The Queen of sinister

The New Forest had grown dense and in some areas impassable in the months since the Fall. Without access to petrol, roads were mainly travelled by horse and cart, and on foot, and so vegetation had crowded in or forced its way through the cracking asphalt. In the Forest it was even worse. The ancient broad-leafed trees thrived in a silent world that rebelled at the fall of a human foot. If not for necessity, Crowther would never have ventured into the thick greenwood.

Caitlin had slipped in and out of a daze as they walked, but there were signs that she was becoming more lucid. Yet he was surprised to hear the sound of crying coming from her. He didn't know how to react, hated any show of emotion. Hesitantly, he asked, 'Are you all right?'

When she looked up, the pain in her tear-streaked face made him wince. 'It's not fair,' she said desperately. 'I loved them so much.'

The sound of her sobbing carried with it the weight of complete heartbreak. Crowther rested against a nearby tree, surprised at the overwhelming pity he felt. He had thought it was beyond him. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. As they continued on their way, Caitlin was, for the most part, lost to her own shifting thoughts, but occasionally she would speak either to herself or to ask him a question. Often Crowther was disturbed to hear that the voice was not her own. He'd read accounts of dissociative identity disorder, but experiencing it at first hand was unnerving. He knew some research had shown that the separate identities, referred to by experts as alters, could exhibit differences in speech, philosophies, mannerisms, whole character traits — even gender. They could also have different physical states, such as allergies, whether they were right or left handed, and some were even shortsighted when the main personality had twenty-twenty vision. There were psychologists who denied the existence of DID, claiming that the personalities were simply fantasies of the patient, but if he had any doubts, here was the evidence.

'Brigid says you're scared.' Caitlin's voice surprised him.

He looked away quickly. 'Does she now.'

'Brigid knows things like that. She's very wise. What are you scared of?'

He laughed hollowly. 'What am I scared of? I'm scared of everything, as all wise men would be. I'm scared because we were taught to live in a world of Reason, and there's no reason anywhere any more. We don't have the tools to thrive here. And I'm scared because we're so far down the food chain, we're just above the bovine.'

'Brigid says you're hiding something in your coat.'

He flinched. 'Brigid should mind her own business.'

'There's a village up ahead.' Caitlin switched the topic of conversation with ease.

'How do you know?'

'I can smell it.'

He sniffed the air but couldn't pick up anything beyond the forest scents, although he knew some people with mental disorders had heightened senses. Several yards further on, the sickeningly fruity smell of decomposition was unmistakable. Bodies left in the open to rot was a clear warning sign and Crowther was already preparing to skirt the area when Caitlin caught his arm. She had seen something beyond his range.

Fighting his natural instinct, Crowther allowed her to guide him. She ducked low, crawling through the vegetation until they had a view of a sixties-style bungalow. The ruddy glare of fire rose up behind one window, followed by thick black smoke pouring out of every opening. The front door burst open and out came two men clutching a box of food, a shotgun and a few other objects Crowther couldn't make out. They were both wearing some kind of strange uniform, black T-shirts bearing a scarlet V from shoulder to navel.

As the looters hurried away, Crowther edged ahead to get a better view. Further down the street he could see more of the oddly dressed men — some kind of gang, he guessed — coming out of other houses with their swag. They moved quickly and efficiently, taking only what they needed, and left the village in wagons parked at the far end of the main street.

'Well, we certainly don't want to be tangled up with those,' Crowther mused. There was a rustling beside him and before he could react, Caitlin had emerged from hiding and was sliding down a grassy bank into an overgrown field that bordered the main street. 'Wait,' he hissed, but she paid him no attention.

She skipped through the thistle and grass and clambered over a five-bar gate before checking up and down the road. Crowther waited for a long moment to see if she would be attacked, then reluctantly followed. He was weighing the advantages of tying her up for the remainder of the journey when she hailed him from a large detached house that must once have been considered desirable. The front garden was now heavily obscured by a tangle of undergrowth and it didn't look as if any repairs had been made to it since the Fall.

