The Wraiths of War

by Mark Morris

  I was pleased to discover that my seat was a fairly anonymous one, in the middle of a row about eight back from the stage. As I took it, noting with incredulity how many people were smoking, I wondered whether the Great Barnaby – or Barnaby McCallum as I better knew him – was aware of my presence here tonight. If I was to make contact with him after the show, then I guess he would know, if only because his older self, remembering our meeting, would surely have popped back to warn him I was here. The gift of the poster, and the message that had come with it, would seem to indicate I had made contact – though even now I still wasn’t entirely sure what my plan was. I had come here ostensibly to play it by ear, to see what transpired. If it was possible to discover anything useful about McCallum without revealing my presence, then all well and good. On the other hand, there was every possibility I was being manipulated, moved into place like a pawn – though for what reason, only time would tell. But hey, in order to get answers I was going to have to take risks, wasn’t I? Which meant following my nose and seeing where it led.

  As I settled into my seat and ran my eye over the flimsy programme sheet – which I was hoping, in vain, might give some insight into the Great Barnaby’s background – I wondered why I was pursuing this line of enquiry. I had Kate back (she was currently being looked after by the Sherwoods, who had returned from Wales and moved into their new London home – which I was still to buy), and my life, to all intents and purposes, was hunky dory, so why was I here?

  Was it simple curiosity, or something more? Was it, in fact, a nagging sense of obligation, or even of destiny? Or perhaps it was a fear that if I didn’t follow up this lead – dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s – I would come to regret it? Clearly McCallum had not bequeathed me the poster on a whim, which meant it must be significant. Perhaps it would lead me to an understanding of how to once and for all nullify the threat of the Dark Man. If so, I couldn’t afford to ignore it.

  The magic show itself was… well, I guess by 1940s standards it was impressive. Certainly the audience seemed to think so, oohing and aahing and gasping with wonder, bursting into applause at the culmination of every trick.

  Watching it from a twenty-first-century viewpoint, it was evident that McCallum had used the heart to travel forward in time and borrow tricks from future magicians, so that here they seemed fresh and startling. There were card tricks, and tricks where handkerchiefs transformed into doves, and tricks where objects donated by audience members somehow ended up inside bottles whose necks were far too narrow to accommodate them. There were also a couple of sequences that seemed to be lifted straight from Derren Brown shows I’d seen on TV – one where McCallum correctly guessed the contents of audience members’ pockets, and another based on what he called ‘the artifice of spirituality’, whereby an audience member, tied securely to a chair and concealed within a curtained box, would supposedly ‘call on the spirits’ to rattle a tambourine or shred a newspaper while he was restrained.

  Although the audience lapped it up, what I found most interesting about the performance was McCallum himself, and particularly his use of the heart in his act. At one point he not only levitated it, but caused it to loop and dive above the heads of the audience like a bird. For the finale he set it on a glass stand in the centre of the stage, and then, to the accompaniment of a crash of sound from the musicians in the orchestra pit, he raised his arms dramatically to the heavens, whereupon the heart erupted into life, a mass of writhing tendrils shooting up from it and ascending almost to the ceiling of the theatre, accompanied by shrieks and gasps from the audience.

  Both McCallum and his female assistant – who was small and slim, and whose age I was unable to discern from where I was sitting (she could have been anywhere between twelve and twenty-five years old) – wore red eye masks throughout the performance. McCallum also sported a waxed moustache with curled ends, and a luxuriant black beard, which made it impossible to tell whether he and the decrepit old man I’d accidentally killed while stealing the heart were one and the same.

  As soon as the performance was over, I bustled outside with the rest of the crowd, then slipped down an alleyway at the side of the building, looking for the stage door. It had started to drizzle at some point during the evening, and within seconds of leaving the theatre the chill, biting rain had made my face feel like an ice mask.

  The alleyway was adequately, though not brightly, lit, the semi-circles of yellow light spilling down the brickwork and across the ground from evenly spaced, wall-mounted lamps making no impression on the pools of black shadow that lay in between them. The rain made every surface gleam like plastic, and gave the scene a flickering, scratched quality like old film.

