Jago

by Kim Newman

  The worst migraine he had ever had expanded from the base of his brain, filling his head with pain. His chipped tooth exploded in an agony that picked out the nerves wired over his jaw and cheekbones. His head was an anatomical specimen, mapped with lines of pain.

  He could see again, enough to keep away from the spreading flames. He had lost his slippers, and his bare feet were messed up. His trousers were ripped and his bare back felt as if it had been flayed. He had rolled over a patch of stinging nettles.

  Where was the war machine?

  He turned away from the fire and began to run, heading for the woods. He slammed full into someone alive, and felt arms go round his chest, then roughly push him away.

  ‘Fuck!’ said someone. Young. London accent.

  Paul’s eyesight returned painfully. It was a kid, bald except for a central hedge of bright-red hair. He was shaking, staring over Paul’s head at something he did not believe.

  Paul turned and saw fire through the trees. And the war machine, stepping back into the curtain of flame. It stood out as a monolithic black skeleton for a second, and was gone. Not burned, just gone.

  ‘Fuck!’ said the kid.

  He had seen it too!

  Paul clutched the kid’s torn T-shirt with both hands. ‘Did you see?’ he asked. ‘Did you see?’

  The kid’s pupils were shrunk to needle points. ‘Fuck,’ he repeated, eyes watering. ‘Fuck.’

  Paul shook the kid, and the kid punched his shoulder, not hard, just to break away. He wore a studded leather wristlet. Right now, he looked fourteen years old.

  Then the sirens shrilled, and jets of water burst through the flames. Suddenly, Paul was soaked and standing in leafy mud. There was a lot of shouting, and there were people everywhere.

  He had never fainted before.

  15

  They arrived before the fire brigade. Lytton took care to park on the road, not obstructing the driveway. When the fire engine turned up, he pegged the fire chief immediately and asked what he could do to help.

  ‘Tell you what,’ the man said, ‘you’re in charge of keeping everybody else out of our bloody way.’

  ‘Fine.’

  The chief grinned carnivorously. ‘We’ll see.’

  It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. People sprang from the ground all over the site like skeleton warriors from dragon’s teeth. There was no sense of organization anywhere.

  The fire engine had to go slowly up the drive to squeeze past the house. Then it put on a burst of speed and lurched across the garden. It went destructively as far up the hill as it could, finally halting, jammed between two well-rooted trees.

  Lytton waved people back, but it was impossible to keep unwanted volunteers and morbid sightseers away. There were several old people in pyjamas and dressing gowns, and as many teenagers as he’d had on his work gang this afternoon. He saw Teddy Gilpin with a mixed group of festival kids, and signed to the boy to come over.

  ‘Teddy,’ he said, ‘get your lot to form a chain across the top of the garden. Stop idiots from getting up into the orchard and messing the firemen about, okay?’

  Teddy snapped off a military salute and went back to his friends, dishing out orders like a little Montgomery. That had probably been a very neat bit of strategy, Lytton thought. If anyone was going to get into trouble, it would be the kids; but, with a bit of authority to weigh them down, they might come through responsibly. Of course, they might also turn out to be disastrously inept.

  Near the house, firemen wrenched iron covers off the drains and fed pump-driven hoses into them. Lytton overheard a hose-unspooling fireman complain about the drought. With the water table low, it was difficult to get enough pressure in the hoses.

  There was only one engine for this call, and it was small by big-city standards. It was manned by four efficient part-timers, rugby-club types, and the chief. They appeared to know what they were doing, but they’d be outgunned if this turned into a full-scale forest fire.

  Lytton saw flames at the top of the orchard, clawing the sky. He heard a rush of water, and jumped off a thick hose as it unflattened into a rigid tube. There was cheering as hoses started gushing.

  ‘Sir,’ said a girl, as if he were a teacher, ‘sir, my boyfriend’s up there.’

  Lytton recognized Jessica. She had spent the afternoon sponging B stage. Miserable about something, she had still done a good job.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ferg. He was up at the camp.’

  He couldn’t see Jessica’s face well in the dark, but knew from her voice she was upset.

  ‘There’s been no one hurt.’

  ‘Can we go up and look for him?’