'You don't want to go in there,' he said, pointing to the red X painted roughly on the front door.

'I heard something inside.'

'It's a plague house.'

'This isn't the Dark Ages, Professor,' she said.

'You'd think, wouldn't you?' He turned back down the weed-clogged drive, then sighed as he heard the front door open. This time he wasn't going to follow her. There were limits. The stench inside the house was overwhelming. Caitlin covered her mouth, fighting the urge to retch, not sure why she was in there, though she guessed it had something to do with the strange voices that occasionally surfaced at the back of her head.

She moved through the hall, with its damp, peeling wallpaper, and pushed open the door into the room where she thought she'd heard a noise. The sight that greeted her was horrific, but she felt only overwhelming pity.

Bodies marked with the unmistakable scars of the plague lay all around. At first some attempt had been made to stack them, but the last few had been thrown on the pile haphazardly.

That thought brought a succession of jarring images: the first case brought into her surgery, the sudden realisation, the mounting horror as the bodies piled up in the village hall. The faces… her friends… acquaintances… good people, undeserving people… and then Grant… and Liam… She rammed her fists into her eye sockets to drive out the terrible pictures, the sickening smell of clay and the clammy feel of wet clothes.

The sound was barely audible, but it jolted her out of her emotional state. Something was in the room, alive. Rats? The arm of one of the corpses dropped suddenly and made her jump. Behind it she saw movement — too big for a rodent.

'Come out.' She could barely believe someone was hiding underneath those suppurating bodies.

Vibrations amongst the cadavers suggested a brief struggle was taking place, and then the corpses fell away as a boy of around nine or ten pushed his way out. He was black, his hair shorn to a bristle, and a little overweight, but he had big, expressive eyes that made him seem much younger. He blinked once, twice, his gaze filled with hope.

'Don't worry,' Caitlin said, shocked. 'I won't hurt you.'

There was a sudden rush of falling bodies and another figure emerged: a girl of about sixteen, also black, her features street-smart and hard. 'Don't come any closer,' she said menacingly. She was brandishing a switchblade.

Caitlin held up her hands. 'It's OK.'

The girl's cold eyes searched the room and the hall beyond. 'You're not with them?' she said, without lowering the knife.

'The gang with the V-shirts? No. I just got here as they left.'

The girl scanned Caitlin's clothes and came to her own conclusion. 'You'd better not try anything,' she said. Despite appearances, her voice had an educated inflection, but her attitude was unmistakably dangerous. Yet behind it Caitlin could see a hint of fear in the mirror of her eyes.

'My name's Caitlin. I'm a doctor.'

This piece of information reassured the girl enough for her to lower the knife, but it didn't remove the iciness from her face. 'Got here a bit late, didn't you?'

'Come on, let's get out of here,' Caitlin said gently. 'It's dangerous.'

'Everywhere's dangerous.' Hardness came to the girl's voice easily, but she still indicated for the boy to follow Caitlin out.

Crowther waited in the shade of a tall ash, watching the empty street cautiously. As Caitlin led the new arrivals up to him, his face showed weary annoyance at another complication. 'I'm Caitlin and this is Professor Crowther.' The girl made no attempt to venture her name in reply until the boy gave her a little shove. 'Mahalia,' she said. 'Jackson.' Crowther raised an eyebrow. 'Like the singer.' 'Like me,' Mahalia replied. Caitlin knelt before the boy, warmed by his open, honest features. 'And what's your name?' she said. 'He can't speak.' Mahalia's body language was defensive of her charge. 'Actually, I think he can speak — he just doesn't choose to. Don't ask me why.' Caitlin looked into his face for confirmation, but all he gave was a broad, warm smile. His eyes, though, showed such depths they made Caitlin shiver. 'His name's Carlton Breen. He wrote it down for me.' 'Where are your parents?' Caitlin felt a jab of anxiety. Mahalia snorted and looked away. 'Is this your home?' Caitlin pressed. 'We're from Winchester. At least I am. I don't know where Carlton's from. Have you got any food?' 'No, but we can probably find something-' 'Why don't we go shopping for clothes while we're at it,' Crowther snapped. 'We can't leave them here alone,' Caitlin replied. 'We can't take them with us. Do you have any concept of what we're going into? Believe me, they'll be far safer here.' A sharp pain stung Caitlin deep in her head; she felt as if she was falling back into a dark tunnel. 'If you don't take them with us, I'm not going!' Mahalia and Carlton's eyes widened at the petulant child's voice coming from Caitlin's mouth. Crowther swore under his breath. 'All right. For a little while.' He marched down the drive. 'Though you do realise having a nursery tagging along is going to be the death of us.' They found some vegetables the looters had missed and cooked a brief, bland stew before setting off again. Striding ahead, Crowther made no attempt to hide his aversion to spending any time with the others; he was already plotting ways to jettison Mahalia and Carlton when an opportunity arose.

