The Road to Bedlam cotf-2

by Mike Shevdon

  I wished now I'd said more than "take care". What if something happened to her? What if those were the last words I ever spoke to her? We had been living together since October and I still hadn't figured her out. Sometimes we were so close you couldn't get a sheet of paper between us, while at other times she was distant. I had been trying to puzzle out where I stood for nine months, with little progress.

  She'd told me first off that the Feyre didn't marry and that it was up to the females to choose a partner. I had no fundamental objection to that but it left me wondering what there was between us and why she needed me. She was fiercely protective of her independence, to the point where it seemed as if there wasn't room for me in her life at all, but then she could be so possessive that it left me feeling claustrophobic.

  Of course, the baby had number one place in her heart, and given how long she had waited for a child, that was no surprise. I knew what that felt like, having a daughter of my own, and there was no resentment. It was just that sometimes I wondered whether second place was really where I was. I caught myself in a sigh and turned it into a shrug.

  Maybe I would never understand her.

  I slipped into my charcoal jacket. I could conceal myself with glamour, but the dark grey would stand out less in the dark, providing less contrast than a hard black and leaving me free to concentrate my power on other things. I gathered my wallet and keys and left the loose change on the side table so that it wouldn't chink in my pocket. I picked up the small black torch from my bag and sheathed and belted my sword. I jumped up and down twice, testing for rattles. The soft shuffle as my clothes settled and the gentle thump of the sword against my thigh were the only sounds that might give me away. It would do.

  Nevertheless, I wrapped a strong concealment around me as I left the room. The fire escape would allow me to leave without using the front door. I nudged it open gently and then let it close quietly behind me. If Raffmir was watching my comings and goings then he couldn't watch the front and the back at once. By using the rear stairway, I could make it harder for him to observe me, assuming I wasn't just being paranoid.

  The fire escape led down to a concrete backyard arrayed with wheelie bins and an old stove. This backed on to the yard of another guest house on the next road along. It was easy enough to clamber the wall and exit from there, keeping to the shadows and not showing myself till I was well away from the guest house. I made my way up the hill to St Andrew's church. There were no cars at this time of night, just the faint echoes of the sea on the hush of the breeze. A gull's call broke noisily into the night in a squabble for roosting space and then subsided.

  The east window was dark and the door was locked. Greg had said he kept the church locked to prevent theft and vandalism. He hadn't said whether the church was alarmed or not. I scouted round the building. There were two other doors, one tucked behind the church at the west tower and another vestry door on the far side from the main door, but no sign of an external alarm box. Those windows that could be opened looked as if they hadn't been touched in years and were too far off the ground to access without a ladder. I circled back to the main door. If any of the doors were alarmed then the likelihood was that they all were, and at least I knew that this one gave me access to the photos and personal items of the girls who were missing. With those, I could use my power to discover whether the girls were really missing or had simply chosen not to stay in Ravensby.

  Merging with the shadows in the porch, I surveyed the black oak door. I had seen Blackbird open locked doors like this a number of times but I had never done it myself. While I knew it could be done, I had never had call for such skills over the past months. I had been immersed in the regime of Garvin's training. I had once asked Garvin when he would start training me to use my power.

  "Do you feel confident and competent with a sword?" he had asked.

  I had shaken my head while he smiled his quiet smile.

  "Knowing your limits is part of your training. I'll teach you the subtlety and flexibility of power when you can handle something simple, like a sword."

  I had accepted his answer with good grace, seeing the sense in his words, but I wished now that I had made better progress so I would have some idea what I was doing. I guess I would just have to improvise.

  I felt inside and connected to the core of power within me. A dark tendril wormed its way out of the cold bright core at the centre of my being. Not for the first time, I wondered what it was that I connected with. Was it a creature? When Blackbird called me back to life on the London Underground last year, had she conjured some creature to live within me like a parasite? Was I simply its host? If I summoned gallowfyre it was like releasing a tentacled creature of dark shadows. Was that what lived inside me? It would suck the life energy of anything within reach unless I constrained it, and feed me with the life energy of others. Did that make it some sort of symbiotic life-form? Blackbird said not. She said that gallowfyre was an expression of my link with the void, the element associated with the wraithkin. She laughed when I asked whether it was alive.