  If I was to be ambushed – though God knew by who, and for what reason, unless in some crazily convoluted way the Dark Man was in league with McCallum – then I guess this would be the time and place it would happen. Experience at any rate had taught me to expect the unexpected, to take nothing for granted, and so I kept a tight grip on the heart in my pocket as I pressed yet deeper into the shadows.

  About thirty seconds later, the bustle of the London street at the alley’s entrance having receded to the point where it was no more than a glimmer of light and a rumble of distant activity, I was about to step into yet another pool of darkness when a scuffle of movement close to my right foot made me jump. I looked down to see a large black rat cross my path, then dart off into the even more profound blackness ahead of me. I shuddered, then grinned. I’d seen so many rats in the trenches you’d have thought I’d have been used to them by now. Even so my heart pumped a little faster as I moved deeper into the alleyway. Every patch of darkness ahead of me now seemed to teem with frantic life.

  After another ten yards the alleyway came to an abrupt end. That’s what I thought at first anyway, but then I took a couple of steps closer and realised that the wall I’d thought marked a dead end was actually set at an oblique angle, like a door pushed halfway open, and formed a right-hand curve that led around the back of the Hippodrome. I followed the curve, and almost immediately saw a shaded light illuminating a plain black door beneath it. Painted carefully onto the brickwork above the door were the words STAGE DOOR.

  This was what I’d been looking for. This was McCallum’s most likely exit point out of the theatre. All I had to do now was hide somewhere, and then, when he emerged, follow him and see where he went.

  And then what? Confront him? Engage him in conversation? I guess I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I looked around for a hiding place, and spotted what appeared to be a dustbin set into a recess in the wall of the opposite building, about twenty yards further up the alleyway. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking at, because the object was nestled in the darkness between one pool of light and the next, and only the vaguest outline of one side of it was visible. The far end of the alley was at least three hundred yards beyond that, and from where I was standing was little more than a slit of orange and the suggestion of faraway movement (would that be Charing Cross Road? I’d lost my bearings). Thinking how eerie it was that a lively city could have so many dead spots, I moved towards the dustbin-shaped thing, slipping from light into shadow, then back into light again.

  When I got to the outer edge of the second pool of light, I saw it was indeed a dustbin. In fact it was one of four standing in a row in a recess the size and length of a bus shelter. I was pleased to find that if I crouched down behind the last bin in the row, it would not only provide a perfect hiding place and shelter from the rain, but would also give me an unobstructed view of the stage door.

  It seemed like a win-win situation, though it wasn’t entirely perfect, as I found out when I got close to the last bin in the row, and a couple of rats scampered out from behind it. Glancing back at the stage door, I kicked the bin lightly to frighten off any other rodents that might be lurking in the shadows, and then, wrinkling my nose against the ripe smell that rose up to greet me, I ducked into the recess and
crouched down.

  Despite the stench of rotting food, though, and the fact that the ground was too wet and filthy to sit on, which meant that my legs and feet soon began to prickle with pins and needles, my little hidey-hole could almost have been described as cosy. In my tweed suit, overcoat and trilby hat, I at least felt warm, and it was kind of nice, even comforting, to hear the patter of rain on the ground outside. After a while of staring at the stage door, I felt myself becoming drowsy despite my discomfort, and I shuffled around a bit to wake myself up and coax some life back into my numb limbs. But within a few minutes my eyelids were drooping again. Just a quick power nap, I thought, to recharge the batteries. I don’t need to stare at the door all the time. I’ll hear it if it opens.

  What seemed like the next second I heard a clunk and a creak, and jerked awake. My head snapped up, and I saw a hooded figure emerge from the stage door. Was it McCallum? No, it was too short and slim, and although it was almost entirely swathed in a dark, hooded cloak, I got the distinct impression it was female.

