When the river turned crimson before his eyes, Calum barely flinched. Instead, he watched with his mouth hanging open. Further along the bridge, he heard the clatter of the cyclist coming off his bike.
The process was fast. First there were bubbles, dozens of small ones that made the river look as though it was fizzing. A few seconds later, as though a huge bag of stage blood stretched along the bed of the river had exploded, the grey water morphed to scarlet. Calum gripped the handrail on the bridge tightly, scarcely noting the glacial cold that went straight to the bone, wanting only to keep from falling. As far as he could see, in both directions, the Clyde was now a deep blood red. It flowed as it always had, though the ice was rapidly staining pink, and had he not seen the change himself he would have thought some chemical incident upstream had tainted the waters. If he could dip a hand into those waters, taste the red fluid, would it have the coppery tang of blood?
Calum's heart felt as though it had risen up to pound his throat. The cyclist's voice carried clearly to him, even as he watched the cars begin to halt on the motorway bridge, drivers stepping out of their vehicles to stare. “Christ… Jesus fucking Christ… what the fuck happened, man? You want to tell me what the fuck just happened?”
Calum knew, deep inside, but he could not bring himself to admit it. Rather than answer, he shook his head, staring downwards. Because of this, he saw something break the surface of the river, something huge and grey, with scales, that vanished again almost immediately.
Stepping back, he looked across at the cyclist, whose knees were bleeding below his spandex shorts. Struck dumb by the anathema of the river and everything it contained, Calum ran from the bridge, not stopping until he was on the other side of the Exhibition Centre's car park, ignoring the staff and conference attendees pouring out to see this wonder for themselves. Word was spreading fast.
Calum sat on the pavement, and watched the crowds forming, unable to think clearly any more, uncertain whether clear thinking had a place in this strange new world. More than anything, he wanted to pray, but that privilege was denied him. God's ears were deaf to Calum Baskille, and whatever strength he would draw upon must come from elsewhere. The thought frightened him. Having taken strength from his devotions for so long, Calum realised he had almost lost the ability to be self-sufficient, to find that strength in himself. Shaking, he searched for some spark of fortitude to draw on, and found the well dry.
Do it. Panic's voice, deep inside him. Clasp your hands together and tell your God the truth of things. Give Him Ambrose. Be a shepherd again.
He couldn't. Not yet. The realisation that he was dependent on the tenets of his faith to function, utterly enslaved to his Lord, caught in his throat and blocked the words that would give him access to his drug. Calum had to know he was a complete person before he could go back, had to know he was not simply using God to plug gaps in himself. Had he been this weak before he found Christ? To his shock, he couldn't remember.
Besides, to hand over Ambrose and Pandora from a safe distance would be cowardly. If he were to do this thing, he would do it in their presence, and make his apologies like a man as they were torn from this world and unmade.
The previous day, Calum had promised Ambrose he would fetch an item from the demon's old flat, a specific curio that Ambrose thought might hold an alternative to staying in the church. The river, and the thing in it, had changed nothing.
Climbing to his feet, shock running through him like cold water, he turned for the footbridge over the motorway, and the West End beyond. Crossing was like fighting the tide, as he pushed against thick crowds of people determined to get to the Clyde. When he reached the other side, he was bruised and exhausted. How many of these people would consider what they saw a religious sign? How many converts would the church win, from one river of blood? Too late, if his heart told him true. Much, much too late.
Despair slapped at him again, that all his good work was meaningless in the scheme of things, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost the battle and gave in to it entirely. Whether he would at that point take his own life and embrace the retributions awaiting him in the afterlife, or offer Ambrose and Pandora up as hostages to his own salvation, he simply did not know.
