The Road to Bedlam

by Mike Shevdon

  This time the sound was outdoors. There was a hush of trees, the sound of leaves in the breeze. The raucous cry of rooks disturbed the quiet, their harsh accusing voices crying out of the sky. It felt open and wild; I could almost picture them circling around the trees, returning to roost in the evening light, cawing and calling to each other as they spiralled down.

  "Slimgrin, can you hear me? I need you to get a message to Garvin. Tell him Blackbird is in Shropshire with the Highsmiths. Deefnir's there too. Did you get that?"

  The only sounds were the call of the rooks over a muted shuffling, a sense of shifting weight or changing position. Where was he? Had he heard me?

  "Slimgrin, are you there? I know where Blackbird is. She's at the farm near Bridgenorth. Can you hear me?"

  There was a loud thumping, not from the mirror, but from outside my room. Someone was banging on my door.

  "Slimgrin? She's in Shropshire. I found her. Deefnir's there. Can you hear me?" I was shouting now, making myself heard over the thumping. It rose to an insistent hammering.

  "I'm going to have to go."

  I released my hand and the sound dissipated, making the thumping on my door sound as if someone was trying to break in, rather than simply get my attention.

  "Mr Dawson." Martha's voice came through the door. "Are you in there?"

  I went to the door, unlocked it and opened it just enough to see who was there. "Sorry, I was talking to one of my…"

  Martha was standing in the hallway with a look of sour disapproval on her face. Behind her was the larger bulk of Greg, the vicar. "Never mind that," he said over her head. "She's gone."

  "Who's gone?" I asked.

  "Shelley, Karen's sister. She's vanished."

  TWENTY

  "What do you mean, Shelley's vanished?" I asked Greg.

  It crossed my mind for a moment that she was the same age as my daughter. If she had fey ancestry then maybe she truly had vanished from sight. Is that what was going on? Were these girls disappearing because they were fey?

  Greg looked at Martha and then at me. "I need a word."

  "What kind of a word?" I glanced from one to the other. Martha's scowl did not improve.

  Greg eased around Martha, steering her towards the stairs. "Thank you, Mrs Humphries, you've been most helpful. Neal will be able to help me out now. Done all you can do in the circumstances. Thanks very much for your help."

  "There's something going on here. I can smell it," she protested.

  Greg wasn't to be distracted. "I'll handle it, don't you worry."

  He escorted her to the fire door and waited until it swung closed behind her. I could hear her disgruntled tread on the staircase, all the way down. I left the door ajar and picked up my sword, keeping my body between the doorway and the weapon until it was an umbrella that I held in my hand.

  Greg appeared in the doorway.

  "Don't know how long we've got."

  "Until what?"

  "She was meant to come straight home from school. She's not home and she's not at friends'. Her mum's worried sick. She's already called the police. Her dad's going spare, saying it's all Karen's fault."

  "You're worrying too much. She'll be behind the bus shelter with a boy or down the chip shop with her friends. I have to go."

  "Where?"

  "London, Shropshire… I'm not sure yet. I have a message to deliver."

  "Can't leave now. We need you."

  "I'm needed elsewhere."

  I moved towards the door, but Greg filled the doorway. I halted in front of him. "She's probably fine. What makes you think she's not?"

  He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle of plastic. He placed it in my open hand. It was pink and crushed. "Her mobile phone."

  "Where was it?" I turned it over in my hand. The screen was cracked and the innards hung out, dangling on little ribbons of wire. It looked as if it had been comprehensively stamped on.

  "Small park between school and home. More of a play area. Her mum followed the route back to school. No sign of her. Then she spotted this. Kicked under a hedge at the edge of the park, next to the road."

  "This should go to the police. It's evidence."

  "You've never seen it before?"

  "No, why should I… you think I had something to do with this?"

  Greg sagged and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Neal. I had to ask. You knew so much about them. You knew about Helen's pregnancy, Debbie's clubbing… when I found out you knew Gillian and Trudy were dead, I realised there could be more than one way of knowing."

  "Not because I had anything to do with their disappearance! I'm not some sick…"

  "I know that now. You do understand, don't you? Had to ask." His eyes held a sadness from hearing lies too often, seeing what people truly meant and knowing too much.

  "I really have to go." I needed to get a message to Garvin.

  "No, don't you see? It means something. You were sent to us. You were meant to be here."

  "I'm really meant to be somewhere else."

  "Shelley needs you. You may be the only one who can find her. Would you put her family through what you've been through? Not after losing your own daughter, surely?"

  That stopped me. "That's not fair, Greg."

  "No, it isn't. But who else will find her? At least tell us if she's still alive."

  The need to be on my way burned in me, but I could not just abandon him. "Come inside. Shut the door."

  He came in and closed the door behind him.

  "I want your word, Greg. On whatever you hold most sacred. You tell no one about this. Are we agreed?"

