"My God, what's that?" one of the women cried, eyes wide.
"Can you lock this door?" Church demanded. It was of a reinforced design to contain a fire.
The woman nodded in confusion, fumbling for a bunch of keys in her pockets. Through the door, the beast's rasping breath drew closer. There was a clang as it jumped on the hot food counter and then a dull thud as it landed on the other side. As the woman located the key, Church snatched it from her hands and secured the door. They retreated to the other side of the room and ducked down behind a stainless steel unit just as the dog thundered against it.
"What's out there?" the other woman whimpered.
Church looked to Ruth. "Black Shuck," she said in a small, cracking voice. She suddenly started to shake from the cold and the shock. Church slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. "Is it going to be like this all the way?" she said weakly. "Never being able to rest?"
There was another crash against the door and they all jumped.
"What's going on?" one of the cooks screamed. She crawled away with the other woman, casting angry, frightened glances at Church, Ruth and Laura.
"How can we hold off something like that?" Ruth said. "It's going to get us sooner or later."
"The dog isn't the worst of it," Church replied fatalistically. "You heard what Tom said. It's a precursor, a portent."
"For what?" Laura asked. As if in answer, there came a mighty clattering on the roof far above them, rumbling from one side of the building to the other; like hoofbeats. The dog howled, in warning or welcome.
Ruth saw the vaguest shadow pass across Laura's features; in the imposing edifice of her confidence it was as if the foundations had shattered. Cautiously, Ruth reached out a comforting hand to Laura's arm; Laura flinched, didn't look at her, but nor did she knock it away.
They stayed huddled there for the rest of the night, listening to the sounds beyond the door; the grunts and growls, snufflings and crashings that couldn't have come from any beast born on earth. On one occasion, after a forty-fiveminute gulf of silence, they thought it had finally departed, but just as Church was about to turn the key in the lock it crashed against the door, almost bursting it inwards. It was a warning that they heeded.
When the faintest glimmer of dawn first brushed the clouds, Church ventured to the slatted glass windows and opened them just enough to look out. The motorway was empty, the storm blown out, although the clouds still roiled above them. And in that surging vapour he had the uneasy feeling he could glimpse dark figures on horseback, riding the clouds, lost among them; seeking refuge from the light, ready to return another night.
He turned to the others. "Let's go," he said.
The restaurant was empty, the dog gone, as Church knew it would be. The two cooks ran out, crying with relief, to greet the checkout youth who emerged from beneath the till looking like he'd been sedated; he hadn't come between the monstrous dog and its prey, so it had left him alone. The reinforced kitchen door was gouged and splintered.
The rest of the services seemed deserted, but Church eventually located some members of staff in the management office. In a room beyond they could see the covered body of the man who lost his arm to the dog. Phone lines had been down throughout the night, so no emergency services could have been called; even mobiles hadn't worked. Some kind of electrical disturbance caused by the storm, the staff said, but that didn't explain what had happened to those who had gone off in their cars to fetch help and had not been heard from since. No one seemed quite able to believe that what had taken place had actually happened. They talked of wild dogs, as if there had been a pack, and seemed oblivious to anything uncanny. Church, Ruth and Laura returned to the car park, leaving them trying to impose some order on an event that wouldn't accept it.
As they approached the car they noticed the interior light was on and one door was slightly ajar. They circled the Nissan cautiously, suddenly on guard, until they noticed the boot was open too, the contents of their bags strewn around the interior. A knife or screwdriver had been crudely forced into the keyhole.
"Bastards!" Laura said. "We've really been hit with the bad luck stick."
"I don't think it's a coincidence," Church said as he sifted through their possessions.
"You think they were looking for the stone?" Laura asked, her hand automatically going to the rucksack.
He nodded. "But whatever was here last night wouldn't have jimmied open the boot."
They repacked their possessions in silence, filled up with petrol and returned to the motorway, haunted by too many unanswered questions.