Melissa cowered behind a pile of debris, trying to ease the cramp out of her calves, barely able to keep herself awake. All night, Malachi had wandered the streets at random, as she tried to tail him unseen, mentally begging him to take a break and let her rest. She had been sure several times that he knew she was there, and she had lost count of the number of street corners she had approached in genuine fear, certain that he was waiting to ambush her on the other side. When he had taken a swift detour after finishing his business in the kiosk, she had been sure he was trying to lose her, and he had briefly succeeded. If she had not returned disconsolately to Byres Road she would never have spotted him emerging back onto the street a few hundred feet along from where he had left it.
When he had arrived at this ruin of a building, the despair on his face had told all she needed to know. This had been where Pandora lived, and the thought of somebody getting to her before he did was crushing to him. Melissa, by contrast, was gladdened. If Pandora was already destroyed, she would not be forced to betray this man, and her guilt would melt to nothing.
Glancing away for a moment, she had felt her heart lurch when she turned back to find him vanished, but then realised there was only one place for him to go. Malachi was inside the ruin. Whatever had compelled him to enter, she had to follow. If she missed some vital piece of information, she would not forgive herself.
Entering unnoticed was easy, for the sound of a struggle masked her movements. Making the most of it, she scurried behind the pile of bricks that concealed her now, where she had a clear line of sight through an empty doorway. As she hunkered down, the struggle ceased, and she saw her quarry standing over the slumped form of a wretched, skinny man, who looked as though he had not seen a bath in weeks. Malachi was shaking as he put his knife away. Not sure what had just happened, Melissa was extraordinarily relieved to see the blade was clean. Exposing herself for a second, she leaned out to see the injured man, and saw the blood around his nose and lips. If he had been hurt worse, she would have had no choice but to make herself known, and try to treat him.
Since then, nothing had happened. For nearly four hours, she had been trapped where she was, listening to the ruin creak around her, letting the bitter cold sap the strength from her limbs. Malachi was waiting for the man he had attacked to wake up. Leaning against the doorframe, he was a sinister shadow, as patient and watchful as death. Several times she wondered whether he had fallen asleep on his feet, but did not have the courage to move and find out.
When the man on the floor finally stirred, she found she was right to be cautious. Malachi was at his side in a second, and it was all Melissa could do not to shriek. Biting her tongue, she strained to hear. Malachi had dropped to his knees, meaning she would have to stand to see them both, and that was a risk too far. Luckily, assuming he was alone, he did not attempt to lower his voice.
“Who are you?”
“I… what… I...” The stranger's voice was choked and afraid, but this made no difference to Malachi.
“Take a breath and think. I have three questions. You'll answer them or I’ll hurt you.”
“Who...”
Melissa jerked at the sound of flesh making solid contact with flesh.
“No. I ask the questions. You answer them. I can't make it any simpler without hitting you again. Do you want that?”
“… no…”
“Good. I don't either. These are my questions. Who are you? Why did you attack me? What happened here? Don't rush.”
There was a pause, time enough for Melissa to take stock. After only a brief glance at the man being interrogated she found it hard to imagine him mustering the strength to attack anybody. What did you expect, Melissa? He's close now. He senses the danger. The game being played
was for high stakes, and Malachi was taking no chances.
The man began to talk. “My… my name is Stewart Argyle. I used to live here… I still live here. They couldn't find a cause for the explosion. The insurance firms wouldn't pay out. I've… I've nothing left but debt, and no job, and nobody to stay with, and…” with every word, his voice got needier. Melissa's heart hurt for him, and even Malachi's voice softened a little.
“Go on.” “I didn't mean to attack you. I thought you were after me. I… sometimes I see things. Shapes. Sometimes I think they're hungry.” Melissa knew he needed help. Later, she would return and find a way to put him back on his feet. Perhaps it wouldn't be possible, but she had to try. “I don't know what happened here. It blew up. No gas leak, no trace of explosives, nothing.”
Another pause, with only the man's hyperventilation audible. Then Malachi spoke. “What about Pandora?”
“Oh, she was an angel, a real beauty. She got out, but she was hurt. A man carried her. Nobody knows where they went. The police can't find them.”
