I wandered through the house to the stairs, drew a deep breath, and went up. My own room held nothing but horror for me: those long-ago memories of the night I arrived, left to shiver and shake and sob in a tiny bed in a cold, dark room. Crying for my mummy and daddy, and scared of the wicked witch downstairs. Nothing much changed over the years – apart from the crying. I gave up on that pretty soon, when I realised it did no good. Nobody was coming to help me, and the wicked witch downstairs didn’t care if I cried so hard my eyes fell out. ‘Cry more, pee less,’ as she’d once said in a particularly charitable moment.
I’d never been able to figure out why, if she was my mummy or daddy’s mummy – like grandparents were supposed to be – she was so horrible to me. Why she seemed to hate me so much. Why she was nothing like them at all. That bedroom – and all the lonely nights I’d spent in it – had never provided me with anything like an answer.
So I left the door closed, and moved on. I paused at the bathroom, and my nose betrayed me again at the lingering smell of Radox bath salts. It was as close as she got to a luxury: a soak in the bath at the end of a long hard day smoking and complaining. Obviously being that mean – and, I now knew, that frightened – took it out of a woman. She’d go in, lock the door even though there was only me in the house, and stay there for an hour, topping up the hot water every few minutes. I wondered now what she thought of, while she lay there in an avocado-coloured bath suite, surrounded by steam that billowed in the always-frigid air.
I’d assumed at the time she was indulging in fantasies about torturing kittens, or hunting down endangered species on the Galapagos Islands with a blunderbuss. Now, I suspected, she’d indulged in other fantasies. Perhaps one where she’d been allowed her own life; where she’d married and had kids and held down a little job at Iceland. Coleen, unlike most, probably appreciated the value of a normal, mundane life. Because despite appearances – the fags, the radio, the little terraced house – her life had been anything but mundane.
Yes, she had been a miserable old hag. And most likely she always would have been, no matter what had happened. But she’d also been a miserable old hag who was terrified. And, of course, who’d said she’d always loved me.
Hmmm. Much as I tried that coat on for size, it never seemed to quite fit.
I went into her bedroom – the only room where she didn’t smoke, and a place I’d not been allowed on pain of a sovereign ring to the side of the head. Obviously – being a child – I’d snuck in there on a few occasions, knowing she’d batter me if I was caught. Kids will do these things. I was always very disappointed at what I found. No torture chamber. No clothes racks full of ball gowns. Not even a naughty book on the bedside cabinet.
It was just a room. A room with hideous floral wallpaper that hadn’t been touched since the Seventies, and a big, bulky, dark-wood wardrobe that might now be classed as vintage but was actually just plain ugly. A view from the narrow window into the small backyard. A double bed which, as far as I knew, only ever had one occupant. And, bizarrely, a huge stuffed lion in the corner: big enough to sit on, it looked ancient and well used, missing one eye and part of its nose. She’d never let me play with it, and I’d only ever seen it during illicit smash-and-grab visits, but I’d always wondered if it had been hers as a child, impossible as it was to imagine her as a child.
I sat on the bed, suddenly exhausted – must be watching my nan die, nearly following suit myself, and my mammoth night out with the ultimate deity. The five pints of Guinness probably hadn’t helped, either. It felt like years since I’d had normal food in normal company followed by a normal night’s sleep in my own bed – but, in reality, it had only been a few days. Just … very busy ones.
The bed squeaked and sagged down on one side, and I saw the indentation on the pillow where Coleen had laid her head for all those years. Had she read before she fell asleep? Done her crossword? Said her prayers? I had no idea at all.
There was a dusty glass of half-drunk water on her cabinet, along with a box of tissues and a packet of Rennies. Standard-issue night-time fare for women of her age, I suspected. I could see a solitary silver-grey hair shining on the pillow, and found myself leaning over to pick it off. It looked almost magical – a last remnant of the sadly departed.
As I leaned down, I smelled her on the pillow. Her shampoo, her bath salts, her cigarettes. Her. All of her. Years’ worth of her.
