Hollow Earth (3 page)

At the lab doors, Arthur used his key-card again. This time he waited for the pad to flip open and reveal a fingerprint sensor. When it did, he wiped his sweating thumb across his trousers before pressing it to the pad.

The doors slid open with a hiss, and he stepped into an enclosed glass chamber, an ante-room, where he waited for the first doors to seal and the air to be calibrated before a second set of doors opened.

Just as the first doors locked, Arthur saw a cloaked and hooded person move from the stairwell and into the shadows of the hallway. When the second set of doors slid open, Arthur’s heart was pounding so fast, he thought he might hyperventilate.

He dashed into his purgatory, the doors sealing behind him. The figure wouldn’t follow. It
couldn’t
. Could it?

The lab was the size of a school gym. Despite the high-tech equipment spread around the room – portable imaging machines, scanners, microscopes, copiers and computers with huge flat-screen monitors – the worktables of the men and women who restored and repaired paintings in this room were covered in the more traditional media of paintbrushes and palettes. Row upon row of easels stood like sentinels against the walls. As Arthur marched down the aisle bisecting the room, he noticed a row of paintings being readied for the exhibition he was curating: ‘The Horror in Art’.

When Arthur was about ten steps from his office door, the lights went out. Cursing under his breath, hands trembling, he fished a penlight from his inside pocket and continued onwards, glancing back now and again.

He stopped short at the last painting in the room, his breath catching in his throat.

Despite the relevance of the image, Arthur had most certainly not requested
Witch with Changeling Child
for his exhibition. In the painting, only the witch’s large pocked nose was visible from the shadows of a shabby, woollen shawl. Seated on her bony lap was a dwarfish demon child with a misshapen head, a bulbous nose, pale, waxy skin and eyes like tiny yellow marbles sunk into its fleshy forehead.

What disturbed Arthur even more than the repulsive subject matter was the painting’s history. It had been linked to a number of grisly deaths that had occurred at the gallery when the painting had first been exhibited to the public in 1840. As a result,
Witch with Changeling Child
was said to be cursed and had been locked in storage, never to be displayed in public again.

Until now. Who had put it here?

Arthur swept his penlight across the witch’s gnarled hands and up and over to the horrible creature perched on her lap. When he reached the changeling’s face with his penlight, he froze in terror. He knew it wasn’t his imagination.

The dwarfish demon was grinning at him.

FOUR

T
he twins had not been in a taxi in ages – they always travelled on the Tube with their mum. But as soon as the security guard had hustled them from the National Gallery and out on to Trafalgar Square, Sandie hurried them into a taxi. Giving the driver their address, she settled herself on to one of the flip-down seats facing the twins. She was so angry with them, she was almost speechless.

‘Seat belts fastened.
Right now
.’

‘Why are you so mad?’ asked Matt. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘You know the rules! You know that what you did was dangerous.’

‘Your rules, not ours!’ Matt shouted back.

‘We’re sorry, Mum. We didn’t mean to make you angry,’ Em interjected before the two of them started fighting for real. Matt and their mum seemed to be doing more and more of that lately, ever since their dad had missed another of their birthdays without a call or an email. With every passing year, Matt was becoming more and more convinced that their mum had driven their dad away. Em could hardly remember what their dad looked like. She wasn’t sure she missed him at all.

‘Really, Mum,’ continued Em. ‘We’re not stupid. We know we’re not supposed to draw in public. But we were so hot. We won’t do it again. Promise.’

Sandie sighed. Sometimes, her terror made her lose control. She patted Em’s leg. ‘I know you’re not stupid. Far from it.’ She tried to ruffle Matt’s hair. He pulled away and slouched against the seat. ‘It’s just that you’re getting older, and things are becoming complicated—’

‘We were hot and wanted to go swimming,’ Matt snapped. ‘And you promised no more meetings. Two days in a row you’ve dragged us to that stupid gallery.’

Sandie leaned forward, fear tightening the knot already in her stomach. ‘Are you saying you
knew
you were putting yourselves into the painting?’ She turned to Em. ‘Please tell me you’ve never done that before.’

Don’t say a word, Em.

Em hesitated as Matt’s words echoed in her head. ‘We didn’t know we could do that – until it happened with a painting yesterday,’ she said at last.

The colour drained from Sandie’s face. Things were worse than she had thought. Much worse. ‘What painting?’

Be quiet, Em!

‘A painting … of Roman ruins. It was easy to copy.’ Seeing the sudden panic in her mum’s eyes, Em blurted, ‘No one saw us. Honest. We were careful, Mum. I promise we were.’

Shut up, Em, or I’ll pound you.

I don’t like telling lies … and you couldn’t pound me if you tried.

Em whacked Matt across his chest with her backpack. He yelped, reached across the seat and swatted his sister back.

‘Emily Anne Calder! What was that for?’