Melissa knew who the man he talked of was likely to be, but not what had happened to the building. If Malachi had given her a break during the night, she would already have slept, and discovered more about what was happening. Now it would have to wait.
The man continued, babbling. “She your girlfriend? You worried about her? Maybe she...”
“Shh.”
At the same time as Malachi cut the man off, Melissa heard the shuffling behind her and looked back over her shoulder. At first she saw nothing, just the shattered remains of the ground floor flat and the darkness of the street outside.
Something shifted in front of her, a translucent movement in the air, and she realised the obvious. The street had been dark when she entered, but should be in broad daylight now.
Before she could move, the living shadow that had gathered like hanging drapes behind her collapsed forward. The weight of the thing shocked her, given she could see right through it. When it covered her head, wrapping snugly around it like vacuum moulded rubber, it was like wearing dark sunglasses.
She couldn't breathe.
Tendrils of the darkness pushed up her nose, between her lips, joining at the back of her throat and crawling down her windpipe like thick treacle. Melissa gagged, the movement of her throat giving it easy access, and she felt the mass plunge into her lungs. She tried to fight, but it had wrapped her up like a cocoon, and her feeble wriggling offered no real resistance. Melissa remembered smoking a cigarette when she was in school, inhaling deep and feeling the smoke seep through every part of her chest like a poisonous itch, and this was the same, but thicker, and she couldn't breathe, and she was going to die.
As the first black spots went nova across her vision, she was aware of movement to her left, another shadow, but with more bulk.
More black spots. Melissa could see less and less of the room. Unable to resist any longer, she tried to take a breath, and the shadow-thing took the opportunity to fill her completely, pushing against her ribs from within until she was certain they would crack, and her lungs would be crushed to pulp against them.
Liquid splattered her face, and she could breathe. Taking a vast gasp of air, her back arching as she heaved in dust and oxygen, she saw Malachi above her, a bottle in his hand. On the out-breath she was overcome with a fit of coughing, and clutched her chest, only then realising that her limbs were free too.
The demon was against the wall, riddled with holes where Malachi had splashed it with the contents of a bottle. Striding past her, he advanced on the shade, his thumb over the bottle's lip, leaving a small space for the fluid to fly free.
The shadow drew in on itself, shrinking suddenly to nothing, and she did not know whether it was destroyed, or just banished.
Malachi turned towards her. Before she could thank him for rescuing her, he grabbed her jacket in his free hand, and hauled her to her feet.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Heather hurried up the road, breaking occasionally into a stumbling run, desperate to reach home before the tears came. They had visited with her twice already, once as she woke up, and once in front of a class of seven year olds. When James, her headmaster, came in she had been at her desk, shoulders shaking, the children white and silent as they watched her cry. Sending her home, he waved away her assurances that she could cope, instructing her not to come back until the 'situation with Clive was resolved'. Management-speak for 'until your husband is in prison and you can deal with it'. James knew what had happened the previous day. They all did. The down-turned eyes in the staff room made it obvious.
Did they know Clive had escaped, a jailbreak that put Houdini to shame according to the police officer she spoke to before she went to work? It had been in the papers, after all. As she approached her building, fishing her keys from her purse, she wondered where Clive was now. Still in Glasgow? That hardly seemed likely, with his picture all over the news. On the other hand, with hundreds taking to the streets to watch the rivers turn red, he could vanish easily into the crowds. Just getting home had been a nightmare of pushing and shoving, and she could have passed within feet of him and never known it.
God, what had happened to them? Heather wanted to believe that this had all begun in the last few weeks, but she knew that was a lie. Ever since they came to Glasgow, Clive had drawn further away from her, until the distance felt unbridgeable. Did he know she had been considering a trial separation? Was that behind the changes in him that had put a young man in hospital? Shit, that would make her partly to blame. Closing the street door, she wrapped her arms around herself.