  McCallum’s assistant then. Should I follow her, or wait for McCallum himself to emerge? She might be easier to speak to than her boss, who’d be more likely to be wary of me. Then again, I didn’t want to frighten or intimidate her. And what if I did follow and question her, only to find that McCallum had simply employed her on a temporary basis, from an agency or something? On the other hand, what if McCallum had already left the theatre via some other exit, and following his assistant might be my one and only chance to get some answers?

  All this raced through my mind (which was still edgy and brittle from having been snatched from its doze) in the time it took for the girl to half-turn and shut the door behind her. Still squatting on my haunches, I raised myself on my toes, ready to stand and follow her – and immediately felt a debilitating tingle of pins and needles rush through my feet and calves.

  Shit. What if I couldn’t walk? Or what if I tried to stand and ended up collapsing among the dustbins, causing her to bolt? In my still slightly befuddled state, I assumed she’d be walking away from me – if only because that was where I’d come from – and so was surprised when she turned and headed in my direction. Although I knew she couldn’t see me in the dark, I instinctively shrank back – and promptly, because of the numbness in my legs, felt myself toppling backwards. I put a hand on the ground behind me to steady myself, and felt something cold and squishy ooze up between my fingers. I stifled a cry of disgust, hoping it was just mud, and willed myself to remain still as she approached my hiding place.

  Would she see me? If she did, what would I say? That I’d been sheltering from the rain and had fallen asleep? No, that would sound weird and creepy. Better to just come clean.

  To my relief, though, she kept her head down, her face obscured beneath her dark hood. She walked quickly and with purpose, looking neither left nor right. No doubt she wanted to get out of the alleyway as quickly as possible, and back among people again. As she came level with my hiding place I held my breath, but she hurried on without so much as a glance.

  It wasn’t until she was past me and striding towards the next pool of light that I decided to follow her. It could be a mistake, but if McCallum had wanted me to come here tonight, he should have given me clearer instructions. I rose into a semi-standing position, gritting my teeth as my numbed muscles came alive with pins and needles. I shuffled from the recess, my legs feeling like lumps of dead meat animated by jittering jolts of electricity. Like Frankenstein’s monster, I staggered after her, hoping my barely responsive feet weren’t clumping too loudly on the ground. Apparently not, because she didn’t turn round. Presumably her hood and the rain pattering on it – heavier now than before – were muffling the sounds of my pursuit.

  She had a lead of about fifty yards on me, but that was okay. I didn’t want to get too close and alert her. I watched her pass from light into shadow, light into shadow, light into…

  Suddenly she stopped. Had she heard me? No, she wasn’t turning round, and from her stance she seemed to be peering intently at the block of shadow directly in front of her. Even so, I slipped into the next pool of darkness ahead of me and pressed myself against the wall.

  She edged towards the right-hand side of the alleyway, as though she’d seen or heard something in the darkness to her left. Suddenly she spoke, and although the rain was hissing and pattering, and the distance between us made her voice sound high and thin, I could just about make out her words.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she said, though whether in defiance or fear was impossible to tell. Wiping rain from my face, I unpeeled myself from the wet wall and stared at where she was staring. Could I see something too? A swirling suggestion of movement in the darkness? I edged closer, thinking of myself not as a pursuer now, but a potential protector.

  Then something detached itself from the darkness and lurched towards her, and she screamed.

  It was a man, or a semblance of one.

  He was little more than a silhouette, though not because of the darkness. Even when he stepped out of the shadows the light seemed to shun him, or to slide off him as if it couldn’t get a hold. It was as if he wasn’t quite there, wasn’t quite part of this reality, though with each second he seemed to solidify, to become more real.

  He reached a hand out towards the girl, who stumbled backwards, almost slipping on the wet paving slabs.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she yelled. ‘Leave me alone!’

  The man was becoming more solid now, the light falling on him as if there had never been any doubt as to his corporeality. I saw that he was wearing a black leather jacket with the collar turned up, a black baseball cap, black shades, and that his body was twisted and bent.