I lay down on the bed, picked up the pillow and hugged it to me, clinging to it while I cried. This is going to sound weird – in fact, this is weird – but for a few minutes there, that pillow actually became Coleen. Like some freaky transubstantiation shit had occurred, and that pouffy, squishy collection of fake duck down and cotton really did turn into her. The actual physical woman. Except, you know, rectangular and made of fabric.
It’s hard to explain how or why we react like we do in these situations, but that’s what happened. Maybe it was the smell and that single, shining hair, or the sight of the neglected old stuffed lion, but something made me think that Coleen was there with me once more. In the form of a pillow.
So I did what Coleen would never have let me do in actual real life, not while she had strength left to fight me off: I hugged her and squeezed her and cuddled her and cried all over her. I told her I loved her, and I kissed her, and I rested my head on her and I blubbered and I howled.
And you know what? She didn’t mind. She was a lot more compliant – not to mention comfortable – in pillow form.
Seeing everything I’d seen tonight – touching all those lives, experiencing all those joys – had made me even more appreciative of what I’d never had. And what Coleen – poor, sad, lonely, frightened, indigestion-riddled Coleen – had never had, either. Her whole life had been wasted, unless you counted keeping me alive for the last two decades. Gabriel would see that as all that mattered – as a victory – but I couldn’t feel that way. She’d missed out. I’d missed out. And maybe, if I’d done to her what I was doing to this pillow, I might have found a way to break through her fear to the woman who lurked inside. It was when I was busily shedding snot and tears all over my fake, far-more-affectionate nan that I heard a noise on the stairs. A creak, which meant someone had trodden on the fourth step up.
There was someone in the house.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I jumped up from the bed. The Overlord had warned me during the cab ride that I needed to be careful, that Fintan, cheated of his prize and chased away, would now have declared all-out war. The place could be crawling with men in black, all looking to kill me – and here I was, stuck on my own in an empty house in Anfield. No High King. No warrior slaves ready to use their sword arms. Not even Carmel and a plant pot. He’d also told me that he’d be sending a protector – but there was no sign of this mythical being right now, when I needed it most.
There was nothing pointy or lethal-looking in the room, and my own fighting skills were about as much use as the stuffed lion. The very, very large stuffed lion … I ran over, grabbed it, and climbed into the cavernous wardrobe, pulling Leo over me. The thing was huge. If I huddled in a corner, on top of the shoes, it would just about cover me.
OK, I admit it. Not the most brilliant of battle plans – but it was all I had right then. At some point, assuming I survived the night, I needed to learn how to look after myself. To fight, to run faster, even to use the power of my mind to protect myself better. Fionnula used spells to enclose her land, and I’d seen Gabriel use magic to cause rockfalls. Maybe I had that in me too. It had to be better than hiding and quaking and waiting for something to happen. It was going to be hard to protect the fate of the whole world if I couldn’t even protect my own.
But that was for the future – and tomorrow, as everyone knows, is another day. Right then, I had nothing. Apart from the ability to stay very quiet, and hide beneath a giant cuddly toy, pondering how rubbish I was.
I held my breath and waited, hearing the door to my old bedroom open. A pause, then
it was quietly closed again. The bathroom was next, and the sound of the airing cupboard door being swung to and fro, the slight swoosh of the shower curtain being pushed aside. Whoever was out there was searching for something. Probably me.
I realised I was still holding my breath, and let out a long, slow, hopefully quiet stream of air. I was sweating, through a combination of the fear and the heating and being crushed by the lion. My heart was building up to a full-on cardiac, pounding so hard I was convinced it could be heard outside in the street. The sharp end of one of Coleen’s shoes was poking into my backside, and all I could see was one tiny chink of light gleaming through the keyhole. This, I decided, was most definitely not a dignified way to spend your last minutes of mortality.
The slight creak of Coleen’s bedroom door opening. Quiet footsteps, getting closer. A small silence, as presumably they stopped, and looked around. I remembered I’d left my phone and keys on top of the bedside cabinet, and tried not to swear out loud. A rustle on the bed, the metallic clinking of my key chain being moved around. I’d been rumbled.