  "I swear on the Holy Cross, on Him who died there and on the Father who raised him up to heaven." It rang as true as anything I've ever heard.

  Tossing the umbrella on to the bed, I turned to the mirror. I placed my hand flat upon it, watching Greg as I did so.

  "Shelley Hopkins?"

  The mirror clouded under my hand and Greg's face held a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

  As the mirror started to glow from within he said, "That looks like…" He faltered before the word he was going to say.

  "Shhh! You wanted to know. Now we find out."

  The mirror cleared slowly and through it came the sound of the town. It wavered above the harbour and I thought it would rise and dissipate. My heart fell at explaining what that meant to Greg, and he must have seen it in my face, but then it focused, suddenly and vividly. There was a clunking scraping and a low murmuring, indistinct and fuzzy. Then a whimpering, a lost sound, more like a wounded animal than a girl.

  "Shelley? Shelley, is that you?" My voice echoed strangely.

  The whimpering sound continued. Then the clunking came again. It sounded metallic.

  "Where is she?" Greg asked.

  I shook my head, straining to hear. He came closer, trying to decode the sounds.

  "It's indoors. She's not outside. Can she hear us?"

  "Only if there's a mirror close to her. Wait, listen."

  The distinctive call of a gull, keeeya, keeya, keya, kya, kya kya, came from outside and echoed through the mirror into the room in a double image of sound.

  Greg said it first. "She's here! By God, she's right here!"

  "No, listen," I said. "The sound is delayed, further away from the gull than we are. Wherever she is, she can hear it."

  "A warehouse? There are some around the harbour. Or maybe another guest house?"

  "Outside," I said. "We need to be outside. I'll bring the mirror."

  I unhooked the mirror from the wall. Greg held the door open as I went through and we barged open the fire door and ran down the stairs. Martha came out of the kitchen and waited at the bottom of the stairs as we barrelled down.

  She pointed at the mirror. "You can't take that. That's private property, that is!"

  Greg intercepted her. "Don't worry, we'll bring it back."

  I slipped past them out into the street. Holding the mirror pressed to one ear I turned slowl
y. The sounds were confusing, on one side muffled and indistinct, overlaid with scrapes and shuffles, and on the other, clear but wide open. I closed my eyes, turning slowly. There was an abrupt blare of a car horn as a car swerved around me.

  "Watch where you're going, ya prick!" The voice was female, but the car had gone before I could see the face.

  The gull call came again, and I turned towards the harbour, but then another joined in, and another. The rooftops echoed to the call of the gulls and I couldn't get a fix on it.

  Greg appeared. "Where?"

  I shook my head, waving my hand at the gulls, then gestured towards the harbour. We walked together slowly, me listening to the mirror, him watching out for me. He stepped out in the road, gesturing the traffic to a halt as we came out on to the harbour front. No one questioned the stern-faced vicar. He stood in the road, holding the traffic while I scanned the rows of shops and houses, the chandlers, the fishing shop. There were windows above the shops, facing on to the harbour. She could be behind any one of them. I stepped back on to the pavement, following the line of the shops.

  A truck rumbled past, changing gear, and the echo of the sound reverberated through the mirror. Close – I could hear she was close. I trotted down the front of the shops, scanning side alleys, looking for dumpsters and bins, anything that might be metallic and big enough for a person. I saw a skip and raced for it. Greg followed and started pulling off tangles of polythene, slabs of plasterboard, pitching them on to the floor. There was just rubble. Nowhere big enough for a girl.

  We went back to the front.

  "We need more people." I pointed to the row of windows facing out over the harbour. "We need to be in these shops. Every one of them has an upstairs. The police can go house to house. Two of us simply isn't enough."

  A gull call came again, and I pressed the cold of the glass to my cheek. There was almost no difference. I could hear the muted call coming through, but it was muffled, as if it were under blankets or filtered through something.

  "Here. Somewhere here."

  I threw my arm out and turned slowly, looking for some sign, some indication of where she was.

  Greg stared about, his eyes feverish. "The light's going. The sun's already down. We lose the light and we'll lose her."

  "Look for a light in the windows. There might be one that's occupied."

  We scanned the front, looking for signs of occupation. In the upstairs room of a junk shop a single bulb hung bare behind the glass. I rushed to the door, repeatedly pushing the bell-button and rattling the door until a shadow appeared and pulled the door ajar.

  I shoved my way inside, followed by Greg. The bell rattled maniacally on its spring. A bearded man, piggy eyes behind round glasses, looked confused at Greg and offended at me. I barely broke pace, pushing through to the back of the shop. Greg stayed with him.

  "Dave? What's upstairs?"

  He made to follow, but Greg's giant hand landed on his shoulder and held him back.

  "Upstairs – what's up there?"

  "My stockroom…"

  I took the stairs upwards two at a time and burst into the room.

  The single bulb presided over stacks of old rubbish in an array that made the Maritime Museum look tidy. I snatched an old blanket from a pile in the corner to find only a badly stuffed armchair, piled with broken toys. It was just rubbish.

