by Tim Clare
‘Sorry we had to meet like this.’
The voice was nasal and precise. If she detected a tremor, perhaps it was the rumble of the van. He was sitting opposite her, though she could only make out his silhouette and the tips of his long, slender fingers, steepled.
She tried to think. Adrenaline was surging through her system. The front seats were too high to climb over. Were the rear doors locked? Doubtful.
‘You’re not in any danger,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to be there if the police arrived. Perhaps you were bluffing.’
Delphine breathed through her nostrils, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The wipers squeaked.
‘Who are you?’
‘Call me Butler.’
‘Mr Butler—’
‘Not Mr Butler, or Butler something. It is just Butler.’
She dug her fingernails into her palms. The pain brought her round. Come on now. She wasn’t some wide-eyed child.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
Behind the mask, the figure cleared his throat. ‘That rather depends. What do you want, Mrs Venner?’
Delphine gripped the curved brass head of her cane, steadying herself as the van climbed a hill. He knew her name. Not a conventional burglary, then. Something worse.
‘Ms.’ She tried to disguise her fear with a sigh. ‘And I’m a very old, very tired, very intolerant woman. My stroke medication is lying on the kitchen cabinet and I need to urinate. What I want is to go home.’
‘Vesperi. Avalonia. The honours.’
He recited the words like an incantation. Ice water trickled down her heart.
‘Where—’
‘Your email.’
Her stomach cramped. She had forgotten sending it. This was some unhinged fellow from her mailing list. He had read her message and he was vulnerable and he had seen some kind of embedded command. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘How many people did you send it to?’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’ Her mouth had gone dry. The truth might make him angry. ‘A few.’ She reckoned near a hundred.
‘Harka. Threshold. The perpetuum.’ The mask tilted forward in the darkness. ‘Is that what you were hoping to hear?’
Tingles ran down the nape of her neck. This was no ordinary crank.
She nodded.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now. If you can answer a few questions, I’m sure you’ve some you’d like to ask me.’
Her skin prickled. What if they were after Martha?
‘Was your father Gideon Venner?’ he said.
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’
‘And he was resident in Alderberen Hall from 1934 to 1935?’
‘It must have been around then, yes.’
‘Did you ever visit him at the Hall?’
‘We lived there with him.’
‘Who?’
‘Me and Mother.’
The seat creaked as the figure shifted. ‘You would have been a child at the time.’
‘I was.’
‘And what did you see while you were there?’
Flashes of black wings against a summer sky, her father burning. She had felt it all these years – the wrecking ball ending its long upswing, fat with potential energy; the gun on the mantelpiece; the debt in the heart. She had known it would come for her in the end.
‘Horrific creatures from another world.’
His steepled fingers separated, balled into fists. ‘Go on.’
‘Bat-things – vesperi, they were called. They came through a gateway hidden on the estate – a pool of black water. The “threshold”. Lord Alderberen’s mother, Anwen, came through it. She had been given a power called the honours. You had to be stung by a special insect – a godfly. It meant she didn’t age or die or feel pain. I shot her and blew her up with a grenade, but she survived and her wounds healed.’ Delphine glanced up. ‘You think I’m senile, don’t you?’
The mask nodded with the motion of the van. ‘I’m not a doctor, Ms Venner. Did Anwen say why she’d come to England?’
‘She said they’d kidnapped her daughter.’
‘“They” being?’
‘Lord Alderberen and a man called Mr Propp. He was a sort of . . . guru. He ran things at the Hall.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘Well . . . I killed some people. And my dear friend Henry rigged the chamber containing the threshold with explosives. He disappeared. I got out just before the whole place went up. My father was in there with Anwen. I don’t know what happened to them either. Either they died in the blast, or they escaped through the threshold to Avalonia.’
‘Was the threshold destroyed?’
‘Oh, utterly. I’m sure of it. We—’ She caught herself. Don’t mention Martha. ‘I checked it, years later. The MOD took over the grounds during the war. No, it was the CID back then. Anyway, they didn’t seem to realise it existed. Nothing there but a mound of dirt. Henry was very thorough. Said he’d set the charges so the lake flooded it.’