  ‘Not yet. Wait ’til the fire’s out, eh? I’m sure he’ll be okay.’

  She wasn’t happy about that, or particularly convinced. ‘Someone said a man went up there before the brigade came.’

  Before he could think, another car turned up. Its headlights picked out the people standing in twos and threes in the garden. A rumpled man got out, clutching a black bag. The local doctor, Lytton hoped. The fire brigade must have called him in.

  A rocket of flame shot into the sky above the hill and crashed down. There was more cheering. The blazes started to go out. It was like bonfire night.

  * * *

  James suggested Susan check out the house. She took Marie-Laure with her, because the sister would hardly be much use for anything else. The verandah lights were on, and there was someone in the kitchen. Susan rapped on the open back door, and stepped in. A pretty, youngish woman looked up from a tray of tea things, startled and fragile. Susan flinched at the woman’s poured-out fear, then realized Marie-Laure was standing beside her, hatchet up like a tomahawk. Susan touched Marie-Laure’s hand, and the axe slowly descended to hang at her side. ‘Hi, I’m Susan Ames. Can we help?’

  ‘H-H-H-Hazel,’ stuttered the woman. Hazel was, Susan realized, barely more than a girl. Probably not yet twenty.

  ‘The fire brigade are here,’ Susan said. ‘They’re doing everything that has to be done.’

  ‘I know. I’ve made some tea.’

  ‘Good idea. Let me help.’

  ‘We’ll have to get cups from the pottery. Otherwise there won’t be enough to go round.’

  She was trembling, near hysteria. Susan hugged her, and she responded instantly, gripping tight, fists fastened to the folds of Susan’s jacket. Susan felt the other woman’s heart beating near her own, smelled recent shampoo in her hair, and had to shut her mind against the confusion welling out of Hazel’s like tears.

  ‘Sh-sh-sh,’ she cooed, ‘it’ll be fine.’

  * * *

  Paul? What had happened to Paul?

  Hazel clung tight to Susan Ames, but allowed herself to be led out of the kitchen. From the verandah, they could see the garden. Someone had turned on the lights in the showroom, and the place was like a well-lit playing field.

  She felt weak at the knees. Mike and Mirrie would be furious. The fire engine had churned across their lawn, ploughing ruts, crushing completely a forsythia by the kiln shed. (The pots? Were her pots all right?) There was an unfamiliar squelch underfoot. Mud. She’d forgotten about mud. Water was streaming down the hill in rivulets, washing away bare soil and dead vegetation. A surge of earthy, lumpy water rose over her boots. Susan practically lifted her out of the way. And people. There were people all over the place. People she didn’t know.

  She felt calming waves coming from Susan, and held her as a child holds her mother. Wendy from the Agapemone lunged enormously into view and talked at them both. Hazel shrank against Susan’s side. Lots of people were talking, but only Susan seemed to be speaking a language she understood. Wendy finished babbling and went away; Susan kept soothing her, telling her everything would be fine. As long as she listened only to the other woman’s voice, she could believe that.

  The fire was out now. Smiling firemen were being clapped on the back and making jokes.

  ‘James,’ Susan calle
d out to a tall, commanding man. ‘This is Hazel. She lives here. She’s worried. A friend of hers went up the hill.’

  How did Susan know that? She hadn’t said anything about Paul. Just thought.

  James looked up the hill, peering through invisible binoculars.

  ‘They’re bringing someone down now.’

  Two black-uniformed firemen, faces camouflaged with soot, came into the light, supporting someone between them. It was Paul, dressing gown gone, head nodding unconscious.

  ‘Doctor,’ shouted James, ‘over here.’

  James and another man went to the firemen and took Paul’s weight off them. They seemed glad to be rid of him. Susan left Hazel and helped James lay Paul on the grass. Alone and cold without Susan’s reassuring touch, Hazel struggled to keep calm.

  ‘He’s just fainted,’ said the doctor, his hand on Paul’s rising and falling chest. ‘No harm done, I think.’

  She felt her knees going again, but caught herself in time. ‘I’ll get a blanket,’ she said.

