Graveyard Shift (8 page)

She stopped a little way short of the accident, and I climbed out first before helping Mr. October down.

“Shall I wait?” Lu asked.

“No, we can take it from here,” he said.

With a curt little nod, she maneuvered the empty vehicle back and around and returned up the street the way we'd come.

Mr. October guided me into the crowd of onlookers. The woman was still ranting, still pacing up and down. She wore a dark green dress, torn at the elbows and shoulders, and one of her shoes was missing. Her face and hands were darkly smudged, and blood trickled down her nose from a cut on her forehead.

“Won't any of you speak up?” she said. “It's obvious what happened. He was speeding the wrong way up a one-way street. There was no way I could avoid him.”

No one reacted. No one replied. Police and paramedics pushed through the crowd, ignoring the woman's protests and heading straight for the wreck. Stretchers were laid out on the ground, a mangled door was pried open, and the body of a young man was lifted clear by the team.

The man was in bad shape. Blood coated his face and clothes. He moaned and covered his eyes as they lowered him onto a stretcher.

“See him?” the redhead asked no one in particular. “He's at fault. He's probably drunk — you should Breathalyze him before anything else.” She stormed to the front of the crowd. “What's wrong with you people? If all you're going to do is gape, why not take a photograph too?”

Some police officers were trying to disperse the crowd. Others were setting up road blocks and diverting traffic. The woman had planted herself in front of us, and her voice was becoming so shrill, I had an urge to cover my ears.

“What about me?” she went on. “I'm the victim here. I'm the victim, but they don't care. I'll get the blame for this too, just you wait. All my life I've been on the wrong end, never had a lucky break. Look, if I'd swerved to get out of his way, I would've taken half of you with me. What then?”

“Marilyn.”

Mr. October's voice was practically a whisper, but it was enough to shut the woman up.

“Marilyn, no one's accusing you of anything.”

He stepped from the crowd, one hand supporting himself on the stick, the other extended toward her. As he approached, the anger drained from her face, and her eyes filled with confusion and fear.

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

“Come here and I'll explain.”

Very slowly she lifted her hand to his. Their fingers were
not quite touching when a tiny bolt of white lightning sparked around and between them. Mr. October craned toward her, whispering something that made her stare at him in shock. She wobbled on her legs, and he took a firm hold of her hand, turning her to face the crash.

The injured man on the stretcher was being hurried away. A twirling ambulance light turned everything blue, then black, then blue. Some of the crowd were drifting away toward Oxford Street or deeper into Soho, so not all of them saw what I saw then — a second body being pulled from the wreckage.

It was the body of the woman with Mr. October — same hair and clothing, identical marks around her hands and face. But unlike the woman with Mr. October, she wasn't moving. Her eyes stared blankly up and she lay very still as they eased her onto a second stretcher and covered her face with a sheet.

“Move along, please,” one of the police officers said. “It's over. Nothing else to see.”

He never looked at Mr. October or Marilyn Jasper, never gave them the slightest notice, and without really thinking about it, I understood why.

“That can't be me,” Marilyn said. “I can think. I can feel. I remember what happened.”

“Separation is never easy,” he said. “And it's never easy to let it all go.”

I thought she might burst into tears; I hoped she wouldn't. Her eyes were brimming, but she didn't break down. Instead
she nodded to show him she accepted what he'd told her. Still gripping her hand, he led her away from the scene.

As they passed me on the corner, Mr. October leaned toward me and said, “Tomorrow you'll see all the rest. Get a good night's sleep, Ben; you'll need it. I'll be in touch.”

I didn't answer. I wasn't supposed to. I watched them walk up Wardour Street into the darkness past the traffic. Above them, a shooting star crossed the sky.

Then I realized the star was much lower than that. It soared above the street but below the rooftops. For a second or two its brightness was incredible, flaring every which way, leaving trails of light as fine as a spider's thread. Then it dimmed and faded, becoming just another light over the street, and I knew Marilyn was on her way.

