The Secrets of Life and Death (17 page)

She scanned the road alongside the cathedral. Some tingle in the air made her twitchy, and she turned to look at the stand of trees behind her. When she turned back, Pierce was staring at her, maybe a dozen feet away.

She jumped, and reached in her pocket for a weapon.

He grinned, his long teeth uneven and stained nicotine-yellow like the rest of him. ‘Nice to see you, too, Jackdaw. Easy now, I won’t hurt you.’

She waved to the end of the bench, her bag a barrier in the middle. ‘Sit over there.’

He did, stretching out cracked and split boots, and folding his hands over his stomach. ‘Nice spot.’

She had never seen him in daylight before. His filthy raincoat hung open over a sweater full of holes, revealing another beneath it, bulking him up. His narrow face was dominated by a curved nose, and his pointed chin was covered with grey stubble. He folded one arm over the other, revealing overly long fingernails, tapered and nicotine-yellow. He turned to look at her, his small eyes deep-set into his skull, and bloodshot. ‘You have a girl,’ he gloated. ‘A young girl. Perfect.’ His tongue snaked over his lips.

She tried to keep her expression blank.

‘I got a buyer.’ He waved one hand at her. ‘We could make a killing, you and I. This woman, she’s prepared to pay big money.’

‘What woman?’

He chuckled, his barks of laughter turning into a cough. ‘I could tell you that, and you sell to her direct, cuts me out.’ He held both hands up, wafting the smell of mould at her.

‘She has already approached me.’ She turned in the seat, to watch his hands. ‘Even if I had a girl, I wouldn’t hand her over like … merchandise.’

His eyes started looking her over, and she realised he had never seen her in daylight either. ‘You don’t look so good, Jack. Pale.’

‘I wouldn’t hand a child over like a mongrel. You don’t know what this woman wants with her.’

‘You ain’t got to worry. She told me she was doing medical research. Very exclusive, for this big magical clinic. Your girl would be well cared for, and helping people.’

Jack couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘Like a cow, chained up and milked of her blood.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s what you want her for, ain’t it? Easy money.’

She clenched her fists with frustration, her breath misting out of her. It was getting colder, the sky darkening as the afternoon drew on. ‘I need to know more about this woman.’

He cracked a smile. ‘And why would I do that? What you going to do, Jack, zap me again?’

‘You think I won’t?’ She watched his smile contort into a sneer.

‘You’re so far out of your league, you’re going to get burned,’ he hissed. ‘Once she finds where the girl is, she’ll take her, and neither of us will see a penny.’ He fumbled in a pocket and brought out a half-smoked roll-up. ‘Very charming woman, and more important, she’s loaded.’ He patted another pocket, and pulled out a box of matches.

She leaned away from him, pulling her coat around her neck, feeling the chill seeping up the sleeves of her jacket as she did. Damn it, she couldn’t afford to get so cold, she could feel her heart rate dropping.

‘This woman, she’s not just easy money.’ She sat forward, brushing the leather bag where his foul raincoat might have touched it. ‘She’s trouble. You and I might have had our differences – but this woman is really dangerous.’

He looked up at her, his thin lips twisted into a parody of a smile. ‘I’m touched by your concern.’ He sucked in foul-smelling smoke and hacked a few times before spitting on the grass. ‘But it’s not me who needs to worry,
Jackdaw
. We’ll get the girl anyway; I’m just suggesting you might like to make it easier, for a sensible price. Then no one gets hurt.’

‘Fuck off.’ She stood up, brushing off the lichens. ‘You have no idea where she is.’

‘Oh, but you’re going to tell me where she is. You won’t get away this time …’ He grinned, and leaned forward as if to stand. When he couldn’t, he scowled, and curled his claws onto the arm of the bench. He tried to lurch forward, but the effort recoiled him back into his seat, his eyes widening.

‘Wha … ?’ He struggled, fighting to lean forward, move his arms, anything. His fingers twitched as if they were trying to find fists.

‘I scratched a binding circle on the bench.’ Under the bench, actually, where he would be less likely to look. ‘You’ll be fine once I’ve gone.’

The more he struggled, the less his muscles worked, and he slumped back, relaxing his jaw until it softened enough to speak. ‘Your little tricks won’t help you with this buyer. She’s the real thing,’ he whispered. He was so angry spittle sprayed the air in front of him.

