God, just my luck. One of those bloody tourist traps. Ye Olde Banquet Fayre and that sort of crap; though this one looked more authentic than most, if only because of the gloom. The only light came from the small leaded windows, and that was fading fast, building a great pool of shadow between me and the bar. No cod hanging lanterns or plastic chandeliers – no lamps at all, by the look of it. That might be carrying things a touch far. I wasn’t alone, though, that much I could make out. Rough accents grated through the air. They must have stopped talking the moment I came in, but now they were ignoring me again. Fine by me. Within a minute the girl was bouncing her way back with an encouraging smile and a laden tray.
‘There now! Get you that down your pipe, and a bite of bread to boot.’ She plonked down a great earthenware mug of ale, and a wooden platter with a hunk of brown bread. ‘And here’s water and salve, moi dear, and a rag or two. If you can’t—’
‘No, thanks, love, I can manage. Kind of you, though.’ I hoisted the mug in a toast, and dimples broke out all round. A born comic’s face, kindly, sleepy-looking eyes and tip-tilted nose, an odd upper lip that pursed and pouted around her broad rustic burr and turned her smile into a beaming half-moon. I was almost a bit sorry when she did leave me alone. She unnerved me slightly; maybe I just didn’t want her fussing. I was about to ask about Band-aids, but maybe she’d go galloping out for some, or something else embarrassing; she looked the type. Nice, but I didn’t need it. The beer I needed.
It was real ale with a vengeance, hoppy as hell and full of bits, but not too strong; and though I prefer white bread, I had to admit this fresh wholemeal stuff set it off nicely. I could have done with some butter, though; stuff this healthy eating lark. Maybe she’d put something in the beer, because after a few minutes I felt strong enough to try the first aid. The water made me want to hop around the ceiling, but the salve – something herbal and greenish, as best I could make out, and smelling strongly of mint – certainly cooled things off quickly enough, and dulled the general ache. For the first time since I’d got behind that bloody wheel things began to calm down a little. I’d still got off pretty lightly, considering. In the shit I might be, but with waterwings.
Or that was what I thought then, anyhow.
A wizened old man came doddering out with a lantern in each hand, and began struggling vainly to loop their handles over little pegs in the beams, while the customers egged him on with ribald suggestions. This was evidently the floor show around here, the local answer to Las Vegas. With much moaning and clanking and Gabby Hayes-type mutterings he managed it eventually and trimmed the wicks. After the gloom even those dim yellow flames made the room stand out as stark as a bank of photofloods.
I blinked, and kept blinking. My God, not just a theme pub. They must be doing Olde English banquets or something, all chicken legs and Charles Laughton. They’d sure as hell overdone the picturesque clientele – as ripe a load of yokels as ever dropped out of a butter commercial, all leathery cheeks and tangled whiskers. A couple of them were even wearing smockfrocks, and one warty character had battered kneebritches and boatlike wooden shoes. Straight out of the casting agency, most likely, and filling in before summer rep.
Not that barmaid Poppy, though. Somehow you couldn’t mistake her for anything she wasn’t. And come to that, I felt less sure about the others. Those faces, the hard outdoor gloss to their cheeks, the bad teeth, the dirt on their hair and clothes – life and work did that. Not many people lived that way these days, not even gypsies or travellers. Grating-squatters and Cardboard City bums, maybe, but they never look that tough. These grimy tables, the dim walls with painted hangings obscured by smoke and grease, the trodden patina of bare earth, brick and bone chips – this was all just a bit too bloody real for the coach trade, wasn’t it? And after a few minutes downwind I could guarantee one thing: this lot had never even heard of a hygiene inspector.
So, underneath all this some very nasty little thoughts indeed seethed up and out.
Like, maybe this was a haunted inn and I was seeing—
Like maybe that yokel with the scythe—
Like maybe I didn’t get out of that crash after all—
Frantically I clutched at my wits as they made an excuse and left. I’d never believed in ghosts – not really, anyhow, not much. This beer wasn’t off the astral plane, was it? And if they were anything ancient at all, why weren’t they more surprised at modern me?
Besides, spooks shouldn’t need Lifebuoy this badly.