Footsteps again, now so close I expected my heart to explode with fear. I felt my chest rising and falling in a panicky pant as I sucked in tiny gulps of musty mothballed air. Not enough oxygen; my lungs were screeching, as though I was about to have my first ever asthma attack.
My forehead beaded with sweat, my fists were clenched into balls, and my throat was so parched I couldn’t even have swallowed my own non-existent spit. Please, please, just walk on, I thought. Decide I’m not here. Please. If I’d been more experienced, more gifted, more everything, I could have tried doing an Obi Wan Kenobi, a variation on the ‘these are not the droids you’re looking for’ theme – but I was too panicked, too spooked. Too dehydrated and hot and scared to concentrate on anything other than trying to breathe – and what was on the other side of that door.
The tiny pinprick of light disappeared. The keyhole was blocked by the body of an unknown assailant. I sucked in one last, desperate breath and held it as the doors were gripped and flung open so hard I felt the base of the wardrobe rock. Oh well, I thought. At least I got to see the Stone Roses …
I screwed up my eyes, and felt the lion yanked away from me. A rush of light, almost as blinding as the panic. I wanted to jump up and attack, to yell and punch and bite, and do everything that I knew Carmel would do if she were in my boots. But my legs were cramped and twisted, one ankle tucked beneath me at an impossible angle, and my broken finger was scorching with pain from being wrung and clenched so hard.
I looked up. Still couldn’t see properly. Too terrified even to scream, to do anything other than blink.
‘That was the lion,’ he said, pulling Leo out and throwing him clear across the room. ‘And here’s the wardrobe. You must be the witch.’
Gabriel.
Relief came quick and hard and choking. I found I could breathe properly again – but my heartbeat was going to take some time to rediscover its natural rhythm.
He leaned in and took hold of my hands to help me out, noticing when I grimaced in pain at his grip.
I stood up, and he stroked the hair back from my face; he ran his hands down my cheeks, my shoulders, my arms, my hips and waist, all the time staring intently at me. I realised there was nothing sexual in his touch – he was checking me for injuries, like a concerned vet examining a spooked horse.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, batting his hands away and frowning, anger flowing hot and fast now I felt safe from Sudden Death. ‘Apart from the fact that you almost gave me a heart attack there! Would it have killed you to shout out so I knew who you were, you stupid bastard?’
He frowned back, and I could see responding anger in his eyes. They shaded down darker when he was roused, I’d noticed – when he was furious, or aggressive … or turned on. All of which seemed to happen a lot when I was around. This must all be such fun for him. Right now, he probably had a lot in storage: me firing him up then rejecting him back in Dublin; doing my amazing escape act with Carmel’s help; risking my own life; and, ultimately, unleashing Fintan’s wrath. I had been a naughty little goddess. I could understand why he was angry, truly I could. I just didn’t give a fuck.
‘Yes,’ he said coldly, ‘it might have killed me, actually – I had no idea if you were here, if you were alone, or if the Faidh would be waiting for me. It’s war out there, Lily, and hiding in a bloody wardrobe isn’t going to save you.’
‘What is, then?’ I snapped, taking my weary body over to the bed and sinking down on to it. The pillow was next to me. It was just a pillow now, and I carved out a moment to feel sad about that.
I let my head droop down, hiding my face behind my hair to create the illusion of some privacy while I regrouped ready for the oncoming screaming match. Gabriel and I seemed incapable of talking for more than three minutes without one of us going nutso. Maybe we would make the perfect married couple after all.
I knew that if I just leaned back and closed my eyes, I could go to sleep, right here on Coleen’s bed, snuggled up to that pillow, and let the war rage on around me. The adrenaline of the hunt had drained from my body, leaving me weak and limp and exhausted. I really needed to sleep. To breathe. To grieve. To be back where I felt most comfortable: alone.