  "Only as much as your arm or your leg is alive." She laughed. "It's you, Niall."

  I wasn't sure that explanation made me any more comfortable.

  I placed my hand on the dark oak of the door and allowed the tendril of power to worm its way into the wood. In my mind's eye, it explored the crevices and cracks, tasting the bitter wood. Though there was no physical taste, my mouth still ran with saliva in reaction to the sensation. It wound around the knots, following the grain.

  Suddenly there was a hard jolt. I almost jerked my hand away. It felt sharp and hot. The tendril had discovered something embedded in the wood. It felt sour, a spike of harsh metal embedded in the door. I realised we must have encountered an old nail or a bolt, embedded in the wood. The essence of it had seeped into the surrounding wood, tainting the oak. The tendril curled around it, avoiding where it pierced the door.

  My power threaded slowly through the wood, searching for weaknesses and flaws, exploiting cracks. It was slow and difficult, worming through, looking for a way to release the lock, and it took all my attention. I realised that if anyone came looking in the small porch while I was there I would be discovered. I didn't have the concentration to hold my glamour, investigate the door and keep a lookout at the same time.

  Momentarily distracted, my attention came back to the tendril. While my mind was elsewhere, it had done something strange. It had branched. Where there had been one exploring tendril before, now there were two – no, three, four, it was branching quicker than I could count. The whole door was soon threaded through like ivy on a wall, woven through every crack and crevice. I could feel every nail, each knot and curve in the grain. It was still locked, though. How did Blackbird get doors to pop open?

  I could feel where the lock was screwed into the door. I tried extending the tendrils into the lock, but it was as sour and bitter as the nail had been. I could force my way into it, but all I could discern was the bitterness of the steel with no sense of the lock. Anyway, what was I intending to do, try and pick it? I had no idea how to pick a lock, even if I had tools and could do it where I could see it. There had to be another way.

  Using the power threaded through it, I felt the door and willed it to open. The wood groaned under my hand, flexing at my will. It pinged and creaked until I thought it would crack. Breaking the door wouldn't help: it would be obvious that someone had broken in. I wanted to be inside, but I didn't want anyone to know I had been there.

  I withdrew the tendrils of power from the door and dropped my hand away. Dispirited by my failed attempt I walked around the church again, looking for a way in. I could break in, but that would be vandalism. I didn't think Greg deserved that. I could wait until the morning and ask for his help, but I didn't want to explain what I was intending to do. He was far too good at seeing the truth in things. I could contact Blackbird and ask her how she did it, but I was hoping she would be asleep by now, tucked up with horseshoes f
or comfort, and if I asked Garvin he would likely tell me that I shouldn't be there in the first place.

  I returned to the porch and sat on the bench that lined one side. It was ridiculous to be defeated by a simple locked door. I had watched Blackbird do this a number of times. What would she say if she were here?

  You're trying too hard. Relax, let it come.

  That was all very well, but it wasn't happening.

  You don't catch a pigeon by chasing it.

  That wasn't much use, either, was it?

  A cake is a cake, a mouse is a mouse, a door is a door.

  What had she been talking about when she said that? She had been baking, something I never expected of her, but which made her happy even when she was throwing up from morning sickness. The smell of cooking had woken me and I had come down to find her in full production. While her back was turned I stole a small bun dotted with currants, still warm from the oven. She had smiled when the crumbs on my cheek had given me away, but then frowned when I asked what it was made of.

  "Cake," she said.

  "I meant, what were the ingredients."

  She picked up a bun and examined it critically. "Cooking is like magic. A cake is more than butter and sugar and flour. When you bake them they become something else. A cake is a cake, as a mouse is a mouse and a door is a door. You can't unmake it and get sugar, butter and flour back. It's made of cake."

