Arthur Quinn and Hell's Keeper (16 page)

He was surprised when he fell less than four feet and landed on something soft and bouncy. He felt around him to discover that it was an old, musty mattress. Actually, not just one, but a pile of old, musty mattresses stacked six feet high. Ash was already standing on the floor, looking up at him. Arthur slid off the mattresses to stand by her. As he did, Donal made his entrance in a similar manner, then reached up and closed the perspex trapdoor with a resounding thud.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Arthur could see that they were in a dank and stuffy attic, full of basic-looking beds, tables and more mattresses than he could count. Footsteps had shuffled through the dust on the floor, leading away from the stack he'd landed on and out through a door at the far end of the room. Without another word, Ash and Donal followed the trail and Arthur hurried after them.

Beyond the door was a narrow stone staircase leading downwards. Some of the small square windows he'd seen outside allowed a small amount of the gloomy daylight into the interior, but aside from that it was almost as shadowy as the attic had been. They continued straight down the steps, taking care not to slip on the slick treads. The corridor at the bottom of the stairwell was in near full darkness so Ash took Arthur's hand and dragged him along. Her skin was warm and soft. Their footsteps resounded in the gloom and he could sense that the walls on either side were close by. Finally, they came to a wooden door, which Ash pushed open onto an even narrower corridor. A couple of candles burned in this passageway – and they were badly needed. The stone floor here was uneven, with plenty of fissures to trip one up. On the right-hand wall was a line of thick timber doors. Arthur didn't have time to investigate as Ash stalked along at a brisk pace. They came to the last door and Ash turned to Arthur.

She had a wry, knowing smile.

‘Welcome,' she said, ‘to our current headquarters.' She swung the door open to reveal the room beyond.

It was just like those old prison movies Arthur's grandfather had liked to watch; in fact it really reminded him of the one where the guys drove all those Mini Coopers. The room was vast and four storeys high. The brick walls were painted a dull shade of cream and the floor was covered with massive flagstones. The first and second floors had balconies running all the way around the edge of the expansive room, which were completely fenced in with iron railings. A steel staircase led from the centre of the ground floor up to the level of the second storey. A bridge cut across the steps at the first and second floors; these were also covered in iron caging and led to the respective balconies. The centre of the ceiling was a clear-glass skylight and, although parts of it were covered in some sort of mossy growth, presumably because of the damp, Arthur could see the filthy green clouds beyond. Arched iron girders held the glass in place, completing the menacing feel of the room. All along the walls on each level was a series of wooden doors, just like the ones he'd seen in the corridor, with little square hatches set at an adult's eye-level. Small, boxy cells lay behind these doors. When Ash had opened the main door, a wave of heat whooshed out to meet him and he could feel the still, clammy hotness in the room. But most astonishing to Arthur were the inhabitants of the prison.

Close to a hundred people were milling around, moving from one cell to another, chatting or catching up with the returned rebels and cooing over the haul from the shopping centre. Most hadn't reached adulthood yet, although a handful of men and women were scattered about. A group of teenage boys and girls in one cell raced out and appeared to take all the food. He could smell the homely scent of cooking emanating from that cell. A few preschool kids – most no taller than his hip – clattered along the steel-gridded second floor, across the bridge and down the steps. The noise of their running rang throughout the room, bouncing off the ancient stone walls. A small cluster of kids Arthur's age were huddled in one corner, leaning back on fusty mattresses, reading. They barely looked up to acknowledge the others' return. There were groups cleaning, napping, eating, laughing and living. And all of them, Arthur was pleasantly surprised to see, seemed happy and healthy.

‘What is this place?' Arthur murmured, following Ash as she headed further into the room.

‘Kilmainham Gaol,' she said. ‘Don't tell me they don't have this in the world you remember?'

They had and, though he'd never visited it, he'd read all about the building in history class. It had been a working prison for centuries and then, during the War of Independence, it had been used to house the Irish rebels. Now it was a museum recounting the history of the war and its famous prisoners. Quite a suitable place for these new rebels to hide, Arthur thought, and he told Ash as much.

