The Exiled

by William Meikle

  “We still don’t know what we’re getting into here,” he said, pushing the last of the sandwiches aside. “If all that’s going to happen is we get sent straight back to where we started, then what’s the point?”

  “There’s something we’re not seeing,” John replied. “Both you and I were drawn to the place without any mumbo jumbo. I think something—or someone—wants us there. We just have to avoid Galloway and that fucking bird long enough to find out why.”

  “And you think whoever called us to the farm can help?”

  John shrugged.

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  Ten minutes later they were back on the road.

  “What about our deposit?” Alan said.

  “Leave it for now. We might have to come back. I don’t think our money is going to be legal tender where we’re headed tonight.”

  Alan drove in the gathering dark, heading up through south Scotland in a meandering route that avoided the bigger towns but meant a lot of slower progress on low-quality roads. He had a tension headache by the time they finally approached the Galloway farm driveway nearly three hours later and had to continually flex his fingers to work out a stiffness that was settling there.

  Despite his own aches and pains, he felt more worried for John. The older man hadn’t said much in the last hour, and had a gray pallor that Alan didn’t like the look of.

  “You okay, big man?” Alan asked as he cut the lights and drove as carefully as he could up the driveway. He only got a grunt in reply.

  “At least you’re not dead,” Alan said, trying for a laugh. He didn’t get one.

  “Not yet.”

  * * *

  As before, the farmhouse sat quiet and dark. All traces of the small army of police, forensics, reporters and medical personnel who had swarmed around in the aftermath of their last visit were long gone. If anyone was waiting for them inside, they hadn’t left a vehicle in the farmyard. Alan killed the engine and they sat with the windows rolled down, listening. The only noise was the ticking of the cooling car and a soft murmur of wind in the trees above.

  “Let’s give it five,” John said, and lit up a smoke.

  They sat in silence, both watching the farm and outbuildings. A cloud flitted over the moon, sending shadows capering and dancing—and swooping—like a huge bird. Alan cursed his imagination—he needed a clear head and clearer thinking. He had a feeling it was going to a long, wild night to come.

  John rubbed his cigarette out with thumb and forefinger.

  “Let’s see what’s what then, shall we?”

  They got out of the car and headed for the main building. Alan regretted not hunting for something to use as a weapon—a tire iron would feel good in his hand right about now.

  “Shall I take the back…” he started, and shut up when he saw the look that crossed John’s face. “Shit, John, I didn’t mean…”

  The older brother waved him to silence.

  “Just stay behind me,” he said as they approached the main door. “And if anything moves, kick it in the nuts.”

  The door swung open as John reached for it.

  “You’re welcome to try and find them,” a soft voice said.

  17

  Grainger couldn’t make out who stood in the doorway—all he knew was it was too slight a figure to be Galloway—and it had sounded like a woman. And there was no immediate attack forthcoming. The mere fact that she had spoken and given away her position allowed him to relax slightly. If there had been a trap, it hadn’t been sprung.

  “I take it you were expecting us?”

  The woman walked away from them into the hallway.

  “And I take it you got my message?”

  She threw a switch, the hall light came on, and finally Grainger got a good look at her. She was small, almost petite, slightly stocky, and wore full combat fatigues and a flak vest. She had a pistol in a holster at her hip, and a thick bladed knife in a sheath on the other side. Her boots looked like they were made for hard walking in thick mud—and were dirty enough that they might well have done so recently.

  As he looked her up and down, she did the same to him and Alan, taking in their casual clothes and training shoes.

  “You came prepared then,” she said sarcastically, and walked away into the main living area. She carried herself like a fighter.

  When Grainger and Alan reached the doorway, she was already sitting in an armchair with a small table in front of her. A bottle of Scotch and three glasses sat on the table. She motioned the brothers to the sofa opposite the chair.

  “I thought we’d start with introductions,” she said. “I’m Sandy, and I’ll be your guide for the tour.”

  She laughed at Grainger’s obvious astonishment.

  “I take it I’m not what you expected?” she said, pouring three drinks and sitting back in the chair.

  “I didn’t know what to expect,” Grainger replied. “And I’m not even sure why we’re all here. But I’ll have a drink with you and maybe you can fill us in on what you know…” He leaned over and took the two other glasses, passing one to Alan before lighting up a smoke. “For instance, do we have you to thank for the eyewitness reports from Ferguson’s lockup?”

  If the woman was thrown by the question, she didn’t show it.

  “No. That was somebody in the force—somebody you’ve pissed off in the past. I hear you’re good at that. I have been watching you though, ever since the youngster here found his way to Loch Leven. I thought Ferguson and I were the only two who knew, so you pair were a wee bit of a surprise.”

  “Knew? About…the other place?”

  “I call it Narnia,” she said, and laughed again.

  Grainger realized he was going to like her, even more so as she downed her Scotch and poured herself another large one.

  “So what can you tell us?” Alan asked as Grainger puffed at his smoke.