‘I see.’ The van slowed as it approached a junction. Delphine could feel the exhaust vibrating through the soles of her feet. ‘And do you know of any other routes to the other world?’
She thought of Algernon and the other lanta, their disappearance. Her decades of work. Her leads.
‘None whatsoever.’
The figure visibly sagged. He let out a sigh.
‘Thank you.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘You’ve been honest and to the point and that has made this whole process much easier.’
Delphine straightened up a little. ‘Now, Butler, I’ve some questions for you.’
In the dark she could not quite see what he was doing. He was holding his right hand up and appeared to be pulling at each of his slender fingers in turn.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said distractedly. ‘Fire away.’
‘I’ve been searching all my life. You’re the first person I’ve met who knows something. Just tell me – have you found a way through? A threshold?’
Something black fluttered in the air between them. He had whipped off a glove.
‘If you wouldn’t mind tilting your head back juuust . . . a . . . touch . . .’ His hand was moving towards her face.
Delphine flinched. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re one of very few people alive on this planet party to a colossal secret.’ Up close, she saw that his ungloved fingers were freakishly long. ‘A dangerous one, frankly. But you’re no threat to us. I think it’s best that you forget this meeting.’
‘What’s that supposed to—’
‘My apologies for disrupting your evening. We’ll make sure you’re returned to your house safe and sound.’
As his hand closed in, a light seemed to coalesce round his fingertips.
She lifted her cane.
‘Hit me if it makes you feel better,’ he said, making no attempt to defend himself. ‘I don’t mind. I’m sorry I can’t help you. Truly.’
‘Fine.’ She pulled the cane away a bit. ‘But will you pass on a message?’
He paused. ‘What?’
She swung and clubbed the driver.
The cane’s heavy brass head connected with his temple. He cried out. She yanked, hooking his eye. He punched the horn, swerved. The tyres skidded. Delphine lurched forward into Butler.
She pressed her face into his mask. ‘No . . . surrender.’
The van’s back end swung out. She grabbed his collar and let herself fall with the momentum. Her head whacked the wooden floor. He was on top of her. The van clattered over ruts. He slipped and she rolled. They tumbled over and over till he boomed into the rear doors.
He grasped at her jaw with long, rough fingers. She drove her cane into the mask’s eye socket. The plastic split. He clutched at the hole.
The crack and splinter of branches. The van fishtailed. They hit a rut side-on. The floor bucked. Delphine grabbed the door handle.
The whole vehicle tipped.
Gravity shifted. For a second, Butler
rose weightless, then he faceplanted into the panelled wall with a sickening crunch. She landed heavily on top of him. The windscreen blew out. The van shuddered, clattered. Its body howled with the whale song of stressed metal. She slammed back-first into the bench seat. They were skidding, spinning. She clutched at the bench’s steel frame but her fingers slipped; they were wet. A series of impacts shook them from beneath. The horrible scraping sound eased to a tidal hiss, the sucking, fading backwash of pebbles in spume. Then it stopped.
The van lay on its side, indicator ticking. She smelt undergrowth, diesel. They were still.
Delphine rolled onto her shoulder. A splintering pain filled her elbow. She breathed, waiting for it to pass. Booze was probably taking the edge off.
Strange lattices of moonlight webbed the van’s interior. She could just make out Butler facedown against the panelled wall, his arms splayed. Under his jacket, his shoulder blades were bulging out at grotesque angles.
She eased herself onto all-fours. Her left wrist hurt terribly – she could not make a fist.
A rustle from the front seat.
‘Sir?’ It was the driver. He sounded drunk. He snorted wetly, spat. ‘Sir? Are you . . . ugh.’ More rustling. She glanced over her shoulder. He was engulfed by the fat white mushroom of the airbag. ‘Wait. I’m coming back.’ The click of his seatbelt unfastening.
