Between Two Thorns (5 page)

 

 

6

 

Sam picked at the scab on the back of his head whilst Dave aimed his dart at the board.

“Fiver I get a bullseye,” he said, pausing to scratch under his beer gut before repositioning his stance.

“You’re on,” Sam replied as he pulled a crumb of dried blood through his hair to inspect it. “That policeman made me feel like a complete dick.”

“What do you expect?” Dave threw the dart and hit the treble twenty. He could swear as well as he could drink beer.

“I expected him to tell me if my wallet had been found, not take the piss out of me.”

He inspected another scabby chunk as Dave pulled the darts out of the board. The office was quiet; the rest of his colleagues, including his boss, were away at a conference. He’d spent all morning trying to get a script to run on the Linux box as Dave had practised the art of doing nothing productive in the most disruptive way possible.

“I just can’t believe you thought you’d been mugged.”

“I’ve got bruises as well as this cut on the back of my head, you know.”

Dave snorted. “You’d be amazed at what you can forget. Once I woke up one morning with a burned hand and a half-eaten bacon sandwich next to me and not a scooby about how either happened. You’re just hoping that you were mugged. Then you don’t have to admit to Leanne that you lost your wallet under the influence. Now double or quits I get a bullseye in two darts.”

Two darts later and Sam was a tenner better off. Dave swore, unhooked the dartboard from the wall and put the whiteboard back in its place. Darts removed and board slid down the side of his desk, he flopped into his chair and insulted Sam over Twitter.

There was a knock on the door as Sam was chuckling and thinking up a retort. “You expecting a visitor?” Sam asked as he went over and opened it, but Dave shook his head.

“Does a Mr Samuel Westonville work here?”

Dave’s chair creaked as he swivelled to see who it was.

Sam didn’t recognise him. The man was in his early fifties and his face was reminiscent of a bulldog; too much skin and not enough places for it to cling to. It hung in bags under his eyes and folds around his jawline, like it had been slowly sliding off over the years. He was dressed in a cheap suit that looked about thirty years old and his tie was Eighties-thin. “Is this about my wallet?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’d like to speak to you in private.”

Sam was disturbed by the immediate dislike he’d taken to the man. It was usually Leanne who decided what she thought about someone before they opened their mouth.

The only private space was the corner of the room partitioned off for his boss’s office, and that was locked. “There’s a kitchen at the end of the corridor,” Sam suggested, and when the man nodded Sam closed the door behind him and led the way.

The company he worked for had an office in a cheap converted warehouse subsidised by the council. The kitchen was shared by all the offices on their floor, but thanks to its grotty state it was rarely used for anything more than hurried kettle-filling and reluctant washing up.

“Are you from the police?” Sam asked as they walked.

“I understand you lost your wallet two nights ago,” the man replied. “At first you thought you’d been mugged?”

“Well,” Sam pushed the kitchen door open, “my wife thought that. I’ve got a cut on the back of my head and a few bruises, but as the copper at the station pointed out, they’re probably just from making my way home ‘under the influence’ if you know what I mean.”

The man followed him in, glanced at the stained formica worktop and ageing microwave and stood next to the cheap table and chairs in the centre of the room. “Have you retraced your steps?”

Sam shrugged. “I went back to the pub I think we were at earlier in the evening.”

“You think? You sound uncertain.”

The man’s voice was flat. At first Sam had thought he was bored, then depressed, but now he was facing him as he spoke there wasn’t any emotional expression at all. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“You can call me Jim.”

“And you’re with the p–”

Jim collapsed. For a moment, Sam just stood there. There hadn’t been any sign he was going to faint, no comment about feeling ill or even a loss of colour. The way he fell was like someone had simply switched him off; he was in an untidy heap with his legs crumpled beneath him, and his head had struck the carpet tiles with a loud thud.

“Shit.” Sam crouched next to him, shook his shoulder. “Jim?”

He was far too still. Sam thought of all the times he’d seen people collapse in films, how the ones finding the body checked their pulse. He fumbled with the man’s wrist and couldn’t find one. With growing desperation he pressed the side of his neck but still couldn’t find a pulse.

He ran back to the office and picked up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Dave asked.

“That bloke,” Sam panted, dialling 999. “He just dropped dead in the kitchen.”

 

Max dreamt that a woman was looking down at him as he lay on a cloud. Sometimes she turned into a man. Both wore blue and he wondered if they had something to do with the sky.

The man changed back into a woman with blonde hair but not the one he was looking for. This one was older and plumper and writing something down on a clipboard.

“Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

He was slowly becoming aware of an intense pain in his right leg and hip, his shoulder, then it flooded his entire body.

“In pain,” he said.

“You’re in hospital,” she said. “And you’re a very lucky man.”

“Do lucky men get shot?”

She chuckled and came to his bedside, pressing something into his hand. “This controls your morphine. When the pain is too much just press the button. You can’t overdose, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied, trying to lift his head to look down at his body. The blanket didn’t look right.

“I’ll tell the doctor you’ve woken up. And the police want to speak to you when you’re up to it.”

He nodded and she left. The room was small, the walls yellow, strange equipment was positioned near his bed and a black box he suspected was a television was bolted high up in a corner on the opposite side of the room. He stared up at the grey tiles on the ceiling.

Something felt distinctly wrong with his body and he was struggling to just hold onto the button she’d given him.

There was a window to his left that was open a crack. He could hear the city, birds, aircraft roaring overheard. There was also a scraping noise he couldn’t explain, but no matter how much he wanted to get up and investigate, his body wouldn’t cooperate.

He pressed the button, the pain eased and it felt as if he was floating. He dozed.

The door clicking shut woke him and another woman was looking at the clipboard. She wore a white coat, had long black hair tied back and her skin was a deep brown. She looked tired.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “This button is helping with the pain.”

