The Devil's Evidence (28 page)

Another crash from the corridor. Fool glanced at the door, back at Mayall. “What's happening?” he asked.

“Go and see.”

Fool hesitated and Mayall nodded, smiling. Fool went to the door and opened it.

The corridor was empty but all along its length shards of glass lay on the floor, glittering. The pictures of the Estedea were swinging back and forth on their cords, the frames bumping back against the walls and the front of them now empty of glass except for tiny fragments still jammed around the edges of the frames like brilliant, brittle teeth set in old dark gums. Fool stepped into the corridor, hearing the shards crack and snap under his soles. As he neared the first picture, it swung away from the wall and fell back with a loud crack, the picture within the frame now almost entirely filled with the rear of the cowled figure, only slivers of a gray and bucking ocean visible around the edges. A gust of wind, thick with the scent of a cold and salt-heavy sea, blew across his face. The wind came from within the picture itself.

The figure in the picture backed another step toward the frame and then leaned so that its dark-clad head and shoulders came beyond the edge of the picture. Fool stepped away, retreating toward the room as the shape emerged almost horizontally, robes flapping heavily but not falling from the still-hidden head. There was a low tearing sound as the Estedea's wings unfolded, pulling out from its back and stretching into the corridor. They were huge and black, the upper edge of them a thick cable of muscle and bone from which hung rippling sails of feather-covered flesh. They opened fully, scraping the far wall, knocking the pictures that hung there and from which figures were also emerging. With a sharp flap, the first figure lifted out of its picture and tilted upright, its long body slipping out of the frame in a wash of cold, briny air to hover in the corridor and then drop to stand in the space's center.

A figure was emerging from every picture frame and the corridor was filled with dark shapes.

They were huge, tall, and thin, their heads bowed and still brushing the ceiling. The one closest to Fool drew its wings back in, folding them around itself where they merged into the long, hooded habit. It seemed to absorb any light that fell on it, as though shadows had been woven together into cloth and the cloth stitched into the angel's robe. The angel of the Estedea stepped forward, giving space to those that were still arriving behind it, and as it did so it came close to Fool, was standing over him and looking down.

There was nothing in its cowl, only a patch of darkness that was depthless and lost.

Fool stopped walking, knees locking, breath freezing into something hard and frigid. He caught a sense of sadness, of regret from the angel, a sense that grew rapidly until he felt like letting it bury him, letting it crush him down to nothing with its weight, prostrating himself before the angel and begging for an end to the sheer misery he felt. It was like nothing he had ever experienced, this sadness. It was a thing of cold unremitting mass that rolled out from the angel and took everything in its grasp.

The darkness in the cowl roiled, briefly forming empty eye sockets and a mouth of wrinkled lips the color of old sheets that opened in a humorless and flat grin. Fool fell to his knees, letting his chin fall to his chest, holding his hands out to his sides, knowing that the angel was bending in behind him, that its mouth was opening, splitting wider and wider, and he welcomed it, he wanted it, anything to escape this sadness, this feeling that he might explode in shame and regret, might drown in old, trapped miseries. Closer still, and it was ready to feed, to draw everything from him and leave him a husk, and he was ready, he was nothing, he was a speck in the infinite eye of God's saddest angels, and then something grasped his collar and yanked him away.

“Not yet, Thomas,” said Mayall, hauling Fool simultaneously back into the room and to his feet. “You may not be one of the saved, may be one of the damned, but you are still our guest of sorts and the Estedea may not have you.”

The angel in the corridor straightened, shaking itself slightly, and Fool saw the face in the space beneath the hood fade away to darkness again before the head bowed and the cowl hooded the space completely. It crossed its arms over its front, its hands emerging from the ends of its sleeves momentarily. They were as pale as ivory, almost impossibly long and angular, the skin as smooth as river-washed bone and tight to the skeleton beneath. Its fingers flexed, once, the nails at the tips curved arcs that were even whiter than the hands, and then the sleeves came together and the angel was hidden once again, robes seamless as behind it the others lined up in silent ranks.

“The Estedea,” said Mayall from behind Fool, letting go of his collar. “They have been watching and have decided that the time is now. For the first time since the time of the great Fallings, their judgment is that Heaven is at risk. The saddest angels move once more and Heaven will be protected and Heaven will be avenged.”

