Terminal (26 page)

‘But you said
glass beasts
– what exactly do you mean?' Jiggs pressed him.

‘It's hard to describe them,' the man replied. ‘They drop out of the sky, and they sometimes come by water, but those ones look different,' he replied. ‘However they arrive, it doesn't matter; they're all equally savage, and more of our people than I care to remember have been taken by them.'

Drake and Jiggs met each other's gaze. ‘Armagi?' Drake said.

‘You know something about these beasts, then?' the portly man put in.

Drake was shaking his head. ‘Not much, but we had an inkling this might happen.'

‘Better get out of sight now,' the portly man said, and Drake and Jiggs followed his example as, with much grunting, he lowered himself down onto the ground. Once there, he clicked his fingers, and another man in the group immediately came over with a holdall containing some quite sophisticated telescopes on small tripods and handed them out. As Drake raised his eyebrows at his scope, the portly man explained,
‘Got some die-hard twitchers in our village – you know, bird-watchers – so we're always spoilt for scopes.'

As the car could be heard starting up, the portly leader explained, ‘We leave the engine running by weighing down the accelerator – nothing too loud, but if they're on the trail, it'll bring them in quickly, like mice to cheese. You see, the glass beasts always seem to travel in pairs, and if we don't stop them here, they just keep looking till they find someone.'

The men on the road were quickly moving away from it now. ‘Focus your scope on the car, then keep an eye out around it. You don't want to miss the grand entrance,' the portly leader said, chuckling. ‘Bit different from watching sandpipers over at Blakeney Point.'

Then, as they waited, in a muted and grim voice he began to recount to Drake and Jiggs what had been happening on the surface; about how the police and army seemed to have disbanded, and how all the utilities – electricity, gas, telecoms – all of it had simply stopped. ‘You know, you two remind me of some curious people we had through the village a while back,' the man said suddenly. ‘They didn't seem to know where they were either. And why they just came to mind is because they were both plastered with mud and appeared as though they'd just been pulled out of the River Wensum, same as you.'

Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘What did these people look like?'

‘They strolled into my village shop early one morning before opening. I said to my wife at the time that I had a feeling something was in the offing – and it wasn't long before all these funny goings-on started, and the country went to pot.'

‘Can you describe them?' Drake asked.

The portly leader thought for a second. ‘There was a lad, wild-looking, with long hair as white as snow, and an older man, also with very long hair, who appeared to be his fath—'

‘The older one wore glasses?' Drake interjected, a big smile spreading across his face. ‘What sort of shop did you say you have?'

The portly man pulled an unhappy face. ‘
Had
. Afraid I was forced to close it after I couldn't get any deliveries through, but it was the village shop – you know, a convenience store with food and newspapers and …'

Drake had begun to chuckle. ‘So you sold chocolate. Did, by any chance, the older of the two stuff himself silly on it that morning? Did he? Because the Doc always loved chocolate.'

‘He did!' the portly man burst out. ‘He bought several bars, and I saw him scoffing them outside on the pavement.'

‘Will and Dr Burrows,' Drake told Jiggs, who was looking confused, ‘when they first travelled up from the fallout shelter.'

The portly man was also looking rather confused. ‘But how did y—'

‘Shhh,' someone behind them hissed. ‘The first beast has landed.'

Jiggs had been concentrating on the car as the other two spoke, and had spotted the Armagi swooping down from over the trees and alighting close to it.

And Drake caught sight of the second one as it sprang from the river flowing under the bridge. ‘My God – there! That's an Armagi!' Drake whispered in horror. ‘Adapted to live in water.'

‘And the other is obviously capable of flight,' Jiggs added.

‘They can alter themselves,' the portly man said. ‘But watch this.'

The two Armagi approached the car, one with its wings folded behind its back, the other looking like liquid crystal as the water on it reflected the bright sunlight. There was a moment when they turned to face each other over the roof of the vehicle, as if they were communicating.

‘And zambo!' the portly man murmured.

The member of the group hidden in the field applied a current to the wires running to the car's full tank of petrol. The explosion lifted the vehicle clean off the ground, the two Armagi blasted into pieces by the huge fireball.

The oddest thing was that for the briefest instant both Drake and Jiggs caught a glimpse not of the transparent beasts against the flames but of the distinct outlines of two men in silhouette.

The portly leader was already on his feet, and telling them to get up. ‘We'll come along later to check that nothing escaped the fire. You see, we incinerate every last chunk of those foul beasts we can find.'

‘Why do that?' Jiggs asked. ‘That looked pretty conclusive to me. They must be dead.'

‘You might think so,' the portly man said. ‘But they can come back to life. We've seen it happen.'

Drake was frowning as he thought of something. ‘If we can't use a vehicle with a combustion engine, how are we ever going to reach Parry? I can't really walk it, not the way I am.'

The same thought had occurred to Jiggs. ‘What if we keep the revs low. Or if maybe we can somehow insulate the engine – soundproof it, that might—?'

The portly man smiled broadly as he cut in on their conversation. ‘If you can convince me that it's important enough, I have a better idea for you. It's not the latest word in travel, but it'll get you where you want to go.'

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

I
n the two days they'd been at the farmhouse, Chester, Martha and Stephanie had already settled into a routine, albeit a rather strange one. Martha and Stephanie rarely had anything to do with each other, while Chester was incredibly restless and ill at ease, throwing himself around the place like a bear with a bad hangover. When he wasn't in his room – the master bedroom which Martha had insisted he have, while Stephanie was relegated to what must have been one of the children's cramped rooms – he would take himself off for long walks.

