The whistling grows louder, as if the whistler is getting closer.
He shouldn't be in the cutting, thinks Graeme. Dangerous, against regulations, unless he's railway personnel. Could it be Mister Grimsdale? Or one of the other lads playing silly beggars?
“Anybody there?” he calls out.
The whistling stops. Then it starts again, definitely closer this time, and with a tone that sounds mocking, somehow.
“Here, you, show yourself!” Graeme shouts. He raises his lantern but it casts a feeble light, being mainly designed to signal his presence to train drivers.
“Cold night!” says a voice right behind him.
Graeme spins round, almost falls over on the uneven ground. A tall figure in a long, dark coat with bright brass buttons is standing a couple of feet away. The man's upper face is shrouded in shadow thanks to a peaked cap, but Graeme sees he has a big, old-fashioned mustache.
“‘Cold night,’ I said,” repeats the man in an oddly husky voice, as if he's got a sore throat making speech painful. “Chilly. Gets into your bones.”
“Yes, yes it does,” stammers Graeme, still rattled by the man's appearance. He's a little reassured by the uniform, but doesn't recognize it. Then he sees a badge on the man's cap. He can just read the letters LNER. It rings a bell at the back of his mind, but before he can retrieve the memory, the man takes a pace forward and holds out his hand.
“Name's Fred,” wheezes the stranger. “Pleased to meet you!”
“Likewise,” replies Graeme. He takes the man's hand, then tries to pull away. The flesh is freezing cold. But Fred holds him tight, pumps his hand up and down so violently Graeme worries a tendon might give way.
“Firm handshake you got there, Graeme,” says Fred, somehow managing to sound sarcastic despite his labored speech. “Mark of a man. Want to be a man, don't you, lad? Prove yourself. Do a job, put bread on the table for a little lady someday? Got a girlfriend, have you? Some little peach who's got the hots for you, perhaps? What about that of brass who works down the pickle factory? A fruit ripe for the plucking there, eh?”
“Let go!” Graeme shouts, and Fred obliges. The teenager stands rubbing his hand resentfully while Fred gives a big grin under his mustache.
“Don't be unfriendly now, Graeme,” comes the mocking, yet still oddly labored voice. “A bloke needs all the friends he can find in this cruel world.”
Fred takes another pace forward, and Graeme steps back without thinking.
“No, lad,” says Fred, “Don't you ever give way to another man! Stand your ground, Graeme, it's the only way!”
“How do you know my name?” shouts Graeme, angry and confused now, but mostly frightened.
“Oh, I know a lot more than that,” says the stranger. “I know a lot more than I used to. Might say I've been promoted. Always good for a chap's morale, a promotion!”
Fred reaches inside his coat and takes something out. A large clasp-knife. He opens it and starts to work at his fingernails with the vicious blade.
A half-remembered fact chooses this moment to present itself to Graeme. LNER, London & North Eastern Railway. A company abolished after the war when the rail system was nationalized.
“Why you wearing that old uniform? It's not regulation no more!”
“Oh, Graeme,” chuckles Fred, “you don't get far in life just sticking to the rules. You don't get to have no fun at all, for a start! And for some of us it's all about the fun, and the games.”
Fred jabs at Graeme's face with the knife, laughs as the teenager reels back and nearly falls.
“The Main Line Slasher, they called me,” says Fred, taking another step forward. He holds up the knife, turning the blade to catch what light there is. “As good a name as any, and far better to be a somebody than a nobody. A nobody like you, Graeme.”
“You shut up!” shouts Graeme. “I'll report you to Mister Grimsdale.”
Even as he says the words, he realizes how feeble the threat sounds in the face of the smirking Fred and his five-inch blade.
“Report me, eh? Shop a fellow, would you, Graeme? I'm disappointed.” Fred gives a gasping laugh. “And after you report me, they'll catch me and punish me, I suppose? Oh dearie me, what can I do? I am so afraid.”
He reaches up with his free hand and pulls down the collar of his coat, at the same time tilting his head to one side. Even in the faint light of his lantern, Graeme can see the mark around Fred's neck.