  She smiled.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Grainger knew that Alan was full of questions, so he let his younger brother take the lead while he watched the woman—Sandy—looking for signs of lying or evasion.

  She answered the first one readily enough.

  “How did you find out about the black bird?”

  She sipped at her Scotch as if deciding how to reply.

  “It found me,” she finally said. “Three years ago—I was on Salisbury Plain on an exercise—then I suddenly wasn’t. You know what I saw—cliffs, sea and decaying buildings. And the bird—that bloody bird. And then I was back on the plain again, getting a dressing-down from my lieutenant.”

  She stopped and sipped more Scotch.

  “After that I spent all my spare time trying to find out what had happened. Over that first year I went over twice more—and both times the bloody bird chased me off. I made up my mind that I was going to get past it—I needed to know why this was happening to me, and getting to the next level—to use a gaming analogy—seemed the best way to go about it.”

  “And did you?” Alan asked.

  “It’ll be easier if I just show you,” she said, and stood. “Are you ready?”

  Neither Grainger nor Alan moved from the sofa. She hadn’t been telling the whole truth—he’d conducted enough interviews to know the signs. But she hadn’t been lying either—just been evasive, and that might just be because they were all strangers to each other. But either way, he didn’t feel he knew her well enough yet to trust her.

  “No—I don’t think we are,” Grainger said softly. “Galloway’s over there too and we haven’t come off too well so far. We were hoping you had a better plan.”

  “I do,” she replied, equally softly. “But as I said, it’s better if I just show you.”

  “I’m running a little low on faith right now,” Grainger said. “And trust. I take it you’ve found a way to evade the bird?”

  “Not exactly,” she replied. “I just found a way to go somewhere it can’t get to—I can get us inside the ruins up on t
he rocky outcrop—I found a way to come and go there and I don’t think either the bird—or the big man—knows about it. I’ve been back three times this week and—”

  “Here’s my last question,” Alan said softly, interrupting her. “How many kids did you have to kill?”

  If she’d laughed at that point, Grainger was quite prepared to launch himself at her and be damned with the consequences, but instead she looked grim.

  “None. That bastard Galloway took the route he was offered. The three of us are different somehow—we can do it ourselves. As Ferguson said to me, all magic is an act of will. I’ve been willing myself to go over—it doesn’t work everywhere, but it does in thin places—like this one.”

  She closed her eyes. The walls wavered and swam as before, but this time it wasn’t a cliff-top scene they saw beyond, but rough-hewn rock walls with empty window frames high above letting in thin, watery light. Grainger smelled dust and wood smoke.

  She opened her eyes. They were all fully back in the farmhouse once again.

  “I’m pretty sure all of us can go over,” she said. “And I can bring us all back if there’s any trouble.”

  “You’re asking us to trust you on not a lot of evidence that we should,” Grainger said.

  Alan stood from the sofa. He turned to Grainger.

  “It’s what we came for, isn’t it? She says that she’s got a way over there without meeting the black bird. We either believe her or we don’t. I say yes.”

  Grainger still wasn’t sure, but he also knew that they couldn’t run for long—the case was too big, too high-profile. He had to make something happen.

  Looks like this is our only option.

  He finished the whisky and dropped his cigarette end into the empty glass where it hissed for a second before going out.

  “I always do what my wee brother says—let’s get this show on the road.”

  * * *

  The woman motioned them over to the far side of the room—Grainger’s memory of his previous visit was spotty to say the least, but they were now standing almost exactly on the spot where he’d been lying injured.

  “So what now?” he said. “Do we join hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ or something?”

  She laughed again and he almost smiled in return.

  “Just stand close,” she said. “I need to concentrate.”

  Grainger looked over to Alan.

  “Click your heels three times and say the magic words,” he said.

  Alan laughed.

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  The walls melted and ran, revealing gray stone behind. The tang of wood smoke was stronger now, almost choking at the back of Grainger’s throat. Alan’s eyes went wide.

  “It’s a trap,” the younger brother shouted—too late, far too late.

  They had passed over.

  The brothers stood in a twelve-foot square cell on a floor of dry straw over stone slabs. The walls rose sheer to show blue sky some fifty feet above with a single window open to the elements around halfway up. The woman stood on the other side of a heavy iron grate.

  “You know, for a copper, you really are as thick as shit,” she said.

  She closed her eyes and wavered, going thin and wraithlike. Two seconds later Grainger and Alan were alone.

  18

  The brothers looked at each other. Alan laughed.

  “We walked right into that one.”

  “That we did, wee brother,” John said. “I always was a sucker for a woman in uniform.”

  Alan looked around. There wasn’t much else to see. The walls looked too smooth to attempt a climb—not that John would be up to it anyway. He went to the iron grate and tugged, putting his weight into it. There was no give at all, not even a creak. He checked the lock—it too was solid, rust-free and unmoving as he pushed, pulled and kicked at it.

  “Looks like we’re here for the duration,” John said. “I don’t suppose you brought your ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card?”