After the storm, the day turned bright and clear. At that early hour the motorway was eerily devoid of even the slow caravans of lorries lumbering towards Exeter and Torbay. The scenery gradually changed as they crossed the county line, the tranquil green fields of Somerset giving way to Devon's wilder landscape of hills, rocky outcroppings and impenetrable, dark woods, filled with romance in the glimmering post-dawn light. At Exeter, the lantern, which Ruth held in her lap like a baby, began to tug westwards. The motorway died just south of the city anyway, so they picked up the A30 which ran all the way along the spine of Cornwall to the end of the world. They were only on it for a short while as the lantern suddenly flickered with irritation and guided them on to a tiny B road which spiked into the heart of Dartmoor.
"I don't like it when we get too far away from civilisation." Ruth glanced uncomfortably out of the window at the disappearing habitation as they moved toward the looming expanse of Dartmoor on the horizon.
"You should see the map," Laura said, poring over Church's AA Book of the Road. "The roads around here look about good enough for pig-droving, and there're only a handful of villages, all with about three houses in them. Welcome to Nowhere."
As the fields became scrubby uplands and windswept rocks, Ruth said uneasily, "I wonder what's out there." Then, after a moment or two when neither of them answered, "I want tall buildings, cars, pollution-"
"I don't think that would be any safer," Church said. "It's just an illusion."
Laura suddenly craned her neck to peer through the side window up into the blue sky. "Hey! There's another one! I thought they slept during the day?"
Ruth followed her gaze. An enormous owl swooped on the air currents, dipped low, then soared again, but it seemed to have no trouble keeping up with them. Ruth squinted, trying to pluck details from the silhouette; she knew instinctively it was her familiar, the same one that had attacked the beast in the car park.
For some reason she didn't quite understand, Ruth still hadn't got around to telling them about her meeting with the mysterious girl in the glade. Although she had been disturbed by it, in some way it had seemed intensely private and to talk about it felt instinctively like a betrayal of trust; which was a strange way to think about it. Besides, in the cold light of day it hadn't seemed frightening at all.
"That one at the services saved our lives," Laura continued.
"It doesn't make sense," Church said. "Why would a bird do something like that? They're normally smart."
Ruth didn't answer. Now she was speculating on why the girl had particularly used that word familiar, with all its connotations. She followed the owl's progress carefully, and wondered.
Soon the last signs of civilisation disappeared. As if on cue, another storm blew up from nowhere. It swamped the blue sky with slate-coloured clouds that billowed and twisted in high winds like the smoke from some conflagration, and drew a line of shadow across the land. Lightning flashed on the horizon and thunder boomed out dully. Church flicked on the wipers a second after the first drops hit, but it was like someone had thrown a bucket of water at the windscreen. He pulled the car over to the side of the road in the hope that it would pass and instantly felt exhaustion overcome him. Reluctantly he suggested they find somewhere to rest.
When the rain lessened slightly, they continued slowly on their way, but there was little to see. They passed through a place ca
lled Two Bridges right in the centre of Dartmoor which seemed to consist of just one house and a sprawling, white-painted pub tucked away in a hollow. And then, as they crested the ridge beyond, they came across an ancient inn made of Devonshire stone with a half-timbered upper storey; squat and heavy, it looked as if it had been thrown up out of the ground by some force of nature. The Elizabethan windows were a mass of tiny panes, too dark to see through, although Church did catch sight of the welcoming flicker of an open fire. An old wooden sign swung in the gale featuring a hand-painted design of a vaguely human face made out of leaves and the legend The Green Man, the ancient title which offered a particular welcome to travellers. A small note in the window said Accommodation.
Church pulled the car on to the tiny pockmarked car park and they sprinted through the rain to the stone porch. The door was locked-it was well before opening time-but Church hammered on a brass knocker until they heard movement within. The door swung open to reveal a thin man in tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt that flapped on his bony frame. He was severely balding, with just tufts of black hair curling back over his ears. A thick moustache hung like a brush over his top lip. He had eyes like a rodent, darting and curious, and a scar curved over the right one, but his smile was pleasant enough.