  * * *

  Teddy thought he was doing a good job. He had spread his ‘men’—Kev, Dolar, Syreeta, Gary, Salim, Pam and the Toad—in a picket line between two of the Pottery buildings, and wasn’t letting anyone unofficial get by. He had particularly enjoyed telling Kev’s dad not to go up the hill, and was proud he’d recognized Dr Sweet and let him through unopposed. People were listening to him, following his suggestions, taking orders. Adults, grumpy farmers he’d known all his life, meekly stood back and did what he told them.

  He hoped James would be pleased with him.

  There were grumbles in the ranks: the Toad didn’t want to get his clothes messed up and was prissily jumping from side to side to avoid the streams of mud, and Dolar was too pissed on scrumpy to stand up straight. But mainly they kept together, and Teddy knew that was his doing. He wondered if he might have a chance with Pam. She didn’t have a pocket of fat under her chin like Sharon or eyes that glowed in the dark like Allison, and he got the idea she was on the way out with her darkie boyfriend. She’d smiled at him a couple of times; then again, she’d smiled a couple of times at everyone in trousers.

  As the fire went out, it got more difficult to see his line of people. Dolar had definitely fallen over, and Syreeta was moaning at him rather than keeping a watch. He couldn’t see the Toad at all. Teddy supposed it didn’t matter if the line broke up now. The crisis was over.

  This was it, he decided, he’d go over and chat up Pam. He was still a bit drunk, but that was probably a good thing. He talked better when he was drunk. Then his wrist was grabbed and his arm yanked up hard behind his back. He yelled as pain erupted under his shoulderblades.

  ‘’Lo, Teddy,’ said his brother, mouth close to Teddy’s ear. ‘You’m playin’ toy soldiers, then?’

  * * *

  Wendy had tried to help, but there wasn’t much left to do. Susan and James had looked after Paul, and Hazel was wrapped up with that. The fire was practically out before anyone had a chance to do anything. Irritated, she didn’t even have anyone to talk to.

  Derek was lost somewhere, and she was in the middle of a hostile crowd. She half heard nasty comments and saw several malicious stares. She recognized Jenny Steyning’s father, exchanging mutters with some hard-faced men. It was as if they blamed her for the fire.

  It wasn’t fair. In Alder, they always picked on the Agapemone. She wished Beloved were here, exerting His calming influence. That would shut up Steyning and his cronies.

  She looked in the crowd for Derek. All she found was Marie-Laure, blankly ecstatic, praying in relief at the deliverance.

  ‘…just superficial cuts and bruises. I’ll clean and dress them back in the house…’

  ‘…any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘…it weren’t the kids’ camp fire. We found that a couple of hundred yards off. They done a proper job, banked it with stones an’ all. Must of been the fucking heat…’

  ‘…never seen no point in this pottery lark. Bloody waste of money, if you ask me. Three pound fifty for that little mug…’

  ‘…hey, she’s one of they…’

  ‘…stripped to the waist and weedin’, he were. Shan’t be surprised if’n he’s in a bleddy coma…’

  ‘…anyone seen Danny Keough today?’

  ‘…it be these hippies, I’m tellin’ ye…’

  It got darker as she went up the hill. People were just shapes. Where was Derek?

  Just as she thought she had gone too far and there were no more people to be found, she almost tripped over a girl squatting in the grass, long hair dark over her face. She wiped her hair aside and Wendy thought she saw the flash of cat’s eyes. There was someone else, standing in a pool of black under an apple tree. Someone familiar. A waft of leftover smoke passed by, and Wendy caught the aftersmell of burning, and beneath that the stench of rotten meat. He came out of his shadow and smiled with what was left of his face.

  ‘Hello, Wendy,’ said Badmouth Ben, ‘long time…’

  * * *

  Allison’s heart expanded as Ben took the fat woman’s chin in his black claw. Ben wanted to teach Wendy a lesson, and Allison was excited, eager to know what the lesson would be. Ben kissed Wendy, leaving smears of himself on her face. He snickered, bright-pink tongue flicking out between black teeth. He spun the woman round and got her neck in an elbow lock. She tugged at his arm, pulling away ragged streaks of leather. He reached inside her shirt and started mauling her fat teats, saying things in her ear. She stopped struggling and shut her eyes fast. Ben started to drag the woman back into his shadow, then let go of her. Wendy fell down and Ben was gone. Allison crept over, feeling a tingle in her bloodless foot. Her cheesewire was wound too tight. She slapped the woman until her eyes were open, leaving angry red marks on her flabby cheeks. Wendy bleated like a sheep. ‘Catch you later,’ Allison said. ‘TTFN.’