  Alan checked his pockets. He had some loose change, his house keys, the car keys, his phone and his wallet—none of them any use in their current situation. John did the same—all he had was wallet, house keys, lighter and smokes.

  “Yep, we really came prepared, didn’t we,” John said bitterly.

  They hadn’t taken their situation seriously enough—at least Alan hadn’t. Even after what had happened in the lockup, Alan was still half-convinced it was all a mental aberration, a bad dream that he’d wake up from, eventually.

  And look where that got me.

  “This is where it stops,” John said softly. “We’ve been pulled and pushed and fucked over enough. From now on, we do things on our terms. Agreed?”

  Alan nodded, and looked around.

  “Fine by me—as soon as I figure out how to get us out of here. Wherever here is.”

  John lit up a smoke and sat with his back to the opposite wall from the iron grate.

  “She said it was a matter of will? Maybe all we need to do is think our way out?”

  Alan closed his eyes and concentrated on the chair and sofas back in the farmhouse. All it got him was a fresh headache. John smiled grimly.

  “No joy?”

  Alan shook his head, and immediately regretted it as the pounding inside got more insistent.

  “Same here,” John said. “There must be another trick to it.”

  Alan sat down with his back to the grate and looked up. The sky was pale china blue far above. He flipped open his phone—it was completely dead, as if the battery had drained.

  “I charged this bloody thing back in the cabin,” Alan said. “It can’t have discharged already.”

  John pointed up to the sky high above.

  “It should be full dark—if we were still in Scotland, it would be. As you said before,” he said grimly. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto. Besides—who were you going to call?”

  * * *

  There was little to do but wait and hope the woman would return—if she didn’t, their stay was going to be short, but painful. Alan was all too aware that all he had eaten before getting to the farmhouse were bacon rolls for breakfast and what he’d managed of the sandwich John had bought for them. His stomach rumbled in sympathy just to remind him.

  Besides his own hunger he was getting increasingly worried about John. The older man sat quietly on the far side of the cell, head down on his chest, eyes closed. He looked pale, almost gray, sweat glistening on his brow. He seemed to be asleep, and Alan didn’t speak for fear of waking him, but it meant that any sleep on his own behalf was a long way away.

  He couldn’t stop himself from checking the phone every few minutes. It was still dead, and the chances of it springing into life to let him make a lifesaving phone call seemed remote, to say the least. But it was something to cling to, something that might give some hope in what had become a desperate situation. It was also a reminder that there was another place, a home, somewhere he might actually get back to.

  The past few days were already taking on the quality of a dream, his mind struggling to process all that he’d seen and done, and being unable to fit it all into his conceptual reality. The model in his head of how things behave and work needed adjusting—and it was going to take some time.

  The cold seeping through the straw beneath him was real enough, as were the stone walls. He looked up again, and noticed that the sky looked almost indigo now—night was finally falling. He didn’t relish the thought. They knew nothing of this place, or its weather.

  What do we do if it gets below freezing?

  Stars slowly poked through in the purple. Alan tried to remember constellations and planetary positions from his youth, but those memories were far too far away to do him any good here. And when a huge moon, pink and unsmiling, crept over the edge and looked down the chimney, Alan finally came to terms with the fact that they were truly lost.

  By the time the woman—Sandy, if that was even her nam
e—returned, it was full dark in the cell. The moonlight that managed to seep inside did little to keep the darkness at bay. When John sat up suddenly, snorted, and flicked his lighter alive, the flame was as bright as a flare going off; Alan saw the yellow afterimage for long seconds even after John lit a smoke and put the lighter away.

  The tip of John’s cigarette was a wobbling red dot in the black as he smoked.

  “You two still here?” a voice said sarcastically from outside the grate. Alan hadn’t heard a sound, but she was back, as quickly and as silently as she had gone. “Give me a second—I’ll make us a bit more cozy.”

  Alan had to look away as she lit a torch brand in a sconce on the wall from a lighter of her own. The new light flared and flickered, then settled into a dancing orange glow that lit most of the cell. The woman stepped forward and kicked a box across the floor to nestle against the iron grate at a spot where Alan could reach through for it.

  “It’s going cold, so I’d eat it soon,” she said, and closed her eyes again.

  “No, wait,” Alan shouted. “At least tell us why we’re here?”

  She kept her eyes closed, but smiled as she once again wavered out of existence.

  “You’re honored guests,” she said, then was gone.

  * * *

  The box contained two portions of fried chicken and fries, and the incongruity of the two of them sitting there, eating fast food from a Scottish takeaway, was not lost on either man.

  “What do you think she meant?” Alan asked after they finished and he pushed the box back outside the grate.

  John shook his head.

  “I’m guessing we’re a bargaining chip in a game we’re somehow caught up in. We were right earlier—there’s more going on here than Galloway and the black bird. But there’s nothing we can do about it until she—or someone else—tells us.”

  And with that John shocked Alan by going back to the far wall, lying down and falling asleep almost immediately.