"Waifs and strays from the storm?" he enquired in a fey, accentless voice.
"We could do with some rooms if you've got any spare," Church said.
"As you can see, it's not exactly Piccadilly Circus round here at this time of year so I think you might be in luck." He stepped back and swept his arm theatrically to invite them in. The tasteful decor of the pub reflected the building's great age: stone flags, dark wood tables, benches and stools, a few line drawings and old photographs on the stone walls. The fire Church had seen earlier burned heartily in a fireplace big enough to have two small bench seats inside the chimney breast. The landlord saw Church looking at it. "Nice, isn't it? I have to keep it going, even in summer, though. There's a superstition in these parts that if the fire ever goes out the landlord will meet a terrible death. I don't believe it myself, naturally, being a sophisticated urbanite, but then again I'm not about to take unnecessary risks."
There were only three guest bedrooms, none of them taken, huddled up where the sloping roof made Church stoop; the tiny windows were low down so he had to bend even further to look out. The rooms were cosy with brass beds, old-fashioned bedspreads and an open grate in every room. The landlord, who introduced himself as Simon, busied himself lighting a fire in each of them, "to take the damp out of the air." He seemed to enjoy the company and within minutes his non-stop chat had given them the abridged version of his life story. He used to run a bar in Leeds with his partner Stuart, but after a holiday in Devon they'd decided to buy The Green Man, which was then ramshackle and in danger of being pulled down. "We're missionaries," he said sardonically. "We're here to bring wit and sophistication to a backward culture which doesn't realise the importance of good food, good wine and perfect interior design."
"Leeds to Dartmoor is a dramatic move," Church said.
Simon shrugged. "It felt right, that's all I can say. Too many people expect you to follow the unwritten rules, but sometimes it's better just to go with what you feel inside. So I can't buy a good shirt or a decent pair of shoes round herebut at least I'm queen of all she surveys. Just call me a drop-out."
There was something he wasn't telling them and when Ruth asked him about the jagged scar above his right eye he shifted uncomfortably. "Small minds don't know much, but they know how to aim well." It seemed he would leave it there, but the issue obviously still burned. "We had a nice house in a nice suburb, but gradually we noticed the ambience of the area changing. Normally you expect a drug gang or some criminal layabouts to change the mood of a neighbourhood, but in this case it was the God Squad." He sucked on his lip angrily. "Born Agains. Fundamentalists. All those racist comments about ethnic groups colonising an area, well, no one is a patch on them. They were some particular sect based at an academy they'd had built in the area. I don't know what stripe-they're all the same to me. He didn't die for me."
His eyes narrowed as he searched their faces for any anger at his comments, then he continued: "They snapped up a house for sale in the street at well over the asking price. Then, whenever one came on the market, they were always first in the queue. It didn't take long before we were infested." He sighed. "You know, I'm an easy-going person-it takes a lot to rattle my cage. But it soon became obvious they didn't want people like Stuart and me in the area. Their Rule Book sees us as the spawn of Satan or something. I mean, so much for the Christian hand of fellowship. We used to know everyone in the street and we all looked out for each other. Suddenly we couldn't find anyone to talk to us. There were little things ... constant calls to the police complaining that our car was double-parked. Then I got a call from the local paper. I used to help out at a nursery in my spare time, just organising parties, entertaining the kiddies, that sort of thing. I'd done it for years. But suddenly there'd been complaints that I wasn't a fit and proper person, whatever that means. It was after that that things started getting mean."
"How awful," Ruth said with honest concern.
He shrugged dismissively. "Oh, it's one of our burdens in life. Anyway, one thing led to another and then one night when we were walking home some sneaky little coward threw a half-brick out of the shadows. It caught me just here." He traced the scar, then snapped his hand into a fist. "I wouldn't have minded, but they got blood all over my favourite shirt," he said with a bitter smile.