  How did that help me open a door? A cake is a cake, a door is a door.

  I had once sealed a door in my flat by imagining the door nailed shut. That had worked fine, so why didn't it work when I wanted a door open?

  You're trying too hard.

  I placed my hand on the door. It was a locked door. I wanted an open door.

  It was an open door.

  There was an answering clunk. I tested the handle and the door swung open. Success! I had been trying to unravel the door into a lock, wood, nails, handle and everything else that went into it, instead of treating it like a door that was either locked or open. Chalk up one to me. I closed the door behind me and stood in the darkened transept. Inside, the church had a silence only buildings made of solid stone can muster. Placing my hand back on the door, I re-locked it. I didn't want to be disturbed.

  I clicked on the torch, being careful to keep the beam low so it wouldn't show through the windows and attract unwanted attention. The photo board in the corner was what I wanted. I already knew that Karen wasn't dead, so maybe the others weren't either. That would still leave the mystery of where the skulls had come from, but maybe that was a different question.

  I needed a link with the girls to find them and the photos from the board might provide that link. Asking Greg if I could borrow them might prompt questions I didn't want to answer. Besides, they weren't really his photos.

  Maybe with them I could discover whether the girls really had bunked off, as Geraldine in the cafe had said, or if, instead, they were lining the walls of a cave by the shore. I selected photos that were good clear pictures of the girls and removed them, taking care to note their positions and leaving the pins in place.

  I looked around for a mirror. I couldn't see one in the body of the church, but then weren't mirrors symbols in themselves? I recalled that I had been told once that mirrors were the domain of the father of lies, Satan himself. An image of a Baptist minister who had visited my school when I was a young child popped into my head. He had talked of brimstone and fire and everlasting damnation until the teacher had thanked him coldly for his time and ushered him out. He wasn't invited back. I wondered what he would think of me now, with my affinity for mirrors and ability to change my appearance at will. It would have been enough to give him apoplexy then, but he would be an old man now, if he was still alive. Maybe he had mellowed, though somehow I doubted it.

  Wandering around slowly, I deduced that even if mirrors were the symbol of the devil, you still wouldn't want to stand up in front of a congregation without combing your hair first. A door marked 'Vestry' provided the answer. I entered and found a room with a rack of vestments hanging on one side and on the other a mirror at head height. On a night-stand under the mirror was a small bowl containing pot-pourri, adding a homely touch.

  I set the bowl aside and, taking the photos, laid them out on the night-stand below the mirror. The smiling faces of Debbie Vaughan, Gillian Mayhew, Trudy Bilbardie and Helen Franks looked out at me. I set Debbie's picture on top and looked at it, trying to get a feel for the girl from the photo. In the dim light of my torch the face was bleached out, but maybe the photo had been overexposed. Her eyes were bright and she seemed excited about something. Maybe it was a birthday celebration, or a party.

  I set my hand on the mirror and focused on the photo. "Debbie? Debbie Vaughan?"

  The mirror chilled under my hand and the glass clouded. A soft glow crept into the vestry. Whereas before it had felt enclosed and small, it now felt as if it had expanded. I had opened a window to somewhere else and the sounds from that place were drifting through. There was a breeze, and a clock chimed distantly. Then it veered, the clock chime dimming as if we were moving away fast. There was a motorbike sound, but we passed it as if we were speeding in the opposite direction. It hovered, the sound of cars somewhere below.

  "Debbie? Where are you?" My voice was like a whisper on the breeze.

  The sound suddenly focused and burst into the room. The heavy beat of dance music, driving bass over a thumping electronic drum beat. I released the mirror, suddenly conscious of the cacophony and worried I would attract attention, but not before I had heard voices. A female voice shouted over the music.

  "Yeah, a'right?" The accent was unmistakable. I had found Debbie.

