by Guy Adams
She left him to his nursemaiding and sat in another cafe, just to avoid the discomfort of being near him. She helped herself to a sandwich and a bottle of orange juice, sitting in the window so she could at least keep an eye on things. Her sandwich, like all the food here, was a disappointment, a feeling sharpened no end by the fact that it took her five minutes to get into the packaging. The ham tasted the same as the lettuce and the cheese. Whether this was due to the House's standard practice of offering bland, imaginary, foodstuffs or just because it was a lousy sandwich she was unable to tell. It didn't matter, part of her felt she didn't deserve a decent lunch. Though whether this constant guilt was down to staying behind or sleeping with Miles she wasn't sure. If she thought long and hard about it she might have been able to decide. But she didn't think long and hard, didn't want to. She just wanted to be busy. She wanted – as stupid as she knew it was – the hectic, adrenaline-laced lifestyle of the last few days. When you were running around trying not to end up dead it was easy to distract oneself from your own thoughts. Now she had nothing but. It was driving her up the wall.
She hurled the majority of her lunch in the bin – wondering if it would be real enough to rot in there – and recommenced her pacing around the station.
It was an impressive place, she supposed, though no Grand Central Terminal. It was clean and sterile, in New York they built stations that felt like they meant business. She marvelled at the technology, naturally. Tapping at the information stands and watching the TV screens that offered platform announcements. The Grumpy Controller didn't make an appearance which was perhaps for the best, she certainly wouldn't have been in the mood for his attitude.
Like Miles and Carruthers before her she spent some time ogling the chaos of trains in the Barlow Shed, marvelling at the impossibility of it all. Even that palled after a while. She had seen so many impossible things over the last few days that she was becoming blasé. There was a limit to everything, after all, even wonder.
So she paced, pointless and directionless. The idea of returning to the cafe and trying to make conversation with Alan made her cringe. The man was a brick wall to her, requiring an effort that she didn't feel capable of. She was trapped. As trapped as ever.
A clatter of metal on tile echoed across the upper level of the station, loud enough to send the ghost pigeons into a panic. I knew it, thought Penelope, they aren't quite as immune to us as we like to think. The idea was gone as suddenly as it had surfaced, overcome by the fear of something intruding into their safe-haven. She realised that she had become lulled by the calm of the last forty-eight hours, forgetting that if there was one thing this house did well it was danger.
She ran towards the noise, knowing she should call to Alan but not doing so. As she burst her way through seemingly unaware passengers – only now able to do so without caring – she realised this was a mistake. A problem in fact. But, as she drew close to the champagne bar where Tom had raised a glass to ghosts of his own, she accepted it was too late to do anything about it. Whatever was going on was hers to face and hers alone.
2.
Alan forced himself into tasks to make Sophie comfortable, trying to fill his head with thoughts for someone other than himself. None of the shops sold bedding but he managed to find several things that could do the job as easily. A thick, pink dressing gown that made a comfortable blanket, a stack of jumpers for pillows. He picked up a small cuddly toy, a little elephant holding a stuffed heart, but put it back. That was going too far and he really didn't think Sophie was the sort of little girl that liked toys. In fact Sophie wasn't really like a little girl at all, not the few he had met at least. Of course her condition was to answer for that. He still didn't know precisely what that condition was, some form of autism perhaps? It wasn't something he knew much about. Still, the more time he spent with her the more he defined the rules, sussed out what made her happy – or at least as happy as she seemed capable of ever being – and what upset her. Despite her mental rigidity, her obsession for everything in its right place, he had been impressed by her adaptability. She had taken everything the house had thrown at her and fought on. That had taken one hell of a lot of strength, he had no doubt that many kids her age wouldn't have managed it. Hell, he thought, many adults wouldn't have managed it either…
He bundled her up on the soft, sofa cushions, draping the dressing gown over her and lifting her head to slip the jumpers underneath.
He watched her for a while and then began to fret about what he should do next. He wracked his brain for anything else he could do to make Sophie comfortable. Briefly wondering about a hot water bottle – which was ridiculous – it was warm enough to have created a thin rime of sweat in the small of his back, the last thing she needed was heating up. He might as well just face the fact that there was nothing else he could do. Perhaps he should find Penelope and see if they couldn't find a way to get on…
Or not.
Maybe he should make himself a cup of coffee and keep an eye on Sophie for a while longer. Yeah… maybe that was the best thing.
He walked behind the counter and tried to recall watching how this was done. He found the metal scoop for the coffee, unscrewing it and knocking the used grounds into a plastic-lined drawer. So far so good… he could see the coffee-bean grinder, just not how to actually operate it…
From behind him Sophie coughed. He dropped the coffee scoop on the floor and ran around to the seating area, sending a spinning rack of kettle chips flying in his panic. He tripped over a chair, winding himself as the back of it punched him in the stomach and ended up wheezing and aching on the floor next to her.
