‘I hung this up when I finished it,’ he mumbles as he searches, ‘but it gave me the shivers, so I took it down again. Those eyes followed me every time I passed, and not in a good way.’
He produces a medium-sized canvas and carries it to one of the rooms with no windows, the only places in the building where he dares turn on lights at night. He sets the painting down and stands back to study it, then slides aside to make space for me.
I don’t recognise any of the buildings, just plain office blocks that could be anywhere in London. But there’s no mistaking the horrific clown at the centre of the painting, Mr Dowling in all his dreadful finery. I’m familiar with the mutants surrounding him too, in their standard hoodies, with their rotting skin and yellow eyes.
And there’s Owl Man, tall and thin, except for a ridiculously round pot belly. He has white hair and pale skin, but doesn’t appear to be deformed in any other way. Except for his eyes, the largest I’ve ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. They’re almost totally white, but with an incredibly dark, tiny pupil at the heart of each.
‘If I hadn’t seen him in the flesh, I wouldn’t have believed his eyes could have been that big,’ I whisper.
‘I know,’ Timothy says. ‘I almost made them smaller, to make them appear more in keeping with the size of his face, but I try not to distort reality when I paint.’
‘What were they doing?’ I ask.
‘Just talking. At least the man with the eyes was talking. The clown didn’t seem to say much.’
‘He can’t speak. He communicates with his mutants by making squeaking noises which they can interpret.’
Timothy stares at me. ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’
‘Our paths have crossed a few times.’
I study Mr Dowling and Owl Man. The clown is the more frightening of the two, but Owl Man’s eyes are unsettling — as Timothy said, they seem to follow me when I move. I wouldn’t want to run into either of those eerie men on a dark night. Or a sunny day, come to that.
‘Where did you see them?’ I ask, turning away from the painting and trying to put it from my thoughts.
‘Somewhere in the City,’ Timothy says. ‘I was wandering as normal, saw them in the distance and decided after one look that they weren’t the sort of people I’d like to get better acquainted with. I managed to sneak close enough to sketch them. They didn’t hang around for very long. As soon as they left, I hurried back here and worked up the painting. I didn’t want to forget any of the finer details.’
‘When was this?’
He has to think. ‘Not long after you left. Maybe a week or so after.’
‘Have you seen them since?’
He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t been looking either. There are some things which even I shy away from. I’m determined to capture this city in all its nightmarish glory, but I’ve a feeling I wouldn’t last long if that clown and his crew were aware of me. I doubt they’d be as easy to shake off as the zombies if they gave chase.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ I sigh. ‘They let me go for some reason, but if they’d wanted to stop me, I don’t think I could have done a hell of a lot about it.’
‘Do you know anything else about them?’ Timothy asks. ‘Where they came from, what they are, what they might be planning?’
‘No.’ I chuckle sickly. ‘But I know a man who does. At least he thinks he does. You’re not the only guy working for God in London. And if this other prophet is to be believed, that clown is your direct opposite. If you were sent by God to paint the city as you find it, that nasty bugger was sent by the Devil to paint it black.’
Timothy gawps at me, lost for words. I laugh at his expression and shake my head. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you all about it while you finish your food. Those creeps aren’t worth missing a meal over.’
FIFTEEN
I tell Timothy about my weird encounters with Mr Dowling and his merry mutants, how we first met in the underground complex, and how he later spared my life in Trafalgar Square.
‘I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. Although, having said that, I haven’t seen him harm any zombies. Maybe he only kills living people.’
‘That’s a great comfort to me,’ Timothy sniffs.
‘Don’t worry,’ I grin. ‘You must have the luck of the Devil to have survived this long and, according to Dr Oystein, Mr Dowling is the Devil’s spawn, so you’re both in the same boat. He’d probably look upon you as a long-lost cousin.’
‘Why do you keep talking about the Devil?’ Timothy frowns. ‘And who is this doctor you’ve referred to?’
