Melissa watched Malachi walk to the bathroom door. Outside, where fire and ice drifted to the balcony floor, sirens from all over the city filled the night. The people of Glasgow gave disharmonious accompaniment, and she could hear yelling, hysterical wailing, and drunken laughter. Some were on the street with loudspeakers, declaiming The End Of All Things. Where they had found their equipment, she couldn't imagine. Perhaps they kept a stockpile of leaflets and broadcasting devices handy, just in case the apocalypse happened at an unexpected moment. It was their lucky day.
Melissa's left wrist hurt where Malachi had tightened the handcuff fastening her to a bedpost. She didn't know why he had done this, but she was frightened.
At the door, Malachi stopped and turned, a dark, magnificent stain on her life. She had never seen eyes so devoid of life on a living person, and when he stared at her, she wanted to scream
When he didn't stare at her, it was somehow worse.
“Tell me who you are,” he said.
Melissa shook her head. “Please...” Her lips were dry and clumsy.
“You're wasting breath. Tell me who you are.”
“I can't.”
Malachi stared a second longer, then nodded. Melissa flared with hope.
Malachi plucked the crucifix from the handle of the bathroom door. Melissa sat upright, her eyes widening. What was he doing? There was no holy water left. He had nothing to fight the shadow thing. If it came for them, he was as vulnerable as she. He was bluffing.
Malachi walked softly towards her, sitting on the mattress beside her. Melissa couldn't take her eyes off the bathroom door. She remembered the thing in the ruined house coming for her, the bursting struggle for air.
Leaning close, Malachi whispered in her ear. Even seated, he towered over her. “You said they're stupid. How long before it realises it's free?”
Melissa couldn't find the words to answer. There was a sudden pressure on her bladder as the fear reached that part of her, and she had to clench to stop from urinating into her clothes.
“I haven't felt what it's like to be attacked by one. Could be, it's bearable. Could be, you don't have to tell me anything.”
“You'll die too.” He knows that. Telling him that doesn't change anything.
She heard something inside the bathroom, a shower curtain perhaps, shifting against something else.
“I don't think that's true. I think they're after you, not me. The one in the house could have attacked me there. I was exposed, off guard. It went for you.”
Melissa struggled to think, then jumped as a bottle fell off a bathroom shelf, and rattled across a tiled floor.
“I'm not the one cuffed to a bed. I think that I can be away while it finishes you. I'm sure of it. And then I'll never see them, or you, again.”
Melissa's eyes brimmed with tears as she looked up at him. “You wouldn't. You're a better man than that.”
Fleeting sadness skipped over his face. “Not any more.”
Something bumped gently against the bathroom door.
Melissa looked into Malachi's soul, and believed him. Far from filling her with fear, it gave her hope. That sadness, however fleeting, gave her a future. She could take it, fan it, and give him his humanity back.
If she survived.
There was another, harder bump against the door, and the words were out of her mouth before she had time to reconsider. “I'll tell you!”
She was too loud, and the door banged again, a loud crack splitting the thin plywood. Malachi was already halfway across the room as the door was attacked a third time. Melissa felt the thump vibrate through the bed, the handcuffs, into her arm. There was a smell on the air, of sulphur, and she knew this thing had more substance than the last, would have more power than Malachi expected. How close were they to the end, that the things could so quickly move from mere shadows to semi-solid monsters.
A final pummelling, and the door popped open. There was a bullet-time moment when everything slowed to a crystal clear crawl. There was a hint of darkness and scales in the space behind the door, before Malachi hurled his weight against it. Everything sped up, as the wood smashed back into the beast, catching it by surprise. For a second the door hung in limbo, Malachi pouring on pressure as the creature tried to rally, and then the door slammed shut.
He slipped the chain with the crucifix back over the handle and slumped against the door.