Once it had been confirmed that the two children were coming with them, Amy allowed Caitlin to resurface. 'What happened to you back there?' Mahalia asked suspiciously as they trudged amongst the trees. 'With that creepy little-girl voice?'

Anxiety coiled inside Caitlin. 'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Fine,' Mahalia said with a dismissive shrug. 'This should be an interesting journey. On the road with a grumpy old man and a crazy old woman.'

'Have you been on your own for long?' Caitlin asked.

Mahalia clearly wasn't used to small talk. Her suspicious eye suggested she was waiting for Caitlin to ask something of her. 'Since the Fall. Wandered across the south coast after skipping my school… just trying to stay alive like everybody else.'

Caitlin could hear the intelligence in the girl's well- spoken voice. 'And there's nobody else to look after you? No family?'

'I can look after myself well enough.'

'You shouldn't have to try to survive on your own. Everyone needs somebody.'

For some reason this comment annoyed the girl. 'I've got Carlton and he's got me, and we've done all right so far. We don't need you. We're going along for the ride, for something to do. But we can walk away at any minute. Don't forget that.' She marched ahead so she wouldn't have to talk to Caitlin any more. They picked their way across patches of heath and through dense woodland for five miles, attempting to stay out of view as much as possible. The countryside had grown wild more quickly than they could have believed possible and at times the going was hard, but by early afternoon the last remaining clouds were finally blown away and the brilliant spring sunshine took some of the edge off their journey. 'But you've got to have some idea where you're going!' Mahalia said in disbelief after quizzing Caitlin about their destination. The question troubled Caitlin. There was an existentialist peace in simply walking; to consider any more meant facing up to what lay behind her. 'I'm just following the professor.' She winced at how pathetic that sounded. Mahalia turned her attention to the professor, who was attempting to keep several yards between himself and the others. 'You know where you're going. I've seen you looking at the sun to keep a check on your direction.' 'Aren't you a clever girl.' 'If you don't tell me, I'm just going to keep asking until you're sick of me.' 'I'm sick of you already.' 'Where are we going?' Crowther made an angry sound in the depths of his throat. After a few seconds of reflection, he said, 'We're going to find a cure for the plague.' Caitlin looked down at her feet, her face strained. Mahalia considered Crowther's response thoughtfully. 'So you know somewhere that's got a vaccine?' 'Not quite.' 'Then where are you going?' 'There's no point explaining it to you, you wouldn't understand,' Crowther said as patronisingly as he could manage.

Mahalia grew flinty. 'Try me.'

Crowther rounded on her as his irritation peaked. 'All right, little girl. There's no cure for the plague in this world — no hope at all. So we're going to cross the dimensional barriers to another world, and hopefully we'll find the answers we seek there.'

Mahalia's thoughts played out clearly on her face: at first she was sure he was mocking her, secondly that he was as insane as the girl clearly thought Caitlin was. But then a strange thing happened that gave Crowther pause: Carlton tugged on Mahalia's arm to get her attention and nodded assent. The girl instantly acquiesced.