‘I’m coming to it,’ I tut. ‘What’s the rush? We’ve got all night.’
‘You might have,’ Timothy says, ‘but I have to sleep, or had you forgotten?’
‘Do you know,’ I say softly, ‘I had. It’s been so long since I’ve slept that I’ve forgotten that it wasn’t always this way, that there are people out there who don’t have to sit up all night counting the circles on their fingers.’
‘Those are called whorls,’ Timothy informs me.
‘Whorl my arse,’ I snort, then tell Timothy what happened after the battle between the soldiers and Mr Dowling, finding the Angels in County Hall, training with them, Dr Oystein’s revelation about God’s plans for him.
Timothy’s last piece of bread remains uneaten, the beans soaking into it until it’s a soggy mess. He’s too engrossed in my story to focus on food. He hardly even sips his wine.
‘Incredible,’ he murmurs when I finish. ‘What a load to take upon oneself. To bear responsibility for the future of the world … He has my admiration whether his story is true or not.’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ I snap. ‘He’s a nutter like Sister Clare and …’
I pause pointedly, waiting for Timothy to say wryly, ‘… and me?’ But he only stares at me blankly. He’s so sure of his calling that he finds it impossible to think that anyone might question him.
‘Anyway,’ I chuckle, not wanting to burst poor Timothy’s bubble, ‘I tried to overlook his God complex and fit in with the others, but in the end I couldn’t stomach it, so I left.’
Timothy nods slowly, then stares into his glass of wine, swirling the liquid around. He purses his lips, looks at the bread and beans, then picks up the plate and takes it to the sink to clean.
‘Do you think Dr Oystein is a liar or a madman?’ Timothy asks while washing the plate in a bucket of cold water.
‘Mad,’ I reply instantly. ‘He believes everything he says.’
‘You don’t think he is trying to con you?’
‘No.’
Timothy stands the plate on a rack to dry, then turns and looks at me seriously.
‘In that case, maybe he’s right. Maybe he is a servant of God.’
‘Nah.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Timothy challenges me.
‘Because …’ I scowl. ‘Look, I don’t want to piss you off, but it’s rubbish, isn’t it? God, the Devil, Heaven and Hell, reincarnation. I mean, I dunno, maybe there’s some truth to some of it, but nobody can be sure. There have been so many different religions over the years, so many truths. How can one be right and all the others wrong?’
‘I don’t think it’s about being absolutely right,’ Timothy says. ‘The main message of most religions is the same — be kind to other people, lead an honourable life, don’t cause trouble. I’ve always seen God as a massive diamond with thousands – maybe millions – of faces. We get a different view of the diamond, depending on which angle we look at it from. But there must be something there, otherwise what are we all looking at?’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I huff. ‘I’m no expert, far from it. But there’s more to why I left than the religious angle. It’s the whole …’ I grimace, not sure how to put my thoughts into words.
‘Look,’ I try, ‘I’ve never seen ghosts, vampires or anything like that. This isn’t a supernatural world. I believe in evolutio
n. I’m sure there’s life spread around the universe, more aliens out there than we can imagine. But I bet they’re the same as us in that they just roll along wherever the universe pushes them, bound by the laws of nature as we are.’
‘My mother swore that she often saw the ghosts of her parents,’ Timothy murmurs. ‘They died when she was a girl, yet she never missed them because she saw so much of them as she grew up.’
‘Did she see fairies too?’ I sneer.
‘No,’ Timothy says calmly. ‘She was a mathematician. She had a doctorate from Cambridge. One of the sharpest minds in her field according to those who knew about such things. She wasn’t especially religious. But she saw ghosts and accepted them as real. She even developed a mathematical equation to explain their relationship to the material world, though obviously I couldn’t make head or tail of that.’
‘All right,’ I nod. ‘Sorry for poking fun at her. But that kind of proves my point. You say she came up with a formula to describe how ghosts work. I can accept that. There are all sorts of weird things in the world, but they can be explained with maths and science. There’s nothing miraculous about them.’