Jack watched his hand clench on the arm of the bench, the long claws digging in. The bench creaked, groaning under some internal pressure, and she could see parallel cracks inching along the bleached wood.
Shit, he’s going to escape.

She darted forward. ‘You’re a spent force, Pierce, a little go-between. You don’t know anything.’

She turned her back on him, feeling rather than hearing his reaction, as his rage entrapped him, welding his muscles with his own anger.
That should last for a few seconds
. Nevertheless, she let the slight slope help her into a run, dodged under a huge rhododendron and vaulted over the wall of the green. She landed in the backyard of a shop. She paused for a second, crouching, and looked back in time to see the bench disintegrate. She raced through the shop – a florist’s, redolent with lilies – and onto the high street. That was the moment the paralysis hit, a flash of cold erupting into her. Painful pins and needles cramped her midriff, forcing her to bend forward, staggering. She realised the paving slabs were coming to meet her, even as she tried to put weak hands out to break her fall.

The living room was the warmest room in the cottage. Sadie was tired of inactivity but every time she stood up, the weakness flowed over her like a blanket of sleep. She tried standing a little closer to the edge of the circle, breathing through the wave of nausea as she moved, letting it recede. She found she could stand no closer than about two feet from the edge before she gagged. She started to explore by shuffling around on the thin carpet.

The room was squarish, with an old rug almost as big as the room. It probably had flowery patterns on it at some time, like Gran’s. Gran wouldn’t have put up with the dirty marks, dog hairs and bald patches, though. In the time Sadie had been at Jack’s cottage, she couldn’t recall the sound of a vacuum cleaner. The sofas were much the same, sagging cushions, greasy arms, like old people’s furniture. But it was homely in its own way, two of the walls lined with rickety shelves covered with books. The other walls were covered with painted panelling, scuffs and scratches giving no clue to the secret door that led to the little cell that Jack called the priest hole and Sadie called the dungeon. She looked at the books.

The majority looked old, as if no one had moved them for a while. There were several piles of envelopes that had been torn open, stacked along the top of the books, and a pile of old magazines. By standing on tiptoe, Sadie could just get her fingers out of the circle, although the air outside it felt thicker and colder, her movements causing invisible eddies. Her hands brushed the spines of the nearest books, pulling on one that stuck out a bit.

It was an old-fashioned book about the growing of herbs to make medicines. The pictures were line drawings of – well, weeds, really – and the instructions were in strange English. She flipped the book over to look at the back, then rejected it, putting it on the sofa before stretching out for some more. She managed to reach a book of English birds, a more modern book on herbs, and then a story by Agatha Christie. As she pulled the novel out, a handful of old notebooks fell out with it, bouncing over the rug. The dog looked at her, and wagged his tail.

She crouched and lifted one of the booklets up, fighting nausea as she reached over the invisible barrier. It was filled with writing in blue biro, and the edges and corners were filled with sketches and doodles. There were recipes, jottings, phone numbers and the odd diary entry. Intrigued, Sadie pulled the rug towards her until she could reach the rest. The most battered one was written in faded childlike letters, sprawling over the lines.

‘Maggie made me eat this wholemeal crap, it was horrible. I just want pizza.’ The thought of pizza filled Sadie’s mouth with saliva. A few pages further on: ‘they came and took my blood today. I screamed and told Maggie I would bite her but she did it anyway. The baby is in hospital again. Dad will come soon and put them in prison. Not the baby though I’m going to take her home with me as my new little sister. I’m going to teach her to ride, but not Tinker becuase he’s too tempramental.’

Sadie smiled at the spelling, and the sentiment, then looked at the cover of the book. The name was Melissa Harcourt, age ten, the numbers in big, slanted writing.
Was this Jack’s
, she wondered, leafing through the later pages. ‘More blood, big bruise this time. I hate needles. Maggie brought some strawberries home and she made meringues. Charley is growing her hair back, she looks like a kiwi fruit.’ There was a little cartoon in the margin. ‘I’m teaching her to call me Mel but Maggie tells her my new name is Jack so she calls me Jock because she can’t say Jack …’

The pages rambled on, while Sadie sat and thought about Jack, her occasional flashes of warmth and humour. She had been chained up, maybe on this same old carpet. She must have sat here, grieving for her mum like Sadie did.