Gabriel, obviously, was having none of that. He wasn’t about to kill me, which is always a plus point in a potential boyfriend – but he wasn’t about to leave me be, either. I already knew him too well to expect that.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked, looking up again. He was staring at my broken finger, and the encrusted blood on my nails. His body was inching bigger, and his eyes were flaming. He’d allowed me to be hurt, and that wouldn’t be sitting well with his High Kingly sense of duty. He had one mission in life – to protect me – and he’d failed.
‘Carmel,’ he replied simply, spitting out the word like he couldn’t spare the breath.
Huh. Carmel. Maybe she’d started invading my brain as well – I mean, what difference would one more make? There was a whole street party going on in there. Might as well invite the entire family, bring a picnic and some cherryade. Spread out a blanket and watch the frigging show.
Gabriel proved my point with a timely psychic eavesdrop. (Repeat after me: must try harder to keep the nosy bugger out of my head.) ‘No, she hasn’t been invading your brain – she just knows you too well. Eventually we phoned the hospital and found out what had happened to Coleen, and she knew this was where you’d come next.’
He sat down next to me on the bed. I could feel the tense muscles of his thigh pressing against mine, thrumming with strength and restraint, and knew he was trying very, very hard to calm down. Not something that ever came easily to him. I appreciated the effort, because I couldn’t deal with a Celtic warrior going apeshit on me right now. I really couldn’t. If he started to tear a strip off me, I was going to walk to the nearest police station, punch the desk sergeant on the nose, and get myself locked up for the night. Three squares and a bed was sounding like a luxury mini-break right about now.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he asked gently, reaching out to touch the injured fingers. I saw the contact coming, and didn’t have the energy or the will either to fight him off or scoot to the other side of the room. Instead, I reached inside my mind and hastily pulled together a flimsy white cloud, trying to put up a mental barrier between us – hopefully keeping him out of my mind, and out of my visions. Steel bars would probably have worked better – maybe a nice brick wall – but white seemed to be the thing that worked for me. I closed my eyes, and tried to let the image solidify.
He was holding my hand. I concentrated, alert to an untimely tingling or a sudden rush of blood to the head. I felt nothing but his touch. Fionnula was right – it did get easier with practice. Like pilates. I just needed to make myself do it in the first place. Also like pilates.
‘Fintan happened,’ I replied, wondering if Gabriel had any idea what I was doing. If he did, he wasn’t telling.
‘I arrived at the hospital in time to watch Coleen die – just me, her and a passing crow. Then I went to walk by the river. Fintan found me there – and yes, I know, I am an idiot. We had a nice chat, then he broke my fingers and pushed me into the Mersey. To my – as it turns out – not-so-certain death. Then I got rescued by God, and we went for a night out in the Cavern. It’s been quite a day. What have you been up to?’
He paused and rubbed my fingers gently between his until they started to tingle. Not in a freaky about-to-fall-down way, but in a way that felt warm, and comforting, and healing. I swear the pain seemed to be rolling away, disappearing in tiny waves like the tide going out. Which was both unexpected and lovely. I only realised how much the throbbing had been bothering me when it started to fade. I didn’t know if it was something magical, or if it was just the pleasure of human contact – or whether, for me, there was really any difference between the two.
I felt a huge temptation to give in. To stop fighting; to stop arguing. He’d tried telling me what I should be doing, and that hadn’t worked. I’d stomped my feet and said no. He’d tried charming me and bossing me and persuading me, and none of that had worked, either. Yet staying still and quiet and massaging my poorly fingers was making me go all gooey-eyed; making me want to fall into his arms and lay my head on his chest. To let him hold me, and kiss me, and take care of me. To give up on this whole free-will lark, and simply go with the flow. Be his mate. Save the world. Have babies. Make curtains and cook his dinner. Eek. I’ve been starved of affection for the whole of my life – and now I was on a sugar rush.
‘I’ve been killing,’ he said, spoiling the romantic mood somewhat. ‘I almost started with Carmel when I found out she’d helped you leave.’
Dark Vision Page 21