  ‘Please,’ he croaked, in a voice that sent ripples of disgust and fear through me, ‘I only want to—’

  ‘Get away from her!’ I shouted, echoing the girl’s words. My legs still shaky, I began to run towards the Dark Man and the girl, my hand – the one that had been covered in mud or something nastier – already delving into my pocket.

  The Dark Man swivelled his crooked body towards me, and his damaged face – what I could see of it – scrunched into a sour expression. As I got closer I saw he was holding the heart, and like a gunfighter about to face a showdown I pulled my own heart from my pocket and held it up. The girl, meanwhile, taking advantage of the Dark Man’s momentary distraction, slipped past him and began to run towards the end of the alleyway.

  The Dark Man took one look at the heart in my hand and evidently decided to beat a hasty retreat. One second he was there, the next he was gone, leaving nothing behind but an almost subliminal impression of a patch of darkness folding in on itself.

  There was no chance of surreptitiously following the girl now. I’d have to make myself known to her, see if she was willing to talk to me. Since darting past the Dark Man she’d widened the gap between us. If she had too much of a lead when she reached the end of the alleyway, there was every chance she could lose herself among the bustling Friday night crowd.

  Starting to run, I shouted, ‘Hey! Please stop! I just want to talk to you!’

  But the girl didn’t stop. If anything, she increased her speed. Swearing, I raced after her, trying to stamp the pins and needles out of my feet and legs.

  By the time she reached the end of the alleyway, her dark cloak billowing like a sail, I’d halved the distance between us. The gap at the end of the alley had seemed to widen with each step I’d taken, the light from the street beyond streaming in. I could see now that the girl’s hooded cloak was blue, not black as I’d originally thought. The flickering movement I’d glimpsed earlier resolved itself into people passing to and fro across the alley’s mouth, many of them hunched under umbrellas. As the girl darted into the throng and turned right, I shouted, ‘Please! I only want a quick chat! My name’s Alex Locke!’

  Whether it was recognising my name or simply a moment of indecision that caused the girl to pause I’m not sure. Regardless, she s
topped directly in the path of a small, chubby man, who was bustling along the pavement, a black umbrella held in front of his face like a shield against the rain. Unable to stop, the man jabbed her with the point of his umbrella, and then barged into her, sending her sprawling. I reached the end of the alleyway just in time to see her fall forward on to her knees, her hands splatting on the wet ground. The impact caused the hood to fly from her head and droop down her back, giving me a glimpse of her chestnut-coloured hair. Then the little man tripped over and almost landed on top of her as he went sprawling too. His umbrella flew from his hand and skidded along the pavement, flipping over on its spiny claws.

  ‘Good God, can’t you watch where you’re—’ the little man blustered.

  But the girl, perhaps mindful of the fact that I was close behind her, had already leaped to her feet, and was now darting into the road.

  ‘Stop!’ I bellowed, though this time it was not because I wanted to speak to her, but because of what I’d seen that she hadn’t. A big green bus had turned the corner into the road and was now hurtling towards her. I took one glimpse of the driver’s white-moustached face, his eyes and mouth open in shock, and then I threw myself into the road, arms outstretched. The horn of the bus blared, but instead of encouraging the girl to hurl herself out of the way, it had the opposite effect. Startled, she stopped and turned – and then froze in the middle of the road, unable to move.

  I don’t know whether I screamed something, or whether the girl suddenly became aware of my presence. It all happened so fast that all I knew for sure was that the girl turned and looked me in the eye a split second before my hands rammed into her back, shoving her to safety. She hurtled across the road, fell and rolled, but at least she was safely out of the path of the bus. Still reeling from what I’d seen, I fell too, then tried to clamber immediately to my feet.

  But it felt as if I was moving in slow motion. I couldn’t get my limbs to respond as quickly as my brain wanted them to. The blare of the horn filled my world. I glanced up and saw a huge wall of green metal with blazing white eyes glaring at me. I remembered the heart in my pocket. My hand darted for it. Too late!