by Simon Toyne
The nurse grabbed a porter and was already moving the trolley away when the entrance doors burst open and two more blood-soaked monks were wheeled in: same wounds; same massive blood loss.
What the hell was going on?
She followed the first into a cubicle, did a quick assessment then administered the same dose of coagulating compound. She heard another doctor hollering for five litres of O-positive from down the hall. She moved to the next cubicle in a daze, battering aside the curtain as she went. Beyond it lay another surprise. Another monk, only this one wasn’t bleeding; he was standing beside a trolley, arguing with a nurse, and holding a young woman in his arms.
‘I’m not leaving her,’ he said.
He had a large amount of blood on his cassock, though not nearly as much as the others. The girl on the trolley was drenched, the soak pattern suggesting massive neck trauma. Dr Kulin stepped forward and pushed down the neck of her T-shirt. The skin beneath was stained crimson, but she could see no sign of any cuts. ‘Delivery notes?’ she asked, searching for the source of the bleeding.
‘Vitals low but steady,’ the nurse said. ‘Blood Pressure eighty over fifty.’
Dr Kulin frowned. It was low enough to indicate major blood loss, but she just couldn’t find the source. Maybe the blood belonged to someone else. ‘Keep her on a drip and monitor the BP.’ She smiled at the girl, seeing her properly for the first time. ‘Other than that, you seem fine.’ She was momentarily transfixed by the almost unearthly brightness of the green eyes that stared back at her, then got a grip on herself and switched her attention to the monk.
He pulled his arm away. ‘I’m OK, really . . .’
‘Well, you won’t mind me looking then.’ She parted the bloody, shredded sleeve of his cassock to peer at the red smeared flesh beneath. The source of his bleeding was immediately apparent, a nasty deep gash right across his wrist that had obviously been quite deep. It looked a good few days old, judging by the extent of the healing, yet the blood was fresh. ‘What happened?’ Dr Kulin asked.
‘It got knocked about a bit,’ he said. ‘I’ll live. But, please. Has a woman been brought in? Looks about forty. Black hair, five six?’
Dr Kulin thought of the woman in the motorcycle helmet. ‘She’s gone to X-ray.’ The high-pitched sound of a cardiac alarm sounded somewhere behind her. ‘She’s been knocked about a bit too. But don’t worry: I think she’ll be fine.’
Chapter 147
Liv heard the squeak of shoes amongst the cacophony as the doctor and nurse hurried away. She also heard a thousand other sounds.
Since Gabriel had carried her out of the Citadel, every colour, every sound and smell called to her like living things, as if she was experiencing everything for the first time.
As they had emerged into the night from the endless, smoke-filled tunnel, and Gabriel had laid her gently down on a stretcher, she had looked up and glimpsed the new moon hanging in the sky. She’d cried when she’d seen it; it was so beautiful and fragile – and free. Yet her tears carried something other than this brimming joy; they also stung with loss. She had sought her brother, and, though the memory of exactly what she had discovered in the mountain chamber evaded her, she knew it was over, and that Samuel was gone.
Now she was in this bright and clamorous place – so familiar and yet so strange. She could hear the sound of death in the erratic breathing of the men lying around her, and the drip of their blood.
She felt Gabriel’s arms close around her, sensing her distress, and the citrus smell of him engulfed her, pushing aside the antiseptic taint of the emergency room and the metallic tang of blood and fear. She closed her eyes and sank into it, focusing only on him, and the sound of his heart thundering in his chest, rolling across the landscape of other sounds until all she could hear was its comforting beat. It was a heart that beat just for her, and tears rose fresh again, for this was as beautiful as the moon had seemed.
Then another sound crept in, low and insistent, crawling at the periphery of her consciousness.
She opened her eyes.
A bunch of lilacs, still wrapped in cellophane, lay on a narrow shelf, amongst the thermometer holders and plug sockets, a forgotten gift for a previous occupant. Lilacs . . . the state flower of New Jersey. Liv thought of home, and the life she had been living just a few days ago, and how strange that seemed to her now. The sound returned and her eye caught movement amongst the petals. A bee crawled out from the velvet depths of one blossom, hovered for a moment then disappeared into another.
‘What happened in there?’ Gabriel said, his voice vibrating through her body where it pressed against his.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, marvelling at the sound of her own voice. She held his question in her head, focusing on it until another memory fluttered past, fragmented and incomplete. She remembered her fear in the darkness, the tapering dagger, and her revulsion at its intended purpose. She remembered the green eyes that had stared into the depths of her soul, and divined her essential purpose. And as this memory flitted past it brought something else, whispering through the blood of the man who held her, shushing in her ear and soothing with its sound, just as the strength in his arms made her safe.
Ku . . . Shi . . . kaamm . . .
The whisper spread through her, giving birth to other ancient words that flowed and pulsed with Gabriel’s heartbeat.
KuShikaaM . . .
Clavis . . .
Namzāqu . . .
KuShikaaM . . .
Clavis . . .
Namzāqu . . .
And though she could not name the languages from which the words came, she understood them all, as if born with their knowledge, as if each was a fundamental part of her.
She held Gabriel more tightly as the sounds filled her head, shutting out even the beating of his heart. They clustered together, forming an image in her mind, an image which finally showed Liv who she was, and what she was.
‘KuShikaaM . . .’ the Sacrament had called her.
KuShikaaM . . .
The Key . . .
Acknowledgements
First books are odd things. They’re kind of like massive parties you spend years carefully putting together without the slightest idea if anyone will turn up.
You know your family will be there at least because they get dragged into the preparation and get to read the invite – a lot. Chief amongst these was my incredibly supportive and wise wife Kathryn whose mixture of enthusiasm and occasional harsh honesty always made me try harder. Then there were my two children, Roxy and Stan, who always seemed to know when to slip into the study when I really needed a distraction; and the grandparents – John Toyne, Irene Toyne, Ross Workman and Liz Workman – for a mixture of proof reading, taking the kids off our hands when we were both working, and never passing on any concerns they may have had about me giving up a well-paid, secure job in television to go and do something so foolhardy as write a novel.
I’d also like to thank Becky Toyne for sisterly encouragement, insider info and the list of agents I would never get but were worth approaching. One of these was LAW where, contrary to all expectation, Alice Saunders plucked me from the slush pile, dropped me a line asking for the rest of the manuscript and all of a sudden I started thinking maybe some folks would turn up to the party after all. With the formidable trio of Alice, Peta Nightingale and Mark Lucas in my corner the book got much better, and much shorter. They also brought their team of uniformly lovely and brilliant people to the table to help send out the invites. These include George Lucas at Inkwell and Sam Edenborough, Nicki Kennedy, Katherine West and Jenny Robson at ILA.
Then, finally, the guests started to arrive: first the publishers, who all said such nice things and made me wonder whose book they could possibly talking about; and now you, dear reader. So welcome to the party, and thank you – all of you – for coming.
Copyright
Copyright © Simon Toyne 2011
Simon Toyne asserts the moral right to be identi
fied as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-00-739155-4
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007426263
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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