Stephanie would watch as he left the farmhouse without a word to anyone, then stomp off across the fields. Martha would often rush out after the boy in an effort to accompany him wherever he was going. But she was never gone long as she found it difficult to keep up with her short legs.

And at all times Chester and Stephanie maintained their distance whenever they were in the same room. Even when Martha was far enough away not to hear, Chester didn't seem to be in any mood to talk.

But Stephanie couldn't put up with the silence any longer.
It was the start of the third day and they'd just had their breakfast, which hadn't been a very appealing meal because they'd been forced yet again to eat their cereal with water because there was no way of getting hold of any milk. Martha had just gone outside into the yard to throw the dirty bowls away when Stephanie decided to speak to Chester. ‘You're still terribly upset, aren't you?' she said softly.

‘Oh, just a bit,' Chester answered. With a sour expression, he carefully picked off a soggy cornflake from where it had fallen on his shirt and flicked it away.

‘I'm sorry you are. I can't pretend to know how you feel.' Stephanie said this genuinely because the last news Old Wilkie had received was that her parents and brothers had managed to escape abroad and were safe. Chester had lost everything. ‘I just wish I could do something to help you.'

‘There's nothing you can do, but thank you, anyway,' he said, his head jerking as they heard the crash of the crockery shattering on the cobblestones out in the yard. ‘You know, if Parry had opened up to me about it as soon as he'd found out, I might feel differently now. But no way can I forgive him now.'

‘Maybe he was going to tell you after that meeting you went to?' Stephanie suggested.

‘Well, he didn't, did he?' Chester snapped. ‘And if he had, then it would have only been because the US President put his foot in it.' Chester snorted angrily. ‘No, I can't get over the fact that my mum and dad died because that creep Danforth had cooked up a stupid, screw-brained scheme all by himself. If that's actually the case.'

‘But Parry said he didn't know Danforth was going to do it. You don't believe him, then?' Stephanie asked.

‘Who knows with these people? These army types are in such a mad rush to save lives that they end up killing everyone in the process,' Chester said. ‘Collateral damage and practical military necessity, laddie,' he added, moving his head haughtily and doing a passable impersonation of Parry, complete with Scottish accent. ‘Drake could be a bit like that too sometimes, but with Will and Elliott it was different – we always played it straight with each other. We would never have let each other down like that.
Never
.'

‘I'd never let you down either, Chester,' Stephanie said, but Chester didn't seem to register this as he began to work himself up into a lather.

‘I mean, why couldn't bloody Danforth have just
pretended
to the Styx that he'd done the dirty on us? He didn't have to go all the way.' Chester had jumped to his feet and was pacing furiously around the room. ‘I wonder if he really enjoyed killing my parents! The sick bastard!' he spat.

Chester was as big as a fully grown man and his aggression made him very intimidating. Stephanie began to think it hadn't been such a good idea to try to talk to him.

He abruptly stopped his pacing and said, ‘The murdering bloody bastard.' With a curse, he aimed a kick at one of the chairs around the table. An alarming smile spread across his face as a leg broke off and clattered onto the tiled floor. Then he really went for the chair, kicking and punching it again and again, until there was nothing more than splintered wood where it had been standing. Panting from the exertion, he shouted, ‘And what the hell am I still doing here? In this bloody armpit of a place?'

Martha had walked in and was looking at the wrecked chair. Chester didn't acknowledge her as he pushed by and
went into the hallway. There he snatched up a pair of gloves and a hat from beside the front door and stormed outside.

‘What was that about?' Martha demanded, narrowing her eyes at Stephanie. ‘I hope you haven't been botherin' him.'

‘I really don't know what set him off. I didn't say a word. All of a sudden he started to go on about his parents and Danforth, and …' Stephanie didn't finish as Martha moved quickly over to the window.

‘But why doesn't he talk to
me
about it?' she complained.

He came back later that evening after many hours' absence, arriving just in time for supper. His face was blank and nobody dared to speak to him as he took his place at the table. It was easy to tell what they were eating from the smell – it was what they always had – lamb stew. Martha elbowed open the door as she brought it in, plonking it clumsily down on the table in front of them.

As she took her usual seat, Chester was simply staring down at his food. ‘Um, Martha,' he said.

‘Yes, my sweet?' she replied.

Using both hands he held up his plastic bowl, as if inviting comment from her. Along the side of the bowl was
DOG
in large, unmistakeable letters, and while it must have once been a rather striking red colour, it was so worn and the plastic so abraded by years of cleaning that its colour had dulled and the edges begun to flake off. In comparison, Stephanie hadn't come off too badly with the chipped melamine bowl she'd been given.

‘Running low on plates. Nothing much left in the cupboards,' Martha said by way of explanation, dipping her spoon into her bowl, which was a battered enamel dish
probably also used by the owners' pets.

Chester had put his dog bowl carefully back on the table. ‘I can't take any more,' he said hoarsely.

‘What – of my stew?' Martha asked.

‘No, no, of feeling like this,' he mumbled. His head was bowed and Stephanie couldn't be certain if he was crying or not, but she thought that she spotted a tear dropping into his bowl.

‘Oh, my poor sweet boy!' Martha rushed over to him, and hugged him tight. ‘What is it? What can I do to make things better for you?'

Of course Stephanie knew how severe his depression had been during the weeks in the cottage, but this display of vulnerability shocked her. He was more fragile and more disturbed than she'd ever imagined.