  I listened intently, expecting any moment for thumping to sound on the outer door with demands to come out and show myself. The church stayed silent. Wherever Debbie was, she sounded as if she was having a good time. I was beginning to think the whole missinggirl scenario was a wild goose chase to keep me busy while they dealt with Altair and his entourage back at the courts.

  I swapped the pictures over, replacing Debbie's face with Gillian's. She looked relaxed and comfortable. Her frizzy hair framed her face as she leaned forward to speak to someone. The picture looked as if it had been taken without her knowledge and I could imagine her being shy and not wanting to be photographed.

  My hand returned to the mirror. "Gillian? Gillian Mayhew?"

  The sense of opening repeated, shifting the ambience. It sounded close: the wash of waves and the distant screech of gulls echoed around. Was she here in Ravensby?

  The sound expanded as if we were rising, the waves receding and the breeze stiffening. It diffused until we were far above the landscape. Was she up in the hills? The sound continued to expand, until everything was faint and diffuse.

  "Gillian?"

  Under my hand, the sound dissipated and faded to nothing. The mirror dimmed, then cleared.

  I tried again. "Gillian? Are you there?"

  The mirror clouded under my hand momentarily, then cleared. No sound emerged.

  My mind sifted through the possibilities. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was unconscious, or in a coma in a hospital somewhere. Maybe she just couldn't be reached.

  Or maybe her eyeless gaze flickered in candlelight over a darkened pool in a cave by the beach.

  TEN

  I took my hand from the mirror. I'd thought this would give me some certainty, not leave me with a gnawing doubt. Surely I would be able to tell if someone was alive? I slid the picture of Gillian towards me and looked down at her. If I couldn't find her through the mirror, where was she?

  I swapped her photo for the one of Trudy Bilbardie. Trudy was pressed between two other girls, all in long dresses, bright smiles for the camera, flowers in their hair and dressed up in finery, perhaps for a party or a summer ball. I knew which girl was Trudy because she was in the other photos pinned to the board in the church, but this had been the clearest and the best. I wondered whether th
e two other girls missed their friend and what they thought had become of her.

  I placed my hand on the mirror and murmured to the glass.

  "Trudy. Trudy Bilbardie. Where are you?"

  The result was the same as for Gillian. The soundscape of Ravensby opened up and expanded until it dissipated into nothing. After that, no amount of trying would persuade it to focus. Was it the pictures? If they had changed their appearance, dyed their hair, changed their look, would that prevent me from finding them through the mirror? While part of me hoped that might be the explanation, another part came to a simpler conclusion.

  I swapped pictures again. This time, Helen Franks had simply posed for the shot. She was smiling, but with that slightly forced look that people have when the photographer waits a little too long.

  "Where are you, Helen Franks? Are you there?"

  The mirror around my hand misted and then went milky white, spilling moonlight on to the photos. Background sounds shifted and wavered. Then the sound suddenly focused. It became muted and soft as if it were close or contained, matching the ambience of the vestry. Then came a whine, some way off, like a small animal. It grizzled then paused, then grizzled again. Suddenly it developed into a full-blown wail, a baby's insistent cry, a repetitive insistent yell that would not be denied.

  Soft rustling followed, then another voice emerged. "All right, I'm coming, I'm coming. Mummy's coming. I can hear you."

  There was a shuffling, shifting noise and the wail was briefly muffled, then came again, even louder.

  "There, I've got you. I've got you. There, there. Shhhhhh. There's no need for that, is there? It's all here for you."

  There was a snuffling, mumbling noise and then a soft rhythmic slurping.

  "There, then. That's better. You were just hungry, weren't you? All better now. All better."

  Feeling as if I was spying on something deeply personal, I gently removed my hand, not wanting to disturb that moment of quiet intimacy, even slightly. Wherever Helen Franks was, she was probably sleepdeprived, irritable and wondering whether she could cope, but that was motherhood. I had found her and she was well. I didn't want to intrude any further.