Gingerly, she began crawling towards the back doors. She was shaking with adrenaline. She inched past Butler, taking care not to nudge him. The driver shifted in his seat, moaning at some blossoming injury as he struggled with the door.
A snuffling noise came from behind the mask. Delphine held her breath. The noise stopped.
At least he was alive. She reached the back doors. Wincing, she squeezed the door handle. She lifted the top door then eased the lower one down onto the wet grass.
The night was fragrant with rain. They were at the bottom of a hill. The tail lights picked out a shining path of gouged earth and flattened grass. Jesus. They must have skidded forty feet.
She plunged her cane into the damp earth and hauled herself onto her knees. Placing a palm against the van, she struggled to her feet. The snuffling noise came again, louder. She turned. Butler was dragging himself out of the van, panting.
‘Well.’ He stood, brushing dirt from his palms. ‘That’s a nuisance.’
‘Don’t move.’
Butler cocked his head. Cracks forked the mask’s gold plastic.
‘Now why on earth would I comply?’
Delphine licked her dry lips and tried to ignore the pain in her wrist. ‘Because my friend is holding your driver at gunpoint.’
‘You can’t honestly think I’d—’
‘It’s true, sir.’ The voice came from the grass behind him. The driver was on his hands and knees beside the upturned rear wheels. Blood dripped from his nose. A pistol was pressed to the side of his head.
Butler turned to look.
‘I said don’t move,’ said Delphine.
The pistol muzzle twisted itself against the driver’s temple.
He grimaced. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ She couldn’t place his accent.
Butler looked back at Delphine. He was lit from behind by the tail lights, a tall silhouette framed with vapour rising from the sodden grass.
‘You wouldn’t hurt him,’ he said.
‘Martha, give me the gun.’ There was a swirling in the mist beside the driver; the pistol dipped then flew through the air. Delphine caught it. ‘Thank you, darling.’ She hefted it in her hand. Black steel with a chequered grip. She pressed the catch on the toe of the pistol butt and checked the magazine. Fully loaded. Martha was such a treasure. She slapped the magazine back into place with the heel of her palm and aimed at Butler’s head. ‘I’m not a reasonable woman, Mr Butler.’
‘It’s just B—’
She squeezed the trigger. The pistol kicked and put a hole in the back door. Butler flinched.
‘Reckless, in many ways.’ Blood ran hot in her veins. Something about the weight of the gun made her feel younger. ‘Exceptionally petty.’
The rear lights lit rain falling diagonally.
Butler spoke in a low snarl: ‘What do you want?’
‘Take me to Avalonia.’
‘All right,’ he said.
For a moment, she thought she had misheard. She had expected resistance.
‘Good,’ she said.
Rain dripped from the mask. The cracks widened and shrank with his breathing.
‘I’ll have to call for a pick-up,’ he said.
‘Do whatever you have to.’
‘The phone’s in the front of the van.’
‘Where precisely?’
‘Glove compartment.’
‘Would you, darling?’ Delphine gestured with the pistol.
She waited. The clatter of glass crystals – Martha walking through the smashed windscreen. Moments later, a silver flip-phone drifted round the side of the van. It floated to Delphine’s hip and stopped, a foot off the ground. She twisted her cane into the dirt so it stood upright when she let go. Keeping the gun trained on Butler’s chest, Delphine reached with her free hand and took the phone.
Butler was staring at the space beside her. His arms went slack.
‘Is that . . .’
From beneath the mask came a sound like the pop-pop of radio static, like someone blowing bubbles in milk with a straw, like ripping.
That noise. The blood seemed to flow away from her skin. Monsoon rumble filled her ears.
A dry, ratcheting rik-ik-ik. Martha was answering. A short exchange followed, clicks and chitters that dipped in and out of audible range. What on earth was she playing at? Delphine glanced at the pistol, checking it was still there. Her fingertips had gone numb.
At her hip, vapour bulged and twisted. Motion blur wafted away, starting at Martha’s antennae, working down her armoured hull to her hooked feet.