‘I disagree,’ Timothy says. ‘This is a world of miracles, of things which defy explanation, maybe even understanding. You’re proof of that, a reanimated corpse, a girl whose soul has been restored. You might not believe in ghosts or vampires, but surely you believe in zombies?’
‘Very clever,’ I growl as he smirks at me. ‘But there’s nothing God-inspired about us. We’re the result of an experiment gone wrong. I wasn’t created by God, just as Dr Oystein wasn’t given heavenly orders to save the world from the Devil’s henchman. This mess is our own fault, and if we’re gonna fix it and put the world back together, we have to do it ourselves.’
Timothy thinks about that. He finishes his wine and pours another glass. Takes a long, pleasing sip.
‘What if you’re wrong?’ he asks quietly.
‘I’m not.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he presses. ‘Using your own logic, no one can truly know the workings of the universe, or how much of a role God might play in our day-to-day lives. What if the creator did choose Dr Oystein? There’s no way of proving it, it’s purely a matter of faith. But surely we all have to put our faith in someone. If you choose not to believe this particular prophet, fine, maybe you’re right to doubt him. But why are you so set against even the possibility that he might be telling the truth?’
‘Because it would stink if it was true!’ I shout, then swiftly lower my voice, not wanting to alert any zombies which might be passing by outside.
‘According to Dr Oystein, God knew this was going to happen. He had decades of warning, and what did He do in all that time? Nothing, except give one guy the power to try and light the flames of a revival once the world had gone to hell. What sort of a God could do something like that to us?’
‘A God who isn’t the same as we are,’ Timothy says. ‘A God who has more to worry about than just our fate. A God who maybe has an eye on billions of worlds, who can’t afford to spend His entire time trying to steer one particular species in the right direction. We can’t understand the mind of God and, from what you say, Dr Oystein doesn’t claim to. He’s simply doing what was asked of him. I can buy into that, a God who doesn’t govern directly, but who tries to lend a helping hand. In a way I’d prefer that to a God who ruled by divine decree.’
‘The only person who lent Dr Oystein a helping hand is himself,’ I jeer. ‘The voice in his head is his own. It has to be.’
‘It doesn’t,’ Timothy insists. ‘This is a world of marvels and wonders. A world of miracles, if you wish to put it that way. In such a world, why can’t God speak to Dr Oystein or anyone else?’
‘Because it’s not a world of marvels,’ I snarl. ‘It’s a world of science, maths and nature.’
‘And miracles,’ Timothy says stubbornly. ‘There are things which science can’t explain, wonders which confirm there is more to this universe than we know.’
He downs the remains of his wine and sighs with contentment. Then he stands, a sparkle to his eyes.
‘It’s time I let you see my other visitor,’ he says. ‘Perhaps then you will be more inclined to accept the reality of the miraculous.’
‘If it’s not Elvis Presley or Michael Jackson, I’ll be very disappointed,’ I joke.
‘It’s neither of those fine men,’ he says. ‘But you’ll be impressed regardless, I guarantee it.’
Then he leads me from the room and up the stairs of the echoing old brewery in search of wonder.
SIXTEEN
Timothy guides me to a small room just off the massive area where most of his paintings are stacked. I recall spotting this door the last time we came through. I thought it was a storage room or something like that. And maybe it was once. But not any longer. Now it’s been turned into a bizarre nursery.
There’s a cot in the middle of the room. Several mobiles hang from the ceiling. Lots of dolls and cuddly toys are stacked neatly in the corners. There’s a large, inflatable dinosaur. Soft balls. A couple of activity gyms. A mix of blue and pink curtains draped around the walls.