“Good.” She moved nearer to his head, looking at monitors. “You’ve been badly hurt, Mr…”

He frowned. This wasn’t right. He was in Mundanus! Why wasn’t he at the cloister? Why hadn’t the clean-up team dealt with all this? All he could remember was the gun’s mouth and the wind nipping at his ears as he realised he was about to be shot by another Arbiter. He wasn’t even sure what there was to clean up apart from himself.

“Do you remember your name?”

He had to be careful, so he shook his head.

She made a note on the clipboard. “You didn’t have any identification on you, no missing persons have been reported who fit your description. I’m afraid we don’t know your name either.”

“How about John for now?”

“All right. The police want to speak to you for obvious reasons. I don’t need to know why you were shot on a roof, I just get to put you back together again.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“Well, I get the impression you’d like me to just tell it to you straight, is that right?”

He nodded again, pressed the button.

“The bullet grazed your left shoulder. You’re very lucky they were a poor shot.”

Arbiters were never poor shots. He filed that away.

“Unsurprisingly you fell. The trees below helped a little but you still fell a very long way. You came in yesterday afternoon and we’ve had to operate. Your right tibia and fibula were broken in two places. The bones have been aligned and set with plates and screws.” She paused, clearly looking for some sort of reaction. There was none. He could hear that scraping sound outside again. She glanced at one of the monitors and carried on. “Your hip was dislocated too, that’s been corrected. There’s lots of bruising and you had a bad knock on the head, but considering the fall I think you were incredibly lucky.”

“What are the plates and screws made of?”

“Titanium. It’s very strong and doesn’t–”

“Will the titanium be taken out again when the leg is healed?”

“We’ll discuss that with the orthopaedic surgeon when he does his follow-up, but I imagine the plates will stay in place for at least eighteen months. Sometimes it’s more risky to take out than leave in, but the options will be discussed with you thoroughly.”

Mundanus seemed to be advancing more quickly as the years went by. Did the Sorcerers know about titanium being used like this? Had they come to an agreement with the Elemental Court? He was finding it hard to keep focused. “How long will I be in here?”

“At least another two weeks. The surgery went well, the gunshot wound has been stitched up and shouldn’t be problematic, but we need to make sure your recovery stays on track and that there’s no infection.”

“How long until I can walk?”

“You mustn’t put any weight on your leg for at least six weeks, but you’ll be taught how to use crutches. You may be able to walk with a cane in about two months, if there are no complications and if you follow the advice and physiotherapist’s instructions.”

He was making her uneasy. He was used to that. Normally he wouldn’t have such a long conversation with an innocent, as it always unnerved them to speak to someone like him.

“I’m just taking it all in,” he said to alleviate her discomfort, but it didn’t work. It didn’t bother him, but the more unnerved she was, the less likely she was to be helpful in any way outside her normal role. He might need her help if the police were going to be a problem.

“I’ll check on you during my round tomorrow. The police will be in later. There’s a button on the wall if you need anything. I’m sure the nurse will check on you soon too.”

She left without a smile or further words of reassurance. He was used to that as well; they tended to be cold when there was nothing back from him.

So the Arbiter with the gun missed. He felt his neck although he already knew the chain wasn’t there. Was it still on that gargoyle at the clock tower? Or was it in the hands of the London Chapter as evidence of interference? For all he knew, the fallout from that afternoon could still be playing out. Something was wrong; he shouldn’t have been brought to a hospital in Mundanus, and presumably he was still in London. Why hadn’t the London Arbiters come for him here?

He couldn’t believe how tired he felt. Just lying there, pressing a little button and trying to fathom out what had happened, was exhausting. He lay his head on the pillow, simply unable to find any answers in his current state.

As he drifted off, the scraping outside the window got louder. A clunk from the window as it was opened brought him back from the edge of sleep.

An ugly stone face peered inside. It was the gargoyle from the clock tower, and Max’s soul chain was still around its neck. For a moment, he considered that a good thing. Then he realised he wasn’t in contact with the stone, and it seemed to be moving independently. He wondered if the morphine was making him hallucinate. As far as he knew, movement only occurred in deep connection when physical contact was maintained.

He remained silent as the gargoyle, seeing a room empty of medical staff, pushed the window further open and climbed inside. The legs, which had been fused together to form its attachment to the clock tower, had split and become functional. It looked like a long, lean stone panther with prominent ribs and a demonic face. A very worried demonic face.

It clunked over to the bed, jumped up on the metal frame and settled into a natural perching position, looming over Max’s legs. Its weight made the bed shudder. “Well, this is a bloody disaster!”

“It’s definitely unusual,” Max replied.

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about that!” It had the voice of a man who smoked fifty a day and gargled with gravel. A clawed finger pointed at the broken leg beneath the domed blanket. “We’re corrupted now. It’s a sodding catastrophe!”

“One thing at a time.” Max recognised his soul’s taste for drama. “What happened to the Arbiter? Why did he miss?”

“Because of me.” The gargoyle grinned. Max was certain that most innocents would find its face even more frightening when he did that. “I wasn’t going to let that rotten Arbiter finish us off. I whipped us round out of his line of fire, still caught your shoulder though.”

“What happened to him?”

“Ahh, well, I played it cool at first; I wanted to see what he did. I think getting hurt when we were linked was too much for you. You passed out on my back and he must’ve thought you were dead. I knew the Chapter Master was on the case, I could feel it, so I watched. I was worried he’d come over and throw you off, but when you didn’t move the rat that shot you connected using one of the other gargoyles on the tower. Swift as you like, he told his Chapter Master you’d sprung them and it was bad.”

Max scratched his new beard. “So it’s as high as the London Chapter Master? You sure it was him?”