‘No!’ Delphine hissed.
‘My apologies,’ said Butler, reaching for his mask. ‘Had I known the company you kept.’ He performed a curt half-bow and closed his fingers round the damaged portion of mask. It shattered like a poppadom. He straightened up, shards of plastic dropping away.
Red-lustred fur. Half a grin of intermeshed spiny fangs. Moist frills of cartilage fanning out from a nostril slit. A yellow eye with a black pit.
He pushed back his hood, revealing tall ears with coral-pink interiors.
She stared in cold horror. In disbelief. She understood what those deformities on his back were now. Wings.
‘I expect you assumed I was human. Surprise.’ He raised an arm, extending his slender fingers. ‘Take all the time you need to adjust. In the meantime, pass me the phone and I’ll have someone bring a car.’ She saw now the short black fur, the unnatural length. ‘Ms Rao will be keen to meet you.’
A vesperi.
She almost fired. She saw herself doing it, the bullet punching through his breastbone, his body hitting the van, the second, third shots, the way his corpse would buck, the fragments of skull and brain matter.
She felt a tug at her trouser pocket. When she glanced down, Martha was looking up, her eyes pulsing an aqueous green.
Martha raised a fist and bopped it twice for yes.
Delphine exhaled heavily. She looked at Butler.
‘All right.’ She tossed the phone underarm. Butler snatched it out of the air with shocking deftness. ‘But if you try anything, I will shoot you.’
‘I believe you wholeheartedly.’ He flipped open the phone. ‘I am, after all, a “horrific creature from another world”.’ He glanced at Martha. ‘And you know what we’re like.’
A car came within the hour. Butler drove.
They purred down empty B roads at a steady fifty-five, headlights on full beam, illuminating spectral winter oaks, lone telegraph poles, the slumped shell of a caravan. He wore his hood up over his ears, a red scarf covering the lower half of his face.
Delphine sat in t
he passenger seat, the pistol in her lap. It had a long black barrel like a Luger – you might mistake it for one, at a distance. Finnish-made, built for harsh winters. Reliable but heavy. A smart choice by Martha. She ran her thumb over the manufacturer’s logo moulded into the grip, keeping the barrel tilted towards Butler’s stomach.
‘There’s really no need to do that,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
So strange to hear the creature speak. She had fragmented memories of Mr . . . what was the name? Loxley? A gristly, brutish vesperi who had worked for Anwen as a bodyguard. All the others she had encountered had been children – short, lithe, still able to fly. Her eyes kept alighting on the twitch of his lozenge-shaped pupils as he scanned the road. Her brain resisted processing him as a person.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Shimmering transparencies swam at the corners of her vision. She kept fighting the urge to nod off.
She lowered the electric window, bringing herself round with a blast of cold air. Martha, who had been dozing in the back, started at the whirr as the pane dropped, her antennae blowing backwards. The dark fields smelt of moist earth, slurry. Soon it would be dawn.
‘Where are you taking us?’ she said.
‘To our base of operations.’
‘Where’s that?’
Butler glanced across at her, his yellow eyes like uncut citrines. ‘If I tell you that, you might shoot me before we arrive.’
‘I shall try to restrain myself.’
‘Not good enough. I’m sure you and Martha appreciate the need for discretion.’
Condensation streamed down the windows. Delphine rested her head against the wet, freezing glass. She felt herself dozing off, resisted without enthusiasm, but the desire was so seductive, closing her eyes so easy.
In her dream she was on an infinite boardwalk in mist. Grey headless creatures stalked her on the underside of the planks. Bare trees rolled past in the distance and the sky was a lurid, heartsick purple. There was something about getting across before something closed. Sometimes she was in the car, only it was on rails.
She came round with a jolt. The pistol had slipped into the footwell.
She sat up, blinking. One side of her face was freezing from pressing against the window, the other was prickly and hot. Tall hedgerows rose on either side of the car. The sky passed from dark navy in the west to bright bands of lavender and cyan on the eastern horizon. They headed towards that horizon at speed.