'OK,' she said. 'Tell me about this other world and how we get there.'

Now it was Caitlin's turn to exclaim in disbelief. 'Another world?'

'Not some other world. The Otherworld,' Crowther said as he clambered on to an overgrown stile. 'It's been a part of legend here for millennia… the land where the ancient Celts believed their gods lived. And it actually exists, not in myth but in reality, and those self-same legends were our ancestors' way of preserving that knowledge for posterity — part information, part warning. There are people who have been there, and I have spoken to one of them.'

'Whatever.' Mahalia winked at Carlton in a manner that annoyed Crowther intensely.

'I'm actually warming to the prospect of taking you across to that place,' Crowther said. 'It's the source of every nightmarish thing that has found its way here since the Fall, and believe me, there's a lot worse waiting over there. I think you'll have a wonderful time meeting them all'

'Well, we're going to come whether you like it or not,' Mahalia said blithely. 'What do you think, matey?' Carlton nodded his head eagerly. 'I thought I understood the depths of the stupidity of youth until I met you,' Crowther said. 'Really… thank you for the enlightening experience.' 'We're leaving this world behind?' A light began to dawn in Caitlin's face. 'We can really do that?' The notion pleased Mahalia, too. 'But how are we going to do it?' 'Just wait and see,' Crowther said brusquely. He ignored any further questions for the next five miles and then brought them to a halt with a raised hand. Through the trees they could see a pretty village of redbrick Georgian cottages, dominated by a grand building. 'Is this where you've been leading us?' Caitlin asked. 'The National Motor Museum,' Crowther said. 'We're going to get a car.' As he led them forward, Mahalia noticed that Carlton was hanging back. 'What is it?' Caitlin asked. 'He's scared.' Mahalia dropped to her knees in front of the silent boy. His expression was troubled, his eyes scanning the trees that clustered tightly around the village. 'What's wrong, Carlton?' Her genuine concern was a stark contrast to her normal demeanour. 'What's the point in asking him questions if he can't answer?' Crowther said with irritation. 'Carlton's right. Can't you feel it?' Caitlin had tilted her head to one side, not just listening but sensing the atmosphere. There was an edge of tension, slowly rising. 'The birds have stopped singing,' Mahalia observed. Crowther grew tense. 'I fear they've caught up with us again. Come on.' 'Who's after you?' the girl asked. 'Something not of this world,' Crowther said. 'Another reason to get out of here as quickly as possible.' The museum lay just beyond the Great Gatehouse of a fourteenth-century Cistercian abbey, the boundary fence overgrown with creepers and the once carefully kept grounds quickly returning to the wild. They located the entrance and scaled the security gates, with much blowing and cursing on the part of Crowther.

'Why did you come all this way just to get a car?' Caitlin asked.

'Because time is of the essence and we have a long way to go,' Crowther replied. 'And to be honest, anything that lessens the time I have to spend with you — and now those two — is a good thing.'

'You don't think they'll all have been looted?'

'Only if there's a classic-car collector in the area. Nobody else would be interested in these museum pieces. I'm taking the gamble that most people won't have realised that there must be some kind of fuel depot on the site. We can fill up and be away, and whatever's behind can choke on our exhaust fumes.'

The explosion made them all jump. A nearby branch splintered and fell.

'Somebody's shooting at us,' Crowther exclaimed incredulously, a second before Caitlin knocked him to the ground.

'Clear off, you bastards! I'll kill you all!' A wild-eyed man with grey hair rising up like a sunburst around a bald pate stormed towards them from the direction of the museum. He wore a threadbare overcoat and mud-splattered brown trousers, and he was brandishing a musket so worn and rusty it looked as if it would fall apart if it were fired again. 'This is my place!' he yelled. 'You can't come in here!'

Another burst of grapeshot rattled over their heads. The gun was so inaccurate that they were more likely to die from accidental fall-out than any specific shot. 'Into the trees!' Caitlin shouted, looking around for the others. Carlton was there, but Mahalia was missing.

