It was a long drive from Sussex all the way back up to Greater Manchester, that sprawling conurbation that had subsumed parts of both Cheshire and Lancashire into its mass. The lanes of the motorway unrolled beneath her, like an endless path. It felt as though she were hardly driving at all, as though the car just slid along of its own accord, along a predetermined path. More than once the idea crossed her mind that if she took her hands from the wheel, her feet from the pedals – even crawled into the back seat to sleep – it would still ferry her home. Once or twice, she actually felt her hands relax their grip as if to put the idea into practice, but caught herself in time and took hold once more. She would not tell her parents of that; she would not tell anyone. They must not know how close she’d come.
At last she turned off the motorway and down a succession of B-roads; at last she was turning down the little cul-de-sac in Sale, pulling into the driveway of a bungalow. She remembered their old house and the men who’d kicked down the door. The Pinstripe Man. Such a long way away now. Her parents had come far; they’d done well, for themselves and for her.
There was movement inside the house, behind the glass of the front door. It opened; Mum came out first, arms outstretched. Dad ambled out of the house behind her. Alice took a deep breath and got out of the car.
“Oh, Alice, love.” Mum threw her arms around her, kissed her forehead and cheeks. “Oh, love, what do you look like? You look so pale. When did you last have anything to eat? You look half-starved –”
“Give her a bit of space, Ann,” Dad said. He put a hand on Mum’s shoulder, his other arm going round Alice’s. “It’s been a hard time for her. Hard time for us all.”
Mum hugged her tightly. Dad’s arms encircled them both; his lips brushed Alice’s hair. A line of Robert Frost’s came back to Alice, about home being the place where they had to take you in. But she remained stiff, unbending, wouldn’t accept the comfort she had no right to, not when her own child was ashes. But something broke and she fell against them. The crying tore out of her as if she’d swallowed cogs of metal on a chain and now they were being wrenched free of her, tearing and gouging.
Her sobs became howls, but her parents didn’t speak; they just held her. For all their faults and their mistakes, this was constant, this endured. She didn’t think she had or could have loved them more than in this moment; beautiful in their fragility and humanity, flawed and burdened by failures, but striving still.
IN THE WRITHE of the sea, the shifting patterns of blue and white, that fragile self-forgiveness was a raft and she clung onto it, steadying herself before dragging herself aboard. And then she crouched, balancing against the storm.
As she did so, the wind died and the sea levelled out.
Alice stood. I am the sea. All creation rolled beneath her, ready to change at the lightest touch of her will.
All creation; past, present and future. Time flickered before her and she stood on Collarmill Height, looking down. Days and nights flurried past: years, centuries. Men in rags of fur knelt before her, with fire and weapons and stone; she saw men of bronze and men of iron. Men in chainmail and women in linen knelt at her trickling shrine. Cavaliers fell, and Roundheads shouted of idolatry, heaped stone and earth upon her spring and took fire to the church above it while she watched, her arms held out.
The ruined church rose again, then fell. And a great house rose about her, a wall and garden rising beyond the walls. The servants came, and then one came in particular – a woman in her thirties, brown-haired and blue-eyed, unworldly yet graceful. Mary. And the months flickered on.
And Alice knew what she must do next; she rose now, drifting upwards, rising through ceilings and walking through walls until she found Mary Carson’s room, found it on the night the shattered, brutalised woman grovelled in her own filth on the brink of insanity. I know that place, Alice thought, I know that place so well. And it only took a moment to let Mary see her, to fill the room with light. And that was all it took to convince Mary of grace and pull her back from madness – to ensure she’d live and thrive.
And to ensure that one day she would inherit Springcross House and leave her testimony behind, to arm Alice with knowledge in the future.
The rowan wood called to her; she wavered, witnessed a hundred people in different times holding talismans and crosses of that wood aloft. Collarmill Height faded, and the woods of the Fall appeared. She saw herself now, hiding among the trees, heard Old Harry’s growling approach. With a thought she drove him back. And then she was on the Height again, and standing in the house she’d bought, 378 Collarmill Road – she clung to that tiny, mundane detail, that little anchor to reality – to drive the children away from her. She saw herself falling through the door into the hallway as the children vanished, saw the armed men outside the door vanish back into the past.
The sea rolled and calmed. She was everywhere and nowhere, but falling back towards where she’d come from.
– If I could go back and change things... but I can’t do that, can I?
– No. It only goes one way.
Except that it didn’t, not here.
She could go back to that day, to the lizard, the path by the Cuckmere. She could be watching when she needed to be. Emily could live again. All she had to do was reach into this shifting ocean, change a single detail.
And what then? Would none of this have happened, be only the fading echo of a dream? Or would Arodias Thorne still be working to bring her to him; would he find another way for Emily to die?
Had Emily’s death truly been accident, blind chance, or all a part of some terrible pattern? And whose pattern? Arodias’, the Red Man’s?
Or had some greater pattern brought her here, to do what had to be done, end this violation that Arodias had begun? Had Emily’s death just been one step along the way to deliver the right object to the right point in space and time, the click of one gear in a machine vaster, more intricate and more cruel than the Moloch Device could ever be?
