The Sword of Feimhin (6 page)

‘Indeed. And thus you would stumble headlong into a maelstrom of peril.'

Kate sat back, deep in thought. ‘This peril? Are you referring to the Tree of Life – or the serpent-dragon, Nidhoggr?'

‘Both.'

‘Then all I can do is to promise you that I will take the utmost care to conserve my own safety.'

It took Kate a moment or two to recognise that the thunderous resonations that were booming and echoing through the landscape were the dragon's laughter. ‘Alas, Kate Shaunessy, foolish girl-thing, still more do I worry.'

‘Then tell me what to do.'

Those huge eyes gazed back at her.

‘Rest a while. Take time to consider what you will face in the challenge. Though you possess the Second Power of
the Holy Trídédana, you are not ready for what you will face in the city of the Momu. You are naïve. Beware the trap of kindness.'

Kate experienced a sense of déja vu: the Momu herself had said something very similar when they had first met.

Mark and Nan continued to explore Soho, straying into a narrow street lined with crumbling four-storey Georgian buildings. The lower storeys consisted of small shops, few of which retained intact windows. Those without broken windows were readily identified by their steel-mesh protective screens.

After a few twists and turns they emerged onto a famous street, the giveaway sign straddling the upper stories, supported by metal brackets but riddled with what looked like bullet holes. A third of the black lettering was missing so it read, WEL-C--E TO -A-NAB- S-RE-T. Carnaby Street. The fashion boutiques had been replaced by dusty caves selling second-hand clothes, bags of coal, candles and staple war foods such as corned beef and condensed milk. Mark found himself blinking at one surprise after another, hardly daring to think who might inhabit the upper stories. He turned to Nan.

‘Can you still sense the girl?'

‘I think so.'

‘But you're not sure?'

‘My instincts tell me that she's leading us to the church.'

‘I hope you're right.'

At the top of the street they turned right onto a broader lane overhung with concrete and glass offices. These sheltered small pavement cafés where jack-booted men in camouflage uniforms of light grey dappled with ochre and brown, were sitting around, drinking coffee and stubbing out cigarettes on the plastic table surfaces. Paramilitaries. Mark didn't bother to ask them for directions. Further on they passed tall office buildings and apartment blocks, many with peeling plaster and broken windows.

They arrived at another obstruction, which forced them to enter a narrow street to their left where an office block carried a dangling fragment of a blue-and-white circular sign: a historic marker that meant somebody famous had been born or worked there. Most of the street was boarded and grim, invaded by squatters lounging in doorways. They hurried on through, eyes averted, and emerged into an open market. ‘You think your adoptive father, Grimstone, is behind all this?'

‘I don't know. I don't understand what's going on here. Last I saw him he was gathering a church of toadies about him.'

‘You could approach him – confront him.'

Mark had a childhood memory of Grimstone standing
with his back to him, staring out into the town of Clonmel. Evening faded through the wide round-topped window of one of his make-do churches. He was coming down from the high of a service; his black silk shirt stuck to him with sweat, sculpting his heavily-muscled body, reminding Mark of a panther ready to spring. Mark recalled the sense of danger, of impending hurt.

‘Grimstone is not the sort you would want to confront – unless you were sure you were going to win.'

They ambled, single file, between rows of vegetable stalls. There was a scattering of overripe fruit, cheap clothes, spices, shoes, the occasional offer of flowers and one surviving newsagent. On either side of the market were boarded-up cafés and restaurants.

Nan clasped Mark's arm and whispered, ‘We're being followed again.'

‘Not the girl?'

‘No.'

Glancing around, Mark caught sight of a tall leather-coated young man with short-cropped dyed blond hair. He sported a tattoo of a triple infinity on a shaved patch of scalp above his left ear. Placing a protective arm around Nan's shoulders, Mark ushered her into a narrow channel at the back of a dilapidated theatre. They hurried through to emerge into an alley that skirted a block of run-down buildings, and were confronted by a young woman standing in a doorway. Her carroty red hair was awry, her voice thick as treacle.

‘Excuse me, sir – live shows!'

Mark could see the signs over the doorway. REVUE BAR. WORLD CENTRE OF EROTIC ENTERTAINMENT. In the reflection of a window he caught sight of their pursuer again, the blond with the tattoo.

They were standing before a sign that read MADAME JO-JO'S.