‘I guess it is,' she agreed. ‘We've been moving about a lot since this all started, collecting more refugees as we go. We stay somewhere until the Wolfsguard find us and then we move on. This place has lasted the longest. The thick walls have kept the water out. There's no electricity but we have gas cookers and the skylights provide us with enough light during the day. We don't use flashlights at night in here unless it's really important. It's the perfect hiding place, really.'

‘Why are there so few adults? I only see – what – six or seven grown-ups.'

‘I guess kids were better at hiding from the Wolfsguard. Or maybe easier to hide.'

‘But how did you get away from the Wolfsguard any time they found you before?'

She headed up the stairs at a brisk pace and Arthur followed quickly.

‘I told you: we're able to hack into their computer system and radios, so we knew they were coming,' she explained. ‘But I can tell you more about that tomorrow. I thought I'd show you your room and let you get some rest now.'

She led him up the stairs to the second floor and started crossing the bridge. Arthur stopped for a moment and looked out over the entire scene. When Ash saw him waiting, she went back to him.

‘It's amazing,' he uttered, full of awe.

‘What is?' She followed his gaze, studying the happy faces sorting through the salvaged goods.

‘This. All of it. What you've done here.' He looked her in the eye. ‘You saved all these people.'

She shook her head, her cheeks turning a deep red. ‘No,' she said modestly. ‘It wasn't just me.'

‘It was, Ash. You led them. You saved them.'

‘I didn't save the ones that count, though.' She grimaced as she said it, feeling instantly guilty. ‘That's not what I mean. They all count. It's just–'

‘I know.' He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘Your family.'

‘And yours.' She kept staring at the people below them, not saying a thing, before finally getting the courage to turn back to him.

‘We'll save them, Ash.'

‘You really believe that, don't you?'

‘I have to. Don't you?'

Without another word, she walked off towards his cell.

Loki's throne was a thing of wonder. It was forged from solid gold. A life-sized wolf sculpture was carved out of the left-hand side. The narrowed eyes, lips drawn back in a snarl and sharp little lines incised along the back of its neck indicating its bristling hair gave the carving a sense of menace. A golden sea serpent was coiled on the other side, two fangs bared with a pear-shaped piece of emerald dripping off one point, like venom. Both beasts' heads were at just the right height for armrests. The back was shaped like a tree, rotting and crumbling, with a woman standing next to it, draped in robes of gold. Her lips were turned up in a half-smile but the empty metal of her eyes gave her a cold and forbidding expression.

The softest cushions imaginable adorned the seat, with covers crafted from tightly woven silk and stuffed with down from the long-extinct dodo. The throne was tall, so a footrest was necessary to ensure that Loki's legs didn't dangle as he lounged back in the chair. Tonight's ottoman consisted of a single cushion balanced on the back of a young boy on all fours.

The boy was squirming so Loki gave him a swift and vicious kick in his already tender ribs.

Max tumbled aside, tears in his eyes.

Loki surged to his feet and glared down at him.

‘What are you crying for? It's an honour to serve me, isn't it?'

Max whimpered that it was, nodding frantically to emphasise his agreement.

‘You have a choice. Be a good – and unmoving – little footstool. Or you go back to the cage. And I don't think you like the cage very much, do you?'

Max shook his head and clambered back in position, holding the cushion in place until Loki was comfortable once more.

‘Much better,' said the Father of Lies, returning to his thoughts.

He had been pondering the disturbance before Max had moved. He had first felt it a couple of days ago: the faintest of vibrations in the fabric of reality, rippling like a pebble dropped in a pond. Something wasn't right. Someone was interfering.

Loki drummed his fingers on the golden wolf's head and looked in the direction of Hel.

It couldn't be, he thought. No. Not Arthur. Impossible. He had watched the boy disappear, watched reality change around him.