And then there were the other children to consider, all the ghosts of Collarmill Height.
Emily.
There might be time; there would be, she’d make sure of it. But first, this had to end.
She put all other thoughts aside and focused. The water became sparks of blue and white glittering light, and then at a thought from her, the focus shifted, moved out. Galaxies of quarks and quanta coalesced; another order of magnitude, and these shrank, flew together, and she contemplated the electrons whirling around atomic nuclei. Back again and the atoms joined together into molecules; zoom out a little further and now she could begin to see the structures those molecules fitted together to combine.
Back, back, further back – let me see, for now, as I always did.
And with that, the chains of molecules became cells – plant cells with their cellulose walls and bright chloroplasts – and those cells became a blade of grass, and the blade one blade among many on the ground before her, and the ground the top of Redman’s Hill.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Render of the Veils
31st October 2016
ALICE STOOD, SHAKING. Her legs trembled; her heart thundered. How could she describe what she had just witnessed, what she’d just undergone? She doubted she ever would, exactly, be able to describe how it felt. She felt a little as she might have felt if she’d just climbed off a rollercoaster ride, and a little as though she’d just narrowly escaped death by electric shock.
But something else trembled inside her: vibrated, hummed, groaned for release. The heightened perception that the spring’s waters had given her still remained, but for now, at least, under some sort of tenuous control – and with it, the ability to influence what she saw. The power of the Fire Beyond itself.
Both were fleeting, of course: the power and the control. In mental or emotional terms, she’d merely reached a plateau, and couldn’t remain there indefinitely. Her self-forgiveness for Emily’s death was still an ongoing project, and one that might n
ever be completed – could never be completed, perhaps, only developed to the point that life was bearable. There would be more guilt in her future, more anguish, more moments when she wished to die – except there need not be, if she was wise and quick, because she could wipe that whole reality away – but for the moment, she was balanced and at something close to peace, and controlled the Fire Beyond rather than being controlled by it.
How long did she have now? Minutes? After that the effects of the water she’d drunk would wear off and she’d just be ordinary, powerless Alice Collier again. But in that time, what couldn’t she do?
Emily would be almost ten by now. Ten tomorrow, in fact.
“Alice,” said a voice, a voice that was four voices in one; the Red Man’s voice. “Alice, time is short.”
She looked up. He stood facing her, by the pool. Behind him stood the children and down the slope of the hill, slinking half-willingly towards them, was Old Harry.
Alice stood up, nodded. First, the children. One glance at them showed her what they were: innocents who’d died in bewildered, tortured anguish, trapped here between worlds and wanting only the release they’d been so long denied – or, failing that, to keep the tormentor trapped in his bestial state, the only vengeance they could hope for.
They’d tried to kill her, yes, but she forgave. If she could forgive herself, how could she not forgive them?
There was power enough for what she needed to do. She waved a hand and undid what had been done, the things that bound the children and held them fast. The change was instant: the curdled whiteness left their eyes, their deathly pallor lessened, and she glimpsed their harrowed faces breaking into smiles – but only for an instant, as she turned away. The main task still lay ahead.
Old Harry, the ogre, the Beast, Arodias Thorne, crept towards her and grovelled at her feet. Alice looked down on him in silence.
“Time is passing,” said the Red Man. “Not just for you, Alice. For John, as well.”
John. Of course. A pang of guilt – in reliving her life with Andrew and Emily, she’d forgotten him. What might have been had she stayed with him, treated his pain with greater understanding? Might they have stayed together, raised a child or children of their own? And if they had, what might have happened to their child?
She knew now, looking down at Old Harry and letting her focus shift: she knew now what to do, what had to be done.
“Don’t,” said a voice. She turned, saw one of the children stretching out a hand as if to stay her. He was tallish, with shoulder-length fair hair, and the other children seemed to be gathered round him. Was it his body she’d pried from the Moloch Device’s grasp?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to.”
The children stared back at her in dismay. Where would they go now? To oblivion, or to some other place. Some things were beyond even her sight.
Alice turned back from them to the Beast. She reached out, but didn’t touch that reeking, matted pelt. Just the thought of doing so seemed to soil her. It didn’t matter, anyway; she didn’t need to touch him. The gesture was enough.
Adjust focus, and –
Arodias, the Beast – his, its, body expanded before her, a constellation of molecules, atoms, finally energy itself. She could see all that he was and had been, and somewhere in the warped DNA, distorted physiology and attenuated psyche of the Beast, the man who’d raised himself from squalor – down in Browton Vale, only a turn of her head from where she now stood – to being one of the magnates of the new city, the untitled lord of Springcross House and the maker of the Moloch Device, who’d sought ownership of the Fire Beyond, was still there.
It was simply a case of finding him, and having found him, restoring him to what he was.
And so she reached back: because she didn’t just see the Beast, she saw all he was and had been. A chain of Beasts and men, reaching back through the centuries as a single unbroken entity. Here, back here – somewhere around 1851 – something had changed. All she needed to do was reach back to that point and prevent those changes from occurring.