Then I heard the door open behind me. I always notice that. Not a sound I like much, maybe because all my life I’ve been waiting for it – the old man or the teachers or the cops or bookie’s goons, something like that; but it always makes me look around.
What I saw, though, flooded me right out with relief. A tall man, stooping under the lintel. A modern man, in modern clothes – very modern. He strode past me to the bar and rapped lightly upon the rough planks with a smart walking stick. He would have looked smooth anywhere, but down here among the shit-kickers the hair and the rigout made him almost ridiculous, like something cut out of a lifestyle glossy.
Almost. He looked too sure of himself by half. He took a beer mug – no, a tankard – from the old scrote, and leaned back on the counter, glancing calmly about. A regular, at home here. More than that, maybe; the massed village idiots were all tossing him a wave or knuckling brows and tugging forelocks and whatever. A bit out of character for spooks.
I tried not to feel too relieved. A theme park, it had to be – a stately home, maybe. I could believe Flash Harry was the owner, or the manager at least. Or maybe …
A great light dawned. It had to be these recreator types – middle-class pillocks who got their rocks off living out Olde English fantasies down to the nth detail. Even the sackcloth knickers, or total lack of same, and who knows, maybe authentic pet lice called Bill and Shirley. I’d seen them in Civil War gear and Viking armour hanging around railway stations on their way to fight old battles – total prats and proud of it. Being surrounded by them made me itchy, as if I was catching codpiece fever or something. This one probably had his doublet and hose in the car. In a Harrods bag.
I relaxed – too soon. His eyes were fixed on me as surely as bombsights. Reflex suggested I hop up and shoot out the door, but I fought it down, sort of. He had that calm, considering look I kept seeing on people who gave me grief, and when he hoisted himself easily off the bar and strolled over my heart sank. He lowered himself on to a high-backed settle by the wall, propped his stick against it and swung his shoes – pretty good shoes – up on to the bench opposite. I clutched the heavy table, half tempted to tip it over right now and run. But suppose I couldn’t? Then he’d have me cold. And he was a big, sleek bastard, not quite young but lean and strong-looking, like a tennis pro. His clothes were casual, cords and a blouson jacket, pricey-looking; they wouldn’t slow him up.
He gave a polite half-nod. His voice was surprisingly deep, his accent BBC neutral. ‘Evening. You the chap who came off at the junction, are you?’ He didn’t wait for me to deny it, shaking his head. ‘Willum told me you’d come this way. Bad smash, that. You’re lucky to be here.’
That was a matter of opinion, but I mumbled something into my beer, trying to look dazed and delicate. I wished he’d take those bloody eyes away, but he just tilted his head back. ‘Sad, too. Nice motor, very nice. Ferrari Testarossa, wasn’t it? Don’t see too many of those these days. Never ever, in fact, eh? Worth – God, I don’t know, what would you say? Two hundred big ones at least. At least,’ he repeated.
I tried not to wince, but I could see where every step was leading. ‘Sure. I wouldn’t know. It was the old man’s.’ It could easily have been, after all. And I’d probably have screwed it up just the same way. Too much Testarosterone.
He looked a little surprised, maybe at my accent, but he didn’t give up twisting the screw. ‘And the insurance! A classic boy racer like that, third-party cover alone’d come to, I don’t kn
ow, how much? I mean, even my Morgans cost me into the high hundreds. Each. Something like that, at least a couple more big ones a year, whew! You must be a very lucky guy.’
I ground my teeth. This close I was seeing more about him, the kind of things I make a habit of noticing. Casual buckskin shoes, ordinary enough except there was no maker’s mark on the sole, and the fit was perfect. Casual cord trousers, not new but heavy and uncreased, with a soft, thick belt, and above them a casual shirt in a subtle heathery shade you don’t just find in the shops. But it was the blouson jacket that bugged my eyes; that nubbly designer Donegal stuff with the coloured flecks would have cost serious money in wool, but this was raw silk, thick and close woven. And I’d caught a glimpse of a hand-painted lining, some kind of sailing scene.