Their attacker set about the laborious task of reloading the musket — shot, gunpowder, tamping it down. Caitlin seized the opportunity to haul Carlton towards cover while Crowther scurried on his hands and knees behind them.

Once they were hidden, Caitlin frantically searched for Mahalia. Had she run for the boundary fence?

The answer came a second later. Mahalia appeared like a shadow rising from the ground behind their assailant. She was so silent that he was oblivious to her presence until she knocked the musket from his hands and entwined her arms around him, a knife at his throat.

The three of them rushed over just as the man stopped struggling in response to whatever Mahalia had whispered in his ear. Blood trickled down his neck from the knife point.

'Don't hurt me,' he whimpered. Tears of fear trickled from his eyes; in them was a hint of the madness of isolation.

'What are you doing?' Crowther raged. 'You could have killed us!'

'This is my place,' the man said pathetically. 'You can't come in.'

'Do you want me to kill him?' Mahalia's cold voice chilled Caitlin.

'Kill him?' Crowther said incredulously. 'Are you insane as well? We don't go around killing people!'

'You leave him free, you might regret it,' Mahalia continued.

'Oh, shut up.' Crowther pulled her knife hand roughly away from the man's throat. The prisoner sagged and then began to sob. 'Mad as a bloody hatter,' Crowther said. 'He's probably been living up here since the Fall, shooting anyone who came near like some hillbilly. Whatever happened to resilience? The first sign of hardship and everyone starts going insane.' He flashed a glance at Caitlin.

Behind them, Carlton was growing agitated again. As Caitlin turned to comfort him, he pointed fearfully towards the gate.

Five shapes had emerged from the tree line beyond the boundary fence. The moment Caitlin laid eyes on them she felt as if her life was draining away. It was the Whisperers, she knew that without a doubt. They had faces that would haunt Caitlin's worst nightmares, a forensic study of a human head once the skin had been removed, though the musculature was white as snow, dry and parchment-like, the teeth needle-long and sharp, like those on luminescent fish caught in the furthest depths. Their eyes exuded a smoky magenta light that drifted around them in clouds as if they burned inside. They were tall and gaunt with limbs so thin they looked as if they barely had the strength to lift themselves, their bodies almost lost in their odd combination of armour — winged, spiked helmets and breastplates, all of it rusted a muddy brown — and fluttering black rags. On their backs or hanging from their belts were a variety of rusted metallic weapons — swords, spears, axes and some things that just looked like long spikes. Their mounts were a disturbing mixture of lizard and horse, their scaly skin a desiccated grey. The hazy purple light wreathed all around them.

Mahalia, Crowther, Caitlin and Carlton were all rooted before the terrible sight.

Beneath the rustle of the wind in the newly formed leaves, a whispering rose up that carried with it notions of terrible, depressing things even though no words were clear.

The Whisperers dismounted and drifted like ghosts to the boundary fence, where they stood motionless.

Why aren't they trying to get in?' Caitlin asked. 'They can't come in here,' the hermit moaned. 'Nothing can. Sacred land… old, sacred, monastic land.'

Crowther dropped down and placed the palm of his right hand on the soil.

'What's he talking about?' Mahalia said.

'The Blue Fire,' Crowther said to himself. 'I wish I could feel it.'

'You're bleeding.' Caitlin noticed the thin trickle running from Crowther's nose just as the iron filings taste dribbled into the edge of her own mouth. She dabbed at it, checked the stain on her fingers. 'What are they doing to us?'

'Come on,' Mahalia said insistently. 'You're standing around as if you're in a dream.' She picked up a rock from nearby and smashed it against the back of their prisoner's head. He pitched forward, unconscious. 'So he doesn't get in the way.'

Caitlin was too distracted to be horrified by the girl's action. Images scurried through her head that were not her own thoughts, a flickering of consciousness as contact was made — the face of one of the Whisperers loomed before her, and though its mouth formed no human syllables, the words made perfect sense: Give up now. There is no hope… no point running. Everyone must die. No point in anything. You could take your own life. Illness will claim you… The message hid a secret virus that infected her mind like poison in the blood: despair. The emotion was almost painful.