"Sophie, honey?" he asked, touching her gently on the forehead. There was no response, just the usual litany of "build not break, build not break". He sat there, getting his breath and trying not to give into the frustration he felt. He was just like a new parent, twitching at every noise through one of those loud speakers you fixed in a cot. He had to calm down, he was doing her no favours…
He decided he needed to grab some air, or at least what could pass for air in this place. Maybe he'd bump into Penelope after all and they could start over, see if they couldn't get along. After all he was likely to be spending a good deal of time with her.
He stepped outside the coffee shop just in time to hear her scream.
3.
Penelope couldn't see what had caused the noise, not to begin with anyway. In fact she stumbled on the piece of vent grating quite by accident, so busy looking in all directions for sign of trouble that she failed to pay attention to where she was putting her feet. The metal scuffed underneath her shoes, sending her tumbling against one of the tables in the champagne bar. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that her reflexes were sharp she would have most certainly ended up underneath it. As it was, she managed to grab a high-backed chair and keep her balance. She let go of the chair and picked the piece of grating up, looking it over. At first she had no idea what it was – not being familiar with the construction of air-conditioning systems – just a flat sheet of metal with grooves cut into it. One side – the inside, she could tell that much by the fact it was unpainted – was riddled with dents, as if it had been hit by buck shot. It occurred to her that whatever had caused the dents was most certainly what had forced the metal free from wherever it had been fixed. She looked up, figuring she would spot the hole somewhere, and then work it out from there. A pigeon was only inches from her face, its black beak aiming straight for her. Her gut instinct was to drop into a crouch, hoping it would simply swoop over her. It didn't, it dropped straight down, beak punching a small wound in the top of her head. She screamed – more in shock than actual pain, though it certainly hurt. The bird tumbled down her back, presumably disorientated by the blow itself. Penelope tumbled forward, hand flying to her head where she could feel her hair grow wet with blood. A panicked voice inside her fretted as to whether the bird had pierced her skull. Above her there was the sound of fluttering wings and self-preservation ki
cked in, the kamikaze bird wasn't alone and, unless she found some cover she could expect the next strafe run any second.
She dragged herself backwards, pulling herself under the table. The surface area wasn't massive but it was enough to cover her as long as she drew her arms and legs tight against her body. A few feet away the felled pigeon rolled over, flapping frantically in its attempt to get back in the air. It had damaged itself, clearly, flopping around in confusion, its slightly crooked beak drawing thin bloody lines on the floor tiles.
Above her, the fluttering continued but she didn't dare poke her head out to check how many other birds there were or what they were doing. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought to herself, or pecked its damned eyes out at the very least. The felled pigeon continued its spastic spiral only a few feet away, she stopped looking at it, it couldn't hurt her – or so she hoped – and if she kept staring at the damn thing she was likely to lose the poor lunch she'd eaten a few minutes ago.
There was a frantic sound of feathers and a bird landed on the table above her, its little talons tapping away on the wood as if it were doing a jig. I've found her! I've found her! It hammered at the wood with its beak as if convinced it could hack its way through to her. She remembered the dents in the metal plate that she had thought looked like rifle shot.
"Penelope?"
Alan was shouting for her. She supposed he had heard her scream, a fact that embarrassed her no end.
"Careful!" she shouted back, no idea how close he was and not intending to stand up and look. "Pigeons are attacking." How ridiculous that sounded when said aloud. That and the shame she felt at having screamed – or being heard at least – nearly had her break cover. The last thing she wanted was him to see her as a damsel in distress. She clamped down on her pride, that sort of stupidity would get her nowhere, she was sure he'd have hollered the place down if a bird had used him for target practice.
"Pigeons?" he called back, the doubt in his voice clear, however far away he was.
"Yes, pigeons!" she replied, allowing an edge of anger to her voice. "One of them tried to crack my skull open."
"Where are you?" There was no doubt now, she was pleased to notice.
"In the champagne bar, under a table." The bird above her head was hammering harder and harder, enough to make the table vibrate. She guessed it was encouraged by the sound of her voice. "Don't come running in here for God's sake, they'll be all over you before you know it." There was a pause. She wondered if he was still there. "Alan?"
"Thinking," he shouted back. "I'll be right back, stay where you are."
"Oh," she moaned sarcastically, "OK then." What did he think she was going to do? Pour herself a drink?
With a flap of wings that she could easily interpret as anger, the pigeon above her took to the air again, having given up on the table for now.
"Ow!" The lame pigeon had worked its way towards her and was pecking at the exposed top of her foot. She lashed out at it, slamming down her heel on the bird, grimacing as she felt it crunch. It had been an automatic reaction and – hostile as it was – she felt sick at what she'd done. Split and bubbling, it whirled around like a leaf caught in the wind, smearing its entrails behind it. She bit her lower lip and looked away, determined not to retch. She was embarrassed enough without Alan finding her covered in puke.