I knew that kind of stuff. A bit more luck and sense, and I’d still have been wearing something almost as good. They put this smug son of a bitch in the millionaire class. Even his bloody stick looked like a personality concept, the wood probably something Peruvian or whatever. And extinct.
Not a cop, then; but dangerous. Power. The kind of power that might go with owning that stately home or theme park. Or – sickening thought – owning a Ferrari. He’d certainly identify with the owner; Morgans were pricey enough. Power. One word, one move, and you could bet I’d have all these loyal arsekissers on my back.
‘Well,’ he remarked, ‘since you had the car in the first place I suppose you can afford all that. Lucky, as I said.’
And he was looking at my clothes, too; cheap Levis, leather bomber whose shoddy thinness showed through the tears and scorches, chain-store shirt fraying at the collar, stained trainers. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. ‘Yah. My people have the cash. Can’t take any credit for it – I was born, that was all. Like in Figaro. Silver spoon, consider the lilies, that kind of thing.’
That shook him, and so it should. It was near as dammit the truth, and these days I was finding that more and more of a luxury. The eyes narrowed, all the same, and he lounged even further back on the settle.
‘There are problems, though, aren’t there, with owning a car like that? Like thieves – oh, not just your ordinary joyrider, but the kind of organised thief who steals with a ready resale market in mind. Sometimes to order, even with a target and an information dossier supplied by the dealer. Classic cars for export, to countries where they don’t ask too many questions before they register, that kind of thing.’
‘Yeah,’ I said savagely, ‘they keep me awake at nights sometimes. Listen, I’d better go get to a phone, hadn’t I? Obviously they don’t have one here!’
‘Not right now,’ he said mildly. ‘And my mobile’s in the car. Back at the junction, though—’
‘I don’t want to go that way,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘The, uh, the beer – I shouldn’t have had that. If they breathalyse me – well, one more spot on the licence and I turn into a pumpkin, eh?’
I was surprised to see something very much like laughter in those implacable eyes, and the twinge of hope was so sudden it hurt. ‘Look, er – there wouldn’t happen to be another way out of here, would there? Rather, er, unobtrusive. Then I can just blame the crash on a joyrider, and …’
He really was laughing now, silently. And there was a disturbing shade of pity in his voice. ‘Listen. I’d better explain something to you. I wasn’t even going to try, but you – well, you’re very well educated, aren’t you? A bright lad, for a – never mind. So listen, listen hard and try to use those brains of yours, because you’ve dropped into something a lot bigger than you can imagine. What do you think of this place?’ He waved his hand about. ‘Don’t bother answering. It’s real, isn’t it? Completely real. Could be, oh, Elizabethan, seventeenth century, eighteenth, maybe even early nineteenth, where the Industrial Revolution hadn’t reached yet.’
I wasn’t going to say anything. He was trying to sell me something.
‘Well, it isn’t. It’s all of the above, and a lot more besides. You see, they built it at a crossroads, this inn – logical enough. But then other roads were built, all around this area, and suddenly fewer people stopped here. They drove by, and the trees grew up and hid it, and nobody bothered to cut them back. Roads crossed and recrossed around it, more and more of them, in a little shallow circle. That has an effect, you know, in space and time – junctions, and journeys. Things, places, they recede, they fall away, they become harder to reach, except in certain ways and at certain times. They – drift away, you could call it, not physically, but in time. Away into a wider region, or realm. A strange kind of place some people call the Spiral.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘And that’s where the flying saucers come from, is it?’
I’d worked once as a placeman for a pro psychic, the spoon-bending variety – one of my more reputable jobs. I’d got used to dealing with nutters and true believers of every kind. But it was this character who looked like the sceptic, amused, detached, not unkindly. ‘As a matter of fact, no. They’re dreamed up by utter nutters. But they may well be out there somewhere all the same, because everything is. Everything man can imagine or dream up, and more.’
I looked amused right back at him. ‘Heard that idea before somewhere. Interesting, but, well, it’s just philosophy, isn’t it? Sort of carrying on from that bloke Giordano Bruno or somebody. They may exist or not, these worlds, but it’s never going to make much—’
‘Oh, they exist,’ he interrupted calmly. ‘And they can make quite a lot of difference to us. Though whether we shape them, or they shape us, that’s a question. With me, well it sort of went both ways. It may for you, too.’
