Jack of Ravens (71 page)

The Fabulous Beast had disappeared from view, but in the distance bursts of red and gold lit up the clouds.

‘Look at that,’ Church said in awe.

The Blue Fire that the Fabulous Beast had taken into itself in Vietnam now ran in lines across the landscape, crisscrossing, interconnecting, and here and there shooting up in a column of power towards the heavens. It was releasing the remaining energy back into the earth, bringing the land alive, driving the spiders and the darkness they represented back to where they had originated.

‘That’s amazing,’ Ruth said quietly. ‘Beautiful.’ All four of them were mesmerised.

‘It’s still weak,’ Church said, ‘and it won’t get stronger until we reconnect it with the source. But for now it’s alive. The king was right. Magic has returned.’

In their hearts, the Pendragon Spirit burned brightly and not even the clustering darkness could dim its light.

21

As they moved away from the Eden Project towards the lights of St Austell, a figure separated from the shadows and bounded onto the roof of the visitors’ centre. In its mischievous eyes was the wildness of nature. In its enigmatic smile were mystery and a hint of secrets untold. Sly and dangerous, Robin Goodfellow gave a mocking bow.

‘And so this tale must end,

With questions to be posed.

No rest yet for our players,

Though these pages soon will close.

New adventures lie ahead,

Love, lust, death and betrayal.

A world in shadow, a threat so great

As to make you quake and quail.

Yet life is but a game,

Mere sport before you die.

Where the rules are never told,

And the stakes are always high.

Sleep well now, Fragile Creatures,

But consider as you doze:

Your strings may be invisible,

Though like puppets you repose.

The puppetmaster makes you dance,

But keep your eyes tight shut.

For when you least expect it.

Snip, snip!

… the strings are cut …’

1

London sleeps, London dreams.

In the quiet hour before dawn, the city breathes steadily. The river drifts, dark and slow. The trains have stopped, the traffic has slowed. Listen. You can almost hear each exhalation, and the whispers that rise from the subterranean unconscious.

In Ealing and Richmond and Clapham, children wake, crying about a fire, a terrible fire, and their parents cannot calm them. One, in Battersea, gives clear voice to his fears. Afterwards, his mother sits alone in the dark lounge, sobbing.

Along the Strand, a policeman stops, troubled. Every night an old homeless man everyone knows as Glasgow Tom sits on his patch and babbles relentlessly from dusk till dawn. Tonight, for the first night the policeman can remember in three years, Glasgow Tom is silent. He sits against the wall, reeking of strong, cheap beer and urine, and traces an outline of a man against the dark sky, over and over again.

In the zoo, to the north, beyond the green expanse of Regent’s Park, there is no silence. The animals howl and chatter and scream in a way that their keepers have never before heard. The beasts look to the sky as if seeing things that no human can see: in every cage and pen, animals looking to the sky. With jokes and shrugs, the keepers try to believe there is some rational explanation. There is not.

At the insect house, in the glass case of
solenopsis invicta
, sixty-five million years of order have fallen. In their nest, the fire ants have turned on each other, killing their own kind wantonly. In the glass cases beyond, the arachnids are still and watchful.

The city dreams strange dreams.

To the east, in the commercial district bleeding out of the City and into
the old Docklands, the monumental buildings, and the expensive cars, and the well-tailored suits dream of hard things; of money and what money makes. Sleep here is easy.

But there are those who do not have the luxury of rest. High up in the tallest tower in Canary Wharf are the offices of Steelguard Securities, which prides itself on being the hardest, the most driven, most morally ambivalent and therefore most successful company in the quarter. Here two employees still toil despite the lateness of the hour.

Mallory is beneath notice, in his blue overalls, his dark hair fastened back with an elastic band, with his vacuum and his cleaning products, maintaining his ironic disposition despite the same routine of emptying bins and cleaning phones night after night after night. When he is asleep, Mallory is not allowed to dream. His dreams come when he is awake, in flashes that are almost like memories, rich in detail and clarity of purpose. Yet they could not be real in any way, and so he is troubled by them. In his dreams, he is a hero with a magical sword, battling in a fallen world: one of five great heroes struggling to prevent life slipping into endless shadow.

Yet here he is with his vacuum and cleaning products. No sword; no hero by any measure.

In the main dealing room, beyond the glass partition wall that Mallory cleans, sits another employee. Like Mallory, she is in her late twenties, with an intelligent but knowing face that Mallory finds intriguing. Sophie Tallent is also not allowed to dream while she sleeps. She watches the figures on her screen as the Nikkei 225 index rises and falls in minute increments. Like Mallory, Sophie has lucid flashes of another life that she fervently wishes was real, a life filled with meaning, the soothing pulse of nature, swelling emotions, and deeds that helped make the world a better place. In contrast, her existence at Steelguard is a ghost-life, where the dead continue with the meaningless rituals they followed when they were alive.

Sometimes she glances at Mallory, and sometimes he casts a furtive glance at her, but their eyes never meet. It has been that way for as long as they have worked there, which feels like forever. Occasionally they wonder what they would see in those depths if their gaze did coincide.