  A sound rumbled through the mirror, an engine, gravel-ground and diesel-driven. It had started up. I barrelled back down the stairs, heading for the street.

  "Wrong idea. A truck. I can hear the diesel. It's just started. He's moving. We've got minutes at most."

  Greg piled out of the shop behind me and we scanned the road. I raced down the front. A white van was manoeuvring back and forth in a parking space. I raced for it and went for the back. It reversed towards me then stuttered to a halt.

  A big guy, blue-dyed tattoos down his arms, jumped out.

  "What'ya think you're doing? I nearly ran into you, idiot!"

  I yanked at the back doors of the van. They were locked.

  "Open this. Open it now!"

  "There's nothing in there. I'm picking up, not dropping off."

  Greg appeared at my shoulder. "Do what he said."

  I don't know whether it was the dog-collar or the set of Greg's shoulders, but the big guy fiddled with his keys and inserted it into the lock. He yanked the doors wide.

  "See?"

  The van was bare. I stepped back, scanning the line of traffic. We needed more time. It could be any one of them. I held the mirror up to my ear. Big truck, little truck, van, car?

  The noise was much louder in the mirror, a dull thrumming that reverberated through the glass. A constant rumble that you felt rather than heard. I stepped back, turning slowly through a full circle, trying to hear a sound that matched that deep growl. I found myself facing out.

  Across the road, on the far side of the harbour, one of the boats was moving. A couple of men walked up and down the sides of the boat as they disentangled it from the ones around it, slipping tethers and untying mooring ropes. I watched it in fascination. The boat pulled around and skewed sideways, drifting into the one next to it. From the mirror there was a deep thunk as they gently collided.

  I started walking towards the harbour, Greg following me, eyes on the traffic, not seeing the boat.

  "Can you hear it? Is she still there?" he asked.

  I concentrated on the boat. Lights came on, white, red and green. A spout of diesel smoke erupted from the rear with an answering roar from the engine in the mirror. I quickened into a trot, following the line of the harbour wall where it circled around.

  Greg shouted behind me. "Is she there?'

  The boat rumbled loudly and pulled back into clear water. It drifted out into the centre of the harbour, turning slowly. I could see lights on in the cabin and men scurrying around on the deck. I could hear the engine idling again, not across the harbour, but through the glass of the mirror. I tucked the mirror under my arm, moving into a run, wrapping concealment around me so they wouldn't see me racing around the harbour wall, tracking the boat.

  Three men, all fishermen, one in the cabin steering, the other two on the deck. The engine grumbled and the water foamed behind it. The boat pushed forward, heading for the harbour entrance.

  A moment for decision. If I was wrong – if it wasn't that boat – then I would lose her. If she was on shore I would lose her. I dropped the mirror; it bounced once, twice behind me, then smashed as I ran on around the curve of the harbour wall. Seven years' bad luck. I'd better be right.

  The boat pulled around and headed towards the harbour mouth. I increased my pace, wrenching open the well of power within me, intensifying the concealment and misdirection. I wanted to be invisible. The boat turned into the opening, heading for open water. I raced for the end of the harbour wall, timing my run.

  The boat accelerated and the well within me dilated, flooding my muscles with power. My body sang with it and I sped forward, heading for the end of the sea wall. As the boat crossed into open water, I leapt up off the harbour wall, sailing out into space, my legs still pumping, the boat coming up fast beneath me so that I landed with a whump!, crashing on to the cabin roof, rolling forward, carried by my own momentum. I tipped over the side, momentarily airborne again. Thump! I hit the side of the boat as it rose on the swell, grabbed the rope mesh draped over the side, my body hanging over so that my feet dangled in the frothing water.

  "What were that!" a voice called out of the cabin.

  "What were what?"

  The answering voice came towards me and I tightened my grip on the mesh and deepened the concealment that hid me.

  "That thump. Sounded like we hit something."

  There was a pause. "Driftwood maybe? Somethin' in t' water, most like."

  "Any damage?"

  A figure passed by above me and headed for the bow. While they were busy, I hauled myself up on to the rail. The boat started oscillating as it met th
e swell from the open sea. It ducked and tipped, the bow sending up a shot of spray into the last light of the day. My lips tasted salt where I licked them and my jacket clung to me. I hauled myself over the rail and limped towards the stern, still wrapped in concealing power. My side hurt where I had hit the rail and the nerves on my left side still jangled from the impact.

  Now that I was aboard I could see that this was more of a work-boat than a trawler. It didn't have the spars and the drapery of nets ready to haul over and drag through the sea on the end of booms, but rather piles of wire pots and smaller nets that could be cast overboard by hand. It still had the tall prow and deep stern of a deep-water boat, and there was a small nest of radio aerials rising from a mounting bar above the cabin. It would be seaworthy for days at a time, and as I watched the harbour dimming behind me, I wondered how far they planned to go.