‘Me? Why should I ever—’
‘Because you are already. Involved, I mean. There are places where space and time mingle, and this – here, now – this is one of them. You’re in it. And the more you know about it, the better. Listen and remember. You don’t have to believe, not now – just remember, so you’ll know, if … When.’
At least it wasn’t cop-calling time. I shrugged, and hoped he wouldn’t bite me. ‘I can’t stop you, sunshine.’
‘Damn right you can’t. Places like this, they’re sort of a margin, a borderland – caught on the edge of the Spiral. Its influence reaches out right through them and beyond, right into the everyday world at times – night more than day, and most of all at dawn and evening. And everywhere it touches, things can happen. Pretty strange things. But they also open a gate the other way, these places. OK, you can quote Beaumarchais, but did you ever do any science?’
‘Some. Not to college level – that was modern languages. But—’
‘Right. Ever hear of Maxwell’s Demon?’
I felt a silly sense of panic, the way you do watching a TV quiz with an answer chasing itself around your subconscious. Then it bubbled up. ‘Hey … yes. Sort of a paradox, wasn’t it? In thermodynamics?’
His immaculate eyebrows shifted maybe a millimetre. ‘I’m impressed. Yes, a joke really, by a nineteenth-century boffin called Clerk Maxwell. A discriminating gate that only let molecules through one way – a potential perpetual motion machine, among other things. If it worked, it’d violate entropy; and we still have a hell of a job proving it wouldn’t. They hadn’t quite got round to computers, so he had it worked by a demon. Well, I often think of the Spiral the same way, only with probabilities instead of molecules. The wilder probabilities pass outward, but they power the centre, which keeps on generating more. And there are lots of gates. They open on to all these … worlds, realms, regions if you like. You can reach them – a lot too easily, sometimes. You can steer your way between them, if you’re the right kind of natural navigator, pass into pasts and futures and times that never were at all. Myths, legends, ideals, dreams, even delusions if they’re self-consistent enough – all the shadows cast by our everyday, mundane world.’
He caressed the head of his stick. The lanterns flickered in the draught. ‘Everywhere has a shadow of that kind. Every country, every region or city creates it
s archetype, its shadow self, where its past and present – and future, sometimes – mingle with its mythical existence. Even people cast shadows, the mythical counterparts that grow up around a real person, like Robin Hood, or King Arthur. Or the George Washington who really did throw a dollar across the Potomac – and probably cut down that goddamned cherry tree, for all I know. And out on the Spiral they all come together, these shadow worlds, drifting and shifting around us as if we live at the hub of a wheel.’
He downed an impressive swig of beer, and sighed happily. ‘Which is another name for the Spiral, in fact. Hence the name of the inn.’
I shrugged. ‘I’d have thought the Pub at the Hub would have been better.’ But despite myself, I was impressed. This citizen was the best value since the late Marquis of Bath, an authentic visionary. And he had the money to kit out his own private fantasy, that was evident. I wished I had some of what he smoked.
He shook his head, a little grimly. ‘You still don’t understand. This isn’t the Core – or the Hub – any more. This is the Spiral. And out here the rules are all changed. It’s a jungle; it has paths, but there’s a pitfall every few feet, and wild things lurking in the bush around. Anything’s possible – literally anything you can think of. Even … I suppose you’d call it magic. Anywhere in the Spiral, along its margins even – reaching out into our world, as I told you. It can get powerful – horribly powerful. Maybe Maxwell spoke truer than he knew.’ He smiled at something, definitely not me, and I didn’t like that smile one bit. Then he shrugged. ‘Of course you don’t believe me. I don’t expect you to do that – just to be careful.’
‘Thanks, I’m sure. Don’t get het up on my account. It’s what I’m good at.’
‘Is it? Is it really? The best, the safest thing you could do is head back to that junction, right now. But here’s something to think about. When you were standing in that field, by the wreck, didn’t the junction look farther away than it should? In every direction?’
Maxie’s Demon Page 2