As they watched, the Estedea turned. They didn't appear to walk or fly but spun and then glided along the corridor, moving away from the room. Their robes flapped around them, slow and elegant and heavy, occasionally parting enough to reveal those long, thin hands or feet that were slim and white and clawed and crowned by smaller wings wrapped around their ankles. None spoke, and they made no other noise.

The pictures on the walls were simply framed landscapes now, the Estedea fully emerged, just nondescript images of indefinite places. Several of the flames had fallen from the walls and lay broken on the floor, the glass twinkling like distant stars. From others curls of mist fell, warm air and cold twisting around each other like tongues, and from at least one spills of rain sprayed into the corridor. The air had gone cold, smelled of snow and sea and mountain.

“It begins,” said Mayall quietly.

At the far end of the corridor the last of the Estedea filed away, leaving emptiness behind them, and Fool heard the sound of countless wings beating as Heaven and Hell went to war.

They were prisoners.

Fool, Summer, and Gordie had been escorted back to Fool's room after the Estedea left, Mayall at Fool's shoulder and Benjamin behind with the other two. Wambwark was at the rear, flanked by the angels from the Delegation. Mayall did not dance or jig as they walked, and Benjamin's face was a set of stone.

They walked in silence along the corridors of the Anbidstow, their feet crackling the glass that was strewn across the floor, past hundreds of figureless pictures and empty frames. In some, distant seas shifted ceaselessly, and in others fields of corn moved in the wind or snowstorms raged, each one different yet linked by a common thread; in all it was windy, as though the Estedea leaving had dragged the air into chaos, and as they walked the air buffeted out from the pictures and the wind followed them as they went.

When they reached Fool's room he and Gordie and Summer were ushered inside. In his absence two more beds had been added and there was little space to move except carefully along the narrow gaps between bed and desk and wall.

“You will be treated fairly,” said Mayall as the door closed, “until we decide what to do with you.” He grinned as the door shut, lips splitting back from his teeth in a smile that seemed to take up the whole of the lower half of his face, a flash of the old Mayall, that manic light flaring briefly in his eye, and then the door sealed against the jamb and they were alone. Experimentally, Fool tried to open the door but it was locked, the first time it had been since he arrived.

“This is all wrong,” he said when the sound of their captors had faded to nothing.

“That we're prisoners? It's a war and we're part of the enemy,” said Gordie. “It makes sense they'd want to know where we are.”

“No, not just that, none of it's right. What we saw in the cave wasn't a normal demon, was it? You know these things, Gordie, was it like anything you've heard or read about?”

Gordie thought for a minute. “No,” he said eventually. “But if it's not demons, if it's not Hell, what is it?”

“Marianne said something had been found at one of the slaughters in Hell—a pincer? And we found a claw and a scale in the Sleepers' Cave?”

“Yes,” said Summer, “but demons have pincers and claws and scales as well.”

“But they don't dance, they don't move that way,” said Fool and he was thinking as he spoke, his thoughts running faster than his words. He held the feather as he let the ideas stream out of him, tasting them on his tongue, spitting some away and letting others free.

“It's something that moves oddly,” he said. “It looks like it's dancing, like lots of pieces working together. They're connected, working with each other as though they're part of one mind. The thing in the Sleepers' Cave, it came apart but never completely, it was linked and worked together. It filled the space with itself.”

“You know what it is?” asked Summer.

“I do,” said Fool. “I think it's the things that live in the places outside of everywhere. Catarinch told me they're always searching for a way in. What if they've found it? What if they've found a way to tear through at last? What if this isn't Hell or Heaven but the things from outside?”

There was silence in the room for a second, and then Gordie asked, “What are they?”

“I don't know,” said Fool.

“More importantly, how do we prove it? How do we stop them?” asked Summer.

“I don't know,” said Fool again. How often had he said that? How often had he been asked a question and not known the answer? Too often. In Hell he'd come to expect it, that his world would be hunched with questions that had no answers, that was the point of Hell, after all, but here in Heaven? He'd expected more, had expected things to be smooth with answers.

“FOOL, YOU MOTHERFUCKER, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” howled a voice, and at the same time Fool screamed as the skin of his belly tore open. Summer shrieked and leaped back from Fool as he collapsed to the bed, and so violent was Mr. Tap's arrival that his skin was already slick with blood by the time he managed to tear open his jacket and shirt. Gordie made to come to his aid but Fool managed to gesture him back.
They haven't seen this, have they, they've not met Mr. Tap,
he thought abstractly.
Oh my, they're in for a treat.