Melissa blinked, wondering how her bladder had held through the whole thing, though in truth there had scarcely been time for fear to strike hard enough to loosen it. When she opened her eyes, Malachi was standing straight, his hand still on the door handle. There was no more thumping. Perhaps the creature inside sensed that it had been denied access.
“I mean it,” Malachi told her. “Tell me, or I'll release it and leave. I don't have time for this.”
Melissa took a deep breath, let the tears roll down her cheeks, and began to talk about dreaming.
By the time Calum reached the third floor, a dense fog of pain and exhaustion filled his head. Concentrating on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other was difficult, and if the door to Minna's flat were not slightly ajar, he might have stumbled straight past it. Instead, he caught himself, slumping against the grimy doorframe while he tried to gather his wits.
I must not pray, he told himself, to quell what he knew to be a force of habit urge. I must not pray. I must not pray.
He couldn't linger either, even though his lungs felt full of fire.
“What am I doing here,” he wondered aloud, trying to make sense of the adrenaline surge that had convinced him that only he could save the little girl. Why the hell hadn't he called the police?
No time for that. He was there now, and all evidence pointed to the man who had killed his own wife, Clive Huntley, having beaten him to it. A television muttered inside the flat, but all else was still.
Calum nudged the door, letting it swing on to the narrow, brightly lit hallway within, and gulped down a groan when he saw what was waiting for him.
There were pictures on the wall, blown up photos of family holidays, a man, a woman, and a child. Calum didn't really see them. There was a door on the left, leading into a small, dark kitchen. He scarcely noticed it. A full-length mirror hung on the wall at the end of the hallway, where it branched left and right, and if Calum could tear his attention away from what was below that mirror he would see himself as a shattered, pale man with dark circles hugging his eyes, bruises and cuts etching his face, and burns on his hands.
Beneath the mirror, sitting upright, was a man with a corkscrew embedded in the centre of his forehead. Blood had gushed, and blacker, thicker matter had dribbled from the wound too, rimming it with jelly. Calum wondered at the force it took to punch a corkscrew into a man's brain.
Blood had filled the man's left eye, but the right was untouched. That right eye was staring at Calum. It winked.
The man was alive.
Calum stepped forward, mesmerised, knowing there was nothing he could do. If medical help was even worth calling for, it would never reach them through the crowds. The man's eye released a tear, and his mouth flopped open. Calum saw the tension in the tendons of the neck and throat as the poor bastard struggled to speak.
“Dak,” said the injured man, very quietly. “Dak. Dak. Dak.” There was a pause, and the tear ran down his cheek. “Dak?”
Calum's heart broke, even as he shuffled closer. Was this man aware of what had happened to him? Despite knowing that Clive had to be in the flat somewhere, Calum replied anyway. “It's all right,” he whispered. “I don't understand what you're trying to say, but I promise you, I'm going to make it all right.”
“Dak.” Now, both of the man's cheeks glistened moisture. On one side, blood shone. On the other, saltwater glistened in the light from the bulb above them. “Dak. Dak?” A shoulder twitched as the man tried to move, and Calum reached out to calm him, to stop him hurting himself further.
As he leaned do
wn, the man found strength, pushing himself up with an ear-splitting wail and forcing himself forward. Calum was off-guard, and though he recoiled, it wasn't enough. The man's strength took him two fast steps in Calum's direction before gravity reclaimed him, and he fell forward.
Calum grunted as the man's dead weight against his chest and left shoulder drove him backwards to the ground. Hitting the threadbare nylon carpet knocked the wind from him, and he saw brief stars as his head bounced off the floor. That wasn't what he would later remember of that moment.
What he would remember, for the rest of his life, was the intimate touch of the man's tear-slick cheek next to his as their ungainly embrace carried them backwards, of the piercing green eye beneath the tears, and of the thump that whacked the man's head forward over Calum's shoulder, so that the corkscrew pounded against the carpet and was driven solidly into his skull like a well placed nail.
Calum felt the body of the nameless man change at the moment of death, felt the additional weight sink through the corpse as though life itself had buoyed the flesh.