Yet a nagging doubt remained. The boy had proved exceptionally lucky in the past. Perhaps he'd been getting help all along. And if this was true, then there was the slimmest of chances that it
was
his presence Loki had sensed.

He shrugged mentally. Even if the boy was back, Loki wasn't concerned. He had a back-up plan. He hadn't come this far just to let that brat ruin everything once more.

He grinned.

But despite the smile, his throne had never felt so uncomfortable, as if it wasn't meant for him.

He looked down at Max on hands and knees, making the perfect footrest.

Then, just for fun, Loki kicked him in the ribs once more.

Hard.

Somebody was in Arthur's room with him. He could hear them moving about even before his good eye fluttered open.

The evening before, Ash had brought Arthur straight to his cell without saying another word. He had peered into it from the doorway as Ash stood at the small rectangular window, the green of the darkening clouds illuminating her face with an eerie glow. The room was a perfectly square box: nine feet long by nine feet wide by nine feet high. The stone walls were finished with whitewash, which was slowly peeling away. There was a white ceramic basin in one corner, half-filled with water. Next to it was a clean yet ragged piece of cloth and next to that was a bar of soap, the brand name long worn off by use. In the other corner was a bare mattress; it looked lumpy and a particularly sharp spring had ripped through the outer material at one end, but Arthur was nonetheless thrilled at the sight of it. He could see nothing else in the room, save for a spider creeping across the ceiling and into a crack.

‘It's probably not what you're used to,' Ash said, still looking through the barred-up window.

‘Ash, it's great.'

She looked at him. ‘Hope you don't mind there's no blanket. It gets pretty hot in here, as you can imagine. The water outside probably insulates us.'

‘It's fine, honest.'

‘And, sorry, but you should leave the door open. We closed them when we first got here but the hinges and locks are so rusty that a couple of us nearly got stuck inside. It took half the day to pry those doors off.'

‘It's perfect, Ash.'

She walked to the door, then paused and turned.

‘You should rest up,' she advised him. ‘Supper is in a couple of hours so come and join us then.'

Before he could even thank her, she was gone, marching swiftly back across the steel gangway, her boots clanging on the metal as she went. He turned around, let the heavy backpack slide off his shoulders and flopped onto the bed, thankfully. He shut his eyes – even the damaged one behind the leather patch – and sighed with exhaustion. As he lay there, his clothes suddenly felt heavy and constricting. He pulled off the socks. They were now so crusty with mud that they were almost moulded to the shape of his feet. He wiggled his toes, glad to let them breathe for the first time in days. Then he unbuckled his belt and slid off his jeans. Like the socks, they'd become mud-encrusted at the cuffs. Finally, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw the whole lot in a pile on the opposite side of the little cell. He turned onto his side, facing the blank wall, and before he could stop himself he was sound asleep.

He had no dreams and didn't even stir once in the night, such was his exhaustion.

He woke to the rustling sound of someone in his cell. The sharper light of the morning was streaming in the tiny window. Arthur could feel a crick in his neck and pins and needles all along his left-hand side. I should have used my clothes as a pillow, he admonished himself, before turning to the source of the noise. The girl with the dreadlocks who had rescued him the day before was there, with a clothes basket under one arm. Feeling suddenly exposed (especially since he was only in his underwear) Arthur wished he could cover himself up, but he saw that the girl was lifting his grubby garments and dropping them into the basket.

‘Uh …' he started, unsure how to go on.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘You're awake.'

‘Yeah …'

‘You slept right through the night,' she told him. ‘Missed supper and all. You must be starving!'

Now that she mentioned it, he could feel hunger pangs in his stomach. He nodded.

‘It's OK. We're still in the middle of breakfast.' She held up the basket for him to see better. ‘I was just going to drop your clothes into the laundry room. I left some clean ones for you there.' Arthur saw a stack of brand-new clothes on the ground by the basin: T-shirt, jeans, underwear, socks and even – his heart leapt with joy – a pair of new trainers.