Fool dragged himself back along the bed so that he could prop himself against the wall and stare down at his rent stomach. Mr. Tap's face was open there, and the demon was breathing hard.
Panting.
Had the tattoo ever breathed before? Fool didn't think so.

“Fool,” it said again, and its voice was barely controlled fury. “What the fuck have you done?”

“I investigated as instructed,” said Fool. “But events overtook me.” His whole body was twitching now, the pain from Mr. Tap radiating along his limbs. It was as though the demon was poisoning him, its rage sending a sickness into him.

“ ‘Events overtook' you? For shit's sake, Fool, we sent you there to calm Heaven down. You were supposed to solve their little problem so that we could use your success to gain an advantage over them in the trade and border discussions. What fucking use are you if you can't even do that?” Mr. Tap opened its mouth wide, revealing that long, long throat with its lining of teeth, descending an impossible depth, deeper than the thickness of Fool's body, and bit down on the skin below its lip. The tattooed face thrashed, the image blurring as it harried at Fool's flesh, and Fool screamed, screamed as a piece of him tore away and was swallowed.

“Did you like that, you pathetic human scum?” said Mr. Tap. Fool groaned, waving a hand at Summer, who had risen and was moving swiftly toward him. In her hand she held the knife Fool had used to cut his food, although what she expected to do with it he wasn't sure; cut Mr. Tap out of him, maybe. He waved at her, shaking his head. Uncertainly, she sat again. Gordie put his arm around her, holding her. Fool tried to smile at them but the expression felt warped on his face and he suspected it looked like a grimace, let it fall away to nothing.

“ANSWER ME!” said Mr. Tap and tore at another section of Fool's skin, swallowing again, the teeth clicking against each other as the pink scrap disappeared into the gullet.

“No, I didn't,” said Fool, and his voice sounded weak, papery.

“Tell me why I shouldn't keep on,” said Mr. Tap.

“I did my best,” said Fool, and now there was an unpleasant wheedling tone added to his voice, a pitiful begging that he didn't like, “but the angels wouldn't see the dead as murders and then something attacked us and took one of the named angels.”

“Something?”

“Heaven thinks it was a demon. They found a tunnel they say leads to Hell. They think you've been attacking them.”

“I know!” said Mr. Tap, and it sounded calmer now, more thoughtful. “We've been sent a formal communication pinned to Catarinch's fucking head! A declaration of war! We're at war, Fool, Heaven and Hell joining in the final battle, but we didn't do it and we're not fucking ready.”

“No,” said Fool and then because he couldn't help himself, “it's not nice, being accused of things you didn't do, is it?”

“Fuck you, Fool,” said Mr. Tap. “This is your fault, you little grub, you little shit. If you'd done what we sent you to do we wouldn't be in this position. We haven't attacked Heaven, Fool, but they've attacked us! Dancing things have been seen, Fool, by murders and fires. We have things burning, and have you solved that? No, you useless turd, you haven't, you've solved nothing.

“We have demons missing, Fool, demons and people both.”

“Perhaps the Evidence took them,” said Fool and then screamed as Mr. Tap tore another part of him loose, chewing it furiously and then swallowing it with a noisy, tearing slurp.

“The next time you speak to me like that I'll chew you apart,” said the tattoo. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We didn't do any of this, Fool. We can only think Heaven has been coordinating the attacks in Hell to force this outcome. Fucking God and his plans, eh?”

“I don't think it's Heaven.”

“No?” and now Mr. Tap's voice sounded something other than angry; it sounded eager.
Even you're afraid of Heaven,
thought Fool,
even you don't want this war, because you've no idea if Hell will win or if you'll survive. You want an exit, a way out of this.

“I think it's the things from places outside.”

“The things outside of everywhere? Really, Fool, you believe that those swirling bastards are doing this?”

“Yes. We have some evidence.”

“Enough to convince that sanctimonious bastard Mayall? Enough to get them to call off the fucking Estedea?”

Fool thought about the claw and the scale and the dancing and the thing he had chased and said, “No.”

“Then I ask again, what fucking use are you? I may as well feed on you and then go and get ready for the war.”

“No, wait,” said Fool, aching and sick and weary. “I can find proof. Give me some time.” He saw Summer, the expression on her face quizzical, Gordie looking horrified, and tried to nod reassuringly at them.
I can,
he thought.
I can, I just need time.