Then he heard a familiar voice, splashing madness with every syllable. “It's all right. It’s okay for me to do that. I'm on a mission from God, like I told you.”
Over the shoulder of the corpse of the man who was Minna's father, Calum saw Clive's bloody, grinning face leering down at him. Holding Clive's hand was a small, terrified child, who was staring at the body of her daddy and waiting for the world to make sense again.
Minna Gilroy.
The Incident Room was dark, save for the monitors perched on the desks. Gemmell stood at the window, watching the impossible fire fall from the sky, finding himself mirrored by a cluster of workers in the offices opposite who were also unable to tear themselves away from the spectacle. Cold sweat pooled at the base of his spine. All his life, he had worked to ensure that rules were followed and enforced. There was something deeply perverse about Nature itself giving him the finger. If Nature wouldn't follow its own laws, what hope did he have? He wished he could read Nature its rights.
Behind him, he knew that McLiesh and Simpson were staring too, and he wondered what thoughts were spiralling around behind their vacant, awe-struck eyes. Both had young families, small children curled up at home, terrified wives waiting for their husbands. Their shifts had finished an hour ago. Gemmell wasn't convinced that their sense of duty was responsible for keeping them at their posts. More likely, they were too afraid to ask him if they could leave, and were waiting for him to dismiss them.
Gemmell sighed. If they asked, he'd let them go, but they were going to be waiting a long time for him to suggest it. At home, they would be clutching their loved ones, hidden away, of no use to anybody but their nearest and dearest. Here, they might make a small difference.
One of their mobile telephones started to ring, and Gemmell gritted his teeth. He recognised the ring tone, one of the early Crazy Frog downloads, and among the most maddening collections of sounds ever sewn digitally together. Watching what appeared to be a genuine miracle fall over his city should be a sombre, portentous moment, but it was difficult to maintain the mood with accompaniment by Crazy Frog. Howard Shore might work. Hans Zimmer, another definite contender. Crazy Frog? Not on the short list.
He turned around. McLiesh and Simpson looked at him stupidly. “I can only imagine that the purpose of that bloody noise is to encourage the owner to answer as quickly as possible, before it drives everybody insane.” The two officers stared at him, and then Simpson flinched, snatching up the mobile phone on his desk.
Gemmell let him answer it, beckoning Detective Constable McLiesh across the room. McLiesh gave Simpson a glare, and then weaved between the abandoned desks towards Gemmell.
“I need a situation update, detective. What's happening out there?”
“Well boss,” Gemmell's lips pursed, and McLiesh changed track. “Er, sir. We've calmed down the area near the station.”
“I can see that, detective.”
“Yes sir. We have a six man cordon at each end of the street, uniform mostly. We're dealing with queries there, but sending most people away. They don't really know what they're here to ask us to do.”
Gemmell nodded. They wanted somebody to make everything normal again, to make the taps pour clear water, and force the sky to stop burning. They wanted everything to make sense.
“Apart from that, the cells are full. Looters mostly, and people who've had a bit much to drink and are punchier than usual. It's the same at the divisions across the city. There's no detention space left. We're keeping them full, until a more serious offender comes in. Then we let one out, and put the new one in.”
“What about fires?”
“Not as many as you'd think sir, but still more than the Fire Service can handle, especially with the streets so crowded. Our boys and uniform are trying to get people to go home. There are mobs all along the rivers. Only a matter of time before something serious kicks off, and we have proper riots on our hands.”
Gemmell rubbed his eyes. Only a matter of time, and not a damn thing he could do about it. It was like sitting on top of a bomb, watching the seconds tick past, and not knowing whether it was set to blow now or in three hours time. From the corner of his eye, he saw Summer enter with a tray of coffee, the smell perking him up almost immediately. “Fine. Thank you detective. Go and have your coffee.” McLiesh nodded gratefully, taking his and Simpson's mugs from the tray and joining his partner at the desk.