‘I hope they fit OK – I had to guess your size,' the girl continued.

‘Thanks,' he said, genuinely grateful.

‘Anything in the pockets?' She held up his jeans from the basket.

‘Just my keys, I think.' He reached out for the trousers and she threw them to him. ‘And my phone, maybe, but it's probably damaged beyond all repair now. It's had one too many dunkings.' He pulled the items out of the pockets but was surprised to find a third object in his palm as he handed Miss Dreadlocks back the jeans.

‘What's that?' she said inquisitively.

‘Nothing much,' he said, staring at the pizza crust. His fingers wrapped around it tightly.

Looking up, he saw the girl watching him curiously. ‘I just realised I don't know your name,' he said, offering her his free hand. ‘I'm Arthur, Arthur Quinn.'

‘Orla, Orla Doyle,' she said, smiling. ‘Nice to meet you Arthur Arthur Quinn.'

‘And you, Orla Orla.'

She took the filthy jeans back and left with a grin. As soon as she was gone, Arthur unclasped his hand and looked down at the crust. He turned it slowly around in his fingers. At the memory of the people locked up in the camp, a wave of sadness surged through him. He thought of Nurse Ann, who'd offered him the leftover and who had helped him escape, and remembered the kindness in her eyes despite the situation they had found themselves in.

With a sudden and urgent sense of resolution, Arthur put the crust on top of the stack of clothes. He dipped the soap into the water in the basin and scrubbed his face, hands, torso and legs. Then he patted himself as dry as he could with the small rag, before pulling on the fresh clothing. He slid his feet into the shoes and laced them up. Finally, he stuffed the crust into his jeans pocket and strode out of the cell. The new jeans were stiff and he could feel the crust pressing into his right thigh. It was as if it was pushing him forward, urging him to make a difference, convincing him to save everyone.

As he walked along the upper gangway, he looked over the edge, taking in the whole impressive room. The gaol was even livelier than it had been the previous evening. People were hustling to and fro. Some were carrying baskets or bags of dirty laundry and taking them into the outer corridor. Others were eating breakfast huddled on the dusty floor or crouched on steps or lying across mattresses or even sitting on a couple of long benches that he hadn't noticed the night before. There was a short queue leading into one of the cells. It was the same cell he'd smelt the aroma of cooking from when he'd first arrived. And, though he couldn't see into the cell now thanks to the line of waiting people, he could still catch the scent of toast, which made his stomach rumble loudly.

Arthur made his way straight down the stairwell and joined the end of the breakfast queue. As the line moved forward – more quickly than he expected – he kept an eye out for Ash or Orla or even Donal. But he didn't spot them anywhere among all the unfamiliar faces. Some of the faces looked back at him suspiciously, wary of the newbie. They glanced away when he caught them staring.

After a few minutes, he reached the front of the line. This cell was about twice the size of the others and a long counter had been set up in it, splitting it in two. Tins of fruit, vegetables and lots of beans and peas were piled high on the counter. Next to them was a large pot filled with steaming porridge. A boy wearing an apron, who looked about ten, was behind the counter, busy ladling the sticky gloop into plastic bowls and then handing them to the queue. Arthur took one.

‘There's honey and jam and sugar over there,' the boy told him, pointing next to the stacks of tins. ‘And water and orange juice behind you. If you want toast or bread, Katie will have some ready in a bit.'

Arthur helped himself to a glass of juice and heaped two spoonfuls of sugar onto the porridge, then looked behind the counter. In the far corner of the cell there was a toaster, a little gas-powered hob with the flame glowing blue and even something called the Breadmaster Supreme. Arthur guessed that these all came from looting raids and he was starting to wonder how the electrical ones were powered when he noticed the cables running from an extension lead to an exercise bike in the next cell. A boy who looked a couple of years younger than him was pedalling furiously, generating electricity. It looked like one of Ash's inventions, Arthur thought. He turned back to the girl, Katie, who was busy slicing freshly baked bread and popping the slices into the toaster. When they were browned enough, she dropped two slices onto a plastic plate and handed them to Arthur. He slathered them in butter and had swallowed half a slice before he had even left the cell.