Missing her mother oozed through Sadie, leaving her eyes stinging. She rubbed them with the back of her hand, and dried her nose on the sleeve of the old sweatshirt Jack had found for her to wear. Slim though Jack was, Sadie was several inches shorter, and had lost a lot of weight. The clothes hung off her. Sadie wrapped her arms around her newly incurved belly, crawled onto the sofa and huddled in the quilt.

She remembered home, the upstairs flat, the new curtains Mum liked so much, the high stools in the kitchen, watching telly together over a takeaway at the end of Mum’s work. Hugs, little talks late at night on Mum’s bed, it all hurt, as if strings had been yanked in her chest.

Something brushed the window, clattering like leaves. Sadie looked up, at the same time as the dog did. The ivy that clambered around the window was silhouetted in black against the deep blue of the sky. Sadie’s skin prickled, and she held her breath, listening. She could hear the sizzle of a log in the wood burner, the occasional crackle, the soft tick of the clock over the fireplace, and underneath that, her heart beating in her ears like someone tapping sticks together. Then she noticed the almost subsonic rumble coming from the dog.

Turning to Ches, she watched the dog lift his body off the ground as if pulled by strings, the hair along his back arching and his eyes widening until there was a rim of white around the grey irises. The air seemed heavy, as if it was flowing onto her and growing thicker, pinning her in place. She could just hear the trees outside, rustling. She realised the single light bulb was dimmer, growing more yellow, before it started flickering. She stared up at it, willing it to keep glowing. After a few seconds, it exploded like a firework, showering her with hot glass and enfolding her in a layer of darkness.

Sadie screamed. She brought her hand to her mouth, frightened by her own sounds echoing around the still, black room. Her eyes began to adjust to the gloom. The branches of the ash tree in the garden reached into the cobalt sky, and the fire glowed red and orange beside her.

Sadie crept to her feet, over the shackle in the floor, into the middle of the circle where she felt strongest. Glass crunched under her thick socks, and the dog whined. Before she could make him out among the deep shadows, he cannoned into her. She put out a hand to stop herself falling, and it plunged into his fur.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just the light.’ She felt along the dog’s spine until she found his head, just a shape against the faint glow from the wood burner. ‘Good boy.’ She patted him, feeling him panting in distress, every breath out a faint whine. Kneeling beside him, he leaned against her and yawned in her face, enveloping her in warm meaty breath. ‘Silly dog.’ A brief thump on the floor suggested he had wagged his tail.

The stink of smoke made her look at the fire, which had dimmed to red. A rattle against the window made them both jump.

A call came from the back garden, beyond the kitchen, maybe from the trees. Some sort of bird, calling as if in alarm, croaking; then other, lighter voices shrieking. The cawing and crowing rose until it was deafening. Sadie huddled beside the dog, hands over her head to reduce the noise. It still sounded loud, as if the terrified birds were in the room with her. She felt vulnerable, chained up like bait, so she scooted over towards the hearth. Stretching at the end of the chain, she could feel along the fireplace for the poker. The whole stand fell over with a clatter, and she fumbled along its length until she found the metal rod.

The birds stopped screaming, and she crouched, her breath wheezing in the silence. Cold air spread invisible fingers over her skin as she crawled back to the dog, putting her free arm around him. She could hear his paws pedalling on the floor as if he was losing his balance, and smelled the bitterness of dog urine.

A scream broke the quietness, and for a moment Sadie thought it was human. As she processed the sound and realised it was animal, something hit the window with a wet thud, sliding down like a handful of leaves. In the last of the light from the sky, she had the impression of black fingers spread against the smeared glass, then slipping onto the sill. Another shape smashed into the pane, making Ches howl, and more screeches from the birds outside. It sounded as if something was torturing the crows.

Sadie buried her face in Ches’s fur, feeling him shake, her mind filled with the image of the thing, the broken bird on the windowsill. The sound of the wind had risen, wrapping itself around the house with a slow roar, like traffic noise. She waited, tears streaming down her face at the occasional agonised cry, cut short with each missile that splatted the glass.