Suddenly Caitlin was back in the Ice-Field and Briony was shaking her roughly. 'Brigid says they're in your head. You have to get out of here.'

Caitlin came out of her trance to realise that she was walking slowly towards the boundary fence alongside Mahalia, Carlton and Crowther. She moved quickly, punching Crowther so hard in the face that his lips pulped against his teeth and blood splattered into his mouth.

The pain disrupted the mental image. 'You stupid cow!' Crowther roared.

But it was enough. Caitlin grabbed Carlton while Crowther picked up Mahalia and then they were hurrying towards the museum buildings.

They realised they'd exceeded the range of the Whisperers' sickening influence when Mahalia suddenly yelled, 'Put me down, you creep!' and lashed out wildly. Crowther dropped her hard on the floor with what Caitlin thought was a little too much relish.

Caitlin took one last look at the drifting purple haze where the withering atmosphere of despair hung along the boundary fence and then forced them to pick up the pace.

'What are those things,' Caitlin asked, 'and why are they hunting us?'

'Sport or food are the obvious answers,' Crowther muttered, but his expression suggested that the questions troubled him immensely.

It took them a while to gain access to the vast display halls; the previous occupant had effectively blocked every entrance. They eventually managed to smash open a side door, and once inside it felt odd to be walking alone amongst the gleaming archaic vehicles that now provided a haunting reminder of the world they had left behind. One vast echoing hall led on to another, all filled with the smell of oil and rubber and leather upholstery. Every car they had ever seen or heard of stood side by side, their pristine paintwork shimmering in the half-light.

'In centuries to come, when this place is overgrown and forgotten, this will be like Tutankhamun's tomb to a future generation of archaeologists,' Crowther said in hushed tones. 'Of course, that's if the human race is still around.' Crowther bypassed the oldest vehicles, which looked as if they would barely have outrun a horse, and instead stopped at a display of seventies sports cars. He finally selected one, a 1974 Ferrari Dino 246 GT.

Mahalia laughed. 'I bet you always wanted one of those.'

'And never had the money,' Crowther said. 'One advantage of the Fall… everything's there for the taking.'

'If you're strong enough,' Caitlin added pointedly.

Crowther examined the display sign. 'Actually, I chose it because it's really just a two-seater and we can shove the children in the tiny space behind the seats where I won't have to be bothered by them for the whole journey. Should be fairly uncomfortable.' He proceeded to read aloud: '2418 cc V-6 engine, twelve overhead valves, 195 b.h.p. at 7,600 r.p.m. and a max speed of 150 m.p.h. That should do the job. Now we just need to fill it up.' He opened the door, then paused uncomfortably. 'I don't suppose any of you know how to hot-wire a car.'

Mahalia pushed by him roughly and dipped under the steering column. A few seconds later the throaty roar of the engine echoed around the display hall.

'Oh, why am I not surprised.' Crowther slipped behind the wheel with obvious relish. 'Looks like there's enough in the tank to get us out to wherever the fuel depot is.'

'"Thanks" would have been nice,' Mahalia said sourly.

The fuel depot lay behind the display halls. High winds had camouflaged it with plastic sheeting, broken branches, leaves and other vegetation. Crowther uncovered several cans filled with petrol and smiled as he filled up the Ferrari's tank. 'Isn't it funny,' he mused to himself, 'I'd forgotten what it smelled like.'

Carlton stood off to one side, eyeing the treetops uncertainly, his head cocked to one side. 'I think Carlton knows a lot more than he shows,' Caitlin said. 'It's as if he can sense them.'

'I don't care if they're about to tap me on the shoulder,' Crowther said as he screwed the cap back on, 'they don't stand a chance of keeping up with this machine.'