Mallory was so engrossed in the woman that he did not hear any footsteps approach through the echoing annexe. Perhaps there had not been any. Startled by a cough, he turned to find the kind of man who could appear in any situation and leave no impression whatsoever: bland features, neither handsome nor unattractive, dark hair cut short but not too threatening, dark suit, not too expensive, not too cheap. Mallory even had difficulty placing his age.

‘I’m Mr Rourke, the night manager,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you finished here yet? Stop dragging your feet.’

Mallory thought he knew everyone on the night staff, but he had never
seen Rourke before. Nearly done.’ Sullenly, he returned to his cleaning products. Something about the manager set his teeth on edge.

When he had reclaimed the window cleaner, he was surprised to see another person had arrived silently behind Rourke. Mallory had a second to take in the man’s determined face before a fiery crackle signalled Rourke’s head leaping from its shoulders.

At first Mallory had difficulty perceiving what the assassin was holding. His mind told him it was a clockwork machine, seemingly too large for him to grasp, then a crystal glowing a brilliant white. Finally he realised it was an ancient sword with a thin blue flame flickering along the edge.

And then he was no longer the Mallory who cleaned the toilets five times a day. Instinctively, he whisked his mop handle to the stranger’s throat like a sword. The stranger simply smiled.

You killed him,’ Mallory said incredulously.

I’ve been looking for you for a long time. They hid you well,’ the stranger said. My name’s Church. I’m here to take you back to your real life.’

Mallory’s thoughts were already racing ahead, evaluating numerous strategies for disarming the assassin, defensive positions to protect the woman in the next room.

Church appeared to know exactly what Mallory was thinking. He wagged one cautionary finger, then pointed down.

Where Mallory had expected to see Rourke’s severed head, there were now spiders, lots of them, some small, some as big as his fist. Rourke’s body, too, was disintegrating as the spiders appeared from its depths. Apparently with a single mind, they surged towards Church, and where they passed it appeared the very fabric of the building was being scoured to reveal a hole into space.

‘Don’t ask questions now,’ Church said. ‘If the spiders get you, you’ll be gone from this world in an instant.’ He grabbed Mallory’s overalls and hauled him away from the black stream. To the stairs. I’ll explain everything once we’re safe.’

Mallory half-resisted, but in the same instinctive way he had wielded his mop like a weapon, he knew Church could be trusted. ‘There’s a woman—’

‘She’s being taken care of.’

Through the glass, Mallory saw another woman who reminded him of a pre-Raphaelite painting, dark, curly hair framing a pale, attractive face. She was talking intently to the one who had been at work at the terminal.

Her name’s Ruth’ Church said. She’s one of us. She’ll get your friend out.’

Mallory had no time to question Church’s use of the word friend’, for the spiders were now flooding in pursuit. Mallory flipped over a desk to block their path, but they cut through it with such ease it appeared illusory.

What are they?’ he shouted.

The ones that really rule this world. Now, move.’

Ruth and the other woman emerged from another door into the lobby near the lifts.

Two for two,’ Church said to Ruth. Result.’

‘We’re not out of here yet.’ Ruth flashed a smile at Mallory. ‘This is Sophie Tallent,’ she announced. She feels she knows me from somewhere.’

Sophie
. Mallory turned the name over in his mind. He was oddly pleased to see a determination in her face, somehow familiar. Her eyes met his for the first time; a connection, deep and puzzling and exhilarating.

Casting a glance at the spiders flooding into the lobby, Church threw open the door to the stairwell. We’re not risking getting trapped in the lifts. You’re the one with the power. Can’t you do something?’ he said to Ruth.

It’s not like turning on a light switch,’ she snapped. I really need a ritual—’

Do what you can.’

Cursing under her breath, Ruth turned to face the spiders, half-bowed her head and closed her eyes. Mallory heard her whisper a word that he didn’t recognise, but which made his stomach turn. An instant later the lights went out.

‘Brilliant,’ Church said.

‘I told you I needed a ritual!’

Mallory felt himself propelled into the inky stairwell and the door slammed behind him. That won’t hold them at all,’ Ruth said. Church sighed, said nothing.

A cool hand fumbled into Mallory’s and he realised it was Sophie’s. If we can get down three floors there are windows,’ she said. ‘The spotlights on the building will give us enough illumination to see.’

If we haven’t broken all our necks by then,’ Ruth said sourly.

Clutching on to the railings, they moved down the stairs as quickly as they could. An intense rustling came from the door at their backs.

Moan, moan, moan,’ Church said. A faint blue light rose up. Mallory realised it was coming from the sword which Church held aloft like a lantern.

Down two flights they hurried, stumbling and cursing, until small objects began to fall on Mallory’s head and shoulders, each igniting a burning sensation that made him yell. Church brought the sword closer. In its glow, Mallory was horrified to see spiders clinging to him, eating through his thick overalls and into his flesh. More were raining from above.

‘Get them off!’ he shouted; ‘I hate spiders!’

The others helped tear them off as they stumbled down the stairs. The spiders felt hard, almost metallic, and they writhed sickeningly under the fingertips. His overalls sticky with blood, Mallory hurled them away. Some
burst against the walls, but the majority merely bounced and renewed their attack.