"And that's why you moved?" Ruth asked.
"Actually, no. I've never run from things that threaten my way of life. But then there were so many of them they started standing for the council, elbowing their way on to school boards, anywhere where they could have influence. Once values like that get a political platform you know the apocalypse is on the horizon. Agents of the Devil, all of them. Stuart and I were on the next train out."
He seemed filled with a terrible rage at the injustice of it all, but he moved on to enthusing with passion about his plans for the pub. It seemed obvious from his comments that he had found some kind of acceptance in the small, rural community not normally noted for an outward-looking attitude; the irony was not lost on them.
He would have talked all afternoon if they'd let him, but eventually he wandered off to let them settle in. They chose their rooms and went straight to bed, listening to the rain gust against the windows, straining to hear the howl of a dog away in the wind, afraid to close their eyes.
Church's dreams were tumultuous and disturbing. The woman from the Watchtower was there, beseeching him to do something, but he couldn't hear her words, just see her troubled expression and her outstretched arms. And then there were things circling him, drawing closer: low, bestial shapes that at times moved on four legs, then on two. Behind him he felt eyes boring into his head and an overwhelming feeling of dread, but his legs were stone and he couldn't turn to see who or what was waiting there. A sudden pain stabbed into his hand and he looked down to behold the Black Rose. A thorn had protruded mysteriously from the stem and had pierced the fleshy part of his palm. The blood fell like rain, splashing his clothes, staining the ground beneath his feet, running away in a trickle that turned into a torrent.
He woke with a start. Twilight had fallen and the fire had been reduced to a few raw embers in the grate: the faint red glow was strangely comforting. He couldn't believe he had slept so long. Remembering the fading remnants of his dream, he pulled the Black Rose from his pocket and examined it cautiously. There was no sign of any thorn. He stroked it lovingly, then glanced into the shadows in the corners of the room.
"Marianne? Can you hear me?" His voice rustled like paper in the still air. He waited hopefully for a moment and then swung his legs off the bed and rested his head in his hands.
Through the window, Dartmoor looked cold and menacing, a muddy smear of charcoal and grey and brown beneath a churnin
g sky. At least the rain had stopped.
There was faint music coming through the floorboards, the Pet Shop Boys singing "Being Boring" so he made his way downstairs to the bar to see Simon dancing alone in front of the roaring fire. He squealed when Church spoke.
"Lordy, you gave me a start! Do you always creep around like a thief in the night?"
Church shrugged. "I didn't know I was creeping."
"Well you were!" Simon flounced to the bar, then did another little dance and finished with a forgiving smile. "Enjoy your beauty sleep?"
Church nodded. "Any chance of something to eat?"
"You're a lucky boy. Stuart's a gourmet chef and when I say gourmet, I mean to die for. He was out all day buying some goodies in Plymouth, so we have some mouth-watering delights for tonight's menu. Salmon, John Dory, lamb in a red currant sauce, something very delicious with pasta and squid ink. You'll think you've died and gone to heaven. They've started to come from all over to sample his wares, so to speak."
He disappeared behind the bar and returned with a handwritten menu. "I hope you'll be staying around later. It's entertainment night. A little spot of glamour in a bleak landscape."
Church smiled falsely, but his mind was elsewhere: Marianne, dead on the floor; the young Marianne, dead in his arms; his own body lying in a stream. Sometimes he wondered how he managed to keep going.
His food arrived quickly, and the pan-roasted chicken and spring onions was as good as Simon had promised. It seemed forever since he'd eaten, and as he was tucking into it hungrily Ruth emerged, her hair still wet from the shower. She looked fully refreshed, untroubled even, and flashed him a warm smile as she slipped in opposite him.
"Thinking of your stomach again," she said, leaning over to pluck a piece of chicken from his plate.
"You seem different." He searched her face, which seemed to glow with an inner light.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "I've only noticed it since the other night when we camped out. You seem stronger somehow."
World's End (Age of Misrule, Book 1) Page 22