Once they were all in, Crowther revved the engine and drove around to the exit gates. The purple mist that signified the Whisperers' presence drifted through the trees, but Crowther didn't wait to look at them.

The car hit the gates at speed. The impact jolted their teeth, but the gates burst off their hinges and then they were away down the winding service road.

'We did it!' Caitlin said in disbelief.

Carlton reached over the back of the seat to give the professor a hug. 'Get off me!' Crowther roared.

'You can thank me when you're ready,' Mahalia said, positioning herself so that Crowther would see her every time he looked in the rear-view mirror.

The professor grunted. 'You're not completely useless.'

He pulled the car out on to the main road and hit the accelerator so hard they were all thrown back into their seats. 'I wish we had some music,' he said.

Euphoria gripped them as they made their getaway. Only Carlton peered back to watch the purple mist drifting slowly in their wake. Mary had battled with a feeling of unease ever since Caitlin had left. Part of it was worry for her friend's safety. The first time they had met, three years earlier, they had disliked each other: Mary, the herbalist and alternative practitioner, and Caitlin, the rational GP, could see little common ground. But over the weeks and months as they came into contact more and more, they saw past the superficialities. Mary had learned to admire so much about Caitlin. The young doctor's strength of character and ability to sacrifice her own needs for the good of others were in stark contrast to how Mary saw herself. If her past mistakes had not been so great, Mary might have found a partner she could love, and they might have had a daughter. She would have been proud if the child had turned out like Caitlin.

But Mary's uneasiness also came from the certain knowledge that not all the trouble had moved on with Caitlin and Crowther. There was something in the air; she could feel it.

As the glass of whiskey caught the light from the fire, she felt a twinge of guilt that she'd only had breakfast half an hour ago. But then, life was more painful than anyone ever imagined, and what was wrong with something that took the edge off the cutting blade? At least she wouldn't be able to indulge it to the point where she ended up hanging around the village hall doing jigs for anyone that passed. No nipping down to the off-licence to replenish her supplies. The powers that be had seen fit to enforce a period of sobriety.

The community had managed to survive another winter of long shadows and harshness. But then the plague had come with the spring. Existence certainly had a taste for irony. Where would it all end?

Arthur Lee bounded in from the kitchen with an urgency that shook her from her dismal thoughts. He was unsettled. With his fur bristling, he tried to bury himself in her calf muscles, body rigid, and he was not a cat prone to fear; indeed, being more than cat, he existed in a state of contempt for everything. Mary's spine prickled in response.

This is a warning, Mary thought.

A quick slug of whiskey fired her, and then she moved from window to window, searching the countryside now bathed in early-morning light. Trees and shrubs were budding; she could smell the season changing. Nothing disturbed the peaceful scene; no figures moving, no shift of vegetation in opposition to the wind. She let her senses envelop her, but all she could feel was that constant background unease.

'What's frighted you, then?' She dropped to her knees to look into the cat's gleaming eyes, but he was too anxious to stay still long enough for her to see. A drop of moisture splashed on to her cheek. Puzzled, she glanced up at the ceiling to search for the source. Absently, she wiped the droplet away, but then grew still when she glimpsed her fingertips: the stain was dark.

In the mirror, she saw a thin scarlet trickle running from each ear.

Thoughts of disease and death flashed across her mind, but she barely had time to consider them, for at that moment the phone began to ring; and it had been dead, like all phones, from the time of the Fall. Her heart began to pound.

Everything shifted at once; shadows in the room altered their position slightly, the light became strangely harsh, the barely perceptible sound of her feet on the carpet now buzzed loudly in her head; heightened sensations were twisted into something a step aside from reality. With a queasy sense of dislocation, Mary approached the phone.

She hesitated, rigid with apprehension, and then plucked up the handset. 'Hello?'

There was a moment of fizzing static and then a hollow emptiness that reminded her of space. Out of it came a questioning voice that was faintly mechanical. '… Sshhh… hsss… Are you there? Can you hear me?… hssss… over. Do you hear?… sshhh… not over. It is not over. You have to-'

Mary threw the phone across the room. After a moment, fighting an irrational dread, she marched across the room and picked up the receiver: the phone was dead once more. She stared at it for a second or two while Arthur Lee flattened himself under the coffee table, and then a hammering at the door jolted her alert.