Not for the first time, Sandie sensed something strange going on between her son and daughter. She knew twins were connected to each other in ways that science was only beginning to understand – Matt able to sense when Em was sad; Em able to know when Matt was angry or hurt. And she knew that twins often had unique ways of communicating with each other. But what was beginning to scare her was that – given who the twins were, given what they were becoming – this was something much more significant.

Sandie tugged the offending backpack from Em’s hands and set it down on her own lap. She needed to think. She needed to plan. ‘We’ll talk more about this when we get home.’

Matt fiddled with his headphones and cranked up his music. Em did the same.

Sandie leaned her head against the cool glass of the taxi window. At the entrance to St James’s Park, she watched a family waiting for the pedestrian signal. A mum pushing her baby in a pram, a dad with a toddler gripping his hand.

Everything was so much easier when they held my hands
, she thought.

Not for the last time that day, Sandie wondered if her children were becoming more than she could handle – a prediction their grandfather, Renard, had thrown at her the day she bundled up her twin toddlers and ran for their lives.

FIVE

A
rthur fled from the grinning demon. He didn’t have much time. Someone else had witnessed Arthur’s failure to keep an eye on the twins and their developing powers – and now the Society would know that Arthur was dispensable. He knew too much. He had done too much. At the door to his office, he fumbled for his key-card and dropped it. When he bent to retrieve it, he heard footsteps pitter-pattering across the floor in the lab behind him. Snatching up the card, he swiped his office door open, slamming and locking it behind him. Leaning against the cold metal, he attempted to calm himself.

The noises in the lab were louder now, as if someone was scampering across the tables.

‘You have time. You have time,’ Arthur chanted aloud, trying to quell his terror. His nerves were frayed, and he was having difficulty keeping his fear at bay. Sandie couldn’t possibly control or change what was in the future for the twins, and yet he felt a deep sadness that he was unable to prepare her for what was to come. He’d grown fond of her over the years. Despite the nature of their work together, they had made a good team. He knew she trusted him – at least, as far as anyone can trust their jailer.

Arthur sighed. Sandie Calder really should not have trusted him at all.

What a fool he’d been, to think that the Society’s plan would go forward without further violence. Arthur was nothing more than a pawn in a murderous chess game that had been going on for centuries.

Sitting at his cluttered desk with his head in his hands, an amazing thing happened to Arthur. He found a little compassion and just enough courage to free Sandie from the chains that bound her.

It was time to break his allegiance to the Hollow Earth Society and let Sir Charles and the Council of Guardians decide the twins’ fate after all.

He lifted the phone and dialled a number. After a few seconds, he punched in a code, then hung up. Within seconds, his phone rang. The receiver almost slid from his clammy hand as he grabbed it.

‘What has happened, Arthur?’

‘Sir Charles, it’s the twins. They … they animated themselves into a painting. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I knew it was possible, but witnessing it for the first time was quite shocking. One minute they were drawing on the bench, then the next minute they were—’

‘Arthur, I’m a Guardian. I know what animating looks like.’

There was silence on the line for a beat, just long enough for Arthur to hear scurrying outside his door.

‘Thank you, Arthur,’ said Sir Charles Wren. ‘The Council will take charge of the twins from here on. Something we should have done years ago, if I’d had my way.’

Arthur hung up the phone, his nerves frayed but his conscience stilled. Even if the Council of Guardians decided to bind the children, Arthur hoped they would not do so until they were sixteen and of age. If nothing else, he hoped he had given the twins, and Sandie, a little more time. There was just one more call to make.

Arthur was reaching across his desk for the phone again when it rang. Startled, Arthur knocked the receiver from the desk. Bending to pick it up, he saw a dark shadow choking the space between the floor outside and his door.

‘Does Sandie know of the Society’s plans for the twins?’

It wasn’t Sir Charles.

‘I don’t … don’t think so,’ said Arthur faintly.

‘Good. Good. Oh, and Arthur?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t open your office door.’

SIX

T
he taxi turned into Raphael Terrace, a narrow street on the cusp of Knightsbridge, where the houses were clinging with quiet dignity to their wealthy pasts even as their paint peeled and their roofs leaked. Sandie and the twins got out in front of a three-storey Victorian mansion that had been the home of the Kitten family since the eighteen fifties. In the nineteen sixties, the Kitten sisters Violet and Anthea had turned their mansion into a home for modern artists. They had leased the top floor, converted into a flat years ago, to Sandie when she and the twins had first arrived in London.

Violet and Anthea were in the hallway with their shopping when the twins burst through the front door, so they helped the two women with the bags. That way, they figured they could postpone, if not avoid, more of their mum’s wrath upstairs.

Sandie’s mobile rang. Sprinting up the stairs, she answered as she unlocked the door to the flat.

‘They’re coming for you,’ said Arthur without any preamble.

Sandie leaned against the wall for support. ‘The Council of Guardians? But they can’t take them now. They’re too young. Sir Charles promised me when I came to London he wouldn’t take them if I … if …’