He sat by himself, leaning his back against the wall, and wolfed down the food so quickly that his stomach growled angrily afterwards. But that didn't stop him going back for seconds and even thirds. He felt so bloated when he was done that for a moment he couldn't move. As the feeling finally wore off, he brought the used dishes back into the kitchen cell. Breakfast serving had finished and Katie and the porridge-boy were now busying themselves preparing the ingredients for more bread. When the boy saw him coming with the dishes, he nodded to a basin of sudsy water on the floor. All the cleaned plates and bowls were stacked next to it on a tray, dripping dry. He washed his own dishes and left them with the rest.

‘Excuse me,' he said, getting up to go. ‘But have you seen Ash anywhere this morning?'

‘She and the others have gone for more supplies,' Katie told him, squinting at a measuring scale as she tipped flour into it.

‘Any idea when they'll be back?'

‘Not till this evening some time, I reckon.'

He left the cell and looked around. Most people were working: cleaning up after breakfast or sweeping the floor or carting more mattresses from the corridor. One girl was even in the process of hanging an old landscape painting that she'd found somewhere. He watched with quiet fascination as she hammered a nail into a wooden lath attached to the wall. She stood back proudly and admired her work. A couple of passers-by patted her on the back, telling her what a good job it was. And though the painting did little to counteract the harsh, stony surroundings, Arthur had to admit that it did make the place seem more homely somehow. And of course, that's what they were doing, he realised as he looked on: they were making this place their home.

He felt like he should help them, especially after the hospitality and food they'd shared with him. So, when he noticed a tired-looking broom leaning against one wall, he took it and proceeded to sweep the floor. The dust rose about his shins in little clouds, smudging his new jeans, but he didn't mind. He just concentrated on the work, moving around the floor, in and out of each cell, and after a couple of hours he had several little hillocks of dust piled on each storey. He found a scrap of a cereal box in one bin and used it as a little shovel to scoop up the dirt. When he was done with that, noticing that Ash still hadn't come back, he looked for something else to do.

A young boy came speeding out of one of the cells and bumped right into Arthur's leg. He fell backwards onto the floor and looked up at Arthur with fear in his eyes.

‘What's the matter?' Arthur said, giving him a hand up.

‘Th-there's a
huge
spider in there.' He pointed an accusing thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cell he'd bolted from.

‘You don't like spiders?'

The boy simply shook his head, turning red.

‘It's OK, it's nothing to be embarrassed about,' said Arthur, thrusting the broom forward dynamically. ‘Lots of people are afraid of spiders. Luckily I'm not one of them. I'll take care of it with my trusty broom!'

The boy waited by the door as Arthur went in. A flimsy web had been strung across one corner of the cell and a tiny grey spider was scuttling up a thread towards it. In one swift arc, Arthur swept the broom across the wall, taking the web and the spider with it, and flicked them out the door.

‘All gone,' he exclaimed, turning back to the boy, whose face was beaming with an appreciative smile.

‘Thanks!' the boy said as he ventured back in again. ‘There's loads of spiders everywhere.'

‘Well maybe I'll just clean them all up,' Arthur said, heading out.

‘You're him who was at the camp, aren't you?'

Arthur stopped in his tracks, looked back at the boy and nodded. The boy dug around in his pocket and eventually took out a crumpled passport photo. He handed it to Arthur. It showed a man in his early twenties who had the same hazel eyes as the boy.

‘That's my brother. He took care of me. But then we got separated during the flood.'

‘Oh.' Arthur didn't know what else to say as he looked at the photo, holding the wrinkled paper carefully between his fingers.

‘Did you see him there? At the camp?'

‘Oh,' Arthur said again. He looked directly at the young boy. ‘No. No, I'm sorry.'