Don't answer it, a shrill voice said at the back of her head. And she had every intention of obeying it, but then her hand was mysteriously on the handle, pressing it, pulling it. Her breath caught in her throat.

A large dark figure stood on the threshold. Oddly, she couldn't make out the face that terrified her so much; it was filled with shadows that moved like smoke. The figure entered and she seemed to float back before it.

Finally, she saw that it was a man, but that provided little comfort. His face had an odd plasticity that hinted at a mask, made worse by the burning, dreadful eyes stretched wide and staring through that masquerade. Yet everything else about him was thoroughly ordinary: his appearance resembled that of someone who had spent a long time on the road; mud-spattered jeans, faded T-shirt, worn jacket, long, greasy hair tied in a ponytail.

'Mary Holden.' The voice appeared to come from some other part of the room; a disturbing ventriloquism, a party trick with added menace.

'Who are you?'

'I come from a place of quicksilver and lightning.' He stood stock still, arms at his sides, and the light and shadows circled him, or seemed to, from her perspective.

The dread in Mary's heart twisted until she thought she would be sick. 'What do you want with me?'

'It is not over.'

For some reason, the words terrified her.

'You shall not walk away.' The eyes peering through the mask burned into her head. 'The girl will need you.'

'Caitlin?'

'Something has woken on the edge of Existence. It has seen you, and everything you are, and everything you will be, and it is moving even now to prevent your awakening.'

Mary's thoughts were cotton wool, swaddling his words so that the sharp meaning could not be felt. But she struggled with them until some semblance of understanding emerged. We're in danger?'

'A time of frost and fire approaches.'

'Why do you care?' She jerked, not meaning for her words to sound so emboldened. When he didn't answer, she said, 'What do you expect me to do?' though she feared the answer.

'Nothing is as it appears. You will need new eyes.' He reached out, and his arm appeared to stretch like melting rubber. Fingers that were not fingers scratched the centre of her forehead and Mary's vision fragmented in jewelled images and starbursts. When she could finally see again, the stranger had raised his arm and was pointing out of the door. 'Go. See.' She found herself at the village hall without any memory of how she had got there from her cottage. She still had on her slippers, but didn't have a coat, and she shivered in the early-morning cold. Dreamily, she made her way into the hall.

Her hand flew to her mouth at the choking stench. Gideon, the chairman of the parish council, and some teenage boy whose name she didn't recall, dozed in chairs, worn out by futile caring. She tried not to pay any attention to two unmoved bodies that lay blackened by the plague in the centre of the room, and instead made her way to the side room where lay those still clinging on to thin life. But the instant she stepped across the threshold she was shocked rigid.

Tiny figures as insubstantial as smoke danced and twisted above the heads of the woman and young boy lying on the tables. Black-skinned, with a mix of human and lizard qualities, their twirling tails and curved horns reminded Mary of nothing more than medieval illustrations of devils. A malignant glee filled every movement as they soared and ducked, pinching and stabbing their unfortunate hosts. And where they touched the woman and boy, blackness flowed from them into the strange meridians the plague left on the bodies of its victims.

As Mary clutched the door jamb in disorientation, the devils appeared shocked that she could see them. Their malignancy returned quickly, though, and they silently jeered and mocked her with offensive gestures, knowing she could do nothing to stop them.

Mary grabbed a yard brush from the wall and swung it to swat them away, but it passed straight through them; they weren't there, not in any sense she understood.

Staggering back into the main hall, understanding swept through her. Now she knew why the medication didn't work, why the plague was like none seen before; it wasn't of the world at all. And after that, other thoughts surfaced in a mad rush of release, but the most important was this: Caitlin had gone in search of a cure without realising the plague's true nature. She may well have been sent to her death.