  * * *

  In the van, Jessica was all over him, hugging him, wetly kissing him. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think. It had been big like a dinosaur, but also like a machine, it had pissed fire on the woods, it couldn’t be real because it was from a science-fiction nightmare, it couldn’t be walking, burning, existing. Finally, after the last stern warning about their fire from the firemen, they had all piled into the Dormobile, and Salim was driving them to the official camp site. Ferg held Jessica, his eyes shut until they hurt, trying to see only the darkness, trying to wipe ten minutes’ worth of memory out of his brain for ever.

  * * *

  Beloved let her watch everything on the camera obscura. It didn’t work as well at night, and large patches of the tiny tabletop projection were just blackness. But she saw where fires burned. Beloved was unaffected by the fuss. The small, silent people had clustered around the flames like insects. Now, they’d gone away, and the phantom village was still. He took Jenny’s hand and touched it to the healed wound above His heart. The darkness imploded, and there was only light. Hungrily, He kissed her.

  16

  Lytton had to stay in the orchard once the fire was out. This was the sort of thing he was in Alder to look out for. Garnett would want a full report. Even if the incident turned out not to have any paranormal aspect, it’d be as well to get it discounted now as to rake literally through the ashes later. Between them, science and bureaucracy could spin this out into a three-month headache.

  He took stock of the situation in the garden. Susan was with the doctor from Langport and the young couple from the Pottery. He hoped she could take care of things down here in civilization. He touched an invisible hat brim to her, and she nodded back. The girl was pretty cool for a spook. Pretty for a spook, too. Being around her wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was reassuring to think she was on his side.

  The firemen were down from the orchard, stowing their gear. Two hoses slithered down the hill in competition as they were reeled in on giant spools, nozzles bouncing. The chief ticked off one of his team for being careless with the equipment, and the
man went off to pick up the hoses by their heads and make sure they weren’t clogged with grass or earth. His job done, the chief lit up a cigarette and posed, hands on hips, looking up at the steaming patch where the fire had been, waiting to be admired and congratulated.

  Most of the rubberneck squadron had melted away, interest evaporated now the fire was doused and they’d enjoyed the opportunity to poke about in other people’s business, but there were one or two people milling about in the still-lit-up showroom. He saw Sharon Coram, a lank-haired, dull-faced young girl the lads sometimes called ‘the village pump’, slip an ashtray off one of the display tables and into a parka pocket. He let it go. He couldn’t take care of everything. Still, he’d be careful not to use her in any position of trust on his festival crew.

  ‘Bleddy townies an’t got the sense they’s born with,’ said a harsh voice in the dark. ‘Startin’ fires an’ all.’

  ‘Arr,’ came the assenting reply.

  Casually, Lytton walked past the two old-timers as they wondered at the foolhardiness of foreigners. They didn’t pay him any attention. He strolled up the hill, away from the lights of the house and showroom. After climbing steadily for a few hundred yards, he looked back and saw the Pottery as an oasis of illumination in a desert of dark. He waited fifteen minutes, watching activity die down, people drift away. Then, the showroom lights went off. Headlights shifted, and he heard the last of the vehicles leaving. He’d given Derek the keys to the Land-Rover and instructions to get the Agapemone crowd home. Two lights still burned in the house. It was cool now, almost cold. He turned up his jacket collar. A few months of drought had made him forget what cold was like. He started walking again, letting his eyes grow used to the dark.

  He was trudging through mud. There weren’t even embers from the fire. He was careful, taking his steps slowly. It would not do to break an ankle or walk into a tree. The gun in his pocket bumped against his chest like a pacemaker. He reached into his jacket and transferred the pistol to his hip pocket. The grip felt comfortable in his hand. He continued to hold the Browning in his pocket. Childish, he knew, but reassuring. No birds sang, but insects sawed the night.