Time and a fucking break.

“We haven't
got
time, Fool, this is happening now! When their army is ready, they'll descend and we'll be at war.” There was a pause and then Mr. Tap continued, its voice calmer.

“Fuck it, you mongrel bastard, you can have until then,” said the tattoo, said Fool's flesh, teeth clicking constantly. “But know this: if the war isn't to be averted, then I will take the greatest of pleasure in, just before the first battle, visiting you and speaking the name of every demon I know while tearing you piece from worthless piece and then saying my own name and watching as each piece of you is further split.”

“Fine,” said Fool and collapsed back on the bed as Mr. Tap's face broke apart and his skin knitted itself back together. Where Mr. Tap had chewed on him his skin healed unevenly, leaving a set of ugly raised scars across his stomach. Fool, exhausted, tried to sit but the muscles of his stomach refused to contract and he flopped back, helpless. Summer and Gordie came to help him and gently lifted him into a sitting position.

“Has that been happening ever since you arrived?” asked Summer.

“Yes. Sort of, it's not normally that bad,” replied Fool. Summer took him in her arms and hugged him.

“You poor, poor man,” she said. “No one deserves this.”

“You don't know that,” said Gordie quietly.

“Gordie!” said Summer, her voice shocked against Fool's neck as she held him.

“No, he's right,” said Fool. “You don't know. You don't know what I did to be in Hell. Maybe this is just punishment.”

“This isn't just,” said Summer, pulling back from Fool, a horrified look on her face. “This is…” She stopped, unable to find the words to describe it.

“It is what it is,” said Fool. “And it's not over yet, I'm afraid.”

“No more, please,” said Summer, her voice hard. “Please.”

“It won't be as bad,” said Fool and then held up his arm and rolled back his sleeve. The blood that had soaked the front of his clothes was cold against him, smelled of old metal and earth left, sunless and wet, under abandoned buildings.

“Marianne,” he said. “Marianne, can you hear me?”

As he waited for her to reply, Fool looked at the face described by the tattoo. It had become even sharper since he had last looked, more detail added on each viewing, and now it was an accurate representation of how Marianne looked. In the inked image, her mouth was smiling, her brow slightly crinkled as though thinking, her eyes open and inquisitive. Her short hair was swept up, twisting above her head in little curls and tangles, and he wondered how soft it was, whether it smelled like Summer's did, and then the tattoo twitched and he managed to prepare himself before the skin of its mouth split and Marianne said, “Hello, sir.”

“Thomas,” said Fool without thinking. “Hello, Marianne. How are things?”

“I'm still breathing, I'm still here,” she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “The Evidence are everywhere. We've been moved out of the offices now, they've taken your room and all the rooms except the mess and some of the toilets. That's where I am now, the mess. Something's happening, sir, something big. I can feel the tension, but it's more than that, I can feel their uncertainty.”

Something. The war between Heaven and Hell. Something.
“You're right,” said Fool, “and it's serious. Marianne, have you still got the picture of me?”

“Yes. Hold on,” she said, and then there was a pause. “I've got it and unfolded it.”

Fool closed his eyes, seeing again the strange, flattened version of Hell that the picture allowed him to view. Marianne was holding the picture in front of her, and her face was set with lines, worry etching across her forehead and in her eyes. “I'm scared,” she said.

“I know,” Fool replied, knowing there was nothing he could say that would help. Fear was good, fear was the right thing to feel, Marianne was surrounded by danger and threat and to suggest otherwise would be pointless. “Marianne, can you get outside? I need to speak to the Man again.”

“I'll try,” she said. There was a longer pause, during which Fool had to open his eyes; the control-less roll of Hell in his paper view was sickening, made his belly flop, nausea inside the still-throbbing pains of Mr. Tap's visit.

“We're here,” she said after a few minutes. Fool closed his eyes and saw, once again, the rear walled garden of the Information Office. The gate in the far wall was hanging open now, swinging drunkenly down, held in place only by its bottom hinge. The upper hinge, still attached to a lump of concrete, hung from the upper part of its frame, and he could hear it clanking through his paper ears as it swayed back and forth. The statues that had stood around the garden were now in pieces across its uneven paved floor, and some of the bushes and trees that had sprouted in the gaps between the flags had been uprooted and cast aside, their roots gnarled clumps of frond and earth, drying and crumbling to death.