‘It’s overkill, I know,’ Timothy says with a sheepish chuckle. ‘I just couldn’t help myself. I had to have anything that I thought my guest might enjoy. It’s not like there are limits any more. The shops are full of toys that will never be used. Why not spoil the poor creature? Although, having said that, I don’t know if the little dear notices any of this.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I start towards the cot, then stop dead. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a zombie baby. It is, isn’t it? You’ve adopted a bloody undead baby!’
‘B …’ he starts to defend himself.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ I shout. ‘I don’t care how cute it might look — if it’s a zombie, it’s deadly. One scratch or nip and you’re history. I can’t believe you’d risk everything just so you can play daddy.’
‘It’s not a zombie,’ Timothy says without losing his temper.
I stare at the cot suspiciously. ‘Are you telling me it’s a real baby?’
‘I wouldn’t describe it that way either.’
‘You’re not making sense,’ I scowl.
‘That’s why you have to go and look,’ he smiles.
I don’t want to. Something about this feels wrong. I want to back out and get far away from here and whatever’s in the cot. But fascination propels me.
I edge forward cautiously, ready to turn and run if I sense a threat. Then I come within sight of the baby and I freeze. My right eye widens and even my injured left eyelid lifts a bit. I feel the walls of reality crumbling around me, the world tilting on its axis, the fingers of a nightmare reaching out to grab me.
The baby is dressed in a long, white christening gown. Its tiny hands are crossed on its chest. Its nails are sharper and more jagged than a normal baby’s, but no bones jut out of the fingertips. Its feet are hidden by the folds of the gown.
Its face is a stiff mask, like a cross between a human’s and a doll’s, but there’s nothing human about its mouth and eyes. The small mouth is open, full of tiny, sharp teeth. Its eyes are pure white balls, no pupils. Its eyelids don’t flicker, though its lips twitch regularly and an occasional tremor runs through its cheeks.
A metal spike has been stuck through the baby’s head. The spike enters the skull above the left eyebrow and the tip pokes out just behind the baby’s left ear.
‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’ Timothy whispers.
‘It’s not real,’ I croak.
‘I thought that too at first,’ he says. ‘I was sure it was a doll or a zombie. But it has a heartbeat. And if you watch closely, you’ll see its chest rise and fall — it’s breathing, just very slowly.’
‘It can’t be real,’ I whisper. Then I add numbly, in answer to his question, ‘Yes. I’ve seen babies like that before.’
‘Where?’ Timothy frowns. br />
‘In my dreams.’
I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was alive. I’d be on a plane and it would fill with babies that looked just like this one. In the dream they’d call me their mummy and clamber over me, ask me to join them, tear at me, bite, rip me apart, tell me I was one of them now.
That dream terrified me all of my life. I thought I’d finally escaped it when I stopped sleeping. But now it’s somehow followed me out of the realm of the unreal and into the wide-awake world.
‘You can’t have dreamt of anything like this grisly beauty,’ Timothy says, dismissing my claim with a wave of his hand. ‘I took off its clothes when I brought it back. I wanted to see if it had been infected — I assumed it had to be a zombie, even with its heartbeat.
‘It’s not. No marks anywhere. No bites, scratches, nothing. Except for the spike through its head of course. I thought there might be undead germs on the metal, that the reason the child showed signs of life was because the zombie virus had first attacked its brain and then been inhibited by the position of the spike. And maybe there’s something to that theory. But it doesn’t explain …’
Timothy takes hold of the hem of the baby’s gown and lifts it, exposing the child’s feet, legs and more.
‘Bloody hell!’ I shout.
‘… this,’ Timothy exhales softly.
The baby doesn’t have any genitals. There’s nothing but smooth flesh between its thighs.
‘It doesn’t have an anus either,’ Timothy says, and for some reason that makes me laugh hysterically. Timothy blinks with surprise and adds, ‘I can turn it over if you want to check.’
I stop laughing abruptly. Then I moan, ‘Do me a favour and lower the gown. I’ve seen enough.’
Timothy lays the gown back in place and smooths down the hem.
‘What is it?’ I hiss.