On the second floor, the police tape still warned against entry to Ambrose's flat, and she wondered why it had taken them so long to bring their forensic teams to investigate. Three weeks was a long time, and she could hardly believe they had just forgotten. Thinking back to the night her neighbour had disappeared, she remembered Clive's bravery, and choked back a sob. She knew he had not forgiven himself for delaying at the door until it was too late, but the simple fact that he had been prepared to intervene at all made her miss him more. He was a good man. Hadn’t that proved it?
Heather noticed her own door was ajar, but thought nothing of it. Given the state she had been in when she left home that morning, it did not surprise her in the least that she had not closed it properly. Pushing it the rest of the way open, she stepped into the flat.
For a moment her misery was so intoxicating that she looked at her husband sitting on the couch without seeing him at all. Only when he glanced up from the drawing in his hand did the connections fire in her head, and she froze. A smile spread over her face, an automatic reaction to the strange twist of Clive's lips that she assumed to be the same. Though he had obviously showered - his wet hair was brushed back over his head in that way she hated - the overnight growth of stubble and his bloodshot eyes made him look every bit the refugee.
“Clive?” A stupid question, but he nodded at her anyway. If anything were going to bring the tears back, she would have thought it might be seeing him there, seeing everything that was wrong with her life hunched over the coffee table. Something gave her pause. Wasn't this the first place the police would think to look? “You... you can't be here. Clive, you'll be caught.”
Clive's smile became more genuine, and he stood, the drawing still in his hand. “I don't think so honey,” he said. “They're having a busy day. I'm safe here for the moment.”
Heather refused to back away. I will not run away from my own husband, she told herself. Whatever problems we have, I love him, and he wouldn't hurt me. Something flashed in his eyes that made her heart throb, but she refused to back down. “Clive, we have to talk. The police... you should give yourself up. They'll understand...”
Clive stepped toward her. “I don't think so. No, that wouldn't help. I have things to be getting on with, Heather. I don't have much time.” Raising his eyebrows, as though a thought had just
occurred to him, he took a second step. “Say, you could help me, if you like?”
“Can I?” There was a tremble in her voice, and she hated that she was afraid of him here, in her home, where the two of them had laughed, made love, and argued.
“Yes, I think you can.” The stress underneath his voice was torrential. Taking another step, closing the distance so that a single lunge was all that stood between them, he held up the drawing. Heather recognised it immediately. Minna's homework, in all its strange glory. Heather had intended to discuss it with somebody, another member of staff, but had never got round to it. Other children had drawn wrapped presents, Christmas trees, smiling families. Minna had drawn what appeared to be an angel. If Heather had not made very clear that the homework had to be something that actually happened over Christmas, or if Minna had a particularly creative or active imagination for her age, then she would be less concerned.
Why the drawing was of interest to her husband, she didn't know, but the look in his eye deepened her fear. It was one thing for her to stand up to him in her own home, but suddenly she was worried about a little girl who spent time in her care. This was not a moment for stubborn pride. She had to get help.
“I like this,” Clive said, glancing at the picture. A flash of real despair crossed his eyes when he saw that flying figure. “Minna Gilroy. Talented girl. Where does she live again? Not far from here, is it?”
The fear coagulated in Heather's throat, a hard lump of terror that tried to stop her speaking. “Well,” she began, and made to step forward. Clive took an instinctive step back, and that was when she turned on her heel, darting for the door. It had half closed behind her, and as she yanked it open with a grunt of frustration, she felt her husband's fingers tangle in her hair.
Clive yanked sharply, and her head snapped back, her balance going as her legs tried to continue her flight. Shrieking at the whiplash pain that fired through her neck, she felt her feet leave the ground, and then she fell. In the blur of the moment she lost track of what was happening, and only when her husband's full weight slammed against her breasts, snapping a rib and making her shriek again in pain, did she realise that her own weight had caused him to fall too.
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