“Yes lad, rope burns. And they can't hang me twice.”
The knife flashes out, Graeme dodges again, then turns and starts to run up the track towards the barely-visible signal box. As he runs, he hears a whistle blown once, twice, three times. He almost stops and turns back to do his duty, but then fear reasserts himself and he runs on crying like a frightened child, and shouting for a grown-up's help.
“Mister Grimsdale! Mister Grimsdale!”
***
Rachel wakes suddenly, listening, but hears nothing but the ticking of her alarm clock. She brings the clock closer, sees the glowing dial. It's quarter to three.
Damn, she thinks, why is it that my subconscious picks just the wrong time to wake up and have to get back to sleep again?
She turns her head, listens for Tony's breathing, and realizes he's not there. She reaches over to his side of the bed, feels the sheets have been thrown back. The dip where Tony sleeps is cold. She listens again, hears no sound of movement.
“Honey?” she says quietly.
She gets up, puts on slippers, wears her dressing gown from the back of a chair, and makes her way out onto the landing. There's no light coming from under the bathroom door. She turns the other way, to Emily's room. Again, no light. She walks quickly, feeling the chill on her legs.
Emily's door is always propped open. Rachel looks inside the bedroom and sees the shape of her daughter in her bed. A small night light casts a pink glow on the ceiling. She picks her way carefully across the floor, grateful for the light that lets her avoid stepping on toys, books, and stuffed animals. She looks down at the humped shape under the covers, resists the urge to reach down and stroke Emily's head, the top of which is just visible as a mass of tangled curls.
Rachel sees movement out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head and sees them, three unnaturally slender shapes swaying slightly, standing by the far wall. They move forward, half-walking, half-shimmering, gathering at the foot of Emily's bed.
I thought I was done with you! Rachel thinks. I helped you, I did everything you asked of me!
“Get away from my daughter,” she hisses.
Three decayed, noseless faces turn to look at her. Flickers of blue light dance far back in eyeless sockets. Lipless mouths begin to form words.
“Lady, we bear you no ill-will,” says one.
“Thanks,” she whispers back, “now show it by going back where you came from.”
“We stand watch, as always,” says another. “The realm is in peril.”
“Not from a six-year-old girl!”
“Even an innocent may do great harm,” hisses the third.
Rachel feels fury rising in her, steps toward the nearest Sentinel, finger jabbing in accusation. She knows she's talking too loudly, that she's bound to wake Emily, but she can't help herself in her anger and fear.
“You killed innocent people in the name of your so-called sacred duty! You don't get to go near my daughter, ever! I don't care what it takes or who I have to call on, I'll drive you away, or even destroy you if I have to!”
A skeletal hand whips up and grabs her wrist, pulls her close. She feels the sharp-edged bones cutting into her flesh as she struggles. Another claw-like hand seizes her shoulder, pulls her face to within an inch of the tallest Sentinel.
“We are true warriors, oath-takers, guardians of the sacred crown!”
Cold, foul breath rushes into Rachel's nostrils, she twists her face away, struggles unsuccessfully.
“It is no small thing for a sword-wielder, a shield-beare
r, to shed innocent blood!”
Then Rachel is alone in the small, pink-lit room. She is staring at her own reflection in the mirrored door of a wardrobe.
I look crazy. Maybe I am.
She turns to look at Emily, expecting the child to be sitting up astonished, probably scared. But the little shape under the covers is just as before. Fear comes again, blossoming like a black flower in Rachel's mind. She stumbles to the bedside, pulls back the covers, feels relief wash over her. It is Emily, curled up in her teddy-bear pajamas, Bradshaw clutched under her chin.
“Honey, did I wake you?” Rachel asks, leaning over, reaching down to brush a strand of hair from Emily's face. Her fingers touch the girl's forehead. It is icy.
“No!”
Rachel grabs Emily by the shoulders, shakes her, and the child's arms flop limply. Bradshaw falls face-first onto the mattress. The back of the stuffed animal is stained black, like the front of the Emily's pajama top.
Rachel screams, fingers tearing at her hair.
“Darling, what it is?”
