memories created by an outside source to hide a truth which they do not want to come out.”

  “You make it sound as simple as flicking a light switch,” Laura said.

  “It is. Drugs, mind-control techniques, subliminal programming, targeted microwave radiation, post-hypnotic signals. The mind is a very susceptible organ.”

  Veitch snorted derisively. “Bollocks. That’s what it is, mate, whoever the fuck you are. You’re saying we can’t trust anything we see or hear. Or think-“

  “Exactly.” The spy settled back in his chair and smiled triumphantly.

  “You speak as if you are saying something new.” Tom surveyed the spy with a face as cold and hard as marble; the spy looked away. “But that is exactly how it has always been in life. You simply have more ways of manipulation now.”

  Church shook his head. “Everything we’ve experienced-everything supernatural-is just a big lie created by a lot of jumped-up public schoolboys with too much free time? I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s your prerogative. But you know the old adage about big lies working the best. And it’s not just a few jumped-up public schoolboys. It’s …” The words dried up, and he waved his hand dismissively. “Occam’s Razor. The most likely explanation is the correct explanation. Dragons or attack helicopters? Shape-shifting demons or special forces assassins? Wizards juggling occult forces or very clever scientists? Demon torturers in underground dens or a few rough lads who’ve lost their natural calling in Ulster, making the most of the peace and quiet in high-security converted mines? Listen to me again: drugs, post-hypnotic programming, screen memories. Lies heaped on lies.”

  “And this is the biggest one of all.” Church went for his drink to give him a moment to think. Wasn’t this the kind of thing he first feared in the aftermath of that night beneath Albert Bridge? Suddenly he wanted to smash the glass and turn the table over. All that suffering, and they still couldn’t trust what was happening.

  “Tell me,” the spy continued, “when you look at one of these shape-shifting demons, do you feel queasy? Does your mind protest that it’s not seeing the right thing? When you look at one of those glorious god-like beings, do you occasionally think you see the truth behind it? The bottom line is: do you want to ca
rry on living a lie because it’s easy and comforting to believe? Lots of lovely magic and heroic derring-do, just the kind of way you dreamed the world really was when you were children. Or do you want to face up to the harsh facts about how life really is? No magic at all. Just lots of cynical, powerful people manipulating you on a daily basis for their own ends?”

  “That’s a difficult choice,” Laura said acidly. “And not in the way you think.”

  “There have been too many facts which uphold-“

  “Don’t argue with him, Shavi,” Church snapped. “He’s enjoying screwing with your mind.”

  “I admit it is a very carefully constructed scenario,” the spy mused. “In fact, it would even fool someone who knew how these things were done.”

  Shavi, however, seemed to be enjoying the intellectual game. “If what you are saying is true, then why is so much effort being expended?”

  “Power. Control.” The spy smiled. “You should never raise to high office, either democratically or through promotion, people who want high office. That desire is a signifier of some very unpleasant character traits.” He paused while he finished his beer. “We have martial law now. The democratic process has been suspended. For how long? Until the crisis is over. Oh dear. Let me posit a scenario: there has been a coup. Those sick old aristocrats couldn’t take losing their seats in the Lords … Friends in the military, the security services, the judiciary, all those Chief Constables … Late-night chats in the Lodge-“

  Church shook his head vehemently; he realised vaguely that he looked like a sullen schoolboy.

  “Think about it for a minute. Doesn’t it make a certain kind of sense? Can anything that you’ve experienced be perceived in another way? Think deeply about every incident you’ve experienced. Could it have happened in a different way, from another perspective?” He raised his hands, prompting their introspection.

  “Interesting,” Shavi said with what the others thought was undue excitement. “But that would imply that we five have been specifically targeted for mind control. That begs the question, why us? We are nobody special.”