D
espite all I'd seen, I slept well that night. I might not have if I'd seen the note Mum had left for me in the kitchen.

It wasn't so much what the note said, but the way she'd written it.

Hi love
, it began.
Sorry missed you tonight, very tired. If you're up early we'll need milk and bread from the corner shop. Money in sugar bowl. X

I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes when I found the note, so at first I didn't see what was wrong with it. Pocketing the money and pouring a glass of juice, I read it again.

Mum's handwriting was all wrong. It wasn't her usual careful, looped style. It looked like something she might've scrawled in the pitch dark while drunk.

She wasn't much of a drinker, though. She never even had booze in the house.

I bought the milk and bread, came home to put the kettle on, then carried a coffee upstairs for Mum. But when I heard her snoring lightly behind her door, I decided not to disturb her.

Work was wearing her into the ground. She was exhausted, that was all. She must have scribbled the note last night while half asleep. I made a bacon sandwich and ate it at the breakfast bar, and tried not to give it another thought. But something about it still gnawed at me.

Through the window, I could see the shell of the building across the street, which the council had demolished and were now rebuilding. The side wall facing our maisonette was covered with graffiti, spray-painted signatures and paintings of police in riot gear waving truncheons at thieves with balaclavas covering their heads. A stenciled black cat climbed the right side of the wall in pursuit of a stenciled rat. And running top to bottom down the left was a message in bold, black letters I had to twist sideways to read:

 

Regent's Canal Angel Exit

See You There 11 a.m.

 

I knew right away this was Mr. October's way of getting in touch. I also knew — I couldn't explain how — that because the message had been put there for me, no one else would see it.

By the time I was dressed and ready, Mum still hadn't
made an appearance. I crept to her room to let her know I was leaving.

“I'm off to meet a friend,” I whispered.

“Nnn,” she replied, not opening her eyes. She was murmuring something else that sounded like “good day” as I closed her door and went downstairs to let myself out.

 

Broadway Market was the usual Saturday crush. On either side of the green market stalls, the sidewalks were clogged with strollers, bicycles, and coffee shop patrons. I stopped at one stall, which had collectible Marvel comics laid out in clear plastic bags, and skimmed through Tales of Suspense #51.

The comic was in good condition, but I'd never be able to afford it. I was slipping it back in its protective bag when someone grabbed me from behind and turned me all the way around.

A girl with ragged short hair thumped me lightly in the chest with the heel of her hand and glared at me with eyes as keen as a cat's.

“You,” she said. “I knew it was you.”

“Get away from me. What's that for? What do you want?”

“You know very well,” she hissed.

She looked more reptilian than human. There was a coldness and anger about her that made me uncomfortable, and it took a moment before I could place where I'd seen her before. I hadn't recognized her without the sunglasses.

“Yes,” she said. “So now you remember. You and him down by the canal. Did you think you could get away with that?”

“We didn't do anything. It was an accident. Could've happened to anyone. You hit a pebble or something.”

“Now, you know it wasn't like that.”

“Yes, it was.”

She bared a set of uneven yellowing teeth. “Stop fighting me, boy. I'll mess you up.” She seized my arm, digging her fingernails in. “I'll mess up your friend even worse.”

“I'll get help. I know what you are.”

“Oh yeah? And what's that?”

“A thief. I'll get you arrested.”

“See how far you get. I'll make mincemeat of you before you can say
boo
.”

I looked around the street, hoping someone would see, but no one did, or else no one cared. The crowds streamed around us as if we weren't even there. A procession of couples with strollers pushed their way past us. Farther down the street, a stocky, bearded man was straining to hold back a bull terrier as it tugged at its leash.

“You're in cahoots with him, aren't you?” the girl was saying. “That sad old psychopomp. You'll steer clear of him if you know what's good for you. Don't get involved, kid, if you don't want bad things to happen to you and yours.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Let go of me.” I tried edging away along the stall, but she held my arm, digging her nails deeper.