Tony is standing in the doorway, disheveled, staring. Rachel stands aghast, unable to speak. A Sentinel appears behind Tony, wraps one arm around his chest and draws a jagged fingernail across his throat. Blood gushes down Tony's chest as he reaches out a hand to Rachel, then gives a croak and falls forward onto the floor covered with toys.
Rachel wakes with a shriek. Tony's bedside lamp flicks on, he's sitting up, bleary-eyed, very much alive. She scrambles out of bed and runs to Emily's room, stumbles over something as she enters and falls onto the cluttered floor. Rachel senses movement from the bed, a slight moan of alarm or protest.
“Emily? Emily, honey?”
Rachel clambers onto the child-sized bed, feels her daughter's cheek, the warmth of flowing blood under flawless skin.
“Mummy?”
“Oh you're all right, darling, you're fine you're safe!” Rachel babbles in relief as she holds her daughter to her, tears falling into the child's hair.
“What's going on, did something happen?” asks Tony, resting a hand on Rachel's shoulder.
“I think Mummy had a nightmare, Daddy,” says Emily.
“That's right, sugar, I had a bad dream and I was frightened, so I came to see you and Bradshaw.”
“I thought so,” says the little girl. She holds up the teddy-bear. “You gave Bradshaw a bit of a shock. He's not as sensible as me, and of course he's even older than you and Daddy.”
“Sorry, Bradshaw, no hard feelings, I hope,” says Rachel, kissing the old bear on the nose.
“He's tougher than he looks,” says Tony, perching on the bed next to them. “I'll tell you what, Emily, why don't you bring Bradshaw to sleep in our bed? Then he'll feel nice and safe.”
“Yes!” shouts Emily, grabbing Rachel around the neck.
“Smart thinking from Daddy there,” says Rachel, wiping her tears and lifting her lovely, warm child. “Let's get Bradshaw back to sleep. Us old folks need plenty of shuteye.”
Chapter 4: Private Conversations
“We can never let her out of our sight,” says Tony. “Maybe we should just take her away? Out of the country, I mean? There's France, or even America?”
“You sure they couldn't find us?” asks Rachel. Tony's silence, his expression, are eloquent. “And anyway, we can't just quit our jobs, can we?” she goes on.
“No,” he admits. “We've got to stay grounded. In the movies people can just run away from whatever ‘Big, Bad Thing’ is after them. They don't have bills to pay, mouths to feed. God, what a bloody mess!”
They are walking through Breen Park towards Hobb's End station, the familiar first stage of their daily journeys to work. Charlotte took Emily to school as usual, a few minutes earlier.
“Okay,” Rachel says, “we can keep a six-year-old safe by wrapping her in cotton wool twenty-four seven. She'll never be alone at school, or at home. But she's nearly seven, remember, and sooner or later she'll want to sleep alone, and when she's a few years older she'll go to school alone no matter what we say. What then?”
“Oh my god! I forgot about her birthday,” says Tony. “We must do it properly. We've got to try and keep things as normal as possible.”
“Agreed,” she replies, “and when Dad arrives, we'll have an extra pair of hands and eyes to rely on.”
“Bloody hell, that's another thing to sort out!” Tony exclaims. “When's Nate coming?”
“He's booked on a flight next week,” says Rachel. “He hates flying so much, though. A real dinosaur. I'll believe he's really coming when he arrives at Heathrow.”
“So why didn't he come by liner?” asks Tony. “Too expensive?”
“No. He just gets really seasick,” Rachel replies. “He told me, 'If I have to choose between throwing up for three days and clutching the arms of my seat in terror for eight hours, I'll go for terror every time.'”
This provides them with a moment's laughter. They walk on in silence for a few moments. The sun has appeared, for a change, and is dispersing the morning mist.
“How are things at the Ministry?” she asks.
God, listen to me, she thinks. The little woman asking her man about his job at the office. Just for the sake of saying something. I need to get my brain in order!
“Oh, it's the usual nonsense,” Tony is saying. “Endless bureaucracy, cock-ups on all fronts. The new boss seems a bit smug and overbearing, though it's in the early days. I don't know how I'll be able to do any work in these circumstances,” he says.