They turned away and squeezed through a hole in a breeze-block wall to enter a cul-de-sac. The tattoo-head squeezed in after them, abandoning all pretence of concealment. They were forced to risk running through a doorless entrance, and then to face the obstacle race of the derelict building beyond, emerging into a yard that must once have been the loading area for a small factory. It had evolved into a junk market. Edging through it, Mark saw the refuse of butchering: lumps of bone flecked with bloodied scraps of meat; entrails laid out over the rough planks like prime cuts. A voice was shouting out prices: ‘three a pahnd!' or ‘five a pahnd!'

Mark ushered Nan in front of him.

There was a glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye. Mark spun around and spotted the feral girl. She had stopped, as if pretending to look over the contents of a particular stall. She turned to look at him directly. He sensed it again – the invitation to follow her. Then she took off. Feeling an overwhelming urge to catch her, Mark grabbed Nan's arm and they half-staggered on through the filth and the averted faces.

Within thirty yards his heart leaped as he caught sight of her again. The pale skin and ragged mop of hair were unmistakable. God alone knew what she had been through out there. She was peering back over her shoulder at him. How curiously intelligent she seemed, in contradiction to her apparent age. She was tall, maybe five foot nine or ten, slim and willowy, as if she might bend about corners, and her movements were lithe, the grace of a cat. But her face, her eyes, were startlingly young, shy and evasive.

She allowed them to catch up with her, as if she too were frightened by the surrounding tramps. She muttered, ‘I saw the thing in her head – and in yours too.'

Mark caught her arm. ‘Who are you?'

She screamed. His contact with her really frightened the girl, causing her to tear her arm away from him.

‘Hey, I'm sorry.' Mark spread his arms. ‘I didn't mean to frighten you.'

Nan did her best to calm the girl. ‘We don't mean you any harm. We sensed that you wanted us to follow you.'

She looked from Mark to Nan with a stubborn intensity. ‘Why do I hear you talk to me inside my head?'

Nan smiled, attempting to reassure her. ‘What's your name?'

‘Penny.' She was so unusual Mark didn't know what to make of her. ‘Quickly – wannabe Skulls are hunting you. I heard you asking about the church – I'll show you.'

Mark glanced at Nan:
wannabe Skulls?

‘You know where it is? The Church of the English Martyrs?'

‘Come – quickly!'

She led them through a derelict workshop and into a square of abandoned buildings. Gaunt faces followed their progress. Discarded glue tubes, vials, syringes and needles littered the ground. The tramps here were younger than elsewhere, and were gathering about them. They bore little resemblance to the homeless of old who huddled under the bridges in their beds of newspaper. Those had maintained some kind of fellow human empathy. These looked vicious.

It was a mistake to hang about, but when Mark tried to push his way through the shuffling crowd he felt a sharp kick at his ankle. He caught a glimpse of a jean-clad leg with a steel-capped boot at the end of it and, wincing in pain, turned fully to find a short thick-set thug staring at him. He was wearing a leather overcoat and Doc Martens boots. He was joined by the blond with the tattoo, his face pockmarked with acne, a cigarette clamped in his teeth. The blond's leering blue eyes squinted at Nan through the trickle of smoke.

‘Bleedin' rich tart! Give us a note or I'll kick yer nancy boyfriend's bollocks up into 'is throat!'

Mark muttered, ‘Shit!'

‘What do we do?' Nan whispered.

‘Leave it to me.'

Mark looked around for some kind of advantage. He
found none and the first thug was blocking their only escape. Mark saw a triple infinity badge sewn into one arm of his overcoat. Now he could see them closer to, the badge and the tattoo on the blond's scalp looked amateurish. He understood Penny's reference to wannabe Skulls: he was dealing with common thugs with professional aspirations. They shoved up hard against him, close enough for Mark to smell their body odour. Both wore stud earrings in their left ears and the smaller one had a ring through his right nostril, from which a scabby sore festered onto his lip.

Mark wondered if his oracular powers would help him here. He had no experience of using them on Tír and he wasn't filled with confidence he would know how to use them here, even if they did work.

When he turned to look for Penny, the girl had vanished.

‘Damn!' he said, and turned suddenly, using his elbows to attempt to force a passage through the junkies, but it was hard work to make any real space and there was no escape from the two leather-clad thugs. The blond backed into him, distracting his attention, as the shorter thug grabbed Mark's beanie, draping it rakishly over his own tight-knit curls, horsing around with it. The blond was groping at his pockets. How likely were they to be carrying weapons? Mark didn't give a damn about a few coins of change. But his harmonica was in his right hip pocket and he had no intention of letting any of these thugs get their hands on it. Mark punched the blond in the centre of his face, giving him a bloody nose.