The death throes of the pigeon seemed to excite those above it, the air filling with beating wings. Several of the birds scooted low enough to the ground that Penelope was convinced they meant to fly under the table and attack her. As they took back to the air it occurred to her that they had likely been confirming where she was. Taking a little scouting mission so as to pin her down accurately. Or was she being paranoid? No… in this House there was no such thing as paranoia, just common sense. If they were planning on attacking despite the little cover she had then she needed to move. Somehow. The rustling rippled through the air above her once more, as the flock turned to swoop down again. She needed to think of something… quickly…
As the birds descended to within a few feet of her, she grabbed the single leg of the table and stood up with it, wielding it over her shoulder like a weighty umbrella. If she could get as far as the bar then maybe there would be better protection behind it. She ran in a stooped shuffle trying to cover as much of her body as possible with the surface of the table. The force with which a number of the pigeons hit the wood was almost enough to knock her over, luckily her sudden shift had forced the birds to change direction and only the tail of the flock had time to adjust. The majority of birds darted past her as she ran, curving in an arc – some colliding with the other chairs and tables with a soft thwacking noise – and then flying back up to the roof where, presumably, they would turn and fly at her once more.
A few feet from the bar entrance, the birds struck again and this time the force was more than enough to knock her off her feet. Three or four of the pigeons had aimed low, meaning to cut her down by her calves – where the table didn't altogether cover her – all but one misjudged, grinding into the floor a few centimetres behind her. One – that lucky one – got its beak into the flesh of her ankle, flipping over onto the back of her legs as she fell to the floor. The table landed across her back, the rim of its surface clattering against the floor a merciful few inches from her head. She drew herself into a ball and waited for the birds to strike. She wasn't going to scream though, damn it, that was the last thing she would do…
"Stay down!" Alan shouted, his feet pounding towards her. She chanced a glimpse – the fear of the birds taking her eyes strong enough that that was all she would allow. He was dressed in a thick, padded anorak, the hood cinched tight around his face, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. In his hands he was holding a tennis racquet, sweeping it forward and back as he ran. She closed her eyes again, his grunting and the sound of rebounded birds all she needed to know.
Alan had found the coat in the same outdoor clothing outlet that had proven so useful to his older self before travelling to Tibet. The tennis racquet had been propped up in a toy store window. It was far from perfect – he wouldn't have felt at ease with anything less than a suit of armour and a machine gun – but hopefully it would be enough. He lashed at the birds as they flew in an almost perfect arrowhead towards him and Penelope, keeping the racquet moving forward and back, batting the birds to either side as hard as he could. The damage done to his shoulder during his first day in the house was swift to remind him of its presence, the joint aching as he swung his arm. The first half of the arrowhead fell easily, the formation narrow enough and fast enough he couldn't fail to hit them. Their bodies spiralled to either side of him, wings broken, necks snapped. The strings in the racquet spread and twisted, not used to such treatment. He could only hope it would hold long enough to do its job.
The last half of the arrowhead was more spread out and a few of the birds had time to veer away at the last minute. He caught most of them but a handful escaped. The stragglers aimed straight for the roof, buying time to assess this new threat. Given the fervour of their attack, Alan wasn't stupid enough to think that a sense of selfpreservation would be enough to keep them at bay.
"Can you stand?" he asked Penelope.
"Of course I can!" she snapped, proving as much, though the wound in her ankle made her limp awkwardly.
"I think we should run," he said holding a hand out to help her but not altogether surprised when she refused to take it.
They ran, Alan looking over his shoulder to keep an eye on whether the birds were following. The few pigeons left were quick to form a new attack pattern and give pursuit. He glanced down at the racquet, its strings were ruined, it was no more than a wooden hoop and frankly useless as a weapon. He dropped it, and looked around for something to take its place. A glint of silver offered hope from the surface of the bar and he snatched at it. He would have to turn at the last minute, any earlier and the birds would have the chance to change direction. Their formation was narrow, a thin triangle, and h
e thought he just might pull it off…
"When I say 'drop'," he told Penelope, "hit the floor and roll to one side." Another few seconds… "Drop!"
He spun to face the birds, holding the wide, silver drinks tray at arm's length. As the birds hit, he pushed forward, counterbalancing the force of their blow. The first few in the line were dead instantly, necks broken, the next couple tumbled to the floor, disorientated. That left four still in the air and a danger. They veered around the tray and landed on him, beaks hacking away at the lining of his coat. The fabric split, white stuffing spilling out. He beat at himself with the tray, trying to knock them off, but they held on tightly, their talons long and sharp enough to pierce the coat and cut into his skin.
"Sorry about this," Penelope said, before beating at him with the dropped tennis racquet. She used the rim, not covering a lot of area but packing a punch. Alan grunted as she knocked the birds from him but had the sense to know this beating was in his own best interests. Penelope gritted her teeth as the birds fell, thrashing them away as they tried to turn their attentions on her. One fluttered at her ankles and she stamped on it blindly, trying to ignore the feeling of it crunching beneath her foot. In a few seconds the job was done, the champagne bar a charnel house of birds, some still twitching, most mercifully still. Alan was an absurd figure, great plumes of padding sprouted from all over his borrowed jacket.