“Stop fighting me or else,” she said. “You know exactly
what I'm talking about. Don't go on with this, or I'll have to do something about it.”

We both stopped a moment, turning to look at the sound of a man's voice bellowing not far away.

“Bronson, get back here!”

The bull terrier had broken free and came bounding up the street, colliding with a two-seater stroller along the way. Twin girls in the stroller began bawling at the top of their lungs as the dog's owner ran red-faced after it, still yelling. I saw the whites of the dog's eyes just an instant before it leapt, sinking its teeth through the thief's jeans and into her left thigh.

Her scream brought the market to a standstill. She lost her grip on my arm and stumbled back, the terrier hanging on for dear life with its legs paddling clear of the ground.

Others were running to help now, but there wasn't much they could do. The girl wheeled around, screaming, and the dog spun with her at right angles to her thigh, jaw locked in place. She fell aside into a cake stall, knocking over a display of cream horns and vanilla slices, which she then trampled to mush underfoot.

I backed down the street, nursing my arm. It felt like her nails had broken the skin, but my pain couldn't be anywhere near as bad as hers.

The dog's owner fought his way through the crowd and took hold of the snarling animal with both hands, trying to yank it free.

“Don't!” someone yelled. “It'll take half her leg with it.”

“Get that thing
off
me,” the thief shrieked.

“Easy, easy,” someone else called.

The girl was mewling in agony. Her furious eyes found me in the crowd, just for a second, before she spun around again, carrying the dog and the man holding on to it with her. Together they crashed through a burger stall, collapsing in a heap among piles of spilled raw meat patties and linked sausages.

I took off for the bridge, along the clogged street, not looking back until I'd reached the next block. A dark figure wove its way toward me through the crowd, moving so fast between the stalls I couldn't make out its face. It couldn't be the girl — I doubted she could move at all after what had happened — but I wasn't taking chances. By the time I reached the towpath by the canal, I was running full pelt.

It was quieter by the water than it had been last time, and the chaos back on Broadway Market seemed light-years away, but I didn't slow down. I kept going, fast as I could, trying to clear my head of what I'd just seen.

How did the girl know Mr. October, and why had she warned me off?
She isn't what she seems,
he'd said, but I had only the foggiest idea what he meant.

A few minutes along, past the Queensbridge Road bridge, a wave of warm air rushed at me from behind, a breeze out of nowhere. There was a
whoosh-whooshing
noise like steadily beating wings, followed by a piercing cry that ran straight through my bones.

I turned to look just as it crashed straight into me, a huge dark shape that spun me around and down to the ground with one powerful blow.

All the breath was knocked out of me as I landed, scouring my knees and hands on the path. A sharp, searing pain ran through my right shoulder, so intense I thought I might black out. When I reached for it, it felt damp to the touch, coating my fingers in blood. That slow thudding noise came again, soft as a heart trapped underwater, just before I heard something land heavily on the path in front of me.

“Get up, boy. Stand up and see.”

The voice sounded suffocated, dry as deadwood.

My eyes were swimming, and the path ahead was awash with multicolored lights, green and blue and white, the sun refracting off the water.

A figure cloaked in darkness stood over me, skinny as a wraith but easily six and a half feet tall from its scuffed boots to the tip of its misshapen head. Its clothing was tattered and black, with tufts of pale straw jutting from tears in its sleeves. At first I thought its face was covered by some kind of gray-brown mask, but that
was
its face, the flesh melted out of shape and held together by crude black stitching. Its eyes were red and glaring, the left half-covered by a permanent lid, the right having no lid at all. Its lips curled into a sneer, exposing rows of discolored, jagged teeth.

A hiss arose from the demon's throat. I cowered down, not daring to look, not daring to look away.