He fell back a little, giving Mark the opportunity to grab Nan's arm and run. His injured ankle slowed him down, but after thirty yards or so he saw a derelict shop and kicked his way through the rotting boarding to usher Nan into yet another alley.

They were startled by a rousing gallery of heads; filthy faces, missing teeth, mangy scalps with untended straggles of hair. Every crevice and doorway was taken up: a legion of homeless had taken over the alley. They had cannibalised most of the doors and frames for firewood and were sheltering from the weather in the holes in the walls. As they got to their feet, Mark hurried Nan onwards and they stumbled on, tripping over the jumble of legs, evoking an increasing chorus of curses.

They recoiled from the grotesque faces, the open hatred in every eye, the overwhelming stench.

They heard the two thugs before they turned and saw them, running down the alleyway toward them. The blond, with his bloody nose, was slapping a lump of metal against his palm. The shorter of the two was swinging a pickaxe handle, tossing it into the air and catching it again.

Mark heard Penny call out. ‘Come with me!' For some reason he couldn't fathom, the homeless were allowing her some leeway. She beckoned Mark and Nan after her.

Under the light of one working street lamp, he suddenly saw her face in great detail: her right eye was surrounded by a yellowing map of bruising and her skin was a rash of healing cuts and abrasions. Mark reached out as if to touch
her cheek with the back of his hand, but she dodged him and made off at a run.

They had to hurry to keep up with her, leading them through a maze of ruined streets, then through a hole in a wire fence and into a side door of what had been a shopping centre. Unwashed faces peered out at them from more holes in the walls as they hurried past.

But then the two thugs appeared behind them. They separated to block their exit then they closed in on them from both sides. Mark concentrated on the shorter of the two, the one with the pickaxe handle, waiting until he came closer. Taking a couple of running steps forward, Mark kicked him hard on one knee. The thug dropped back, limping and cursing. Mark was on the point of turning when he felt a heavy blow to his temple from the lead pipe in the blond's fist. As Mark toppled sideways, the blond's elbow came back at his face and hammered against his teeth. Half conscious, he couldn't stop his shoulder and head hitting the wall next to him.

Still limping, the shorter of the thugs grabbed Penny by the hair and she screamed. From a pocket he took out a half bottle of vodka and, still holding onto Penny, took a swig then tossed the bottle to his partner, who was grinning at Nan, wiping a furred tongue over his cracked lips.

There was a blur of movement and the feral girl was standing over Mark in a protective crouch. The thug was down, blood spurting from a hole in his thigh immediately above the knee. It took a moment for Mark's brain to catch
up: Penny had taken the shorter one out and was now crouching just in front of Mark like a wild animal, making cat-like snarling sounds and facing off the blond with something long and metallic clutched in each hand. As Nan helped Mark struggle back onto his feet, the blond moved in to attack Penny, swinging at her head with the lump of lead.

But every time he swung the weapon, she ducked and swerved out of the way, as sinuous as a ballet dancer.

Mark must have blinked, because he missed her strike with the long narrow blades; she was already back in that defensive crouch as the taller of the two thugs fell onto his knees, blood pumping from the side of his throat. Mark saw that the blades in Penny's hands were as slender as needles – sharpened meat skewers, perhaps. The narrow blades, now beaded with blood, moved about Penny's fingers as if they were extensions of her arms.

‘Come – quickly!' she said, running ahead.

They emerged into a small street of three-storey brick buildings. The girl was pointing to twin oak doors in a gable end of a church. The sign next to the doors read CHURCH OF THE ENGLISH MARTYRS. For ‘Enquiries' they were directed away from the main entrance. Mark began to search around, but Penny shook her head and headed down a narrow cobbled mews, one wall of which connected with the church. Mark attempted to read what she was thinking, mind-to-mind.

‘No!'

She really had sensed his attempt at mental contact. And she clearly hated it. She hated it just as she hated contact skin-to-skin.

‘It's okay. I understand – I won't do it again.'

Nan was already hammering on the door.

Mark took his cue from Nan and he pushed in the letter box and shouted through it. ‘Father Touhey! Father Noel Touhey! Bridey sent us here to find you.'