“Me neither,” she agrees. “Maybe we can both beg some extra leave from our compassionate bosses?”
They agree to give it a try.
“What we really need is help of another kind,” says Tony.
“Maybe, but from who?” she asks. “Reverend Black's somewhere out East. Singapore, I think.”
“Yes, and I haven't heard from Bryce in years,” says Tony. “He might be dead for all I know.”
“He wouldn't be my go-to guy for child protection anyway,” adds Rachel. “One thing about Charlotte, you know where you stand. She'd do anything for Emily. It's at times like this, you realize who your friends are.”
And with that thought, they make their way to the Tube station in bleak silence.
***
Sir Henry Garmouth arrives six minutes late for the morning meeting. If one of the dozen men he's kept waiting resents it, he says nothing. There is a flurry of throat-clearing and paper shuffling as the chairman takes his seat at the head of the long boardroom table. The room is large, well-lit, on the top floor of an impressive building in Central London. From the windows, one can see the Houses of Parliament, St Paul's Cathedral, and Buckingham Palace.
“Gentlemen,” says Garmouth, “we have a lot to get through, today. All secure?”
“Yes, sir,” replies Burnside, “the room was swept for listening devices less than an hour ago.”
“Very well. Skelton? I trust you have already concocted some suitable meeting minutes for the official record?”
Skelton nods and passes out sheets of paper bearing a familiar corporate trademark. A few men glance at the minutes, most do not, simply slide them into leather binders bearing the same corporate symbol.
“Right,” says Garmouth, “now we can get down to business. Wetherbell? I trust our man is prepared for the main event?”
“Indeed, sir, he has been fully briefed,” replies Wetherbell. “And of course he's no novice in this area. I'm sure he will perform admirably.”
“Good. Burnside, any problems at your end?”
The retired general looks down at his papers, then looks Garmouth in the eye.
“There are some signs of disruptive elements at work,” says Burnside. “People asking questions. Nothing major, but it will bear watching.”
“What disruptive elements are we talking about?” demands Skelton. “Is Bryce involved?”
“Bryce. It's always Colonel Bryce,” says Garmouth, flatly. “He's still out th
ere, still causing trouble, still trying to raise an army of the righteous. And still failing miserably, gentlemen. Let us never forget that he's a mere gadfly, not a serious opponent.”
He brings the flat of his hand down on the polished table top. Glasses of water jump, clink.
“He didn't fail in Northumberland,” points out Skelton, staring down at the forged minutes.
“That was down to a stupid miscalculation by your predecessor!” snaps Burnside. “A lesson I hope you have learned. Along with the rest of us.”
“It was mostly due to that bloody awkward American woman,” chips in Wetherbell, “and she was aided by that Spanish bitch, the medium. The Spaniard was put out of action, I believe, but the American is a problem and should have been dealt with years ago!”
Before an argument can begin, Garmouth raises a hand.
“Gentlemen, it is one thing for an individual to be overconfident, to blunder and then pay the ultimate price. We, as a group, have never faltered, and we will not fail this time. Not when the future of our world is at stake. Now, let us continue. We will go through the details as often as we have to, until I am satisfied that all is ready. Then, and only then, will I report to our Masters.”
The meeting continues in a business-like spirit, pausing only to break for tea and sandwiches.
***
After a half-hour drive through London's morning rush-hour traffic, Charlotte stops her car outside Coal Hill Primary School and turns to Emily.
“Well, here we are, here we are, here we are again!” She sings just off-key while unbuckling the child's seat belt.
Emily nods, but doesn't join in with their ritual morning refrain of 'Happy as can be! All good pals and jolly good company!'
“Don't feel like singing, poppet?” asks Charlotte.
Emily shakes her head.
“Why not? More bad dreams?” Charlotte strokes Emily's hair.
“No, it's because Mummy and Daddy are upset about the Raggedy Men,” says Emily. “They came again last night and Mummy shouted and cried a lot. I nearly cried too, but I stopped myself because it would have upset Daddy.”
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 5