“Harvester,” the scarecrow-like thing said. “You're meddling in matters that don't concern you, and the penalty for meddling is pain the like of which you've never known. Some doors should never be opened, lest your house be brought down and your bones ground to dust. Everything you love will be torn apart.”

The thing moved closer, extending one three-fingered hand, resting a curved talon against my throat. It felt sharp enough to open me up from ear to ear, but it only gave me a gentle prod, forcing me to look up into those burning red eyes.

“First and last warning,” the demon said.

“How . . . ,” I began, shaking uncontrollably. “How do you know me?”

“What the Ministry of Pandemonium knows, we also know. Do you understand the warning? Will you forget everything you've seen and swear never to see him again?”

“Who? Mr. October?”

The scarecrow bristled at the very mention of his name. With one hand and one sweeping movement, it took me by my injured shoulder, hoisting me up to my feet, then off my feet and clear of the ground.

“Never,” it said. “There are some thoughts too dreadful to think and some words you should never speak aloud. You never met him, are we clear? You never knew him. And you'll never ever speak his name. Understand?”

My shoulder was screaming. I couldn't think clearly enough to reply.

“Speak up!” The voice scraped like claws in the night. “Speak up or I'll leave my mark on you. I'll give you a message to deliver to your leader.”

“D-Dunno what you mean,” I managed to say. “I don't have a leader. Mr. October said —”

“There you go again.”

The scarecrow didn't give me a second chance but set to work at once, scratching one talon in a series of minute crisscross strokes across my cheek. I winced at the slicing sensation and the warmth of my blood running down to my neck. At the same time the pressure of its grip tightened around my shoulder, and everything turned gray for the next few seconds.

I heard the distant roar of an engine and snapped back to my senses in time to see a single dark cloud crossing the sky, lower and blacker than a typical storm cloud. The demon's needle-sharp talon whispered on, back and forth across my cheek.

“There,” it said, leaning back to admire its handiwork.

“Please,” I whimpered.

Above us, moving at incredible speed, the storm cloud began breaking apart. As it swept toward us, I began to see what it really was. Not a cloud of vapor, but a gathering of angry, black-feathered creatures flying low in a cloud formation.

The urban ravens.

I saw the first of them hurtling our way just an instant before the demon did. The bird struck it beak-first, full force, in the side of the head. A second crashed into it from behind. The next thing I knew, the vicelike grip on my shoulder disappeared and I was back on my feet, back on solid ground, as the rest of the birds attacked all at once.

They tore into the scarecrow in a frenzy, thirty or forty in number, black beaks plunging and tearing like blades. They clung to its clothing in a heaving, flapping mass, pecking and squawking and yanking out mouthfuls of straw. Two large ravens clung to its face, and the chilling scream that followed told me exactly what they were doing. The two birds took to the sky, each carrying a prize in its bill: a bright red orb.

The attack continued. I reeled away, horrified but watching in wonder as the demon blundered off along the bank, hands clamped to its face, carrying the hungry flock with it. For a moment I thought it would topple into the water like the sunglasses thief, but instead it stumbled around a curve in the path that carried it into the darkened archway under a bridge.

I'd only lost sight of it for a second when a roar went up in the tunnel, the cry of something wild and demented. The ravens scattered, some flying north, others west, some rushing past me at head height, following the canal route I'd taken from the market.

Whatever had startled them away was still there, right around the corner and under the bridge. Preparing to
come again. If it did, I knew I wouldn't get off so lightly again.

A low growl crept toward me, the sound of a wild beast preparing to strike. I was backing away from it, my heart in my mouth, when I heard something else: the angry grumble of an engine on the canal, then the chime of a familiar voice.

“You rang?” said Lu from the wheel of the white, low-slung motorboat bobbing on the water behind me.

I looked at her, astonished, nearly speechless with relief. “Ring? What did I ring?”

“Never you mind. Get in, get in right now. Time to go.”