There.
And just one more thing...
Alice closed her hand into a fist, and pulled.
The blue and white constellation of the Beast’s body whirled, convulsed, collapsed. Alice released her focus, returned to her normal angle of vision, and saw the looming hairy bulk of the Beast lurch and stagger, shrink and change colour. The fur pelt fell away, the coarse hairs vanishing before they struck the ground. The piebald, filthy skin grew white and unmarked; the few torn rags and scraps still clinging to the body grew and merged back into clothing, the immaculate suit of a nineteenth-century gentleman. The beard fell away; the vast knife-and-chisel teeth shrank, whitened, became straight and small, disappeared behind thin lips. The low slope of the forehead rose and became high and domed. The hair of the head, filthy and matted, grew clean and neatly brushed, iron grey with long sideburns. The snout became a fine, aquiline nose. And the eyes, aflame with the blue of the Fire Beyond – the eyes closed, then opened and were grey.
The figure – diminished but upright, tidy, human – swayed, then straightened, then advanced the final few steps up the hill to approach her, the Red Man, the bubbling spring.
Arodias Thorne met her eyes, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt for neatness, inclined his head and smiled.
The children wailed, as in a single voice. Thorne glanced towards them; Alice was glad to see the Red Man move between him and them. Whether it would do any good, against a master who could make you step aside at a command, remained to be seen.
Emily. All that remained was to make that final change. But it was fading; the blue ocean glimmered for a moment and she could almost see the thread she had to tweak and snip to change it all. But then it was gone, and she was only plain Alice Collier again.
The spring – she moved towards it. Arodias turned, wagged a finger, smiled and shook his head.
But the children were free. They had to go, and now. She didn’t know if Arodias could snare them once more, but it would be madness surely to take the risk.
She opened her mouth to warn them, but Arodias turned back to her, put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Sh.”
His eyes would not move from hers; a smile hovered around that cruel mouth.
She swallowed hard, then turned away from Arodias, towards the Red Man. Strange how a man made of bone and clockwork could be more human than one of flesh and blood. “We need to go back now,” she said. “We need to help John. You promised.”
“Did he?” said Arodias. His voice was a purr, like that of some great cruel cat, preening its contentment over a trapped mouse as it prepared to begin its work with claws and teeth. He turned and addressed the Red Man. “Have you been making promises to her?”
The Red Man seemed to waver before that stare. Alice tried to catch his eye, or at least the holes in the mask that served for them. “You said you’d take me back,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You promised. You’d take me back and get John out of the Moloch Device.”
“Yes.” The Red Man straightened. “I gave my word. Come –”
“Stay where you are.” Arodias didn’t even raise his voice: he sounded offhand, even bored.
“I kept my side of the bargain,” said Alice.
“Bargain?” Arodias laughed. “Who on earth told you it was a bargain? You fulfilled your role. Nothing more, nothing less. And this – John? Who is John?”
“Her... friend,” the Red Man answered. “She... cares for him. I had to use him to operate the Moloch Device. I gave my word that we would release him. There is still time.”
“Why would I want to release him?” said Arodias. “Or her, for that matter?” He smiled at Alice with what seemed genuine warmth, and she understood how Mary Carson could have fallen so completely for this man. “I assure you it’s nothing personal, madam, but I think some secrets should remain secret, don’t you?”
“There’s a bloody great hole in t
he kitchen floor leading to your underground hideaway,” Alice said. “That won’t keep your secrets very long.”
But Arodias Thorne, smirking, was already shaking his head. “Merely a temporary measure,” he said. “One that will have been rectified by the time the house returns to the year you came from – what year was it?”
“2016,” the Red Man said. Alice could see his white hands coiling and uncoiling into fists.
“2016,” repeated Arodias. “Did it really take that long? But then again, time means very little here, in any direction, does it? But, yes,” he said, addressing Alice again, “there’ll be no sign of any damage to the house when it returns to 2016. The hole in the floor will be mended. Your friend can remain in the Moloch Device, safely out of sight and mind. His suffering will only be a matter of minutes – albeit rather unpleasant ones, from his point of view.”
“And me?” said Alice.
“And you,” said Arodias. “Well, what about you?” He looked her up and down, and there was no mistaking the look with which he appraised her. “I’m sure we can think of something.” He smiled. “Probably something that hurts.”
“I gave my word,” said the Red Man.
“I’ve never understood this tendency on your part,” he told the Red Man. “You gave your word. These pretensions of yours to morality, to integrity –” he broke off. “Ah, of course. Integrity.” He approached the Red Man and studied the face, stroking his chin. “Some feeble attempt at rebellion on your part, to assert you have an identity of your own, independent of me.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to do something about that. You’re a machine, nothing more. Can’t have something that’s nothing more than a tool getting ideas of its own.” He smirked, turning away from the Red Man. “You don’t even have a name.”
“Oh, but he does,” said Alice. “The Red Man. The Red Knight.” The Red Man looked at her. “Even Percivale.” The Red Man cocked his head. “The Grail Knight.”
The Feast of All Souls Page 37