Summer brought his own coffee to him at the window. “Beautiful, isn't it sir,” she said, and as soon as she voiced it, he realised that it was.
“Bloody disruptive, I was thinking,” he said. “How's the search going?”
“Not good sir. There's nothing on the national computer or the intel databases that references Pandora Numen. Nothing at all. Same with the Electoral Roll, immigration databases, the credit reference agencies, and so on. I don't know who she is, or where she's been.”
“What about Ambrose?”
“A similar story, almost.”
“Define almost, Summer. Either you found him or you didn't.”
“The only database he's come up in is our own. He's got a clean record, never been fingerprinted or under suspicion, but he has been mentioned as a witness several times over the years.”
“Witness to what?”
“Accidents, a handful of murders, disappearances, several unusual incidents of insanity.”
“How many years?”
Summer swallowed. “That's where it gets strange sir. Locally, he's been cropping up for at least thirty years.”
Gemmell frowned. Descriptions of Ambrose gave his age as between his mid-twenties and mid-thirties. “Perhaps he's aged well.”
Summer shook her head, the fires outside highlighting her cheeks in flickering orange. “No sir. Or if he has, then I want to know what skin cream he uses.”
“Summer, you're not talking sense.”
“Sir, he’s been in Glasgow for thirty years, but as far back as records go, you find occasional accounts across the country, of a witness or bystander called Ambrose. Sometimes it's a first name, sometimes a last name, but where physical descriptions are available, they always match.
“Sir, either this man is older than it's possible to be, or the name has been passed down. And wherever the owner turns up, bad things happen.”
Gemmell stared at her, then out of the window, wondering when the miracles were going to start working in his favour.
“Get your coat, Summer.”
“Where are we going sir?”
“Numen and Eidolon. Religious names. Outside, there's a small apocalypse happening. I think it's time we went to church.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pinned beneath the corpse, Calum shifted his weight, trying to find leverage to roll the body off him. Desperation gave him the will to try, but he knew his efforts were going to be in vain. Even if he could get to his feet, Clive would beat him. The man knew no limits, the
way he stood holding the girl's hand while her father's body cooled in front of her demonstrated that. Calum couldn't say the same of himself.
Earlier, he had wondered if he had killed this man, and felt no shame that the answer might be yes. Yet even then, he had not intended to strike a killing blow, was simply prepared to accept matters as they were. To premeditate on murder or mutilation was not within his powers, even now.
From the end of the hall there was a thump, and a startled, pained cry as Clive hurled the girl into a bedroom and shut the door. “Don't hurt her,” Calum yelled, and then flinched as the corpse weighting him down was lifted away, and thrown contemptuously into the dark kitchen. The crashing of cutlery against tiles marked its fall.
Clive towered over him, face and neck drenched in sticky, drying blood from the wound on the back of his head, looking far more the demon than Ambrose ever had. Before Calum could react to his sudden freedom, Clive grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, and hauled him up. Calum's eyes went wide as he was swung against the wall hard enough to add new pains to the collection stored in his chest, and went wider still when he realised his feet weren't touching the ground.
Clive's strength was borne of insanity, not the otherworldly power that Ambrose and his kind displayed. Calum had felt the strain in Clive's muscles as he was lifted, could see his shoulders shaking as he held him against the wall. Somehow, these physical signs of weakness made Clive more terrifying. The limits of his flesh were no longer a barrier to him. How was Calum supposed to fight this madman?
He tried anyway. With his arms free, he swung his left fist against Clive's head, boxing his ear once, twice, again. Clive staggered, gritted his teeth, and thrust his face towards Calum's. The scent of his breath, blood, and sweat made the priest gag.
“Traitor,” Clive spat. “You want him for yourself. You want to hide him away. Tell me where he is!”
Calum shook his head, his energy gone. “I can't,” he said. “I promised him I wouldn't. I keep my promises.” To his surprise, he saw tears of frustrated grief fill Clive's eyes.